The all-night electronics shop on Harrison Street has security monitors glowing like artificial moons behind bulletproof glass. You flash your P.I. license—the fake one with the convincing seal—and slide a twenty across the counter. The clerk, a pockmarked kid with nervous eyes, leads you to the back room where grainy black-and-white footage flickers across a bank of screens.

You fast-forward through days of mundane traffic until the timestamp matches Chase's disappearance. The camera angle barely catches the edge of the dock, but there it is—a black Cadillac creeping into frame like a panther stalking prey. The driver's face is obscured by shadows and the brim of a hat, but you catch the distinctive hunch of his shoulders, the way he holds his left arm stiff at his side. The car stops just beyond view. Ninety-three seconds later, it speeds away. On the sidewalk, a figure in a trench coat—too tall to be Chase—adjusts something metallic at their waist before disappearing down an alley.

You bribe the clerk for copies and hit two more businesses before dawn. The laundromat footage shows a matching Cadillac idling near a fish market three nights before the Packard disappearance. This time, the license plate is partially visible—the first three digits match a fleet registered to Golden Dragon Imports. Your fingers tremble slightly as you rewind the tape, watching the shadowy figure emerge from the passenger side holding what might be a hypodermic needle glinting in the streetlamp's glow.

The last footage comes from a pawn shop with a camera pointed at Pier 17's loading docks. The timestamp shows midnight exactly—a black Cadillac parked askew near Warehouse 5B, its trunk gaping open. Two figures struggle with a third slumped between them. Even through the static, you recognize the missing dockworker's distinctive cap tumbling to the ground as they drag him inside. The warehouse door closes just as rain begins streaking the camera lens like tears.