The office feels even more oppressive when you return, the smell of stale bourbon and egg tart now mingling with the dampness clinging to your coat. You flip open the Chase file with fresh eyes, the overhead bulb flickering as you spread photos across your desk. The crime scene shot of the Mercedes shows something you missed before—faint scuff marks near the trunk latch, too clean for a random robbery.

Mrs. Chase's initial statement catches your eye next. 'My sister Lillian arrived Tuesday.' But the hotel receipt paperclipped behind it shows a check-in date of Sunday. Three days before the disappearance. The timeline unravels as you cross-reference her credit card slips—charges at The Shanghai Club, a notorious gamblers' den, totaling $15k. Enough to make family disappear.

You're reaching for the phone when the door creaks open. Tommy Wong stands there holding two steaming cups. 'Saw you come back. Thought you could use real coffee.' He sets down a cup beside the congealing tart. His sleeve brushes a photo, revealing what you'd overlooked—Lillian's gloved hand resting on her brother-in-law's shoulder in a society page clipping, her fingers curled like talons.

The wall clock ticks loudly as you stare at the pearl earring now sealed in an evidence bag. Same design as the ones Lillian wore in last year's opera fundraiser photos. The kid's description fits her perfectly—except for one detail. Lillian Chase doesn't smoke. But the ashtray in her hotel room service receipt holds three cigarette butts. Benson & Hedges. Mr. Chase's brand.