The Last Detective A crime noir thriller

New York, 1942.
Detective Christopher Thomas is a man who takes his cases seriously. When he meets Anne Marks, a secretary who has a hidden past, he puts his life on the line when several deaths happen that is connected to her.

The new crime noir thriller by Robert Helliger.

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1. The mysterious woman

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"​I am the last detective in New York. The grimy streets were full of death. At 9:00 AM on Monday, January 7, 1942, the air was stifling. I smoked a cigarette, as I gazed at the files of cases that I'd solved over the decade. The Prohibition Days of the 1930's was full of victims of Al Capone in Chicago; the days of stand-over men was also in the city that never sleeps. I finished my cigarette. I stomped on the fiery embers with my grey boots. By 9:30 AM, I heard the sound of gun fire outside my rustic looking office; I didn't need to know who was being shot near 131st Street and 7th Avenue. Suddenly I tipped my black felt hat on my head with my hands. In the cheap looking brown drawer was my .9mm gun. I sipped my warm coffee, as there was a knock on my office door. The glass shimmered; it was full of the shadows of a woman. "Come in!", I told her. She opened the door with her small, right, hand. Then, as I saw her, I felt constricted in the throat like a slithering snake was going to strangle me. But, to me, the woman was tall...and she was beautiful as an actress in a Hollywood movie. The lamps illuminated the outside of the office; the illuminated shadow of the woman became something that caused me to gasp. She wore a tan dress, brown stockings around her long, slender legs, and black high-heeled shoes. I saw her apply red lipstick on her luscious mouth; I saw her grin at me. Once she was finished, she moved gracefully towards the second cheap looking chair; she then sat down...and smiled at me. "Anne Marks. I'm the secretary for Frank Lowell, Jr., the mobster". I wrote everything down with a pen on paper. "Detective Christopher Thomas. I've heard about him. ", I asked her. "He's dead. I want you to solve it for me", Anne answered me. "I usually stay away from mobsters. They're bad luck. I'm not Eliot Ness". She glanced at me. "I'll pay for the case. How about five hundred thousand dollars in cash". I stared at her as if the idea of money would clear off my gambling debts. I nodded. "Fine. I'll take it". And she smiled. She produced a brown suitcase. "Here's the money. If you find his killer, you'll be the heroic detective; if you die...then the case won't be solved". I shook my head. "I'll be wary", I said. And she nodded, as I pondered my own future as a detective in New York.

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Dead mobsters in the city that never sleeps wasn't new. Chicago was rife with crime. And so was New York, too. I focused on Anne Marks, my new client. She was eager to go away from public life; she was going to go as far away from New York as possible. "Do you want some coffee?", I asked her. "Yes, thank you". I nodded. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I would be imagining my untimely death...and would be at peace with it; sometimes, I'd be brave like the other times that I would suffer as I talked to my own parents years' ago. And I became a Detective because I wanted to clean up the streets of crime. Anne watched me. Then I stared out of the window. "If you need anything, tell me. You can go to the ​Davison Hart Motel​ for the weekend. I'll pay for the bill". Anne nodded. "Thank you. Let's go!", she said. And I nodded.

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