Maxwell Brogue stood in the interrogation room. Chained to the table was one Timothy Shanks, a.k.a.: Crooked Timmy. Detective Grimes ceased her pacing when she saw Maxwell. A slight smile grew on her face. The tall Detective Hatts was in a corner, leaning against the wall.
“Oh boy, are you in trouble now, Tim,” Hatts said, straightening up. He walked over to the man in handcuffs. Leaning in, he pointed to Maxwell. “See that man there? He’s the one who busted this case wide open. He found your hammer in the floorboards.”
Crooked Timmy looked up at Maxwell with bloodshot, beady eyes. His expression was hard and violent.
“You wouldn’t be in here right now if it weren’t for him,” Hatts said.
Tim’s face got harder.
“Who are you?” he asked Maxwell.
“This is the city’s finest private detective,” Grimes said. “Max Brogue.”
“Heh, you need a private dick?” Crooked Timmy said. “That’s pretty pathetic, detectives.”
“Keep laughing, Tim,” Hatts said. “A few minutes with Brogue here, you’ll be singing like a bird.”
“Show ‘em what you got, Max,” Grimes said.