LOWER MANHATTAN - 1947

The stink of wet brick and something rotten clung to the alley like it had been living there for years. Maybe it had. Garbage, piss, and the faintest whisper of blood—an old perfume to these streets. The rain had come through earlier, but it didn’t do much but smear the filth around. Just enough to make everything damp and miserable. Eli Mercer had smelled worse, but that didn't mean he liked it.

He took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaled slow. The glow of it barely lit up his tired face before the damp air swallowed it whole. Somewhere behind him, a neon sign flickered, buzzing like it had something to say. He figured it was the only honest thing in this alley.

"Hell of a mess, huh, Mercer?"

A uniform—Kowalski, if Eli remembered right—stood near the body, shifting his weight like he didn't wanna be standing in the puddle of whatever the hell that was. Blood? Water? Could be both. Eli didn't have to get closer to know the guy on the ground wasn't gonna tell him. The stiff was a young man, maybe early thirties, laid out with his arms sprawled like he'd been reaching for something. Or maybe trying to crawl away.

"Yeah," Eli muttered, flicking ash onto the slick pavement. "Real tragic. What's the story?"

"Wouldn't call it a story, more like a punchline. No ID, no wallet, no nothin'," Kowalski said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Some dame down at the diner heard a noise, peeked out the back, saw our boy here facin’ the dirt. Called it in."

Eli crouched near the body, feeling the dampness sink into his coat. A slit throat, clean. The blood had pooled, but not much. Meant he died quick. No struggle, no scuffle.

"Whoever did it wasn't sloppy," Eli muttered. His fingers ghosted over the corpse's sleeve—cheap fabric, but not worn out. He had a job, maybe not a good one, but enough to keep him dressed.