Your shoulder 'accidentally' catches the edge of the evidence locker as you turn to leave, sending the entire metal cabinet crashing to the floor with a sound like a dumpster falling down a fire escape. Case files, plastic evidence bags, and a shoebox labeled 'Bombay Jewelry Heist—Do Not Touch' scatter across the linoleum. O'Sullivan's cigar hits the floor as he leaps up, his chair toppling backward. 'Goddamn it!' he roars, his jowls quivering with rage.

You're already moving, your eyes scanning the debris as you pretend to help gather it. That's when you spot it—a familiar monogrammed handkerchief peeking out from under a stack of mugshots. Mrs. Chase's initials. Stained with something dark. You pocket it just as Mendoza grabs your arm, his breath hot with onions and anger. 'You're done, pal,' he hisses.

The commotion brings half the precinct running. In the chaos, you catch a glimpse of Officer Chen—the only clean cop in this dump—eyeing the scene with quiet disapproval. As O'Sullivan starts bellowing about pressing charges, Chen gives you the slightest nod toward the back stairwell. A lifeline. The handkerchief burns in your pocket like a lit fuse.

Outside, the fog has turned to drizzle. You duck into a phone booth two blocks away, the metal walls smelling of urine and desperation. The handkerchief, unfolded in your trembling hands, reveals not just bloodstains but a hastily scribbled note in elegant handwriting: 'Pier 17—midnight. They're watching the house.' The clock above the diner across the street reads 11:43. The bay's foghorn moans in the distance.