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CLUE BOARD - DAY 4 The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

Three Strikes

Original Story Here

From Nico's notes:

Went back to The Velvet Room's matchbook supplier—Romano's Premium Print Shop on Taylor Street. Old man Romano keeps detailed records of everything.

"Those black matchbooks with gold lettering? Custom job. Only print 'em once a month, 500 at a time." Romano flipped through his ledger. "Last batch went out three weeks ago."

"Who picks them up?"

"Usually their day manager, but three weeks ago was...

CLUE BOARD - DAY 3 The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

The French Connection

Original Case Here

From Nico's notes:

Found two other singers who'd crossed paths with Vincent Moreau. Neither wanted to talk at first.

Carmen Valdez, torch singer from the Blue Moon Lounge: "Vincent promised me a recording contract. Big studio, national tour, the works. All I had to do was meet him at his hotel room to 'discuss the details.'" Her voice went cold. "When I refused, he said I'd regret it. That girls who don't play...

CLUE BOARD - DAY 2 The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

Frank's Side Business

Original Case Here

From Nico's notes:

Paid a visit to Marcus Webb, head bartender at The Velvet Room. Twenty-year veteran who's seen every scam and side hustle in the business.

"Frank Kowalski? Yeah, I know him. Works our private parties when we need extra hands." Marcus polished a glass, eyes distant. "Good worker, keeps his mouth shut. Important in our line of work."

"What kind of parties?"

"The kind where married city...

CLUE BOARD - DAY 1 The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

Tommy Russo's New Wardrobe

Original Case Here

From Nico's notes:

Talked to Mickey Torrino at the track today. Mickey's been booking bets for twenty years—knows every degenerate gambler on the South Side. Asked him about Tommy Russo.

"Tommy? That hothead's been bleeding money for months. Owes half the bookies in Chicago." Mickey scratched his belly and lit a Lucky Strike. "Then three weeks ago, boom. Shows up with five grand cash. Pays off everybody,...

The sax was silent now. Just the low hum of neon and the drip of a faucet somewhere behind the bar. Smoky Joe's was the kind of place that always smelled like yesterday's whiskey and last year's regrets. But tonight, the stench ran deeper.

Lena Rose was sprawled on the floor of her dressing room, head tilted to the side, her eyes still open. The mic cord wrapped around her neck told the whole story without saying a word. Strangled. Quietly. Professionally. Whoever did it knew exactly what they...