Wisps of charcoal gray wafted on the wind. The smog gave the illusion of ghosts preceding me to the alley. Perhaps it was ghosts, the three murdered souls beckoning me to their killer. I suspected the victims, each desperate for a miracle, were lured here for their money.
A steam-powered carriage careened around the corner,
It was 7:00 p.m. on a muggy summer Sunday—a time when any sane man would’ve been at home with a cold one, but there’d been word that the gangster known as Jitters was bringing in a shipment that night—and I was at the station, trying to find somebody who knew something.
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Holding my dress up so I wouldn’t trip, I dashed toward the door. I could already hear the bridal anthem. Of course, Samara Spade would be late for her own wedding. But the church kept slipping farther and farther away.
I woke up and groaned.
“Whoever’s stealing from this factory won’t get away with it!” The accountant slammed his palm on his desk. A small mountain of spreadsheets fluttered to the floor.
I raised an eyebrow and sketched a hissing cat on my notepad.
“Now, Pete, calm down,” the foreman soothed.
“I am calm!” Spittle flew from Pete’s mouth.
Name’s Spade, Samara Spade. And much to Mom’s chagrin, I’m following in my Dod’s—dear old dad’s—footsteps.
Or at least attempting to. After my fiasco with the lion, I wondered if Dod would give me another case. For weeks, I did paperwork. Yawn.
Dod was off on another case when he came in. “I didn’t do it!”
My name is Spade. Samara Spade. Tonight was supposed to be my first undercover without Dod—dear old Dad, in other words. But I had backup. At least until someone slipped him a mickey.
The case started this morning. A lady—I’m still trying to get Dod not to call them dames—came into our office distraught.
Murph the Mooch had attained senility after decades of racketeering, contract murders, and domestic violence. Worse, he was cheap. Murph had required underlings to pay for their meals together, occasionally having them offed later that day.
And I needed to make Murph my best buddy.
Stolen again.
I’d recovered the jeweled pendant three times before, yet somehow the masked bandit always got ahold of it again. I got the call just before sundown and strode into the vault with beams of sunlight shining across the mahogany surfaces of the lobby behind me.
In a world where mythical creatures lived and worked alongside a human population, anything could happen, and it usually did. That’s why they called me, Special Agent Ramses II, and my partner, Bernie Clayberg, with Mythical Crime Scene Investigations.
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