The Golden Suspect
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray silt that coated the windows of the precinct and blurred the view of the city into a smear of wet asphalt and sodium light. Inside, the air tasted of stale coffee and industrial cleaning agents, a sterile scent that Marcus Thorne had come to associate with the specific gravity of his own decline. He sat at his desk, the surface...
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