You double back to the Packard, the echo of that slamming window still ringing in your ears. Kneeling on the damp asphalt, you fish out your Zippo and flick it open. The flame casts long shadows across the car’s interior, illuminating the dark smear beneath the seat. It’s not just blood—there are fibers mixed in, maybe from a rug or a coat. You scrape a sample into your pocket flask (the one you never drink from) just as a police siren wails in the distance.

The passenger seat yields more secrets. Wedged between the cushions is a matchbook from ‘The Silver Slipper,’ a high-end jazz club over on Broadway. The inside cover has a phone number scrawled in lipstick—not Mrs. Chase’s shade. The backseat has traces of white powder on the leather. You dab it with your finger: not cocaine. Smells chemical. Photographic developer?

A glint catches your eye outside the car. Half-buried in the gutter is a bent cufflink, monogrammed ‘R.C.’—Robert Chase’s initials. The chain is snapped clean, like it was torn off in a struggle. You pocket it as headlights sweep the alley. A black sedan idles at the end of the block, exhaust curling into the fog. Too clean for this neighborhood. Too quiet.