Snow still dusted the cracked pavements when Rosy marched into the Luton Bay Police Department building the next morning. She had barely slept. Grant's death was too sudden, too sudden that for Rosy it still sounded like a lie. But she'd seen his body hadn't she? It made her shudder, this uncertain brevity of human life.
The halls smelled of fresh coffee and a range of fragrances: peppery, fruity, Woody. Uniformed men and women in blue jackets with LBPD emblazoned at the back filed in and out of offices, their steps steeped in purpose. Keane Butland, Rosy's partner, was already waiting in the debriefing room, slouched in a chair with his long legs stretched out. He was thirty-four, a year younger than Rosy, with sharp cheekbones and a permanent air of skepticism that carved into his face. They'd graduated from the police college at the same time, and they both, being the best in their set, were immediately drafted into the force.
"You look like you haven't slept," Keane said as she slid into the chair beside him.
"I didn't." Rosy dropped her notepad on the table. "Jones is dead, Keane. He was my friend. I'm not sleeping until I find out who did it."
The debriefing room was flooded with bright light as white fluorescent bulbs hung at various points above, dishing out a buzzing sound that Rosy always found unsettling. She sat stiffly at the long table, notebook open but untouched, her pen poised in midair. Across from her, a dozen faces—sergeants, fellow detectives and a couple of patrol officers, looked up from the table, curiosity painted on each one.
At the head of the table stood Superintendent Captain Fisher, an ex-army man whose bulk alone filled the room with more authority than his voice ever needed. He was a man of fifty-three, gray creeping around his temples, his tie cinched too tight against a thick, stubborn neck.
His eyes swept the table, sharp and unyielding, the look of a man who expected answers, not excuses.
"Officer Grant Jones," Fisher began, his gravelly voice cutting through the stagnant air, "was found dead last night in his home. Male, forty-two, ten years on the force. Initial call came in at twenty-three forty-seven. Neighbours reported a loud crash, assumed it was a domestic. Units arrived at zero-zero-two."
He glanced at the officer taking minutes near the wall, then back to the room.
"Preliminary observations: Jones was alone. No signs of forced entry. Cause of death appears consistent with poisoning, though official word from the coroner is pending."
The room shifted uneasily. Poisoning. It wasn't the kind of death they were used to hearing about when it came to cops. They were used to cops dying in a shootout, used to cops being stabbed with a knife in dark alleys. poisoning? It was like their ears hearing a song for the first time.
"Captain," Sergeant Miller interjected, his voice roughened by years of cigarettes, "you're saying this was deliberate? Not an accident, not suicide?"
Fisher's eyes narrowed. "I'm saying we don't know yet. Which means we keep speculation to ourselves until forensics gives us something we can stand on."
Rosy felt her stomach coil. Twenty-four hours earlier, She'd waved to Grant Jones, a casual gesture in the corridor as he shrugged into his jacket. He smiled, tired but polite. And now he was on a slab in the morgue.
Captain Fisher went on. "Until we know more, we're treating this as suspicious. Full discretion, understood?( the faces before him nodded with low whispers of "yessir") No leaks to the press, no bar chatter. Professional Standards will have my head if this turns into a bloody circus."
A low rumble of agreement once again passed around the table, though Rosy could sense the tension behind it. The department was already under fire in Luton Bay—budget scandals, whispers of brutality in the poorer districts, and now this. A cop found dead in his own home.
"Detective Lawson," Fisher said suddenly, shooting her a heavy gaze. "You're point on this until further notice."
Rosy blinked. "Sir?"
"You were closest to Jones. You knew his routines. His friends. I want a full work-up. Coordinate with forensics. Butland will work with you on this. We already spread thin on other cases."
Oh no not Keane She screamed in her mind. Since he was drafted to homicide, he's only proved to be a pain in her butt. Keane Godforsaken Buttland! Her eyes found Keane at that instant and caught him smiling at her. The devil.
"Yes, Captain," she said evenly, though her chest felt tight.
Chairs scraped back and papers shuffled as Fisher dismissed the room.Rosy closed her notebook, still empty, and slipped it under her arm. The buzzing light seemed louder now, needling at the back of her skull.