The first call came at 3:07 a.m. Detective Miles Kaito’s phone vibrated, an unknown number flashing on the screen. He answered, gruff with sleep, expecting a wrong number or a frantic informant.The voice on the other end was his own, ragged and choked with a terror he’d never felt. “Listen to me. You have forty-eight hours. He finds you in the old Lansing Warehouse. You go there alone. Don’t. It’s a trap. You die on the concrete floor, bleeding out from a gut shot. The case number is 7-9-2-1-0. Remember it.”The line went dead. Kaito sat in the dark, his