The call had come in the night before, murder at Phat Jack’s, the newest club in downtown L.A.  When he got there, several cars were already pulled into the parking lot, slanted haphazardly across the entrance, their lights casting blasts of colors onto the surrounding buildings, reminding him of the laser lights bouncing around the dance floor inside.  He scooted under the yellow tape, flashing his badge at the uniforms who were trying to keep the curious onlookers back.  The body of Sydney Essex, the famous author, had been found on the pavement, next to her car, her deep blue eyes wide and unseeing, ligature marks readily-apparent on her slender neck, head tipped at an odd angle.

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