"Beautifully done!"
Bob couldn't stop grinning the entire ride back. The moment they stepped into his office, he cut a cigar, lit it, and took a long drag.
"That bastard." He jabbed the air with the hand holding the cigar, as if poking an invisible enemy. "Falcone, that cunning son of a bitch, every time there's money on the table, he thinks of Loeb first."
A thick stream of smoke rolled out of his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, rising slowly in the lead-gray light pouring through the window.
"I didn't expect you to be that good at speeches. Where'd you learn to talk like that?"
"Stop circling." Marco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "What do you actually want?"
Bob's grin faded. He avoided Marco's eyes, fingers unconsciously rubbing the cigar's wrapper.
"The fifty thousand Falcone gave you... how are you planning to use it?"
Marco jumped to his feet. "Hey! Chief. If I remember correctly, you're not the type to skim off pension funds."
"Oh, of course not!" Bob waved both hands quickly, almost defensively. "I've never touched the official pension payments. But this... this is extra."
"Don't even think about it. You're not getting a single cent. In fact, not only that, I'd advise you to donate a few tens of thousands yourself."
"What?"
Bob's face flushed red. He slammed his palm onto the desk.
"What the hell did you just—"
His roar stopped abruptly. Suddenly, he closed his mouth, got up, strode quickly to the office door, and locked it. He pulled down the blinds, cutting off the view from the main floor, then returned to Marco's side.
"What are you planning now? Because there's no way you'd say something that stupid without a reason."
Marco leaned back slightly. "I need to tell you something else first."
He pulled his notebook from his pocket, flipped it open, and handed it to Bob.
"I want to pull someone out of Blackgate. And while I'm at it, clear his name."
"Hmm. Let me see." Bob flipped through the pages suspiciously. "Otis Flannagan? What's this guy good for? Is he a friend of yours?"
He skimmed a few more pages, closed the notebook, and tossed it back onto the desk.
"Getting him out isn't hard. Just send Blackgate a request that we need his assistance on a case. Swoverld's a bit indecisive, but he won't make things difficult for you. But clearing his record..."
He took a deep drag on his cigar and sank into his chair.
"You'll piss off your colleagues in the department and federal judges. You sure it's worth it?"
"Sounds troublesome, right?" Marco opened the notebook again and slid it forward, pointing to a few specific lines. "Even you think so. Imagine everyone else." He tapped the page. "Flannagan has deep connections at the bottom. He can gather a lot of intel. If we pull this off, he'll owe us. Big time."
"A good informant, huh?" Bob grunted, taking the notebook again and reading the section Marco had pointed to. "Officer in charge: Detective Robinson... Judge Anderson... Fleck Robinson?"
He looked up at Marco, stood, and parted the blinds slightly to peer toward the main office floor. At a desk marked Homicide Unit Two, a detective in his thirties was hunched over some documents, occasionally licking his lips.
"If it's that idiot, I'm not surprised your friend got thrown under the bus." He dropped the blinds and frowned. "That's exactly the kind of thing Fleck would do. Lazy bastard always takes the easy way out."
He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
"Joshua Anderson, Gotham court judge. Retired three years ago." He exhaled another cloud of smoke. "But it's not as simple as you think, kid. First, you need to find a prosecutor who's willing to stick his neck out, and doesn't mind risking his career. Second, you're going up against the inertia of the entire justice system. Once a case is closed, nobody wants to reopen it. It makes everyone look bad."
He stared through the smoke at Marco.
"I can refuse to cover for Fleck. But the rest? I think you're going to have a hard time. And what does any of this have to do with the donations you mentioned?"
"It's all connected. You saw it yourself today, headquarters casually took in five hundred thousand. That's equal to the East End's entire annual discretionary budget. And Falcone gives headquarters at least four times that every year. Add in donations from the Diamond District's billionaire philanthropists... Chief, why shouldn't that money be yours?"
The words struck like lightning.
They voiced the ambition Bob had wanted to speak aloud for years but never allowed himself to say. His breathing grew heavy. The office fell silent except for the faint crackle of the burning cigar and the sound of his ragged breathing.
After a long moment, he muttered quietly, "Go on."
"Loeb's position depends on three things: whether the government backs him, whether the rank-and-file support him, and whether his record looks good on paper." He held up three fingers, ticking them off one by one. "Small aid funds for injured officers? The top brass don't care about pocket change like that."
Bob's face reddened slightly at that, but Marco pretended not to notice.
"We make the fund bigger. When you personally hand out relief payments and pensions to injured officers, widows, and orphans, every frontline cop in the GCPD will know exactly who to support. Not Loeb. You."
He opened his hands, then clenched them into fists one by one.
"On the other hand, we need real results. Honestly, if it were a choice between making money and getting things done, I wouldn't stop you." He opened both hands again. "But what if we could do both? I said Flannagan has deep intel sources. He can even get leverage on a lot of people. If we can get something solid on Loeb..."
He leaned over the desk, his voice dropping even lower.
"If one day your pockets are full of political capital, your public achievements make you impossible to ignore, and tens of thousands of Gotham cops stand behind you... and Loeb's scandal just happens to break at the right moment..."
He stared straight into Bob's eyes.
"Loeb can sit in that chair. Why shouldn't you? He can take that money. Why can't you?"
As Marco's words landed, Bob clenched his jaw. He turned his hand over and crushed the half-burned cigar into the ashtray. Then he leaned back in his chair, chest heaving violently, as though he'd just come through a life-or-death struggle and collapsed from exhaustion.
The wall clock ticked steadily. Minutes passed. The smoke in the office slowly thinned. Marco sat quietly, saying nothing.
Another twenty minutes went by, long enough that he suspected Bob might have actually fallen asleep, when suddenly Bob shot upright.
"You're right. Why can't that money be mine? Let's do it."
But after the first burst of excitement and adrenaline, Bob gradually calmed down. He didn't reach for another cigar. Instead, he flicked out a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros and lit it.
"If we're really doing this, we need a detailed plan. Otherwise, we'll end up in a shallow grave somewhere in the Narrows, and nobody will even remember our names."
"No." Marco shook his head. "If the timing isn't right, we don't make the final move. Until then, everything we do is legitimate. Aboveboard. No one can blame us for anything."
"Legitimate?"
Bob clenched the cigarette between his teeth and turned to look out at the lead-gray sky beyond the window.
"That word left me nearly thirty years ago. In Gotham, I learned something far more important than justice, and that's survival. People who care too much about justice rarely live to see thirty. Most don't even make it past twenty-five."
He turned back to Marco.
"And the first step of your plan isn't simple. Where are we supposed to find a district attorney who fits?"
"I heard there's an ambitious newcomer named Harvey Dent," Marco offered tentatively. "Smart guy, they say. Maybe we could test the waters by leaking the information to him?"
"Dent?" Bob let out a cold snort. "I've heard of him. But rookies like that can be a problem. They don't know when to push and when to back off. Could drag everyone down with them if he gets too loud too fast."
He rubbed his temple.
"I know a few prosecutors. But those guys won't challenge the system for 'justice.' They know better. In the end, Franklin has more pull than I do."
He took another hard drag, then exhaled slowly.
"And fine. The money could be mine. Then what do you want out of this?"
Marco counted on his fingers.
"Allowances. Overtime pay. Task bonuses. Rank, eventually. But more importantly, weapons, equipment, vehicles. Especially heavy firepower. Anything you can get your hands on."
Bob raised an eyebrow. "Mutual benefit is one thing, but what do you need that much weaponry for? Don't tell me you're planning to march on City Hall."
"I have a feeling Gotham's only going to get worse," Marco said quietly. "Guns and batons won't cut it. Better to be prepared now. We'll need them sooner or later."
Bob studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"I believe your instincts. You've got good instincts." He stubbed out the cigarette in a paper cup and poured in half a cup of cold coffee to kill the ember. "But forget the doom and gloom for now. Tomorrow morning, go to the underground parking lot. I've got a surprise for you."
Marco's eyes lit up. "The armored transport request actually got approved?!"
"Can't you stop unwrapping the present early?" Bob laughed. He picked up his cigarette pack, thought for a moment, then tossed it aside. "Also, I requested new recruits from headquarters. They gave me one. He'll report around noon. See if he's worth keeping. Any other requests?"
Marco hesitated.
He'd been about to ask about getting Edward transferred in. The future Riddler's brain was no joke, probably on par with Batman's, if the comics were anything to go by. But on second thought, even if Bob agreed, Edward might refuse. There was no Kringle here to keep him interested. Besides, the precinct didn't even have a forensic analyst position open. He'd have to prove himself first.
"No. Nothing for now."
"Mm. Don't rush the DA problem, I'll think of something." Bob swept the messy items on his desk into the trash and walked to the coffee machine. "If that guy is as important as you say, I'll write the authorization tomorrow morning. Get him out of Blackgate and into the precinct. I can assign him cover as an undercover informant assisting an investigation."
"Remember, give him a new name, or cover his face. Just make sure he doesn't meet Fleck. And don't rush the retrial."
"Got it." Marco nodded. "I also need time to investigate whether he's the murderer. Right now, even if the evidence doesn't prove he definitely—"
"Hey. Wake up." Bob cut him off bluntly. "Forget the evidence. If he's as useful as you say, and he's on our side, then whether he's a killer doesn't matter."