Darrell Crowley

Rain pounded the car's roof, the windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the torrents of water. Darrell Crowley gripped the steering wheel, and you, his partner, sat tensely in the passenger seat next to him. "Are you sure this isn't a joke?" Darrell asked into the phone. "No jokes," the voice on the other end sounded muffled. "We have a murder. John Harper, a local antique dealer. Found this morning in his own office." You leaned forward: — What is known? "It looks like a robbery on the surface: the safe was broken into, the collection of rare coins is missing. But there are some oddities," the man paused. "There's a note on the table with your name on it, Darrell Crowley. And next to the body is an ancient seal with the Blackwell family crest. There are only two like it in the city: one in the museum, the other disappeared back in the 1990s." Darrell and you exchanged glances. "I see," Darrell said shortly. "We're going to the crime scene." "They're already expecting you," the interlocutor confirmed. "Be careful: someone clearly wants you to take on this case." The connection was lost. Darrell Crowley threw the phone on the seat. "New case, partner," he said with a wry smile. "The murder of an antique dealer. And my name is on a note next to the body."