Chapter 11 - Fire in the South District
The smell of acrid chemical smoke hung thick in the air long before Daniel’s car crested the hill leading into the South District.
Red and blue emergency lights bathed the wet brick facades in a feverish, strobing glare. Fire engines blocked the entrance to 8th Avenue, their high-pressure hoses snaking across the asphalt as firefighters battled the smoldering remains of the brownstone cellar.
Marcus Cole was waiting by the police barricade, his black raincoat gleaming under the rain. As Daniel stepped out of the vehicle, Marcus met him midway, his face grim.
"It was an arson job, Mr. Vaughn," Marcus reported, adjusting his earpiece over the din of heavy machinery. "Accelerant was poured directly through the alley window into the basement storage unit. The fire department got here fast enough to stop it from spreading up to the main structure, but the cellar unit is gutted."
Daniel walked past the yellow police tape, ignoring a sergeant who started to step forward until Marcus flashed an executive security credential.
Inside the charred skeleton of the basement apartment, steam rose from the drenched floorboards. The plaster walls were blackened, and the scent of burnt paper and melting plastic filled the narrow corridor.
Daniel squeezed through the narrow doorframe into what had been Claire’s bedroom for five difficult years. In the back corner lay the melted, twisted frame of the metal filing cabinet. Its lock had been crowbarred open before the fire was set.
Marcus pointed his flashlight into the void. "They took what they could grab in a hurry and torched the rest to cover their tracks. But they were messy."
Marcus reached into his tactical coat and pulled out a heavy zip-top evidence bag. Inside was a charred, heavily water-logged leather binder, its edges singed, but its core thick paper intact.
"They missed the back compartment behind the wall lining," Marcus said quietly. "Your lady knew how to hide things. Half the journals are water-damaged, but the handwritten logs detailing the private investigators—including license plates, dates, and times—are fully readable."
Daniel took the bag, his fingers tightening around the heavy plastic until his knuckles turned white.
"Where is Vance Miller?" Daniel asked.
"My team traced the getaway vehicle to an auto salvage yard near the docks," Marcus replied. "Miller’s men are lying low there right now, waiting for Julian Sterling’s wire transfer to clear."
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Daniel looked down at the burned pages inside the bag, his eyes reflecting the cold amber streetlights outside.
"Call the district attorney's specialized corruption unit," Daniel ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-thin murmur. "Tell them I have physical evidence of arson, witness tampering, and racketeering. And tell them I’m going down to the docks to deliver the suspect myself."
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