Chapter 4 - The Midnight Painter
Jolie held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Cullen’s hand remained steady on her forearm, his grip protective yet unyielding. Through the thin horizontal slats of the hat display, they watched the silhouette pause on the deserted sidewalk. The man wore a heavy hooded parka and neoprene gloves. He glanced left and right down Sixth Street, ensuring no police cruisers were patrolling the district.
Satisfied he was alone, the man set down the duffel bag and unzipped it. He didn't pull out a squeegee or a rag. He produced a plastic squeeze bottle with an extended nozzle and a wide hog-bristle paintbrush.
"Look at the boots," Cullen whispered against Jolie’s ear, his breath warm against her temple. "Steel-toed Red Wings with yellow stitching. That’s the uniform gear for Voss Glazing."
The intruder crouched beside pane two—the central curved glass that anchored the entire 1938 storefront facade. It was the crown jewel of the architecture, custom-bent plate glass imported from Belgium before the Second World War, completely irreplaceable with modern standard machinery. The man squirted a thick, milky gel directly into the upper crevice where the glass met the copper framing, using the stiff brush to smear the corrosive paste across the historic surface.
"He's destroying pane two," Jolie whispered in horror, her professional instincts overriding her fear. "If that gel sits on the pre-war leaded glass for more than five minutes, it will eat through the structural laminate. The whole sheet will shatter under its own tension!"
Cullen reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone, recording the intruder in high-definition video through the plate glass. The man’s face was partially obscured by the hood, but as he leaned forward to inspect his handiwork, the ambient light from the streetlamp illuminated his profile clearly: it wasn't Galen Voss.
It was Donnie Reeves—Tandy Reeves’s twenty-four-year-old son, who worked as an apprentice glazier for Voss Contracting.
"Got you," Cullen growled under his breath.
Cullen slipped his phone away, stood up, and kicked the brass release latch on the heavy front oak door. The heavy deadbolt unlocked with a resounding clack that echoed like a gunshot in the silent night.
Donnie Reeves froze. He dropped the brush. His wide, terrified eyes met Cullen’s as the front door swung wide open into the bitter wind.
"Evening, Donnie," Cullen said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Tell me, does your mother know you're doing freelance work for Voss on family property, or did she write the work order herself?"
Donnie shrieked, grabbed the duffel bag, and lunged backward onto the sidewalk. He swung the heavy bag blindly at Cullen’s head. Cullen ducked smoothly under the clumsy strike, stepping into the youth’s chest and driving him backward onto the pavement. The squeeze bottle of acid gel flew from Donnie's gloved hand, skidding across the asphalt and rupturing beneath the tire of a parked sedan.
"Run!" Donnie screamed toward the alleyway.
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A second set of footsteps pounded down the concrete behind them. Galen Voss emerged from the shadows of the alley, carrying a metal pry bar. Seeing Cullen pinning Donnie to the ground, the older man hesitated for a split second, his face twisting with vicious desperation. He raised the iron bar, charging straight toward Cullen's exposed back.
"Cullen, look out!" Jolie yelled, sprinting through the open doorway. Without hesitation, she grabbed her heavy galvanized water bucket from the bed of her truck and hurled twenty pounds of frigid, soapy water directly into Voss’s face.
