It was a cold, dry night in the heart of Chicago. A night for smoking with the window open while sipping your scotch. Chink! The sound of ice suddenly settling in the glass, and the warmth of an honest-to-God single malt sliding down your throat.

“Man, that’s some good whisky.”

It was 10 p.m. and the office was empty. Doc Malone sat at his desk reading yesterday’s news. The beat had been dead for a month. No murders, no robberies. No nothing. He flipped through the paper in disgust. If things continued this way, he’d be out of a job. Doc balled up the paper and pitched it into the waste basket. Just as he was getting ready to call it a night, the phone rang.

“Douglas Malone, Private Inv-”

“I know who you are. Listen, I need your help.”

Doc sat back down with a sigh, but there was a glitter in his eye.

“So speak.”

“My lover’s missing. I think he’s been kidnapped. Or worse.”

“You called the right man, Miss…”

“Just call me Miss Maple for now, Mr. Malone,” said the breathless voice on the other end.