The police station reeks of stale coffee and broken dreams. Desk Sergeant O'Malley barely glances up from his racing forms as you approach. 'Well if it ain't Frisco's favorite pain in my ass.' You slide a fresh pack of Luckies across the counter. 'Need to see the Chase file, Sarge.' He pockets the cigarettes with a grunt and jerks his thumb toward the records room. 'Five minutes. And if Captain asks, you broke in.'

The file is thinner than expected—just a missing person report and two grainy surveillance photos. The first shows Mr. Chase pumping gas at a Shell station, his tie loosened, eyes darting toward something off-camera. The timestamp reads 11:47 PM—three hours after his wife claimed he left for a 'business dinner.' The second photo makes your stomach tighten: Chase's Mercedes parked outside The Sapphire Lounge, that notorious mob hangout where the velvet ropes open for fat stacks and closed caskets.

You're memorizing the license plate of a Cadillac in the background when the records room door bursts open. Detective Vasquez fills the doorway, her gold shield catching the flickering fluorescent light. 'Thought I smelled rat.' She snatches the file from your hands. 'This is police business, gumshoe. Unless you wanna explain why your client's hubby was cozy with Big Tony Luciano?' Her manicured finger taps a crime scene photo you missed—Chase's monogrammed cufflinks in a Ziploc bag, flecked with something dark that ain't motor oil.

The squad room buzzes with activity as Vasquez escorts you out. Near the holding cells, a familiar silhouette makes your pulse jump—a woman in a red dress, her black curls hidden under a headscarf, arguing with a public defender. The jasmine perfume hits you before she turns. Not Mrs. Chase's sister. Mrs. Chase herself, her left hand bare of its wedding ring, her right clutching a lawyer's business card like a lifeline.