Alexx Woods stood over the body in the morgue, the cold steel of the examination table reflecting the dim overhead lights. The victim was a middle-aged man, his face pale, eyes wide in shock. His hands were clenched tight, as if he’d been holding onto something until the very end.

She gently lifted his hand, carefully examining the grip. There was something there—something small, a thread of fabric caught between his fingers. Alexx turned it over in her hands, a furrow appearing in her brow.

“What do we have here, huh?” she muttered to herself, placing the scrap of fabric into an evidence bag.

Horatio’s voice came through the door, smooth as always. “How’s it looking, Alexx?”

Alexx looked up, her expression sharp.

“Not as clear as we’d like, Horatio. No visible wounds. Nothing that screams cause of death.”

She frowned, her eyes scanning the body once more.

“But he didn’t die of natural causes, that’s for sure. His hands are too tight.”

Horatio stepped in, his gaze resting on the victim. “And the fabric?”

Alexx held up the evidence bag.

“It’s from a very specific kind of jacket. Only a handful of people around here wear them. And it’s not something you’d expect on someone with a criminal record.”

She paused, looking up at Horatio.

“That’s a piece of a tailor’s fabric. Someone made this custom for someone, or they had it made.”

Horatio’s eyes sharpened. “Then let’s find out who.”