The showgirl's name—Lola Devereaux—comes easy once you slip a twenty to the bleary-eyed desk sergeant at Central Station. 'Worked at The Velvet Slipper,' he mumbles, tapping the arrest report. 'Busted last month for lifting a john's wallet.' The cab ride to North Beach takes you past neon-lit theaters where marquees promise '50 Beautiful Girls! 50!' The Velvet Slipper's pink stucco facade looks tired in the daylight, its sequin-studded sign missing half its bulbs.

Inside smells of stale champagne and sweat. The daytime bartender—a gaunt man with a waxed mustache—polishes glasses with a dirty rag. 'Lola? She quit after the arrest. Last I heard she was shacking up at the Golden Gate Motel.' He slides a key across the bar. 'Room 12. Tell her Bruno says hi.'

The motel's courtyard swimming pool is drained, filled with cigarette butts and empty Thunderbird bottles. You knock three times before the door cracks open on a chain. One bloodshot blue eye peers out. 'I paid Louie already,' a hoarse voice whispers. You flash the pearl earring. 'Not here about Louie. Here about Richard Chase.' The chain drops.

Lola's a wreck—mascara smeared, silk robe hanging off one shoulder. Her platinum wig sits crooked on a dresser next to a framed photo of her and Chase at Fisherman's Wharf. 'He was gonna leave her,' she sniffs, pouring vodka into a toothbrush glass. 'Then his sister-in-law showed up screaming about markers owed to some Chinatown sharks.' She points a trembling finger at the photo. 'Next day, his car's at the docks and he's gone. That bitch Sylvia set him up.'

The room spins as you connect the dots. Sylvia Chase's gambling debts. The planted earring. The sister who 'conveniently' arrived right before her brother-in-law vanished. You pocket the photo just as Lola starts sobbing into her drink. Outside, a shadow moves behind the curtained window of Room 14. Too tall to be housekeeping.