Murphy met us at the crime scene, arms crossed over her bulletproof vest, radiating her usual mix of competence and exasperation. The Chicago PD perimeter was locked down tight, red and blue flashing against rain-slick pavement.
I was used to getting dirty looks from the cops. Occupational hazard.
But tonight?
They weren't looking at me.
"Dresden, you're cleared for this," Murphy said, giving a pointed glance at the uniformed officers eyeing me. "Special consultant, yadda yadda. But him?" She jerked her head toward Derek, who was…
Adjusting his cuffs. Again.
"Oh, I totally get it," Derek said, nodding solemnly. "It's because I'm too good-looking. You don't want the evidence to feel insecure."
Murphy closed her eyes, took a deep breath like she was calling upon the patience of saints long-dead, and then said, "No. It's because this is an active homicide investigation, and he's a male model."
"I prefer 'fashion warrior,'" Derek corrected.
One of the detectives, Carmichael, snorted. "Yeah? And what exactly makes you qualified to be here?"
Derek turned on his heel, his entire presence shifting into something impossible to ignore. "Because, Detective, I have a very particular set of skills. Skills acquired over a very long career."
He paused, then leveled an expression at Carmichael so intense that even I felt the weight of it.
"I can read fashion crimes like an open book."
Carmichael looked ready to explode. Murphy cut in before he could. "Just—Dresden, get over here and look at the damn body."
I knelt. Middle-aged man. Expensive suit. Throat torn out. A Red Court kill, no doubt. The air still hummed with magic, but I needed a second to parse it.
Derek crouched next to me, frowning at the corpse's attire. "Ugh. Brown shoes with a black suit. Unforgivable."
Murphy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Derek—"
"Wait." His gaze narrowed. He pointed at the fabric. "That's bespoke. But not from here."
Murphy's eyes flicked up. "If this is another critique—"
"No, no," Derek waved her off. "That fabric? That blend? Only one place in Chicago carries it. A warehouse in the industrial district."
Murphy and I exchanged a look.
"You sure?" I asked.
Derek sniffed. "Honey, I know my textiles."
Murphy sighed and pulled out her radio. "Hell's bells," she muttered. "We've got a lead."
For once, I was grateful for Derek Zoolander's particular brand of insanity.
Who knew fashion could actually solve a murder?