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"Back corner," Novak said, nodding toward a quiet nook partially hidden behind a towering potted fiddle leaf fig. Two oversized leather armchairs flanked a reclaimed wood table, offering both comfort and privacy.

"Some of us actually appreciate good coffee," Novak replied, setting up his laptop. "And yes, even this late. Besides, when was the last time you had a decent cup at a precinct?"

"Point taken." Rachel settled into one of the chairs, the leather butter-soft with age.

She pulled her iPad from her shoulder bag while Novak set his laptop up.

The playlist overhead shifted from Iron & Wine to what sounded suspiciously like a folk version of "Sweet Child O' Mine. " "Though the music's debatable."

A barista approached their corner, her dark hair pulled back in a neat braid, tattoos of constellations dotting her forearms. "Welcome to the Bean. Can I get you started with anything?"

"Large dark roast, black," Rachel said, spreading the first batch of files across the table.

"Make that two," Novak added, "but add cream to mine. And we'll take a couple of the prosciutto and fig sandwiches."

The barista nodded. "Good choice. I'll have those right out."

As she walked away, Rachel raised an eyebrow at Novak. "Fancy sandwich guy now, are we?"

"Trust me on this one." He typed in his FBI credentials into his laptop, the blue glow of the database login screen reflecting off his features.

"Better than the vending machine dinner we'd be having at a station.

Speaking of which—" he gestured around at the cafe's warm ambiance, "—not bad for an office, right? "

Rachel had to admit he had a point. The Copper Bean hummed with quiet energy, but it was worlds away from the harsh fluorescent lighting and stale coffee of their usual workspace.

The aroma of freshly ground beans mingled with the savory scent of warming sandwiches and the subtle earthiness of the potted plants scattered throughout the space.

Through the front windows, she could see the last rays of sunlight painting the sky in shades of amber and rose—colors she thought always looked faded in the sky during cold weather like this.

"I could get used to this," she conceded, pulling Margaret Fenway's list closer. "Though maybe with different music."

"What, you're not feeling the acoustic cover of Soundgarden?"

"Is that what this is? I couldn't tell under all the banjo."

Their coffee and sandwiches arrived as Rachel began sorting through the personnel files. The sandwich, she had to admit, was exceptional—the fig jam adding an unexpected sweetness that balanced perfectly with the prosciutto and sharp cheese.

"Okay," she said, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

"Let's see what kind of people New Horizons attracts.

" She began methodically opening the files and then scrolling through them on her screen, through the stack of personnel files, creating neat digital piles based on department and specialization.

"First up, their research division. Dr. Paula Greene—double PhD from MIT, biomedical engineering and molecular biology.

Three patents in cryopreservation techniques, specifically in neural tissue preservation.

" She whistled softly. "Turned down department chair positions at both Johns Hopkins and Mayo Clinic for this place.

Published over forty papers in the last decade alone. "

"Impressive," Novak said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "What's her specialty?"

"According to this, she's developed a new method for preserving synaptic connections during the freezing process.

Previous attempts resulted in significant degradation, but her technique.

.." Rachel scanned the technical documentation.

"Well, I can't understand half these terms, but the results speak for themselves. She's revolutionizing the field."

Rachel moved to the next file. "Here's Dr. James Morrison.

Former chief of neurosurgery at Mass General, pioneering work in hypothermic surgery techniques.

Was making seven figures, had a staff of thirty under him.

" She scrolled through more pages. "Walking away from that to join a startup? That's a hell of a career move."

"Maybe he really believed in the mission," Novak suggested.

"Maybe. But look at this pattern." Rachel spread out more files.

"Dr. Elena Rodriguez—left her position as head of cellular regeneration research at Stanford.

Dr. Marcus Wong—abandoned a tenure-track position at Harvard Medical to join New Horizons.

Dr. Brian Carter—walked away from a prestigious research grant at Johns Hopkins. "

She pulled out another stack. "And it's not just the medical staff. Their engineering team is just as impressive. It’s filled with mechanical engineering folks, PhDs all over the place, researchers from CalTech, MIT, you name it. Dr. Kenneth Park, formerly part of the cryogenics team at CERN. Dr. Laura Hammond, who literally wrote the textbook on biomedical preservation systems.” She stopped and let out a laugh even though a small chill raced up her spine.

“Christ, I had to study her work during my forensics training. "

Novak leaned forward, interested. "They're building quite a brain trust."

They spent the next few minutes reading over everything—Novak typing in the occasional name into the bureau database to see if anything popped up. By the time Rachel came across anything of note, the sandwiches were gone, and what remained of their coffee had gone lukewarm.

"I think I may have found something here,” she said, stretching her neck slightly.

"Look at the pattern. Over six years, they've recruited forty-seven top-tier scientists and doctors.

And here's what's really interesting—" she tapped the employment records, "—only three people have ever left voluntarily, all for prestigious positions elsewhere.

Dr. Michael Chang went to lead research at the Max Planck Institute.

Dr. Rebecca Sullivan took over as department chair at UCLA Medical.

Dr. Thomas Lienhart was personally recruited by the NIH to head their new cryobiology division. "

"Instead, they're all working for a six-year-old startup," Novak mused. "That's how long New Horizons has been around, right?"

"According to these records." Rachel took a sip of her coffee, wincing at the temperature.

"And again…just look at these retention statistics. Three voluntary departures in six years—all to incredibly prestigious positions. That’s saying something.

Zero firings…except a guy named until Alex Manning.

Zero resignations without immediate career advancement.

That's not normal, Novak. Even the best research facilities have turnover. "

She pulled out another set of documents.

"Their support staff is just as stable. Lab technicians, administrative personnel, facility managers—most places cycle through those positions every couple of years.

But at New Horizons?" She tapped a spreadsheet.

"Ninety-eight percent retention rate across all non-research positions.

The only people who've left their maintenance and security teams did so for medical retirement or relocation due to family circumstances. "

Around them, the dinner crowd had begun to thin, replaced by students settling in for evening study sessions. The playlist had moved on to what might have been a folksy rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," though she couldn't be entirely sure.

"Fenway must have one hell of a recruitment pitch," Novak said, scrolling through database entries. "Or deep pockets."

"Probably both." Rachel continued through the files, noting publication records and research achievements that read like a who's who of cutting-edge medical science.

Then she paused, something catching her eye. "Hold on. Here's something interesting."

"What've you got?"

"Alex Manning…again. Harvard Medical School, biochemistry research fellowship at Stanford, impressive publication record in cellular preservation techniques." She frowned, scanning the documentation. "But, like I said, he’s the only one to have ever actually been fired.”

“How long ago?” Novak asked.

“Five months.”

Novak looked up from his screen. "Fired? That doesn't track with what you’ve been reading to me. Most of their staff either stays put or moves on to other positions. Nobody gets fired."

"Exactly." Rachel pushed the file across the table. "Can you pull up anything on him?"

"Give me a minute." Novak's fingers flew across the keyboard, the soft clicking nearly lost under the sound of an acoustic guitar transforming what might have been a Metallica song into something unrecognizable.

Rachel's phone buzzed against the table. It was a familiar number…one she’d seen recently. She was pretty sure it was a call from Sergeant Rose.

"This is Agent Gift," she answered, already knowing from the late hour that it couldn't be good news.

"Agent Gift." Rose's voice was tight. "We've got another one."

Rachel caught Novak's eye across the table, doing what she could to communicate the news without breaking away from the call. "Where?"

"Car Dealership near Beacon Hill. Owner's name is Peter Wells—runs those car dealerships you see advertised everywhere. He just also happens to be the victim. Looks to be the same M.O. as the others."

Rachel's hand tightened around her phone. Three victims now, and a pattern emerging that she didn't like at all. "We're on our way."

She ended the call, looking at Novak, who was already closing his laptop. The cozy atmosphere of the Copper Bean suddenly felt very far away from the reality of their investigation.

"That was Sergeant Rose,” she said. “We've got a third victim."