Luke Diamond was the desk sergeant at the 52nd for the night shift. His heavyset frame caused him to breathe heavily into the phone when he spoke. He said Gordon was escorted home by Morrow and Willis. She'd owe him a bottle of Old Forester for that nugget.
Perez parked along the street, where she had a clean line of sight on Gordon's block and house. A blue-and-white cruiser idled out front. She figured Bronson was keeping an eye on him—whether to protect him from Loeb or to nab his partner, she didn't know yet.
Resting on her lap was the file Mendez gave her. She began thumbing through the pages, skimming for information she might have overlooked. The next page had a black-and-white photocopy of Gordon in his dress blues. It was grainy, but she made out his fresh, smooth face—the same aviator eyeglasses. He must have been just nineteen.
"So young-looking," she said, noting that shortly after, he'd married Alice Eileen Kean. The file didn't say it outright, but Perez figured they were high school sweethearts.
The rest of his record was vague. No details about deployments. No mention of assignments. Just a steady stream of medals, year after year.
"Special ops," she guessed under her breath, then sighed, tired of reading the same pages and hitting the same dead ends.
Out her window, she watched Gordon's house.
Even if she caught him alone—what was the play?
She unclipped the photo, studied his stiff posture and expressionless face. No smile. Thick mustache. Neatly combed hair under the cap.
"You're not a squealer," she said, tucking the paper back into the file.
Then—movement.
Gordon stepped out onto the stoop.
She squinted.
Willis stepped out of the cruiser, followed by Morrow. The three men exchanged a few words. Morrow thumbed the mic on his shoulder. Gordon lifted a hand, suggesting he didn't want Morrow to call something in. Morrow shook his head, eyes sweeping the street like he was expecting trouble.
Perez slouched lower. After a few seconds, she poked her head up.
Gordon crossed the street, sliding into his car. The two officers started bickering as he walked away.
As his sedan rolled down the street, Perez ducked, listening as the tires passed. She counted a breath, then sat up, turned the key, and slid into traffic a few cars behind.
He headed south, merging onto the highway, weaving between lanes. She followed close behind, rain blurring the city lights across the windshield. Her wipers slapped the drizzle aside. She watched his brake lights flash red, then his blinker flashing yellow. He changed lanes, entering the Tricorner Bridge.
The Tri Bridge was a suspension bridge connecting Midtown Island to the mainland at Tricorner City—it was five thousand, one hundred fifty-five feet across. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Gotham pulsed and shined like a nightclub, luring partygoers to her streets. A tempting city on an island, growing smaller with every mile. Her eyes returned to Gordon.
"Where the hell are you going?" she asked the windshield.
The bridge fed into a long stroad lined with vacant strip malls. Just like Cape Carmine and Milton Village, Tricorner City was a coastal sprawl on the mainland, and still within Gotham County limits. But where the former had luxury, Tricorner was just as broken as the islands.
She drove past a busted couch. A gutted dishwasher. Streetlights that blinked in and out like tired eyes. Gangs lingered here, too, but nothing serious—mostly low-rent dealers with vague ties to Gotham.
Gordon pulled into a beat-up service station, parked, and went inside.
Perez rolled past, swinging into a blacked-out lot across the street. A handful of cars scattered like trash. Homeless snoozed or got high in sedans, truck beds, and vans. She killed the lights and waited.
Gordon reemerged, filled up his tank. He pulled a folded map from his coat and tossed it onto the passenger seat. When the pump clicked, he hung it back and slid into the driver's seat.
Perez bounced her leg, tempted to light up. A cigarette would help settle her nerves. But she just watched as he sat there for what felt like minutes. He was probably glancing at the map—but where was he going?
Then the engine growled, and he pulled out.
She gave it a few seconds before following.
He drove deeper into the sprawl, Perez hanging three or four cars behind. There were enough cars cruising by to give her cover, but then the street narrowed to two lanes. Soon after, the city fell away, replaced by walls of trees—tall, black, and swallowing the road whole.
Mile after mile of nothing but asphalt and shadow.
She tried to recall what lay past Tricorner. Only one name surfaced.
"Newtown?" she murmured. "Is that it?"
A faded green sign blurred past: Now Leaving Tricorner.
The drive stretched like it didn't want to end. Forty minutes. Then fifty. At nearly an hour, Gordon eased onto the shoulder.
Perez passed him, took the next bend, and veered off at a rest stop buried behind a wall of brush.
Only one structure—a crumbling roadside bathroom—stood beneath a buzzing halogen light. She stepped out, popped the trunk, dug out a flashlight. Before she slammed it shut, she paused.
Hesitation crept in, tangled with curiosity. A cold whisper at her back urged her to turn around.
She glanced at the lot—empty, silent. The building stood alone, like it had been waiting for visitors.
"If he trusts him then I'll trust him," she muttered, slamming the trunk shut.
She pushed through the wet undergrowth in her black Converse. Mud soaked her socks. Cold water oozed into the fabric. She hissed a curse. Branches clawed at her jacket; the ground tugged at her feet like it wanted her to stop.
She kept going until she saw him.
Across the road, there he was.
Gordon sat motionless in his car. Engine off. Headlights off. Staring at nothing. Perfectly still. He looked calm. Like this wasn't strange. Like it was routine.
Perez narrowed her eyes.
"What the fuck are you doing, Jim?" she whispered.