"Why does everything go to shit on a Monday?"
Complaining aside, Marco still took the stairs two at a time back to Bob's office. The moment he walked through the door, Bob practically shoved him into a chair.
"The Romans got hit last night." Bob's voice was flat, but his hands were shaking slightly as he lit another cigarette. "That warehouse they use as a regional treasury, someone cleaned it out. Over seven million in cash, gone."
"Shit."
Marco's brain immediately started calculating. Seven million wouldn't cripple Falcone, not even close. The Roman had his fingers in half the businesses in Gotham. But it was enough to hurt. Enough to make him angry. And when he got angry, people died.
A lot of people.
"When did it happen?"
"Last night. Between three and four AM." Bob took a long drag, exhaling smoke through his nose. "They didn't bother being subtle, shot out the cameras, went in loud. Falcone had eight armed guards there. Looks like they're all dead."
Marco rubbed his temples. "How bad is it out there?"
"His guys are flooding the streets. The whole city's on edge." Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. "The mayor just called. He wants us to 'resolve this situation quickly before it escalates further.' His exact words."
"Shouldn't this be central's problem?" Marco leaned back in the chair. "Gordon's over there. Let him handle it."
"He's already talked to Loeb and Brown." Bob stubbed out his cigarette, only half-smoked, and immediately reached for another. "What I'm worried about is Loeb grabbing the first few idiots he can find and throwing them at Falcone as suspects. That'll only piss the Roman off more, and then we'll have a war on our hands with the GCPD caught in the middle."
He looked up at Marco.
"I'm counting on you."
Count on me to do what, exactly? Marco thought, but he kept his mouth shut.
"What about the surveillance footage?"
"Falcone's got it. He wants someone from the GCPD to come take a look. We can take copies, but the originals stay with him."
"Of course they do." Marco's lip curled. "So he wants to sit us down and remind us who really runs this city."
Bob didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Marco leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Alright. Here's how I see it. We've got two options."
"Go on."
"Option one: we play it safe. Put on a show, shuffle some paperwork, make it look like we're investigating. Falcone won't just sit around, he'll tear up the city looking for whoever did this. Central takes the heat, we stay out of it. East End doesn't lift a finger, and it sure as hell doesn't take the blame. But after it's over, neither the city government nor the Romans are going to be happy with you. You'll look useless."
Bob grimaced. "And option two?"
Marco smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Option two... we take a risk and go for the profit."
"Wait. Wait." Bob held up a hand. "Every time you make that expression, I get nervous. It feels like you're about to talk me into something insane. Give me a second."
He took a few deep breaths, straightened in his chair, and lit his cigarette.
"Alright. Continue."
"You're really killing the mood here." Marco shook his head. "What I'm saying is, we solve this case. And while we're at it, we squeeze the Romans for something. And if those robbers haven't spent all seven million yet..."
He looked up at Bob.
Bob looked back.
They both smiled at the same time.
"But," Marco said, "no matter which option we pick, people are going to die. A lot of people. You need to be ready for that."
"I know."
Bob flicked his lighter. Marco stood and headed for the door. Just as he reached it, he stopped.
"Chief."
"Yeah?" Bob looked up. "What is it?"
"Otis' case. Verdict should come down this afternoon. You should be there. And maybe tip off a couple reporters anonymously. You know, wrongful conviction overturned, justice served, all that feel-good shit."
"I'm already ahead of you, kid."
---
ROAR... ROAR... ROAR!
The Ford E350's engine thundered, and the massive GCPD letters painted on the side made every gangster within earshot scatter like cockroaches when the lights come on.
Marco pulled up outside Cobblepot's bar. The engine noise had already drawn attention. Gabe came out with a few of his boys looking ready for a fight. The moment Marco stepped out of the van with his hand resting on his holstered gun, Gabe's whole demeanor changed.
"Officer—"
"Move."
Marco shoved past him without slowing down. "Where's Cobblepot? And let me be clear, if he tries to run, I'm treating all of you as resisting arrest."
"Ah!" Gabe froze. He was forty-something, built like a refrigerator, and Marco had just made him look like a scared kid. The other thugs didn't move either. They just stood there as Marco stormed past them into the bar.
Cobblepot was already trying to make his escape through the back. Marco caught him by the collar before he made it five steps.
"Hey! Wait! Wait! Ah!"
Marco lifted the short man off the ground and slammed him against the wall. The impact knocked a framed photo off its hook. It shattered on the floor. Marco's .1911 was out and pressed hard under Cobblepot's chin before the glass stopped bouncing.
"Cobblepot. I'm in a really bad mood today. So you're going to tell me the truth. Otherwise, this gun might go off. Accidents happen, you know?"
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Cobblepot's ear.
"Where did you stash the money you stole from the Romans?"
"I don't know! I swear it wasn't me! God as my witness! Holy Mother! Jesus Christ above! How could it possibly be me?!"
"Don't play games with me." Marco clicked the safety off. He pushed the barrel up, forcing Cobblepot's head back at an uncomfortable angle. "You think I can't tell when someone's lying?"
"No, absolutely not. I don't... even if I wanted to, I don't have the manpower to pull something like that off. I don't know what you heard, but I swear on my mother's grave it wasn't me."
Marco stared at him for a long moment. Then he holstered his gun and set Cobblepot back on his feet. He even reached up and straightened the man's rumpled collar.
"Just a misunderstanding, right?"
"A... bluff?" Cobblepot's eyes widened. "You can't treat me like this. We have an arrangement. We—"
"A misunderstanding," Marco said again, smiling now. "It's not like it's the first time we've had one. Right?"
"But I already compensated you for that. You made me donate the car and the money to—"
"That car you 'donated.'" Marco's smile vanished instantly. "What was that about?"
"Ah... what?" Cobblepot froze. His smile turned stiff. "I don't know what you mean. That car was—"
"You don't think the GCPD can trace things if we want to, do you?" Marco walked over to a booth and sat down, making himself comfortable. "A car from Washington State. Stolen six months ago in Seattle. Showed up here in Gotham with new plates and a forged registration."
Cobblepot said nothing.
"Doesn't matter," Marco said, waving it off. "Not important right now. What is important is that Don Falcone just got hit hard, and I should probably mention to him that someone on the inside might be feeding information to his enemies."
Cobblepot's face flushed red.
"You shouldn't threaten me. And you definitely shouldn't make accusations you can't prove."
He limped toward the bar, his left leg dragged slightly, and forced a smile.
"Have a drink. Let's forget the unpleasant parts of this conversation."
"A drink sounds fine." Marco watched Cobblepot's hand as it reached for a bottle. "But you need to understand two things first."
Cobblepot's hand paused.
"First, if anything happens to me, there'll be cops surrounding this place within five minutes. And everything I just said? It'll go straight to Don Falcone."
Cobblepot started wiping a glass with a rag. "And the second thing?"
"Second." Marco leaned back in the booth. "You should take out that shotgun you've got hidden under the bar. Or you can try to kill me right now and see what it costs you."
Cobblepot stood there. His eyes darted around the room. Then, slowly, his expression changed.
He bent down and placed a sawed-off shotgun on the bar top. "There. Better?"
He poured two drinks and carried them over to the booth. He smoothed out his wrinkled suit jacket and sat down across from Marco.
"So. What do you want from me? And... can we put the previous matters behind us?"
"Start by telling me what you know."
"Honestly? Not much." Cobblepot took a sip of his drink. "Don Falcone called us all in this morning. From what the surveillance footage showed, there were seven or eight of them. Heavy firepower. All wearing masks. They didn't just take the money. They propped up one of the dead guards with a sign around his neck. It said: 'GET OUT OF THIS CITY.'"
Marco let out a short laugh. "No wonder he's in a panic. This isn't just robbery. Someone's trying to push him out."
"Yes. he is... somewhat anxious." Cobblepot nodded. "But that's understandable. No one wants to see their life's work destroyed."
"But he didn't need to flood the streets with his thugs." Marco lifted his glass but didn't drink. He swirled the green liquid slowly. "Now even ordinary people can't get around without running into armed gangsters on every corner. People do irrational things when they get old."
Cobblepot's eye twitched. He forced that harmless smile back onto his face.
"He is still sharp. His actions must be—"
"So you agree he's getting old?"
Marco cut him off, standing and leaning over the table with both hands planted flat. His shadow swallowed Cobblepot whole, and the smaller man suddenly looked very small indeed.
"I think someone who knows how to cooperate would be better suited to lead. The GCPD doesn't want this city tearing itself apart. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He downed his drink in one gulp, set the glass down hard, and walked toward the door.
"I'm heading to the Don Falcone estate now. He will probably want someone assigned to cooperate with the police investigation."
He paused at the door, one hand on the frame, and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Opportunities like this don't come often."