Chase

"This was no suicide," says Detective Michael Bennett.
A man plunges to his death from the roof of a Manhattan hotel. It looks like a suicide--except the victim has someone else's fingerprints and $10,000 in cash. Enter Detective Michael Bennett.
"At the end of the dark, crowded bar, a man in black twirled an e-cigarette through his fingers and over his thumb like a little baton, again and again as he watched and waited. It was an aggravating, fidgety habit, he knew. But when he was anxious, it was harder to resist than smoking the damn thing. The bar was in a hip industrial-chic hotel on 67th and Broadway called Index House, with a cutting-edge meets Roaring Twenties vibe. Charging stations blended into a décor of exposed brick and tufted chairs. With his downtown black silk suit and dark GQ looks, the man belonged there. He deftly flipped the cigarette into his inside jacket pocket as the bartender finally approached with his drink. It was a Zombie, four or five different rums and some cognac with a splash of pineapple and mango juice. One of the rums was 151-proof, and flammable. He’d seen drinks lit on fire many times over the last seven years, in many places, from Jamaica to Jakarta."