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Paul was exhausted. He'd been sleeping at the precinct, going 'round the clock until they had their perp. The murder had been bad enough, but working to find the kid made the case that much more difficult, and earned Paul a complete lack of actual sleep for days. At least they'd found the kid, and the murderer. That the man blew his own brains out in the process was no loss on Paul's part. Bastard deserved worse.
He was about to clock out when he got a call from Robertson about a lead on his newest case. While normally a heart attack wouldn't come under investigation, it did raise brows when the man had been otherwise healthy, and had left behind vast amounts of money in his wake. Robertson told him he was sending a few PI's his way, and warned him that they were a very quirky batch. Especially the one called John. Robertson assured Paul to be patient with them, and to listen to every word the man said: 99 out of a 100, this "John" person was right.
Paul trusted Robertson's opinion, which was the only reason he was standing around in the morgue, yawning into the back of his hand. His skin came across the stubble on his face and he winced a bit, running his fingers along his length. He really needed to shave, too. He hated his stubble as of late; it made him look and feel older than he really was. His encounter at the park had only heightened his general paranoia about his age, still not quite able to believe that anyone that young and pretty would see a thing in him.
Absently, he took out his phone, thinking about texting her for a moment before sighing and putting away the phone. Now was not the time; after all, he had no idea when he'd next be available. This case could take days or it could take hours. One never really knew. Paul just hoped that this "John" was as good as Robertson claimed he was. Maybe he'd actually get some sleep then.
He was about to clock out when he got a call from Robertson about a lead on his newest case. While normally a heart attack wouldn't come under investigation, it did raise brows when the man had been otherwise healthy, and had left behind vast amounts of money in his wake. Robertson told him he was sending a few PI's his way, and warned him that they were a very quirky batch. Especially the one called John. Robertson assured Paul to be patient with them, and to listen to every word the man said: 99 out of a 100, this "John" person was right.
Paul trusted Robertson's opinion, which was the only reason he was standing around in the morgue, yawning into the back of his hand. His skin came across the stubble on his face and he winced a bit, running his fingers along his length. He really needed to shave, too. He hated his stubble as of late; it made him look and feel older than he really was. His encounter at the park had only heightened his general paranoia about his age, still not quite able to believe that anyone that young and pretty would see a thing in him.
Absently, he took out his phone, thinking about texting her for a moment before sighing and putting away the phone. Now was not the time; after all, he had no idea when he'd next be available. This case could take days or it could take hours. One never really knew. Paul just hoped that this "John" was as good as Robertson claimed he was. Maybe he'd actually get some sleep then.
