For two weeks, they'd been knocking on doors, gathering names, collecting statements. A few blues helped with house calls—Pollack and Fritzy, Morrow and Willis—they took statements, collected medical records, reporting it to Gordon who was leading the investigation.
Identification was the hard part. What they had wasn't whole bodies. Mostly bones. Too many of them. Dental and medical records would have to do the talking. The feds in Newark agreed to help. Loeb signed the papers but wouldn't give them so much as a broom closet, so Lee handled the transfers. Box after box of remains packed off to the mainland.
Gordon met with detectives from other neighborhoods, traded files, shook too many hands. He visited out-of-state families, sat across from forensic anthropologists. Through it all, the bruise on his cheek turned the color of spoiled mustard. People saw it. Their eyes always dropped there, but no one asked.
Everyone at the precinct helped. At least the ones who didn't transfer out.
Half the precinct was gone. The Captain hadn't seen it coming. Neither had the rest of the squad. Bronson didn't flinch. He was just glad there were still badges left. A few transfers trickled through. Bronson hoped more would follow. Gillis wasn't as hopeful.
Bullock and Gordon took a breather in the Plymouth. Rain had stopped, but the air hung damp. Most of the dents in the car were fixed, except one. A crater on the hood held a shallow pool of rainwater.
The Killer Croc stories hadn't vanished, but morphed into hushed talk. People calling it hype, or hoax. It amazed him how quick a story turned into rumor. None of it mattered. They still had work to do, leads to follow, and in this case. A woman to meet.
"Why the hell am I here? She wanted to talk to you." Bullock muttered, a cigarillo burning low in his fingers.
"I don't trust it," Gordon said, cleaning the new lenses in his glasses with a cloth Rusty's brother-in-law had given him.
"Do you trust anything?"
"You have a point," Gordon muttered, pushing open the door.
They stepped out, crossed the street, and entered the ChimToria. A few stragglers still lingered over late lunches. Gordon gave his name to the host—a wiry kid, maybe eighteen—who gave them both a long, unreadable stare before leading them to a booth near the back.
Dumplings and soup arrived without a word. Bullock glanced sideways at Gordon, shrugged, and downed a gulp of broth. Gordon hesitated, then finally dipped his spoon into the bowl, eyes on the room.
The waitstaff drifted between tables, murmuring apologies as they boxed up the remaining meals. One by one, the customers gathered their coats and vanished into the daylight.
Then the doors closed.
The click of the lock carried across the tiled floor.
Bullock shot Gordon a look. Before either could speak, a woman emerged from the kitchen. She slipped around a counter, her white áo dài shimmering like light catching on water.
"Detective Bullock," she said smoothly. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Is it? That's a first."
"Your candor is refreshing."
"Most say it's obnoxious."
"Only to those who can't handle it."
She looked to Gordon, "Detective," she said with a slight smile.
Her eyes returned to Bullock. "Have you ever had Kirin Lager?" she asked, hands clasped loosely in front of her.
"Nope."
She didn't need to signal. A cold white can appeared in front of him, dragon curling across the label. The waiter cracked it open with a hiss.
"Try it," she said.
Then she turned to Gordon. "Shall we?" Her hand swept toward the table at the center of the room, where another waiter set down a bottle of sake and two small cups. "Please."
Gordon stood, walked over, pulled out the wooden chair and sat. She poured sake into two porcelain cups, then took her seat across from him.
"You've done this neighborhood a service, Detective."
"Just doing my job."
"People aren't used to officers who care about justice."
"Plenty of them do."
"For your sake, I hope that's true."
Gordon's eyes drifted to Bullock, who watched from the booth, beer in hand, suspicion carved into his face.
"Why did you want to meet?" Gordon asked.
"I wanted to see the man who tamed a shadow."
He raised a brow. She didn't believe that. If she worked with him, she knew damn well he couldn't be controlled. It was a test to measure his edges. He leaned forward and threw back the sake in one smooth motion.
She refilled his cup without breaking eye contact, then sipped from her own.
"There are whispers," she said. "Loeb is planning something. I don't know what. But it involves Internal Affairs."
Gordon didn't blink. He just listened.
"I've also heard officers are fleeing your precinct."
He didn't bite. Instead his eyes shifted to the window, where red-painted birds stretched their wings. Their long tails trailed like ribbons bleeding across the glass.
"Chim Lạc, right?"
She nodded, but her gaze never followed his. It stayed fixed.
"Chim Lạc is a mythical Vietnamese bird," he said. "Toria's Japanese for bird. A fusion name."
A flicker crossed her brow. "Yes."
"So you're half."
"My father was Japanese."
"Met your mother in Vietnam?"
"You know your history."
"After the occupation, some soldiers stayed. Settled down. I served with men who lived those stories."
She took a long sip of sake, set the cup down with care.
"You're exactly what I expected."
"How's that?"
"A man full of quiet desperation."
"You mean a man built to be cannon fodder," Gordon said, lips curling into something like a smile.
Her answer was one too. A slight curve of her lips.
"The Roman and Cobblepot are feuding," she said. "Cobblepot's been hiring non-union labor for construction. He's been at it a while. Falcone controls the trade unions, so naturally he's not happy. They want restitution. They won't get it."
"Cobblepot? The one they call Penguin?"
Her hand twitched. A drop of sake slid from her cup. She caught his stare, then drained it and set it down, empty.
"Use the distraction," she said. "Fortify your position inside GCPD. I've seen what men like that become when pushed. There's always a price to be paid when you move against evil. It's best to be prepared."
"I know the cost."
She studied him. "I don't think either of you know the price."
"You might be right. But we won't go down without fight." He took his cup and rose from his chair then downed it in own gulp. "Thank you for the food. And the drinks."
He turned to Bullock, who slid out of the booth, beer finished, face unreadable.
Back in the car, they pulled from the curb and drove down the street. Bullock broke the silence.
"Well, what did she want?"
"Know your enemy…know their friends."
"She was sizing you up?"
"Yes." said Gordon watching the streetlight turn red and thinking, "The Penguin. What do you know about him?"
Bullock winced. "First, don't say that name out loud. Second, what did she say?"
"He used non-union workers which upset the Roman," said Gordon. "I know Cobblepot owns the casinos. Heard he's from one of Gotham's old families."
"Half right. He runs the casinos, sure. But his family wasn't one of the founding five. It's a line that family has been pushing for years."
"And the name?"
"He's…short."
"I know he has dwarfism. I meant why no one says it."
Bullock was quiet for a beat. His hand gripping the wheel.
"Rumors," he finally said. "The one I heard was about an outsider. Some guy went to one of his casinos called him Mr. Penguin. Later that night, they say he stuck the guy in an oil drum and lit it on fire. After doing the same to his wife."
Gordon raised a brow. "Just a rumor though?"
"Same thing I said about the freak when he first showed up. Now I'm carpooling with his partner."
Gordon smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You have a point."