Dent stood at the top of the fifth-floor stairs, his coat already hung behind him. He checked his watch as he stepped deeper into Homicide's floor. Rain pattered against the windows, and fingers clacked on a typewriter. Otherwise, the room was quiet.
Most of the desks were empty.
Three weren't.
Chen was typing, his foot bouncing in a nervous motion. Across from him, Rusty sat hunched over his desk, smoking like a man waiting on bad news. Neither had asked why they'd been called in, but it was written all over their faces.
The squad's lieutenant, Pinkerton, was there too—though no one had paged him. He sat rigid in his chair, hands gripping the edge of the desk like he might spring up at any second.
Dent took Bullock's chair, hung his elbow off the back like it was his own. He looked Pinkerton straight in the eye and didn't blink. Pinkerton's blotchy skin began to dampen with sweat, his rat-like eyes flitting from Dent to the others.
He didn't say a word. Just stood, gathered nothing from his desk, and walked downstairs.
Dent smiled, proud of his work. Chen and Rusty chuckled.
Then came Bullock—boots heavy on the stairs, voice echoing from below. A flash of red hair trailed behind him.
"Goddamn rain," Bullock muttered, peeling off his soaked coat and tossing it on the rack.
Gordon stepped into view. Dent studied him.
Not what he'd pictured.
Lean, slightly above average height. Red hair, freckled skin. Glasses like something left over from 1963. There was also a strange mix of youth and wear to him—like he'd seen too much, too soon.
"Detective," Dent said, offering a hand. "Good to finally meet you."
"Is it?" Gordon replied flatly.
The guys were right—he had a face like a locked safe.
"Chief Bronson and Captain Gillis want a word," Dent said.
Gordon scanned the room before heading up the stairs. Dent followed.
"You've got an impressive record," Dent offered.
No reply.
"Not just your caseload—your military background too."
Gordon didn't break his stride.
"Special ops, medals, commendations. It's impressive, Jim."
Gordon stopped, half-turned. His expression didn't change, but the silence was its own kind of warning.
"Can I call you Jim?" Dent asked, trying to recover.
"Sure."
Dent figured he'd have better luck getting blood from a stone than a reaction out of Gordon.
On the upper floor, Lee glanced up from his desk but said nothing. Dent pushed through the door to Bronson's office, where the Chief sat behind his desk—heavyset, calm. Gillis leaned against the windowsill, arms folded, jaw tight.
Bronson motioned to the chair. "Have a seat, Gordon."
Gordon dropped his bag beside it and sat, posture stiff and straight.
"Harvey, go ahead," Bronson said.
Dent sat beside him, elbows on knees.
"Jim," he began, lowering his voice, "we've come into some… sensitive information about you. I want you to know—I've got your back. No matter what others might think. There's gray in every situation."
"There's no gray here," Gillis snapped.
Dent didn't look at him. "Rod, you're entitled to your opinion."
"It's not an opinion. It's a fact."
"It's a perspective. A rigid interpretation of justice," Dent countered.
"Save the lawyer bullshit," Gillis growled. "A cape doesn't put anyone above the law. And a mask is what cowards wear to hide from it."
All eyes turned to Gordon.
He exhaled through his nostrils, long and quiet. Face unchanged.
"Right," he said. "I think I should ask for a lawyer."
"We're not arresting you," Bronson replied. "And Dent isn't pressing charges."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because I want to work with you," Dent said. "Both of you."
"I'm not following."
"You've closed eight gang shootings," Dent said. "If we worked together, we could close a hell of a lot more. You've done what others couldn't—got men who never talk to give up their own. Results like that matter."
Gordon looked between the three of them.
"It's not a setup," Bronson said. "Harvey's serious."
Gordon didn't reply.
"Jim, you can trust us," Bronson said. "Rod may not like it, but we're curious. This… arrangement with the vigilante—how it works."
Dent watched him closely. He couldn't tell which way Gordon was leaning, but his eyes suggested he was thinking something.
"How you communicate, for instance," Bronson said. "How'd it start? What does he want?"
Gordon clasped his hands. His stillness felt unnatural—so tight it bordered on suffocating.
"As you know," he said finally, "there's a warrant for the vigilante's arrest. If I encountered him, I'd be obligated to bring him in."
Empty words that even a child could see through.
Dent leaned back. He wasn't angry, but impressed. Gordon couldn't sell a lie, but he didn't have to. No twitch. No breath out of place. Just that stone-faced calm, giving nothing away.
"If there's nothing else…" Gordon started.
"There is," Bronson said. "Loeb knows. His men won't go after you at home—not with your family there—but they'll wait. I've got uniforms on you now. With the press sniffing around, even Loeb won't risk scrapping with blues. It'd be too loud and too public. And he doesn't want more bad press on the badge."
Bronson leaned forward, voice dropping. "Loeb has Arnold Flass looking for you. You've heard of him?"
"Yes," Gordon said.
"If Loeb sent him, it means he wants results," Bronson said.
"What does he want?"
"Probably for you to give the vigilante up. Or make an example out of you for working with him."
Gordon's voice hardened. "What else do I need to know?"
Bronson straightened. "The squad's going to be told. Quietly. They'll be given the choice to stand with you—or not. For now, take a few days. Go home. I'll have officers escort you."
Gordon stood. Said nothing. Didn't look back. He walked out.
When the door shut, Dent leaned against Bronson's desk.
"We can't bury this," he said. "You've seen the case files."
"He's put people in the hospital," Gillis said. "Cops too."
"And helped solve cases no one else could touch," Dent snapped. "Imagine if he worked with us."
Gillis sneered. "Would look great on your résumé."
"Fuck you, Rod."
"Harvey," Bronson said, raising a hand. "Enough. We know your intentions are good. But if Gordon won't budge, there's only so much we can do."
Dent moved to the window, arms folded. His eye twitched. He turned away to hide it.
"Rod, round up the squad. Harvey and I need a moment."
Once Gillis was gone, Bronson spoke.
"What's your plan, Harvey?"
"He'll come around. He's stiff—but bendable."
"You think so?"
"A Boy Scout like that teaming up with a vigilante? He's already crossed the line. He just hasn't admitted it yet."
Dent pulled a quarter from his pocket, flipped it, let it spin. His cigarettes were downstairs. The coin would have to do.
He thought about his next step. Gordon was tougher to crack than he'd expected. But even if he got Gordon to trust him, it wouldn't matter if the squad turned on him.
They needed to be on board first.