in on the streets.
Taking his seat behind his desk, Massey shook his head again. "I mean, some of those forensics shows. In one night, one crew handles everything and comes up with the killer. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking forensics. Crimes have certainly been solved because of a hair or a fiber, and DNA typing is the greatest gift since fingerprints. But most of the time, even if you're lucky enough to find a hair or a fiber, it's like looking through a haystack to find what the hell to compare the damn thing to. Okay, domestic crimes… you can usually trace those suckers. Drugs? You're looking for another thug. But then you have the random crime, the woman who looks like the girl who rejected the perp back in high school, and happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Serial killers. Strangers killing strangers. That's when it gets hard."
Brent nodded sympathetically, wondering just what Massey's frustrated speech had to do with the matter at hand. "Tom Garfield was onto something, and we know that he didn't inject himself with heroin."
Massey, who had been frowning and distracted, focused on Brent suddenly, and his large ruddy face flushed darker. "Sorry… I've got another case that's equally frustrating. Beautiful young woman, same kind of death. Except she had been a junkie, and we'll probably discover she just fell back to her old ways. Her friends are insisting she was murdered, though."
Brent arched a brow. "Heroin?"
"Yep."
"Her friends claim she was clean?"
"Yeah, but you know, friends see what they want to."
Brent leaned forward. "But the deaths were similar otherwise?"
"Like I said, the girl had a past history of drugs. She nearly got herself kicked out of Tulane because of her habit."
Brent decided he had to be careful. He didn't want to irritate his contact. Still, since the deaths were so alike, it seemed evident to him that they should be investigated for a connection.
Of course, the dead girl hadn't been a government agent.
"Where did she die?"
"Her own apartment."
"Anybody see anything or anyone unusual?"
"Nope."
"Crime scene investigators went over the apartment and found nothing?"
"You know, we're not idiots here."
"I wasn't suggesting you were. It's just that… since she'd been a junkie, I was wondering if the death was being investigated with the same rigor as a case that might not be self-induced."
"We searched the apartment. Not so much as the hint of an unknown fiber or hair," Massey said coldly. "Nail scrapings—nothing. The ME went over the body with a fine-tooth comb. Again, nothing."
"Sorry," Brent said.
Massey shrugged. "Well, I guess I went off on you first, venting my frustration," he said. He leaned toward Brent across the desk, lowering his voice as if he was suddenly worried about being heard by others in the busy precinct office. "Actually, right now a couple of the dead girl's friends are here, going through mug shots, looking. The kids had been drinking together the night before. I asked them about anyone suspicious lurking around. Of course, half the people in New Orleans look suspicious. Anyway, it's just one of those times when being a cop kind of makes you ill, you know? When you see the haunted eyes of those left behind."
Massey's gaze slid past Brent, indicating a small conference room.
Brent knew before he turned to look that he was going to see the couple from the night before.
The guy, tall, dark and good looking, was standing protectively by her side. He'd been protective the night before, too.
She was seated. He couldn't see her eyes, but he could remember the color. Not blue. Not green. A true aqua, like the waters of a Caribbean reef. Her hair was long, of a golden, honeyed color. And she had a great face. Classic bone structure. Perfect nose, not too small, straight, and just right for the width of her cheekbones.
Great mouth. Full, sensual lips set against a firm chin. He couldn't see any of that at the moment. It
Taking his seat behind his desk, Massey shook his head again. "I mean, some of those forensics shows. In one night, one crew handles everything and comes up with the killer. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking forensics. Crimes have certainly been solved because of a hair or a fiber, and DNA typing is the greatest gift since fingerprints. But most of the time, even if you're lucky enough to find a hair or a fiber, it's like looking through a haystack to find what the hell to compare the damn thing to. Okay, domestic crimes… you can usually trace those suckers. Drugs? You're looking for another thug. But then you have the random crime, the woman who looks like the girl who rejected the perp back in high school, and happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Serial killers. Strangers killing strangers. That's when it gets hard."
Brent nodded sympathetically, wondering just what Massey's frustrated speech had to do with the matter at hand. "Tom Garfield was onto something, and we know that he didn't inject himself with heroin."
Massey, who had been frowning and distracted, focused on Brent suddenly, and his large ruddy face flushed darker. "Sorry… I've got another case that's equally frustrating. Beautiful young woman, same kind of death. Except she had been a junkie, and we'll probably discover she just fell back to her old ways. Her friends are insisting she was murdered, though."
Brent arched a brow. "Heroin?"
"Yep."
"Her friends claim she was clean?"
"Yeah, but you know, friends see what they want to."
Brent leaned forward. "But the deaths were similar otherwise?"
"Like I said, the girl had a past history of drugs. She nearly got herself kicked out of Tulane because of her habit."
Brent decided he had to be careful. He didn't want to irritate his contact. Still, since the deaths were so alike, it seemed evident to him that they should be investigated for a connection.
Of course, the dead girl hadn't been a government agent.
"Where did she die?"
"Her own apartment."
"Anybody see anything or anyone unusual?"
"Nope."
"Crime scene investigators went over the apartment and found nothing?"
"You know, we're not idiots here."
"I wasn't suggesting you were. It's just that… since she'd been a junkie, I was wondering if the death was being investigated with the same rigor as a case that might not be self-induced."
"We searched the apartment. Not so much as the hint of an unknown fiber or hair," Massey said coldly. "Nail scrapings—nothing. The ME went over the body with a fine-tooth comb. Again, nothing."
"Sorry," Brent said.
Massey shrugged. "Well, I guess I went off on you first, venting my frustration," he said. He leaned toward Brent across the desk, lowering his voice as if he was suddenly worried about being heard by others in the busy precinct office. "Actually, right now a couple of the dead girl's friends are here, going through mug shots, looking. The kids had been drinking together the night before. I asked them about anyone suspicious lurking around. Of course, half the people in New Orleans look suspicious. Anyway, it's just one of those times when being a cop kind of makes you ill, you know? When you see the haunted eyes of those left behind."
Massey's gaze slid past Brent, indicating a small conference room.
Brent knew before he turned to look that he was going to see the couple from the night before.
The guy, tall, dark and good looking, was standing protectively by her side. He'd been protective the night before, too.
She was seated. He couldn't see her eyes, but he could remember the color. Not blue. Not green. A true aqua, like the waters of a Caribbean reef. Her hair was long, of a golden, honeyed color. And she had a great face. Classic bone structure. Perfect nose, not too small, straight, and just right for the width of her cheekbones.
Great mouth. Full, sensual lips set against a firm chin. He couldn't see any of that at the moment. It
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