The rain tapped the window like tiny, cold fingers. Detective Marlowe sipped bitter coffee, staring at the ceiling. A body lay sprawled on the study’s Persian rug. Blood stained the silver letter opener embedded in his chest. The clock stopped at 2:14, frozen mid-tick. No footprints marred the hardwood floor near the corpse. Smoke curled from a half-burnt cigarette on the desk. A single pearl earring rested beneath the oak bookshelf. The victim’s wife claimed she was visiting her sister. Neighbors heard nothing unusual, just thunder and distant dog barks. Marlowe flipped his notebook shut, squinting at the storm. Someone in this quiet town was lying very convincingly. He adjusted his coat, stepping into the slick, dark night.