The year is 2070: the world is recovering from fifty years of war; all religions and organized sports have been banned. But it's not enough to bring peace to Det. Lt. Chris Foy, NYC's new favorite son.
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A bizarre triple murder in a billionaire's penthouse, leads our newly promoted New York detective to a startling discovery that involves the mayor, android prostitutes, a gangster, and the billionare's invisible household staff. But Detective Foy's journey of discovery also involves a dark secret of his own, one that takes him to the top of the 170 story hi-rise. Up that high, there can be only one way down.
IT WAS NOT THE ILLICIT ACTIVITY OF ANDROID SEX that summoned Detective Lieutenant Christopher Foy to the one hundred and seventieth floor of the Pemberly Towers on that cold, rainy, December morning at 3:00AM—those matters were best left to the vice guys, when they weren’t looking the other way, that is—no, the call came straight from the top, the Chief himself, and it required the special attention of the department’s newest ‘favorite son’.
Foy adjusted his tie and tugged gently on his cuffs beneath his coat sleeves as the door of the private elevator glided silently aside. An unexpected ethereal wave of peacefulness blindsided him. However, he took one look at the excessive cadre of forensic investigators busily looking busy in the large foyer and frowned. He had been warned to expect a crowd at the highly profiled residence, but this was looking like a real circus—people milling about with no particular purpose other than to gawk at the furnishings and priceless artwork. It was apparent some leadership needed to be demonstrated, which wouldn’t go well with some of his elder precinct colleagues—a prospect that both disturbed and delighted the youngest detective in the division.
“Glad to see you could finally make it,” said a familiar voice that drew his attention to his immediate left. Leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, was Pete Norlund of The Times, a seasoned reporter with a worn, old-fashioned trench coat to match. Norlund, a short, stocky man resembling a bull boxer, was the most read columnist in the city. Breaking news tended to follow him like a swarm of hungry fleas; and his network of connections usually kept him scratching and digging ahead of the police. It was no surprise to Foy that he was there, not with that kind of celebrity attachment. Standing next to Norlund was his ever-present shadow: his photographer, Eric Lamerie—tall, lanky, and generally unshaven, a visual contradiction to his boss; but collaboratively, the two looked like the parts of a wandering exclamation point, anxiously seeking to punctuate.
“You news hounds have nothing better to do on a Saturday night?” said Foy with a smirk. He had run into Norlund once before when assigned to the Holly Maymont homicide—the case that awarded the fledgling detective his lieutenant’s shield, thanks in great part to Norlund‘s column. It, too, was a high-profile case involving the mayor, his mistress, and an android hooker named Margaux Marie. The thought of a connection hadn’t eluded the young detective, therefore he couldn’t help but wonder if Norlund wasn’t digging after a similar bone.
“Like you, Foy, we dance to the music of our superiors; mention the name Netherfield and my dance card is suddenly filled up.”
Foy smiled, knowing all-to-well that Norlund had a reputation of answering to no one. “Funny, that’s a metaphor I never would have associated with you, Pete.”
He acknowledged Lamerie with a smirk “Or even you, Lamerie.”
Lamerie, not known for his razor-like wit, was dull on the comeback. His wild eyes stared at Foy before darting to the ceiling. “Well…do something about this music, will ya? Nobody knows how to turn it off.”
It was then that Foy realized that indeed above the talking, tapping, brushing, and other sounds of busy people and instruments, a soft haunting melody patiently vied for attention. He smiled. It was the music—offering the ambience of peaceful serenity.
“What?” Lamerie wrinkled his nose.
“The composer,” said Foy. “Jacques Offenbach. ‘Voyage to the Moon.’” Foy strained to listen. “Not sure who is conducting…”
Norlund rolled his eyes, withdrew his hands from his pockets, and restlessly straightened up, ready to make a move—any move. “Whatever,” he mumbled.