The room was plain, but the view made it expensive. A floor-to-ceiling window framed the Atlantic, gray and thrashing under a low ceiling of clouds.
A small round table sat near the glass. On it, a sweating bottle of champagne slouched in a silver bucket. A pair of trousers, a wrinkled button-down, and salmon-colored golf shorts hung limp over the back of a chair.
Dent sat up in bed, a sheet loose at his waist, watching the last light drain from the sky. He wasn't proud. Wasn't ashamed either. Just indifferent. Whatever curiosity he'd had about Tiffany had burned out. The nasty rumors about her had been true, which made him wonder if the others were also true.
The shower shut off, filling the room with a loud silence.
He checked his watch then dropped it back on the nightstand.
Tiff stepped out wearing a robe tied loosely around the waist. Her wet hair dropped past her shoulders, soaking the white cotton. Her hand slipped around the neck of the champagne bottle.
"A drink?" she asked, popping the cork on a fresh one.
"Sure."
She poured two. Handed him one. He sipped, resting his head against the headboard. She sat at the edge of the bed, her robe opened slightly, teasing her breasts.
It was all rehearsed. Had to be. Probably worked on half the city. But here, now? After what they had done? Pointless.
He took another sip. "What's Loeb's plan with Iverson?"
"Tobias said Iverson and his guys are in hot water. The jobs they were doing for Carter—they didn't kick up to Loeb and didn't tell him about it."
Dent's ears perked, recalling what Tobias had let slip that once the last of the good precinct chiefs retired, Loeb would have complete control. Then, no one not even his own men could make a move without his knowing.
"But there's more," she said, taking a long sip. "Tobias says a lot of Uptown cops are holding back, and the worst of it's in Little Saigon."
Dent took a slow sip, hiding the fact that he wanted more, every scrap of intel she had.
Casual, almost bored, he said, "Why would they do that?"
"They're pissed Loeb hasn't dealt with Gotham's new mascot," she said, mockery dripping.
His eyes flickered to her.
"The freak, as they call him, sticks close to Uptown and it scares shit out of all of them."
He leaned forwarded slightly, swirling the drink in the flute as she spoke.
"Loeb tried that about a year ago—wanted to nab him—but Tobias said it burned too much money and no one even got close. So Loeb gave the order: shoot on sight. But that's done nothing."
"So they're holding back money as punishment," said Dent.
"And they've been doing it a while—at least that's what Tobias said. Loeb ordered his I.A. guys to go into Uptown and dig up more disloyal cops."
Dent knocked back the rest of his drink. Handed her the glass. She looked at it like it insulted her but took it anyway.
"And it's not just Uptown that's pissed with Loeb. Cops in Downtown and even our media mogul, Davenport," she said, her back turned as she refilled both glasses. "Tobias mentioned they're all sick of Flass, Fulman, Lorenzo, and Mazzocchi."
"Loeb's big loyal dogs?" said Dent.
She nodded. "Been swinging their dicks around Midtown. Got booted from brothels and strip clubs. Cobblepot blacklisted them from his casinos. Now they're stirring shit Downtown."
Dent sat in silence. It all added up. Why Loeb wanted Flass's mess buried, why internal affairs was sniffing around Uptown. Loeb was losing his grip on the loyal ones. The crack in the thin blue line was showing, but how to widen it?
She handed him a fresh flute. "So, when should I expect a call?"
He looked at her. The info was good. He could make moves with it. But it wasn't a yes. Not yet.
"I'll need more."
She untied her robe. It dropped to the floor. "I can give more."
He barely kept from wincing. The cliché of it. He downed the champagne and passed her the glass. She rolled her eyes and took it.
"That work often?" he said as she walked away.
"They never decline."
Dent took a breath. Average brains, he reminded himself.
"I mean, do you always get what you're after?"
She turned then, fully nude, framed by the glass and the ocean. She didn't flinch. Just walked the drink back to him like it was a business memo.
"You suggesting I play hard to get?" she said with attitude.
"Pleasure and pressure," said Dent, which confused her, but it was the one lesson he learned from Cobblepot. "There's leverage in every position, so long as you know how to use it."
She stood there, naked, hair still damp, a flicker of confusion crossing her face as his words sank in. After a moment, she stopped thinking and sat on the bed.
Dent sipped his champagne, watching as she stretched out across the foot of it; arms overhead, back arched, shifting into poses. Her body was impeccable. The tan, perfect. He found himself wondering how useful she might be.
He took another sip. "Is it true you had an affair with Garry to get his endorsement?"
Her stretching stopped. She turned over, facing him. Her head resting on her arm.
"No," she said. "Gave a blowjob at his daughter's wedding—where I was the maid of honor."
She rolled back, eyes to the ceiling, taking a long exhale. "That got me the job. Not telling anyone got me his support," she said.
Dent chuckled.
She propped up on one elbow, sheets twisted at her waist. "Would you do it? Your best friend's daughter offers herself for a job?"
He eyed the champagne in the glass. "Depends."
She blinked. Not the answer she expected.
"If she's smart. If the friend's still useful," said Dent, finishing the drink and setting it aside. "Some bridges burn. Question is—do you have another way across? If yes, then sure."
"You are ruthless."
"I'm in this to win."
"But you don't always."
"Losses come with the territory. The trick is not getting hooked on the high—the rush that comes with the risk," he said, watching her fingers drift across her navel. "Who's your source inside Falcone's circle?"
"Sonny Santino," she said as if she were bored.
"Falcone's number two?" Dent's brow lifted, impressed.
"He was going through a divorce. Their lawyers used us to mediate."
"You fuck him too?"
She grimaced. "I don't do gangsters. That includes cops," she added with a smirk. "We met for drinks, outside the city, near the airport. Swapped info. I gave some, and got some."
"What'd he give you?"
She sat up, smirking. "That you were 100K down over poker—but paid it off the next day."
Dent smiled.
"They think you used Cobblepot's money. It's why Falcone steers clear of you. He doesn't want a war. Which, surprises me. Thought Carmine had more balls than that."
"When Cobblepot wages war, he hires lawyers," Dent said. "Falcone's got cash, but not like that."
Dent stood up. The plan clicked into place.
"You're going to tell Santino that you heard Flass went after a cop's wife."
Her eyes widened. "Did he?"
"Then say that's why Flass ended up in an ER in Tricorner. The cop retaliated."
"Who's the cop?"
"That's all you get," said Dent, moving toward her.
"Why tell him that?"
Dent pressed a hand to her shoulder and pushed firm until her back hit the bed. He didn't look at her face when he spoke, his eyes moved over her body. "Sonny will poke around. Talk to cops he's comfortable with. That'll be enough to stir the pot."
"Why do you want to do that?"
"Second favor—you're going to the Marseille tomorrow night around seven. It's a French restaurant in Downtown," he said, getting on top of her. "Elliot Carmichael is having dinner with his parents. I need a scene. Something loud. Tell him if Harvey Dent thinks he can scare you, he'd better think twice."
"And you'll get me a job at your old firm?"
"I give you my word," said Dent.