Disclaimer: I don't own legal rights to any of the copyrighted Resident Evil stuff in this story.

A/N – I think I've made it a rule that every time I attempt a new Resident Evil story I have to switch genres. First a fourth-wall breaking meta-parody. Then a semi-tongue-in-cheek, semi-Ashley-centric story more or less set in the mainline continuity. And now a detective story inspired by the film noir skins and filter in the RE2 remake.

Something was chasing Leon. Something almost human but not quite. Something huge and terrifying. And Leon had the feeling that if whatever it was caught up to him, there would be no escape.

He ducked down a deserted alleyway. His legs felt like they were burning. His lungs felt like they were on fire. He clutched his side and desperately tried to catch his breath.

Then the thing that was chasing him charged through a brick wall like it was tissue paper. A fist the size of Leon's head reached for his neck…

Loud, rolling thunder woke Leon S. Kennedy, followed by a flash of bright lightning. He lifted his head from his desk, listening to the sound of heavy rain pelting against his office window. With a shaky hand, he opened his flask of bourbon and took a swig to steady his nerves.

He peered at his pin-up calendar. Miss July was Becca, a cherubic faced farm gal with blue eyes and long, straw-colored hair, wearing cowboy boots, denim shorts, and a plaid shirt knotted over her stomach.

July 24th, 1948. Saturday night.

The door from the outer office swung open and Ingrid Hunnigan stuck her head in to stare at Leon judgmentally over the rims of her glasses.

"Nightmare," Leon grunted, taking another drink from the flask.

"About the war again?" Hunnigan asked.

Leon's only response was another grunt. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and screwed the lid back on his flask.

The only light was the dim lamp on the desk, until Hunnigan switched on a lamp by the door, causing Leon to squint as his eyes adjusted.

"Potential client," Hunnigan said. "Try not to chase this one off. You need to get paid so I can get paid."

Leon slicked back his dirty dishwater blonde hair, tightened his red paisley necktie, and smoothed down his charcoal gray vest.

"Well, shoo her in, then."

Hunnigan opened the door further.

"This way, please."

In walked a tall, slender woman in a scarlet qipao. She smelled like expensive perfume and broken hearts. Her cheekbones could cut diamonds. An unlit cigarette dangled from a long, silver holder held between her full lips. This was a woman who could make good men make bad decisions.

Hunnigan closed the door and the woman in the red dress took a seat on the opposite side of Leon's desk. She slowly lifted the veil of her pillbox hat, revealing wide, smoldering dark eyes. Leon flicked his lighter and leaned over the desk to ignite her cigarette.

"How can I help you, Miss… ?"

She took a drag through her mouth, exhaled through her nostrils, then took the holder from her lips and waved it at him.

"Wong," she said. "But you can call me Ada."

"How can I help you, Ada?"

Her dark eyes took him in, unblinking, as she slowly took another drag of the cigarette.

"You used to be a cop," she finally said. She spoke with just a trace of an accent.

"That's right. Briefly."

"Why so briefly?"

"The R.P.D. is a cesspool of corruption. I tried wading through it but it just kept getting deeper. Eventually I realized I could either turn back and get out or keep sinking until I hit rock bottom."

"Could I have a glass of water?"

Leon nodded. He stood up and walked to a side cabinet, busying himself with an ice bucket and carafe.

"I'd like you to find someone for me," Ada said.

Leon handed Ada the water, then sat back down and reached for a notepad and pen.

"Who am I finding?"

"My fiance," Ada said. "The whole ordeal is very upsetting. My family's already arrived all the way from Shanghai and the wedding was to be held in a matter of days. I haven't heard from him in at least a week. We've barely spent a day apart as long as I've known him."

Leon leaned back in his chair, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest.

"If he's been gone a whole week, you should go to the police."

"To the cesspool of corruption?" Ada said, arching an immaculately groomed eyebrow wryly. "They'd have already found him by now if they wanted to."

"Worried it may be cold feet?"

"I'm worried it's far worse than that," Ada said, crushing her cigarette out in the ashtray on Leon's desk. "He has a dangerous job."

"Oh? And what's that?"

Ada's eyes were cold.

"Cesspool of corruption."

Leon nodded slowly.

"A cop, huh? This cop got a name?"

Ada opened her handbag and lifted out a photograph. She handed it across the table to Leon.

"His name," she said, "is Chris."

Square jaw, furrowed brow, and five o'clock shadow. No distinguishing marks. Square framed and broad shouldered. This was a man who could take on an 800 pound boulder in a prizefight and probably win. Leon's eyes widened in recognition.

"You know him?" Ada said.

"Yeah," Leon replied. "I know him." He straightened in his seat and pocketed the photograph. "Look. I know some people I can ask around with. But I can't guarantee you'll like what they have to tell me. My rate's twenty-five a day. Plus expenses."

"Will two hundred do as a retainer?"

"As long as the check doesn't bounce."

"I'll just give you cash."

Ada reached into the handbag again and pulled out a wad of bills. A whistle escaped Leon as he counted them.

"I should have something for you in a couple of days, Ada."

He walked her to the office door and let her back out into the reception area. He lingered there, watching her walk through the pebbled glass door lettered "Leon S. Kennedy Investigations." Hunnigan rose from her seat.

"What do you make of her?"

"I trust her about as far as you could throw her," Leon said. "But her money's good." He peeled off a few of the bills and handed them to her. "Go buy yourself something nice. I'm going to go drink the rest."

He grabbed his suit jacket, raincoat, and wide brimmed fedora from the rack and stepped out.

The jazz band was warming up when Leon walked through the door and stepped up to the bar at Sera's. The proprietor himself greeted Leon with an oily smile and familiar embrace. Luis Sera was a handsome man, dark haired and tan skinned, with a thin goatee, in a white dinner jacket. Rumor was the club had started out as a speakeasy, stocked with hooch Luis had bootlegged from Spain, before becoming a Raccoon City institution and going legit.

"Leon, mi amigo, finally run out of the cheap swill you keep in your desk?"

"Hardly," Leon said, flashing cash. "I'm on the client's dime. I'll be drinking your top shelf whiskey tonight."

Luis stepped behind the bar and poured a whiskey on the rocks for Leon and another for himself.

"Success to crime," Leon said, clinking his glass against Luis's.

Luis smiled slyly and raised his eyebrows towards the bandstand.

"You're just in time," he said. "Your girl's on her way to the stage."

Leon turned around and leaned against the bar to watch Ashley Graham step up to the microphone. Hair, eyes, sequined dress, and heart, all bright and golden. She warbled a torch song as the band played, concentrating hard on hitting every note in spite of the distractions of wolf whistles and cat calls.

"The crowd loves her, no?" Luis said. "Sometimes I think I'd still let her perform here even if her father wasn't the most important person in Raccoon City. And to think, if it weren't for you, the scandal may have cost his reelection. Heaven forbid his constituents find out the mayor's daughter was a woman of loose morals."

"Those boudoir photos were intended for Ashley's husband-to-be," Leon said defensively. "Not her fault he tried blackmailing her with them when she broke it off. She suspected he was a cad. And it turned out she was right."

Ashley's expression was blank as she scanned the audience, until her eyes met Leon's and she smiled and winked at him.

"She does have terrible taste in men," Luis said.

"But you're not supposed to know any of that," Leon said.

"Running this kind of place, I know everything."

Leon took another swallow of whiskey.

"Know anything about a missing flatfoot?"

Something dark came over Luis' handsome features.

"Of course not, amigo," he said. "But if I did, you certainly wouldn't hear about it from me."

A wiry figure in a shabby three-piece suit slid up to Leon, leaning back against the bar and trying to look casual. He took off his pork pie hat and twisted it nervously between his hands.

"Evening, rookie."

Leon avoided eye contact at first, taking another drink.

"Would you relax, Marvin?" he said out the corner of his mouth. "You look like a cop."

Leon motioned to Luis, who refilled Leon's glass and then poured one for Marvin before slipping away to greet his other customers and give them some privacy.

"You look rattled, Branagh. Have a drink. It'll help you blend in."

The plainclothes officer took a sip of his whiskey.

"The expensive stuff tonight. You must be working."

His nervous eyes studied the other patrons and darted back and forth between all possible entrances and exits.

"Why are you so nervous about talking about Chris Redfield?" Leon asked.

"Nervous if I'm not careful then what happened to him might happen to me."

"Happened?" Leon narrowed his eyes. "You know something I don't?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

The two men took their drinks and their hats to the nearest booth and sat down.

"I liked Redfield," Leon said. "Good cop. Good soldier."

"I like him, too," Marvin said. "Because when he wants to get my attention, he calls me by the name my parents gave me, instead of a slur. But no one's seen him in over a week. Which means he probably ended up like most of the good cops in this city. Dollars to donuts, he's facedown in a gutter somewhere, bullet in his back."

"But you haven't found a body yet?"

"Who's asking?"

"Woman who says she and Redfield were engaged."

Marvin nearly spit out his drink.

"I can't picture it," he said. "Chris was already married, to his work. If he ever mentioned a woman's name, she was a person of interest in a case, not his private life. Or his kid sister Claire."

"Fiancee's an Asian woman. According to her, wedding was coming up any day now."

"Wouldn't be that unusual," Marvin said. "Lots of men came back from Okinawa and brought blushing new brides with them."

"This one's Chinese. Name of Wong."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Could be he just had second thoughts about it. Wouldn't be the first guy I've seen pick everything up and start over somewhere else rather than deal with the embarrassment of calling a wedding off."

"He was working the missing persons desk when he stopped checking in."

"And now he's a missing person," Leon said. "Ironic. If he was poking his nose into something someone didn't want him to, I'd kinda like to know what it was."

"That's a question for his partner."

"And who's his partner these days?"

"Burton."

Leon groaned.

"No love lost between me and Barry Burton."

"No love lost between you and practically every cop in the whole damn department." Marvin finished his drink and got up from his seat. He stopped and pondered something as he placed his pork pie back on his head. "In a way, it might be for the best if someone did plug Redfield."

Leon arched an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Detective Chris Redfield's not the kind of man who'd want to die in a soft bed, fat and old, with some sweet dame squeezing his hand as he breathes his last breath," Marvin said. "He'd want to die with his boots on. Goodnight, rookie."

"Goodnight, Officer Branagh."

As Branagh left the booth, Ashley waltzed up to it, Luis on her heels.

"For my star, may I suggest you try this lovely tempranillo, straight from the cellar of the Castellan Salazar in my home country?"

"That sounds lovely, Luis," Ashley said, sliding into the seat Marvin just abandoned. "And put whatever Leon's drinking on my tab."

"I can buy my own drinks," Leon insisted.

"I won't let you. Not after everything you did for me."

Luis excused himself to get Ashley's wine.

"How did I sound tonight?" Ashley asked Leon.

"Like an angel," Leon replied. "Like always."

Ashley's rosy cheeks dimpled when she smiled. Combined with the halo of golden hair, she really was a picture of divine innocence. Leon had once had photographs in his possession of her looking a lot less innocent. He tried really hard to forget that.

"Where will you be sleeping it off tonight?" Ashley asked. "Your fleabag apartment, or the office again?"

"There's fewer fleas in the office," Leon said.

Ashley put her hand on his.

"There's none at all at my place," she said. "And there's plenty of extra room. And a nice big, soft bed..."

Leon scoffed as he stood up and put his hat back on.

"No. Sorry."

A flicker of disappointment crossed Ashley's face, and then she forced a weak smile. No dimples this time.

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that. But it doesn't hurt to ask, y'know?"