“You tell me the three black hats from Atlanta turn up here in Del Moray, then you drop by my office. Case you haven’t caught on, I’m not supposed to be involved in this investigation of yours.” “Of ours,” Carver corrected. McGregor ignored him. Swiveled in his chair to gaze out his office window, stirring the air just enough to send the cloying scent of his cheap cologne Carver’s way. Smelled like furniture wax and stale sweat. He’d been on the Del Moray police force long enough now that his fe...llow officers knew him and despised him. Knew him and were afraid of him. Not because he possessed greater talent or resolve, but because he’d resort to anything, no matter how unethical, to get what he wanted. What he wanted was advancement. Power. He was getting it. Using what he had to get more. That was McGregor’s life. He’d connived his way into one of the better offices, though still not the best in the converted home that was Del Moray police headquarters. But it did have a much-coveted window, even if the view was of the pale gravel parking lot.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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