The Heiress
The name on the door says private investigator. The bottle in the drawer says I'm not picky about company. Either way, the door opens and the cases come in. This one walked in wearing a fur-trimmed coat and a look that said she'd never been told "no" in her life. Jane Kingsley, only daughter of Simon Kingsley — factory money, the kind that buys silence and policemen in equal measure.
Her story was simple enough. Margaret Dunphy, her childhood friend over from England, heiress to a fortune that'd make a banker weep, was supposed to be staying at the Kingsley residence. Instead she vanished into the Chicago night without so much as a goodbye. The police, Jane said, were useless. She's probably right about that. Captain Williams doesn't bite the hand that feeds him, and that hand belongs to Roberto Fredini — mob boss, war hero, and a man whose business interests reach into every corner of this city.
So here I am. Walking cobblestone streets that glisten under streetlamps, knocking on doors that'd rather stay shut, following threads that tangle into the Fredini crime family, the Kingsley factories, and a secret romance that could get someone killed. Everyone's got something to hide in this town. The trick is figuring out who's hiding a dead girl.
I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. I ask the questions nobody wants answered. And I don't stop until the missing are found — one way or another.

