The penthouse of Marcus Voss loomed over the city like a glass tomb, its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the flicker of police lights below. Simon and Jessica stepped past the yellow tape, the air thick with the metallic tang of dried blood. The crime scene had been cleared, but the ghost of violence lingered.
"Charming decor," Simon muttered, eyeing the abstract paintings that lined the walls—twisted figures and jagged colors that screamed *money* more than *art*. "Voss had taste, I'll give him that. Or a therapist on standby."
Jessica ignored him, snapping on gloves as she scanned the room. "Forensics already combed through everything. But they were looking for obvious clues. You're here to find what they missed."
Simon crouched beside the bloodstain on the marble floor, his fingers brushing the edge. "You said the security system was disabled. How?"
Jessica pulled up a report on her phone. "Hacked. Remotely. Took down cameras, alarms, even the backup generators. Whoever did this knew the system inside out."
Simon stood, pacing toward a gaudy gold statue of a phoenix. "Or had inside help. Voss's inner circle—employees, lovers, anyone with access. You dig into them yet?"
"Working on it," Jessica said tersely. "His assistant, Clara Reed, has an alibi. So does his business partner, Elias Kane. Both claim they were at a charity gala that night."
Simon snorted. "And you believe them?"
"I believe evidence. Which we don't have." Jessica nodded at the statue. "Why are you staring at that thing?"
Simon ran a hand along the phoenix's wing, his smirk returning. "Because it's hideous. And because…" He pressed a hidden latch beneath the base. With a soft *click*, the statue's torso slid open, revealing a digital keypad. "…*rich people love secrets*."
Jessica blinked. "A safe? Forensics didn't mention this."
"Because they didn't find it." Simon studied the keypad, fingers hovering. "Six digits. Birth year? Anniversary? PIN?"
"Try 092389," Jessica said suddenly.
Simon raised an eyebrow. "Care to share how you guessed that?"
"Voss's file. His daughter's birthday—September 23, 1989. He mentioned her in every interview."
Simon punched in the numbers. The safe hissed open. Inside lay a flash drive and a leather-bound journal.
"Bingo," he whispered.
Jessica snatched the flash drive, plugging it into her phone. Files flooded the screen—shipment logs, encrypted messages, names. Her breath hitched. "This ties Voss to the smuggling ring. Payments, dates, locations. But there's something else…" She zoomed in on a blurred photo of a man in a trench coat, his face obscured. "He's meeting someone. Someone *powerful*."
Simon flipped through the journal, his playful demeanor evaporating. "Voss was scared. Last entry's dated the night he died. *'They know. I can't run anymore. If you're reading this, Clara—*'" He froze. "Wait. *Clara?* His *assistant?*"
Jessica's phone buzzed. A notification flashed: *SECURITY BREACH DETECTED. REMOTE WIPING IN PROGRESS.*
"Shit!" She yanked the flash drive out, but the files were already corrupted. "Someone's erasing the data—they're tracking us!"
Simon shoved the journal into his coat. "Time to go, Detective."
The elevator dinged down the hall. Heavy footsteps echoed.
"Not the front way," Jessica hissed, pulling him toward the service stairs. They descended two floors before she stopped, pressing a hand to her earpiece. "Dispatch just reported a black SUV parked outside. Two armed men heading upstairs."
Simon peered over the railing. "Friends of trench coat guy?"
"Does it matter?" Jessica drew her gun. "We need to split up. Distract them. Meet me at the garage in five."
"Always with the death wishes," Simon sighed, but he was already moving.
He burst onto the 40th floor, shouting, "Hey, Picasso! Over here!" before ducking into a vacant office. The men gave chase, their boots pounding as Simon darted through cubicles, overturning chairs and tossing monitors in their path. He slid under a desk, heart racing, as the men fanned out.
One thug leaned down to check beneath the desk—only to catch Simon's fist in his jaw. The second man lunged, but Simon grabbed a stapler and hurled it at his head. "Office supplies: lethal in the right hands!"
He bolted for the stairs, the men close behind. Jessica was already in the garage, revving a stolen sedan. Simon leaped into the passenger seat as bullets peppered the concrete.
"Go, go, *go!*"
Jessica slammed the gas, the car fishtailing onto the street. Simon clutched the journal, his knuckles white. "Voss's last entry mentioned Clara. She's not just his assistant—she's his daughter. *Adopted.* And she's missing."
Jessica's grip tightened on the wheel. "You think she's involved?"
"I think she's the key," Simon said, flipping to a page scrawled with coordinates. "And I think Voss left her a trail. These numbers—they're for a private dock. Tonight's shipment."
Jessica glanced at him. "You want to crash a smuggling operation. With *what army?*"
Simon grinned. "How about a detective, a criminal, and a really bad plan?"
Before she could protest, his phone buzzed. An unknown number. He answered.
A distorted voice hissed, *"Stop digging, Simon. Or the next bullet won't miss."*
The line went dead.
Jessica's eyes narrowed. "Trouble?"
Simon pocketed the phone, his smirk brittle. "Just a fan. Let's keep going."
As the car sped toward the docks, the journal's pages fluttered like a warning. Somewhere in the shadows, the puppetmaster watched—and Simon was done dancing on strings.
To Be Continued…