Murder makes me depressed. Still.

Det. Haley was first-on. She was smoking at the crime scene which meant there was likely a shit-load of blood. I hate blood.

“About time, Stiles,” she said. The glowing Marlboro lit up her face.

“Blood?” I asked.

“Yup. Shit-load.”

I gagged a little. “What can I do?”

She cracked a smile and took a drag. “Clean up the blood?” She laughed, exhaling. “Kidding. Help me bag the evidence.”

“Shitty neighborhood,” I said, looking up at the crumbling walk-up off French Road. “What in the hell are they doing here?”

She shrugged inside her wind-breaker. “Beat’s me. I sure as hell wouldn’t come down here without backup.”

I peered through the blood smeared window of the Mercedes and noticed a blinking dot on the dash. “Hey, what’s that on the GPS ?” I said, pointing.

She leaned over the victim. ”’French Gourmet’. What the hell is ‘French Gourmet’?”

It sounded familiar. “Isn’t that the chic French restaurant up in Ferndale?” I asked.

“Glitch? Someone should probably tell Garmin.”