The drive to the precinct took twenty minutes through the damp streets of Eldridge City. Marcus kept the radio low, tuned to a local news station that was already sniffing around the Grandview Towers death. "Prominent investor Victor Lang found dead in his luxury apartment," the reporter said in a serious tone. "Police have not released details, but sources say the scene was unusual."
Marcus snorted and switched it off. "Vultures. They'll make it a circus by lunch."
Ramis sat in the passenger seat, staring at the passing buildings. The mist had turned into a light drizzle again. Pedestrians hurried along sidewalks with umbrellas and hooded jackets. A street vendor sold hot coffee and bagels under a blue tarp, steam rising into the cool air. Life in the city continued without pause, unaware or uncaring about one man's peaceful smile in a high-rise apartment.
The Eldridge City Police Department headquarters was a sturdy five-story brick building in the downtown core. Its structure was old but well-maintained, with the city and state flags hanging limp in the wet air. Police cruisers filled the parking lot, and a few detectives smoked near the side entrance despite the rain.
Marcus parked in his reserved spot. "Come on. Ruiz should have the footage ready. I told the team you're assisting on this one full-time until we get a lead."
They walked through the bustling lobby. Uniformed officers nodded respectfully to the captain. A few glanced at Ramis with curiosity. Everyone knew who he was—the captain's brilliant son who couldn't wear the badge because of that damn knee. Some pitied him, others respected the work he did from the outside.
Inside the homicide unit on the third floor, the bullpen was alive with quiet energy. Desks cluttered with files, coffee mugs, and glowing computer screens filled the open space. Phones rang intermittently. The air smelled of burnt coffee, printer ink, and damp wool from wet coats.
Detective Ruiz was already at his desk, a large monitor showing paused security footage. He looked up when they approached, mustache twitching. "Captain. Ramis. Got the lobby and hallway feeds from last night. Also pulled Lang's phone records. Nothing out of the ordinary yet."
Ramis pulled up a chair beside Ruiz and leaned forward. His green eyes focused sharply on the screen. Marcus stood behind them, one hand on the back of the chair.
"Play it from 9:00 PM," Ramis said.
Ruiz clicked the mouse. Black-and-white footage rolled. The lobby camera showed Victor Lang entering at 9:37 PM. He wore a tailored dark suit, carrying a leather briefcase. He nodded to the doorman, exchanged a few words, and headed straight for the elevators. No one followed him inside. He looked tired but calm.
The hallway camera on the fifteenth floor picked him up next. Lang stepped out alone, walked to apartment 1503, unlocked the door with his keycard, and disappeared inside. The door clicked shut at 9:42 PM. No one else entered or left the hallway for the rest of the night. The timestamp jumped forward in fast motion—hours passing with empty corridors and dim lighting.
"No visitors," Ruiz muttered. "No one in the stairwell either. Building has good security. No blind spots on that floor."
Ramis rubbed his chin. "Fast-forward to morning. Maid arrives at 7:15."
The footage showed the maid, a middle-aged woman named Rosa Morales according to the file, arriving at 7:12. She used her key, knocked once, then entered. Five minutes later she burst back out, face pale, hands shaking as she called on her phone.
"Nothing in between," Marcus said. "So how the hell did the killer get in and out without being seen?"
Ramis leaned back, his mind turning. "Maybe he was already inside. Or maybe he never left the building at all. Or… the killer didn't need to enter that night."
Ruiz raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Poison could have been planted earlier. In his food, his wine, his medication. The note was placed under his hand after death—carefully arranged. That suggests the killer had access after Lang was dead. But the door was locked from inside with the chain on."
Marcus frowned. "Suicide? But that smile and the note don't fit. And no poison container left behind."
Ramis stood up and paced a few steps, ignoring the twinge in his knee. "Not suicide. The Sandman left a signature. He wants credit. This is theater. We need to look at Lang's life. Enemies. Lovers. Business deals gone bad. Anyone who could have had access to his apartment beforehand."
Ruiz nodded and slid a folder across the desk. "Assistant gave us a list. Lang was divorced two years ago. Ex-wife lives across the river in Westbridge. No kids. Current girlfriend is a 28-year-old model named Sophia Vale. She was in Silvercoast for fashion week—confirmed alibi. Business rivals in the investment world—three names stand out. One guy lost millions because of Lang's tip to regulators last year."
Marcus checked his watch. "I'll have teams interview the ex and the rivals. Ramis, you take the assistant and the maid. They're waiting in interview room 2 and 3. I'll sit in if you want."
Ramis shook his head. "I'll do it alone. People talk differently when the captain's not staring at them."
Marcus gave a small, proud smile. "Fair enough. But keep me updated. And eat something. Your mother will ask."
Ramis chuckled lightly. "Yes, sir."
He grabbed the folder and headed down the hall to the interview rooms. The precinct felt familiar yet foreign—close enough to the police world he once dreamed of, but always just outside it.
Interview room 2 was small and plain: gray walls, a metal table, two chairs, and a one-way mirror. Rosa Morales sat inside, a cup of water in front of her. She was in her early fifties, short and sturdy, with kind brown eyes that were red from crying. Her uniform was still the same simple maid's outfit from the morning.
Ramis entered quietly and sat across from her. He offered a gentle smile.
"Ms. Morales, I'm Ramis Walker. I'm helping the police with this. I know you've already spoken to officers, but I'd like to hear it from you. Take your time."
Rosa wiped her eyes with a tissue. Her voice carried a soft accent. "Mr. Lang was a good man. Quiet. Always polite. He also paid me well and never complained. This morning… he just sat there. Smiling, like he was dreaming something nice. It scared me more than if there was blood."
Ramis nodded, listening carefully. "Did you notice anything different in the apartment lately? New visitors? Deliveries? Anything he mentioned?"
She thought for a moment. "Last week, he had a new cleaner come once. Said his regular one was sick. Young man, polite. Tall, with glasses. He left before I arrived. Mr. Lang said he did a good job."
Ramis's interest sharpened. "Did you see this man?"
"No. But Mr. Lang showed me the bathroom—sparkling. He never did that before."
Ramis made a note. "Anything else? Gifts? Strange phone calls you overheard?"
Rosa hesitated. "Two nights ago, I worked late. He was on the phone in his study. Sounded angry. Said something like 'I know what you did. Don't push me.' Then he laughed, but it wasn't happy. He hung up and poured himself a drink."
Ramis kept his face neutral, but inside the threads were connecting. "Do you know who he was talking to?"
She shook her head. "No. He never said names when I was around."
Ramis thanked her and asked a few more gentle questions about Lang's daily routine. When he finished, he stepped out and moved to interview room 3.
The assistant, a sharp-dressed man in his thirties named Daniel Park, waited there. He was slim, with neatly combed hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His suit looked expensive. He looked more annoyed than sad.
"Mr. Park," Ramis began after introducing himself. "How long did you work for Victor Lang?"
"Six years," Daniel replied, voice clipped. "He was brilliant with money. Difficult sometimes, but fair. This is going to be a mess for the firm."
Ramis studied him. "Did he have any threats lately? Anyone he was worried about?"
Daniel sighed. "Always enemies in this business. But recently… there was a woman. Not the girlfriend. Someone he met at a charity event two months ago. He called her 'the dream girl' once, jokingly. Said she had eyes that could make you forget your own name. I think they had a few private dinners. He stopped talking about her suddenly last week."
Ramis leaned forward. "Name?"
"He never gave one. Just smiled when I asked. Said some dreams are better kept private."
That phrase again. Dreams. Sandman.
Ramis felt a small spark of excitement mixed with unease. The puzzle was growing pieces.
He spent another twenty minutes with Daniel, pulling every small detail about Lang's schedule, recent meetings, and that mysterious woman. When he stepped out of the room, his mind was buzzing.
Marcus was waiting in the bullpen, holding two cups of coffee. He handed one to Ramis.
"Anything good?"
Ramis took a sip. The coffee was bitter and hot. "A possible new cleaner last week. And a mysterious woman Lang was seeing. 'Dream girl.' Plus an angry phone call."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Good start. Lab just called—preliminary tox is back. Trace amounts of something new in his system. Not standard poison. They're calling it a designer compound. It causes euphoria and peaceful death. Still analyzing."
Ramis stared into his coffee. The rain pattered against the precinct windows.
"The Sandman puts people to sleep with sweet dreams," he said quietly. "Then kills them smiling."
Marcus placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We'll catch him. You and me, like old times."
Ramis looked at his father, the man who had taught him to notice every detail, who had never once made him feel lesser because of his injury. Their family bond was strong—doting parents, close-knit. Even his mother's secretive job didn't create distance.
"Yeah," Ramis replied. "Like old times."
Outside, the rain continued. Somewhere in the city, a killer who called himself the Sandman was probably watching the news, smiling at his own work.
Ramis Walker felt the first real pull of the chase. The threads were there—thin, tangled, but real.
He just needed to pull the right one.