Fictional Female Detectives Novels & Stories

I raised an eyebrow; only a fool would say his woman will not notice when he goes fornicating around, especially when he comes out of a closed room smelling of freshly squirted perfume. I answered his question anyway, but in a more elaborated way that made him give me a skeptical look. "She is a woman who can detect things easily. Women are like the FBI, and as for Vic, she doesn't tolerate cheating no matter how you polish it—" I trailed off.

I'm trying to make a point that I can do whatever the other officers do. Being a woman doesn't make me any less of a professional detective, after all. I sit down the bed and repeatedly mix my coffee with a spoon, still spaced out. I haven't open the folder he gave me earlier. It's probably a serious one since he said it himself that there are still no leading suspect for the case. And I'm kind of hoping it would be serious enough. A real case, this time. - I got myself out of bed before the alarm rings, which I guess is a good sign comparing to what happened yesterday.

Maybe she's shrouded in a cloak of secrecy, we can not really tell ya know. “What if someone conspired to falsely incriminate her? Yeah, it's already given that she's kind and all but we can't be so sure that everyone is fascinated with her deeds. Maybe she offended someone beyond her knowledge and that someone was just lurking on the corner, waiting for the right timing to get back at her." Zaina insisted as she follow my trail. When did she become a detective conan? "If she was framed up, then why is it—" I stopped talking when I suddenly remembered something.

“That’s why you’re having a hard time narrowing down your suspects. You are overthinking things. How do you think my daughter passed as a Senior Investigator at such a young age?” She placed a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Hibara thinks directly and stops herself from overthinking the situation. If she can’t solve the puzzle, she imagines herself on the criminal’s foot.” She gave me a small smile before leaving to question the suspects I named. The Detective… imagines herself on the criminal’s foot? If I were the murderer, how would I do it without getting anyone’s attention? “Sir, may I borrow your flashlight?” I asked the Sergeant.

“What other explanation is there other than the fact that you’re having an affair with the man. And when Mary confronted you about it and probably threatened to expose you, you handled it your way.” Theresa blinked once. Twice. Did this woman believe she had just made any sense right now? Was she even listening to herself? How did she even become a detective in the first place. Her job was to detect not cook up flimsy stories and accuse without evidences. She scoffed at the woman’s incompetence. “You may be smart Miss Gray, but I’ve dealt with cases like this. You can’t fool anyone with this innocent card you’re playing. I know women like you.”

Special Agent Castro asked. "All we know is that the serial killer is a female, who only targets sex offenders. Every crime scene doesn't have much of an evidence, not even a DNA. The only reason we were certain that the serial killer is woman is because of the scent she leaves at every crime scene, hence, the nickname Scent of Death." Fred replied. "Hmmm, calculating, smart, careful, hard to catch." "Have you narrowed the list of possible suspects?" Special Agent Rosenburgh inquired.

Fiona felt her whole body go cold. Charles narrowed his eyes. “Who is that with her?” The detective's voice lowered. “We ran the facial match.” He raised his eyes to them. “It’s Helen Kashmir.” Fiona heard Candy whisper “…the sinister women…” And Fiona's heart sank. Because instinctively-mother to mother-she knew: They hadn’t planned to run. They were planning on coming back. The detective continued, voice tight with urgency— “There’s more. Audio from a bugged adjacent room picked up part of their conversation.”

She drew up short when she saw Boucher. "Chief Inspector! Is it true? We got Kirion Rapava?" She swung her face to look through the glass at the man inside. "Is it him?" "Detective Babineaux, when did you get here?" Antoine asked. He took in the wrinkled suit and the short black hair in desperate need of a wash or even a brush. The woman's eyes were dark brown and bore right through your head when she focused on you. She had classic symmetrical facial features and a long limbed, slim build the ladies on the Parisian catwalks would kill for. Had she worn even the slightest amount of make-up or paid any attention to her looks she could have been breathtaking. But the Chief Inspector knew the d

The metallic click of the door handle yanked me from my thoughts. Two figures entered — detectives. Human, of course. The first was a tall, lean man with close-cropped hair the colour of iron and sharp, assessing eyes. He carried himself like a soldier who’d seen too much — all control and no softness. His badge glinted faintly under the sterile lights. The woman beside him was different. She was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with dark curls tied neatly back and a steady, unreadable expression. But her eyes… they were too knowing. She had the kind of gaze that could peel you open if you weren’t careful.

The officer behind the desk eyed me curiously but nodded and disappeared down a hallway. Minutes felt like hours as I waited, my mind racing with possibilities. Finally, a woman in her late forties appeared, her expression one of mild curiosity. She had short, graying hair and a no-nonsense demeanor that immediately put me on edge. “Detective Rhodes?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s me,” she said, crossing her arms. “Can I help you with something?” I took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for information about a case you may have worked on a few months ago. It involved a woman named Katarina Romanoff.”