Rusty and Chen headed to Midtown. O'Malley's and Shiff's were theirs to cover. Lee went to Pham's to snap a photo of the carving on the headboard, and Johnson went with Gordon and Bullock to Fuentes' place in Robbinsville.
Bullock peeled the crime tape from the doorframe and pushed inside.The air held that shut-in stink of old takeout, marijuana, and a hint of tobacco. Framed posters leaning against bare walls.
Gordon moved straight to the bedroom and stopped cold. Bullock followed, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
Johnson stopped at the doorway.
The mattress was propped against the wall, and on the exposed box spring sat a glass vial, a stack of photos, and a book.
"Looks like he's a step ahead," said Johnson.
"Of course the freak is," Bullock muttered.
Gordon said nothing. He stepped forward, pulled on his gloves, and crouched low to examine the items.
Bullock followed suit, snapping on his own.
"That the poison?" Bullock asked.
"Report said it was diluted. Only dangerous if swallowed," Gordon replied.
Johnson reached for the book.
A matte black cover, pebbled like reptile hide. Stamped into it, a spindly figure crouched with antlers sprouting, tail coiled, arms stretched toward a circle with symbols inside.
He thumbed it open. The brownish pages discolored from age and smelling of dust. Then, halfway through, he found it: a scrap of paper wedged deep in the gutter.
He unfolded the paper and written in all caps:
Symbol is the demon Bael. From Lesser Keys of Solomon. Provides invisibility and wisdom to those who invoke him.
He figured it was meant for Gordon. He handed it over.
Gordon took the slip, read it aloud, and tucked it into his coat like he'd done it a hundred times.
Bullock was perched on the box spring, eyes on the photographs.
Johnson stood over him, "What do those show?"
"Nasty fucking shit. And her," Bullock said, holding up a photo of Lan Nguyen.
Something turned in Johnson's gut. Regret and something worse. Nguyen, bound and bleeding, lay curled on her side. Bullock flipped through the rest. Every image was a different girl, every face obscured by hoods or balaclavas, every moment caught mid-scream.
"What do you got?" Bullock said.
"A book—an occult book, to be specific. The note said wisdom?" said Johnson.
"The only thing these guys have is a fucked-up mind."
"And invisibility." said Gordon, his pager beeped. He glanced at it.
Bullock's pager sounded off too, he moved to a phone on the nightstand beside the bed and dialed.
Johnson watched Gordon work it over in silence, his bruised jaw flexing like he was chewing on something. His eyes laser focused on a thought.
Even with his face banged up as it was, Gordon had a quiet intensity that stilled the room. It was the first thing Johnson had noticed when Gordon showed up in Gotham. It unsettled most of the guys. They were used to loud and brash, or quiet and brash. Gordon was neither. Not quiet. Just silent. Not brash. But controlled emotions. Bullock was right, he picked his words like they cost him something.
Gordon pulled the note from his pocket and read it again, slower this time. Like something in his head had just started lining up.
Bullock hung up the phone. "Rusty says they found the same shit at Schiff's. Two vials, more photos, another book. Paulie's wrapping up. They're heading to O'Malley's next."
Gordon checked his watch. "Meet them there. I need to make a stop. I'll get a cab back."
"Can't let you go off solo," Bullock said.
"I need to go alone."
"Fuck that. We'll wait in the car."
Gordon looked from one to the other. Johnson couldn't read him exactly, but he knew what he was watching for. Not a fight. A measure of trust. A gut check. The kind you make before stepping into something deep.
Then came the small nod.
Johnson slid into the back seat, needing room to think. But Gordon cracked a smile when Johnson admitted that Bullock's driving made him queasy.
They drove for two blocks across Uptown. The rain picked back up. Drenching the streets and the crowds. Eventually, the silence ate at Bullock who couldn't hold back.
"We all thinking the same shit?"
"What's that?" said Gordon.
"Demon books, symbols, hoods—this whole thing's some kind of damn ritual, isn't it?"
"Possibly," said Johnson.
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
"Tell me something, Syd—Solomon was a good guy, right?"
"Yes. King, to be specific."
"Why would he summon demons?"
"The Lemegeton—or The Lesser Keys of Solomon—is not scripture, but apocrypha meaning its old but not canonical. The idea was, you learn evil by commanding it. Keep it in chains using divine authority."
"And the other book?"
Johnson raised the bagged book, its plastic crinkling. "Grimorium Verum. It means 'True Grimoire.' And it's exactly what you think. A manual for summoning, bargaining, and binding. Demons."
"This shit can't get any stranger," said Bullock.
"It can," said Gordon.
Johnson set the book down beside him, placed a gentle hand on Bullock's seat to pull himself forward. "Speaking of which. Some of the guys have been talking."
Gordon's eyes moved to the street. "Oh?"
"We noticed he went easy on cops. Some of the guys wondered why. Most of us figured we'd never get an answer."
Gordon was quiet for a moment. "I never told him not to."
"But you said something."
"All I said to him was if this was personal—if this was just revenge—I wanted no part of it. I didn't become a cop to settle scores. And…" Gordon hesitated a moment, "to minimize the gore and bone-breaking."
"Well, so much for that," Bullock muttered.
Gordon didn't respond.
Johnson tapped Bullock's shoulder. "You think it was personal?"
Bullock scoffed. "You heard what he did to Brandon."
Gordon nodded. "That was rage."
"And Flass? What was that?" Johnson asked.
Gordon exhaled through his nose. "That was…impulsive and stupid. I shouldn't have done it."
"He threatened your wife," Bullock said. "If someone threatened my hot wife, I'd deck 'em too."
"Don't call her that."
"What? She is hot."
"I don't like it."
"I thought we moved past all that tight-ass bullshit."
Johnson smirked. "You say it was impulse—but you lied to Morrow and Willis, asked for Flass's vehicle details, figured out how to get to Newtown. That's not impulsive rage. That's strategy."
Gordon turned his head slightly. "What's your point?"
"Men like Flass succeed in this city. Hell, everyone who thinks like that does."
"Don't get all philosophical, Syd," Bullock grumbled.
Johnson rested his elbows on either seat. "You let the rot spread long enough, it grows things you can't control. What happened to Flass might've felt personal, but it wasn't. It's what comes when you let wrong sit too long." He sat back in his seat, glanced at the plastic-wrapped book like it might bite him. "Your partner is just the reckoning they've earned for all the wrongs they got away with."
"You sound like a fan," Gordon said, half-turned now.
"Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm a realist who sees where we're headed and is trying to stop it."
"We're already there," said Bullock.
Johnson eyes fell on the city blurring past the windows. Bullock's voice shook him from his thoughts.
"What is it, Syd?"
Johnson glanced at his hands. "What I say?"
"Stays here," said Bullock, nudging Gordon.
"Right."
Johnson nodded. "Chief's got stage four lung cancer."
Bullock gripped the wheel. "Shit."
"Doctor's say he probably won't make it to Christmas," Johnson looked at both.
He could see the wheels in Bullock's head turning, but Gordon was stone.
"He'll make the announcement soon."
"Who does he think Loeb will put in his place?" said Bullock.
"From what we hear, he might move a Midtown chief."
Bullock's brow raised. "That's a change."
"He's going to tighten his hold in Uptown, put some more loyal guys up here."
Bullock stared out the windshield. "Jesus."
No one spoke for the rest of the ride. The air in the car thickened, slow-cooked tension pressing down. Johnson stared at the book.
Deals with devils. Symbols carved in headboards. Girls who never made it home. He didn't know who the masked man was. But a soul chasing this kind of evil wasn't his enemy. In Johnson's eyes, that made him something rare in Gotham. An ally.