The docks smell of rotting fish and diesel fuel, the heavy air clinging to your clothes as you step out of the cab. The fog is thicker here, rolling in waves off the black water, muffling the distant clang of buoy bells. You flip up your collar against the chill and approach the crime scene tape fluttering around a sleek black Packard. The car sits at a crooked angle, one wheel up on the curb as if the driver had been in a hurry. Or fighting for control.

Crouching, you examine the driver's side door. The leather seat is torn—not from wear, but from fingernails. Someone struggled here. The pearl earring winks at you from the floor mat, too perfect to be accidental. As you reach for it, your fingers brush something sticky beneath the seat. Blood, dried black in the dim light. Not much, but enough to make your gut tighten.

A shadow moves in the alley across the street. You catch the glint of a watch chain before it disappears. Too late—you're already moving, hand on your .38. The alley swallows you whole, the brick walls pressing close. A cat screeches and darts between your legs. At the dead end, a fire escape ladder sways slightly, like someone just climbed it. Above, a window slams shut.