Detective Novels & Stories

My body tensed up, “So am I your mate?” “Um,” I almost choked on nothing, “Ah!” My thoughts weren’t aligning correctly for me to say something that made sense, ‘Um that,” How does he know?? I can’t even let anything slip since I can’t shift nor mind-link. “Don’t be surprised,” He smirked, “I’m a detective, A senior detective at that so I know about you lot.” “Oh…” I nodded, “I see…” That actually made sense for some reason. I paused and thought about it when something clicked in my mind, “Does Derek know?”

the detective alerted. “Question?” “Yes! I will ask you this once. Do you know Pablo Picasso?” the detective questioned. "Mr. Michael!" The detective yelled his name. It was as if Michael went through a trauma by just thinking about the question the detective asked. "you know him don't you?" the detective questioned again.

The detective asked, as she got the glass from Hazel’s hand and placed it back on the table beside her. “Like I died and I’m back or am I?” Hazel asked leaning back at her pillows with a sigh. “Who are you?” She asked, with her eyes still closed. “Excuse my manners. I’m detective Sarah Parker, and I’m the one working on your family case.”

Rochelle exclaimed when she saw him abd I gawked at her. “Do you know him?” I asked. “Oh, pardon my manners ma. I'm Kingsley, I'm a detective, and I'm also working for Miss Rochelle here” The guy said in a sift voice as he referred to Rochelle. “He is the detective guy I told you about, Rita” Rochelle smiled as she welcomed him to sit down and I watched them. “Oh, it's nice to see you” I forced a smile at him. “You too” He smiled back, his dimples became visible and I couldn't help but stare at him.

Opening the door, I found myself face-to-face with Detective Mason, a man known for his relentless pursuit of justice. "Miss Roberts, may I come in?" he asked, his voice brimming with authority. Nervously, I nodded and led him into my modest living room. Detective Mason's piercing gaze seemed to take in every detail, as if assessing the depths of my involvement in this dangerous game. "I've been following your activities closely, Miss Roberts," he said, his tone serious. "You've been treading on dangerous ground." I swallowed hard, my palms growing clammy. "I'm just trying to uncover the truth, to expose the corruption that plag

he said. "Okay." He threw the wrappers away. My phone went off on the table. Unknown number. Different configuration from all the others. I picked up without thinking. A woman's voice. Crisp. Official. "Ms. Reyes. This is Detective Inspector Holt from the financial crimes unit." A pause. "We've been going through the documentation filed yesterday. We have some questions." Another pause. "And we have a development we think you should know about before it goes public." "What development," I said.

That’s for damn sure. The thin detective gives a curt nod and moves toward the body bags lying in a row. The air shifts — heavy, hot, and full of something like dread. He crouches beside one of them, the plastic crackling under his gloves as he peels it open. The smell hits first — char, oil, something that used to be human. My stomach rolls. He reaches in, tilts the charred head, brushes away soot, and pulls at what’s left of an ear. For a moment, everything slows — the crackle of the tape, the far-off hiss of radios, even the gulls seem to hush. Then the detective’s face changes. His eyes lift to us, catching Jackson’s first.

THE DETECTIVE'S TESTIMONY LUCIEN'S POV The detective's name is Colin Mercer, he is sixty-one years old. He retired from the police service fourteen years ago on a pension that, it has now been established, was supplemented substantially by a series of payments from a nominee account connected to Victor Hale's network of intermediary companies. He spent eleven days investigating Robert Vale's death. He closed the case as accidental. He retired shortly after and has spent fourteen years in a house in the Midlands with a garden and a routine and the particular arrangement of someone who has agreed with themselves not to examine cer

Inspector Raymond. The human detective was a rare anomaly in our region. He was one of the few high-ranking law enforcement officials who knew exactly what we were—a necessary liaison between the human legal system and the autonomous laws of the regional packs. He was a veteran investigator, his face mapped with deep, weathered lines, his sharp gray eyes carrying the cynical weight of a man who had seen the worst things monsters could do to one another.

The detective said. “Whose help?” Mitsuhide questioned, knowing where this was headed. The detective was going Kit to help him in some way. “I think Dr. Jones is the key.” The detective said. “Akechi,” Mitsuhide said absentmindedly. “Her last name is Akechi now.” “Fine, Dr. Akechi.” The detective chuckled. “I do think that if we had her in the room, it would spark a response from Cindy.” “It probably would,” Mitsuhide said as Kit sat up and looked at him. “The detective thinks that you would spark Cindy into saying something other tha