Frankel dug a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the waitress. He told her to keep the change and that he’d see her in a day or two. As she walked away, Grant thanked Frankel for the tea.

“If I’m ever over your way, you can return the favor,” Frankel told him.

“On my turf,” Grant echoed.

“Exactly.”

“I understand I’m the guest here, Detective. What do you say we start over bright and early tomorrow at the precinct as previously agreed?”

Frankel gave Grant a nod. “A fresh slate sounds good.” The NYPD detective got up and handed Grant his heavy overcoat.

“I even have the perfect place to start,” said Frankel.

“The Fifth Commandment?”

Frankel laughed. “Ever been told you’re a pain in the ass, Commander?”

“Constantly.”

Chapter 3

3

Honor thy father and thy mother.

That only narrowed the field to the entire human race. Everyone had one of each. Sure, there were orphans to consider and those who had lost their parents—but even those people dishonored those who brought them into the world. And what exactly constituted a transgression against one’s parents? Disobeying their orders? Not heeding sage words of advice? Lashing out at them verbally or even physically in public? Forgetting a birthday? Interpreted differently, it could be putting an elderly mother or father away in an old folks’ home.

Or none of the above.

Grant shoved the room service table away with a sigh. His first morning in Manhattan wasn’t off to a good start. It had taken three tries to produce English breakfast tea after they brought obscure herb varieties. The kitchen’s idea of a scone resembled a rock and the concept of porridge was lost on them altogether.

Getting to the Midtown North precinct proved equally challenging—even though it was only six blocks from the London. The skies had opened up to greet Scotland Yard’s Finest and with temperatures hovering in the low thirties, the precipitation was stinging pellets of ice. Finding a cab in these conditions was foolhardy; how hard would it be to navigate six bloody blocks?

Ten minutes later, soaked to the bone (his umbrella flipped inside out when the icy wind gusted at typhoon speed), he had his answer.

Upon pushing through the precinct’s heavy double doors and depositing his crumpled brolly in a trash bin, Grant shed his drenched raincoat and shook himself dry like a sodden Lab. Moments later, he was led by a uniformed officer through a bullpen where detectives busily mapped out their days while washing breakfast burritos down with cups of hot coffee. The uniform escorted Grant to an office at the back of the precinct and knocked on the door.

“Detective Grant is here to see you, sir,” the cop said.