Somewhere in the backstreets of a Chicago suburb, there's a bar where people of every background and order go to mingle and conspire...
The air fills with criminals, crooks, and cigar smoke. Soft jazz music is playing in the background, as a curly-haired brunette with a strapless red dress serenades men wearing pinstripe coats and derby hats. There is no law here and criminals discuss their empires and accomplishments freely under the mist of smoke. Dodgy deals are going down all around as crooks embellish tall tales of their conquests and recruit new members. There's a charming, yet sinister, man sitting between two beautiful women and treating them to glass after glass of champagne. Two hefty men in trenchcoats shake hands and someone's fate in another part of the city is sealed. This bar houses many criminals and people looking to add a bit of excitement in their lives.
But underneath all the corruption, in the very same alley, there's a small group of people whose interests differ greatly from the criminal empire of the Riverside shadows. Although these very bourgeois men and women aren't necessarily the good guys, they are certainly the lesser of two evils. They are driven by money and greed, but also a search for the truth. These men and women are known only as the "Royce Detective Agency." The Detectives operate out of an office on the top floor of this bar and are gathered around their Chief, Samuel Royce, as he shuffles papers and answers phone calls.
The commotion and excitement, on both sides of this alleyway, is billowing and coalescing. News of a guest, the Maharaja of India, has spread among the patrons. It was only in the past few years that India was freed form British rule and their fledgling nation is now becoming a part of the civilized world. The Mayor was scheduled to show the Maharaja and the Maharaja's daughter around neighboring Chicago and our small, but active suburb. However, a phone call would change the mood of the bar and the office upstairs.
"Royce?" a familiar voice spoke on the other line.
"Royce, are you there? Royce, pick up the fucking phone. Something horrible has happened, we need you at the Museum of Antiquities right away."
-Click-
Looking at his team, which was assembled within his office and going over various case files, Royce lifted his frame up from his chair and spoke to his men. "Well, looks like we got work to do tonight..."
"And who exactly was that screaming into the phone?" one of his Private Investigators asked.
"That was the Mayor. There's been some kind of incident at the Museum apparently. The Maharaja's daughter went missing. Get your shit, we're taking a cab."