The forensics report came back at 9:17 AM.
Alex was at his desk, working through his second cup of coffee and reviewing traffic camera footage from the streets around Robert Feng's neighborhood when Reeves dropped a manila folder in front of him.
"Prints came back," Reeves said, settling into his chair with a grunt. "You're not going to like it."
Alex opened the folder. The fingerprint analysis was on top, stamped with the FBI database seal. He scanned the results, his stomach sinking with each line.
Prints on the murder weapon belonged to Marcus Daley, forty-two years old. Five arrests for burglary, three convictions. Last known address was a halfway house in the Lower East district. Released from prison eight months ago after serving four years for residential burglary.
On paper, it was a perfect match. Career burglar, fresh out of prison, prints on the gun.
Too perfect.
"They've already picked him up," Reeves continued. "He's downstairs in holding. Morrison wants us to interview him in twenty minutes." He paused. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Alex closed the folder and stood. "Let's go talk to him."
"Chen."
Alex stopped.
"I've been doing this long enough to know when something's bothering my partner. What is it?"
Alex hesitated. How could he explain the feeling in his gut, the sense that something was off? It wasn't based on evidence. It was just... instinct.
"The gun," Alex said finally. "Why would he leave it behind?"
"Panicked. Feng came home earlier than expected, Daley shot him, then ran. In the chaos, he forgot the weapon."
"Daley has three burglary convictions. That means he's been caught three times, probably committed dozens more that he didn't get caught for. A burglar with that much experience doesn't panic and forget his murder weapon."
Reeves considered this. "Maybe he's not as smart as you think. Or maybe he's getting sloppy in his old age."
"Maybe," Alex said, but he didn't believe it.
They took the stairs down to the holding cells. The interview rooms were on the same floor, small concrete boxes with metal tables and uncomfortable chairs. Room 2 was available—the one with working AC, which meant the suspect wouldn't be sweating bullets and asking for a lawyer within five minutes.
Marcus Daley sat at the table, hands cuffed in front of him. He was a thin man with graying hair and a face weathered by prison time and hard living. He looked up as they entered, his expression neutral.
"Mr. Daley," Reeves said, taking a seat across from him. "I'm Detective Reeves, this is Detective Chen. We'd like to ask you some questions about last night."
"I want a lawyer," Daley said immediately.
Of course he did. Alex sat down next to Reeves, studying Daley's face. The man's eyes were calculating, assessing them. Not nervous. Not panicked. Just... waiting.
"That's your right," Reeves said. "But maybe you want to hear what we have to say first. Might work in your favor."
Daley said nothing.
"We found your prints on a murder weapon," Reeves continued. "A .38 revolver used to kill Robert Feng in his home last night. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way, you tell us what happened. Maybe it was self-defense. Maybe it was an accident. We can work with that. Hard way, you lawyer up, and we charge you with first-degree murder."
Daley's expression didn't change. "I didn't kill anyone."
"Your prints are on the gun."
"I didn't kill anyone," Daley repeated. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "And I want a lawyer."
Alex leaned forward slightly. "Where were you last night between 10:30 and 11:30 PM?"
Daley's eyes shifted to him. "At the halfway house. In bed. You can check with them."
"We will," Alex said. "But here's the thing, Mr. Daley. Your prints are on a murder weapon found at a crime scene. That gun killed a man. If you didn't pull the trigger, then someone else did. Someone who had access to a gun you'd handled. So either you're lying about not being there, or someone set you up."
For the first time, something flickered across Daley's face. Not quite surprise. More like... recognition.
"Set up," he repeated slowly.
"If someone's framing you, now's the time to tell us," Alex said. "Because right now, all the evidence points to you."
Daley stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "I want a lawyer."
"Okay." Reeves stood. "We'll get you one. But think about what Detective Chen said. If someone's setting you up, time is not on your side."
They left the interview room and headed back upstairs. In the hallway, Reeves turned to Alex.
"What do you think?"
"I think he's telling the truth," Alex said. "He didn't kill Feng."
"His prints are on the gun."
"I know. Which means either he's lying, or someone borrowed his gun and returned it without him knowing, or..." Alex trailed off.
"Or what?"
"Or someone put his prints on that gun deliberately."
Reeves frowned. "That's elaborate. You can't just transfer fingerprints onto a gun."
"Actually, you can. It's difficult, but possible. If you have access to something the person touched—a glass, a surface with clear prints—you can lift them and transfer them using gelatin molds or similar methods. It's not perfect, but it's good enough to fool an initial analysis."
"You're saying someone went through all that trouble to frame a guy for murder?"
"I'm saying it's possible."
They reached the bullpen. Morrison was waiting by their desks, arms crossed.
"Well?" she asked.
"He lawyered up," Reeves said. "Claims he was at the halfway house all night. Says he didn't kill Feng."
"His prints are on the gun."
"We know. Chen thinks he might be set up."
Morrison's eyes shifted to Alex. "Based on what?"
"Based on the fact that an experienced burglar wouldn't leave a murder weapon at the scene," Alex said. "And based on the fact that there was no forced entry, nothing stolen, and the victim let his killer in. This doesn't fit the pattern of a burglary gone wrong."
Morrison was quiet for a moment. "Check his alibi. Talk to the halfway house, see if anyone can verify he was there. Pull security footage if they have it. And check where he got that gun. If it's stolen, trace it back. I want every angle covered before we charge him."
"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.
Morrison walked away, and Alex immediately sat down at his computer.
"What are you doing?" Reeves asked.
"Running a search on Daley's known associates. If someone set him up, they'd need access to him—to get his prints, to know his movements, to have a reason to frame him specifically."
Reeves settled into his chair. "I'll call the halfway house, verify his alibi."
For the next two hours, they worked in parallel. Reeves confirmed that Daley had checked into the halfway house at 9 PM the previous night and hadn't left until 7 AM this morning. The night manager remembered seeing him in the common room watching TV until about 10:30, then going to his room. No security cameras, but two other residents confirmed seeing him there.
Unless Daley had somehow snuck out without anyone noticing, his alibi was solid.
Alex, meanwhile, was building a profile of Daley's connections. The man had few friends—prison tended to do that. But he had a brother, Daniel Daley, who lived across town. And he had a former cellmate, Raymond Cruz, who'd been released two months before Daley.
Alex pulled up Cruz's file. Burglary, assault, theft. A longer rap sheet than Daley's, and a pattern of escalating violence. Currently on parole, living in a studio apartment in Chinatown.
"Reeves," Alex said. "Look at this."
Reeves rolled his chair over and squinted at the screen. "Raymond Cruz. Former cellmate. So?"
"So Cruz got out two months before Daley. They would have been close in prison—maybe Cruz knows something about Daley's movements, his contacts. Maybe he knows who'd want to frame him."
"Or maybe he's the one who did it," Reeves said. "If Cruz wanted to commit a crime and needed someone to take the fall, his former cellmate would be perfect. He'd know Daley's schedule, his habits. Easy to set up."
Alex nodded slowly. "We should talk to him."
"Let's run it by Morrison first."
They presented their findings to Morrison, who listened with her usual impassive expression before nodding.
"Go talk to Cruz. Feel him out. But don't spook him—if he is involved, we don't want him running. Just a friendly follow-up on his former cellmate."
The address for Raymond Cruz was a walk-up apartment building in Chinatown, wedged between a dumpling shop and a pharmacy. The building was old, paint peeling, with a rusted fire escape clinging to the facade like a skeleton.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 3F. Alex knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder this time. "Mr. Cruz? Police. We'd like to ask you some questions."
Still nothing.
Reeves tried the doorknob. Locked.
"Building manager?" Alex suggested.
They found the manager on the first floor, a heavyset man in his sixties who smelled like cigarette smoke. He was reluctant at first—"I don't like getting involved with police business"—but agreed to let them into Cruz's apartment after Reeves mentioned they just wanted to make sure he was okay.
The manager unlocked the door and stepped back. "I'll wait here."
Alex and Reeves entered the apartment.
It was small, barely larger than a hotel room. A bed in one corner, a kitchenette in another, a door leading to what was probably a bathroom. Everything was neat, organized. Too neat for someone who'd just gotten out of prison and was supposedly struggling to adjust to life outside.
"Cruz?" Reeves called out. "Anyone home?"
No response.
They moved through the apartment carefully. The bed was made with military precision. The kitchenette was spotless, no dirty dishes, no food left out. The bathroom was equally clean.
But it was the desk in the corner that caught Alex's attention.
Papers were spread across it in neat stacks. He pulled on gloves and began examining them carefully. Bills, all paid on time. A parolee check-in schedule, dates highlighted. A notebook with entries written in precise handwriting.
And underneath the notebook, a map of the city with several locations marked in red.
"Reeves," Alex said quietly.
Reeves came over and looked at the map. Three locations were circled: an address in Riverside—Robert Feng's address—and two others Alex didn't recognize.
"Son of a bitch," Reeves muttered. He pulled out his phone and took a photo of the map. "This is enough for a warrant."
Alex kept searching. There had to be more. If Cruz was involved in Feng's murder, there would be evidence somewhere.
In the closet, he found a lockbox. It was small, fireproof, with a combination lock.
"We need to document this," Reeves said. "Call CSU, get them to process the apartment properly."
"What if he comes back while we're waiting? What if he runs?"
"Then we catch him. But we do this by the book, Chen."
Alex knew Reeves was right. They couldn't just break into the lockbox without a warrant. But every instinct told him that whatever was inside was important.
They left the apartment and called it in. Within an hour, CSU arrived and began processing the scene. Reeves submitted a warrant request for the lockbox and for a deeper search of Cruz's apartment. Morrison approved surveillance on the building in case Cruz returned.
By the time they got back to the precinct, it was past 6 PM. Alex's eyes burned from staring at computer screens and crime scene photos. His coffee had long gone cold.
"Go home," Reeves said. "We've done good work today. Let CSU finish processing, and we'll see what they find tomorrow."
"I want to check one more thing."
"Chen—"
"Ten minutes. I promise."
Reeves sighed but didn't argue.
Alex pulled up a city map on his computer and marked Robert Feng's address. Then he marked the other two locations from Cruz's map. One was in the warehouse district. The other was in the suburbs, about twenty minutes from downtown.
He ran property records for both addresses.
The warehouse was listed as commercial property, owned by a holding company. No obvious connection to Feng or Cruz.
The suburban address was a residence. Owner: Katherine Martinez, sixty-three years old. Retired teacher. No criminal record.
Alex frowned. Why would Cruz have these addresses marked? What connected them?
He ran a search for any connection between Robert Feng and Katherine Martinez. Different neighborhoods, different professions, different social circles. Nothing obvious linked them.
But Alex's instincts were screaming that there was something here. Some pattern he wasn't seeing yet.
He opened a new document and began making notes:
Robert Feng:
Age 47 Accountant Divorced, no children Lived alone in Riverside No criminal record Murdered in his home, November 15
Katherine Martinez:
Age 63 Retired teacher Address marked on Cruz's map Unknown connection to case
Warehouse (commercial property):
Also marked on Cruz's map Owner: holding company (needs further investigation)
There was a pattern here. Alex could feel it. But he couldn't see it yet.
"Chen," Reeves said from across the room. "You're still here."
"Just finishing something."
"Whatever it is, it'll still be there tomorrow. Go home. That's an order from your partner, not a suggestion."
Alex saved his notes and logged off. Reeves was right—he needed rest. His brain was starting to fog over from exhaustion.
But as he drove home, he couldn't stop thinking about those three locations on the map. What connected them? Why had Cruz marked them specifically?
And most importantly—was Katherine Martinez in danger?
Back in his apartment, Alex made himself a simple dinner and tried to watch TV, but his mind kept wandering back to the case. He pulled out his personal laptop and started researching.
Katherine Martinez had a public social media profile. Pictures of her grandchildren, posts about gardening, shares of news articles. Nothing unusual. Nothing that screamed "murder target."
But Robert Feng had seemed equally unremarkable, and he was dead.
Alex pulled up the warehouse address and started digging into the holding company that owned it. Three shell corporations deep, he found the actual owner: a real estate investment firm that owned properties all over the city.
Nothing that connected to Feng or Martinez.
He was missing something. Some piece of the puzzle that would make it all make sense.
His phone buzzed. A text from Reeves: Go to sleep, Chen. I can hear you thinking from here.
Alex smiled despite himself. He typed back: How did you know I was still working?
Because I was your age once. And because you're predictable. Sleep. That's an order.
Alex set his phone down and closed his laptop. Reeves was right. He needed to rest. Tomorrow they'd get the warrant results back, they'd search Cruz's lockbox, and hopefully, they'd have answers.
But as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his mind kept returning to that map. Three locations. Three red circles.
Robert Feng was already dead.
What about the other two?
He needed to warn Katherine Martinez. But warn her about what? That she was on a map in a suspect's apartment? Without more evidence, Morrison would never approve protective detail. They couldn't protect someone based on a hunch.
But what if he was right? What if Cruz was planning something, and Katherine Martinez was next?
Alex pulled out his phone and drafted an email to himself:
First thing tomorrow: Drive by Martinez address. Verify she's okay. Run deeper background check. Find connection to Feng.
He sent the email and set an alarm for 5:30 AM.
He needed answers.
And he needed them before someone else died.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, Alex dreamed of maps with red circles and faces he couldn't quite see. In the dream, he was running through empty streets, trying to reach the marked locations before something terrible happened.
But no matter how fast he ran, he was always too late.