CHAPTER SEVEN
Doctor Colby Davidson walked into the 11th Precinct feeling full of mixed emotions. The last time he had worked with the Homicide division, it had nearly cost him a lot. His six-foot, thin frame was draped in a two-thousand-dollar blue pinstriped Armani. The tap of his black Christian Louboutin shoes was dulled by the noise of the precinct’s lobby. The sound of the bustle made his body tingle. Uniformed cops yelled at criminals who refused to do as they were instructed, crying women who had been mugged or lost their kids, ringing cell phones just added to the chaotic melody. The desk sergeant’s phone was ringing off the hook, while he gave ‘directs’ to a woman trying to give a missing person’s report.
Davidson smiled as he revelled in the chaos. He believed that most of the
