Detective Quentin Lance Novels & Stories

A voice from a lifetime ago, laced with a wry, cynical warmth I hadn't realized I’d missed. I turned. A man leaned against a vintage, well-kept motorcycle, his arms crossed. He was older, his hair more silver than black, lines etched deeply around his eyes and mouth, but the smirk was the same. Detective Lance Crowe, retired. The man who had investigated the Bianchi case, the one who had looked the other way because he believed, in his own gruff way, that I’d done the world a favor. We’d shared a charged, unacted-upon chemistry in the aftermath of the shooting, a "what if" that had been buried under the weight of my life with Arthur.