Haze overtook the city streets, profound, dull, and wet; it held tight the streets of Boston as the museum's clock rang. It was the night of the first December, 2006. As though summoned by the distressed sound, eight men, all clad in the thick navy jackets of the Boston City Police, appeared like phantoms from the fog. One by one, they assembled underneath the faint glow of the lone streetlamp lighting up the back passageway of the celebrated Museum. Three of the eight men wore hats, while the rest went without. A steely-eyed group, they presented themselves like soldiers, which a few of them had been during the war years prior.
Their leader was a large man standing slightly over six feet tall. Baring two races he had a tan complexion with thick whiskers and dark penetrating eyes. He went by the name Michael Locke and he exuded a toughness that went beyond skin deep. Here was a man who had experienced all the hardness of the world and refused to back down. There was no surrender in Detective Michael Locke.
Standing to Locke's right and a step behind was his assistant and comrade in arms, Detective "Tiny" Jack Camus. Towering six foot six, Camus was of slim build, with long and lanky feature. His face resembled that of the Cheshire cat, large eyes and smile, with an unkempt brow. A quiet, even-tempered man, Camus was said to have grown up in the same rough neighborhood of his friend Locke. Whatever the truth, and no one knew for sure, the two men were very close. The rest of the bunch, six in all were as rough and tumble a group of police that had ever been seen in the Police force. Hard men, they were grizzled veterans of the street who could take a beating or dish it out. This was Locke's team, assembled over the past year, thrashed and bullied into becoming the most decorated band of cops ever to walk the dark streets of Boston. The scourge of the underworld, they were a law unto themselves. Yet, for all their successes and their leader's relentless strategies, there was a single annoying blot on their record.
One criminal mastermind had managed to elude them for the past year. He was a faceless, unseen genius, an American soldier of fortune who only stole the rarest of antiques and the most spectacular of curiosities. His name, according to taunting letters he sent to the newspapers, was Adrian Blair. Michael Locke had sworn that the mystery man's criminal career would end tonight, no matter the price.
Scowling, Locke gave his team their final once-over. His thick brows furrowed in concentration as his penetrating gaze surveyed the officers man by man, weighing them, judging them. It wasn't until the huge clock drummed its last note that he finally nodded his satisfaction. His features broke into the slightest of smiles. "Tonight's the night,' he declared, stating it as an indisputable truth. "It's the end-"
Locke coughed, breaking his sentence. It was a deep hack that shook his whole body, a cough that came up howling from his lungs and turned his face pale with pain. "Sorry," he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry," All of the detective's men knew about his bad lungs. A case of lung cancer presumably from his time spent overseas during the war. There was no cure for the unholy poison, which had been sapping his strength and stamina for years. Time was running out for Michael Locke.
This was why the Adrian Blair case had to come to an end that night, or remain a mystery forever. The master criminal had made it clear in letters posted to the Times that when Michael Locke retired, so would Adrian Blair.
"Hello?" called a voice from the landing at the top of the eighteen marble stone leading from the street to the museum. A solitary man dressed in a black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and a white tie, held a flashlight in his right hand. The beams of radiant light seemed to freeze the patrol in place. "Is that you Locke?" asked the man. He was middle aged, completely bald with a thick beard, and carried a lighthearted demeanor. A crimson rose was pinned to his left lapel. He possessed a voice that commanded attention. "Hurry up here if it's you."
