The Hillside Shipyard was one of their usual meeting points, an isolated section on Uptown's western edge.
Gordon passed an upturned dryer and the husks of soggy couches collapsing into themselves. Warehouse 523 stood ahead, its roof still mostly intact.
The rusted door shrieked as he dragged it open, then scraped shut behind him.
Inside, rats scattered across cracked concrete. He stepped to the center, the echo of his boots filling the silence.
In his inner coat pocket was a file rolled length wise, it pressed against his ribs as he dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a lighter and Marlbolos.
A quick flick of his thumb and a flame bloomed. He lit his cigarette, inhaled deep until the smoke scratched down his throat and filled his lungs.
Somewhere beyond the glow, rusted chains swayed. They clinked gently as rain tapped through cracks in the roof, dripping a slow, steady rhythm against metal.
He stood there, letting the noise crawl inside.
Past the fence that enclosed the Hills, Bullock and Johnson waited at the curb along the Narrow side. But here, alone, his thoughts turned.
Bronson stepping down meant Uptown tilted toward something worse. If that was even possible. His own escape plan flickered again, a whisper of leaving it all behind. Could he? With the wreckage he had made, would walking away be survival or cowardice?
Then he heard it.
A zip through the air.
Boots hit concrete.
They landed just ahead, swallowed by shadow.
A pair of white eyes blinked open.
Gordon raised an eyebrow. Loud entrance. Not his partner's usual style. He wasn't sure what it meant.
The eyes brightened and narrowed, searching like they were looking for something in him.
Gordon held the stare, matching it. What did he really know about the man behind the mask?
His hand brushed his mustache, he felt the file tucked into his coat. A killer wouldn't spend his nights buried in casework. That much he knew. He plucked it free, smoke hanging from his lips as he spoke.
"Found another victim," Gordon said at last. "Sophea Chae. Went missing six months ago." He stepped forward and held out the file.
A gloved hand with black gauntlets came from the dark and took it.
While he read, Gordon ran through the details, his voice carrying in the hollow space. The neighbor's testimony. The journal entry. The photograph. The dates Isaiah Carter gave in his statement.
"We found stashes similar to Pham's at Fuentes' and Schiff's. But we still don't have a connection between Vice and the four beat cops. Except for what you saw which we can't use."
"Thirty-six dates?"
"That's right," said Gordon. "Carter logged every drop and pickup he ran through Iverson. Called it his insurance policy." He flicked ash to the concrete, "We're trying think of where they might have kept the girls. We have a list of their properties. Iverson owned a few spots in Newark that might be promising. The rest are in residential zones. But a bunch of guys running in and out of there, would've raised too many red flags."
He handed the file back. Then, in a low voice:
"They kept them in the catacombs."
"What?"
"Cyrus Pinkney. The architect. Rumor was he linked his buildings with tunnels beneath the city."
"But it's not a rumor?"
"Hard to say if they're all connected, but there are some beneath Uptown. The cave walls in the photographs match the texture and color of the catacombs."
He handed over a folded map. Gordon opened it, the rustling sound was loud in the quiet.
"Marks show entry points beneath Elm. Tight squeezes, all of them, but Iverson and his men must have found a way in somewhere."
"So we check these spots?" said Gordon.
"They would've stuck close to the entry points to avoid getting lost. I've already sent someone to start at the south end. He should be making his way north toward Main Street."
Gordon's eyes lifted. "Partner of yours?"
"No. Your attacker on Elm."
"Right." Gordon nodded, folding the map. "A good Samaritan, like yourself?"
He dodged the jab. "You, Bullock, and Johnson should try Saint Luke's. There's a tomb beneath the altar. Might lead into the tunnels."
Gordon hadn't realized how much his quiet partner noticed. He snubbed out his cigarette, taking a moment to think.
"I'll see if Rusty and Chen can look into church, and I'll put Johnson and Bullock at the tunnel entrance near Main Street. They'll meet your man there. You and I will come in from the north."
"I work better alone."
"I know. But it's easier to omit than to lie. If your guy found something, he can show Bullock and Johnson and they'll vouch for it. If you and I find something, I don't have to say you were there."
The eyes narrowed. The voice came quiet, final. "It's your call."
Another concession.
"This is how we should play it. Keep it above board, if we're lucky Dent can get us a warrant for Iverson and the others."
His final words were low and quiet. "I'll meet you in North Elm."
Gordon watched him fire his gun and zip out of the warehouse. He left as loud as he had arrived.
The noise. The compromising. It wasn't an apology for breaking the rules, but a quiet show of deference.
Outside, Gordon slipped through the fence that ringed the Hills. His beige coat caught on the chain-link. Bullock's headlights swept the curb as he pulled up.
From the south, another set of lights flared. A door opened. The shine of a bald head gave it away.
"Snagged up, Jim?" said Chen, tugging the fence to help free him.
Rusty killed the headlights and stepped out. Bullock and Johnson followed. The four of them circled near the hood of Bullock's Plymouth, waiting.
"Well?" Bullock asked.
"He says the photographs were taken inside the catacombs. Thinks that's where they kept the girls."
"Catacombs?" Chen said. "Seriously?"
"Thought that was just bullshit," Rusty muttered.
"Even back in my day," Johnson said, "people whispered about secret tunnels that bootleggers used."
"They're real," Gordon replied, spreading the map across the hood. Rusty flicked on a flashlight, its beam washing over the paper. "Hope none of you are claustrophobic. It'll be tight. Stay on a straight path. No detours. If it gets messy, you turn back."
"How tight we talking?" Chen asked.
"Scared?" Rusty smirked, nudging Gordon. "We've crawled through worse."
"If he warned us, it isn't good," Gordon said flatly. "You and Rusty take Saint Luke's. There's a tomb beneath the altar. Could be an entrance to the tunnels there."
"Harv and Syd, take the one past Main," he continued, tapping his finger on the map. "You'll meet someone there. He's a friendly."
"The freak?" Bullock asked.
"No. A friend of his."
All four looked at him. "A friend?"
"Yeah. I'm just as surprised. Young guy, probably in a balaclava. He knows you're coming." Gordon folded the map and handed it to Bullock. "Once you're inside, look for signs of traffic. Handprints. Anything that says people've been moving through. Note everything."
They split after that.
Rusty and Chen rolled off toward Saint Luke's. Bullock dropped Gordon near Elm, where he flagged a cab north. Bullock and Johnson turned south toward Main.
In the back seat, Gordon let his head fall against the rest. Eyes drifted over the stained ceiling as the cab jolted through potholes. He exhaled slow.
Up front, the driver's lighter clicked. Flame sparked. The silence cracked with it. Smoke drifted back. Something coiled in Gordon's gut. Maybe it was working with a squad again, having men you can count comes with the risk of betrayal.