London, 2010.

As soon as I got back to my desk, I opened up the file. Only three pieces of paper were in there.

One was the phone conversation the maid had with the police. It was fairly short and there were sidenotes that said the maid sounded very panicky. I skimmed the conversation, making a mental note that the maid could have picked a better way to word her sentences.

"I came inside and the master was dead against the window," she had said.

Seemed like I already had my first suspect.

The other piece of paper was a profile for the deceased.

Timmothy Kissinger. Twenty seven years of age and 183cm tall. A German playboy. A rich German playboy.

Wooh. Was this going to be fun.

The third was the photocopy of a handwritten letter, cursive. Probably a woman's script; very dainty and elegant.

I read the greeting. Dear John? I thought his name was Timmothy.

"Hey Ryan," I heard someone say, leaning over my desk and drawing my attention from the letter.

I closed the file.

"Phil?"

"I hear you got a pretty interesting case."

I raised an eyebrow at him. How did he know already. ing Phil.

"I might've. But then again," I trailed off, shrugging slightly.

"Well, let me know how it turns out. You know I like hearing about your cases."

"Sure, no problem... Pal."

Phil tapped my desk twice before smiling and walking away.

As if I'd ever let him get his greasy hands on my case.

"Adams!"

"Yes," I answered, turning around to see the chief in his doorway again.

"I want you to head on over to the crime scene. Now."