She burst through my door in black satin and tears—legs for days and bee-stung lips, red like cherry pie. She was a dish alright, the kind you wanted to lick clean. Seems her beau was a good egg who took a bad fall. Her boss, the king, a real hard number, rushed horses to the scene, but it was too late. The coppers said accident. She said murder. Could I help? Poor kid. This case was duck soup even for a coffee-and-doughnuts gumshoe like me. Someone tumbles off a wall, why send in bangtails instead of a sawbones? Unless. Unless.