Page 12 of Pursuit of Her
"Understood." Foster paused, then added quietly, "Captain, he had a substantial bank transfer less than an hour before his death. Five million to an offshore account."
"Restitution," Eve whispered, remembering a conversation from years ago. Reagan's voice again: "If the system won't make them pay, someone should."
"Captain?"
"Nothing. I'm on my way."
Eve ended the call and glanced back at the dining table where Reagan's investigation lay exposed, a decade-old crime scene now finding resolution through blood. She methodically returned everything to the case and sealed it away, her mind racing ahead to the scene awaiting her.
Eve strapped on her weapon, the weight familiar against her hip. For the first time in ten years, she felt the faintest flicker of hope beneath her dread. If the vigilante was Reagan Shaw, it meant the woman she'd loved wasn't dead after all.
But it also meant Eve would have to hunt her down and stop her.
She closed her apartment door behind her, stepping into a night that suddenly held both promise and danger in equal measure. Somewhere in Phoenix Ridge, a ghost was delivering justice with lethal precision. And Eve was both the hunter and the hunted, though she didn't yet understand why.
Phoenix Ridge Capital's gleaming tower sliced through the night sky. By the time Eve arrived, the area had been transformed into a carefully controlled chaos of police vehicles, crime scene technicians, and the inevitable press vans held at bay by perimeter tape and uniformed officers.
Eve passed through security checkpoints with tight-lipped efficiency. The executive floor elevator carried her upward in silence, offering a brief moment to steel herself for what awaited.
Richard Davenport's corner office presented a scene of meticulous execution that mirrored the three previous killings with chilling precision. The CEO remained slumped in his high-backed leather chair, a single bullet hole centered on his forehead, evidence arranged around him like exhibits in a macabre courtroom.
Detective Caroline Foster stood just inside the doorway, tablet in hand, her posture betraying the tension Eve recognized in herself.
"Details," Eve commanded softly, approaching the body while pulling on latex gloves.
"Richard Davenport, fifty-three. Found by security responding to a missed check-in call. Time of death estimated between 9:05 and 9:20 p.m." Foster stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Five million dollar transfer to an offshore account at 9:07 p.m., executed from his terminal. Security footage shows a two-minute loop during that time frame—professional work."
Eve circled the desk, cataloging the carefully positioned evidence: financial records detailing payoffs to silence victims, medical reports of injuries sustained by female employees, photographs of a young woman—alive in one image, dead in another.
"Rosalie Gresham," Foster supplied, noting Eve's focus. "Former executive assistant who filed assault charges against Davenport three years ago. Case was dismissed for 'insufficient evidence.' She took her own life six months later."
Eve's gaze fell on the small cream-colored business card beside Davenport's lifeless hand. The now-familiar phoenix emblem and message: "The System Failed. I Did Not."
"The flash drive?" Eve asked.
Foster handed her a sealed evidence bag containing the device. "Already verified as authentic. Contains voice recordings from Gresham documenting the assaults and subsequent cover-up. Also shows evidence of judicial interference; a judge directed the prosecutor to lose key testimony."
"Which judge?"
"Harmon."
Another link in the chain Reagan had been mapping a decade ago. Sinclaire, Peterson, Harmon. Now Davenport. Four men connected through business dealings, social circles, and a pattern of abuse protected by their collective influence.
Dr. Isabella Rivera approached from where she'd been examining the body. "Same weapon as the previous scenes, Captain. Nine-millimeter, hollow-point, professionally executed. No casings recovered."
"Witnesses?"
"A maintenance worker was on shift," Foster said, consulting her tablet. "Sophia Gresham."
"Gresham?" Eve's attention snapped. "Related to the victim?"
"Sister. She was questioned but provided little information. Claims she was working two floors down during the estimated time of death. Security logs confirm her location."
The sister of a woman driven to suicide by Davenport's actions. Eve filed the information away for further investigation. "I want to speak with her."
"She's already left the scene. I have officers locating her now."
Eve nodded, turning her attention back to the meticulously arranged evidence. The vigilante—Reagan?—wanted these crimes exposed, wanted the public to know what these men had done and how they had escaped justice through their connections.
