Can You Solve a Murder? The Last Call at Smoky Joe's
A Nico Rinaldi Mystery
The sax was silent now. Just the low hum of neon and the drip of a faucet somewhere behind the bar. Smoky Joe's was the kind of place that always smelled like yesterday's whiskey and last year's regrets. But tonight, the stench ran deeper.
Lena Rose was sprawled on the floor of her dressing room, head tilted to the side, her eyes still open. The mic cord wrapped around her neck told the whole story without saying a word. Strangled. Quietly. Professionally. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.
I'd heard Lena sing a hundred times. Voice like velvet over broken glass. She sang about heartbreak but never let it break her. Tonight, someone made sure she'd never sing again.
Frank Kowalski sat hunched at the far end of the bar, nursing something amber that wasn't helping his shaking hands. Twenty years pouring drinks in this dive, and he looked like he'd aged a decade since closing time.
"What happened tonight, Frank?"
He glanced up, eyes bloodshot and darting. "She stayed after everyone cleared out. Said she was meeting someone important. Business, she said." His voice cracked on the last word.
"Who?"
"Didn't say. Could've been anyone." Frank's hand trembled as he reached for his cigarette pack. Left-handed. Marlboro Reds. Same brand I'd seen crushed in Lena's ashtray.
The dressing room was small and cluttered, thick with the smell of sweat, powder, and cheap perfume. But there was something else cutting through—cologne. Expensive. The kind that costs more than most people make in a week. Sharp and foreign, like it didn't belong in a place where dreams went to die.
Lena's lipstick-stained glass still sat on the vanity, a trace of gin and lemon clinging to the rim. But it was the ashtray that caught my attention. Two cigarettes. One smoked down to the filter, lipstick on the tip—Lena's signature red. The other barely touched, crushed hard like someone was making a point. No lipstick. Left-handed stubbing pattern.
A black matchbook lay beside the mirror. Gold lettering on expensive cardstock: The Velvet Room. Classy joint across town. Clean floors, cleaner money, and clientele that wouldn't be caught dead in a place like Smoky Joe's.
I picked it up. Three matches missing. Fresh creases in the cover.
"Frank, you ever been to The Velvet Room?"
His laugh was bitter. "As a customer? On my salary? Might as well ask if I summer in Monaco." He took a long drag from his cigarette. "But I've worked some of their private parties. Bartending gigs when they need extra hands. Cash under the table."
"Recently?"
"Last month. Good money, but..." He trailed off, staring into his glass.
"But what?"
"Nothing. Just a different world over there." Frank set down his glass harder than necessary. "Anyway, past couple weeks, Lena'd been talking about some hotshot talent scout she met. French guy, fancy suit, big promises. Said he was gonna make her a star." Frank's voice turned acid. "Vincent something. Met him at one of their shows."
Vincent Moreau. I knew the name. Smooth talker who cruised the jazz circuit looking for fresh talent and fresher faces. Had a reputation for promising everything and delivering nothing but heartbreak.
But Frank wasn't done. "Tommy Russo was here earlier too. Came in around nine, all dressed up. New suit, new cologne—smelled like he robbed Macy's cologne counter. Been flashing cash lately, that one."
Tommy. Lena's ex. Hot-tempered and possessive, with fists that had learned their lessons in back alleys. I'd seen him work over a guy just for looking at Lena wrong. But Tommy was also broke, usually. Where would he get money for expensive cologne and new threads?
"Him and Lena talk?"
"Oh, they talked alright. Screaming match in the alley. She told him to stay away, that she was done with his jealous bullshit. He said she'd regret it." Frank's voice dropped. "Said she'd be sorry for treating him like trash while she ran around with 'fancy men.'"
Three suspects. Three motives. And me standing in a room that smelled like death and expensive cologne, trying to figure out which lie would lead me to the truth.
I stepped back into the main room. The club felt different now—smaller, meaner. The kind of place where people came to forget their troubles and ended up creating new ones. Lena had been the bright spot in all this darkness. Now someone had snuffed that light forever.
Frank was pouring himself another drink, his hands steadier now but his eyes still haunted.
"Frank, everything been running smooth around here lately? No problems with... I don't know... the books, the register?"
He froze, glass halfway to his lips. His eyes darted away from mine, then back. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just asking. Place like this, money can go missing. People get desperate." I kept my voice casual, watching his face. "Lena was smart. She noticed things."
Frank's face went white. The glass trembled in his hand. "She never said nothing to me about any missing money."
"Maybe she was planning to."
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Outside, Chicago wind rattled the windows, carrying the promise of another cold night in a city that didn't believe in warm endings.
I left Frank to his guilt and his bottle, stepping back into the Chicago night. Two more names on my list. Two more chances to find Lena's killer.
Tommy Russo was exactly where I expected—O'Malley's Tavern on Ashland, holding court at the pool table like he owned the place. New suit, new attitude, but still the same cheap aftershave he'd always worn.
"Nico fucking Rinaldi," Tommy's voice carried across the bar. "Heard you been asking questions about me."
"Just trying to understand what happened to Lena."
Tommy's face darkened. "What happened is some bastard killed the best woman in Chicago." He lined up his shot, hands steady. "You think I'd hurt her?"
"You threatened her. Frank heard you."
"I was drunk, I was angry. But hurt Lena?" Tommy's cue stick cracked against the eight ball, sending it spinning into the corner pocket. "I loved that woman. Still do."
"Then where'd you get the money, Tommy? The new clothes, the cologne that costs more than your usual weekly take?"
Tommy's jaw tightened. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card—expensive stock, embossed lettering. "Romano Construction. I been doing some work for them. Good work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that pays well and doesn't ask questions." Tommy pocketed the card. "I was home Tuesday night, all night. Ask my neighbor Mrs. Benedetti—she complained about my TV being too loud."
But his left hand trembled slightly as he chalked his cue. And when he signed the bar tab, I noticed he switched the pen to his dominant hand.
Left-handed. Just like whoever crushed that cigarette in Lena's dressing room.
Vincent Moreau was easier to find but harder to pin down. The Velvet Room's maître d' pointed him out at a corner table, smooth as silk in a thousand-dollar suit, charming a redhead who looked young enough to be his daughter.
"Mr. Moreau? Nico Rinaldi, Chicago PD. I'd like to ask you about Lena Rose."
Vincent's smile never wavered. "Ah, the tragic chanteuse from Smoky Joe's. Such a loss to the artistic community." His accent was thick as honey, twice as slick. "Please, sit. Join us for champagne."
The redhead excused herself quickly. Smart girl.
"You offered Lena a recording contract."
"I offer many talented women opportunities. Most are grateful for the attention." Vincent's fingers drummed against the table—right-handed rhythm, practiced and smooth. "Lena, sadly, was... how do you say... difficult to work with."
"Difficult how?"
"She had unrealistic expectations. Artistic temperament, you understand." Vincent sipped his champagne. "I was at my hotel Tuesday evening. The Palmer House. Room service records will confirm."
"You ever get rough with women who turn you down?"
Vincent's smile turned razor-thin. "Mr. Rinaldi, I am a businessman. I do not mix pleasure with... unpleasantness." He stood, straightening his cufflinks. "If you'll excuse me, I have other appointments. The music industry never sleeps."
But as he walked away, I caught something in his reflection in the bar mirror. His right hand was bandaged, knuckles scraped raw like he'd been in a fight.
Fresh wounds. From Tuesday night.
Three paths stretched out in front of me:
Tommy Russo—violent, jealous, suddenly flush with cash, and wearing a suit that he would never be able to afford on his best day. A man who'd promised Lena would be sorry, yet he professed to love her.
Vincent Moreau—predatory talent scout with expensive tastes and a habit of leaving broken dreams in his wake. The kind of man who'd see Lena as just another conquest to be discarded.
Frank Kowalski—desperate bartender drowning in debt, skimming from the till, and terrified of exposure. A man who'd been alone with Lena when she died.
One of them had wrapped that cord around her neck. One of them had silenced the best voice in the worst dive in Chicago. One of them was walking around free while Lena Rose lay cold on a morgue table.
The city hummed its electric lullaby outside, full of secrets and shadows. In places like Smoky Joe's, justice was just another four-letter word—hope. But sometimes, if you looked hard enough and cared enough to see, the truth had a way of clawing its way to the surface.
I lit a cigarette and stepped into the Chicago night. Somewhere out there, a killer thought he'd gotten away with murder.
He was wrong.
The Evidence
Three things didn't add up:
A cigarette crushed left-handed in Lena's ashtray—but Lena was right-handed
Expensive cologne lingering in the dressing room like guilt
A matchbook from The Velvet Room with three matches missing
Three suspects. Three motives. One killer.
What's your theory? Please drop your answer below and tell us which clues led you to your conclusion. The truth—and the full story—will be revealed in seven days on the Clue Board.
But first, we'll be dropping a new clue every day. Each one will peel back another layer of this bloody onion.
Day 1 clue drops tomorrow. Don't miss it.