Rule 34 Read Free

an aortic aneurysm. That stuff’s modal for Morningside. It’s the other circumstances that are the issue.
    Mikey is mostly naked. You suppose “mostly” is the most appropriate term, because he is wearing certain items that could pass for “clothed” in an SM club with a really strict dress code: black bondage tape around wrists and ankles, suspender belt and fishnets, and a ball gag. His veined cock is purple and engorged, as hard as a truncheon. That, and the hose up his arse and the puddle of ming he’s leaking, tell you all you need to know. Which is this: You’re going to miss your after-work hairdresser’s appointment.
    “Call SOC. I want a full scene work-up. I want that thing ”—you gesture at the Cold-War-era bathroom nightmare—“taken in as evidence. The fluid, whatever, get it to forensics for a full report: Ten to one there’s something dodgy in it.” You look him in the eye. “Sorry, Jase, but we’re gannae be working late on this.”
    “Aw shite, Liz.”
    Aw shite indeed: With a sinking feeling, you realize what’s up. Jase was hoping you’d take it off his plate, eager-beaver ready to grab an opportunity to prove your chops in front of head office so he can go home to his end-of-shift paper-work and wind down. Well, it’s not going to happen quite like that. You are going to take it off his plate—as duty DI, it’s your job. But that’s not the end of the game.
    “You’ve got to ask where all this”—your gesture takes in the town house around you—“came from. And I find the circumstances of his death highly suggestive. Until we can rule out foul play, I’m tagging this as probable culpable homicide, and until CID move in and take over, you’re on the team. At least one other person was involved—unless you think he trussed himself up then slipped and fell on that gadget—and I want to ask them some questions.”
    “Reet, reet.” He takes your point. Sighing lugubriously, he pulls out his phone and prepares to take notes. “You said he’s got form?”
    You nod. “The conviction’s spent: You won’t see it in CopSpace without criminal intelligence permissions. He did five years in Bar-L and forfeiture of proceeds of crime to the tune of 2 million euros, if I remember the facts correctly. Illegal online advertising and sale of unlicensed pharmaceuticals. That was about six years ago, and he went down for non-violent, and I don’t think he’s currently a person of interest.” You pause. “The housekeeper found him, right? And the security contractors—”
    “’ E’s with Group Four. I served ’em a disclosure notice, and they coughed to one visitor in the past two hours—the cleaner.”
    “Two hours?”
    “Aye, they was swithering on aboot privacy and confidentiality an’ swore blind they couldna give me oot more’n that.” He looks at you hopefully. “Unless you want to escalate . . . ?”
    “You bet I will.” Getting data out of sources like home-monitoring services gets easier with seniority: The quid pro quo is that you need to show reasonable cause. Luckily cause doesn’t get much more reasonable than a culpable homicide investigation. You glance at Mikey again. Poor bastard. Well, maybe not. He went down as a non-violent offender but did his time under Rule 45, like he was a kiddie-fiddler or a snitch or something similar. For good reason: Something similar is exactly what he was.
    You walk towards the door, talking. “Let’s seal the room. Jase, I want you to call Sergeant”— Elvis , your memory prompts—“Sorensen, and tell him we’ve got a probable culpable homicide I want to hand off to the X Division duty officer. Next, call SOC, and tell them we’ve got a job. I’m going downstairs to talk to Mags and the witness. If you get any serious pushback or queries from up the greasy pole, point them at me, but for the next fifteen minutes, I want you to run interference.”
    The next fifteen minutes is likely to be your entire quota of