"You seen this Zsasz thing?" Allen asked her over lunch, brooding over the Gotham Gazette. Only black man she knew who read the papers, all of 'em. The Daily Planet, Washington Post, The Gaurdian. Hell. Nothing as terrifying as a well-educated man speaking MBV, Crispus Allen liked to joke.
"So some guy decides to rat out on Big Red One," she shrugged. "Surprised he's still alive." Carmide Falconi had a lot of nicknames in the GCPD, and a reach longer than the rumors of his dick. You didn't turn state on the Falconi family and get away with it.
"It's how he's getting his in-house protection that worries me," Allen growled through his sandwich. Turkey on rye. With lettuce and tomato. Doré had him watching his cholesterol again, then…
"Yeah, 'mano?"
"Governor Kane."
"No shit?" she sipped her coke. "Thought he was in Falconi's pocket." Yeah, throat deep is more like.
"No shit, girl. But Kane's daughter went missing all those years ago, and our friend Zsasz says he knows where to find the body." Cold case. Carlotta Kane. Rich Gotham heiress goes missing, never solved. Remind you of anyone?
You had to be brave to ask yourself the scary questions. "So why hasn't Falconi turned on him yet?"
"That's what makes this thing such a motherfucker. Ain't nobody know. It's a power play, 'Nay. And it's got Finch shitting his pants."
Yeah. And Dawes, that lithe little ADA. She'd like to see what that little waif of a woman had in her pants or under her dress…Dawes might've been an A cup at best, but she wore a silk blouse like she'd been born in it.
Hell. Elsa'd only been gone three days and she'd already fucked another girl, and here she was fantasizing about a third. She couldn't do long distance. Couldn't keep focused to save her life…or her relationships. But the cheating and the fucking and the guilt were better than the pills and choking on your own damn vomit, better than going home and putting a bullet through your brain. So Renee Montoya fucked women.
…a lot of women.
She sighed. Wiped ketchups stains and the last traces of another woman's lipstick from her face, stared down at the shitty, smeared napkin and wished her sins would wash off as easily. So pigs could really fucking fly, then. And not just the GCPD kind in helicopters, either. Kane crossing Falconi? For once the Roman's reach grasping up short? This she had to see.
"You know what I say, Crispus?"
"I look like I want your damned opinion, woman?" his white teeth flashed in his wide, easy smile.
"I say it's about time someone looked into Carlotta Kane again." Big Daddy Kane was a dying old man, and he'd do anything for the chance to see or bury his little girl before he kicked it.
Hundreds of kids in Gotham went missing every year. Most were never found. There were over five dozen current open cases just this month, most of them minorities, and all of them unnoticed, and every single damned cop, PI, and fucking amateur conspiracy theoriest in Kane County was still out chasing leads on the Wayne kid before WE went public. And now here she was, investigating the disappearance of some lost little rich bitch from over a decade before.
Equality, her ass.