The officious git stood beside the police tape, hand up, palm out—the same position he’d assumed the second Aslin approached him—and informed anyone who cared to listen that Aslin’s trailer was a crime scene and no one was allowed past the tape. Alsin had no beef with cops. They did a thankless job. They put their life on the line daily. But this cop was in his way. This cop was stopping him from investigating who the fuck was trying to hurt Rowan—no, kill Rowan—and being a git about it. “I’m sure you movie folk think you can do whatever you want,” he was saying for the umpteenth time, lip curled in disdain, belly hanging over his belt, “but this isn’t the movies. It’s real police work now.” “All I want to do—” Aslin began. For the umpteenth time. “Real police work,” the cop repeated, enunciating each syllable in an exaggerated volume. “So you will have to—” “Ever thought of being an actor, sir?” The cop blanched at the sudden question, his stare snapping to the man striding up to the police tape.
