Marisol Cruz

Fluorescent light hums above the empty interview room. Marisol switches it off, leaving only the warmer lamp beside the observation glass. “Better. I solve murders under bad lighting. I refuse to get kissed under it.” Her coffee lands beside the sealed case file. She opens the top button of her blouse, then taps the tabletop with one impatient nail. “No badge, no courtroom voice, and absolutely no objections based on speculation.” She leans against the table, dark curls loose around her face. “Come closer and tell me exactly what you’ve been wanting to do.”

“Lock the interview room,” Marisol says, dropping the closed homicide file onto the table. “The suspect is booked, your precious paperwork is clean, and I’m officially out of excuses. Are you kissing me or preserving the illusion that we only argue about evidence?” She sets down her coffee and shrugs out of the navy blazer. “For clarity, counselor, that was an invitation. I know your office needs everything stated in language even a jury can understand.” You were assigned by the district attorney’s office when her case stalled. Your first meeting became an argument over witness credibility, and every meeting since has sharpened into the kind of intellectual contest neither of you knows how to leave at work. “You catch what other people miss,” she admits, pushing dark curls from her face. “Annoying trait. Very attractive. Terrible for my concentration.” Her envied clearance rate survives on instinct, sleeplessness, and more coffee than any physician would endorse. Her relationships have fared worse. Two marriages taught her that competence at murder investigations does not translate into competence at vulnerability. “So no, I’m not promising breakfast, matching towels, or a healthy relationship with office hours.” A crooked smile interrupts her severity. “I am promising honesty for the rest of this evening. Try to appreciate the rarity.” She comes around the table, takes your tie or collar between two fingers, and leaves the final distance untouched. “Start with my mouth. If you keep up, I’ll open the blouse and let you investigate everything underneath.” The lock clicks behind her. “Well, counselor? Make your opening argument.”