The fountain pen scratched across paper, leaving behind a beautifully written cursive signature.
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.
Cobblepot and Bob stood together in the lobby of the East End Precinct, raising the donation contract for the reporters and officers present to see. Camera flashes fired in rapid succession and enthusiastic applause filled the room.
"Mr. Cobblepot, on behalf of all the officers of the East End Precinct and the citizens of Gotham, I thank you for your generous donation in supporting our fight against crime."
Bob extended his hand and shook Cobblepot's firmly. Cobblepot maintained his characteristic expression, responding to the scattered questions from reporters. Only after the ceremony finished and people gradually dispersed did he casually walk over to Marco and ask quietly, "Officer, are you satisfied?"
A trace of darkness flickered between his brows, but it disappeared in an instant.
The car had originally belonged to the husband of a D.C. congresswoman, stolen last year and never recovered. If Marco had accepted the gift and driven it for just two or three months, word would naturally reach that congresswoman. Combined with the secretly arranged photographs during the check presentation, an anonymous tip to Internal Affairs, and bank statement verification, this combination would be enough to kick this overly bold rookie officer out of the force.
After that...
But what he hadn't expected was that this cop wouldn't be dazzled by the windfall at all. Instead, he'd insisted on donating everything to the precinct. Seeing Bob's face grinning so wide it almost couldn't close, he felt something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.
Still, this wasn't the time to turn hostile. At the very least, he had to settle this business cleanly first. He stood beside Marco and bowed slightly.
"If you're satisfied, then..."
"No problem, Mr. Cobblepot." Marco smiled and stood up. "I'll walk you out."
The two of them walked slowly to the precinct doors. Marco raised one finger and said quietly:
"One question, Mr. Cobblepot. Answer one more question and we're even."
Cobblepot nodded with a polite smile. "Please."
"That day... where did you take the witness?" Marco frowned. "I know it was in the shopping district, but I was watching the convoy almost the entire time."
"In the shopping district. Do you remember, on one of the streets, there was a delivery truck?" Cobblepot's voice held a hint of pride. "When you turned the corner up ahead, I got out with Cuevas and Gabe and hid in that truck."
"In those ten seconds? Was that a team you arranged in advance?"
"No, pure improvisation." Cobblepot shook his head lightly. "Anything arranged beforehand risks a leak. But a split-second decision? No one expects it. Besides, parking, getting out, climbing into the truck, the whole process took maybe seven seconds. You up front had already turned the corner, and the people following behind hadn't caught up yet. The driver in the Crown was my man. He kept watch on Hagrove and followed your group. Afterward, we took control of the delivery truck's driver and used that vehicle to reach Don Falcone's estate."
"Hm..." Marco nodded slowly, processing. "But that plan carried huge risk."
"Indeed. Great risk." Cobblepot smiled. "But everything carries risk. Your route might have been riskier. After all, you can't underestimate Mooney's instability, and Don Falcone's will matters most."
"True." Marco paused. "But why were you so certain Mooney would openly oppose him?"
Cobblepot's smile widened. "That's your second question."
"Fair point." Marco looked at the cars entering and leaving the parking lot, silent for a moment, then glanced back at Cobblepot. "Honestly, Mr. Cobblepot, though you did use our entire team as bait, if I were you, to achieve the goal, I'd probably have done the same thing. You're cold and ruthless, but very clever."
"Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment." Cobblepot extended his hand. "Don Falcone invites you to visit his estate at 2 PM. this Thursday."
His hand hung in the air, his smile warm and enthusiastic. Marco stared at the offered hand for a long moment before finally extending his own.
The two hands touched. It felt like two blocks of ice scraping against each other.
"As you wish. I'll be there on time."
---
Thursday afternoon.
Just two days away.
Marco sat at his desk thinking for a moment, then jumped up and headed for the chief's office.
This time Bob wasn't busy hiding money. Having just sent off the reporters, he seemed in quite a good mood, lying back in his chair, lighting a cigarette, savoring the moment. When he saw Marco walk in, he pointed at the chair across from him.
"I don't need to sit, Chief. I need a favor." Marco leaned forward. "Get Logistics to fix up the G20 for me."
"Huh? Didn't you say you weren't going to repair it? And the damage report shows it's barely worth the labor costs." Bob was surprised. "You're not seriously planning to fix it up and sell it for fifty bucks, are you?"
"No, no need to restore it perfectly, just make sure it barely runs. The worse it looks, the better. The Roman invited me to his estate next Thursday."
"Well, you don't have to... I mean, showing up in your patrol car wouldn't look great, but I can lend you something better."
"No." Marco shook his head. "If I show up in a wreck, maybe I get something out of it."
"Ah?" Bob's eyes lit up. "No problem, I'll call Logistics right now. Also..." He picked up the internal line, said a few words, and hung up. "Good news: the report about establishing a rapid-response unit in the East End has been submitted. We should hear back soon. And next month the department's holding evaluations. I'll get you an acting detective position... though you know that doesn't come with much real authority. And you'll still have to do patrol work."
Detective wasn't a required promotion path for officers, more like a professional credential that came with an additional stipend depending on caseload.
Of course, FBI agents didn't count.
"What's this? What about my stipend? Didn't you say Homicide was short-staffed?"
Actually, this worked perfectly for him. He just wanted to earn money steadily and wasn't eager for a detective role. In Gotham, if only seven or eight murders happened in a day, that was considered a blessing. If he got transferred to Homicide, he'd never sleep.
But he definitely couldn't say that out loud. How else would he negotiate?
"You'll get it." Bob let out a long sigh. "If a homicide case can't be solved, we can request help from Central, or stall until nobody remembers it. Worst case, we find some lowlife to pin it on. But an East End patrol car not on the streets? Everyone notices. Now Darnell's in the hospital, if I reassign you too..."
"How the hell am I supposed to manage? Look at those idiots outside!" He jabbed a thumb toward the window blinds, veins throbbing on his forehead. "Ethan, that dumbass, let a couple working girls give him a handjob in the patrol car while on duty. And a passing journalist caught it on camera."
"Damn it. The city should just fire everyone with an IQ under fifty." He looked up at Marco. "Got any way to solve this problem?"
"What do you want me to do? I'm not the one getting jerked off!" Marco's mind nearly exploded. "I'm not a damn miracle worker."
"Hey! If you can solve this, I'll fast-track your application for an armored vehicle. Brand new. All fuel, repairs, and modifications fully reimbursed." Bob grinned slyly. "All I need is a reasonable explanation for City Hall."
"That's not much leverage. Besides, I don't pay for gas anyway." Marco thought for a moment. "Change his personnel file. List him as probationary, not permanent. Say the department terminated him immediately upon discovery of misconduct as a disciplinary example. Shows the precinct takes violations seriously and acts swiftly."
"Wow! Where do you get these ideas?"
Where do I get them? Probationary employees exist to take the fall. That's literally their function.
Bob looked like he was about to hug him. Marco pushed him away in disgust.
"Back off. I have another question."
"Ah!" Bob exhaled deeply and sat back down, visibly refreshed. "Ask. Anything I know."
"You said before that if Mooney went crazy, she might attack the precinct. But I don't feel like she has the power to be that..." Marco shook his head. "Threatening?"
"Of course not. They're a mob, not an army. We have the manpower and the guns, if they attacked head-on, not even the Roman would try it, let alone Mooney. Rabble on a battlefield. No amount of PKMs changes that. But the problem is, we have families and friends outside. We can't stay in the station forever. That's why the mob is dangerous."
"I see." Marco nodded. "By the way, after I was hospitalized, what happened to the survivors?"
"Gordon took them. Hagrove was deemed mentally unstable and sent to Arkham Asylum." Bob paused, looking at Marco with amusement. "And Falcone, for some reason, SWAT said he filed a false report and gave him a good beating. Know anything about that?"
"Huh? Uh... no, no idea." Marco said with slight guilt. "But I heard he's one of Zsasz's men. SWAT shouldn't pick fights with them. Coerced confessions... aren't good. Maybe we should take him back?"
"Huh? Fine, I'll call headquarters." Bob jabbed a finger at him. "Now get out. I've got a report to write for the city."