Rain crawled down the windows of Joe's Tavern. Gordon sat hunched over a cup of black coffee he'd barely touched, watching the steam dissipate into nothing. Across from him, Marco stirred his own cup and waited.
Gordon's jaw was tight. His brow was furrowed deep enough to plant crops in. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, or at least the weight of Gotham, which was pretty much the same thing.
"I got the notice from Internal Affairs," he said finally, trying to keep his tone light. "Renee's thorough, but she's fair. You'll be fine. Just hang in there."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "I'm not worried. Thanks for the pep talk, though. But if that's all you came for, we didn't really need to sneak into a café like we're making a dead drop."
Gordon winced. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice even though the café was nearly empty.
"Something's off. Ever since the docks raid, new intel keeps landing on Barnes' desk. Anonymous tips. Every day or two, like clockwork." He paused, glancing around out of habit. "Sometimes it's Maroni's operations. Sometimes it's Thorne. But most of the time? It's Falcone. Underground banks, weapons caches, shell companies used for laundering money... And almost every lead checks out. The operations go so smoothly it's..."
"Unsettling," Marco finished for him.
Gordon nodded. "Yeah. It's like someone's spoon-feeding us. Putting Falcone's entire empire on a silver platter, piece by piece. Barnes thinks it's momentum. That we're finally winning. But I can't shake the feeling we're being used."
Marco stopped stirring his coffee. The spoon clinked against the side of the cup. He looked at Gordon, his face unreadable, though inwardly he understood perfectly.
Cobblepot was moving faster than he'd anticipated.
"So? Someone hands you intel on a platter and that's a bad thing? You'd rather go back to operations like Wayne Tower, where we stack bodies to get results?"
"Of course not!" Gordon snapped, then immediately caught himself and lowered his voice. "But I don't want to be used as someone else's weapon, either. There's a purpose behind this. There has to be. I tried tracing the source. Whoever's doing this is professional."
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every word.
"I feel like a blind man being led down a path I can't see. I know there might be a cliff ahead, but I have no choice except to keep walking."
Marco watched him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with a faint smile. "Since you're so eager to figure out who's handing us the knife from the shadows... I can think of someone who probably knows Falcone's operation better than anyone else in this city."
Gordon's eyes sharpened. "Who?"
"Cobblepot."
Gordon's face darkened instantly. He didn't hesitate. "No. I will never go to a mob boss for information. I won't make deals with criminals."
"It's not a deal," Marco said, keeping his tone reasonable. "It's using an information channel. Sometimes the light that leaks out of the darkest corners can show you more than you'd expect."
"That light is poisoned. I thought you understood. We're not like them. The moment you take that step, you can't go back. Today he gives you intel. Tomorrow he asks you to look the other way. The day after that, he wants you to be his shield. It's a quagmire. Once you sink into it, you end up just as dirty as they are. I let Cobblepot go once because his crimes didn't warrant death. That doesn't mean I'll wallow in the mud with him."
They locked eyes for a few seconds.
Then Marco shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Fine. Pretend I didn't say anything. Keep stumbling around in the dark. Good luck. Let's just hope the next thing you trip over isn't a landmine."
He picked up his coffee and downed it in one go, like it was a shot of whiskey. Then he stood, dropping a few crumpled bills on the table, and patted Gordon on the shoulder.
"Remember. In Gotham's waters, sometimes grabbing a dirty lifeline is better than drowning with clean hands."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and pushed through the café door.
Gordon sat alone at the table, staring at his coffee.
---
Back at the East End Precinct, in a cramped office, Renee pulled a small flask from the inside pocket of her jacket and took a swig.
"Alright, Crispus. Tell me. How are we supposed to audit these accounts?"
She set the flask down on the desk.
"I can't even figure out if this is reasonable or unreasonable anymore. It's just fucking absurd."
Crispus straightened a messy stack of documents on the desk. "Drinking on the job is definitely unreasonable. But the numbers in these accounts do have discrepancies, right?"
"Oh, they have discrepancies." Renee let out a bitter laugh. She rummaged through the files her partner had just organized and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Look at this. His personal spending records. He went from buying bulk pasta... like, industrial quantities of macaroni, to eating sandwiches every day and steak three times a week. The figures are up four hundred percent. Sure. Fine. But how are we supposed to explain that? 'Officer Vitale is corrupt because he used to eat like a broke college student'?"
She tossed the paper back onto the pile and kept digging.
"And there's this... and this..." She waved another document. "No extra income at all. Just expenses and reimbursements. Payments to medical clinics, accountants, gas stations... everything out of pocket first, then reimbursed through proper channels. I swear to God, the guy's practically a saint. Or at least really good at covering his tracks."
"Isn't that a good thing?" Crispus said calmly, starting to sort the files again. "It means he's reliable."
"Wait, don't stack those together yet." Renee scratched her head, and pulled out a few more ledgers. "Take another look at the donations and expenditures from the East End Precinct itself. Staff cafeteria upgrades, free drinks for officers, overtime pay, extra case bonuses, family benefits..."
She looked up at Crispus.
"Not a single one of them is compliant with regulations. This whole operation is running on money that shouldn't exist."
Crispus frowned slightly. "So do we report it?"
Renee let out a cold laugh. "Report it? So it gets shut down, and every cop in this precinct hates our guts? If we so much as whisper a word about this right now, we'll be lucky to walk out of the East End alive."
She took another swig from her flask.
"And before you ask, yes, the procurement process has issues too. Prices are inflated. The construction estimates for the new building they're renovating? Way over market rate. But here's the thing..."
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.
"McGinnis' personal accounts are spotless. As for cash under the table?" She shrugged. "Unless the DA is willing to formally open a case and issue a warrant, we don't have the authority to search him."
Crispus sat quietly for a moment, processing. Then he tried a different angle. "What about the firearm that violated regulations? The one Vitale used during the Wayne Tower incident. Did he refuse to explain where it came from?"
"No. And honestly? I wish he had. At least then we'd have grounds to push harder."
"What did he say?"
"He said he picked it up off the side of the road."
Crispus blinked. "He... what?"
"He. Picked. It. Up." Renee enunciated each word like she was explaining something to a child. "He used it during the operation, then turned it into evidence afterward. He followed the complete evidence intake procedure, filed all the paperwork, and dotted every i, crossed every t."
Crispus stared at her. "That's his explanation? He found a military-grade weapon on the side of the road?"
"Yep."
"And... that's it?"
"That's it."
There was a long silence.
Crispus opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he spread his hands helplessly.
"I don't even know how to respond to that."
Renee took one last swig from her flask and screwed the cap back on. "Yeah. Me neither."
She stood up, gathering the files into a messy pile.
"So here's what we're going to do. We're not writing a conclusion. We'll submit the report as-is and let Barnes figure it out. Because frankly?" She looked at Crispus with tired eyes. "This whole situation is above our pay grade."
Crispus nodded slowly, still looking faintly bewildered. "Alright. No conclusion it is."
He started stacking the files again.
Renee watched him for a moment, then shook her head and walked over to the window.
She lit a cigarette, technically against regulations, but fuck it, and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.
"You know what the worst part is?" she said quietly.
Crispus looked up. "What?"
"I actually like the guy. Vitale, I mean. He's a good cop. He does the work. And he doesn't complain. His team respects him." She took another drag. "And I'm supposed to be the one who burns him."
"You're not burning him," Crispus said gently. "You're doing your job."
"Same thing in Gotham."
She flicked ash into an empty coffee cup and stared out at the rain.
"Same damn thing."