Casey had been sent to investigate her.
The neon sign above the jazz club flickered like a dying star, casting pink and blue light across the wet pavement of 125th Street. Casey Moran stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe, listening to the saxophone bleed through the walls. He had been a soldier once. Now he was a reporter for the New York Herald Tribune. Sometimes he felt both professions were the same thing—just different...
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