By J.A. Jance
A stunning picture screamed from front pages of the tabloids—the final moments of a existence captured for the entire global to work out. The glance of sheer terror ceaselessly frozen at the face of the doomed lady indicated that her deadly fall from an higher tale of an unfinished Seattle skyscraper was once no determined suicide—and that glance will endlessly hang-out murder Detective J.P. Beaumont. yet his hunt for solutions and justice is resulting in extra dying, and to darkish and negative secrets and techniques scrupulously guarded via males of metal in the back of the locked doorways of a strong union that extracts its dues funds in blood.
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Someone's coming from the medical examiner's office. So are two detectives. " It wasn't exactly by the book, but Officer Jackson had taken a little initiative, and calling everybody at once would probably save time. I nodded. "Good," I said. "By the way, we haven't been introduced. I'm Detective J. P. " She held out her hand. "Merrilee Jackson," she said, shaking my hand, but flashing Parker a wide grin. " Merrilee Jackson didn't comment aloud on Derrick Parker's star status, and neither did Baxter.
I stood there in a fury after he left, with explosions of light blurring my vision and blood pounding in my temples. Playboy cop my ass! I was aware that there had been some idle comment around the department about my change in lifestyle. The red Porsche 928 and my penthouse condo in Belltown Terrace had been the subject of mostly congenial ribbing, especially on the fifth floor where some of the guys regularly asked me if I was still on the take. There may have been more serious gritching going on behind my back, but Kramer was the first one ever to tackle me about it head-on.
Goldfarb. " Even as I spoke, I heard the thin wail of an approaching siren. " Goldfarb screeched, his voice becoming shrill. " "That's exactly what I mean, Mr. Goldfarb," I returned. Goldfarb wasn't my boss, and I had developed a certain immunity to the director's ravings. He was a chronic complainer, always bitching and moaning, always at the top of his lungs. "You can't do that, Detective Beaumont," he roared back. " "Watch me," I said. I turned to Woody. " He did, quickly and effectively, leaving Sam "The Movie Man" Goldfarb hopping from foot to foot in total frustration.
A More Perfect Union by J.A. Jance