The .38 clears your holster with a whisper of oiled steel. O'Sullivan's cigar drops onto his gut, burning a hole in his cheap suit before he bats it away. Mendoza's hand freezes halfway to his revolver. The clock's ticking fills the sudden silence as you level the barrel at O'Sullivan's third chin. 'Let's try this again,' you say, thumbing back the hammer. 'Start talking about Chase, or I start rearranging your dental work.'

O'Sullivan's jowls quiver. 'You're bluffing.' The .38 doesn't waver. Sweat beads on his forehead as he glances at the pearl earring still gleaming on his desk blotter. Behind you, Mendoza exhales sharply. 'Christ, L.T., just tell him about the—'

A meaty hand slams down. 'Shut your trap, Manny!' O'Sullivan's eyes dart to the closed door, then back to you. His voice drops to a whiskey-graveled whisper. 'You wanna know what happened to Chase? Fine. But that piece stays aimed at the floor, understand?' You lower the barrel a fraction. The lieutenant pulls a key from his pocket and tosses it to Mendoza. 'Lock the damn door.'

Mendoza moves like a man walking to his own funeral. When the click of the lock echoes through the room, O'Sullivan reaches into his desk drawer—slowly—and pulls out a manila envelope thick enough to choke a horse. 'This stays between us,' he growls, tossing it across the desk. Inside: crime scene photos of three other missing men, all found floating in the bay with their pockets turned out. And in each photo, barely visible in the morgue shots—a pearl just like Evelyn Chase's.