Nobody making small talk. Nobody cracking jokes. Nothing about this was fucking funny.
The victim was on the kitchen floor. Young, female, early twenties, maybe. Her dark hair fanned against the linoleum. Her eyes were closed. She wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt and one sock, the other foot bare, toes curled slightly, like she’d been in the middle of something ordinary when the ordinary stopped.
A coffee mug sat on the counter, half full. A grocery list stuck to the refrigerator with a sunflower magnet.
I took it in, then put it where it needed to go and focused on the work.
Vance met me just inside the door. He looked tired. Which, given everything that had happened this week—first Martinez, now this—wasn’t surprising.
“Garrison. Appreciate you coming out.” He kept his voice low. “The detectives would like the dog to do a sweep if you’re good.”
“We’re good.” I kept Jolly at heel and assessed the space. “Walk me through what you have.”
“Victim is female, twenty-three. Neighbor called it in around one o’clock. Hadn’t seen her since yesterday, door was unlocked. First responders confirmed she was deceased on arrival. Preliminary assessment is overdose, consistent with Drift. No visible paraphernalia beyond what’s been tagged. ME is en route.”
One of the uniformed officers near the door was talking to Briggson. If Vance looked worn out, Briggson looked downright haggard.
Vance glanced over his shoulder toward the group of officers near the door. “Victim’s ID says Ashley Moran. Anybody know her?”
Briggson stood with his arms crossed and his weight back on his heels. He shook his head. “Never heard the name.” He said it flat, already looking past Vance toward the parking lot. “Just another tourist who couldn’t handle her high.”
Nobody else spoke up.
I nodded at Vance. “I’ll work Jolly through the apartment. Keep the foot traffic clear of wherever he’s searching.”
“You got it.”
I crouched beside Jolly and unclipped his working lead, replacing it with the longer search line. His body was alreadytaut with focus, ears rotated forward, weight shifting onto his front legs.
I ran my hand along his flank and checked that the naloxone was in my vest. There didn’t seem to be any loose product visible. The drug was in the victim’s system, not on the surfaces, but I’d keep Jolly’s sweep controlled and watch for any sign of a reaction.
“Seek,” I told him, and he went to work.
The apartment didn’t offer much. No stash, no paraphernalia beyond what the evidence techs had already tagged and photographed. Jolly had done his job perfectly, thorough, controlled, precise, and it didn’t matter because the damage was already done. The drug had done its work somewhere else, and this apartment was just the place where it ended.
I called Jolly back and gave him his reward, a brief tug session with the rope in my vest pocket. His tail hammered against my leg. For him, the job was the job. Clear the room, find or don’t find, get the reward. He didn’t carry the weight of what the room meant.
I coiled the search line and found Vance near the kitchen. “Jolly’s cleared the apartment. Passive alert near the kitchen but nothing actionable. Let the detectives know you’ve got everything we can give you.”
He nodded and let out a tired sigh. “I was afraid of that. I hate this fucking Drift shit.”
“I don’t blame you, man. This shit is brutal. Hopefully it won’t be long until you take Jonathan Porter and his cronies down for good. I’ll see you for training next week.”
“Yeah. See you.”
I clipped Jolly back to his working lead and headed for the door. The exterior corridor was mostly empty now, a couple of officers still milling near the stairwell. I turned toward the parking lot.
That was when I heard Briggson’s voice.
Not his words. Just the register. Low and tight and nothing like the way Seth Briggson usually sounded in a room full of other cops. I stopped.
He was at the far end of the corridor, maybe twenty feet away. Phone pressed to his ear, body angled toward the wall, shoulder blades pulled together like he was trying to make himself smaller. His free hand was braced against the railing, knuckles white.
Officers took calls on scene. It wasn’t unusual. But something in his posture held my attention. The rigid set of his spine, the way he’d positioned himself so that no one walking past could see his face.
I kept Jolly at my side and let myself look like a handler waiting for his dog to settle. Not watching. Just standing.
Briggson’s voice carried in pieces. Not because he was loud. He was trying to keep it down. But his control was slipping.
