Detective Holbrook Novels & Stories

“Of course I have something to do, and that something is my girlfriend! Do you forget that they took her?” “That is what you say now, since from the beginning you have lied to us,” said Mark. “Brooke Daniels is missing and hopefully she's still alive. The circumstances of her disappearance are what we need to know, and we suspect you know something. So speak up, a police detective is dead for suspecting you, it's time to tell us the whole truth.” “What truth do you want me to tell you? For God's sake! Do you think I offered her up as a sacrifice or something? The other detectives at least thought I had nothing to do with it...”

Rookie Detective Matt Harlan sat at his desk in the noisy precinct, staring at the thick folder in front of him. His palms were already sweaty. This wasn’t some small-time drug dealer or car thief. This was his first real case, and it felt like diving headfirst into the deep end.

I first cleared my throat then spoke. “Check the perimeter cams,” I said, kneeling back beside the body. “Already sent the request. I know your next five moves, Vale.” “You’ve been watching me that long?” He grinned and turned to walk back toward the van. “Maybe.” Fifteen minutes later, the rest of the forensics team was sweeping the scene. I kept going back to the body because it actually had a scent. I couldn’t describe it exactly. But everyone said they could only smell cold bold. Maybe my nose was playing

The officers stepped inside and greeted Grandpa Holston respectfully before turning to acknowledge Daniel, who had just managed to sit upright. Grandpa Holston reciprocated the greeting, maintaining a calm expression although his fingers tightened around the head of his cane. “Mr Holston, I am detective chief superintendent Sean Ernst, and this is Commissioner Irvine Moss.” One of the officers started the conversation introducing himself.

In many ways, Mr Navpreet made a perfect Dr Watson, the guy who chronicled Sherlock’s pursuits, which in this case was the inspector himself. ‘Yes, the evidence is damning,’ agreed the inspector, leaning back on his chair, with the coffee mug in his hand. ‘Almost everybody has an alibi between 5.10 and 5.15, except Anubhav. But, the thing with circumstantial evidence is that it is always tricky. It might point towards one particular person but if you change your point of view a little, it can point towards a different person altogether. But, I must confess – at this juncture everything points towards Anubhav.’ He paused, sipping his coffee, ‘There is a saying in the army, if your attack is g

My eyes widened and I dropped my spoon when the headline appeared on the screen along with my ID picture and the school doctor’s. The young Senior Investigator Hibara is the prime suspect for the murder of Dr. Celina Marquez, according to our city’s most trusted consulting detective, Arthur Cake.

And in a flick of a moment, my brain possessed all the questions and the theories that he had come up with an attempt to solve the complicated case. “Miss Ellie Parkinson, I'm Secretary Jason Fox, head of the London Police Criminal Intelligence,” he announced, in a hoarsely agitating voice. “Now without wasting any moment of this crucial interrogation, let me ask you the obvious question. What was your objective behind the cold-blooded murders of Emily Billings and Broderick Barnes?” “I didn't kill them, Mr. Secretary,” I asserted loudly, refusing to withhold my gaze.

After disconnecting the call, Daniel Brooke walked to the study and locked the room. He sat straight on the chair, putting his tightly clenched fists on the table. His solemn gage was firmly fixed on a certain point on the opposite wall. He contemplated how to deal with Mr. Mayor. He couldn’t even touch a single strand of his hair without strong evidence, and this was not something that Derek could do. For this, he needed a professional detective who had the guts to go against Mr. Mayor. But he didn’t know anyone like this.

A thin trail of muddy footprints led across the floor toward a row of interview rooms. A woman at the front desk offered me a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Detective Hale met me halfway down the hall. He was tall, clean-cut, maybe late thirties, the kind of man who looked like he’d never once raised his voice. “Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, offering his hand. “Thank you for coming.” “Where’s my husband?” “He’s being questioned right now.” His tone was polite but careful. “Why don’t we sit for a bit?”

She just had to look for them. Supervisory Special Agent Olivia Mercer stood up, “Now take the recent shooting at Brookwood Books. We know it’s the Costellos,” Mercer said, gesturing toward the board with a pointer. “What I can't seem to figure out is how they pulled off the massacre at Brookwood Books without leaving so much as a trace of evidence.” Olivia continued, “The two agents we sent undercover months ago have gone dark. No contact, no intel. The last known location for either of them was in Costello territory. We suspect they’ve been compromised.”