Chapter One
Manhattan, NY
Autumn 2019
Ashaft ofsunlight broke through shadows and found Detective Michael Pendridge sitting on his bed in his boxer briefs, his dark hair falling around his face, catching on to the scruff on his jaw. An empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey rested in his lap. A thin layer of sweat covered his body. His heart drummed loud in his ears, making his blood rush through his veins. His eyes were squeezed shut while his teeth bit down on the barrel of his gun.
He didn’t have to think about all he’d lost since the day he put on the uniform eleven years ago. It was always there, fresh in his mind. This job had cost him his soul. It had taken everyone he’d allowed himself to care about. It made him a monster and robbed him of any woman he could have loved because of time, and danger, and his increasingly screwed up head. It wrenched compassion from his heart and replaced it with the hard shell of apathy. People were liars. They were capable of the worst crimes. He’d seen it all. It stopped turning his stomach and left nothing in its wake.
But he couldn’t give it up. It was in his blood. His brother, father and grandfather were cops, and though he wasn’t their biological son or brother, he felt the need for justice and right to reign.
There was only one way to stop being the deluded protector of the innocent.
He gripped his gun in his hand and slipped his index finger to the trigger. He took a deep breath. What was left? Whiskey. Just whiskey. The gun was already cocked. He groaned and pulled back on the trigger.
His phone rang.
He tossed the weapon onto the bed and picked up his phone. “What?” he demanded in a gravelly voice and raked his hand through his hair.
“Micajah Pendridge?”
He looked at the number.Private.
“Who’s this?” he demanded. No one but his parents knew the real name left with him at the orphanage.
“My name is Mr. Green of Green, du Lac, and de Maris. I’m an attorney for the estate of Lady Eleanor Pendridge, Duchess of Glastonbury.”
“Did she leave me money?” Michael asked and adjusted himself in his briefs.
“No. Detective, I—”
“You keep it then,” he said and hung up. He tossed the phone over his shoulder onto the bed and stood up. He stretched his arms over his head then ran his hand over his prickly face. He needed a shower. And coffee.
His phone rang again. He looked at the number. It was private. He ignored it while he popped open a jar of instant coffee, broke through the seal, and poured some into a cup.
The phone continued to ring.
He muttered something unintelligible and snatched the phone. “Green—”
“Detective. Someone is missing and the item that was left to you could help find him. We need your assistance.”
“What?” Michael asked, a little thrown off. He was sure all the whiskey last night wasn’t helping his foggy head. “What are you talking about?” Did this have to do with the Kestrel Lancaster case he was working on? A young woman had gone to an office uptown and disappeared. Her friends, who were the only witnesses, said the fourth floor they’d been on had disappeared along with her. They said she’d received a letter and a phone call about an inheritance. They couldn’t remember who’d called her, who the letter was from, or who they met when they arrived at the office. Michael thought it was odd. But it was proof of nothing.
“I cannot say much on the phone,” Green continued. “You must come to the office on West Twenty-second. I will explain everything there.” He gave Michael the address and hung up.
This had to have something to do with the Lancaster girl. It was the same M.O., just a different address. She got a call to go uptown to pick up an object that had been left to her. What was the object left to him? Too many questions. Now hehadto go find out. He wasn’t that far away.
He headed toward the bathroom, leaving the coffee. He’d pick up some on the way.
Ten minutes later, he exited the bathroom soaking wet with a yellow towel wrapped around his waist. He still didn’t feel clean. He never did. He never would.
Jimmy Clements was twenty-two when he was gunned down by a perp robbing a bodega. Michael, Clements’ partner, killed the shooter only to find out later he was a sixteen-year-old kid.
It busted him up and broke him down. A kid. A kid! There were days he couldn’t deal with it. Days when he was close to putting bullets in the gun. He wished he hadn’t shot it that night.
He missed Clements. Jimmy was more than just his work partner, he was Michael’s closest friend, his brother, together every day for two years.
Michael pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs. These were a little tighter. He was gaining weight. There was a bit more meat around the muscle. He’d stopped caring about staying in shape. For what? So he could chase people down?
