Gershon hissed at his phone before snapping it shut and pocketing the thing.

“Problem, Inspector?” Rutger asked, hoping like hell he hid his amusement.  They sat in overstuffed wingback chairs across a low table from one another in Gershon’s suite at the hotel.  It was a spacious and comfortable accommodation, one that must have cost more than Rutger’s weekly salary for a single night.

Gershon narrowed his eyes at Rutger.  “Mr. Montgomery and his associates have escaped… somehow.”  His right foot dangled from where he crossed it over his left, waving a steady rhythm like a conductor’s baton.  “Do you have any ideas how that may have happened?”

“Not really, no, Inspector,” he said, shaking his head.&...

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