You force a tight smile, holding O'Sullivan's glare as you slowly straighten up. 'Wouldn't want to interrupt your busy schedule of taking bribes and ignoring murders,' you mutter, just loud enough for Mendoza to hear. As you turn to leave, your fingers brush the desk—one smooth motion and the pearl earring disappears into your coat pocket. O'Sullivan's chair screeches as he stands, but you're already at the door, flipping him the bird over your shoulder.

The precinct stairs smell like piss and despair. Outside, the fog has turned to a cold drizzle that slicks the pavement with ghostly reflections of neon. You light a cigarette with hands that shake more from adrenaline than the chill. That earring burns in your pocket like a live coal. It's too fancy for a showgirl, too delicate for a man like Chase to have bought on a whim. Custom piece, maybe. The kind with provenance.

A shadow detaches itself from the alley beside the precinct. It's Mendoza, his uniform jacket dark with rain. He doesn't reach for his gun. 'O'Sullivan's dirty,' he says without preamble. 'But not stupid. That earring? Belonged to Lillian Duquesne.' The name hits you like a gut punch—the socialite whose suicide made front pages last month. 'Her old man owns half the docks,' Mendoza continues, glancing over his shoulder. 'Whatever game you're playing, Detective? The house always wins in Frisco.' He melts back into the fog, leaving you with more questions than answers.

The rain picks up as you duck into a payphone booth. The operator connects you after three rings. 'City morgue.' You recognize Doc Hennessey's rasp. 'What'd you find on Lillian Duquesne's autopsy?' A long pause. 'Officially? Barbiturates and bourbon. Unofficially?' Paper shuffles. 'The kind of bruising on her wrists that says she fought like hell before going quiet.' The line goes dead. Across the street, a figure in a black sedan watches the phone booth through cigarette smoke.