“Insider’s guide to policing,” D.D. muttered under her breath. “Not going to work, not going to work, not going to work.”

She made it to the front. Set down her coffee. Her bag. Eyed a whiteboard designed for her to write out scintillating details of a detective’s job. Turn in your paperwork. Never piss off your boss. Definitely turn in your paperwork.

She turned, faced the room.

Yep, at least a hundred faces, all armed with iPads and laptops for note taking. Bestselling authors, new writers, every single one of them obsessed with crime and determined to get it right. What had Alex told her about his presentation last year? The bloodier his slides, the happier his audience.

D.D. took a deep breath. An insider’s guide to policing was never going to cut it.

She opened her mouth, heard herself say: “I’m going to share with you today the strangest case I ever worked. It involves a seedy motel, a hooker, and a dismembered leg. What do you think?”

The people standing in the back quietly put down their bags, settled in against the wall.

“All right. Let’s begin.”

• • •

“So you know that game, three truths and a lie? Most of the details of what I’m going to tell you will be the truth. One will be a lie. Since most of you like to write about detectives, this will be your chance to play one. First person to identify the lie will get a special prize.”

Hand in the back. Male, six foot four, brown mop top, thick glasses. “What’s the prize?” he asked.

“You’ll have to win to find out.”

Collective groan.

“Hey, aren’t you people supposed to be fans of suspense?”

D.D. took a sip of coffee. Collected her thoughts. “All right. Here’s a bit of policing one-oh-one. A crime starts with a call—say, to nine-one-one, maybe even a direct complaint to the department. Either way, uniformed patrol officers are the first responders. In this case, the night manager of the Best Getaway hotel in Boston contacted nine-one-one demanding an ambulance. Dispatch tried to get more information, but the man was too busy vomiting to answer questions. So the operator summoned emergency services as well as the first available officer. In this case, a rookie patrolman, Justin, three days on the job, got to be the one to find the body.

“You know what homicide detectives hate? What really, truly gets on our nerves?” D.D. gazed around the room. One by one, her audience members dutifully shook their heads. “First responders who trash our crime scenes. Don’t get me wrong. We respect EMTs. Of course we respect EMTs. But have you ever seen what they can do to a crime scene? Trampling across fields of evidence with backboards. Kneeling in blood spatter to check vitals, start CPR. Tossing aside packaging from bandages, gauze, life-saving injections. Hey, I’m not completely petty; I understand trying to save someone’s life comes first. The tricky part is that my job begins when, by definition, the EMTs efforts have failed. Except, of course, now my job is that much more difficult.”