The Ghost’s last Score: Diamonds and Deception

 Prologue

In "The Ghost's Last Score: Diamonds and Deception," private investigator Jack Marlowe's life takes a dangerous turn when he receives a mysterious envelope containing a brass key and a bloodstained matchbook. Teaming up with his cunning partner Sam Blackthorne, Marlowe delves into a perilous web of corruption, mob violence, and betrayal centered around the enigmatic Paradise Lounge. Their journey intensifies as an attempted escape to Mexico is thwarted by Inspector Rodriguez, who enlists them to capture the elusive cat burglar known as "The Ghost."

As Marlowe and Sam pursue "The Ghost" through opulent ballrooms and shadowy cellars, they navigate treacherous situations where trust is a rare commodity. Amidst the chaos and danger, a romance blossoms, revealing that some cases conclude not just with the capture of the villain, but with the realization of deeper, personal connections. This thrilling narrative of crime, passion, and betrayal unfolds from jazz-filled clubs to serene Mexican beaches, illustrating that even in paradise, trouble is never far behind.

Pt 1

The electric fan pushed hot air around my office like a boxer working the heavy bag - all motion, no relief. July in the city was always brutal but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the envelope sitting on my desk, brown and unmarked except for a single fingerprint in what looked like blood. Inside, just a brass key and a matchbook from the Paradise Lounge.

"Trouble, Jack?" Sam Blackthorne stood in my doorway, her silhouette a dangerous curve against the frosted glass. She moved into the light, red dress hugging her like a jealous lover.

"When isn't there?" I lit a Lucky Strike, watching the smoke drift up toward the ceiling. "Got this love note about an hour ago. No message, just a key and this." I tossed her the matchbook. Sam turned it over in her manicured hands. "Paradise Lounge. Mickey Flynn's joint down on Canal Street. Real dive."

"You know it?"

"I know everything worth knowing in this town, sugar." She perched on the edge of my desk, perfume mixing with tobacco smoke. "Flynn's been running numbers through there for the Calabrese family. Word is, something big went down last week. Nobody's talking, but three of Flynn's boys haven't been seen since Tuesday." I picked up the key, holding it to the light. "Safety deposit box. First National, by the look of it."

"Convenient that someone dropped it in your lap, Jack. Almost like they want you to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."

I stood, grabbing my .38 from the desk drawer and sliding it into my shoulder holster. The weight felt good, familiar. Like an old friend warning me to watch my back. "Only one way to find out what game they're playing." I shrugged into my jacket despite the heat. "Feel like taking a walk down to Paradise, Sam? "She smiled, all red lipstick and secrets. "Thought you'd never ask, handsome. "The Paradise Lounge squatted between a pawnshop and an all-night diner, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Inside, cigarette smoke hung thick as fog, and a piano player murdered "As Time Goes By" in the corner. The regulars looked up as we entered - hard men with empty eyes, working girls with tired smiles. They sized us up, then went back to their drinks.

Mickey Flynn stood behind the bar, a bull of a man with knuckles like walnuts and a face that had seen too many fights. His eyes narrowed when he spotted us. "Well, if it ain't Jack Marlowe." Flynn's voice was gravel and whiskey. "Kinda far from your usual stomping grounds, ain't you?"

I placed the matchbook on the bar. "Got an invitation I couldn't refuse. Want to tell me about your missing boys, Mickey?"

His face went still, dangerous. "Don't know what you're talking about, Marlowe. But here's some free advice - walk out now, while you still can. "Sam's hand brushed my arm, a warning. Three men had detached themselves from the shadows, moving to cut off our exit. I smiled, cold as December steel. "Now Mickey, is that any way to treat paying customers?"

The night was young, the heat was rising, and somewhere in this mess was a truth worth killing for. Just another evening in paradise.

Pt 2

I caught the first punch on my shoulder, spinning with it to slam the goon into the bar. Sam's heel found another tough guy's instep, and her elbow followed up with his jaw. The piano player hit a sour note and dove for cover.

"Easy, boys." A woman's voice cut through the chaos like a knife through silk. "Let's not make a mess of Mickey's fine establishment."

She emerged from a back room, platinum blonde hair gleaming under the dim lights. Diana Flynn - Mickey's wife and the real brains behind the Paradise Lounge. Her white dress sparkled like fresh snow in a gutter.

"Mrs. Flynn." I straightened my tie. "Didn't expect to find you slumming it tonight."

"Cut the act, Marlowe." She lit a cigarette with practiced grace. "You're here because I wanted you here."

Sam tensed beside me. "You sent the key?"

Diana's laugh was bitter as black coffee. "Had to get your attention somehow. Mickey's been skimming from the Calabrese family for months. Now he's planning to sell them out to the feds."

Mickey's face went red. "You lying-"

"Receipts, dates, names - all locked up nice and safe in that deposit box." Diana blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Insurance, he called it. But he didn't count on me finding the key."

"So why bring us in?" I asked, though I was starting to see the shape of it.

"Because in forty-eight hours, Mickey's going to be found in the river. Tragic accident." Her smile was colder than a morgue slab. "The cops will get an anonymous tip about corruption. The Calabrese family goes down, and I inherit everything - including Mickey's new federal witness protection deal."

"You ruthless-" Mickey reached under the bar, but Sam was faster. Her little .32 appeared like magic.

"Wouldn't, sugar," she purred.

I lit a cigarette, playing for time. "Nice setup. But you still haven't told us what you want from us."

"I need someone to make the evidence handoff to the feds. Someone expendable, with just enough reputation to be believable." Diana's eyes glittered. "That's you, Marlowe."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then those three bodies in the basement wearing police badges might get connected to your name instead of Mickey's."

The pieces clicked like tumblers in a lock. The missing boys weren't Flynn's men - they were cops. Mickey hadn't killed them. Diana had, building her frame one corpse at a time.

"Just one problem," I said. "That key you sent? It's a fake."

Diana's smile faltered. "What?"

"Real First National keys have a patent number on the bow. This one's blank." I pulled it from my pocket. "Amateur mistake."

Mickey started laughing. "Oh, baby, you should've paid more attention when I was teaching you the con game."

"The feds already have the evidence," Sam added. "Real box was opened yesterday. Mickey's been working with them for weeks - and us."

Diana's hand darted for her purse, but she never made it. Sam's .32 coughed once, and Diana's white dress bloomed red.

"You know what your mistake was?" I told her as she slid to the floor. "Thinking you were the only one who could play both sides."

Sirens wailed in the distance. Mickey looked at his dying wife, then at me. "We done here, Marlowe?"

I nodded. "Agent Thompson will want your official statement tomorrow. Sam and I were never here."

Outside, the night air was still heavy with heat, but it felt cleaner somehow. Sam lit two cigarettes, passed me one.

"Think Mickey knew?" she asked. "About her killing those cops?"

"He knew something was wrong. That's why he came to us first." I watched the smoke drift away. "Man like that, married to his business as much as his wife. Had to know she'd try to take it all eventually."

"Speaking of taking things..." Sam pulled an envelope from her clutch. "Diana was right about one thing. The department does consider us expendable."

Inside was a train ticket to Mexico and enough cash to start fresh. Smart girl, always thinking ahead.

"Could be nice," she said. "Just disappear, leave this whole mess behind."

I looked at her - really looked at her. Dangerous curves and sharp wits, but something else too. Something real under all the glamour and games.

"Could be," I said. "Or could be there's enough dirty money in that envelope to start our own agency. Somewhere quiet, where the cases involve missing pets and cheating husbands."

"Jack Marlowe, are you suggesting we go legitimate?"

"About as legitimate as we'll ever be."

She laughed, a real laugh this time. The sun was starting to rise, painting the sky the color of spilled bourbon. Somewhere in the city, phones were ringing, deals were breaking, and new cases were being born. But for now, there was just the fading night, the promise of morning, and whatever came next.

Sam took my arm as we walked away from the Paradise Lounge. Behind us, Mickey Flynn's neon sign finally flickered out.

Some nights, even in this business, you get a happy ending. They never last, but maybe they don't have to. In this city, you take what you can get, hold onto it as long as you can, and hope tomorrow's heat brings something worth burning for.

Pt 3

The Mexican sun beat down like a crooked cop's brass knuckles. Three weeks we'd been in Puerto Vallarta, and I still wasn't used to the heat. Different from the city - cleaner, but just as merciless.

Sam lounged by the hotel pool; bronze skin gleaming like aged whiskey. She'd traded her red dresses for a white swimsuit that made my collar tight. We'd been playing it straight, or as straight as people like us ever get. Just another pair of American tourists soaking up sun and premium tequila.

Then Inspector Rodriguez showed up.

He found us at the hotel bar, immaculate in his white linen suit despite the heat. "Señor Marlowe, Señorita Blackthorne. Your reputation precedes you."

"Former reputation," Sam corrected, stirring her margarita with one manicured finger.

Rodriguez smiled like a card sharp holding aces. "Perhaps. But when a thief like Thomas 'The Ghost' Morrison crosses the border with five million in stolen diamonds, one cannot help but think of... former reputations."

The name hit me like day-old coffee. Morrison was a legend in certain circles - never left a trace, never caught on camera. The kind of thief that made other thieves nervous. And he’s the one that put a slug in me and escaped down an alley. The one that got away.

"What's your interest?" I lit a cigarette, watching Rodriguez through the smoke.

"He has stolen from very powerful people, Señor Marlowe. People who would prefer to handle this... quietly." He placed a photo on the bar - a mansion perched on cliffs above the ocean. "We believe he is hiding here, in the home of a former cartel associate."

Sam picked up the photo, her face unreadable. "And you want us to what? Knock on the front door?"

"I want you to do what you do best. Americans watching Americans draws less attention than federales. If you succeed, certain questions about your hasty departure from the States might... disappear."

I looked at Sam. She gave me that smile - the one that meant trouble was coming, and she was ready to dance.

"One condition," I said. "We do this our way. No interference."

Rodriguez stood, adjusting his immaculate cuffs. "Three days, Señor Marlowe. After that, we do things the Mexican way."

He left a file on the bar. Inside were floor plans, security details, and a list of Morrison's known associates. The kind of intel that told me Rodriguez had been planning this little chat for a while.

Sam moved closer, her perfume mixing with sea air. "So much for retirement, sugar."

I drained my bourbon. "You gettin' soft on me, Blackthorne?"

"Never." She grabbed the file, eyes sparkling like the ocean at midnight. "But if we're going to crash a cartel party, I'm going to need a new dress."

Outside, the sun was setting over the Pacific. Somewhere in that clifftop mansion, a ghost was hiding with a fortune in hot ice. In seventy-two hours, we'd find out if we still had what it took to catch him.

Paradise has a funny way of pulling you back into the game, just when you think you're out. But with Sam Blackthorne watching my back and a ghost to catch, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Pt 4

The dress Sam bought was black as a cat burglar's conscience, cut low enough to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. We had an invitation to Don Carlos Ramirez's weekend party, courtesy of Rodriguez's connections. The Don's clifftop mansion was where our ghost was supposedly hiding, though walking in the front door felt about as smart as bringing a knife to a gunfight.

"Dance with me, Jack." Sam's whisper carried across the mansion's marble ballroom. "That nervous fellow by the fountain keeps checking his watch. Third time in five minutes."

I took her hand, pulled her close. The band was playing something slow and sultry, giving us cover to survey the room. "Morrison?"

"No." Her lips barely moved. "But he's got that jumpy look of someone waiting for orders. Second floor balcony - see the man in the white dinner jacket?"

I turned us slowly, catching a glimpse. Tall, lean, with that peculiar grace that comes from a lifetime of stepping carefully. The Ghost himself.

"He's good," Sam murmured against my neck. "Watch how he moves. Always keeping his back to the security cameras."

"Noticed something else. Don Carlos has four guards watching him instead of the party guests. Our host doesn't trust his special guest."

Sam's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Or he's making sure Morrison doesn't leave before the sale."

The pieces clicked. The diamonds weren't just hot ice - they were leverage. Morrison had stolen them to buy protection from the cartel. But men like Don Carlos don't protect thieves - they eliminate potential threats.

"Back garden. Ten minutes," Sam breathed, then slipped away into the crowd like smoke through fingers.

I made my way to the bar, ordered bourbon I wouldn't drink. The Ghost was talking to a silver-haired woman, but his eyes kept drifting to the massive clock above the fireplace. Whatever was going down would happen soon.

The garden was black velvet darkness cut by swimming pool lights. Sam emerged from the shadows; dress swapped for black tactical gear that hugged her curves like a second skin.

"He's got the diamonds in a false bottom briefcase," she said. "Planning to make the exchange at midnight."

"How'd you-"

"Lifted this from his room while you were playing drunk at the bar." She held up a small notebook. "The Ghost keeps meticulous records. Sale price, security rotations, escape routes - everything."

"You always did have sticky fingers."

"Among my many charms." Her smile was quick, dangerous. "Found something else. Don Carlos is planning to kill him after the exchange. Morrison's got a backup plan though - secondary escape route through the wine cellar."

A burst of automatic gunfire cut through the night. So much for midnight.

We moved fast, staying low. More shots from inside, screams, breaking glass. The party was officially over.

The wine cellar door was already open. Inside, Morrison was wrestling with one of Don Carlos's men. The briefcase lay open on the floor, diamonds scattered like stars on the stone.

I took the guard with a right cross that would've made my boxing coach proud. Morrison spun, a small revolver appearing in his hand.

"I wouldn't," Sam's .32 pressed against the back of his skull. "Down on your knees, hands where we can see them."

"Marlowe?" Morrison's laugh was hollow. "Should've known Rodriguez would send you. Man's got a taste for poetic justice."

"Speaking of justice..." I snapped handcuffs on his hands. "Those diamonds belong to some people who want them back."

"Along with your head," Sam added, scooping the diamonds into her bag.

Footsteps on the cellar stairs. Don Carlos's voice barking orders in Spanish.

"Time to go." I grabbed Morrison. "Sam?"

She pulled a remote from her pocket, clicked it once. An explosion rocked the mansion above us - the little surprise she'd left in Morrison's room.

"You always did know how to end a party," I said.

"Learned from the best, sugar."

We took Morrison out through the tunnels his own notebook had revealed, emerging on the beach half a mile down the coast. Rodriguez's men were waiting with a boat.

"Efficient work," the Inspector said, taking custody of our ghost. "Though perhaps with more property damage than necessary?"

Sam shrugged, handed him the diamonds. "Send Don Carlos our apologies. And our bill for the dress."

Later, in our hotel room, Sam stood at the window watching the sunrise paint the ocean shades of gold. She'd changed back into that white swimsuit, but there was still soot on her cheek from the explosion.

"We work pretty well together," she said. "For retired people."

I moved behind her, wiped the soot away with my thumb. "Maybe retirement's overrated."

She turned, and suddenly we were close enough to share a breath. "Maybe a lot of things are overrated."

"Like playing it safe?"

Her kiss tasted like danger and promise, gunpowder and paradise. Outside, the Mexican sun was rising on a new day, but for once, I didn't mind the heat.

Sometimes the best cases don't end with catching the bad guy. Sometimes they end with realizing what you've been chasing was right beside you all along.