The fountain pen scratched against the paper, leaving behind a beautifully flourished signature:
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.
Cobblepot and Bob stood in the lobby of the East Precinct, holding up the donation contract together for the assembled reporters and officers.
Amidst the continuous flash of cameras, warm applause erupted all around.
"Mr. Cobblepot, on behalf of the entire East Precinct Police Department and the citizens of Gotham City, I thank you for your generous donation and contribution to support law enforcement in the fight against crime."
Bob extended his hand and shook Cobblepot's vigorously.
Cobblepot's face still held that humble and timid expression, responding cautiously.
It wasn't until the ceremony ended and the crowd slowly dispersed that he casually walked over to Jay and asked in a low voice:
"Officer, are you satisfied?"
A shadow flashed across his brow, but vanished in an instant.
That car had originally belonged to the husband of a political dignitary in Washington D.C., and was reported stolen last year.
If Jay had accepted the car and driven it for just two or three months, word would have inevitably reached the dignitary's ears.
Combined with the hidden cameras Cobblepot had arranged to document the check acceptance, the Internal Affairs report, and the investigation into the bank transaction, this series of steps would have been enough to kick the clueless young cop out of the police force.
And after that…
But he hadn't expected this cash-strapped officer to remain completely clear-headed, immediately demanding that he donate everything to the precinct instead.
Looking at Chief Bob's plump, grinning face made Cobblepot's heart ache.
However, now was not the time to show his hand. He had to resolve this matter completely first.
He stood beside Jay and bowed slightly.
"Officer, if you are satisfied, then…"
"No problem, Mr. Cobblepot." Jay smiled at him and stood up. "I'll walk you out."
The two walked slowly to the precinct entrance. Jay raised a finger and said in a low voice: "One question, Mr. Cobblepot. Answer me one more question, and we'll call it even."
Cobblepot nodded and chuckled, "Please ask, Officer."
"That day… where did you take the witness?" Jay frowned in thought. "I know it was in the Financial District, but I was focused on the convoy the entire time."
"In the Financial District, do you remember on one street… there was a delivery van?" Cobblepot's voice sounded slightly triumphant. "When you turned the corner ahead, I got off the van with Cuevas… and Gabe, and we hid inside the delivery van."
"In those mere ten-plus seconds? Were those your men pre-arranged?"
"No, it was just a spur-of-the-moment idea." Cobblepot gently shook his head. "Any prior arrangement has the potential for a leak. What if I just decided on it suddenly?"
He wore that same flattering yet self-satisfied smile. "No one would guess it, especially since the entire process—stopping, getting off, and getting on—took only ten or so seconds.
You had already rounded the corner ahead, and the people following us hadn't caught up yet.
The driver was my man; he would look after Hargrove and catch up to you. After that, we took control of the delivery van's driver and drove that van to Mr. Falcone's estate."
"Hmm…" Jay slowly nodded as he considered this. "But that plan was very risky."
"Yes, it was indeed very risky, but everything carries a risk," Cobblepot said with a smile. "Your route was arguably even riskier. After all, Fish Mooney's madness cannot be underestimated, and Mr. Falcone's will is the most important thing."
"That's true. But… why were you so sure that Fish Mooney would dare to openly defy Mr. Falcone?"
"Officer," Cobblepot's smile became gentler and more pleasant. "That would be a second question."
"Ah! You're right."
Jay looked at the vehicles moving in and out of the parking lot, silent for a moment, then looked at Cobblepot.
"Honestly, Mr. Cobblepot, though you used the entire team as bait, if I were in your position, I would likely have done the same to achieve the goal. You are a callous and unscrupulous man, but you are also… very smart."
"Thank you, I will take that as a compliment." Cobblepot smiled and extended his hand. "Mr. Falcone invites you to be his guest at his estate this Thursday afternoon at two o'clock."
His hand remained suspended in the air, his smile seemingly perpetually warm.
Jay stared at his hand for a long moment before slowly reaching out.
The two hands touched, like two pieces of ice rubbing against each other.
"As you wish, I will arrive promptly."
Thursday afternoon…
That meant two days from now.
He sat at his desk, thought for a while, then jumped up and ran towards the Chief's office.
This time, Bob wasn't busy hiding money.
Having just sent off the reporters, he seemed to be in a good mood, smoking a cigarette and leaning back in his chair, apparently savoring the moment.
Seeing Jay enter, he pointed to the chair opposite.
"No time to sit, Boss. I need your help with something." Jay leaned forward. "Have Logistics fix up the G20 for me."
"Huh? Didn't you say you weren't going to fix it? And the damage report showed it wasn't worth repairing." Bob was surprised. "You aren't actually planning to fix it up and sell it for a couple hundred bucks, are you?"
"No. It doesn't need to be fully fixed, just barely able to run. The worse the appearance, the better." Jay paused. "The Roman asked me to meet him at his estate next Thursday."
"Even so, you shouldn't… well, driving a standard patrol car isn't appropriate, but I can lend you an old car."
"No," Jay shook his head. "If I drive a beat-up car, maybe I can play the poverty card and walk away with something extra."
"Aha!" Bob's eyes immediately lit up. "Good boy, no problem. I'll call the Logistics and Equipment Department right now. Also…"
He picked up the internal phone, said a few words to Logistics, and hung up. "I have good news for you.
The report on establishing a pilot East Precinct Rapid Response Team for Terrorist Attacks has been submitted. We should hear back soon.
Also, next month, the precinct will hold an assessment to get you a Detective rank… but you know that rank doesn't carry much real power, right?
And… I can only give you a titular detective position. You'll still have to handle patrol duties for now."
The Detective rank was not a mandatory step in an officer's promotion path; it was more like a professional title that came with an extra professional subsidy depending on the post and overtime.
Of course, this didn't apply to FBI Agents.
"What's the deal? Where's my subsidy? Didn't you say the Homicide Unit was short-handed?"
This actually suited his plans. He only wanted to earn more money steadily and didn't particularly want a promotion to detective.
After all, in Gotham City, having only seven or eight homicides a day counted as a blessing from their ancestors.
If he were transferred to Homicide or a similar unit, he might not even have time to sleep.
But he absolutely couldn't say this out loud, or he'd lose all leverage in the negotiation!
"You'll get it, you'll get it." Bob sighed deeply.
"If we can't solve a homicide, we can request support from Central, or drag it out until no one remembers it, or worst case, frame some unlucky soul.
But whether the East Precinct's patrol cars are on the street is obvious to everyone. Now, with that rookie Wilson hospitalized, if you transfer out too…
Who the hell can I rely on? Look at those idiots outside!"
At this, he pointed towards the blinds, and a vein suddenly throbbed in his forehead. "That idiot Ethan! On patrol, he let those hookers from the Red Sparrow bar jerk him off in the car, and a passing reporter took pictures."
"Damn it, the government should really clean out all those guys with an IQ below 20. Speaking of which…" He looked up at Jay. "Do you have any way to fix this?"
"What way do I have? I wasn't the one getting pleasured!" Jay's mind exploded. "I'm not a wish-granting machine."
"Hey, kid! If you can fix this, I'll fast-track your application for the escort van! A new one! All fuel, maintenance, and modification costs fully reimbursed."
Bob gave a sleazy smile. "How about it? I only have one requirement: you must give the City government a reasonable explanation."
"Not good enough. Besides, I don't pay for the patrol car's gas myself." Jay thought for a moment. "Change his records.
Say he was always a temporary worker, and the precinct discovered his violation and immediately fired him as an example.
It will show the police department's excellent work ethic of correcting mistakes promptly and acting decisively."
"Wow! Wow! Where do you get all these genius ideas?"
Where do I get them? Isn't pushing responsibility onto a temporary worker standard operating procedure?
Seeing Bob open his arms, clearly about to rush over and kiss him, Jay pushed him away in disgust.
"Stay away from me. I have one more question for you."
"Ah!"
Bob took a long breath, sitting back in his chair, visibly refreshed. "Ask away. Anything I know."
"You said last time that Fish Mooney was crazy enough to attack the precinct. But I feel like her strength isn't that…" Jay shook his head. "…terrifying?"
"Of course not. They're a gang, not an army. We have so many people and so many guns.
If they launched a frontal assault, even the Roman wouldn't dare, let alone a mere Fish Mooney.
A disorganized mob on a battlefield, no matter how many PKMs they bring, is useless." Bob smiled disdainfully. "But the problem is, we all have family and friends outside. We can't stay in the precinct forever. That's why the gangs are more frightening."
"I see… By the way, I was taken to the hospital. Where did the remaining live witnesses go?"
"Gordon took them. Hargrove was deemed to have mental health issues and was sent to Arkham Asylum.
And Falcone's lackey, for some reason, the SWAT team said he filed a false police report and was beaten up pretty badly inside." Bob looked at Jay playfully. "Did you know about this?"
"Ah? Ah… no, no. But supposedly he's Victor Zsasz's man. The SWAT team better not incite trouble." Jay said with a hint of guilt. "After all, coerced confessions are… not good. Maybe we should bring him back?"
"Huh? Fine, I'll call Central Precinct. Now you listen to me." Bob pointed a finger at him. "Get out. I have to write a report to the government now."
——————
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