Carver hauled Voss in, the pieces falling into place. Creed’s empire wobbled as the cops raided the warehouse, but the man himself slipped the net, vanishing into the fog. Vera’s body rested in the morgue, her lily still clutched tight—a final taunt from a woman who’d played the game and lost

The fog clung to the streets of San Verano like a shroud, muffling the clatter of the docks and the distant wail of a foghorn. Detective Jack Carver sat in his dimly lit office, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the ashtray overflowing with stubs. The clock ticked past midnight—March 26, 2025—and the phone hadn’t rung in hours. That was until it did.

“Carver,” he rasped, lifting the receiver.

“Jack, it’s Malone down at the precinct. We’ve got a body. Female, mid-thirties, found in the botanical gardens. You’re gonna want to see this.”

Carver grabbed his trench coat and fedora, the weight of his .38 revolver a familiar comfort against his ribs. The drive to the gardens was a blur of sodium-lit streets and shadows. When he arrived, the scene was already cordoned off, uniformed officers milling about like ants. Malone, a wiry man with a perpetual squint, waved him over.

She lay sprawled among the lilies, her pale skin almost luminous against the dark earth. Her blonde hair fanned out like a halo, and her silk dress—once elegant—was torn at the shoulder. A single lily rested in her hand, its petals bruised but intact. No blood, no obvious wounds. Just a stillness that screamed wrongness.

“Who is she?” Carver asked, crouching beside her.

“Jane Doe for now,” Malone said. “No ID, no purse. Groundskeeper found her an hour ago. Said she wasn’t here when he locked up at dusk.”

Carver’s eyes narrowed. The gardens were gated, patrolled. Someone had gone to trouble to leave her here. He studied her face—high cheekbones, a faint scar above her left eyebrow. She looked familiar, but the memory wouldn’t surface. “Get her to the morgue. I want an autopsy by morning.”

Back at his desk, Carver pored over missing persons reports, the cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. Nothing matched. Then, at 3 a.m., the coroner called.

“No trauma, no poison,” Dr. Ellis said, his voice crackling through the line. “She died of heart failure. Natural, technically. But here’s the kicker—she’s got traces of a rare sedative in her system, something experimental. Not enough to kill, but enough to knock her out cold.”

“Natural heart failure doesn’t dump a body in a lily patch,” Carver growled. “Keep digging.”

By dawn, a lead broke. A beat cop recognized her from a photo: Vera Langston, a lounge singer who’d vanished from the circuit six months back. Rumor had it she’d tangled with the wrong crowd—namely Victor Creed, a casino magnate with a reputation dirtier than the bay water. Carver knew Creed’s type: moneyed, untouchable, and always one step ahead.

He hit the streets, starting at the Blue Orchid, Vera’s old haunt. The bartender, a grizzled man named Sal, wiped glasses with a rag that looked older than he was. “Yeah, I remember Vera,” he said, not meeting Carver’s eyes. “Voice like an angel, trouble like the devil. She stopped coming around after she started cozying up to Creed’s boys.”

“Any idea why she’d end up dead in the gardens?” Carver pressed.

Sal shrugged. “She liked lilies. Used to wear ‘em in her hair. Maybe someone was sending a message.”

Next stop: Creed’s casino, the Golden Ace. The place reeked of cigar smoke and desperation. Creed sat in a velvet-lined office, a shark in a tailored suit. “Detective Carver,” he purred, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Vera Langston. Found her last night, laid out like a sacrifice. You know anything about that?”

Creed’s smile didn’t falter. “Vera? Lovely girl. She worked for me briefly—sang a few nights. Left when she got a better offer. I haven’t seen her since.”

Carver didn’t buy it. Creed’s alibi was too smooth, his hands too clean. He left the casino and tailed one of Creed’s enforcers, a hulking brute named Tommy Voss. Hours later, Voss led him to a warehouse by the docks. Through a grimy window, Carver saw crates being pried open—pharmaceuticals, unmarked vials glinting in the dim light. The sedative?

He slipped inside, gun drawn. Voss and two others froze as Carver barked, “Hands up!” A scuffle broke out—fists, a gunshot, then silence. Voss lay groaning, clutching a shattered knee. “Talk,” Carver snarled. “Who killed Vera?”

“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” Voss wheezed. “Creed wanted her quiet. She’d been skimming his drug profits, threatening to talk. We dosed her, but her heart gave out. Dumped her in the lilies—her idea of a joke, he said.”

Carver hauled Voss in, the pieces falling into place. Creed’s empire wobbled as the cops raided the warehouse, but the man himself slipped the net, vanishing into the fog. Vera’s body rested in the morgue, her lily still clutched tight—a final taunt from a woman who’d played the game and lost.

Carver lit another cigarette, staring out at the city. Justice was a ghost in San Verano, but he’d keep chasing it, one corpse at a time.