<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline">Evelyn Meyer – The Disgraced Doctor</span></div><br/><br/>Los Angeles, California<br/>The Abandoned Warehouse<br/>6:45 p.m.<br/><br/>The newspaper still lay open on the table where she had been reading it when the call came in. Without turning a page, Evelyn sat at her small table staring out the window, swirling the scotch in her glass, remembering the day she had met Mr. Silverman. Buried in some city morgue, toiling with imbeciles to provide autopsies on bodies whose murders would likely never be solved. Silverman had come in like something of an angel, rescuing her from the slums. Not that he was an angel, God knew! But working at the Agency had been better than she had ever expected. It was challenging, and the mystery of the work kept her interest, despite the nonchalance she affected for her partners. And Silverman had made that possible, all for seeing talent in a disgraced ex-surgeon with an attitude problem.<br/><br/>God, but the man was dead! And now Alexandra to step into his shoes. Barely a girl out of grammar school, if Evelyn was honest. She was not quite sure what to think of the situation, really. She could always leave, she supposed; but what would she do? Failed doctor, apathetic coroner, now some sort of private eye. Well, there was always marriage! Evelyn laughed aloud at that thought, and took a good long draught of her scotch to clear the ridiculous notion from her head.<br/><br/>Checking the clock on the mantle, she muttered to herself, “Well, it's time.” After tossing off the rest of the scotch, and repairing her smudged lipstick, she threw her purse over her shoulder and headed out. Her tight, one-bedroom apartment was not too far from the warehouse that served as the Agency's headquarters, and the evening was nice enough that she decided to walk. It was not the classiest of neighborhoods, but at this time of day there was nothing to fear. Peering down one alley, she spotted a makeshift camp set up between trash bins. Dust-bowl refugees, from the look of their torn overalls and faded farm hats. It was still hard times for many people, even here. She supposed she should feel lucky to have any work, even if it did pay a pittance of what she had made at the hospital in San Francisco.<br/><br/>She walked on, her two-inch tall, black Oxfords clacking on the sidewalk and echoing off the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. The quiet of the street was almost oppressive, spurring her to walk even faster than her usual brisk pace. Somehow, the world felt a little less safe today.<br/><br/>She reached the Agency early, and found only Alexandra and Tommy inside. “Hell of a day,” she said, with a slight shake of her head. She hung up her bag and made her way to where Alexandra was sitting. It felt as though words were required – some bond of sisterhood, or some such farrago. Or maybe it was because she had lost her own father not so long ago. But Evelyn wasn't good at sympathy. And words felt… empty, at this point. In the end she opted for a simple, “How're you holding up, Alexandra?”  She tried for a supportive expression, but knew it was a failure.<br/><br/>Taking refuge in sarcasm, she turned to Tommy and asked, "Well, what do the stars say?  Who offed the old man?"  She had always thought his "psychic" abilities were a bit of a scam, and the smarmy coating they came in didn't help.  His addiction to fashion and superior airs always rubbed Evelyn the wrong way.  In fact, the only thing they ever seemed to agree on was the evil of smoking.  It was then that Evelyn remembered the last thing she had ever said to Mr. Silverman, as he puffed on a cigar - "Careful, those things'll kill you one day!"  She winced and bit her lip, turning her face away from Alexandra and Tommy to hide the sudden emotion that overcame her.