Jeff Kikel | Updates

Day 7 Who Done It? Last Call At Smokey Joe's

Jeff Kikel — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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

Justice for Lena Rose

Original Story Here

From Nico's files - Case Closed:

Sometimes the truth hits you like a Chicago wind—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. The pieces finally came together when I dug deeper into Tommy Russo's "Romano Construction" job.

Romano Construction didn't build buildings. They built lies. A mob front for washing dirty money through fake contracts and phantom employees. Tommy wasn't working construction—he was working muscle. Collection. Intimidation. The kind of work that paid well but ate your soul one job at a time.

But Tommy got greedy. Started skimming from collections, thinking nobody would notice a few hundred here and there. The mob noticed. They always notice.

Three weeks before Lena died, Romano's boys paid Tommy a visit. Pay back what he stole, plus interest, or they'd make him disappear piece by piece. Tommy had seven days.

That's when he went to Lena.

She'd helped him before—covered his gambling debts, bailed him out of jail, gave him money when the rent was due. But this time was different. This time, Tommy needed fifteen grand, and Lena finally understood what her ex-boyfriend had become.

"I'm done covering for you," she told him in that alley. Mrs. Chen heard it all. "I won't be part of this anymore."

But Tommy wasn't asking. He was begging. Then threatening. Then pleading again. Because without Lena's help, Tommy Russo was a dead man.

That's when Vincent Moreau showed up.

Vincent wasn't just a talent scout—he was Romano's connection to The Velvet Room, where they laundered money through fake "entertainment investments." Vincent had been watching Lena, not for her voice, but because Tommy had been bragging about his singer girlfriend who was "gonna be famous."

"You will regret this, chérie," Vincent told her. But it wasn't about romance—Vincent was warning her to stay out of Tommy's business.

Tommy heard that threat and panicked. If Vincent was talking to Lena, it meant the mob knew about their relationship. It meant they might use her to get to him, or worse—they might think she knew too much.

But what really terrified Tommy was what Lena said next: "I'm calling the police. I won't let you destroy any more lives."

She'd figured it out. Tommy's new money, his expensive clothes, his sudden ability to pay off debts—Lena had connected the dots. And being Lena, she was going to do something about it.

So Tommy made the only choice a desperate man could make. He went back into Smoky Joe's through the rear entrance. Found Lena in her dressing room, probably on the phone with the police station or looking for their number.

Maybe he tried to talk her out of it first. Maybe he begged her to understand. Maybe he promised to quit Romano's and go straight.

But Lena Rose never backed down from what was right.

So Tommy wrapped that microphone cord around her neck and squeezed until the only woman who'd ever believed in him would never testify against him.

But Frank Kowalski knew better.

Frank had been watching from the bar, had seen Tommy go back inside. When Frank found Lena's body an hour later, he knew exactly who'd done it. And Frank—desperate, broke, terrified Frank—saw an opportunity.

Frank called Tommy. Made a deal. Five thousand dollars to keep quiet and help cover it up. Frank planted Vincent's cologne in the dressing room—cologne he'd lifted from The Velvet Room's executive bathroom during one of his catering gigs. He made sure to leave that matchbook visible. He even coached Tommy on what to say if anyone asked questions.

Frank thought he was being clever. What he didn't realize was that he'd just signed his own death warrant.

THE RECKONING:

When I presented my evidence to Lieutenant Rodriguez and the organized crime unit, everything unraveled fast. Chicago PD had been watching Romano Construction for months, waiting for the right moment to move.

Tommy lasted three days after we raided Romano's headquarters. They found him in the same alley where he'd once cried to Lena for help. Two bullets to the head, mob style. The men he'd betrayed had decided he was more liability than asset.

Frank broke during interrogation, confessed everything hoping for a lighter sentence. Fifteen years for accessory after the fact and tampering with evidence. He'll be sixty when he gets out, if the Romano family doesn't reach him first.

Vincent Moreau disappeared before we could arrest him. We found his hotel room cleaned out, passport gone. Word from Interpol is that he made it back to France, but Chicago has a long reach when it wants to. Men like Vincent don't retire—they just find new hunting grounds until their past catches up with them.

Romano Construction was shut down permanently. Twenty-three arrests. Four million in assets seized. The biggest organized crime bust on the South Side since I made detective.

But none of that brought back Lena Rose.

THE TRUTH:

I drove out to Graceland Cemetery on a gray Thursday morning, three months after closing the case. Lena's headstone was simple: "She sang the truth in a world full of lies."

I brought a portable cassette player and a recording I'd found in her apartment—Lena singing "Strange Fruit" at some late-night session, just her voice and a piano. Raw. Honest. Uncompromising.

As her voice drifted across the empty cemetery, I thought about justice. Real justice, not the kind that gets measured in arrests and convictions.

Lena died because she refused to enable evil. She'd rather lose everything than be part of something that destroyed innocent people. In a world where everyone had a price, Lena Rose chose to be priceless.

Tommy killed her because she was going to destroy him. Frank sold her memory for five thousand dollars. Vincent hunted her like prey.

But Lena's refusal to break, her final act of defiance against Tommy's corruption, brought down an entire criminal network. Her death exposed the cancer that had been eating at Chicago's soul.

Sometimes the best people die so the rest of us remember what goodness looks like.

Sometimes justice isn't about catching the killers—it's about making sure their victims didn't die for nothing.

The music stopped. The cemetery was silent except for the wind through the trees. I left the cassette player on her grave, still playing her voice into the Chicago afternoon.

Lena Rose had the last word after all.

Case closed. Justice served. Truth told.

—Nico Rinaldi, Chicago PD

Thank you for following Lena's story. Next week: A new mystery, a new chance for justice in the dark corners of Chicago

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Day 6 Clues: Last Call At Smokey Joe's

Jeff Kikel — Wed, 11 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

CLUE BOARD - DAY 6 The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

The Man Who Wept

Original Story Here:

From Nico's notes:

Went back to Mrs. Chen with photos of Tommy and Frank. Sometimes a witness needs to see faces to remember details.

She studied Tommy's mugshot first. "The build is right, the voice could match..." She paused, squinting. "He looks desperate enough. But I only heard crying, not anger."

Then she looked at Frank's driver's license photo.

"This one, I've seen him before. When the loan sharks come to the laundromat looking for people, he hides in the alley sometimes." She tapped the picture. "Same frightened voice."

But when I showed her both photos together, Mrs. Chen shook her head. "In the dark, with all that crying... it could have been either one. Both sound scared when they're in trouble."

"Mrs. Chen, when the crying man left—after the French man arrived—which direction did he go?"

"Back toward the club. Through the rear entrance." She paused. "But here's what's strange. Twenty minutes later, I heard the back door again. Someone leaving fast, like they were running."

Twenty minutes. Enough time for someone to go back inside. Enough time for a desperate man to realize that Vincent Moreau was about to destroy his last hope. Enough time for fear to turn into something much more dangerous.

Both Tommy and Frank had money troubles. Both had been desperate enough to cry in alleys. Both were left-handed. And both had access to Lena that night.

In this city, desperation makes killers out of ordinary men. The question isn't who was capable of murder—it's who finally broke under the weight of having nothing left to lose.

Question for Day 6: If the crying man was begging for Lena's help, what did Vincent's arrival push him to do? And which desperate man finally snapped?

Tomorrow: The truth. All of it. Justice for Lena Rose.

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Day 5 Clues - The Last Call At Smokey Joe's

Jeff Kikel — Tue, 10 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

CLUE BOARD - DAY 5 The Last Call at Smokey Joe's

Eyes in the Dark

Original Story Here

From Nico's notes:

Sometimes the best witnesses are the ones nobody notices. Mrs. Chen runs the laundromat next to Smoky Joe's. Works late, keeps her head down, minds her own business. The kind of person powerful men forget exists.

But Mrs. Chen sees everything.

"That night, I was folding the last load when I heard shouting in the alley," she said, never looking up from her pressing. "The girl from the club and a man. He was begging, crying like a child."

"What was he saying?"

"'Please, Lena. I didn't mean for it to go this far. They're gonna kill me if I don't pay.' Over and over." Mrs. Chen's hands stilled on the iron. "The girl, she said she couldn't help him anymore. Said she was done covering for him."

Covering for him. Someone Lena had been protecting.

"Then what happened?"

"Another man came. Expensive shoes—you can tell by the sound on concrete. The crying man left quick. But the shoe man, he stayed. Talked to the girl real quiet, real close. Couldn't hear most of it, but..." Mrs. Chen finally looked up. "He had an accent. French, maybe? And at the end, he said something louder. 'You will regret this, chérie.' Very cold voice."

Two men. One desperate and crying, begging for help. One smooth and controlling, with a French accent and expensive shoes. Both had access to Lena in those final hours.

I thought about what Mrs. Chen had said. Someone crying, begging Lena for help she couldn't give anymore. In this city, the powerful prey on the weak, and sometimes the weak get tired of being prey. Sometimes they fight back. And sometimes, the powerful make sure they never fight again.

Lena wasn't just murdered—she was silenced for refusing to be someone's shield.

Question for Day 5: Who was Lena protecting, and what happens when good people can't save the ones they love anymore?

Tomorrow: Physical evidence surfaces that changes the entire game.

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Day 4 Clues: Last Call At Smokey Joe's - Can You Solve The Murder?

Jeff Kikel — Mon, 9 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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 different. Had three separate pickups."

Three pickups. Three missing matches from the book in Lena's dressing room.

"First was the regular guy—their day manager. Second was that French fellow who's been hanging around. Fancy dresser." Romano squinted at his notes. "Third was unexpected—some local tough guy. Said he worked private parties there, needed matches for the tables."

"You remember what he looked like?"

"Dark hair, thick build. Had working man's hands but was trying to dress nice. Expensive cologne, but it didn't fit him, you know? Like he was playing dress-up."

Three people had access to those matchbooks. Three matches missing. Three suspects.

But here's the kicker: Romano's security camera caught all three pickups. The timestamp on the third pickup—the working man with expensive cologne—shows it happened two hours before Lena's murder.

I stared at Romano's ledger until the numbers blurred. Lena deserved better than this—better than being strangled in a back room while her killer walked away clean. She sang about justice in a world that had forgotten what the word meant. Someone thought they could silence that voice forever.

They were wrong.

Question for Day 4: If someone picked up those matchbooks just two hours before the murder, was this planned? Or did opportunity create the killer?

Tomorrow: A witness emerges from the shadows. What they saw will change everything.

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Day 3 Clues: Last Call At Smokey Joe's - Can You Solve A Murder?

Jeff Kikel — Sun, 8 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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 along have a way of... disappearing from the circuit."

"Did he hurt you?"

"He tried. I got lucky—hotel security showed up when I screamed." Carmen stubbed out her cigarette hard. "Vincent doesn't like being told no."

Theresa O'Brien from Riverside Gardens was less lucky: "He cornered me after my set. Said if I didn't come to his hotel, he'd make sure no club in Chicago would book me." She showed me her wrist—finger-shaped bruises, three weeks old. "He's stronger than he looks."

Both women described the same cologne. The same threats. The same pattern.

But here's what bothers me: Vincent's been making these threats for months. If he killed every singer who refused him, half the jazz district would be dead.

Question for Day 3: Why was Lena different? What made Vincent escalate from threats to murder this time?

Tomorrow: The truth about those missing matches changes everything we thought we knew.

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Day 2 Clues: Last Call At Smokey Joe's - Can You Solve A Murder?

Jeff Kikel — Sat, 7 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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 councilmen meet ladies who aren't their wives. Where certain businessmen discuss deals that don't make it into the Tribune." Marcus set down the glass. "Frank's job is to pour drinks and forget faces."

"He ever cause problems?"

Marcus hesitated. "Three weeks ago, after the Antonelli party, Frank was acting strange. Kept asking questions about Vincent Moreau—that French scout who's been sniffing around our singers. Asked if Vincent ever... gets rough with the girls."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Told him to mind his own business. But Frank looked scared. Real scared."

Three weeks ago. Right around the time Tommy came into his mysterious money. Right around the time Lena started talking about Vincent's big promises.

Question for Day 2: What did Frank see at the Antonelli party that made him so afraid of Vincent Moreau?

Tomorrow: Vincent's pattern with other singers becomes clear. It's uglier than anyone imagined.

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Day 1 Clues for Last Night At Smokey Joe's - Can You Solve The Murder?

Jeff Kikel — Fri, 6 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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, tips me a hundred like he's Rockefeller."

"Where'd he get it?"

"Said he came into some family money. His sick aunt finally croaked." Mickey's laugh was ugly. "Funny thing though—I saw Tommy's aunt Rose at Mass last Sunday. She looked pretty lively for a dead woman."

Tommy's been flashing cash and wearing cologne that costs more than most people's rent. But dead aunts don't usually make loan payments.

Question for Day 1: Where did Tommy really get the money? And why lie about a dead aunt who's still breathing?

Tomorrow: We dig into Frank's side hustle at The Velvet Room. What exactly happened at those "private parties"?

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Can You Solve a Murder? The Last Call at Smoky Joe's

Jeff Kikel — Thu, 5 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

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 were doing.

I'd heard Lena sing a hundred times. Voice like velvet over broken glass. She sang about heartbreak but never let it break her. Tonight, someone made sure she'd never sing again.

Frank Kowalski sat hunched at the far end of the bar, nursing something amber that wasn't helping his shaking hands. Twenty years pouring drinks in this dive, and he looked like he'd aged a decade since closing time.

"What happened tonight, Frank?"

He glanced up, eyes bloodshot and darting. "She stayed after everyone cleared out. Said she was meeting someone important. Business, she said." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Who?"

"Didn't say. Could've been anyone." Frank's hand trembled as he reached for his cigarette pack. Left-handed. Marlboro Reds. Same brand I'd seen crushed in Lena's ashtray.

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The dressing room was small and cluttered, thick with the smell of sweat, powder, and cheap perfume. But there was something else cutting through—cologne. Expensive. The kind that costs more than most people make in a week. Sharp and foreign, like it didn't belong in a place where dreams went to die.

Lena's lipstick-stained glass still sat on the vanity, a trace of gin and lemon clinging to the rim. But it was the ashtray that caught my attention. Two cigarettes. One smoked down to the filter, lipstick on the tip—Lena's signature red. The other barely touched, crushed hard like someone was making a point. No lipstick. Left-handed stubbing pattern.

A black matchbook lay beside the mirror. Gold lettering on expensive cardstock: The Velvet Room. Classy joint across town. Clean floors, cleaner money, and clientele that wouldn't be caught dead in a place like Smoky Joe's.

I picked it up. Three matches missing. Fresh creases in the cover.

"Frank, you ever been to The Velvet Room?"

His laugh was bitter. "As a customer? On my salary? Might as well ask if I summer in Monaco." He took a long drag from his cigarette. "But I've worked some of their private parties. Bartending gigs when they need extra hands. Cash under the table."

"Recently?"

"Last month. Good money, but..." He trailed off, staring into his glass.

"But what?"

"Nothing. Just a different world over there." Frank set down his glass harder than necessary. "Anyway, past couple weeks, Lena'd been talking about some hotshot talent scout she met. French guy, fancy suit, big promises. Said he was gonna make her a star." Frank's voice turned acid. "Vincent something. Met him at one of their shows."

Vincent Moreau. I knew the name. Smooth talker who cruised the jazz circuit looking for fresh talent and fresher faces. Had a reputation for promising everything and delivering nothing but heartbreak.

But Frank wasn't done. "Tommy Russo was here earlier too. Came in around nine, all dressed up. New suit, new cologne—smelled like he robbed Macy's cologne counter. Been flashing cash lately, that one."

Tommy. Lena's ex. Hot-tempered and possessive, with fists that had learned their lessons in back alleys. I'd seen him work over a guy just for looking at Lena wrong. But Tommy was also broke, usually. Where would he get money for expensive cologne and new threads?

"Him and Lena talk?"

"Oh, they talked alright. Screaming match in the alley. She told him to stay away, that she was done with his jealous bullshit. He said she'd regret it." Frank's voice dropped. "Said she'd be sorry for treating him like trash while she ran around with 'fancy men.'"

Three suspects. Three motives. And me standing in a room that smelled like death and expensive cologne, trying to figure out which lie would lead me to the truth.

I stepped back into the main room. The club felt different now—smaller, meaner. The kind of place where people came to forget their troubles and ended up creating new ones. Lena had been the bright spot in all this darkness. Now someone had snuffed that light forever.

Frank was pouring himself another drink, his hands steadier now but his eyes still haunted.

"Frank, everything been running smooth around here lately? No problems with... I don't know... the books, the register?"

He froze, glass halfway to his lips. His eyes darted away from mine, then back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just asking. Place like this, money can go missing. People get desperate." I kept my voice casual, watching his face. "Lena was smart. She noticed things."

Frank's face went white. The glass trembled in his hand. "She never said nothing to me about any missing money."

"Maybe she was planning to."

The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Outside, Chicago wind rattled the windows, carrying the promise of another cold night in a city that didn't believe in warm endings.

I left Frank to his guilt and his bottle, stepping back into the Chicago night. Two more names on my list. Two more chances to find Lena's killer.

Tommy Russo was exactly where I expected—O'Malley's Tavern on Ashland, holding court at the pool table like he owned the place. New suit, new attitude, but still the same cheap aftershave he'd always worn.

"Nico fucking Rinaldi," Tommy's voice carried across the bar. "Heard you been asking questions about me."

"Just trying to understand what happened to Lena."

Tommy's face darkened. "What happened is some bastard killed the best woman in Chicago." He lined up his shot, hands steady. "You think I'd hurt her?"

"You threatened her. Frank heard you."

"I was drunk, I was angry. But hurt Lena?" Tommy's cue stick cracked against the eight ball, sending it spinning into the corner pocket. "I loved that woman. Still do."

"Then where'd you get the money, Tommy? The new clothes, the cologne that costs more than your usual weekly take?"

Tommy's jaw tightened. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card—expensive stock, embossed lettering. "Romano Construction. I been doing some work for them. Good work."

"What kind of work?"

"The kind that pays well and doesn't ask questions." Tommy pocketed the card. "I was home Tuesday night, all night. Ask my neighbor Mrs. Benedetti—she complained about my TV being too loud."

But his left hand trembled slightly as he chalked his cue. And when he signed the bar tab, I noticed he switched the pen to his dominant hand.

Left-handed. Just like whoever crushed that cigarette in Lena's dressing room.

Vincent Moreau was easier to find but harder to pin down. The Velvet Room's maître d' pointed him out at a corner table, smooth as silk in a thousand-dollar suit, charming a redhead who looked young enough to be his daughter.

"Mr. Moreau? Nico Rinaldi, Chicago PD. I'd like to ask you about Lena Rose."

Vincent's smile never wavered. "Ah, the tragic chanteuse from Smoky Joe's. Such a loss to the artistic community." His accent was thick as honey, twice as slick. "Please, sit. Join us for champagne."

The redhead excused herself quickly. Smart girl.

"You offered Lena a recording contract."

"I offer many talented women opportunities. Most are grateful for the attention." Vincent's fingers drummed against the table—right-handed rhythm, practiced and smooth. "Lena, sadly, was... how do you say... difficult to work with."

"Difficult how?"

"She had unrealistic expectations. Artistic temperament, you understand." Vincent sipped his champagne. "I was at my hotel Tuesday evening. The Palmer House. Room service records will confirm."

"You ever get rough with women who turn you down?"

Vincent's smile turned razor-thin. "Mr. Rinaldi, I am a businessman. I do not mix pleasure with... unpleasantness." He stood, straightening his cufflinks. "If you'll excuse me, I have other appointments. The music industry never sleeps."

But as he walked away, I caught something in his reflection in the bar mirror. His right hand was bandaged, knuckles scraped raw like he'd been in a fight.

Fresh wounds. From Tuesday night.

Three paths stretched out in front of me:

Tommy Russo—violent, jealous, suddenly flush with cash, and wearing a suit that he would never be able to afford on his best day. A man who'd promised Lena would be sorry, yet he professed to love her.

Vincent Moreau—predatory talent scout with expensive tastes and a habit of leaving broken dreams in his wake. The kind of man who'd see Lena as just another conquest to be discarded.

Frank Kowalski—desperate bartender drowning in debt, skimming from the till, and terrified of exposure. A man who'd been alone with Lena when she died.

One of them had wrapped that cord around her neck. One of them had silenced the best voice in the worst dive in Chicago. One of them was walking around free while Lena Rose lay cold on a morgue table.

The city hummed its electric lullaby outside, full of secrets and shadows. In places like Smoky Joe's, justice was just another four-letter word—hope. But sometimes, if you looked hard enough and cared enough to see, the truth had a way of clawing its way to the surface.

I lit a cigarette and stepped into the Chicago night. Somewhere out there, a killer thought he'd gotten away with murder.

He was wrong.

The Evidence

Three things didn't add up:

A cigarette crushed left-handed in Lena's ashtray—but Lena was right-handed
Expensive cologne lingering in the dressing room like guilt
A matchbook from The Velvet Room with three matches missing

Three suspects. Three motives. One killer.

What's your theory? Please drop your answer below and tell us which clues led you to your conclusion. The truth—and the full story—will be revealed in seven days on the Clue Board.

But first, we'll be dropping a new clue every day. Each one will peel back another layer of this bloody onion.

Day 1 clue drops tomorrow. Don't miss it.

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