Three days later!
"What the fuck, how did you pick up a Boston accent so fast?!"
"What the fuck, how is your shooting so accurate?!"
"What the fuck, you memorized all the Boston gang slang?!"
Leonardo felt like he had been hit with a ten-ton blow.
Martin learned things way too fast.
And it wasn't just Leonardo who felt this way—the rookie officers who had graduated from the police academy around the same time and joined the patrol team were just as shocked.
Now, whenever these newbies got scolded by their superiors, the most common phrase they heard was:
"Why are you all so damn useless? Look at Martin! Even an actor is doing a better job than you!"
After a week as a patrol officer, Martin was transferred to the plainclothes unit.
Leonardo was transferred as well.
The difference was that Martin was moved because he had learned too fast—there was nothing left for the patrol team to teach him.
Leonardo, on the other hand, was transferred because... well, time was running out. He had to move on to learn new things in the plainclothes unit.
But that wasn't a problem. The film crew would hire experienced Boston police officers as consultants later, so anything he didn't know, he could learn while filming.
To get a more comprehensive understanding, Martin and Leonardo even followed the plainclothes detectives to a few real crime scenes—Martin went voluntarily, while Leonardo was dragged along.
During an armed robbery case, Martin used his sharp observational skills to spot a key clue, helping the police solve the case quickly.
"Hey, guys! Officer Martin Meyers is buying drinks tonight! Don't leave after your shift—let's grab a round together!"
Right before the shift ended, Martin jumped onto a chair, waving a handful of crisp green bills. It was the reward money he had earned for solving the case.
"Ohhh!"
"Martin! Martin! Martin!"
The entire office erupted into cheers, with the plainclothes detectives chanting his name in unison.
Leonardo couldn't help but feel a little envious.
Lately, he had been trying to win people over like Martin by throwing money around, and while it had helped him get closer to the officers, it still wasn't the same.
It was like...
It was like they had already accepted Martin as one of their own, while he was still just some rich guy hanging around.
Of course, Leonardo had to admit—Martin had an undeniable charm.
Every move he made, every word he spoke, had a unique magnetism that naturally drew people in.
That day, Martin Scorsese arrived at the Boston Police Department with two assistants.
Commissioner Thompson came out to greet him.
Scorsese and Thompson were old acquaintances. They had known each other since Thompson was just a captain, so there was no need for pleasantries.
"Thompson, where are my boys?" Scorsese asked directly.
Thompson chuckled. "You mean Martin and Leonardo? They're out on a call—no idea when they'll be back. Come on, buddy, let's go to my office for a coffee. How long has it been since we last caught up?"
"Three years, I think. Alright, coffee it is."
Scorsese turned to his assistants. "There's a café to the left outside. Go have a seat and grab a coffee—I'm buying. If I need you, I'll call."
Inside Thompson's office, Scorsese relaxed into a chair as Thompson poured them each a cup of coffee.
Taking a sip, Scorsese asked, "So, how are my two boys doing?"
Thompson smiled. "I can only say this—Leonardo is working hard. He's doing great and improving a lot."
"And Martin?" Scorsese found it odd that his friend had only mentioned Leonardo.
Thompson replied, "He's already a cop."
"Huh? What do you mean?" Scorsese was taken aback.
"I mean, Martin has fully become a Boston PD officer. If you didn't recognize his face, you'd never guess he's a Hollywood star, a billionaire, or a genius writer."
"You're serious?"
"Very. I used to hear about how great his acting was, but now I understand—this isn't acting. He becomes the character he plays."
"Wow. Now I really have to see this for myself!"
Scorsese was instantly intrigued.
Jack Nicholson's words echoed in his mind: 'You don't need to worry about Martin's acting.'
Could he really be that good?
A long, dark alley.
Daisy walked briskly, regret creeping in.
She should never have taken this shortcut. The eerie surroundings made her uneasy.
She didn't notice the figure emerging silently from behind a dumpster, slipping into her shadow while pulling a switchblade from his pocket.
Nor did the figure notice the police car passing by the alley's entrance just as he drew the knife.
"Stop the car!"
Martin's sharp voice rang out.
Paul, the driver, slammed the brakes. "What's wrong, Martin?"
"There's something off about that guy in the alley."
"You sure?" Paul asked.
"What alley?" Leonardo, seated in the back, only just snapped out of his daze.
"I'm sure. I saw the reflection of a blade. I'm going to check it out."
By then, Paul had already stopped the car.
Martin threw open the door and dashed toward the alley. Paul was so caught off guard that he forgot to stop him.
Leonardo's heart clenched. "Shit! We can't let Martin go alone—what if it's dangerous—"
Before he could finish, Paul smacked his forehead. "Shit! I forgot—he's not actually a cop!"
Meanwhile, Martin had already slipped into the alley.
"Damn, how is he so fast?!"
Paul cursed, jumped out of the car, and turned to Leonardo. "Stay put! Don't move! You hear me? I'm going after Martin!"
Cursing himself under his breath, he sprinted toward the alley, one hand instinctively resting on his holstered gun.
Please, let nothing happen. Please, let nothing happen. Please, let nothing happen!
Paul prayed silently as he ran.
Inside the alley, the shadowy figure was now just ten meters behind Daisy.
She suddenly heard footsteps behind her. Turning her head, she saw a hooded man—Black, face obscured—following her.
Her pulse spiked. She quickened her pace.
The footsteps behind her sped up too.
Faster. Closer.
Wearing low-heeled shoes, she had no chance of outrunning him. She nearly twisted her ankle trying.
Panicking, she reached into her purse, fumbling for something.
Just then, the man lunged forward, the blade of his switchblade gleaming under the dim alley lights.
He pressed the knife to her chest and muttered in a low voice, "Don't move, sweetheart. Hand over everything valuable."
Daisy's face went pale. "Please… don't hurt me. I-I'll give you my money."
"Then hurry up! Toss the bag over—no tricks!"