Fresh coffee is brewing. I look inside my mug. Can't wait for the pot to finish. Three packs of sugar oughta help.
For some reason I remember a line from a play I read in High School:
“You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away. A man is not a piece of fruit.”
Death of a Salesman. Willie Loman. A loser like me.
A piece of fruit. Damn terrible way to regard a man’s life.
Another girl was murdered last night.
Another report to fill out.
“Your phone was ringing,” Danny Collins says.
Besides me, Collins is one of the last senior detectives in Maryland State’s Special Investigations Unit who hasn’t retired, although it's no secret he’ll be making his move before long.
"I heard it," is my reply. Like I care.
Thirty-one years old, five-foot five-inches tall, one-hundred-eighteen pounds.
Dark brown hair, blue eyes.
Preliminary COD: Poisoning.
Probably shouldn't go in the report, but this girl was gorgeous, but saying so, officially would be stupid, considering the climate of the division lately.