Page 23 of The Don's Forbidden Obsession

Shuffling through the images, I grimaced.

I hated not being first on the scene. I didn’t get to see the body in situ, and I only had the responding detective’s photos to rely on.

It was strange.

Usually, first responding officers determined which detective was going to be on the case and called them to the scene.

I hadn’t had any missed calls.

Neither had Davis.

Captain hadn’t called either of us.

Why did he want us on the case after someone else had already worked on it?

It didn’t make sense.

I would have been perfectly content leaving it in the hands of the original investigator rather than putting my shit on hold.

“Maybe he got pressure after the scene and decided to reassign?” Davis asked as we combed the photos.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but something seems off about these photos,” I grumbled, noticing something.

“Like what?”

I pointed to the photo of our victim — and I do use the wordvictimloosely. The guy was a total asshole. Had his hand in backhanded stock trades and embezzlement galore. Narrowing down suspects wasn’t going to be fun. A lot of people had a motive to kill this guy.

“Look at how he’s positioned here,” I said. Davis nodded. I turned over another photo. “And then look at this.”

“He’s positioned the same,” he laughed, his face inches away from the picture.

I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply. “No, he’s not,” I said. “Look at the floor. The corner of this board is about an inch away from his elbow in this photo.” I pulled up the other photo. “It’s right against his elbow in this one.”

“So, they moved him an inch?” he asked.

“Yeah, and what kind of dumbass rookie would do that?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “Let’s just look at the evidence found and see if we can pin down some of our long list of suspects to start interviewing.”

I grumbled.

Something still seemed off.

About the whole damn thing.

Davis was always about playing it safe. He was always about doing the bare minimum.

“Hey, Cindy!” I yelled over my cubicle.

“Ye-yeah?” I heard a faint stammer before the bulbous, blonde-haired woman stood and looked at me over glasses that rested low on the bridge of her nose.

“What are you doing?” Davis hissed at me.

“Cindy, can you get me the name of the detective originally assigned to this case?” I asked.

She smiled brightly. “Of course!” Immediately, she fell back into her seat and started typing.

Cindy was our records department coordinator.

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