The payphone booth stands like a rusted sentinel at the corner, its glass panes fogged with condensation and years of grime. You drop a nickel into the slot, the metallic clink echoing in the cramped space. The rotary dial feels heavy as you spin it, each number a deliberate turn toward uncomfortable truths. Mrs. Chase picks up on the second ring, her breath audible before she speaks. 'You found something,' she says, not a question but a statement weighed with dread.

You roll the pearl earring between your fingers, its surface impossibly smooth. 'Your husband's car. There was—' A long pause. The sound of her wedding band tapping against the receiver fills the silence. 'An earring,' you finish. The line goes so quiet you can hear the hum of the cables stretching across the city. When she finally speaks, her voice is stripped raw. 'Helen Carver wore those. His... secretary.' The name lands like a gut punch. Helen Carver—the mayor's niece. The kind of mess that gets small-time detectives buried.

Through the payphone's cracked glass, you watch a streetlamp flicker to life, its sickly yellow glow cutting through the fog. A newspaper tumbles by, the headline screaming about union strikes at the docks. Mrs. Chase's next words come slow, measured. 'There's a safe deposit box. Key's in his golf bag. Look under—' The line crackles with interference. '—the nine iron.' The connection dies abruptly, leaving you staring at the receiver like it might explain why this case smells more like political dynamite than a simple marital spat.