The Corruption

Lawyers do not go around solving murders, getting killed, physically assaulted, and acting like the stereotypical private investigator. A group of characters similar to those found in mysteries and thrillers. These characters incorporate Jared, the prototypical crime addressing legal counselor; his auntie, who raised him and an exceptionally moral legal advisor; Mark, her sweetheart of numerous years and Jared's proxy father and senior criminal investigator; Jewell, a previous cop, bar proprietor, PI, and semi-rough defender and property manager; Warren, a knockout lesbian correspondent and semi-associate that makes Jared's insane; and presently, David, a wacky inhabitant gofer, and now and again virtuoso.

This book is about corruption inside and outside the city government that dates back nearly 100 years, murder, false accusations and imprisonment, liars, semi-Mafioso thugs and corruptors, and various twists and turns.

This eBook is available at Amazon or click here to view details.

CHAPTER ONE

Antonio Jones's servant discovered his body lying face down on the floor of his investigation, his cheek stuck to the rug with his own frozen, hardened blood. At the point when she turned the body over, filaments adhered to Jones's cheek like organism that develops under a stone. His left eye was open, the shock of his passing actually enlisted in the wide gap of his eyelid. His right eye was gone, crushed by a .38-type projectile that had penetrated his student and shaken around in his cerebrum like spare change a very brief time before he kicked the bucket.

"Poop," Mark Bliss said as he peered down on the body of the civic chairman's very own legal advisor. "Call the boss," he told his accomplice, Joseph Elliot.

Mark realized that Antonio Jones wasn't simply Mayor Richard Johnson's legal counselor. He was a social lubricator, a legal counselor who invested more energy gathering IOUs than a leg-breaking bagman for the horde. Throughout the previous twenty years, getting chosen in Blue Springs had implied getting Jones's help. Anybody doing genuine business with the city had recruited him to finish their arrangements.

Mark speculated that Jones was in his mid-sixties, dumpy from years spent staying away from actual effort for mental control. Mark crouched to analyze Jones's hands. They were smooth, not normal for the man's standing. Jones had a Santa Claus construct, yet Mark realized the man couldn't have played St. Scratch without requesting more than he at any point would have given.

Mark had been a crime analyst too long to even consider recollecting truly having been whatever else. He realized that the odds of settling a homicide dropped like the breeze chill after the initial 48 hours. In case time weren't an amazing sufficient motivating force, a politically substantial body like Antonio Jones's would drive his examination concerning twist speed.

He accumulated his topcoat around him, fending off the cool that had attacked the examination on the rear of Jones's home. The windows were open. The servant, Norma Hawkins, said she had thought that they are that way when she showed up for work at eight o'clock that morning, Monday, December 10. The warmth had additionally been wound down, the house keeper had added. A late-fall shoot had secured Blue Springs down a fierce snow-bound attack for the last week. Jones's home felt like ground zero.

"The boss says to meet him at the city hall leader's office," Elliot said, interfering with Mark's quiet review of the homicide scene.

"What for?" Mark asked, irritated at whatever would dial back the examination.

"I told the main that someone popped the civic chairman's attorney. He advised me to hold on, similar to I was going somewhere, isn't that so? He gets back to two minutes after the fact and says meet him at the civic chairman's office. You need to talk about it with the boss, you got his number."

Joseph Elliot had grown up battling, some of the time over pokes about being an individual of color with a white man's name, once in a while to discover who could take a punch. He and Mark had been accomplices for a very long time without turning out to be dear companions. Mark was more seasoned, more experienced, and consequently accepted the lead in their examinations, a batting request he realized that Elliot hated. That was Elliot's concern, Mark had chosen. Elliot was a decent cop, however Mark was a superior one.

Mark needed to get rolling. He needed to meet the house keeper, sort out how long Jones had been dead before she discovered him, and backtrack Jones's exercises some time before he was killed. He needed to converse with everybody Jones had been with during that time. He needed to look through Jones's home, vehicle, and office for whatever could lead him to the executioner. The last thing he needed to do was run downtown to guarantee the boss and the city hall leader that they would address the wrongdoing before supper. The close to-last thing he needed to do was manage the chip on his accomplice's shoulder.

"Here," Mark said, throwing the keys to Elliot. "You can drive."