Chances Are Chapter 8
So, on that peaceful Saturday evening I was sitting up on the roof of Murder Mansion, alone and slowly enjoying four fingers of fine quality rye, enjoying the late-night spring breezes and the sounds of the city from off in the distance. Most of the flat roof was covered with a series of four long rectangular greenhouses, but everything inside had been dead for a full decade or more. Orchids most likely, from all of the dried petals on the floor. At the northwest corner of the roof, the...