Like a Scientologist's moon gleam necklace, suits in the gloaming parking garage wet with oil and cement dust smiled. They made love in the trunk of the car, twisting to tunes they devised earlier for their own devices. Pirated, most like. While we could not trace any calls to any known criminal sources, there was this voicemail:
Sharon! What's your outlook on the topic of disease?
Cut. There was nothing more to follow in investigation. It was clear he murdered her. Her body found with all the evidence complete. Thanks to modern technology, we can devise a route to follow him, but what if it wasn't him? A third party to the murder? In reality, if our man was taking an escape route from some greater scheme this young hussie was caught up in, before her ultimate demise.
Just then, a red helmeted figurine woman came out to the scene, and shouted, no roared. She said, "I'll take you all out in an instant!" The culprit disappeared and we slammed the radio for backup.
It clicked he may have ran as my suit filled up with blood. What comes to the FBI always goes around the CIA.