Police work ran in her veins instead of blood, she often said. But her brand of police work, learned as a child when her parents told her war stories at bedtime instead of nursery rhymes or fairy tales, didn’t leave room for modern ways. So when Felipe Ruiz of the crime lab brought Alex Ziccaria and Larissa the results of Chantelle Durfey’s autopsy, Larissa sighed and rolled her eyes and fiddled with a pen on her desk the whole time Felipe spoke. Alex was used to it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little embarrassed. Felipe didn’t seem to let it faze him, but he was a guy who let things roll off him pretty easily. Alex figured that was a healthy trait in someone who spent most of his time talking to corpses. Alex kept his seat when Felipe approached; at a skinny six-four he towered over Felipe and Larissa, but his height wasn’t so noticeable when he was sitting down. He had never been undercover, because although his face wasn’t particularly noteworthy—just a face, he liked to say—people noticed his build and remembered him.
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