Detective Joaquin Murietta reached the front door of the
exactly ten minutes before the beginning of the night shift, like on every other working day.
This rather unremarkable brick building had been his workplace for the last seventeen years,
and he still looked essentially the same as he had on the day he’d first set foot into the office of Lieutenant Bronowski: a moderately well-clad Latino man in his mid-thirties,
with sharp features, short-cropped black hair, a neatly-trimmed goatee and wide, observant dark eyes.
People sometimes teased him about the fact that he apparently wasn’t aging a day; to which he usually replied that his grandfather hadn’t shown any sign of aging well into his late sixties,
and that he must have come after the old man. “It’s all in the genes,” he used to say.
Which was, basically, true. At least the part about his grandfather, who’d lived to a ripe old age of ninety-seven and barely looked a day older than seventy when he’d died.
The other part wasn’t something Murietta would discuss with anyone but a few chosen allies.
Read the rest via the link in the description!