“Thanks, Ed,” I said, looking off into the distance. “It just goes to show you: in this town, if you can’t speak up, you’re better off not saying anything at all.”
The city was a concrete jungle, and I was the guy with the leaf blower. My name is Frank Drebin, Detective Lieutenant, Police Squad. I’d just finished a grueling twelve-hour shift of staring at a blinking cursor on a vending machine when the call came in. Quelli della pallottola spuntata 1x5
I headed to the lab to see Ted Olsen. Ted was busy trying to invent a way to make water wetter. “Thanks, Ed,” I said, looking off into the distance
“Name’s Pierre ‘Quiet’ Martini,” Ed said, checking a notepad. “Witnesses say a man in a trench coat approached him, pulled a gun, and fired. Pierre tried to climb an invisible ladder to escape, but he didn’t make it past the third rung.” I’d just finished a grueling twelve-hour shift of
I knelt down and looked at the body. “He’s dead, Ed. But look at his hands.” “What about them?” “He’s holding a white glove. And it’s not his.”
I pulled up to the pier in a cloud of tire smoke and several flattened cardboard boxes. The crime scene was crawling with cops. I stepped over the yellow tape, which was actually a giant piece of fettuccine left over from the Mayor’s luncheon.