He trusted sequins over evidence. Now he's out of time.
Joe Harlan's no hero. He's a washed-up private eye with a bad liver, a cheap suit, and a talent for getting played. When a redhead with ice in her veins and lipstick like a warning sign drags him into a Paradise Motel blackmail scheme, Joe figures it's just another con wrapped in perfume.
But this one comes loaded - a missing maid, a .38 that won't stay in its holster, and a double-indemnity policy signed in blood and betrayal. The cops want him caged. The mob wants him cut to size. And Candy Lane - or Rita, or whatever name she's using tonight - wants him to take the fall before she disappears with the payout.
Now Joe's locked in a race through rain-slick streets and cheap neon motels, with every shadow holding a gun and every kiss tasting like a lie. Each clue pulls him deeper into Rita's web - a setup so tight it squeaks. There's no way out but through, and every turn ends in a trigger pull.
In the city's sick glow, love is a hustle, death is a business, and the truth is just another con waiting to cash out.