The next three days were uneventful. Carlos shadowed Frank through the daily grind: drunks brawling, stolen bikes logged, neighborly noise disputes mediated—tedious and repetitive.
Frank still lectured while on patrol. After filing a theft report he jabbed a thumb at the alley alongside. "Stay out after dark. It's trouble—and dangerous—especially if someone you busted is lurking. Last month the Buffalo Gang ran it, headed by a guy named Jack. No idea if they still do…"
Carlos committed every warning to memory, for safety's sake—and because a system quest might hinge on it.
On the last shift's afternoon Frank begged off to finish paperwork at the Precinct, radioed dispatch, and parked outside a nearby café.
"Let's grab coffee, rookie. Thanks for wrestling that drunk who puked on himself this morning."
Carlos pictured cramming the reeking man into the cruiser, gave Frank a nauseated middle finger. "You should thank me for stripping his clothes while holding my breath. Seriously, don't mention him again."
Frank laughed, flipped him off in return. "I'd be even more grateful if you'd peeled off his pants. Car still smells like sour bile."
They walked into the café.
Carlos spotted Sarah inside, apparently slacking off too.
"Patrol Officers get to loaf?" she murmured, coming over with a grin.
Frank smiled at Carlos. "I'll grab the coffee. You two talk."
Carlos and Sarah claimed a table.
"Desk duty that dull? The Precinct coffee machine not good enough?" he teased.
"Deadly dull." She stirred her cup. "I'm under orders to buy food—someone's working late tonight."
"Homicide?"
"Yep."
Carlos didn't bother asking; it would be gang-related or an OD. Anything unusual he'd have heard when they'd dropped by the Precinct earlier.
"What about that junkie burglar last time?" he asked offhandedly.
Sarah set her spoon down. "Jesse, the one you grabbed? File's closed. He's swiped plenty, nothing valuable. Repeat offender—walks tomorrow."
"All supermarket stuff?"
"No other loot found." She eyed him. "Interested in him?"
"Not really. First arrests stick with you." He smiled.
She rolled a pretty white eye.
Moments later Sarah left. Carlos joined Frank.
"Finished?" Frank asked. "Any insider gossip?"
"She's buying dinner for the late shift. Said she's bored."
"Oof—poor souls, babysitting a corpse." Frank understood instantly.
"Glad it's not us." Carlos sighed.
Frank shook his head. "You'll get your turn."
Carlos sipped. "Hope it's later rather than sooner. I need more time to adjust."
Frank perked up, lifting his cup. "We're off tomorrow—happy days off!"
Carlos clinked his paper cup. "Happy days off!"
On his first free morning Carlos wore jeans and a hoodie and headed to Old Joseph's block. The buildings were aged but tidy, nothing like the rougher zones.
Old Joseph had filed a report; Carlos followed the Precinct's address to an old apartment building.
He buzzed. An elderly voice crackled, "Who is it?"
"Mr. Joseph? Patrol Officer Carlos Diaz, NYPD. I'd like to update the report on your missing property."
The lock clicked. "Third floor."
Old Joseph was gaunt, white-haired, in a faded shirt.
He ushered Carlos into a spartan but spotless living room.
"Officer… did you find my pocket-watch?" he asked, wringing his hands.
"We're following up." Carlos showed his badge. "We've nabbed some local thieves. Could you take a look?"
He produced his phone with several mug shots—Jesse among them, plus extras so it wouldn't look targeted.
The old man slipped on reading glasses, paused on Jesse's photo.
Jesse wasn't wearing the green jacket.
"This one… looks kind of familiar," Joseph murmured. "And the next one—might've seen them at the market. Not sure… crowd was thick, the guy who bumped me moved fast…" He asked to see Jesse again, studied it. "Sorry, Officer. I can't swear. All I saw was a skinny back in a green jacket."
Carlos had heard enough.
Positive ID was shaky, but Joseph had seen Jesse's face, the build matched, and he'd been in the area—strong suspect.
"No worries—thanks for your help." Carlos pocketed the phone. "Could you describe the watch again? Any detail might help.
"It's silver-plated, a gift from many years ago. There's a small dent on the edge—I accidentally dropped it," the old man traced in the air. "Inside the lid is the photo we took for me and Mary's fortieth wedding anniversary; she wore a blue dress..." His voice sank. "She passed away last year..."
Carlos noted: silver-plated, dented edge, photo inside lid.
He left his cell number, promised to call the moment he heard anything, then stood to say goodbye.
Leaving Old Joseph's place, Carlos walked several blocks; the neighborhood grew grimy, the air thick with foul smells.
He stopped across from the dilapidated apartment building where Jesse lived, positioning himself in an inconspicuous spot to watch the entrance.
It was mid-morning; Jesse had just been released, had no money, and would likely come back for cash before scoring.
After about forty minutes Jesse's figure appeared.
He shuffled into the building, face grayer than a few days earlier, rubbing his nose—already jonesing.
Carlos followed, tugging his cap low, and entered.
Inside it was dim, reeking of damp and mildew.
He went straight to the third floor; the corridor was quiet—Room 307.
Carlos drew a breath and rapped hard.
A dozen seconds later the door cracked open.
Carlos wedged his foot in, blocking the attempt to slam it.
"NYPD—step aside!" His voice was low but sharp.
Jesse froze, sunken eyes wary. He looked closer, pupils shrinking as he recognized the cop who'd busted him days earlier.
"Wh-what is it, Officer?" Jesse asked guardedly.
Carlos flashed the badge at his waist and stepped in, forcing Jesse back. "Need to ask about a pocket watch."
Jesse's face relaxed. "Pocket watch? What watch? I don't know anything."
A few stolen goods meant nothing to him anymore.
"Silver-plated. You lifted it from an old man at the flea market the other day," Carlos said, eyes locked. "Don't deny it—someone saw you in that green jacket."
"You're full of it!" Jesse blurted.
"Talk now or we finish this at the Precinct—your choice."
Jesse hesitated, then stayed silent.
Carlos studied him; Jesse's ashen face twitched, sweat beading.
He wouldn't hold out long.
Carlos glanced around: the room was a mess, nothing valuable, no watch in sight.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"I told you—I don't know any watch!" Jesse barked, back to the wall. "Keep hassling me and I'll file a complaint! I'm just home, no crime!"
Carlos gave a cold laugh, stepped in, and with one hand pinned Jesse to the wall by the collar.
"Listen, Jesse. I'm not itching to send you back, but that watch matters to its owner. Hand it over and we're done."
Jesse struggled, useless against Carlos's strength. "I—I don't have it!"
"No?" Carlos smirked, patting Jesse's pockets—nothing hard—then shoved him back. "I can waste my time, or I can hit the park and warn the idiots who sell to you. How many days before they'll risk it?"
Seeing Jesse unmoved, Carlos grinned: "I'll also let Buffalo Gang's boss Jack know you flipped while you were inside, working for NYPD."
The threat struck home. Jesse's habit wasn't heavy—he could find substitutes—but branded a snitch, the small-timers would kill him before Jack even bothered.
Same story in any other block; newcomers get checked.
Jesse's face went white. "You can't do that!"
"I just want the watch," Carlos said flatly.
Jesse stared, gauging him, then muttered, "...under the mattress... haven't sold it yet."
"Fetch it yourself—I'm not giving you a reason to complain."
Jesse staggered to the filthy bed, lifted the stinking sheet, and pulled a small bundle from the mattress seam, dumping it on the bed.
Out fell a few small U.S. bills and the silver-plated pocket watch.
Carlos took it: small dent on the edge; inside, a faded photo of Old Joseph and an elderly woman in a blue dress, smiling.
Perfect match.
Carlos closed his fist around the watch and eyed the sullen Jesse: "Remember—if you shoot your mouth off or bother that old man again, your name goes on every gang hit list in the neighborhood."
Jesse nodded frantically.
Carlos turned and left.
First side quest nearly done.
Yet Carlos felt no satisfaction—his badge had less weight than a block's gang boss.