Dent arrived at Kane Hospital with damp hair and a fresh suit. Rita's message still echoed in his head. He'd caught it just after stepping out of the shower: Gordon was hurt.
He didn't know what that meant yet, but if Loeb failed to hold the line it would only embolden his critics. The scent of blood always brought sharks, and when the old guard crumbled, weaker men showed their cracks. Dent hoped this fractured GCPD further, it would serve him in the long run.
He approached the ER entrance and spotted Bullock sitting on a concrete bench just outside the rain, a cigarillo burning low in his fingers. Rusty leaned against a nearby pillar, scowling. Chen sat beside Bullock, elbows on his knees. The tension in their expressions made it clear, they'd been talking, and it hadn't gone well. Bullock gave Dent a nod. Rusty turned to look.
"How is he?" Dent asked.
"They're doing X-rays," said Chen. "Making sure he didn't break his face."
"Where are Bronson and Gillis?"
"Inside with Gordon," Rusty said. "Johnson and Rita went to his place to tell his wife."
"How bad?"
"Might've broken a rib, and they're keeping him overnight," Rusty replied.
"Yeah, his eye's shot—blood red," Chen added. "And he lost a tooth."
"A tooth?" Dent said. "Who were they?"
"Flass's guys," Rusty said. "Fulman, Lorenzo, and Mazzocchi."
"Someone tipped them off," Chen muttered.
"Fucking O'Brien. I see that dumb Irish mick, I'm pulling every red hair out of his empty skull."
"What was Gordon doing out?" Dent asked.
They glanced at Bullock. He looked away.
"We had a lead, alright? Something the freak gave us. I already caught it from the Chief—I don't need it from you."
"What kind of lead?"
"Witnesses," Rusty said.
"What's the Chief thinking now?" said Dent.
"He's waiting on Loeb," Rusty said. "Thinks Flass's guys might've gone rogue."
"That's hopeful?" Dent asked.
"I don't buy it," Chen said. "Feels like Loeb wanted Jim to let his guard down."
"Probably," Rusty agreed.
Bullock took a drag and leaned back, elbows on the bench behind him. He stared into the street like he meant to strangle it.
Dent could see the rage simmering. It was raw visible and that was good. Uncontrolled emotion meant opportunity. Dent didn't intend to waste it.
He looked at Rusty and Chen. "Give us a minute?"
They slipped into the ER lobby, leaving the two of them alone.
Dent pulled out a cigarette and offered one. Bullock lifted his cigarillo in response.
Dent lit his own.
"It's my fault the ginger got jumped," Bullock said.
"That's not how I see it. The snitch tipped Flass's crew. We all thought Loeb pulled the plug."
"You think that was bullshit?"
"I think Loeb needs to look good right now, and catching a wanted criminal who's been terrorizing criminals and officers for a year and a half would be the kind of headline he'd like."
"Should've known better," Bullock muttered.
"He's not safe out there. Not after what he did to Flass."
An ambulance rolled in at the side entrance. Bullock watched it. "He was talking about Nebraska. Who the fuck goes to Nebraska?"
"Maybe he doesn't have to," Dent said.
"What, you going to make a deal with Loeb?"
"No."
"Then?"
"We've got an option."
It took Bullock a moment. "He ain't an option."
"Why not?"
"First, what the fuck are we going to do? Call him?"
"I've got a way."
"How?"
"The question isn't how. It's do we?"
Bullock took another drag. "And say what?"
"We tell him what happened. We tell him who. We tell him Gordon has two options: he splits, or he stays. But to stay means Loeb's guys need to back off."
"You think the freak'll spook them?"
"He already does."
Another drag. Longer this time. "I don't know. This crosses a line, Dent."
"Some lines need to be crossed. That's how I see it. Some are drawn by people with bad intentions, people who want to keep the status quo."
"Yeah, but the boys got lines too," said Bullock.
"Johnson's behind it. So is the Chief. Give it time—more will come over."
"They're just out of options and desperate."
"We all are."
Bullock looked away. "Working with the ginger is one thing. Talking to the freak? That's something else."
Dent dragged hard on his cigarette and flicked the ash. Smoke curled upward, ghosting in the hospital lights. Bullock kept puffing his cigarillo, reeking of burnt tobacco like always.
"You're right—we don't know what we're getting into. But that's the point. We try. If it all goes to hell, at least we'll know we did something."
Bullock smoked in silence, eyes narrowed. It was the most serious Dent had ever seen him. Also the quietest. Finally, he sat up straight and looked Dent in the eye.
"How do we reach him?"
Dent smirked.
They slipped away without a word to Rusty or Chen and climbed into the beat-up Plymouth. Bullock worked through his cigarillo in silence. No one spoke. Only the patter of rain filled the car as they sped down Main Street toward the Cherimoya building.
Inside, a man watched them from a chair by the entrance. Bullock gave him a glance but said nothing. They rode the elevator to the basement. Bao stood waiting, arms crossed, eyes cold. He gave Bullock a hard once-over.
"Where the fuck we going?" said Bullock as they entered the darkened tunnel.
Then the market came into view.
"Christ," Bullock muttered. "Whole damn place is wall-to-wall Asians."
Dent shot him a look, cleared his throat. "Keep your voice down."
"You think they don't already know we don't belong?"
"Just try, Harv."
They pushed through the crowd, aiming for casual, but Bullock's swagger gave him away. The rumpled coat. The eyes that never stopped moving. People clocked him for what he was, a cop.
When they reached the green steel door marked with a tribal red bird, it was already open. Bui stood in the frame, arms folded. Thanh Ha watched from beside him, her gaze locked on Bullock.
"This is not acceptable, Mr. Dent," she said.
"He's trustworthy."
"To you."
"We need a favor," said Dent.
"I don't do favors for police."
"You talk to the freak, right?" Bullock said. "We need to get a him a message. It's about his partner."
Her expression shifted. The tension in her jaw loosened. She glanced past them as the market began to hum again. Wordlessly, she stepped aside.
This time, Dent was led to a different room, a small corner office with the same chartreuse walls that felt too close. She sat behind a plain mahogany desk.
"What happened?" she asked before they could sit.
"Just tell him we need to meet," Bullock said.
Thanh studied him. "And you are…?"
"Gordon's temporary partner."
"This is the message?"
"Add that it's urgent and about Gordon," said Dent.
"What specifically?"
"That's between us and him," said Bullock.
"I don't carry messages between factions. If you want something, offer something."
"I don't do favors for black-market salesladies, or whatever the hell you are." Bullock snapped.
"Favor for favor, Detective."
"Spare me. I know how the streets work, but this ain't that." Bullock leaned in, bracing an arm on her desk. "I don't know why you're helping the freak—maybe he clears your competition. Maybe you like clean streets. I don't care. But you do it for free because I know that guy doesn't do favors. So you'll do this too. Tell him we need to talk. It's about Gordon."
He leaned back in his chair. Thanh watched him like appraising his words. Then she gave the slightest of smiles.
"I'll deliver your message."
"We appreciate it," Dent said.
They stood to leave.
"And if you'd be so kind," Thanh said, "deliver one for me. To Detective Gordon."
"Gordon?" Bullock asked.
"Tell him I'd like to meet. He can come to my restaurant ChimToria. He should tell the host he has a reservation."
"You own that place?" Bullock raised a brow.
She nodded.
"When?" Dent asked.
"Any time. Any day."
"He just shows up, and that's it?" Bullock said.
Thanh nodded again.
"We'll tell him," said Dent. "But he's not much of a talker."
"I suspected as much," she said.
When they left the room, Bullock leaned toward Dent. "So, what now?"
"We wait. Maybe he makes contact."
They were halfway down the hall when Bullock snapped his fingers. "Wait." He turned, spotting Thanh and Bui in a doorway mid-conversation.
"You two—either of you speak Cambodian?"
Their expressions shifted, suspicion sharpening.
"You mean Khmer?" Thanh said, cool and guarded. "No."
"Right, but with all the Asians out there, someone's gotta speak it. Or read it."
Bui crossed his arms. "Why do you care?"
Bullock took a step forward. Bui stiffened. Thanh touched his arm to calm him.
"There's this girl's journal it's in Khmer. It's evidence in a case. We need it translated."
"Why would we help you?" Thanh said.
"To help find a murder?" said Bullock. "Someone's targeting girls in Little Saigon, maybe you'd like to catch the fucker."
Thanh's eyes narrowed. "Say that again?"
"Gordon and I are on it. The freak, too. We've got three victims so far."
"They're all local?" Bui asked.
Bullock nodded.
Thanh exhaled, jaw tight, gaze fixed on Bullock. Then, a beat.
"I'll send someone."
Bullock gave a short nod. "Appreciate it."
He followed Dent back to the market.
Bullock scratched his chest, "We should tell the Chief and the Cap, what we did."
Dent nodded. "And the rest of the guys."
Bullock stopped, shaking his head. Hesitant like he was ashamed almost.
"They'll find out sooner or later." said Dent.
"Yeah, alright." said Bullock.
The Chief, Johnson, and now Bullock. Dent didn't know if it was too soon for hope, but he liked the feeling. The risk, the pressure, the way things were shifting. Pieces sliding into place. For once, the plan felt possible.