“Why, yes they are,” Blake said sarcastically.
“Why do you have different last name?” I asked.
“My mom remarried when I was 12.”
Knock, knock
An officer came into the room.
“I have the pulmonary coroner report for you detective,” the officer said.
“Let see here,” I mumbled to myself while looking at the report. “It says that it was a suicide.”
I looked up at Blake. “And that is what it will say in my report.”
“Why, can’t you see that the evidence is telling you that its murder,” the kid said, an Irish accent prominent.
“I see your Irish accent is coming out,” I noted.
“It comes out when I’m correcting a moron.”
“So only when you’re cocky. Now go home and let the real cops do the work, got it kid?”
Moriarty glared at me for a moment and then stood up.
Ring, ring, ring… I heard as I’m walking the kid out.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell, the caller ID said it’s my wife.
“Hello, honey, what did the Dr. Say?” I asked.
I heard her sigh. “Still no luck, hon. This makes the fourth time and I’m still not pregnant.”
“It’ll be okay, sweetie, it will happen soon,” I consoled her.
“When will you be home?” she asked.
“I should be home around ten and I’ll cook your favorite, chili dogs, and we can watch your favorite movie, Thor.”
“Chris Hemsworth is so dreamy.”
“Don’t tell me I have competition. He’s married, you know.”
“Details, details,” she said.
“And so are you,” I reminded her of our marraige.
“You always have to ruin my fun.”
I chuckled. “Just making sure you won’t run off with Thor, Sweetheart.”
“Don’t worry; he seems more attached to his hammer.”
“That’s good to know,” I muttered.
“I’ll let you go, hon. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Sweetheart.” I hung up my cell.
“Are you okay, detective, you looked like you got some bad news?” asked Blake.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said.
“Whatever you say, Detective,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Go home and let me finish my work.”
“Sure thing, detective, is there a phone I can use?’
“Yea, you can use my cell,” I said, while pulling out my cell again.
“Thanks, detective,” he muttered before running off.
Hmm, there is something off with this kid.
He returned shortly with my phone in hand. “Here you go, detective, thanks again for the phone.”
“No Problem.”
Ring, ring, ring, I picked up my desk phone.
“Johnson, how my I help you?”
“Yes, detective, the Mr. O’Donald suicide was murder,” the voice said.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I saw it all go down from outside.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, grabbing my notepad and pen.
“You can call me Mr. M.”
“What did you see, Mr. M?” I asked, while jotting down everything he was saying.
“I can’t tell you over the phone,” he replied.
“Can I meet with you today?”
“Yes, meet me at the corner of Nordoff and Woodley; there is a coffee shop there. Be there by nine.”
“I’ll be there,” I said and hung up. I hoped this lead didn’t take too long. Probably some quack wanting to get attention, or a reporter trying to get the inside details. Either way, it better not keep me away from my wife tonight.
“Who was that detective?” asked Blake.
“Police business,” I said firmly.
“So I was right! It was murder.” Blake grinned.
“Go home, Blake.” I rubbed my eyes. When I opened them, Blake was still standing there with a smirk on his face, stupid punk kid. “I said, go home, Blake,” I shouted. The kid was starting to annoy me.
“I would but I need a ride.”
“Who were you talking to?” I asked instead of replying. Surely he called for a ride.
He shrugged, giving me a smug grin. “I can’t seem to remember.”
I growled a little. “Fine, I’ll give you a ride home.”
His grinned never left his face. I had to fight the urge to hit him. “Thank you, Detective.”
“Whatever,” I mutted, the urge was getting stronger by the second.
YOU ARE READING
The Killer's Revenge
Mystery / ThrillerI am a detective with the Los Angeles police department and I’m about to tell you a story about a peculiar young man named Blake Moriarty.
