Martinez killed the engine.
Three fire trucks sat sideways across Fifth Street, their red lights painting the crowd of phone-wielding gawkers in bloody strobes. Real professional response there.
"What do we know?" Martinez asked the sergeant."911 call came in at 11:47. Caller reported an explosion, said people were falling, ice covering the building." The sergeant's head shake lasted three full seconds.
"In July. Ice in fucking July.""Caller give a name?""Nothing.
Male voice, shaky, professional-sounding. Kept saying 'my building, my people.' Line went dead after two minutes. Dispatch tried calling back—traced to a company cell phone registered to Lindqvist Industries. Phone's been disconnected since the incident."Rodriguez squinted up at the building. "Ice, huh?"
Lindqvist Industries sprouted icicles thick as baseball bats from its twisted steel bones. Glass carpeted Fifth Street in glittering shards. Frost painted crystalline webs across forty floors of blown-out windows. The thermometer on the bank across the street read 91°F.A fire captain approached, sweat stains mapping his armpits despite the AC blasting from every emergency vehicle.
"Unknown explosion, unknown cause. No gas lines in that section. No electrical problems reported."Martinez watched office furniture dangle from windows twenty stories up, encased in amber ice. "Building just decided to redecorate itself?""Something like that."
[The building exploration and discovery scenes remain largely the same until the interrogation...]
The interrogation room measured eight feet by ten. Concrete walls painted institutional green—the color of dying hope. One door. No windows. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs that had heard every lie in the book.
Arved sat facing the mirror. Handcuffs chained him to the table. He stared at the metal surface like it might speak. His torn Armani suit hung loose on his frame. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like he hadn't slept in days.Thirty minutes ticked by on the wall clock. Its second hand jerked forward with mechanical precision.The door opened.Detective Naia stepped inside, carrying a thick file and a small digital recorder. She set both on the table with deliberate care."Forty-seven people are dead, Mr. Lindqvist." Her voice carried silk wrapped around razor wire.
She opened the file. Crime scene photos spilled across metal. Bodies frozen in terror. Eyes white with frost. "Forty-seven people who kissed someone goodbye this morning."Arved's breathing stayed steady. His eyes stayed fixed on the table."You know what I think?" She leaned back. Her chair creaked. "I think you know exactly what happened in that building."Silence."The 911 call came from your company cell phone. Caller knew details only someone inside would know - mentioned the twenty-third floor specifically, said 'my building, my people.' Voice analysis puts it at ninety-seven percent match to your recorded voice from company meetings."
His chest rose and fell. Nothing else moved."But here's what's interesting." She pulled out a photo of his hands, fingertips blackened with frostbite. "Medical examiner says this pattern is consistent with gripping metal in extreme cold. Like a cell phone."Her palm slammed the table. The crack split the air like thunder.Arved's eyes flicked up. Met hers. Held."Still nothing?" Her smile held the warmth of winter moonlight. "That's fine. We've got forensics going through every inch of that building. Phone records, bank accounts, browser history."She stood. Collected the photos with practiced efficiency. Her heels clicked toward the door.
When the door closed, Arved stared at the table where the recorder had been. In the silence, he could almost hear it again—that voice, desperate and terrified, calling for help while the world turned to ice.