Dr. Samuel Weisman

1

CASE: PI-DV-DP-9254 Who would've thought a little high-speed excitement, a few wrecked automobiles, damaged property, a newspaper headline or two, and one hell of a repair bill would land me in a shrink's office? Apparently, the police chief and the mayor have a different definition of public service than I do. Look, I caught a serial killer who's been slipping through our fingers for months. You'd think that would count for something. But somewhere between the flashing red lights and the twisted metal, somebody decided the flowers in a stranger's front yard were more important than putting a murderer behind bars. And now, here I sit, court-ordered and dressed up like some two-bit lunatic on trial. A shrink's chair, a clipboard, and a whole lot of questions I don't feel like answering. I'm not much for talking about my feelings, especially with a stranger who gets paid to dig around in a man's head. Give me a bottle of whiskey, a good cigar, and a case that needs solving. That's my kind of therapy. But apparently, the city fathers want to know if I'm fit to carry a badge and a gun. Fine. I'll play along, tell the good doctor whatever keeps the paperwork moving, and wear my best innocent expression. If they want a crazy man, I can give them a performance worthy of Broadway. Just don't expect me to lie on that couch and start discussing my childhood. I've got criminals to catch, and this little appointment is already taking up more of my time than it deserves.

Leonardo Medici

38

CASE: PI-M-F-4867 In walks Leo Medici, a genuine self-made man. Born in Florence, Italy, he crossed the ocean with little more than ambition and a hunger for something better. Now he's the owner and head chef of some of the most prestigious upscale restaurants in the country. I've wined and dined with more than a few dames at his establishments over the years. A man can appreciate good food, fine liquor, and a beautiful woman, but even a successful man has his troubles. And Leo's come in the form of his wife, Isabella. Seems the woman has vanished into thin air, and their bank accounts have been cleaned out. She's left Leo, the children, and her sick mother behind without so much as a goodbye. Leo lays a stack of letters on my desk, pointing toward a wife who'd grown tired of playing second fiddle to his demanding work schedule. Maybe she'd finally had enough of coming home to an empty pillow. But something about this whole business doesn't sit right with me. A woman might walk out on her husband, but leaving her children and a sick mother behind? That's a different kind of cold. There's a smell to this case, and it ain't coming from the kitchen. Did Isabella finally cut loose and run, or is somebody pulling the strings behind the curtain? I've seen enough of this rotten town to know that things are rarely what they seem. And when a wife disappears with the family fortune, there's usually a story nobody wants told. Looks like Leo's about to find out what happens when the past comes knocking and the truth starts demanding its share.

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.

Dean Harper

1

CASE: PI-M-B-V-7954 I got a call from a sheriff out in Arizona. Seems his little dustbowl of a town had a string of break-ins, vandalism, and a few folks who'd gone missing without so much as a goodbye. He'd gotten my name from one of my sources, which meant somebody thought I was the right sucker for the job. Lucky me. I packed my bags and headed west. The sheriff filled me in when I arrived, and before long he was pointing me toward a drifter named Dean Harper, holed up in a rundown motel on the highway just outside town. Every lead seemed to point in Harper's direction, and I don't believe in coincidences any more than I believe in honest politicians. I headed over to his room, expecting the usual collection of cheap whiskey, dirty laundry, and bad decisions. But Harper was nowhere to be found. Instead, I found a bloodstained photograph, a cryptic map, and identification cards belonging to people who, according to every record I could find, had never existed. Now, I've chased enough ghosts to know when a case has teeth. This wasn't some two-bit drifter raising hell in a sleepy Arizona town. Somebody was playing a much bigger game, and Dean Harper was either the man holding the cards or the next poor devil to disappear. Either way, I intended to find out who was dealing.

Nipsey Hussle

1

CASE: PI-H-8634 An anonymous phone call. A murder being swept under the rug on the wrong side of town. My first thought? Which murder isn't these days? But this one caught my attention for a different reason. It happened in Fred Hussle's old neighborhood. Fred was a street cop who loved his community and earned the kind of respect no badge could buy. A local hero, gunned down in the very streets he spent his life protecting. We didn't always see eye to eye, but I respected the man. And believe me, I don't hand out respect like free cigarettes. I remember his boy, Nipsey, back when he wasn't even tall enough to see over his father's dashboard. Word on the street is he's followed in the old man's footsteps, only he's built a kingdom of his own. Some call him an entrepreneur, others whisper he's a kingpin. Either way, he's got influence in a neighborhood that doesn't take kindly to outsiders. Now somebody's dead, and somebody else is working overtime to make sure nobody asks why. Well, that's unfortunate for them. I've got a long memory, a stubborn streak, and a few old connections in that part of town. Looks like it's time to take a trip down memory lane. And something tells me this little visit isn't going to end with a friendly handshake.

Rose Wilder

3

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.

Nellie Watts

0

CASE: PI-H-SP-4801 Another stiff in the poor district. Another rundown apartment building owned by some slumlord who wouldn't know a conscience if it knocked on his door. Normally, I leave these cases alone. Around here, most killings involve junkies settling scores or some drug deal gone sour. But this one had a wrinkle I couldn't ignore. The victim had a tattoo on his forearm, a military marking I hadn't seen in years. It belonged to a special operations outfit I'd crossed paths with while helping get the Devil's Brigade off the ground. A tight little clique of young men, all carrying the same brand. And now one of them was lying dead in a rat-infested apartment. When I arrived, the building was crawling with cops. Uniforms everywhere, detectives barking orders, and evidence getting trampled like cigarette butts. A regular circus. I was ready to walk away when old lady Watts stopped me. That woman was always in the middle of everything, somehow knowing every secret in the building. She started describing the victim's tattoo in remarkable detail. Every line, every marking, every little feature. There was just one problem. Old lady Watts was blind. Now, I've heard some strange stories in this business, but a blind woman describing a tattoo she couldn't possibly have seen? That's enough to make a dead man's case interesting. I came looking at another street killing. I'm leaving with an old military mystery, a suspicious old woman, and a feeling that somebody in this building knows a whole lot more than they're letting on. Looks like I'm back in business.

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.