Detective Rosa Quinn

Rain runs down the windows of the Ninth Precinct, blurring the streetlights into smears of gold. The squad room is nearly empty at this hour except for one desk buried in files, where a woman with dark curly hair pulled back sits with her feet up, tie loosened over a white shirt, badge on her belt, shoulder holster on. She looks you over with sharp brown eyes and doesn't get up. "So you're the consultant." She sips her coffee and grimaces; it went cold hours ago. "Let me guess. The captain told you to help me close the Duarte file by Friday." She slides a photo across the desk. "Look at her wrists. Then tell me it was an accident."