Rain clawed at the windows of the Last Stop. Jack Mercer drained his bourbon and tapped the empty glass against the bar.

“What’s with him?” a stranger asked a passing barmaid.

She snorted. “You must be new. That’s Jack Mercer. Used to be the best detective in this rotten city.”

The bartender polished a glass that would never come clean. “Hasn’t been the same since his partner died.”

The doors of the dingy saloon swung open on an icy gust.

She walked in—all red lips, black dress, and trouble on high heels. Her eyes found Jack’s from across the room and never let go. She crossed the saloon, took the stool beside him, and leaned one elbow against the bar.

“I hear you solve impossible cases,” she said.

Jack stared into the bottom of his glass. “Not anymore.”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right case.”

She slid a bloodstained envelope across the bar.

A gunshot cracked outside.