The precinct house stinks of sweat and bad coffee. You push past the usual parade of drunks and pickpockets, your shoes sticking slightly to the linoleum with each step. Lieutenant O'Sullivan's office is at the end of the hall, the frosted glass bearing his name in peeling gold letters. Through it, you can see the hulking silhouette of the man himself, feet up on the desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

You don't bother knocking. The door swings open to reveal O'Sullivan mid-laugh, sharing a joke with Sergeant Mendoza. Their mirth dies when they see you. 'Well if it ain't Frisco's favorite pain in my ass,' O'Sullivan drawls, blowing a smoke ring toward the water-stained ceiling. 'Here to waste more of the city's time chasing ghosts?'

You toss the Chase file onto his desk, the pearl earring spilling out onto the paperwork. Mendoza goes very still. 'That's evidence,' you say, voice low. 'From a crime scene your boys didn't even tape off.' O'Sullivan's piggish eyes dart to the pearl, then to Mendoza, before he leans forward with a creak of leather. 'Listen here, shamus. Some marriages ain't meant to last. Man takes a walk, dame makes up stories. Happens every damn day.'

The framed photo of the mayor on the wall watches as you plant both hands on O'Sullivan's desk. 'The only story I see is a cop too lazy to do his job. Or too crooked.' Mendoza's hand drifts toward his sidearm. O'Sullivan's face purples. 'You got five seconds to walk out of here before I book you for obstruction,' he snarls. The clock on the wall ticks louder than a death knell.