the fucking stairs were steeper today than yesterday. Pulling his dog-tired ass up the six flights of stairs to the corner of the building homicide had claimed as home, he yawned at the top of the stairs until his entire body shook. He’d passed fucking exhausted a couple days ago. Sleep and he weren’t on speaking terms on the best of days. He’d suffered from insomnia for years and had done everything to try to combat it except drugs and a consistent sleep hygiene regiment. His doctors insisted a routine that would signal his body it was time to shut down would help immensely. Only life as a homicide detective never ran nine to five, and this year, he could count on one hand the times he’d been home in time to watch the five o'clock evening news. So, he slept when he could, for as long as he could. The ever-present exhaustion was just a fact of his life that he managed.
Trudging up the stairs, his over-tired mind flicked through the events of the last four hours. Of course, once he'd made his notifications, the big boys had shown up on scene. Right on the brass' heels had come the press. So much for keeping things under wraps. The feeding frenzy was because of the last name of the man zipped in the body bag. This would guarantee a three-ring circus. What had Samuel Treyson been doing there?
A contingent of blue suits had kept the bastards at bay, while the crime scene techs had erected a visual barrier, also known as a tarp, which allowed everyone to finish their jobs. Thank God there was still a roof over this portion of the warehouse otherwise the helicopters he heard outside would have been able to get graphic photos.
The brass had held to the perimeter of the crime scene and talked among themselves. They didn't help, but at least they hadn't hindered the job either. It was important this case was handled correctly. He got that. As lead detective, he called all the shots and the powers-that-be had respected his authority over the scene.
The Treyson family owned half the city. He was actually surprised the case hadn’t been taken from him. It would make sense to transfer it to the homicide detectives assigned to the Briar Hill precinct. The brass would want the case where they could monitor it, and his dad’s office was in Briar Hill. He shoved open the stairwell door as he worried the specifics of the case like a dog gnawing on a steak bone. He kinda-sorta hoped the Briar Hill Precinct would take this one because he had a feeling dealing with the elite in Briar Hill was going to become a hemorrhoid of biblical proportions. Yep, a hemorrhoid. Big, ugly, irritating as fuck, and no way to make it go away. Besides, the two murders he was currently working were enough to keep both he and his partner busy. Let the Briar Hill detectives deal with the political nightmare. He'd be good with that… or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Damn it, what was Treyson doing in his district? Why in the hell was he in that abandoned warehouse? They hadn’t found any signs of struggle, even after they’d set up lighting when the crime scene tech arrived. Why were you there, Samuel? What were you involved with that got you killed? Why didn’t you fight?
Instead of heading straight to his desk, he hung a hard right into the break room. Coffee made up at least ninety percent of the liquid in his body, what would a few more gallons of caffeine matter? He grabbed his massive thermos mug from the shelf above the coffee pot and poured half the carafe into the insulated jug. Six heaping spoons of sugar and a couple of glugs of creamer later and he was in business.
“You’re going to die of diabetes, son.”
Brock chuckled as he brought his coffee mug to his lips. Nirvana. He chugged three burning gulps and turned to look at his father, the Commissioner of Hope City's Police Force. The job fit his old man as well as the three-piece suits he wore. Chauncey King was two inches shorter than the six feet, seven inches he’d given Brock, and he carried more muscle than his father ever had, but the resemblance between them was uncanny. His old man was still as strong as a team of mules, and the guy had a