The address in the file leads you to a crumbling Art Deco apartment building on the edge of North Beach, its once-glamorous facade now pockmarked with rust and neglect. The elevator hasn't worked since Truman was president, so you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing through the stairwell like distant gunshots. Apartment 4C smells of jasmine perfume and gun oil—an unsettling combination that makes your hand drift toward your .38 as you knock.

No answer. The door creaks open under your touch, revealing a studio frozen in time. A phonograph needle scratches silently against a finished record. Tea steeps in a cracked porcelain pot beside two cups—one lipstick-stained, the other bearing the half-moon imprint of teeth. You recognize Mr. Chase's dental work from his photos.

The bedroom tells a darker story. The mattress lies askew, sheets tangled in a way that suggests struggle rather than passion. A single pearl winks at you from the floorboards—matching the earring from the car. But it's the writing on the mirror that stops you cold: 'SWAN SONG' scrawled in red lipstick, the letters smeared as if written in haste. The reflection shows the closet door slightly ajar behind you... and the glint of something metallic within.

You're halfway to the closet when the floorboard squeals underfoot. The metallic glint resolves into the barrel of a snub-nose revolver trembling in Charlotte's hand. Her face is a mess of mascara and bruises, her cocktail dress torn at the shoulder. 'You shouldn't be here,' she rasps, but the gun wavers. Behind her, a man's tie hangs from the closet doorknob—the same navy blue striped pattern Mr. Chase wore in his last board meeting photo.