I woke up feeling smooth and soft sheets against my skin, asking me not to leave the bed this morning, just to stay in and sleep. I took a swift drink from the glass next to me. I taste last night's leftover whisky. The only sound in the apartment in the morning is the loud, annoying buzzing of an alarm clock just like my mother, yelling at you to wake up. One last deep breathe of the crisp morning air and out of bed I go. I looked out the window, the city below moves like a beehive. No more rest for me because criminals don't sleep.
In the car, my phone acted like it was the buzzer in a wrestling arena. I opened up my cellphone.
"You got Wayland; it's your dime." I growled into the phone.
"Don't talk like that it's rude," said my British partner, Luke Homes, my partner from Scotland Yard. His name the irony is just dripping like blood.
"5am is not the time to mess me, Luke."
"Just get to the crime scene."
I pulled up to an old redbrick building that holds some of New York's most expensive apartments.
At the crime scene, the area has a thick smell of blood and coffee. My car pulled up next to the forensic truck with big letters that where "Forensic police." I jumped out of my car, crossing the yellow tape after flashing my badge. They pull me into the room with the body.
"I have seen some sick stuff but this is nothing like that," said my partner. The body was hanging from the ceiling fan by the body's blood intestines. There was no wall that was clean of blood.
I turned my body away from the rotting body that was hanging there.
"So got any idea if it's a boy or girl?" I asked from my partner who has no problem with the dead eyes looking right at him.
"I believe my dear partner that it is a girl."
"So how do you know this?" I questioned a man who always is right.
"This bra right here, so either it's a girl or a poor cross dresser" Showing me the bloody black lace bra.
In the bedroom, I can tell this girl spent her days partying. There was clothing thrown every which way. I kicked around the clothing then something made a rustling noise under some pants. It was a piece of paper that said, "James Smith professional photographer."
Taking the evidence, I walked into the closet. There were clothing, shoes, and bags of every color, shape, and price. There were dresses never worn with tags still on.
"Well theft is not why she got killed."
I said to my partner leaning on the doorframe.
"Why is that Wayland?" he said with a snicker he knows I hate my name.
"No clothing was stolen and this girl has a friend."
I know this girl had been probable slept with him being a girl who looks like she party every night. I hand the business card to my confused partner.
"AHH, again a gentleman caller." He smiled. He is so unaware of the ways of the rich and young.
"So the dead body, do you know how it is?" Luke said.
"Alex Berlinger well known party girl and were about to see her dad the mayor of New York."
The city hall is bleached marble and standing high like as a rich white businessman with his nose turned up.
"It can't be my Alex, NO," said a very confused mayor with a face red with anger but tears treating to go over in his eyes. My partner tries to calm down the crying man.
