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New York, September, 1945.
The sign on my office door reads:
Pierce Chandler & Assoc.
Private & Paranormal Investigations
It wasn’t my real name, but the fella I’d borrowed it from wouldn’t mind. He was finished with it.
Pierce Chandler has never bungled a case. Not once. But this one’s got teeth. Four stiffs turned up drained dry, and the only thing they had in common was the chew marks on their necks. An archaeologist in Budapest. A rare-book conservator in Paris. An Oxford don with a penchant for dead languages. And a two-bit bum who bought the farm in a Brooklyn alley.
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