A slow smirk curls your lips as you straighten up, adjusting your cufflinks with deliberate casualness. 'Funny you should mention obstruction, Lieutenant,' you purr, watching the vein in O'Sullivan's temple throb. 'Judge Mulvaney was just asking about you last week. Seems he remembers that little incident with the evidence locker back in '38.'

O'Sullivan's cigar ash trembles as it dangles. Mendoza's fingers freeze an inch from his holster. The stale air grows heavier, charged with unspoken threats. You lean in, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'And let's not forget Judge Whitmore—still sends Christmas cards, thanks to that misunderstanding about his son's DUI.'

The lieutenant's jowls quiver as he grinds his teeth. His eyes flick to the mayor's photo again, then to the pearl earring gleaming on his desk. With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, he sends the file crashing to the floor. 'Get out,' he growls through clenched teeth. 'But take your damn ghost story with you.'

You scoop up the file with a flourish, pausing to pluck the pearl from his blotter. 'Always a pleasure doing business, Lieutenant.' As you turn to leave, you catch Mendoza mouthing 'holy shit' to himself. The precinct buzz follows you down the hall—whispers spreading like gasoline on a fire. Outside, the fog has lifted just enough to reveal the blood-red neon of a bordello across the street. Somewhere in this town, a missing husband's secrets are waiting to be uncovered. And now you've got the scent.