I thought I’d maybe do this up as a 3K word one for this week.
“You can shut off the ghost-warmers, lads,” I told the assemblage of policemen and workers knotted up near a tarpaulin-covered body. “There’s not a one of them within a block of this place. Hullo, Horace.”
“Hullo, Sunshine,” needle-grinned Horace Marsh (yes, one of those Marshes). “Sorry to drag you down tonight. There’s horrible coffee.”
“That would imply that you might ever have good coffee,” I retorted as I poured myself a cup. “All the angels, but you brew a wretched cup. I wish I knew how you manage it.”
“I start out by hating the beans. After that, I improvise.” Horace visibly grew serious. “This is a bad one, Mistress Dexter. We suspect Dominion activity.”