The evidence lab hums with compressors and old lights. Printers chatter in the corner. Dorian clicks away at his terminal, humming softly to the tune spilling from the overhead speaker. Vince slouches in a chair with a magazine. Aubrey sits across the room, eyes locked on the Stonetown ballistics sheets.

  “Alriiiighty…” Dorian says, scrolling fast. “Two nine-millimeters. But look—Stonetown: execution casing has a crescent gouge on the rim.” He leans in, jabbing at the screen. “Ridge Avenue, four months ago? Same gouge. Queens, two years back? Exact. Same. mark.”

  Vince straightens. “But Stonetown had two shooters. One case was the dad’s gun—forced killing.”

  “Yeah,” Aubrey mutters, rubbing her ring into her finger. “The gouge rides with the execution shot only. Three places. Same groove. Same gun?”

  “Ballistics says so,” Dorian replies, voice low.

  Vince folds his arms. “Okay, so if there’s a hired man, he’s carrying the same gun. But then why force the dad to kill the mom before finishing it?”

  “Sometimes the hitman’s told how, not why,” Aubrey says, flat and clipped. “By design.”

  Dorian clicks through case photos. “Another link. Everybody was found near an exit. Stonetown. Ridge. Queens. Doorways, alleys. Always close to a way out.”

  Vince plants his hands on his hips. “Alright. How tangled is this? Who do we actually talk to?”

  Aubrey leans forward and takes the mouse. “We find who handled cameras first.”

  Dorian nudges her off and points at the screen. “Here. Maintenance logs. Building cams reported ‘intermittent signal loss.’”

  “Three days before?” Aubrey mutters, narrowing her eyes.

  “Vendor: Onyx Security. Ticket closed the morning after.” Dorian looks at her, then Vince.

  “Check Ridge Avenue,” Aubrey says.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Dorian scrolls. “Car wash job. Lobby cam flagged as ‘firmware reboot.’ Night of the murder. Vendor? Onyx again. Different tech ID.”

  “And Queens?” Vince asks.

  “Shit.” Dorian exhales sharply. “Power cut at 9:12 p.m., cameras back 10:03. Work order filed two days before. Onyx again.” He leans back, dragging a hand down his face.

  Aubrey crosses her arms. “Two’s coincidence. There’s a pattern. Whoever this is, he’s got help.”

  Vince drops into a chair, hands behind his head. “Different tech IDs for all three. Not the same guy. Could be utility. Subcontractor shuts a line off, cameras drop, lights cut—easy cover.”

  Aubrey scribbles in her notebook. “Someone without direct ties to the building, but enough access to get paid off.”

  “Yeah,” Vince says. “Rule-breaker who doesn’t even realize he’s working around murder.”

  “Or someone planting coincidences,” Aubrey counters. “Same gun, same grooves. Gang ties. Debt victims. That’s money talking.”

  Dorian shuts down the monitor and grabs his bag. “I can’t tell if he’s one step ahead or five steps back. Either way, I’m out. See you, V. See you, B.” He waves and heads out.

  The door clicks shut.

  Vince rubs his temple. “Too many coincidences. All broke victims. Too much sense to ignore. We should go to Queens, pull the utility logs, and see who signed the blackout.”

  Aubrey snaps her notebook shut. “Then let’s move.”

  ?

  Queens, late night.

  The utility office is hushed, fluorescent lights buzzing dimly. Brown walls, rows of filing cabinets. A single clerk slumps at the desk, coffee steaming by his elbow.

  “Detectives?” he asks, blinking awake.

  “Need the service records for Astoria Boulevard,” Aubrey says, flashing her badge. “Blackout tied to a homicide last fall.”

  The clerk sighs, rolling his chair back before shuffling into the archives. Aubrey exhales, Vince leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

  The clerk returns with a slim folder. Aubrey flips it open.

  “February 18. Power cut 9:12. Restored 10:03. Logged as routine maintenance.” She lifts the page closer. “Vendor: Onyx Security. Subcontractor: Elias Raines.”

  Vince pockets his hands. “Finally. A name.”

  Aubrey keeps staring at the sheet. “Not just a name. A key.” She closes the folder, scribbles notes, and sets it back on the counter.

  The clerk waves them off without looking up.

  Outside, the air bites colder. Aubrey mutters, “Elias Raines. Please be the thread.”