CHAPTER TENMy day was going down the shitter fast. When I saw Detective Martin Derry’s blue Impala pull up, I knew things were not going to improve. Judging by the look on his face when he saw me, I sensed he felt much the same way.
The dark-haired, mustached homicide detective wore an officious gray suit, white shirt, and a burgundy tie knotted with symmetrical perfection. He conferred briefly with a uniformed officer before approaching me. I decided to ask the first question.
“Since when do you handle cases in southern P.G.?” I asked.
“I handle them all over,” he said. “We pull assignments randomly, not by geographic area.”
“Oh.” Lucky me. As a public defender, I hadn’t handled enough homicide cases to know that. Just enough to get on the wrong side of the guy talking to me.
I must
