In still waters

Jeffrey stood before him, a caricature of his former self. His face was puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He wore a black T-shirt that had clearly shrunk in the wash, stretched obscenely over his protruding belly. His beige pants were unzipped, adding to the overall picture of dishevelment and decay.

"Well, well," Jeffrey slurred, his breath reeking of stale alcohol. "If it ain't Nick Larsen himself. What's the matter, hotshot? Can't crack the case without old Jeffrey's help?" His laughter was a harsh, grating sound that set Nick's teeth on edge.

Steeling himself against the wave of disgust that threatened to overwhelm him, Nick pushed past Jeffrey into the house. "We need to talk, Jeffrey. It's about Bradley and Steven."

At the mention of those names, something flickered in Jeffrey's bleary eyes – fear? Guilt? It was gone too quickly for Nick to be sure. "What about 'em?" Jeffrey mumbled, collapsing onto the couch with a grunt.

"They're dead, Jeffrey. Murdered last night, same M. O. as Rose."

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