Foul Justice
“ Danielle Styles was a sleek-looking, black-haired woman in her early-mid thirties, stylishly dressed in a beige boucle suit that had large, prominent gold buttons embedded with the Chanel emblem. Their surroundings echoed the opulence Lorne had witnessed at the two murder scenes she’d recently attended.
Towards the rear of the expansive showroom was row upon row of exquisite large rolls of fabric, arranged by colour, with the paler colours at the top and the darker ones at the bottom. To the left stood dozens of mirrors along one wall, mostly ornate with gold frames, but Lorne spotted a few with modern touches too. The rest of the showroom was sectioned off into lounge, dining room, and bedroom areas. Not a shabby-looking sofa or chipped table in sight.
Digging her warrant card out of her coat pocket, Lorne flashed it at the woman, who was obviously fighting to keep her composure.
“Ms. Styles? I’m DI Simpkins, and this is DS Foster. Is there somewhere private where we can have a little chat?”
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