The Golden Dragon Society's headquarters hides behind a jade-green door in an alley off Grant Avenue. You push inside without knocking, the scent of sandalwood and gun oil hitting you like a slap. The front room is all red lacquer and gold leaf, with a massive carved dragon coiled across the ceiling. Three men in silk suits stop their mahjong game mid-tile. The oldest—a wiry gentleman with a dragon tattoo peeking above his collar—smiles without showing teeth. 'Detective. We were expecting you.'

You toss the case file onto the mahjong table, scattering ivory tiles. 'Five missing men. Five warehouse leases. You want to explain the connection?' The tattooed man pours tea into a porcelain cup thinner than a gambler's promise. 'We are legitimate businessmen.' His gold pinky ring catches the light as he slides a warehouse key across the table. 'Perhaps you should see for yourself.'

The youngest gangster leads you through curtained backrooms to a freight elevator. His hand rests too close to his shoulder holster as the cage descends into darkness. The basement smells of salt and something metallic. When the doors open, you're staring at a line of luxury cars—including Chase's sedan—parked beside shipping containers marked with the same monograms from the crime scene jewelry. The kid grins. 'Insurance premiums are murder, ain't they?'

A noise from the shadows. You spin to see Mrs. Chase step into the dim light, holding a pearl-handled revolver. Her gloves are gone, her manicure flawless. 'I did warn you not to dig too deep, detective.' The mahjong players appear behind you, cutting off retreat. The tattooed man sighs. 'Such a shame. We really did enjoy your patronage at the bakery.'