The Long Goodbye

The rain hit the city like a bad hangover—loud, relentless, and unforgiving. Jack Marlowe leaned against his desk, nursing a whiskey, while I—Samantha Blackthorne, private investigator and his better half in this racket—stood by the window, watching the neon reflections smear across the wet pavement.

Then came the knock. The kind that carried trouble on its heels.

Marlowe shot me a look. “You taking this one, or am I?”

I sighed then , flicked my cigarette into the ashtray, and opened the door.

She was tall, elegant, and wrapped in a black coat that cost more than our office rent. Her blonde hair was swept back, but there was something in her eyes—something raw.

“My name is Evelyn Grey,” she said, stepping inside. “My husband is dead.”

Marlowe and I exchanged a glance. The name Grey meant something in this city. Henry Grey, real estate king, one of those guys who had his fingers in every pie and a closet full of skeletons to match.

“Sit down, Mrs. Grey,” I said. “Tell us why you’re here.”

She did, her hands clenching in her lap. “They say Henry shot himself. They’re wrong.”

Marlowe poured himself another whiskey. “The cops seem pretty convinced.”

“The cops are idiots.” Her voice was sharp. “Henry hated guns. He wouldn’t even let one in the house. But they found him with a bullet in his head and a revolver in his hand.”

“Locked-room case?” I asked.

She nodded. “The study door was locked from the inside.”

Marlowe exhaled through his nose. “That’s neat. Too neat.”

Evelyn’s grip tightened on her purse. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just find out who killed my husband.”

Marlowe looked at me. I gave a slight nod.

“We’ll take the case,” he said.

She let out a breath, like she’d been holding it for hours.

I lit another cigarette. Something about her didn’t sit right. Either she was leaving something out… or she had a damn good poker face.

 

The Grey Estate

The mansion sat at the edge of the city, a castle built on money and misery. The front gates alone would have paid our bills for a year. The study, where Henry Grey had supposedly ended it all, was just as grand—bookshelves lining the walls, a desk big enough to land a plane on, and a bloodstain on the Persian rug.

Lieutenant Danvers was already there, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him money. He sighed when he saw us.

“Didn’t take you two long,” he muttered.

Marlowe gave him a grin. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

Danvers ran a hand over his face. “It’s a suicide, Marlowe. Door was locked from the inside, no sign of forced entry.”

I walked over to the desk, my eyes scanning the room. A framed photo sat in the center—Evelyn and Henry, smiling like their marriage wasn’t just a business arrangement. I lifted it. A thin layer of dust clung to the back.

“How often did Grey use this desk?” I asked.

Danvers frowned. “What does that matter?”

“If he sat here every day, why’s there dust behind his photo?” I set it down. “Someone moved it. Recently.”

Danvers waved a hand. “Maybe he did before he—”

“Or maybe someone else was in here before the cops arrived,” Marlowe cut in.

Danvers sighed. “I don’t have time for your conspiracy theories.”

Marlowe walked to the door and bent down, inspecting the keyhole. “You sure this was locked when the body was found?”

“Yeah, the maid had to break it open.”

I knelt beside Marlowe and ran a gloved hand over the lock. Something wasn’t right. I pulled out my penknife and nudged the keyhole. A sliver of wood flaked off.

somebody jammed this from the outside,” I said, standing up.

Danvers blinked. “That’s impossible.”

Marlowe smirked. “Yeah? Then explain how Grey locked the door after he was already dead.”

 

A Widow’s Lie

Evelyn was waiting for us in the garden, staring into the rain. When we walked up, she turned, her eyes searching ours.

“Well?” she asked.

I crossed my arms. “Your husband didn’t kill himself.”

She swallowed. “I knew it.”

Marlowe pulled out a cigarette. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

She hesitated, just a flicker. “I... I suspected.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Or you already knew.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. That was answer enough.

“You left something out,” I said. “Why don’t you save us the trouble and tell us now?”

Her eyes darted away. “Henry had enemies. Business deals that went bad. I don’t know who, but someone wanted him gone.”

Marlowe exhaled smoke. “Yeah? Maybe someone close to him? Someone who stood to inherit everything?”

She met his gaze, steel in her eyes. “If you think I killed my husband, Mr. Marlowe, you’re wasting your time.”

The rain didn’t let up, turning the city into a mirror for its sins. Evelyn stood there, her shoulders tense but her expression cold, like she was daring us to accuse her of pulling the trigger.

“Fine,” I said, lighting another cigarette. The first drag tasted like suspicion. “We’ll chase down the enemies, Mrs. Grey. But if we find out you’re playing us, you won’t like the ending.”

Her lips curled into a smile—thin, calculated, and dripping with confidence. “You’ll find what you’re looking for,” she said, before slipping back into the night, her heels clicking like a slow metronome of trouble.

 

 

 

Back to the Scene

Inside Grey’s study, the smell of cordite lingered, faint but enough to keep the puzzle alive. I ran my fingers along the bookshelves, hoping they’d tell a better story than the widow’s lips had so far. Marlowe paced, his whiskey glass glinting in the dim light.

“She’s hiding something,” he muttered.

“Yeah, but so’s this room.” My fingers paused on a gap in the books—about an inch wide, just enough for someone to have removed a book, or to plant something. “Hey, Jack, ever read Crime and Punishment?” I tugged at a title, but it wouldn’t budge. “Or is this more of a library for decoration?”

He came over, his brows knitting tight. “What are you getting at?”

“It’s a rich man’s hidey-hole,” I said, giving the book a harder tug. It clicked, and the section of shelving swung open, revealing a small safe embedded in the wall. “Locked rooms have secrets. This one has a whole damn vault.”

“Nice work, Grey,” he said, admiring the craftsmanship. “Now, let’s see if this thing opens.”

 

Cracking the Code

It took Marlowe a few tries, guessing at combinations that might have appealed to a guy like Grey. When the safe finally yielded, we both leaned in, expecting bundles of cash or maybe a trove of love letters.

Instead, we found an envelope—yellowed, sealed, and thicker than it looked. I sliced it open with my penknife. A stack of documents spilled out, dense with legal jargon and corporate letterheads. But what caught my eye was a smaller slip of paper: a receipt for a storage unit on the other side of town.

“This gets better by the minute,” Marlowe said, leaning back. “Think our real estate king had something to hide?”

“I don’t think it,” I said. “I know it.”

 

The Storage Unit

We reached the storage facility in the early hours. The rain had turned into a mist, but the chill in the air was sharp enough to cut through our coats. The place reeked of anonymity—a breeding ground for secrets no one wanted to claim.

The key from the safe slid into the lock on Unit 147. The door creaked open, revealing a collection of Henry Grey’s regrets: ledgers, photos, a few items that screamed "blackmail material" louder than a Broadway diva. But what froze both Marlowe and me was a photo pinned to the back wall.

It wasn’t Henry. It wasn’t Evelyn.

It was a man I recognized from the papers: Frank Coyle, a name that hovered like a bad smell in the city’s underbelly. He was a fixer, the kind of guy who didn’t show up unless someone needed dirty work done.

Marlowe stared at the photo, his jaw tightening. “Coyle. What the hell was Grey doing with him?”

“Nothing good,” I said. My eyes fell on a handwritten note beneath the photo. The ink bled where someone had pressed too hard. The words read: Tuesday. 10 PM. The Rookery.

 

A Meeting at The Rookery

The Rookery was one of those joints that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Prohibition. The smoke hung heavy, and the jazz band in the corner played to an audience that didn’t care. Marlowe and I took a booth near the back, our eyes on the entrance.

Coyle walked in at 10:05. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew bullets wouldn’t find him unless he wanted them to. He slid into a seat at the bar, ordered a drink, and waited.

Marlowe nudged me. “Think he’ll play nice?”

“Doubt it.” I stood, adjusting the revolver under my coat. “Let’s find out.”

 

The Confrontation

I approached Coyle slowly, my heels tapping against the floor like the prelude to a funeral march. He noticed me right away, his eyes sharp and calculating.

“Frank Coyle,” I said, sliding onto the stool beside him. “I hear you’re good at solving problems. Like the kind Henry Grey had.”

His smile was small and humorless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”

“Sure you do.” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “See, Henry’s widow thinks he killed himself. But Marlowe and I? We’re not buying it. And now, we’ve got your picture in his private stash.”

Coyle’s hand twitched toward his glass, but his face stayed calm. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Am I?” I tilted my head. “Because it looks to me like you had a meeting with Grey, and a week later, he ends up dead.”

Before he could answer, Marlowe joined us, his presence looming like a storm cloud. “She’s giving you a chance, Coyle. Talk now, or we start pulling strings.”

Coyle glanced between us, his composure slipping for a split second. He downed his drink in one gulp, then stood. “You want answers? Fine. Meet me at Pier 39 tomorrow night. Midnight. Bring your friend.”

 

A Warning

As Coyle left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were stepping into something bigger than we’d bargained for. Marlowe must’ve sensed it too.

“You trust him?” he asked.

“Not a damn bit,” I said. “But if he’s lying, we’ll make sure he regrets it.”

Outside, the rain started again, heavier this time. It felt like the city was trying to drown its sins. But we weren’t letting this one go under—not yet. Not until we found out who had the most to lose... and who had everything to gain.

 

The rain kept falling, slapping the city with a rhythm like a million secrets spilling out at once. Marlowe and I sat in the Rookery, nursing stale coffee that tasted like regret in a cup. Frank Coyle’s promise to meet at Pier 39 didn’t sit right. A guy like him didn’t deal straight unless the cards were already stacked in his favor.

“I don’t like it,” I muttered, flicking my cigarette into the ashtray. The ember died out with a hiss, but my suspicion burned brighter.

Marlowe leaned back, tipping his chair on two legs. “Coyle’s trouble, sure. But he knows something we don’t. And I’d like to know what.”

I glanced out the foggy window, the streetlights casting halos on the wet pavement. “If we’re walking into a trap, I want to know who’s holding the leash. Henry Grey’s ghost isn’t haunting us for kicks.”

Marlowe grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow night.”

 

A Lonely Pier

Midnight came with a chill that crept into your bones and stayed there. Pier 39 was deserted, the kind of place where bad deals and worse endings liked to congregate. The water slapped against the pylons, and the fog clung to the ground like a guilty conscience.

Coyle arrived on time, his footsteps echoing through the silence. He wasn’t alone. Two hulking shadows flanked him—muscle with more brawn than brains. They stayed back while Coyle strolled forward, hands in his pockets and a smirk plastered on his face.

“Marlowe, Blackthorne,” he said, his voice as slick as the oil stains on the dock. “Punctual. I like that.”

“You bring us here to chat or to dance?” Marlowe said, his hand resting on the piece tucked under his coat.

Coyle chuckled. “Relax. I’m here to make your lives easier.”

“Sure,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “Because nothing screams goodwill like showing up with hired gorillas.”

His smirk faltered, just a hair. “You want answers, right? Henry Grey got himself into a mess he couldn’t clean up. He owed people. Dangerous people.”

“Like you?” I asked, blowing smoke into the fog between us.

“Me?” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “I’m just the middleman. Grey thought he could stiff the big boys. I warned him, but some people don’t listen.”

Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “And you expect us to believe you didn’t pull the trigger?”

Coyle spread his hands. “Locked room, remember? I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

I stepped closer, the cigarette dangling from my lips. “Then who’s calling the shots, Coyle? Who wanted Grey dead bad enough to make it look like a suicide?”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, but it was enough. The truth was chewing at him, and he didn’t like the taste. “You’re asking the wrong questions,” he said, his voice tight. “Ask yourself who benefits. Follow the money.”

Before I could press him, the silence was shattered by a gunshot. Coyle’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. The two goons bolted into the fog, their footsteps fading into the night.

Marlowe and I hit the deck, our guns drawn, but the shooter was already gone. All that was left was Coyle’s body, the blood pooling around him like a red halo.

 

Unfinished Business

Back at the office, the coffee was stronger, but it didn’t do much to clear the fog in my head. Coyle was dead, and with him went the thread we were pulling. But he’d left us something—a clue, buried in his final words.

“Follow the money,” I said, pacing the room. “Henry Grey’s fortune didn’t evaporate when he died. Somebody’s sitting on it.”

Marlowe leaned against the desk, pouring himself a whiskey. “Evelyn?”

“Maybe,” I said, though doubt gnawed at me. “But something doesn’t add up. She’s scared, sure, but she’s not the mastermind.”

“Then who?” he asked, taking a sip.

I stopped pacing, my eyes narrowing. “The ledger.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “What ledger?”

“The one we found in the storage unit. Black kept records—payments, deals, the works. If someone’s cashing in, it’ll be in there.”

The ledger was still on Marlowe’s desk, its worn leather cover staring back at us like it held all the answers. I flipped it open, scanning the entries until a name jumped out at me: Douglas Pryce.

“Who’s Pryce?” Marlowe asked, peering over my shoulder.

“Grey’s accountant,” I said, my pulse quickening. “If anyone knows where the money went, it’s him.”

 

The Accountant

Pryce’s office was a tidy little box in the financial district, all polished wood and sanitized air. He was a thin man with a nervous twitch, the kind who looked like he’d fold faster than a cheap suit under pressure.

When we walked in, he glanced up from his desk, his eyes darting between us. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Marlowe said, closing the door behind us. “We’re here about Henry Grey.”

Pryce swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like it was trying to escape. “I don’t know anything,” he stammered.

“Wrong answer,” I said, leaning on his desk. “We found your name in Grey’s ledger. You were handling his accounts, which means you know where the money went.”

He shook his head, his hands trembling. “I... I can’t.”

“You can,” Marlowe said, his voice low and dangerous. “And you will. Unless you want to join Grey and Coyle in the obituaries.”

Pryce crumbled, the words spilling out of him in a rush. “It’s Evelyn,” he said. “She was moving money—offshore accounts, shell companies. She said it was to protect the family fortune, but I didn’t ask questions.”

I frowned. “You think she’s behind Grey’s murder?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. She loved him, in her way. But someone else... someone close to them.”

“Who?” Marlowe pressed.

Pryce’s eyes flicked to a photo on his desk—a group shot of the Grey family at some charity gala. His hand trembled as he pointed to a man in the background.

It was Henry Grey’s brother, Charles.

 

The Final Act

Charles Grey was the black sheep of the family, a man with a taste for gambling and a talent for getting in over his head. We found him holed up in a dingy apartment on the edge of town, nursing a bottle of cheap bourbon.

When we walked in, he didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked relieved.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, sinking into a threadbare armchair.

“You killed your brother,” I said, cutting to the chase. “And you had Coyle clean up the mess.”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “You think I wanted this? Henry screwed me over for years. Took everything I had and left me to rot.”

“So you shot him?” Marlowe said.

Charles shook his head. “No. That was Evelyn.”

The room went still, the air thick with disbelief.

“You’re lying,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I felt the weight of them.

“She came to me after,” Charles said, his voice hollow. “Said it was an accident, that she panicked. She needed me to help her cover it up. Locked the door, staged the scene... all of it.”

Marlowe and I exchanged a glance. The twist hit like a sucker punch, but it fit too neatly to ignore.

Evelyn Grey had played us all. And she was still out there, wrapped in her veil of grief, smiling like the city owed her something.

 

Evelyn wasn’t hard to find. She was right where we expected her, sitting in her garden under a black umbrella, the rain pooling at her feet. The widow in mourning—a picture-perfect portrait of grief. But the cracks in the frame were showing, and we’d come to pull it apart.

“Back so soon?” she said, her voice smooth, untouched by the cold bite of the night. Her gaze shifted between us, calm and calculating, like she’d already rehearsed this moment a hundred times.

Marlowe didn’t waste words. “We know.”

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Know what, exactly?”

“That you killed your husband,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “And you almost got away with it.”

She tilted her head, feigning confusion. “That’s quite the accusation. Do you have proof?”

I stepped closer, my eyes locked on hers. “Coyle sold you out before someone shut him up. He said Henry owed dangerous people, but the truth is, you were the one cleaning house. The offshore accounts, the shell companies—that was you, protecting the fortune. Not the family’s fortune. Yours.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker—so quick you’d miss it if you weren’t watching closely. “You’re very imaginative, Miss Blackthorne. But imagination won’t hold up in court.”

“Maybe not,” Marlowe said, stepping beside me. “But your accountant will. Pryce told us everything. How you funneled the money, how you staged the locked-room scene to make it look like suicide.”

The umbrella dipped slightly, the rain soaking her hair. For the first time, her mask slipped, and the cold, hard truth shone through her eyes.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice sharper now, cutting through the rain. “Henry wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t the victim you think he was.”

“Enlighten us,” I said, blowing out a plume of smoke.

She leaned back, letting the rain wash over her face. “He built his empire on lies and greed. He ruined lives, mine included. Do you know what it’s like to be married to a man who sees you as nothing more than a chess piece in his game? A trophy to parade around while he sinks deeper into his own filth?”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness. But sympathy wasn’t in my playbook.

“So you decided to take him out,” Marlowe said. “And frame it as a suicide.”

Her gaze turned icy. “He deserved it.”

“Maybe he did,” I said, my voice low. “But that doesn’t make you innocent.”

She stood, the umbrella falling from her hand. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I enjoyed cleaning up his messes, living in his shadow, pretending everything was perfect? He left me no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Marlowe said, his tone flat. “You made yours. And now you’re going to live with it.”

The rain picked up, drumming against the pavement like the city itself was taking a breath before the storm. Evelyn didn’t run, didn’t plead. She just stood there, a statue carved from guilt and defiance, as we walked away into the night, leaving her to face the justice she couldn’t escape.

The rain finally stopped as we reached the car. Marlowe lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the dark.

“Think she’ll crack?” he asked.

“She already has,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat. “The rest is just a matter of time.”

As we drove away, the city loomed around us, sprawling and relentless. It had a way of swallowing people whole, chewing them up and spitting them out. Evelyn Grey thought she could beat it, play the game on her terms. But the city doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t let anyone win.