Detective Miller 소설 & 이야기

At Miller Corporation… “Chairman Miller, we’ve found some clues about the matter you asked us to investigate,” the assistant whispered. Jasper nodded and reached out to take the file. “He used to be a manager of a small department in Coleman Corporation. Why did he have such great personal connections?”

"I'm listening, Verdict. The question is, why did you come here to make sure I'm okay? Remember, I'm a former police detective. My fighting ability is still as great as before. Nothing to worry about." "You must have come to this city armed with the clues left by the person who killed Arnold. Am I right?" He did not answer Verdict's questions. "As per usual. So tenacious," Verdict ruffled his neatly styled hair, which was neatly styled with hair gel until it fell apart again. ‘Leaving me at Morozov. You resigned from work, continuing to order plane tickets to Cirillo city without notifying me. Is that what Brother Ray calls family? No, Brother. The family exists to help each other and unders

"Rising Star Detective, Nathan Sloan, Cracks Another Unsolved Case—Nabbing the Culprit Behind the 715 Serial Murder Case!" In the attached photo, Nathan was looking at the camera while holding up an evidence bag. Inside it was the same serrated knife I'd marked as the crucial piece of evidence just this morning!

Because, the likes of them always seek public validation and an untainted reputation as if nothing else matters as long as the world is on their side. Then the door to the interrogation room opened, and Detective Miller walked in holding a manila folder under his arm. He pulled out a metal chair across from Gabriella, deliberately dragging the legs of the chair hard enough to create an irritating screech in the ground before taking his seat. Just so he could annoy her. He dropped the manila folder onto the table between them with a dull thud.

It was Rita’s number. “Jenny, Miller is dead.” My hands became stiff. “It was discovered this morning. In his apartment. The police initially suspected suicide. But Jenny…” Her voice was very low. “His computer was cleared. All the files related to Aegis Holdings have disappeared.” I looked up at the gray exterior walls of the police station building. The windows resembled rows of empty eyes. "I understand." “Are you okay?” “He’s still alive,” I said. “Miller is dead, and the documents are gone. Someone is helping us clean up the mess.”

The rain and charred electronics that were still lingering in Sebastian Sorgentone's throat were in stark contrast to the antiseptic scent of Cedar-Sinai Medical Center. He sat on the edge of a pristine, white hospital bed, stripped of his custom-tailored linen shirt and wearing a standard-issue blue gown that made his massive, tanned chest look suddenly hollow and old. Although the room was private and was at the end of a secure VIP wing on the seventh floor, the double-paned glass let in the agitated, distant growl of news helicopters and traffic that refused to leave him alone. Beside him stood Detective Miller, a lead investigator from the LAPD Robbery-Ho

Ross shook his head, waving the cop away before burying his face in his hands. "He thinks it’s his fault," I said, my throat tightening up. "Because of the fight. Because of everything." "It's not his fault," Dani said, his tone turning fiercely protective. "It's that fucking shithead Blake. And whoever is helping him. Ross didn't invite a psychopath into our home." Before I could answer, Detective Miller appeared at the entrance of the kitchen. She looked exhausted, her dark hair pulled back into a messy clip, and her silver badge caught the light where it clipped to her belt.

Portia’s POV “You think a badge makes you a king in this room, but you are just another man holding a folder.” I pushed the paper coffee cup toward the center of the table. The plastic lid rattled. My hands were steady, but the tips of my fingers felt numb. Across from me, Detective Miller did not blink. He stood with his back to the observation mirror, his shadow stretching long and thin across the linoleum floor. He leaned down. The smell of stale peppermint and cheap coffee clung to his uniform.

Arthur wore a suit, his face a mask of grim determination. We drove to the city, the familiar skyline looming, a place we had happily left behind. The Central Precinct was a monument to everything we had escaped—the fluorescent lights, the smell of stale coffee and despair, the low hum of perpetual crisis. Detective Miller was a man in his late forties with a tired face and keen, observant eyes. He led us to a small, airless interview room. Eleanor, Arthur, and I sat on one side of the scarred metal table, Miller and a female officer on the other.

a stern voice cut through the rain. A detective in a drenched trench coat stepped out from behind the wall of SWAT shields. It was Detective Miller. He didn't look like a man arriving at a crime scene; he looked like a man delivering a long-overdue sentence. He looked down at Elias with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.