[Holt's Office – Later That Afternoon]
Captain Holt sat behind his desk, spine rigid as ever, eyes scanning the open case file in front of him. The blinds were mostly shut now. Outside, the sky had gone from bright to a sullen gray-blue. The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of papers and the tick of a wall clock.
Detective Rosa Diaz sat across from him, her posture relaxed, but her eyes locked on the captain. Her face was unreadable, as usual. Stoic. Detached. But her tone, when she finally spoke, carried a blade.
"That rookie isn't a rookie."
Holt didn't look up yet. He turned another page in the file. "Explain."
Rosa folded her arms. "At the scene, he broke it down like he'd been doing this for years. Not just a hunch. He tracked blood spatter, identified poisoning, flagged inconsistencies. He noticed that muddy rug and the bathroom water trail before anyone else. Even our forensic guy wasn't that fast."
"He could be exceptionally observant," Holt replied calmly.
"That's not all." Rosa leaned forward slightly. "The takedown he used on the roommate. It wasn't a standard academy maneuver. He mimicked the NYPD style to blend in, but the move itself was something else. Like Judo, if you ask me. He didn't hesitate. He moved like he was trained to end it in one step."
Holt finally looked up. His face was as unreadable as Rosa's.
"You're sure?"
"I'm not guessing," Rosa said. "I've taken down over a hundred suspects. I know what a real rookie looks like. They hesitate. They ask questions. They fumble. White knew exactly what to do, like he'd seen that exact scene before and just hit replay."
Holt closed the file and steepled his fingers.
"You're asking if I believe he's more than he claims to be."
"I'm saying I know he is. You knew too, didn't you?"
A pause. The clock ticked again.
"What are you really asking me, Detective?"
"I want to know if I can trust my partner."
Holt leaned back in his chair. The weight of the question hung between them.
"Officer White was assigned here under unusual circumstances. I was given orders not to question those circumstances. Only to observe. You're not wrong to be suspicious. But I will remind you that suspicions aren't facts."
Rosa narrowed her eyes.
"He's too sharp. Too calm. Either he's a spy, a fed, or something we haven't seen before. And if he's hiding something, I'll find it."
"I don't doubt you will." Holt's tone remained even. "But until then, he is under you. Treat him as such. If he's here for the right reasons, we don't want to drive him underground. If he's not... We'll need someone close enough to see it coming. And you are the most capable and cautious detective in this department."
Rosa stood.
"I'll watch him."
She turned to go.
"Detective Diaz," Holt said, just as she reached the door.
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"Be careful."
"I got a big knife. I'll be fine."
She walked out.
Behind her, Holt looked down at the file that had come into his office a few hours ago after he tried to investigate Raymond. Thin. Too thin. One page. No training scores. No psych eval. No academy photos.
Just a name.
Raymond White.
And one line beneath it.
"Clearance Level: Black. Do Not Inquire."
Holt closed the file and locked it in the drawer.
...
[Bullpen – Moments Later]
Outside Holt's office, the Nine-Nine was alive with its usual chaos. Phones rang off the hook. Desks were cluttered with open files, coffee cups, and half-eaten snacks. Somewhere, someone was microwaving fish again, prompting at least three disgusted groans.
At the center of it, Jake Peralta stood near the whiteboard, staring at the updated "Solved Cases" tally with the intensity of a man watching his fantasy football team lose in real time.
"No. No. No. No!" Jake said, jabbing a finger at the board. "How did this happen? I was ahead by one this morning."
Amy Santiago stood beside him, arms crossed, smug as ever.
"I closed the Port Jefferson identity theft ring, Jake. That's five cases in one op. You can check the paperwork if you don't believe me."
Jake narrowed his eyes. "I did. Three were just overdue parking tickets, one was a guy who accidentally logged into someone else's Netflix account, and the fifth was an eighty-year-old grandma who paid for groceries with a fake twenty by mistake."
Amy raised an eyebrow. "Still counts. Crime is crime."
Jake groaned and looked around for support. "Rosa! Back me up here."
Rosa walked past without slowing. "Not my problem."
Jake turned to Boyle, who was happily eating what looked like a meatball sub soaked in Sriracha.
"Boyle?"
"Technically, Amy's right," Boyle said between bites. "But morally, you're the winner."
Jake smiled. "Thank you. That means absolutely nothing, but I appreciate your loyalty."
Amy checked the ping on her computer screen and smirked. She then walked up to the board and added another tally next to her name, the marker squeaking with finality.
"Another murderer, caught. The DNA result came positive."
"You can't just... okay, fine. I'm gonna solve ten cases today. Watch me."
"You have two open ones and one of them is a missing cat."
"Yeah, and it's a Maine Coon. Those things are like mini lions. It matters."
Rosa stopped by her desk and grabbed her folder. Raymond White sat at the neighboring desk, quietly organizing his notes. He hadn't spoken since returning from the field.
Amy glanced at him.
"Hey, Officer White. Settling in?"
Raymond nodded. "Trying to."
Jake gave him a quick once-over. "So… how's it going with Rosa? Has she threatened to murder you yet?"
Raymond looked at Rosa, who didn't even glance up.
"Not yet," he said.
Jake chuckled. "That's actually impressive. I think she threatened to stab me with a pen on my second day."
"You used my coffee mug," Rosa said without looking up.
"It was a Batman mug. I thought we were bonding."
"You're not Batman."
"Yet."
Amy sighed and turned back to her computer. Rosa stood, slapped her folder shut, and looked at Raymond.
"Let's go. We've got another one."
Raymond followed her without a word.
Jake watched them leave, then turned to Boyle.
"Okay, tell me I'm not crazy. That guy is too calm. Like, serial killer calm."
Boyle wiped sauce off his chin. "Maybe he's just really disciplined."
"Or maybe," Jake said, eyes narrowing, "he's hiding something."
Amy didn't look up from her screen.
"He's a rookie, Jake. Not everyone has to be a conspiracy. Besides, imagine being assigned to Diaz. Poor guy."
Jake leaned against her desk.
"Do you not remember when the vulture transferred in? Or when Teddy tried to bug our precinct? Or when Holt went deep cover at that jazz bar? Trust me, the signs are always there."
Amy rolled her eyes. "So what's your plan? Spy on him?"
Jake grinned. "Exactly."
Boyle fist-pumped. "Oh, we're doing this. We're doing a stealth op."
Amy shook her head. "You two are children."
"Yeah," Jake said, already pulling out his phone to start a "Mission Log." "But we're children with a hunch."
From across the bullpen, Terry walked in carrying a file in one hand and a banana in the other.
"Whatever you're planning, don't."
Jake froze. "How did you..."
"You always plan dumb things when Amy passes you in the rankings. Pranks, jokes, spying. Don't. You have three open cases. I need them on my desk by the end of the day."
"Fair."
"Now get to work before Holt hears."
Jake turned back to his desk, muttering. "Still gonna spy. Just gonna do it quietly."
Boyle leaned in. "Operation Rookie Watch?"
Jake smiled. "You know it."
...
[Crime Scene – 3:10 PM | Brownstone Apartment, Williamsburg]
The street outside buzzed with chatter and the distant wail of a siren. Inside, the building was silent. Cold. The kind of silence that settles after something terrible has happened.
The front door hung half-open. Yellow tape fluttered at the frame. Rosa and Raymond stepped inside. The hallway smelled like bleach and old wood. Blood still clung to the floor in dark smears, already half-dried in patches.
Rosa didn't say anything at first. She motioned toward the stairs.
"Victim's upstairs. Janet Mason, 42. Neighbors say they heard shouting. By the time they forced their way in, she was already dead. Her ex-husband, Loyd Preston, was crawling down the steps with a broken ankle and blood all over him."
Raymond scanned the hallway, eyes landing on the faint drag marks near the stairs, the broken banister, and the cracked wooden step.
"Neighbors?"
"Two. Elderly couple from next door. Heard the fight, tried to intervene. Found the guy on the landing, screaming. No one else was here."
She stepped aside.
"Lead."
Raymond didn't hesitate. He moved carefully, every step measured. No wasted movement. Rosa followed a few paces behind, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.
Upstairs, the bedroom was a mess. Clothes strewn. Dresser open. Blood spatter marked the cream walls in slashes. Janet Mason's body lay near the bed, limbs twisted, face partially covered by her own hair. Her throat had deep bruises. Her abdomen had been stabbed multiple times, but only after death, judging by the clean blood pattern.
Raymond stepped in, eyes darting. He crouched low beside the body, careful not to touch anything.
"She was choked. Look at the bruises. Two-handed grip. Aggressive. Lots of pressure," he said.
Rosa nodded silently.
"But that's not what killed her. Look at the ligature marks under the bruises. Rope burn. Thin, synthetic fiber. Probably a bag strap."
He stood, walked to the far wall, and bent slightly to inspect a scuffed patch on the floor.
"She fought back. There was a struggle. Probably kicked the attacker into the dresser."
Rosa scanned the blood near the body.
"Stab wounds came after?"
"Postmortem. Angled downward. No defensive wounds. Whoever did it, they wanted it to look emotional. Messy. Personal."
He turned and looked toward the hallway.
"But it's too perfect. Neighbors catch the guy crawling down the stairs, ankle shattered, blood all over him. Sounds open and shut."
He walked out and down the stairs slowly, stopping halfway.
"Right here. Look."
He pointed to a broken step near the landing.
"He slipped here. Fresh splinters, one's still got his blood on it. But..."
Raymond knelt and examined the blood trail.
"Only blood after this point. His trail starts here. None leading from the bedroom. So how did he get covered in blood before falling?"
Rosa's expression didn't change, but her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
Raymond beat her to it. He crossed the space in five steps, stopping in front of the sink. The faucet was dripping slightly. A streak of red ran down the drain.
"Someone washed up. Or tried to."
He checked the soap bottle.
"Still damp. Used recently."
Rosa opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Inside sat a wet towel, balled up. She held it up with a pen. It was stained red and brown.
Raymond was already scanning the counter.
"Cutting board's missing. Look at the spot. Dust outlines."
He pointed. "There. The killer tried to clean up, got spooked by the neighbors banging at the door. Maybe dumped the board. Maybe not."
Rosa checked her watch.
"Crime scene techs still twenty minutes out."
Raymond moved to the hallway again. His eyes narrowed. He crouched next to a row of shoe prints.
"Two sets. One small. One larger, wider gait. The small ones lead in. But only the large ones come out."
He stood and looked at Rosa.
"He wasn't alone."
Rosa's eyes narrowed.
"I'm listening."
Raymond paused, then pointed out the window.
"Fire escape. Mud on the sill. Same garden soil as the last case."
"Preston?"
Raymond shook his head.
"He's too heavy to climb out that way with a broken ankle. Someone else was here. And they left in a hurry."
Rosa didn't answer for a moment. She stepped back and looked over the scene again with new eyes.
Finally, she said, "Neighbors saw Preston screaming, covered in blood. But if the timing's right..."
Raymond finished it for her.
"Someone framed him. Preston must have had a fight with our killer, probably wounded that person, and even tried to chase our killer, but slipped, broke his ankle. Take a DNA sample from our prime suspect. Check under his nails for scraping. Also, check that poor woman's undernails and toes. You might get something."
Rosa gave a nod to the forensic guy, "Do what he told."
Then she turned to Raymond.
"Walk with me."
[Rooftop – Moments Later]
The roof of the brownstone was quiet. Wind skimmed over the ledge, tugging at loose threads on the old brickwork. A rusted vent clinked as it shifted slightly under the weight of a pigeon.
Rosa leaned against the ledge, arms crossed. Raymond stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, waiting.
She stared out over the city. Said nothing for a moment.
Then:
"Who are you?"
Her voice was sharp, no preamble. No curve in the question. Straight shot.
Raymond didn't blink. "Raymond White."
"Try again."
A pause.
He looked at her, then moved slowly to the ledge, putting one hand on the warm brick.
"Ah! Oh! You mean to say, how the hell is a rookie doing all these things on his very first day, and this guy doesn't look like a rookie at all? Who the hell is he? Am I close enough?" He asked.
"Yeah. Go on. I'm listening," Rosa said.
"There's nothing to explain. You told me to lead, and I did." He walked over to her and stood before her. His eyes were locked to hers. "And all these questions you are having... It's called jealousy. I'm simply better than when you were a rookie, and you can't accept that fact. I'm still better than the present you." He pretended to sniff. "Do I smell a burn?"
Rosa couldn't control her urge to punch him in the face, and so she did, but Raymond caught her hand and pressed her against the wall.
"You don't remember me, do you? It's been 6 years after all. But I do remember you. Use that head and think about what you did 6 years ago. It wasn't a big deal for you, but what you did that day changed my life, and here I am. Think hard, Detective Diaz."
With that, Raymond left the rooftop.
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