I remember one case … I was fresh on the force, with a thin mustache and a thinner wallet … but even back then, I had a sharp nose for hot leads. I’d just cruised into Jimmy’s and ordered some strong coffee, when in strolls Father Sapisti—looking for me, as usual. Turns out Richard Solomon managed to get himself waxed. The scum who did it had tried to bury our late friend, but got spooked and ran. This latest development got reported early this morning. I dusted off my jacket, lit up my last cigar, grabbed my hat and walked out. “Just great,” I scoffed, grabbing my revolver.

Rain. Hard, drumming, pounding rain. It’d been coming down for hours. Miss Kitty Le Fay strolls through my door like a field-mouse through a pit of sleeping vipers—an Irish redhead with legs for miles. No dame her age could afford a necklace like the one she wore, but the interesting part was what she was packin’ under her coat. She had bad news written on her like a Washington Post headline. This dame was all business—before I could even offer her a seat, she lets slip that Pao the Bulldog got himself done.

It was as hot as I’d ever remembered. Just blistering. You could cook breakfast right on the sidewalk—that is, if you could bear to eat off the filthiest imaginable surface on earth. I had little to go on this time … but the kid did get a few bites. A Mexican cop crosses the border to hunt a murderer. Oh, and also William had been wiped out. This latest development got reported just a few hours ago. No suspects as of yet. “Another one,” I grumbled.

It was blustery out. The snow was coming in sideways, hard. It had only been a few hours and the streets were already a cold, brown mush. I’d just cruised into work. As soon as I turned on the lights, I eyeball this handwritten note from Sergeant MacFeat. Turns out Mccoy had been massacred. Whoever was responsible mutilated our late friend; the victim was nearly unrecognizable. I couldn’t help but remember the morning paper’s headline: “The most powerful crime boss in town, under indictment for tax evasion.” Was there any connection? This incident transpired late yesterday. “I shoulda got out when I had the chance,” I snarled.

It was what folks call the dead of winter. The dirt had mixed with the ice and snow until the alleys were plastered in a crunchy, gritty brown. “Maybe a dirty cop…?” Dominguez volunteered inquisitively. “Brilliant. No, that doesn’t match. It’s not a cop. Nothing about this one says cop,” I seethed. I was visibly upset with the new kid. “I got an idea!” I snarled, “How about I just take care of this one myself and you head down to Louie’s and grab a steaming hot plate of Shut Yer Cake-Hole?”

This case was a real conundrum: A taxi driver, who stops at 11 every night for coffee and pie. The victim—Benedetto the Fence. A stabbing. Allegedly, the deed was done just a few hours ago. No suspects as of yet. “Figures,” I rasped to myself. But that wasn’t even the half of it. The whole reason I took the case to begin with: trouble, in the shape of a beach-party blonde with drumsticks for days. Wouldn’t give her name, said she was related to Detective McEwing Pearson, but wouldn’t say how. I only agreed, reluctantly, after Detective Cole personally vouched for her!