The call came at 6:17 AM. I was already awake, my morning run completed, breakfast of black coffee and wheat toast half-finished.
"Blackwood," I answered, my voice carrying none of the satisfaction I still felt from the night before.
"Got a body at the Westlake Hotel," Captain Reeves said without preamble. "Natural causes, looks like, but the wife's raising hell. Says her husband had no heart problems."
"I'll be there in twenty." I hung up and allowed myself one small smile. Right on schedule.
The Westlake's lobby bustled with morning activity, most guests blissfully unaware of the death on the seventh floor. The uniformed officer at the elevator nodded as I approached, recognition in his eyes.
"Detective Blackwood."
"Officer Chen. Situation?"
"Room 718. Hotel staff found him this morning when the wife called worried he wasn't answering his phone. Male, early forties. No signs of struggle or forced entry."
I nodded, keeping my face professionally neutral as we rode up in silence. Seven floors to transition fully into Detective Blackwood, to bury Vivian and whatever had happened in that room last night. By the time the doors opened, the transformation was complete.
Crime scenes have a particular energy—a heaviness to the air, a gravity that pulls at everyone present. Even when death comes quietly, as it had for David Coleman, that energy remains. The medical examiner, Dr. Santos, was already hunched over the body when I entered.
"Morning, Blackwood," she said without looking up. "You're stealing my beauty sleep again."
"What've we got?" I asked, pulling on latex gloves—different from the ones I'd worn last night, though the motion was identical.
"Male, forty-two, appears to be cardiac arrest during sexual activity." Santos gestured to the bed where David lay, exactly as I'd left him. "No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Time of death approximately eleven hours ago."
I made a show of examining the room, noting details I already knew intimately. "Any ID on him?"
"David Coleman. Wallet's on the dresser. Wedding ring in his pocket." Santos raised an eyebrow at that last detail.
"And the woman?"
"No sign. Housekeeping found him alone when they did the welfare check. Front desk says the room was registered to a Vivian Mills, paid in cash, but security cameras show she left around 11 PM. Man enters with her at 9:32, never leaves."
I nodded, mentally verifying the timeline against my exit strategy. "Classic case of panic. Hook up goes wrong, she bolts."
"His wife's downstairs," Officer Chen added from the doorway. "Pretty upset."
"I'll talk to her after we finish here." I began my systematic examination of the room, careful to avoid the areas I knew would be clean. "Any security footage of the woman's face?"
"Hotel says their cameras on the floor were glitching last night. Just got a back view from the lobby cam."
Perfect. The device I'd placed on the security system had done its job, creating just enough digital noise to make facial recognition impossible while not being suspicious enough to suggest tampering.
"Let's get everything processed," I said. "Full tox screen, though it's probably clean. These middle-aged guys, they pop Viagra, mix it with alcohol and excitement..."
Santos nodded. "Tale as old as time. Wife's not buying it though."
"They never do." I photographed the scene methodically, documenting each detail. "No one wants to believe their spouse would cheat, then die during the act."
An hour later, I sat across from Charlotte Coleman in a small conference room the hotel had provided. Red-rimmed eyes, trembling hands clutching a tissue—grief intermingled with humiliation and anger.
"Mrs. Coleman, I'm Detective Blackwood. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"They said... they said he was with someone." Her voice cracked. "That's not possible. David wouldn't."
I kept my face composed, sympathetic but professional. "Mrs. Coleman, I understand this is difficult. The evidence suggests your husband had company last night."
"No." She shook her head vehemently. "We have a good marriage. Fifteen years. Two children."
I'd heard variations of this denial countless times, both as a detective and as... the other me. The unshakable belief in fidelity despite evidence to the contrary. I wondered if my mother had been the same before she learned the truth about my father.
"Mrs. Coleman—Charlotte," I softened my tone, "I need to ask some difficult questions. Had your husband had any heart problems? Was he on any medication?"
She wiped her eyes. "He was healthy. Annual physicals, everything normal. He played tennis twice a week."
"Any history of heart disease in his family?"
"His father died of a heart attack, but he was in his seventies."
I made a note, though I already knew this from my research. "And last night, he told you he was working late?"
A flash of doubt crossed her face. "Yes. A client emergency. It wasn't unusual."
"Had there been many client emergencies lately? Late nights, unexpected trips?"
The doubt in her eyes deepened. Good. The seeds of truth taking root. Soon she would start remembering other clues she'd dismissed—unexplained receipts, password-protected phones, the emotional distance that always accompanies infidelity.
"I... I don't know." She looked down at her wedding ring. "Do you think he was... having an affair?"
"We'll conduct a thorough investigation, but right now, all evidence points to a medical emergency during a... private encounter." I handed her my card. "If you think of anything that might help us identify the woman he was with, please call me."
After she left, my partner, Detective James Mercer, joined me in the conference room, coffee in hand.
"Another 'natural causes' that's going to create paperwork hell," he grumbled, sliding a cup toward me. "What's your read?"
"Married guy, hotel room, no marriage problems according to the grieving widow." I shrugged. "Tale as old as time."
"You think we should pursue the mystery woman? Could be something there."
I sipped my coffee, considering my response carefully. "Unlikely. No signs of foul play, nothing missing from his wallet. She panicked and ran, but that's not a crime."
"Cold feet, not cold blood," Mercer agreed. "Poor bastard. Hell of a way to go."
"At least it was quick," I replied, knowing exactly how quick it had been. Seventeen minutes from injection to cardiac arrest. I'd timed it precisely.
Mercer's phone chimed. "Hey, you hear about that task force they're putting together? Serial assaults on the east side?"
"Mentioned it in briefing yesterday."
"Captain wants you on it. Says your closure rate makes you the obvious choice."
I nodded, allowing myself a small smile. Another investigation I could guide from the inside. Another opportunity to ensure justice where the law falls short.
"I'll stop by his office when we're done here," I said, gathering my notes. One case closed, another opening. The perfect symmetry.
Back at the precinct, I meticulously wrote up my preliminary report on David Coleman's death. Suspected natural causes. No signs of foul play. Awaiting toxicology, but likely cardiac event during sexual activity with unknown partner. I attached the hotel's useless security footage, knowing it would reveal nothing.
In my desk drawer, hidden beneath case files and office supplies, was a small black notebook. Tonight, I would open it and cross David Coleman's name off my list. Then I would turn the page and begin research on the next name. The list was never-ending. The work, eternal.
But for now, I was Detective Elise Blackwood, and I had a new task force to join.