Page 22

Twilight descended over Santiago Heights, transforming its streets into a chiaroscuro landscape of sharp contrasts.

Pools of light from streetlamps alternated with deep shadows, creating perfect concealment for both predator and prey.

Morgan stood beside her car, waiting for Derik's arrival and observing the neighborhood's transition into its nighttime rhythm.

Young mothers hurried children indoors. Metal security gates clanged shut over storefronts.

On certain corners, different entrepreneurs emerged to replace the daytime shift, their postures alert and wary.

"Nothing useful from the security footage," Derik said by way of greeting as he approached, frustration evident in his voice.

They'd arranged to meet at the community center parking lot to compare findings before continuing their investigation together.

"Camera at the subdivision entrance was angled wrong to catch faces in vehicles.

The nearest business with exterior surveillance had equipment that had been 'malfunctioning' for weeks, according to the owner. "

Morgan wasn't surprised. Working surveillance cameras were rarities in neighborhoods like Santiago Heights, where businesses couldn't afford maintenance and residents often preferred that certain activities remained undocumented.

"Harrison remains our most promising suspect," she replied, bringing Derik up to speed on her afternoon interviews.

"Opportunity, physical capability, knowledge of the victims, and a demonstrated willingness to take justice into his own hands. "

Derik listened attentively, leaning against her car beside her. The familiar scent of his aftershave provided momentary comfort amid the tension of the investigation. "Violent past, clear motive, weak alibi," he summarized. "Checks most of our boxes. But?"

She glanced at him, appreciating his ability to read her hesitation even when she hadn't explicitly voiced it.

Their partnership had deepened over the years to the point where such intuitive understanding felt natural.

"But his anger seems too hot," she explained.

"When he talked about confronting the man who harassed his daughter, about Rodriguez selling to kids—there's rage there, barely controlled.

Our vigilante has demonstrated cold precision, methodical planning.

Perfect execution without witnesses, without evidence. "

"Could be compartmentalization," Derik suggested. "People can channel rage into methodical action under the right circumstances. His military books might indicate tactical training or at least interest."

"Maybe," Morgan conceded. "We should put surveillance on him tonight, see where he goes during his patrol. If nothing else, we can eliminate him if he sticks to his assigned route."

For the next several hours, they conducted additional interviews with neighborhood watch members, gradually working through the list Sherry had provided.

Each conversation yielded similar patterns—residents expressed minimal concern about the deaths of known criminals, patrol members provided alibis of varying strength, and everyone acknowledged the inadequacy of official law enforcement in Santiago Heights.

By the time darkness had fully claimed the neighborhood, they had eliminated several names but added no new viable suspects to their list.

"What now?" Derik asked as they walked back toward their vehicles, their breath visible in the cooling night air. "It's nearly eight. We could set up on Harrison, watch his movements during tonight's patrol."

Before Morgan could respond, the distinctive sound of power tools cut through the evening quiet—a circular saw followed by the steady rhythm of a nail gun.

The noise seemed out of place at this hour, especially in a neighborhood where construction typically occurred during daylight hours for safety reasons.

"Hear that?" she asked, already moving toward the sound, instinct pulling her toward the anomaly. "Construction this late?"

They followed the noise to a street two blocks east, where a two-story house stood partially renovated, plastic sheeting covering windows and scaffolding climbing one exterior wall.

Unlike most properties in Santiago Heights, this renovation appeared comprehensive and expensive—new roofing materials, quality lumber stacked neatly, a dumpster filled with debris from gutted interiors.

Work lights illuminated the front porch where a man in his forties worked alone, methodically replacing deteriorated boards with fresh lumber.

Morgan stopped at the edge of the property, studying the scene with professional curiosity. "Pretty ambitious renovation for this neighborhood," she observed. "Most homeowners here can barely afford essential repairs."

Derik nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Investment property maybe? There've been rumors about developers eyeing Santiago Heights for years—close enough to downtown to make gentrification inevitable eventually."

The man on the porch straightened, apparently sensing their presence, and turned toward them.

Recognition flashed across Morgan's face as she identified him—Thomas Parker, assistant district attorney for Dallas County.

She'd encountered him during her previous life as an FBI agent, before Cordell had orchestrated her wrongful conviction.

Parker had a reputation for pursuing maximum sentences against repeat offenders and had been vocal about his frustration with the revolving-door nature of the justice system.

"Can I help you?" Parker called out, setting down his nail gun and wiping his hands on his jeans.

Despite the manual labor, he maintained the confident bearing of someone accustomed to commanding courtrooms. Well over six feet tall with the lean build of a distance runner, he appeared physically capable of overpowering their victims. His dark hair showed premature gray at the temples, and wire-rimmed glasses gave him an intellectual appearance that contrasted with his current role as manual laborer.

"Thomas Parker," Morgan said as they approached the porch. "It's been a while. Morgan Cross, FBI." She didn't mention their previous professional encounters, curious whether he would acknowledge them himself.

Recognition flickered in Parker's eyes, followed immediately by surprise.

"Agent Cross. I heard you were back with the Bureau after.

.. everything." His careful phrasing acknowledged her wrongful imprisonment without directly referencing it—diplomatic, like a prosecutor accustomed to navigating sensitive subjects.

His gaze shifted to Derik. "Agent Greene.

We worked the Wilson trafficking case together last year, if I remember correctly. "

Derik nodded his confirmation as Parker invited them onto the porch, gesturing toward stacked lumber that could serve as makeshift seating.

The prosecutor seemed unsurprised by FBI presence in Santiago Heights, though curiosity edged his tone when he asked, "What brings federal agents to this neighborhood at this hour? Something I should know about?"

"We're investigating the recent homicides," Morgan explained, studying Parker's reaction. "Rodriguez, Rivera, and now James Murray. Three execution-style killings with similar signatures."

Parker's expression revealed nothing beyond professional interest—the practiced neutrality of someone who had spent years controlling his reactions in courtrooms where emotional displays could undermine cases.

"Serial vigilante," he said, the assessment immediate and accurate.

"I heard about Murray this morning. Same MO as the others? "

"Similar enough to confirm pattern," Morgan acknowledged without providing specific details. "What brings an assistant DA to Santiago Heights for late-night renovation work? Not exactly the neighborhood I'd expect to find you investing in property."

Parker glanced around at the partially completed renovation, pride evident in his posture despite the project's unfinished state.

"Been working on this place for eight months now.

My grandfather grew up in this house, raised my father here when Santiago Heights was still a working-class neighborhood, before the decline.

" Something like defiance entered his voice.

"Most of my colleagues thought I was crazy buying property here, but I believe in this community's potential.

Too many people abandoned it over the years. "

The explanation sounded reasonable on the surface—a personal connection to the neighborhood, a desire to preserve family history.

But Morgan's investigative instincts noted the convenient timing of Parker's investment compared to their vigilante's emergence.

Was it possible the prosecutor had purchased property in Santiago Heights not from nostalgia but with a calculated plan to "clean up" the neighborhood by eliminating its criminal elements, thereby increasing property values?

"How often are you here?" she asked, keeping her tone conversational, though her scrutiny was anything but casual. "Seems like a lot of work for someone with your caseload."

"Evenings when I can manage it. Weekends.

" Parker gestured toward the partially completed work.

"It's therapeutic, honestly. In court, cases drag on for months with uncertain outcomes.

Here, I can see immediate results from my efforts.

" His self-deprecating smile seemed genuine.

"My wife thinks it's a midlife crisis. Cheaper than a sports car, at least."

Derik picked up the questioning seamlessly, maintaining the conversational approach that might lower Parker's guard. "You must know the neighborhood well after eight months of working here. Ever encounter any of the victims? Rodriguez was dealing just a few blocks from here."