Elise Carter

10

CASE: PI-H-8132 The police station was supposed to be a quick stop. I was there chasing down a few answers on another case when the boys in blue dragged in a dame named Elise. A real looker, but trouble has a funny way of wearing a pretty face. She was the prime suspect in a murder over in the working-class district. A paralegal and law student, now sitting on the wrong side of the law. The cops asked me to sit in on the questioning, and I figured, why not? Another murder, another suspect, another long day in a city that couldn't keep its hands clean. But Elise had a story. She claimed she couldn't remember a thing about that night. Trauma, they called it. Amnesia, according to the medical books. I'm no doctor, and I don't hand out diagnoses, but something about this dame's story smelled like yesterday's garbage. Was she genuinely missing pieces of her memory, or was somebody pulling the wool over our eyes? As time passed, little fragments started coming back, and every new recollection opened another can of worms. Maybe she was an innocent woman caught in a dirty business. Maybe she knew more than she was letting on. Either way, I wasn't about to let the cops wrap this case up with a pretty bow and call it justice. Somebody was lying, somebody was dead, and I intended to find out who was playing who before another body hit the pavement.

Rose Wilder

2

CASE: PI-M-4820 The phone rang, cutting through the smoke hanging over my office. Another dame? Another deadbeat? No, this time it was a nervous gent looking for his missing partner. Seems the two were in the business of ancient artifacts, digging up relics and trading in things most folks wouldn't recognize if they tripped over them. Then they stumbled across some mysterious old text, and suddenly his partner vanished into thin air. Now, I don't believe in coincidences. Did somebody rub him out, or did the slippery b*stard skip town with something worth a fortune? And what's so special about a few dusty pages anyway? There's an old antique shop downtown, run by a strange old bird who might know a thing or two about forgotten history. Trouble is, word on the street says he's pushing up daisies. Maybe his daughter, Rose, can help me connect the dots. But this is Los Angeles, sweetheart, and secrets have a funny way of turning up in the wrong hands. I'll follow the trail, ask the questions nobody wants answered, and see where the chips fall. One thing's certain: somebody knows more than they're letting on, and I'm not leaving until I find out who.

Dr. Francis Carter

4

CASE: PI-C-7960 The call came straight out of Washington, and when Uncle Sam comes knocking, a wise man doesn't leave him standing on the doorstep. Something rotten was brewing in Chicago—a suspected viral outbreak with the potential to put the whole country on its knees, maybe even the world. The whispers led to Nexus Labs, a scientific outfit with a reputation for poking around where decent folks wouldn't dare tread. The government wanted answers, and yours truly had just been handed the headache. My first lead was Dr. Francis Carter, a senior research scientist at the joint. I'd tried ringing her up, but the good doctor was playing a fine game of hide-and-seek with her telephone. That didn't sit right with me. When a scientist starts dodging questions, there's usually a reason, and it ain't because she's out of milk. So I packed my bags, booked myself a seat on a west-to-east flight, and headed for the Windy City. I figured it was high time Dr. Carter and I had a little face-to-face conversation. I had questions, she had answers—or so I hoped. One thing was certain: I wasn't leaving Chicago empty-handed. If Nexus Labs was sitting on a secret, I'd turn over every stone in town until I found it. And if somebody thought they could bury the truth, they'd better dig a deeper hole.

Det. Mack Graves

1

CASE: CLASSIFIED I came home from the war with a few scars, a short temper, and a healthy distrust of anybody wearing a badge. These days, I work the mean streets as a private detective, and around this town, my reputation speaks louder than I ever need to. I'm the guy they call when the police hit a brick wall and the brass would rather sweep a case under the rug. I don't have much patience for department red tape, pretty excuses, or crooked suits who think they're untouchable. I investigate my way, play by my own rules, and get results where others come up empty-handed. Every case is another battle, and I've never been much for surrender. Some call me reckless, others call me trouble. I call it getting the job done. Around here, there's only one thing you need to know about me: I don't leave a case unfinished, and I don't scare easy.

Dua Lipa

0

CASE: PI-B-4251 [Guest Appearance] After one hell of a night in the Big Apple, I was about ready to blow this joint and head back to more familiar waters. The Grand Royale had seen its fair share of champagne, high rollers, and troublemakers, and I figured I'd had my fill of all three. But just as I was making my getaway through the lobby, I spotted a commotion that could wake the dead. And there she was, none other than the velvet-voiced sensation herself, Dua Lipa, raising enough Cain to rattle the chandeliers. Seems a priceless family heirloom had been lifted from her room sometime during the previous night's festivities, and the hotel staff hadn't the foggiest notion where to start. Naturally, somebody spotted me and decided I was just the sucker they needed to straighten out the mess. So much for a quiet exit. Now I'm tangled up in a missing heirloom, a high-profile dame, and what promises to be a first-class headache. I just hope this Hollywood princess doesn't come with more attitude than answers. I've dealt with dames, thieves, and murderers, but mixing the three in one penthouse? That's a whole different kind of trouble. Looks like the Big Apple isn't done taking a bite out of me just yet.

Victor Langley

0

CASE: PI-H-S-9241 No rest for the wicked, and apparently no peace for the weary. I drag myself out of that flea-bitten motel room with a skull full of thunder after a late-night rendezvous that probably wasn't worth the trouble. But trouble has a funny way of finding me before I've had my first cup of coffee. There's a murder scene right outside my door, and curiosity, that lousy dame, gets the better of me. I stick my nose where it doesn't belong and stumble across something interesting: a camera lens tucked inside a hole near the radiator. Now that's a curious little souvenir. This isn't some two-bit robbery gone sour. There's a story buried here, and I've got a hunch it's one worth digging up. The name's Victor Langley. A man raised with silver spoons, expensive manners, and privileges most folks wouldn't recognize if they tripped over them. Mysterious as a locked safe and twice as dangerous to underestimate. Just when I'm piecing things together, the motel telephone comes ringing like the devil himself is calling collect. Someone on the other end knows more than they're letting on. And just like that, the game is afoot. Looks like somebody wants to play chess. That's fine by me. I've never minded taking a few pieces off the board. But if this clown or whoever's pulling the strings thinks I'm just another pawn, they're about to learn a hard lesson. In this town, I don't play by anybody else's rules.