• Prologue.
    Boston
    November 11th, 2006
    “This is dispatch, are there any officers near third?” the voice crackled across airwaves, startling Frank and Jerry from their football banter. Jerry scrambled to get his coffee away from himself before it overflowed, while Frank grabbed the receiver.
    “Yeah, dispatch, we’ll take that call, what’s the situation?”
    “We’ve got a carjacker heading east, should be passing the bus depot about now.” As the message came through, there was a blaring of horns and a faded gray, rusty sedan whizzed past the patrol car parked outside the bus depot.
    Frank grinned at their luck as he swung the car onto the road, the roof lights flashing and the siren wailing. Cars swerved as the sedan careered across the road. Then its journey ended abruptly, as it crashed into the side of a liquor store. The patrol car pulled over and Frank and Jerry jumped out. Pulling their badges out, they made their way through the confusion of people pressing closer to the crash site. “Coming through, move aside.” Jerry pushed through the front row and found himself facing the carjacker. There was a scream. A moment of panic. A gunshot. Frank charged through the jostling crowd, drawing his pistol. Making it to the front, he looked around frantically, searching for the gunman. He was nowhere to be seen. There was just an empty sedan, a wrecked storefront, and a dying cop.

    Chapter One.
    June 28th, 2007
    A stiflingly hot breeze blew in through the liquor store’s door as it swung inwards. Frank Powell walked towards the cash register. “Hey Frank,” squeaked the spotty twenty-something behind the counter. “What can I get you?”
    “Surprise me, Chris.” Chris chuckled as he took Frank’s usual drink, Southern Comfort, down from a shelf behind him. “That’ll be twenty dollars, Frank.” Frank handed Chris the money, grabbed his bottle and left.
    Frank slammed the shot glass onto the counter and poured a large measure of the brownish liquid into it. Raising the glass to his lips, Frank sighed. He drained the glass in one and moved from the kitchen into the hallway. A red light blinked at him from the desk pushed up against one wall. Lifting the receiver to his ear, he strolled back into the kitchen to pour himself another drink. His daughter’s voice started in his ear. ‘Hey Dad, just calling to say I won’t be staying with you this weekend, because Jodie and I are going to mall. Okay, see you soon, Dad, bye!’ The tone rang again, and the message was over. As he pulled the phone away from his ear, the operator spoke again. ‘You have one more new message. To listen to the message press two. To skip the message press three. To…’ Frank cut the voice short, punching the bold number two.
    An unknown voice came across the line ‘Hello Mr Powell. My name is Samuel Wilson. I’d like to talk.’
    Frank thought about the message as he made his way to the restaurant. Samuel Wilson had explained that he was setting up a private detective agency and wanted Frank as the chief detective in charge if all cases. The best part was, he would be moving away from Boston to New York City, meaning he would be much closer to Megan, his daughter, who still lived with his ex-wife Diane. It would also be a chance to get away from all the demons he’d been living with since the death of his partner. He couldn’t wait to be back doing what he loved. He had missed the excitement of solving crimes. Samuel’s proposition couldn’t have come at a better time.

    * * *

    Frank Powell took one last look around his flat. He had never seen it this bare. When he had bought it five years ago, it had come fully furnished. He had slowly replaced the furniture over the years, and had yet to see it unfurnished. He turned away from the empty room and looked at the piles of cardboard boxes scattered around the entrance hall. His dog, Riley, was running to and fro among the boxes, bringing a smile to Frank’s face. Megan had come down from New York for the day to help him load the boxes into the moving van. She was in her old room, sorting through old clothes she hadn’t worn in years. She had been excited since he had told her of the news a week ago, and had nagged Diane until she’d allowed her to come to Boston for the day. She had been there just over four hours and Diane had already rang three times.
    “Dad, how long is it from here to your new place?” Megan’s head appeared around the doorframe of her old room.
    “Around three and a half hours.”
    “And what time is the moving van arriving?”
    “Why?” Frank asked, not really curious.
    “Well, some friends and I are going to the movies at nine o clock.”
    “You’ll make it on time.” Frank assured her. With his daughter’s busy schedule, Frank wondered whether his moving to New York would even make any difference to how much he’d get to see her. He didn’t think it would.