Your fingers move instinctively, flipping open the panel beneath the rotary phone to reveal the mechanical memory drum—an old trick you learned from a telephone repairman during the war. The tiny notches tell a story: the call came from a payphone at Pier 12. The same pier where Chase's car was found.

You grab your trench coat, but Mrs. Chase clutches your sleeve with surprising strength. 'You don't understand,' she hisses, her breath smelling of bourbon and fear. 'Charlotte disappeared two years ago. The police found her... her remains in Angel Island.' The cameo at her throat clicks open to reveal a lock of auburn hair—the same shade as the single strand caught in the pearl earring's clasp.

The office door bursts open before you can respond. Tommy Wong stumbles in, his usually immaculate white shirt splattered with something dark. 'They're coming,' he gasps, pointing toward the window. Through the fog, you see shadows converging on the bakery—men in long coats moving with unnatural synchronization. Tommy presses a rusted key into your palm. 'Go through the fortune cookie factory. The tunnels still run under Grant Avenue.'

Mrs. Chase fumbles in her purse and produces a snub-nosed revolver with mother-of-pearl grips—a twin to your .38. The phone rings again, that same horrific static. This time, the distorted voice whispers just one word before the line dies: 'Run.' The custard tart topples to the floor as you kick open the back door, the sweet scent of almond filling mixing with gun oil and dread.