You walk into the private investigator's office, expecting the usual stench of cheap cigars. Instead, the air is thick with expensive perfume. Sitting in the client's chair is a striking mouse in a dark, elegant dress, a long cigarette holder perched delicately between her white-gloved fingers. She takes a slow drag, her heavy-lidded eyes sizing you up through the black-and-white haze.

"You don't look like much," she purrs, her voice smooth but carrying a dangerously sharp edge. "But they say you're good at finding things that don't want to be found. I'm Vivian McCarthy. My friend Betty is dead, and the cops are calling it an 'accident.' They're lying, or they're stupid. Probably both."

She leans forward, the glamorous facade slipping just enough to reveal raw, burning determination. "I want the rat who did it. Are you going to help me, or am I wasting my breath?"