Page 26 of Fatal Pattern

Madison hung up and stood. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

The elevator climbed silently to the fifth floor, where Madison led them down a hallway lined with identical abstract pieces. The conference room she ushered them into commanded a spectacular view. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Atlantic on one side, while the other wall offered a bird’s-eye view of the lobby below.

But Blade stopped dead when he saw the painting at the far end of the room.

This one covered most of the wall, a riot of blues and greens that seemed to pulse and shift when he stared at it. The same technique as the lobby piece, but larger, more complex. The patterns repeated at different scales, each section containing miniature versions of the whole.

Tori walked straight into his back. “Ay. A little warning next time?”

“Sorry.” Blade steadied her with one hand, not taking his eyes off the canvas. “Just—”

“There’s just something about it, right?” Madison smiled. “I don’t know what it is, but I could stare at that thing for hours. It’s . . . soothing.”

Blade nodded. He couldn’t describe the pull he felt, the way the painting seemed to draw his attention deeper into its layers. “Yeah. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something . . .”

“Well, someone will be with you shortly.” Madison backed toward the door. “Can I get you coffee? Water?”

“Coffee would be great,” Tori said. “Thank you.”

After Madison left, Tori dropped her work bag, the one that never left her side, into one of the leather chairs and shook her head. “You look like you’re about to propose to that painting.”

He moved closer to the canvas, studying the way the paint created depth and movement. “Doesn’t it do anything to you? Emotionally, I mean?”

“Yeah, it makes me nauseous thinking about how much they probably spent on that thing.” She pulled out her notebook and settled into a chair. “Probably could’ve fed a small country with whatever they paid some artist to splash paint at a wall.”

“It’s more than that.” He traced the air in front of the painting, following one of the larger patterns. “Look at how it repeats. The same shapes but different sizes. Layered over each other like—”

“Blade, focus. We’re here to solve a murder, not critique the interior decorating choices of overpriced lawyers.”

He forced himself to turn away from the painting, though something about it lingered in his peripheral vision like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The conference room felt different now, charged with an energy he couldn’t name.

“You’re right.” He took a few steps back and let his eyes trace the lines. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd? A corporate law firm with this kind of art?”

“Rich people spend way too much money on weird, expensive things. Not exactly breaking news.” She clicked her pen and opened her notebook. “What’s our approach here? Good cop, bad cop, or are we playing it straight?”

“Straight. For now. Let’s see what they volunteer before we start pushing.”

The door opened behind her. Madison eased in with a black lacquer tray, three white mugs steaming, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar packets tucked along the edge. She set it on the conference table without a word and was gone before the door finished closing.

Tori picked up a mug and offered it to Blade, but he passed with a shake of his head. As she finished pouring some cream, the conference room door opened again. He turned to find a man in his late fifties striding in with an air of confidence that came from winning cases and commanding courtrooms. Expensive suit, direct eye contact, two-hundred-dollar haircut. Everything about him screamed law partner.

“Detective St. James? Rich McCrary.” Even the man’s grip fit what Blade had expected. Solid.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Blade said. “This is my colleague, Dr. Tori Crew.”

“Pleasure.” McCrary shook Tori’s hand. “I’m sorry for your wait. This is Yevonne Mellas, our director of HR.”

The woman beside him carried an iPad and wore the kind of neutral expression that came with years of managing difficult conversations. She nodded politely as they settled around the conference table.

Blade pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen. Most detectives used their phone to record and transcribe notes, but the act of writing always grounded his scattered thoughts. Gave his hands something to do while his mind processed information.

“We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us,” Tori said.

They got comfortable in the soft leather chairs, and Blade got right to it. “We’re investigating Donald Florek’s death and hoping to get a better picture of his work here.”

McCrary leaned forward and laced his fingers on the table, showing his French cuffs and gold cufflinks with a crest. “Don was a solid attorney. Ten years with the firm, mostly handling medical malpractice cases. He was thorough, professional, and kept to himself.”

“What kind of medical malpractice cases?” Tori asked.