The rain was not merely falling; it was attempting to drown Los Angeles, a steady, miserable drumming against the fire escape outside my fourth-floor office. I watched the smoke from a Pall Mall curl up past the yellowed lamp and dissolve into the stale air. Fifty-five years on this earth, thirty of them spent peeling back the cheap veneer of hope, and all I had to show for it was a perpetually cracked heart and a chipped bourbon glass.

The bell above the heavy door gave a weak, protesting jingle. Someone was rapping on the opaque glass, sharp and insistent, like a nervous woodpecker.

I set the glass down, the ice cubes rattling a final protest. I didn’t move fast. Fast gets you nowhere but the morgue or the poorhouse. I took one last, long drag, crushed the butt in the overflowed ashtray, and crossed the room. The cheap suit felt heavy, the fedora was pulled low, and I smelled like regret and three-day-old coffee. My usual uniform.

I swung the door open.

She was the kind of woman that made the rain look clumsy. Twenty-five, maybe. Too young, too beautiful, and reeking of cash I hadn’t seen in years. She wore a coat that cost more than my entire retirement fund, and her eyes, wide and unnervingly blue, were polished with just the right mix of anxiety and practiced control. She was a lily dropped into a mud puddle.

“V. Marlow?” Her voice was soft, but the question was a command.

“That depends on who’s askin’.” I leaned against the doorframe, letting the shadows do most of the talking.

She stepped inside, bringing a blast of cold, clean air that fought briefly against the smoke. “Hillary Johnston. I need to hire you. Immediately.”

“Sit down, Miss Johnston. And keep the immediate nature of it for later. My clock runs slow, especially when it’s wet outside.” I gestured to the only visitor chair, its springs shot years ago. “Now. What are we burying?”

Hillary settled on the edge of the seat, crossing expensive legs. She pulled a delicate leather glove off her left hand.

"It’s not a burial, Mr. Marlow. It’s a disappearance." She paused, collecting herself. "Jason Morley. He’s been gone a month.”

I poured another finger of bourbon. “Morley. Ambitious young man, runs some kind of high-stakes import firm. Heard his name around. He’s married, isn't he? To Olivia. Why is his wife not here to talk cold facts?”

Hillary avoided my gaze, looking instead at the peeling wallpaper. "I’m an executive at his firm. We… rely on him. And Olivia… she’s too fragile for the police. She asked me to handle this discreetly."

I took a slow sip. Too discreet. That meant there were angles she wasn't sharing.

“Morley vanished a month ago, and you waited until the city’s flooded to call a private eye? That’s not discretion, sweetheart. That’s chipped desperation. Start talking, Miss Johnston. Every good disappearance has a bad reason behind it. What was Jason running from?”