Ethan was walking up ahead, one hand on the railing, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Erin followed closely behind, clearly mulling something over in her head—something she had no intention of letting go.
—I still don't get it, —she said, breaking the silence as they reached the first landing.— How does a guy on a cop's salary… have a black card like this? —she added, spinning it between her fingers, idly playing with the plastic.
Ethan smiled without turning around.
—Is it really that surprising?
—A little. Are you the son of some wealthy family? —Erin shot back.— If you are, you should probably tell me.
Ethan stopped for just a second, long enough to glance at her over his shoulder.
—Nothing like that. I just like to keep my things private, —he said, resuming his climb.
She frowned, clearly annoyed.
—Fine. But this conversation isn't over.
After opening the security gate, they both stepped into the office. The door to Hank's office was open, though he hadn't arrived yet.
In the break room, Olinsky and Rusek were arguing behind closed doors. Ethan and Erin exchanged a look, but neither of them wanted to get involved—it was better to let Alvin handle disciplining his protégé.
Ethan returned to his desk and powered up his computer. He had several reports to write on the recent cases he'd been involved in. Erin usually helped him with most of the paperwork, but there were still things he had to handle on his own.
A moment later, the door opened and the two men came out.
Rusek looked less tense, and Olinsky's expression had softened slightly.
—Where are Hank and Antonio?
Ethan leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk as he looked at Olinsky.
—Haven't seen them.
Olinsky pulled out a piece of licorice candy and offered it to him with a gesture. Ethan shook his head. He'd tried it once—it tasted like chewable plastic. He never understood how Olinsky could enjoy them.
—Guys! I need your opinion… we want to know which flavor you prefer.
Rusek approached carrying several small boxes.
Ethan leaned back and held up his hands.
—Don't ask me. I don't like sweet things.
—Then try this lemon cake, —Rusek insisted, carefully choosing one of the boxes and placing it on the table.— It's a little tart and not too sweet. You can try it.
—Alright, thanks.
Ethan opened the box. Inside was a cake about the size of his fist, topped with lemon zest shavings. It was a bit too sour for his taste, but not bad.
When Rusek finished handing out the cakes, Ethan grabbed his coffee mug and motioned for Rusek to join him outside on the terrace.
He poured himself another strong coffee and stepped out onto the balcony.
Ethan didn't think Rusek was a bad guy. At his core, he was still a kid fresh out of the academy, with that constant need to prove himself and earn a real place on the team. Everyone around him was a seasoned detective; Ethan was the only one his age who already wore the badge—and on top of that, he had a skill set that was hard to ignore.
That silent comparison weighed on Rusek in every decision, every comment, every glance he cast in search of approval. It wasn't envy—it was pressure: the feeling of always being one step behind, of having to run faster just to avoid falling out of the race.
Ethan decided it was time to talk to him. He wanted to help Rusek find his footing before that recklessness ended up getting someone on the team hurt—or getting him killed.
He took a sip of coffee and lit a cigarette, letting the first drag burn slightly in his throat.
At that moment, the balcony door opened and Rusek stepped outside.
—How are you doing? —Ethan asked bluntly.
Rusek immediately knew what he meant. He ran a hand over his face, scratching at his barely grown beard, and let out a short sigh.
—I know… I screwed up, —he admitted.— I shouldn't have gone in alone yesterday. I put my partner in danger and increased the chances of the hostages getting hurt.
Ethan lifted his coffee mug and took a sip, giving him time to finish.
—Anything else? —he asked as he lowered the cup.
Rusek's face was slightly flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the unusual seriousness in his voice.
—I'm ready to do my job the right way.
—And what does that look like? —Ethan asked, fixing him with a steady gaze.
Rusek hesitated for a second, then answered:
—Olinsky's way.
He nodded firmly, as if saying it out loud had convinced him. Ethan set his mug down on the table with a soft but decisive thud and spoke in a low voice.
—I know you're anxious. I can see it. But you can't afford to be.
He leaned forward slightly.
—We're more or less the same age, but I worked patrol. That teaches you how to read the street, how to assess risk, how to know when to push forward and when to pull back.
Rusek listened in silence.
—You didn't even go through patrol, —Ethan continued.— That means you have less experience than you think, and a lot less room to improvise.
He locked eyes with him.
—When you're out on operations, you follow Olinsky's orders. Always. He's not holding you back; he's keeping you alive. You still have a lot to learn. Is that clear?
Rusek straightened his back and nodded firmly.
—Understood! —he replied without hesitation.
Back in the main room, Jin came running up the stairs.
—Guys, we've got an urgent case, —he said as he handed out the files he was carrying.— The sergeant wants you to familiarize yourselves with the case file.
—Thanks.
Ethan took the folder and opened it.
Inside were more than a dozen photographs, all showing the condition of the victims. There were two women, both naked, with clear signs of sexual assault. Their bodies were covered in bruises, making it obvious they had been beaten before they died.
—Oh my God…
Erin frowned as she looked at the images.
—I can't imagine what those girls went through before they died.
As he continued reviewing the file, Ethan noticed the New York City Police Department logo stamped on the back of one of the pages. According to the report, two nearly identical rape-and-murder cases had occurred there just days earlier.
The leads were minimal.
There was only one blurry image captured by a traffic camera: the silhouette of a man closely following a woman on a public street. He was wearing a hoodie; his face was indistinguishable. The only thing investigators had been able to determine was that he was white, inferred solely from the skin tone of his hands.
Ethan closed the folder with a sharp motion.
It wasn't hard to see why Jin had flagged the case as urgent.
A possible serial killer moving between major cities was exactly the kind of story that set off alarms… and attracted the media like flies.
And when that happened, time was always the enemy.
A few minutes later, Hank and Antonio hurried into the main room. Without a word, they began pinning photographs to the board, nearly covering it entirely.
Alongside the images of the victims, there was a map of the crime scenes.
—Listen up, everyone! —Hank barked in a hoarse voice.— I know you're exhausted after yesterday, but we've got work to do. They found a second woman's body this morning!
—Commander Perry specifically requested that Intelligence take over the case. As of now, this is our top priority.
Hank planted his hands on his hips, squaring his shoulders as if trying to contain the tension running through him.
—The media has been relentless, —he continued.— They've already dubbed him the Riverside Walk Killer. Public pressure is brutal. The mayor personally went down to headquarters, and headquarters is furious with the section chief. As a result, the chief officially transferred the case from Homicide to our Intelligence unit.
He brought his heel down sharply at the end of the sentence. His voice was firm, clipped.
—But none of that matters to me.
He clenched his jaw, visibly irritated, his gaze hardening.
—Two young women were murdered. Antonio and I saw the bodies this morning. That poor girl… —he paused briefly, as if weighing every word— went through something horrible.
His eyes drifted back to the photographs spread across the table, and for a moment the room fell silent.
—This cannot happen again, —he added.— That's the only thing that matters.
One by one, everyone nodded. No one objected, no one argued. The gravity of the case left no room for doubt.
After a few seconds of silence in the large conference room, Antonio cleared his throat and spoke up:
—There were no witnesses at either scene. Local police processed both locations thoroughly but found no conclusive evidence. No usable DNA, no clear prints—the suspect was careful… so we're dealing with someone who knows what he's doing.
The tension hung thick in the air. This wasn't just a difficult case—it was a race against time.
—Surveillance footage was also reviewed, and nothing useful turned up.
That string of "nothings" left everyone unsettled. Without even a starting point, how were they supposed to begin?
—There's one more thing, —Hank said, looking around.— You've all seen the existing data. Similar cases occurred in New York. At my request, the NYPD Special Victims Unit will be sending two people to assist us with their experience on this type of case.
—Guys, be nice.
Olinsky ran a hand through his beard, thoughtful, as if trying to pull an answer out of the silence.
—What about registered sex offenders in the system? Anyone with a similar MO?
—Nothing, —Jin replied without looking up.— We already cross-referenced the profiles and found no matches in the database.
As he spoke, he flipped through the files with focused concentration.
—DNA is being extracted from the victims' bodies, but that's going to take time. Too much time.
—And even then, —someone else added,— this killer was extremely careful. Odds are, he didn't leave us anything useful.
Hank exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated.
—Since we don't have leads, we're going to have to go find them, —he said, pointing to a section of the map marked in red on the board.— Both bodies in this series were found along the same stretch: Riverside Walk. I want eyes on the ground. Look for anything out of place, any suspicious detail. Nothing is insignificant.
He lifted his gaze, sweeping the team with a firm look.
—Move.
The meeting ended as quickly as it had begun. Chairs scraped, folders snapped shut, and everyone gathered their things with the urgency of a case that couldn't wait.
—Ethan, —Antonio said as he passed him without stopping.— This case is generating a lot of noise. We're going to be getting nonstop calls. Some will have tips, others will just want interviews or statements. Go downstairs and get someone up here to answer the phones.
—No problem!
Ethan nodded and headed for the stairs. He was just reaching the last flight when he spotted Burgess.
She was standing at reception, shaking her head in visible frustration as her ponytail swayed back and forth. The phone wouldn't stop ringing, and her expression made it clear this was only the beginning.
—Burgess.
Ethan approached quickly, not wasting time.
—You're not going on patrol today, —he said quietly but firmly.— You're helping Intelligence.
—Alright!
Burgess's smile appeared instantly—wide, bright, showing her white teeth.
—Just tell me what you need.
—Have you heard about the serial murders? —Ethan asked, leaning slightly toward her.
—Of course, —she nodded without hesitation, serious for a moment.
—Good, —Ethan gestured upstairs.— We need someone in Intelligence answering the phones. This case is drawing too much attention—tips, false leads, curious callers… and maybe something useful. Can you handle it?
—Yes.
Burgess's ponytail bounced as she answered, clearly energized.
—No problem. Leave it to me.
Ethan dictated the access code and gave her a few quick instructions. Then he motioned to Platt and turned away, heading toward the garage without looking back.
Burgess watched him until he disappeared down the hallway. She couldn't help but smile.
—Kim Burgess, —Platt said without looking up from her screen, her voice neutral.— Congratulations on your official promotion to Intelligence secretary.
—No complaints, Sergeant, —Burgess replied with a laugh as she filled out the form.— It's all experience. Step by step—no rushing.
—Heh.
Platt smirked and kept typing.
When the paperwork was done, Burgess clasped her hands over her duty belt, took a deep breath, and almost jogged toward the stairs, nerves and excitement shining in her eyes.
She opened the metal mesh door and hurried up toward the main room.
Silence hit her all at once.
The space was empty, still, and instinctively she slowed her pace, as if afraid to interrupt something. Then she saw the board and hurried again.
The photographs pinned to it were harsh, direct, impossible to ignore. Each image seemed to tell its own story, and together they made her hold her breath for a second.
For the Intelligence team, this was routine.
For an average patrol officer, it was… intense. Too real.
The board offered little in the way of clear answers—just fragments, dates, maps, and speculation. Burgess didn't dare touch anything on the nearby tables; it didn't feel like her place yet.
She crossed the break room and finally headed to an empty desk with a phone. She nodded to herself, satisfied.
That would be her station today.
Down in the armory, the rest of the team was already gearing up to head out. Erin wore athletic clothes—comfortable but fitted—effortlessly highlighting her curves as she fixed her hair.
—Whew, wheee! —Ethan whistled without thinking, betrayed by a poorly timed reflex.
Several heads snapped toward him instantly.
—Sorry, that was involuntary, I swear, —he added quickly, raising his hands in surrender at Hank's stern expression.
The tension eased just a little, drawing a few restrained smiles before professional focus settled back in.
Antonio glanced at Hank's scowling face and let out a brief, almost inaudible laugh. Erin, on the other hand, smiled openly, resting a hand on her hip.
Realizing how unconvincing his excuse had been, Ethan cleared his throat and coughed.
—So… what exactly are we playing today?
Antonio slipped on a reflective yellow vest; Rusek draped a pair of sunglasses around his neck, adopting a casual air; Olinsky adjusted a trench coat and a baseball cap, looking surprisingly British.
Erin was, without a doubt, a runner.
The rest looked like road workers or occasional tourists. Hank and Jin, meanwhile, hadn't bothered to change at all.
—Jin and I will be in the command vehicle, —Hank said with a resigned gesture, pointing to a large van that had just pulled into the garage.— You'll be out on the ground. Use whatever you need to blend in with the crowd.
The undercover operation had officially begun. As they approached the back of the van, the inside looked like an improvised storage unit. Whenever Olinsky and his team ran covert ops, they usually picked their disguises from that vehicle.
Ethan hesitated for only a moment before grabbing a mountain bike from inside the van. He weighed it in one hand, assessing it like another weapon, then slung it over his shoulder. It was old, unbranded, the kind of bike that could belong to anyone blowing off steam after work. Precisely why it was perfect.
Light. Discreet. Lethally functional.
The bike would give him the mobility he needed: he could move fast, change routes in seconds, and if necessary, disappear into narrow paths or pedestrian areas where a vehicle wouldn't stand a chance.
—This will do, —he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
Once everyone had chosen their cover, the team dispersed efficiently. Each of them knew exactly what to do.
The Iveco van rolled out first. Behind it, Ethan and Erin followed in the Tahoe that joined the convoy, keeping just enough distance to avoid drawing attention. The engine hummed low, in sync with the city traffic.
—Next time, try to hold back a little, will you? Or do you want the whole team finding out about us? —Erin said.
Ethan flashed a crooked smile, never taking his eyes off the road.
—I'll try, —he replied calmly.— No promises.
The operation had truly begun. And everyone knew it.
They soon arrived at the riverside walkway. Erin put in her earbuds, did a few warm-up hops in place, then started jogging forward at an easy pace.
A short while later, Ethan carefully opened the car door, making sure not to draw attention. He pulled the bike from the trunk and, without looking back, headed off in another direction, merging onto the path that ran along the river. Within seconds, he stopped looking like an agent and became just another cyclist.
The cold wind whipped against his face, but it didn't dampen the visitors' spirits. Along the riverwalk, small groups strolled leisurely—some holding hands, others stopping to take photos of the Chicago skyline reflected in the grayish water. The murmur of conversation and laughter blended with the crunch of gravel underfoot.
—Clang!
The mountain bike wheels hummed with a metallic buzz as they rolled over the uneven path. Ethan pedaled at a steady pace, weaving between riverside trees, alert to everything: odd movements, nervous glances, any gesture that felt out of place.
A few yards away, the scene was very different. Antonio had cornered someone who might be useful—a mostly harmless pickpocket who worked this area regularly.
—Oh, oh, oh… —Theo raised both hands, exaggerating the gesture as if it were all a joke.— I know what you're trying to do.
Antonio didn't respond right away. He simply watched him, letting the silence do the work.
—You're trying to use this morning's murder case to blackmail me, —Theo continued, tilting his head.— Force me to confess to the theft, right?
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
—I'm not falling for that. I know how you guys work. I'm not saying anything… I want a lawyer.
He shrugged, feigning indifference, though his fingers twitched nervously.
—If you didn't do anything, why do you need a lawyer? —Antonio said calmly, stepping closer.
The proximity made Theo swallow hard.
Antonio gave him a firm slap on the shoulder—hard enough to make it clear who was in control.
—But I want to make you a deal, —he added.— You like deals, right?
Theo frowned, hesitated for a second, then let out a sound halfway between resignation and curiosity.
—Mmm.
At that moment, in the distance, the steady hum of a bicycle faded between the trees as the operation continued to unfold—silent, tense, like a trap slowly closing.
Theo thought the officer was just bluffing. This time he'd been caught red-handed and he knew it; calling a lawyer would only be a waste of time… and money.
Still, his eyes lit up at one word.
Deal.
Antonio noticed immediately.
—This is your territory, —he said quietly.— You move through here every day, watching, marking targets before you strike.
Theo tried to hold his gaze, but his eyelids fluttered.
Antonio stepped closer, invading his personal space, locking eyes with him.
—You must've noticed something out of place this morning.
—Oh yeah? —Theo replied with a mocking smile.— And what exactly do you think I saw?
—Two women were raped and murdered, —Antonio said, unwavering.— Give me one lead. Just one. And I let you walk.
Theo's smile faltered slightly.
—And how do I know I can trust you?
—You don't have a choice, —Antonio cut in flatly.
—And how can you be so sure I even noticed something weird? —Theo said, jaw tightening.
Antonio narrowed his eyes, assessing him like prey.
—Experience, —he said finally.— The cheetah always knows where the hyena is lurking.
He leaned in closer.
—And you're too territorial not to notice someone stepping where they don't belong.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with an uncomfortable certainty. Theo understood then: he wasn't negotiating from a position of strength.
His eyes gleamed and he nodded several times, almost eagerly.
—I like your analogy… I really do, —he said with a crooked smile.— Alright. This time, I'll trust you.
He fell silent for a few seconds, as if rewinding the scene in his head. He inhaled instinctively and then spoke:
—Around five in the morning, there was a guy hanging around here. Gray-and-black tracksuit. He was stretching… but not like someone who actually works out. He kept looking around, alert, like he was searching for something.
He nodded again, reinforcing his certainty.
—At the time, I figured he had to be one of two things: a criminal… or a cop.
He looked up at Antonio, a smile laced with irony.
—But I've never seen a cop wear a watch that expensive, so…
—Seriously, —Antonio said, pinching his shoulder hard.— How close were you to him?
—Well… —Theo raised an eyebrow.— Close enough to see his face clearly.
An hour later, everyone was back at the precinct, staring intently at the board.
—Now you all see it, —Hank said, slamming his hand on the table.— We're reviewing every nearby security camera.
He pointed to the map.
—Between four and five-thirty in the morning. White males, gray and black athletic clothing. Anything you find, bring it to Theo for identification.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people had passed through that area at that hour. And most of them were wearing exactly those colors.
But there was no alternative.
Jin immediately took the surveillance files. The rest returned to their seats, bracing themselves for a long haul: more than a dozen cameras, an hour and a half of footage, constant pausing, rewinding, fast-forwarding.
Hours of work.
Erin came back after showering and, once she understood the situation, quietly joined in. The room was soon dominated by the hum of monitors and focused stares.
Ethan never took his eyes off the screen. This wasn't the moment to relax.
Half an hour later, Burgess's phone rang. She hung up and almost ran to the sergeant's office. After a brief conversation, they both hurried downstairs.
Ethan rubbed his dry eyes and lifted his coffee mug, only to find it empty. He let out a tired breath.
A moment later, hurried footsteps echoed up the stairs, followed by the metallic screech of the gate opening to let four people through.
Everyone stood up.
—Alright, everyone, —Hank said.— I'd like you to meet Detective Amanda Rollins and Detective Odafin Tutuola from the NYPD Special Victims Unit.
Beside Hank stood a tall, slender blonde woman in a long trench coat, with a magnetic presence. Behind her was a Black man with a neatly trimmed beard and a dark jacket.
The two detectives shook hands nonstop.
—Welcome to Chicago. Want to rest? —Olinsky offered.
—No, —Rollins replied firmly. Her eyes were already on the board.— We're here to work. Shall we start with coffee?
Rusek didn't wait for orders. Minutes later, the team gathered around the table. Burgess pulled up a chair, attentive.
Odafin spoke first, rubbing his beard as he studied the board.
—We need to start with the pattern, —he said, planting both hands on the table.— Why New York and then Chicago? A salesman following trade shows? An interstate trucker?
—Exactly, —Rollins cut in, opening a thick folder.— And that's where it gets interesting.
The dry sound of cardboard opening seemed to echo louder than usual in the room.
—In New York, there was no doubt, —she continued.— The killer you're looking for is the same one we were chasing. Same signature, same level of control, same escalation.
A low murmur rippled through the room. Ethan and Olinsky exchanged a quick, tense glance.
—But there's more, —Odafin added, stepping forward.— In every New York case, each murder coincided with a major business convention.
He pointed to one of the pages inside the folder.
—Big conventions. Thousands of attendees. People coming in and out of the city without raising suspicion.
Rollins nodded and picked up again.
—And the same thing is happening here in Chicago. When the second victim was found, a similar convention was taking place in the city, —she paused briefly.— The same one that had been in New York weeks earlier.
Silence fell hard, dense with meaning.
—I did hear one's being held at the Plaza Hotel this week, —Antonio murmured, reading the document header.
Hank took the folder, skimmed it for a few seconds, then handed it to Jin.
—I want a full list, —he ordered.— Every attendee in both cities. Exhibitors, vendors, tech staff, security. No one gets left out.
If that lead panned out, they could finally leave behind endless hours of useless footage and move forward with a clear direction.
—Leave it to me, —Jin said confidently, already standing.— If he was at both conventions, he'll show up.
Without waiting for a response, he headed for the stairs.
The hunt had just stopped being blind.
Now they had a fixed point. A place. And very soon, a name.