The Brilliant Pathologist And Her Stoic Cop

The morning mist clung to the cracked concrete of the abandoned warehouse in Queens.

Justice slammed his car door shut and walked toward the flashing red and blue lights of the patrol cruisers. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the damp wind.

He ducked under the tape and stepped into the cavernous, echoing space.

In the exact center of the empty warehouse sat a rusted metal folding chair.

A woman's body was tied to it.

Justice walked up to her. She was wearing a pristine, white Chanel haute couture suit. The expensive fabric looked grotesque against the oil stains and garbage littering the floor.

Her head was slumped forward. The back of her skull had been caved in by a heavy blunt object. Thick, black blood had dried down her neck and ruined the white collar of her jacket.

Justice recognized her immediately. It was Cinnamon Coleman, the runway model whose face had been plastered across every tabloid last month.

He looked down. Near the toe of her designer heel, a crumpled piece of hotel stationery lay on the ground.

Justice put on a latex glove and flattened the paper.

Written in bright red lipstick was a single word: LIAR.

Justice's mind snapped the puzzle pieces together. The tabloids had run a massive expose three weeks ago. Cinnamon Coleman was the secret mistress of Damion Hatfield.

Damion Hatfield was Dana's boyfriend—the one whose ironclad alibi in London had kept him off Justice’s radar until now.

Justice grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, I need a city-wide APB on Damion Hatfield. Flag his plates, his credit cards, his passport. Now."

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Dr. Vance.

"Justice," Vance said, his voice tight. "I just pumped Darius Cash's stomach. We found a long strand of blonde hair in the gastric contents. I ran a rapid DNA test. It’s a match for the DNA profile on file for the missing Cinnamon Coleman."

Justice stared at the dead model in the chair. Cinnamon was in Darius's apartment. Cinnamon killed Darius. And now someone had killed Cinnamon.

"Thanks, Doc," Justice said, hanging up.

He turned to the patrol officers. "Hold the scene. I'm going to Damion's house."

An hour later, the SWAT armored truck smashed through the wrought-iron gates of Damion Hatfield's sprawling Long Island estate.

Justice kicked the front door open. The house was dead quiet.

They cleared the first floor and moved up the sweeping staircase.

Justice pushed open the double doors to the master bathroom.

Faint streaks of dried condensation still clung to the mirrors.

In the center of the room was a massive, sunken marble bathtub.

Damion Hatfield was submerged in the water, completely naked. The surface of the water was entirely covered in dark red rose petals.

Damion's skin was a ghastly, translucent white. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

On the wide marble ledge of the tub sat an empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills and a crystal tumbler holding a splash of amber whiskey.

Justice reached into the water and pressed two fingers against Damion's carotid artery.

The flesh was cold. Rigor mortis had already set into his jaw.

Justice looked up. On the steam-fogged mirror above the sink, someone had written a message using a bar of soap.

GAME OVER.

Justice stepped back. His chest heaved.

Dana. Darius. Cinnamon. Damion.

Every single person connected to this web was dead. The suspects had all become victims. The circle was closed, and there was no one left to arrest.

A wave of absolute, suffocating frustration crashed over Justice.

He pulled back his fist and slammed it into the tiled wall. The skin on his knuckles split open, leaving a smear of blood on the white porcelain.

His phone started buzzing frantically. The precinct group chat was exploding. The media had already dubbed it the "Manhattan Ring of Death."

Justice walked out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and out the front door.

He stood on the manicured lawn, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with shaking hands. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke burn his lungs.

A sleek, black sedan pulled into the driveway, stopping inches from Justice's boots.

The tinted window rolled down.

Internal Affairs Detective Leland Parris stared out at him, a smug, dangerous smile playing on his lips.

"Rough morning, Potts?" Leland asked.