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The neon haze of the city was just another layer of grime on my trench coat as I stepped into the sultry shadows of “The Ink and Paint” nightclub. Years on the job trailing cheaters, busting frauds, and digging through the city's dirt had etched lines deep into my face, each one a story, each one a night without sleep. My trench coat was frayed at the edges, like my patience these days, and my fedora was pulled down to shadow the eyes that had seen too much but still missed nothing. I was on the case again, this time pulled in by the tears of a beautiful widow desperate to clear her dead husband's name. Charlie, poor sap, got himself wrapped up in murder accusations he couldn't shake loose in life. Now it was up to me, Jack Harper, to untangle the web of lies and deceit posthumously. The club was one of the city’s more infamous joints, a place where the jazz was as smooth as the whiskey and just as potent. Shadows clung to corners like old lovers, whispering secrets and deal better