Detective Miller Novels & Stories

"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.

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

We were going to figure out who really hurt Emily, and we were going to end Reeves once and for all. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five minutes. I kept checking the clock on the wall. My excitement slowly began to curdle back into a subtle, uncomfortable itch of anxiety. Why was it taking so long? It was just paperwork. An hour after Detective Miller had walked away, the double doors finally clicked open. Detective Miller walked out into the lobby. But he didn't have Dani with him. And the calm, professional look he had earlier was completely gone. His face was pale, drawn, and dead serious.

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.

And for a moment, I couldn’t tell if we were celebrating love, or the slow, beautiful destruction of it. A closer look at Mrs Miller, cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her hand trembled as she sipped her wine and she avoided eyes. Not everyone’s eyes. Just… Don Sullivan. BINGO. Before Nora came in, I noticed Mrs Miller trembling, but my observation skills did not play. Why was she avoiding Don Sullivan's eyes? He seemed comfortable. I brushed past it. It was not my issue to deal with for now. “Come, let me show you…” Don Sullivan said when we heard a loud sound. We turned to the direction where it came from.

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.

Right now, I feel like the ink is drying up. Nigel arrived twenty minutes later. He didn't have his usual tablet; he had a manila envelope. He set it on the desk and sat down without being asked. He knew the mood. "The best in the business for cold cases is a guy named Miller," Nigel said, sliding a grainy photo of a man with a crooked nose across the wood. "Ex-federal. He doesn't take corporate retainers. He works on a per-secret basis." "Call him. Tell him I’m paying triple."

I let him guide me toward his own vehicle sliding into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh. He has won this round. But only because I was so damn tired. That was the lie I kept telling myself, anyway. *** Right now, he was sitting right outside in the waiting area, separated from me by a heavy door and a sheet of reinforced glass. Detective Mercer didn't look like the typical cops you see on television. He was older, with thick-rimmed glasses. “Miss Miller, thank you for coming in.” “I didn’t exactly have much choice after that phone call.”