Rody Rogan, the Detective from Ireland

A killer who strikes from the shadows. A city that can't explain him. One Irishman who refuses to walk away.

Rody Rogan isn't supposed to be in New York. Back home he was nobody's idea of a detective. Here, fresh to the central office squad and armed with nothing but a battered frieze ulster and an unshakeable nerve, he's hunting the most baffling murderer the city has ever seen—a thug with a yellow club who kills for no reason anyone can name, leaves money and diamonds untouched, and vanishes into the gaslit dark like smoke.

Rody has already felt that club whistle past his skull. He knows what it means when a man's hat is caved in and the blood runs cold on the pavement. He knows, too, what the wardmen and the brass won't yet admit—that this killer isn't some mad beggar skulking in alleys. He's educated. He's protected. He may be sleeping in one of those great brownstone mansions on Fifth Avenue while New York counts its dead.

The police think the case is impossible. The thug thinks he's untouchable.

Rody Rogan thinks differently.

But as the body count climbs and the yellow club swings again and again through the wet, electric-lit night, the question gnawing at Rody isn't just who the killer is.

It's whether he can expose a monster hiding inside polite society before that yellow stick finds his skull next.