Chapter 7: THE VULTURE DESCENDS
The apartment smelled like blood and expensive cologne.
Jake stood in the middle of the living room, practically vibrating with excitement, pointing at evidence markers like a kid showing off Christmas presents. Three weeks of partnership, and I'd learned to read his moods. This was Jake at his best—engaged, focused, brilliant in the chaotic way that made him simultaneously infuriating and impressive.
"Okay, okay, okay." He paced between the overturned couch and the shattered coffee table. "Home invasion, right? Standard smash-and-grab. Except look at this." He gestured at the wall safe behind a crooked painting. "Safe's untouched. Who breaks into a place this nice and ignores the safe?"
"Someone who knew what they were looking for wasn't in it."
"Exactly!" Jake spun toward me, grinning. "The victim, Mr. Harold Chen, hedge fund manager, reported fifty thousand in jewelry stolen. But his insurance claim from last year lists twice that amount in the safe. So either he's lying about what was taken, or—"
"The thief knew the jewelry wasn't in the safe anymore."
"Because Chen moved it after the insurance assessment. Which means the thief knew Chen personally. Which means—"
"Inside job."
Jake's grin could have powered the Brooklyn Bridge. "Cole, we are cooking with gas today. We are absolutely destroying this case. One more interview—the business partner who found the body—and we're done. Case closed. Vulture-proof."
My stomach tightened at the word.
I knew what was coming.
"The Host looks nervous, and frankly, he should be. Detective Keith Pembroke, Major Crimes Division, has a ninety-three percent case closure rate and a zero percent likability score. He's about to walk through that door."
Three seconds later, the door opened.
Detective Keith Pembroke was exactly as awful as I remembered from the show. Tall, slick, with the kind of smile that made you want to check your wallet. He wore his suit like armor and his arrogance like cologne—overpowering and impossible to ignore.
"Peralta! Perfect timing." He strode into the room like he owned it. "Major Crimes is taking over. Thanks for warming the seat."
Jake's face went through about seven emotions in two seconds, settling on devastated confusion. "What? No. This is our case. We're literally about to close it."
"Were about to close it." Pembroke plucked the case file from Jake's hands with the casual cruelty of a cat batting at a mouse. "Key word: were. Now it's my case. Run along."
[KEITH PEMBROKE] [Standing: -40 (Smug Contempt)] [Flag: THREAT]
The System's assessment matched my own. This wasn't just a jerk—this was a predator who'd built his career on other people's work.
"You can't just—" Jake started.
"Major Crimes has jurisdiction on high-value property theft. Check the regs." Pembroke flipped through the file, not even looking at Jake. "Nice legwork, by the way. Very thorough. I'll be sure to mention your contribution in the footnotes."
He wouldn't. We both knew it.
Jake's shoulders slumped. The excitement that had been radiating off him seconds ago collapsed into something smaller, dimmer. I'd seen this exact moment play out on a TV screen years ago, and it had been funny then—Jake's nemesis getting the better of him, setting up future episodes.
It wasn't funny now.
"The Vulture feeds on the carcasses of other detectives' work. Appropriate name. Disgusting behavior."
I wanted to punch Pembroke. I wanted to use every ability I had to find something, anything, to take him down. My hands were actually shaking with the urge.
Instead, I stood very still and said nothing.
"Problem, Detective...?" Pembroke finally noticed me, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.
"Cole. No problem."
"Good. Clear the scene by noon. I've got a collar to make."
He walked out, case file tucked under his arm, leaving Jake standing in the middle of someone else's crime scene with nothing to show for three days of work.
[99th Precinct — 2:30 PM]
Jake ate gummy worms like a man trying to drown his sorrows in high-fructose corn syrup.
The bag was industrial-sized—the kind you bought for Halloween parties or emotional emergencies. Based on Jake's consumption rate, this qualified as both.
"I hate him." Gummy worm. "I hate him so much." Another gummy worm. "He does this every time. Every single time. I get close, he swoops in, and suddenly he's the hero and I'm the footnote."
Charles appeared with a small container. "Jake, I brought you a Manchego aged sixteen months. Studies show that artisanal cheese can reduce cortisol—"
"I don't want cheese, Charles!" Jake's voice cracked. "I want justice! I want the Vulture to choke on his own smug face! I want—" He stopped, looking at the cheese. "Actually, give me the cheese."
I watched from my desk, two seats away, remembering episode details I'd hoped to forget.
The Vulture always won. That was his thing. He was the recurring antagonist who existed to frustrate Jake, to represent every unfair advantage and stolen credit in a system designed to protect people like him. In the show, Jake eventually got small victories, but Pembroke never truly lost.
Except this wasn't a show anymore.
[OPTIONAL MISSION: Help Jake Defeat the Vulture] [Reward: 300 EXP, +15 Jake Relationship] [Risk: Professional consequences if caught] [Accept? Y/N]
"A choice, Host. The System doesn't usually offer optional missions. This one's... personal. Pembroke offends my professional sensibilities. Also, watching the sad one eat gummy worms is depressing."
I accepted mentally.
The mission flashed confirmed and settled into my peripheral vision.
"Jake." I stood, walked to his desk. "The case file. Did Pembroke take the full version or the field copy?"
Jake looked up, cheeks bulging with gummy worm. "Wha?"
"The file. Full or field?"
"Field, I guess. Why?"
"Because the full file's still in the system. With your notes. And anything you noticed that Pembroke didn't bother to read."
A spark of something flickered in Jake's eyes. Hope, maybe. Or revenge.
"I did notice a few things about the timeline..." He swallowed his mouthful. "But what's the point? Pembroke has jurisdiction. Even if I solve it better than him, he'll just take credit again."
"Will he? What if you solve it publicly? In front of witnesses who can verify it was your work?"
The spark grew brighter.
"Cole. Are you suggesting we sabotage a Major Crimes investigation?"
"I'm suggesting we make sure the right detective gets credit for the right work. If that embarrasses someone who doesn't deserve credit... well. That's just consequences."
Jake stared at me for a long moment. Then a grin spread across his face—not the manic excitement from the crime scene, but something sharper. Hungrier.
"I like the way you think, partner."
"And so the game begins. Try not to get fired, Host."
[99th Precinct — 11:45 PM]
The bullpen was empty.
Everyone had gone home hours ago. The overhead lights were dimmed to emergency levels, casting long shadows across the desks. My coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but I kept drinking it anyway. Caffeine was caffeine.
The case file spread across my desk, pages covered in Jake's handwriting and my own annotations. The official investigation, the witness statements, the timeline Pembroke was building toward his inevitable "brilliant" collar.
Except Pembroke was wrong.
Anomaly Detection had been whispering at me all day, a low hum of wrongness that I couldn't quite place. Now, alone with the data, I let it speak.
[ANOMALY DETECTED: Timeline inconsistency]
The highlight appeared around a witness statement—the business partner who'd "discovered" the break-in. His alibi was solid: dinner with his wife at a restaurant twelve blocks away during the estimated time of the crime.
But the receipt timestamp said 7:43 PM.
And the neighbor's statement said she heard breaking glass at 7:15.
And the restaurant was, by Google Maps, a twenty-two-minute walk from Harold Chen's apartment.
"Someone's alibi doesn't quite add up, Host. The business partner was supposedly eating dinner when the crime occurred. But if he left immediately after ordering, he could have made it to the apartment by 7:15. Just in time to 'break in' to a place he already had access to."
The business partner wasn't a witness.
He was an accomplice.
The girlfriend alibi—classic mistake. Harold Chen had trusted his partner, given him a key, probably shared details about where the real valuables were kept. Partner got greedy. Brought in a girlfriend or hired help to do the actual smash-and-grab while he established a convenient alibi.
Except the alibi had holes.
Pembroke hadn't noticed because Pembroke didn't read Jake's notes. The timeline discrepancy was buried in page twelve of Jake's field observations, scribbled in barely legible handwriting between doodles of what appeared to be Bruce Willis.
I circled the relevant sections. Drew arrows. Made the connection impossible to miss.
Then I left the annotated pages on Jake's desk.
"Subtle, Host. Very subtle. Nothing suspicious about mysteriously annotated evidence appearing overnight."
I tucked the pages under Jake's keyboard—visible enough to notice, hidden enough to seem accidental.
"He'll figure it out himself," I said to the empty room. "I'm just... organizing."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
The walk home took longer than usual. My brain wouldn't stop running scenarios. If Jake found the notes. If he followed the thread. If Pembroke realized someone was working against him.
But underneath the anxiety, something else hummed.
Satisfaction.
The Vulture was about to learn that the 99 wasn't easy prey.
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