The Crimson Kiss

The rain was coming down like it had a personal vendetta against New Metropolis, the neon signs flickering through the sheets of water as if they were trying to escape. I was nursing my third bourbon when the phone rang, slicing through the smoky jazz from the record player.

"Marlowe," I growled, the receiver pressed against my ear.

"Jack, we've got another one. The Crimson Kiss," Sam's voice cut through the static, sharp as a scalpel.

I slammed the glass down, grabbed my coat, and stepped into the night. The alley where they found Lucy Saunders was like a scene from hell, her body sprawled on the wet concrete, her lips painted in that infamous shade of red. 

Sam was already there, her trench coat soaked, her eyes scanning the scene with the precision of a surgeon. 

"Talk to me, Sam," I barked, lighting a cigarette to cut through the stench of death.

"Lucy Saunders, twenty-five, sang at The Blue Note. Found her like this an hour ago," Sam said, her voice flat, professional.

I looked at Lucy, her eyes wide in terror, the Crimson Kiss smeared across her lips like a grotesque signature. 

"Any witnesses?" I asked, blowing smoke into the night.

"None. Whoever did this is a pro," she replied, her gaze never leaving the body.

We hit The Blue Note, that kind of joint where secrets were whispered over martinis and the music could drown out a confession. Benny, the manager, was a weasel of a man, his eyes darting around like he was looking for an escape.

"Benny, we need to talk," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.

"I don't know anything, Marlowe, I swear," he stammered.

I leaned in, my voice low, dangerous. "Someone here knows something. You talk, or I find someone who will."

Sam was smoother, her voice like velvet over steel. "Benny, we're not here to make trouble. We just want to nail the bastard who did this."

Benny caved, his voice a whisper. "Lucy was seeing Carl Mason. Real estate king. He's got the juice to make trouble disappear."

Mason. A name that tasted like bad whiskey in this town. We found him in his ivory tower, his penthouse a fortress of luxury. His smile was slick when he opened the door.

"Detectives, what brings you to my humble abode?" Mason asked, feigning ignorance.

"We're here about Lucy Saunders," Sam said, her eyes narrowing.

Mason's smile didn't waver. "A tragedy, truly. But what does it have to do with me?"

I stepped forward, my jaw tight. "We know you were seeing her. And we know about the others. The women, the red lipstick."

For a moment, fear flickered in his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Back at the office, we sifted through files, the rain a constant reminder of the city's dark soul. Then Sam hit on something.

"Jack, look at this," she pointed at a photo. "The lipstick smears, they're different."

I leaned in. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we've been looking at this all wrong. What if Mason's not the killer, but the link?"

My mind raced. "You mean someone's framing him?"

"Exactly. And I think I know who," Sam said, her voice cold.

We stormed into Jessica Lane's salon, where the elite came to forget their sins. Jessica was all smiles until she saw us.

"Jessica Lane?" I said, my voice cutting through the chatter.

"Yes, detectives. What brings you here?" she asked, her smile cold.

"We're investigating a series of murders. All with your red lipstick," Sam said, her tone icy.

Jessica's smile didn't falter. "I have many clients. That doesn't make me a killer."

I stepped closer, my eyes locked on hers. "But it does make you an accomplice. We can bring you in, or you can talk."

Finally, her facade cracked. "Alright, I'll talk. But you protect me."

Jessica spilled her guts. She loved Mason, but when he tossed her aside for younger flesh, she wanted revenge. She used her lipstick to set him up, but things got out of hand. "My brother, Mark, he took it too far," she confessed, her voice shaking.

We tracked Mark to an abandoned theater, the kind of place where the ghosts of past performances whispered their secrets. The place was dark, the air thick with dust and the scent of old wood. Mark had Jessica, his sister, in his grip, a knife in hand, his eyes wild with a madness that spoke of a soul twisted by love and vengeance.

"Drop the knife, Mark!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the decrepit walls, my gun trained on him.

"You don't get it, Marlowe! Mason deserves this!" Mark's voice was a shout, a plea, a confession all at once. His grip on the knife tightened, his eyes darting between me and Jessica.

"He's not worth your life, Mark," Sam said, her voice steady, trying to reach through his insanity.

Mark paused, his breath heavy, his chest heaving. Then his gaze settled on Jessica, the sister he claimed to protect. "You betrayed me, Jess," he hissed, the knife now pointing at her. "You made me think I was saving you, but you were just using me."

Jessica, tears streaming down her face, shook her head. "Mark, I didn't know it would go this far. Please, stop this."

But the man in front of us wasn't the Mark Lane we thought we knew. He was a man consumed by his own twisted logic, believing his actions were the only way to right the wrongs done to his sister. 

"You think you can walk away from this, Jess? After all, I've done for you?" Mark's voice was a snarl now, the knife moving closer to her.

I saw the moment, the split-second where his resolve hardened into something more sinister. He wasn't just going to kill her; he was going to make it a spectacle, a final act in his macabre play.

"Mark, don't do this!" Sam shouted, but it was too late.

He lunged, not at Jessica, but at the stage, flipping a switch that lit up the old theater's lights. The stage came alive with a harsh, revealing glow, and I saw what he had prepared. A series of photographs, each one of the victims, each with the Crimson Kiss, hung around like grim decorations for a party no one wanted to attend.

"You wanted a show, Marlowe? Here's your finale!" Mark laughed, a sound more chilling than the rain outside. He grabbed Jessica, dragging her towards an old director's chair where he had set up his final tableau.

I fired a warning shot, the sound reverberating through the theater, but Mark was beyond reason. He pushed Jessica into the chair, tying her with ropes he'd hidden, preparing her like a sacrificial lamb. 

"Mark, this isn't you. This isn't justice!" Sam pleaded, moving closer, her hand reaching for her own weapon.

But Mark was lost in his own world now, narrating his twisted tale. "Justice? No, this is revenge. I'll make Mason watch, make the city see what happens when you break hearts."

The moment stretched, filled with the tension of a man who had nothing left to lose. I aimed, not to kill, but to disarm. My shot hit the knife, sending it spinning out of Mark's grasp. He roared, turning towards me with a fury born from desperation.

Sam tackled him, the two of them crashing to the floor amid the dust and debris. I moved to secure Jessica, my eyes never leaving Mark, who was now wrestling with Sam, his strength fueled by his madness.

The fight was brutal, Sam finally managing to cuff him with help from me. Mark's laughter filled the theater, a sound of madness and triumph. "You think this ends here? The Crimson Kiss will never fade; it's in the city's blood now."

We left him there, handcuffed, his laughter echoing as we escorted a sobbing Jessica out. Back at the office, I poured two bourbons, the city outside a backdrop to our grim victory.

"To surviving the night," I said, clinking my glass with Sam's.

"To never seeing the likes of Mark Lane again," she replied, her face pale, her eyes haunted by what we had just witnessed.

But as we drank, I knew one thing for sure. The city of New Metropolis was a beast that never slept, and the Crimson Kiss was just one of its many dark tales, waiting for another act.