The rain slicks the cobblestones as you approach Pier 12, where the cops marked Chase's abandoned Mercedes with chalk. The crime scene tape flaps limply in the wind, long abandoned by the disinterested SFPD. Your flashlight cuts through the gloom, revealing oil stains and cigarette butts—nothing unusual for the docks. Then you spot it: a glint of metal beneath a rotting wooden pallet.

You crouch, your trench coat pooling in a puddle, and fish out a silver cigarette case. Engraved initials: 'E.C.' Evelyn Chase. But Mrs. Chase doesn't smoke. You flip it open. Inside, nestled beside half-smoked Luckies, is a trampled theater ticket for 'The Shanghai Mirage' from two nights ago. The back bears a lipstick smear and a hastily scribbled phone number.

A shadow detaches from the warehouse wall. It's Benny 'The Snitch' Moretti, his ratty peacoat dripping. 'Heard you was askin' about pearls,' he wheezes, showing a gap-toothed grin. 'Saw a dame in red arguin' with some suit near Chase's car that night. Real classy broad—right up 'til she pistol-whipped him.' Benny mimes the motion, then rubs his stubbled chin. 'She was drivin' a green Packard. Saw it head toward Telegraph Hill after.'

The ticket stub leads to a dead end—the number's for a payphone outside a North Beach strip club. But the Packard... that's interesting. Only three were registered in Frisco last year. One belongs to a retired judge. One got wrecked in a warehouse fire. The third? Owned by a certain Lydia Chase—Evelyn's 'respectable' sister, who definitely wasn't supposed to be in town.