The glove compartment creaks open with a reluctant whine, releasing the scent of old leather and gun oil. Inside, the registration sits neatly in its plastic sleeve—Chase, Reginald, 1287 Nob Hill. You slide it out, noticing the crisp edges. This car was cared for. Behind it, a parking ticket dated two days ago flutters into your lap. Pier 47, 11:37 PM—the night he disappeared. The time stamp makes your pulse quicken.

Your fingers brush against something cold and metallic at the back of the compartment. A brass key with a tag that reads 'The Jade Room - 214' in delicate script. The kind of place where rich men go to misbehave discreetly. Underneath it, a matchbook from some dive called 'The Rusty Anchor,' its cover stained with what looks like lipstick. You pocket both, the key heavy with possibility.

A sudden clatter makes you jerk upright. The passenger side door handle jiggles violently. Through the fogged window, you see a hulking silhouette—too big to be Tommy, too quiet for a beat cop. Your .38 is in your hand before you realize you've drawn it. The figure steps back, melting into the mist. Only the lingering scent of bay rum aftershave suggests he was ever there at all.