At the west end of Main, where the street touched the Narrows, was Milner's—a rundown retro diner wrapped in chrome steel and art deco–styled windows. Perez sat in her car, watching the entrance. Rain slithered down the windshield, warping the glowing sign above. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel, she hated waiting.
Outside, a sizable crowd ebbed and flowed—working girls, drifters, men looking for cheap girls or bars to vanish into. She glanced at her watch and sighed. A cigarette—just one—would ease her impatience, but she never smoked in her car. Leaning forward slightly, she twisted the dial, letting the radio fill the silence. A slow, sultry jazz tune hummed beneath a voice that had tasted years worth of cigars and whiskey.
"Jackman Wolf here, ladies and gents—no veils, no tricks, just the raw truth. Straight off the grapevine: Five-O's thinning the herd. Not much left to cull if you ask me, but they're out there cracking skulls. Loeb's sending a message, loud and clear. His game, his rules—at least where the cops are concerned."
The thought of Fritz and Chen turned her anxiety into a worry that tightened her chest. A caller's voice cut through the static—deep, worn. He was in his late forties, maybe.
"Hey Jack, long-time listener, first-time caller. What do you make of our new A.D.A.?"
"Dent? Well, he's got that Uptown swagger, no doubt—a real salesman. And so far, he's making good on his word—but we'll see how long that lasts. It's easy to win when you work for the house. But he ain't anymore. Next caller."
"Hey-hey, Jack—uh, me and my boys, we're out in Crime Alley, and we just saw him! Shh—" The caller hushed his rowdy friends. "He flew past, right through Mignola Avenue!"
"Well, well, ladies and gents. We got eyes on the city's guardian—it's been a hot minute," Jackman said. "And you know what it means when you see that shadow staring back at you, it's 'cause he wants it that way. Next caller."
The next voice was a woman in her early thirties, with a hesitancy in her tone.
"Hey Jack, long-time listener. I've been hearing he's gone soft. Especially on cops. I mean, I don't get it, they're all f—"
"Public airwaves, sister. Can't use that language." Jackman's tone was firm but amused. "But I hear ya. I've heard the same. Puzzles me too. Then again, I hear other stories—guys getting tossed off rooftops, legs getting shattered. Truth is, we don't know what he's all about. Maybe that's the point."
Perez clicked off the radio and sat up. Through the rain, she spotted Sergeant Albert Mendez approaching the diner, his black coat hanging heavy on his frame and a ragged bag slung over one shoulder. She rolled down the window and whistled. He glanced around, then hustled over, slipping inside. He smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and the cheap cologne he always wore when they met.
"Thought we were meeting inside," Mendez muttered, shaking off the rain.
"Change of plans." She didn't want to admit she was avoiding a possible blue-brawl. "Should you be out alone like this?"
"Nineteen years on the force. Wasn't on the take then, won't be now," Mendez grunted. "Besides, they go for the younger ones."
"All gangs do." She said.
"Hey," Mendez warned. "Don't start that shit. We ain't a gang. Just got a few bad apples."
"A few?" Perez scoffed. "It's a rotting tree, Al."
"Still ain't a gang."
"Did you get it?"
Mendez pulled a file from his bag. "Yeah, but there's a problem. No records from Chicago when he transferred."
"That's odd, right?" She flipped through it.
"Not really. Sometimes precincts don't send 'em." Mendez rested an arm against the window. "So I asked around. Only one who knew anything was O'Brien."
"The beat cop?" She didn't look up.
"Yeah, the ginger," Mendez said. "Said Gordon's an odd ball, the quiet type. Squad keeps their distance. But with Syd helping Vice, Harv got stuck with him."
Perez looked up from the file, wondering what it meant that Gordon suddenly had a partner. If Harv knew something, he'd refuse to ride with Gordon that much she did know. She snapped the file shut.
"Bet Harv loved that."
"Yeah, that fat fuck loves to bitch."
"Anything else?"
Mendez shook his head. "No one knows a damn thing about him. He's like a ghost."
Perez exhaled. "Shadow's more like it. What about the arrest?"
"Come on, Mari," Mendez sighed.
"I'm just curious, and it's completely off the record."
Mendez stared at his hands like they held the answer.
"Gillis wanted me to get names of clean guys."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing good." His voice dropped. "Usually means transfers."
Perez hesitated. "Why?"
"Means something's coming, and we'll be moved."
"Lowell's clean in the West Side. So is Fazio in the East." Perez offered.
"Most of us got transferred out of Midtown. Chief won't move us back," Mendez muttered, wiping rain from his face—more stress than water. "So you gonna tell me what this is about?"
Perez reached into her satchel and handed him an envelope. "Just curious about him."
Mendez took it, weighing it in his hands. "Mari, when you left that cushy job at the network, I helped you out. Remember?"
"I remember it wasn't free."
"Could've left you high and dry. But I gave you names of cops who'd talk."
Perez glanced at the file in her lap, choosing her words carefully. "All you need to know is that Gordon's clean. He's not one of Loeb's."
Mendez nodded though she could tell he wasn't happy with her answer. "If you hear otherwise—"
"I'll tell you."
Mendez popped the door open. "Take care of yourself, Mari."
"Stay clean, Al."
Perez ran her fingers over the file. This was the closest she'd ever been to Gotham's masked shadow, her heart race at the thought. But beneath the excitement, something else stirred. It cautioned her. She was used to slipping inside stories, drawing secrets from men who wanted to be heard—talkers, hustlers, chatty cops—guys with fragile egos and loose lips. But these men didn't want to be known—just exactly who they were, this was her chance to find out.