Jamie finds her muscles tensing up as she rises from the couch. Who could possibly be at the door? By Selina's tone, no one good. She really hopes it's not Montoya or Alan— though , she thinks, grimly, with my luck, it might just be.
When she catches sight of the person standing awkwardly in the doorway, she freezes. There stands Osvalda Cobblepot, leaning a bit more heavily on her left leg, expression eager. "Hi," she says, "I'm Anne—"
Jamie sighs; pinching the bridge of her nose. "Osvalda, cut the shit," she says. "Selina obviously know who you are, and I'm too tired to play pretend right now. Just...just come in."
Surprise flits across the other's face—obviously, she was expecting something else. Rage, maybe? Jamie doesn't give her too much time to think about it, though, moving to the side and ushering her in. "Selina," she says, "go to your room."
Selina scowls; obviously displeased; but does as requested. Jamie makes her way to the kitchen, pulling open the cupboard. "Do you want a drink?" she asks Osvalda; pulling out a bottle of whiskey.
Osvalda shakes her head. "No, thank you," she demures; eying Jamie consideringly. Jamie shrugs; too tired to try and parse what the other might be thinking. Pouring herself a finger, she puts the bottle away and makes her way back into the living room, sitting down and gesturing to the other to do the same.
Selina's bedroom door opens; and she darts out, grabbing Rosemary, shooting a suspicious glare at Osvalda, who's sat down beside Jamie, before slamming the bedroom door behind her. There's an awkward silence between them, and Jamie stares at her cup; swirls it slightly, before setting it down again.
"Say something," Osvalda says; quietly; finally. " Please. "
"What do you want me to say?" Jamie asks; her voice flat; gestures to the both of them with a wide sweep of her hand. "Do you want me to apologise for pushing you into the bay? To rage at you for coming back and putting us both in danger? Because I can do either." She raises her glass to her lips, taking a pull; closing her eyes as it burns a path down her throat.
"I'm sorry," Osvalda blurts. "It just—seemed like the right thing to do at the time. To let you know that I'm alive, that is."
Jamie huffs and takes another sip of her whiskey. "Ç'est ce que ç'est," she says, drily. "I do appreciate the sentiment, though."
They sit quietly for a moment longer, before Osvalda clears her throat. "I can be your underworld informant," she offers; and then, fiercely, "Fish Mooney, your partner, Harvey Bullock—they've all lied to you. I would never lie to you." Reaching out, she grabs Jamie's hand, pressing it to her heart. " Never. But there's a war coming, Detective—a bloody war, and I believe you're the only person who can stop the bloodshed in our beloved city."
Jamie laughs softly. "I'm no hero," she says. "I've been blind enough to contribute to bloodshed in the name of winning a war. How am I different than any of the other people tangled up in this mess?"
"Because," Osvalda says, "no matter what happens, Jamie Gordon, you always try and help. You're the most merciful, courageous, kind person I have met. It would be my honour to assist you." Glancing at her watch, she says, "It's getting late, and we both have work tomorrow, so I shall take my leave." Dropping Jamie's hand, and offering her a smile, she says, "Goodnight, Detective."
With that, she rises from her spot, and limps towards the door, leaving Jamie alone in the room, a half-empty glass on the arm of the sofa, and her hand tingling with the unexpected cold from it being abruptly removed from where it had rested atop Osvalda's heart.
Jamie sighs. Gotham, she thinks; half-hysterical.
A few moments later, the door to Selina's bedroom opens, and she emerges, cat in her arms. "You know the weirdest people," she says.
The levity of the sentence brings a short laugh to Jamie's lips. "I kind of do, huh?" she says, and picks up the box of fried rice, digging in, appetite suddenly returning. Selina follows suit a moment later with the box of noodles.
The next morning, there's another case file on her desk; this one about the murder of Councilman Jenkins, and his assistant, Myrtle. Apparently, the COD is from a rod-like implement being shoved through their eyes and piercing through bone before entering the brain.
"It's probably politically motivated," Jamie says, tiredly. She gazes at the lines of writing in the case file, and then starts as she realises that she's already read the same sentence at least half a dozen times already.
Bullock shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Politicians are much cheaper to bribe than to kill."
Didn't mean legal politics, Jamie thinks, dourly, but doesn't voice the opinion. Bullock'll believe whatever he want to until evidence to the contrary smacks him upside the head. It's one of his wonderful traits.
Suddenly, there's a cup of coffee on her desk; and she looks up to see who's brought it. It's Ed, her auburn hair neatly pinned up, another cup—tea, going by the writing on the side—in her hand. "I figured you might want a pick-me-up," she says, to Jamie. "Cafe borgia—thought you might appreciate something a bit experimental. Of course," she hurries to add, "if you don't like it, I can—"
Jamie raises the cup to her lips, taking a sip, savouring the flavour. "It's great," she says, cutting off the other's anxious rambling. "Thanks, Ed. I really needed that."
"Oh!" Ed grins; the expression a bit awkward but lighting up her entire face. "No problem! I figured I was stopping to get myself a cup of tea anyway, so I might as well pick you up something as well." Checking her watch, she adds, "Well, I'd better get going. Good luck on your case, Detectives!"
Jamie gives a small wave to the other as she departs, then turns back to the case-file, ignoring Bullock who's grumbling about Ed not bringing him something as well. Taking another sip of her mocha, she finds, miraculously, that she can concentrate once more, and nearly sighs aloud with relief.
They've just finished questioning the suspects for the Jenkinses' murders—oddly enough, the temporary fill-in for the councilman's assistant shared the same surname as him, though the two were apparently unrelated—and she's incredibly glad for the caffeine she ingested earlier, as, without it, Jamie doubts she would have been able to muster up the concentration the case demands.
Bullock, stubborn as he is, insisted on interrogating one of their first suspects for a good forty minutes—a man named Nicky Keatts, a parking-lot mugger—and now Jamie has a headache from trying to make sure the aggressive detective didn't harm the man.
When they get back to the precinct, she immediately slumps in her chair, closing her eyes for a long moment. As such, it takes her a bit to notice that there's a box placed neatly in the centre of her desk. There's a note on top of it, written with a typewriter, removing the tell that handwriting would provide, and when she opens it, her gaze is dragged towards a ceramic cup with a bag of chocolates in it.
The mug has a black and white penguin on it, and the chocolates are high-end, caramel and sea salt—her favourites. There's a questionmark penned on the front of the bag in permanent green marker. Bullock sees her reaching into the bag to take a chocolate, and raises a brow "You got an admirer, eh, Gordon?" he sneers, when he catches sight of the note.
Jamie takes the note, reading it over. Hello Detective. We think this may aid in your efforts. Regards, your humble servants.
Taking a second look into the box, she finds a stack of papers—documentation, she realises, on both the Jenkinses; communication, relationships, people who might want them dead, as well as a report on the damage done by the murder weapon, and incidences of other deaths with a similar weapon.
She leafs through the papers, wondering who on Earth could have gotten all of this, and then stops dead as she catches sight of the biggest lead of them all, sitting nestled innocuously amongst the other papers: a brochure advertising the Wayne family's plan for the Arkham project.
She pulls it out eagerly, barely even noticing when Bullock comes to lean over her shoulder to read it. There's a short summary of Martha and Thomas Wayne's idea: demolish the slums and build affordable, low-income housing. And, according to the other papers, since they've died, the Arkham project has turned into a battleground between Falcone and Maroni, each of them submitting competing plans for the development of the area to the City Council.
The next day, there's another murder of a councilman. Jamie and Bullock get called out to investigate. The scene is gruesome, quite frankly; the oil drum is fairly intact, though the same can't be said for Councilman Zeller. All that's left of the man are his charred remains—scorched flesh, and, in some places, whitened bones. It sends a grim message, to say the least.
Ed, who's arrived before the two of them—she claims it's necessary, as, in a city like Gotham, it's better to make sure no one can taint the evidence, and, honestly, Jamie doesn't blame her—appears by their side without warning.
"Jesus fuck, " Bullock exclaims, jerking around when he notices the woman. "What are you, a ghost?" and then shakes his head, raising a hand to stop Ed from replying. "Nevermind, don't answer. I don't care."
Ed ignores him, and says, to Jamie, excitedly, "Both Zeller and the Jenkinses suffered near-identical puncture wounds to through their eyes, which would indicate that it's the same assassin!" She beams, fingers tapping against the side of the disposable cup in her hand with nervous energy.
"Huh," Jamie says, furrowing her brows; puzzled. "That's odd—why would the same person kill two men from opposing sides of a crime war? I would say that it's to try and create a war so they can step in and take power, but I can't think of anyone who's made any moves."
Bullock, who's lit a cigarette, mutters something about Only in Gotham , but Ed shrugs. "I have no clue. I just collect and analyse evidence. It's your job to figure it out."
"Aw, your trust in my abilities heartens me," Jamie coos, pressing her hand to her heart. "Oh, be still!"
"Nygma!" someone calls; and Ed rolls her eyes; mouthing a goodbye as she hurries off to see what it is.
Bullock takes a final drag of his cigarette and stubs it out against the bricks of the alley. "There's someone who might be able to give us a lead," he says. At Jamie's look, he says, "You're not going to like it, though."
"Whatever helps us solve the case," Jamie says, firmly.
"It's another hitman," Bullock says, "Anton Olisky. He's serving a lifetime sentence in Blackgate."
It takes a while—Jamie is reluctant, and then, after that, they have to go through the whole paperwork process. Bullock insists on bringing a carton of cigarettes, claiming that they'll be necessary. It's hellishly hard to get the guards to let them take them in with them.
Olisky isn't anything like what one would expect a hitman serving a life sentence to be like. He practically lounges in his chair, oozing smugness. "Did you know," he says, conversationally, "that I once evaded an FBI team for a week and got them trapped in a bathroom for two days?"
"Concentrate, Olisky," Bullock snaps.
The man clicks his tongue. "Rude, rude," he admonishes, "but fine. I'm feeling generous. What does the GCPD want with little old me?"
"Information," Jamie cuts in, seeing Bullock's murderous look.
Olisky's gaze snaps to her. "Oh?" he says, sounding interested, "and what did you bring me in return?"
Bullock opens his coat, pulling out the cigarettes; lets Olisky get a good view of them. The man's gaze sharpens. "Malboro," he says. "I see you've done your homework. Very well; ask away."
"There's been three deaths," Jamie says. "All the same weapon. We've determined it's most likely some sort of hollow tube with a mechanism that triggers a metal spike or needle to pop out. Have you heard of anyone who uses that kind of weapon?"
Olisky stares off into the distance, as if summoning a memory from his mind. "Ah!" he exclaims. "Yes, I know the weapon, and its owner. Richard Gladwell—he was last rumoured to be working out of the Lansky Building. Now," he holds out a hand, "your payment?"
Grudgingly, Bullock gives him the carton.
Their next stop is the bank where Gladwell worked; and it only takes them a few minutes to convince the manager to let them search his desk. There's sheaves of incriminating papers, along with a piece of paper with the letters C, L, and M scribbled on it—some sort of code, maybe?—; but the man himself is nowhere to be found.
"Dead end," Bullock announces a few hours later, dropping a pile of papers on her desk with a small thump. His hair's pulled back with a hairtie, a scowl affixed to his face. He reaches into his coat to pull out his flask, taking a swing from it, and grimaces slightly.
"What?" Jamie says. "You can't possibly mean—?"
Bullock nods. "The killer—whoever that actually is—stole the ID of the real Richard Gladwell. The actual Gladwell disappeared five years ago, but the landlord who owns his apartment kept getting the monthly rent, so he didn't ask any questions."
" Lovely, " Jamie mutters, "just what we needed—one of our only possible leads is useless, and we haven't got any way of IDing the murderer or the next possible victim." She sighs, squeezing her eyes shut.
Bullock snorts. "I'll see if any of my underworld contacts know anything." No doubt, he means Fish Mooney.
Jamie feels insane, hysterical laughter bubble up in her chest. With what I have to deal with, she thinks, one of these days, I'm going to join the criminal classes myself. Pausing, her lips quirk as she thinks, Selina would probably be overjoyed — and I could probably get Ed to join us.
Speak of the devil—Ed appears, a stack of papers in her arms, two cups and a small bag carefully balanced on top. "Here you go!" Ed says, excitedly; pushes the papers Bullock left to the side, and sets a cup and the bag down on her desk. Jamie picks up the cup and takes a sip.
"They had a special deal on pastries," Ed explains, when Jamie eyes the bag questioningly. "I got a Bear Claw, but, well, it's kind of big—so I was wondering if you wanted to split it with me?" She smiles shyly. Warmth bubbles up in Jamie.
"Thank you," she says, softly. "I'd love to."
Ed's expression lights up. Jamie swallows, and tries to convince herself that the increase in her heart rate is just from the caffeine.
Jamie's phone rings, drawing her attention away from the frankly amusing spectacle that's occurring. Alvarez is getting chewed out by Ed for contaminating the evidence at a crime scene, her generally calm, timid countenance fully transformed as she yells at the detective. Normally, Jamie would feel a sliver of pity, but the man had it coming to him—Ed had warned the man and his partner multiple times that they needed to be careful, but Alvarez had ignored her, choosing to traipse through the crime scene, contaminating the glass cups by drinking out of them, which has the forensic analyst livid—apparently, those were the only things on the crime scene Ed could have lifted fingerprints from reliably.
With one last scowl and a finger jabbed at Alvarez's chest, Ed turns on her heel and storms away. Jamie pulls her attention fully away from the spectacle and picks up her phone, tapping accept. "Jamie Gordon speaking."
"Jamie, my friend!" Osvalda's voice startles her, an unexpected amount of warmth readily apparent. "I do apologise for the inopportune time, but it is rather urgent—Maroni plans to hit another politician—"
"All the councilors are under GCPD protection," Jamie argues, keeping her voice down.
"There are ways around that," Osvalda replies matter-of-factly. Unfortunately, she's not wrong.
Suddenly, there's a commotion in the background, and Osvalda hisses, " Hell— someone's coming and I don't have an alibi—just, just go with it, okay?" With that, she pitches her voice higher, speaking more slowly. "Six o'clock? Yes, I'll be there, darling," she says, injecting a playful air into the words. "Yes, love you too...bye."
The line clicks, leaving Jamie holding her phone, shocked by the sudden turn of events.
I should probably check over the list of officers assigned to councilors, she thinks, finally, riffling through the stack of papers on her desk, frowning when the desired paper doesn't materialise. I'll have to go ask Kristen. That's no mean feat, though—three-quarters of the time, no one knows where the redhead is; she manages to disappear among the archives like a ghost through walls. Although—Ed might know. She has an uncanny ability to find things. Maybe that extends to people as well.
At the thought of the forensic analyst, the taste of cinnamon rises, unbidden, in her mind.
Luckily, Ed is in her lab, which is the first place Jamie checks. She raps twice on the door, causing the other to look up from where she's peeering intently at a glass cup, various powders opened next to her, white plastic gloves covering her large, slender hands.
"Jamie!" she exclaims. "How can I help you? I'm a bit busy trying to pull off any sort of print from the cup that Alvarez—well, no need to go into detail; I'm sure the whole precinct knows. But I'm sure I can spare a moment to help you."
Jamie smiles sheepishly. "Actually," she says. "I was wondering if you know where Kristen is? I need the list of officers assigned to protect the various council-members, and—"
"Say no more, my friend," Ed replies; though there's an element of weariness to it, suddenly. "I believe she's in section 2B of the archives, considering her usual routine." She offers a small, crooked smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Thanks," Jamie says, turning to leave. "Hey, Ed?" she asks, "do you want to come over to my place tonight—at six, maybe? We can play board games—and Selina wants to see you again, even though she won't admit it," she offers; and Ed's smile softens.
"I'd love to," she returns.
"You'll kill her in the end," Mirror Ed whispers, "just like with poor Tom."
Ed twitches; barely restraining herself from hurling something at the mirror her counterpart is confined to. At one point, she had taken it down, but she had quickly learnt that Mirror Ed is a far cry better than Hallucination Ed, what with the latter seeming far more real—frighteningly so.
"Shut up," Ed mutters; but it's a lost effort.
Mirror Ed chuckles. "I'm just trying to protect her from you," she simpers. Ed hates it—when she does this, sounding so logical. Rationally, she knows it's just an emotional manipulation tactic, but that doesn't mean it stings any less.
"Shut up, " Ed hisses, abandoning her work, and turns to face the mirror fully, ready to berate her look-alike. However, the sight that greets her makes her blink; the reflection isn't moving. It blinks, too, unnerving, and makes her recoil. The figure in the mirror mirrors her.
"Stop doing that," Ed snaps; and Mirror Ed finally moves of her own accord; eyes wide and innocent.
"What?" she questions, cocking her head to the side, eying Ed with a cruel quizzicality.
" That, " Ed says, irritated, gesturing broadly. "Copying me."
Mirror Ed laughs softly; shaking her head; loose, slightly curly tresses tumbling cross her shoulders. That's one of the few things that's helped Ed disentangle herself from the other—while she keeps her own hair straightened and pinned up, Mirror Ed's dark auburn hair stays down.
Mirror Ed tuts. "Dude," she says. "It's a mirror. That's how they work. "
As much as she hates to admit it, it's irrational; and Mirror Ed is right. Thankfully, her counterpart falls silent, leaving Ed to return to her work.
The memory of Jamie smiling at her as she invited her over to her place refuses to leave her, though; and Ed is somewhat glad for it, as it chases away the chill that's settled into her bones. Though she's had few, if any friends, and social cues are a near mystery to her, she can't help but wonder, distantly, if this is a bit more than a simple desire to befriend the Detective.
The instant Jamie has the list in her hands, she scans over it, throwing a quick "Thank you!" over her shoulder. As she scans the list, she feels dread creep up on her. Her stomach drops as she sees the names of the officers assigned to the Mayor: Campos, Lazenby, and Martins.
C, L, M.
The three letters from the piece of paper in Gladwell's desk—they weren't a code, but rather the initials of the officers who the killer had bought off.
Mind stuck somewhere between blind panic and the hyper-focus that's been drilled into her over the years, Jamie quickly makes her way to the Captain's office, and explains the situation to her.
Essen pales. "Go to Mayor James' home," she orders, and Jamie hastily complies. When she gets there, she does a quick perimeter check. The officers are nowhere to be found, reaffirming her suspicions that they've been bought off.
Jamie knocks on the over-embellished door of the Mayor's home; waiting with baited breath, counting the seconds in her head it takes for James to answer. After seventy nerve wracking seconds, the door opens, revealing the Mayor.
Confusion is evident on his face. "Officer Gordon?" he asks.
Jamie glances around, checking to see if anyone's possibly listening in. "Mr. Mayor, sir," she says, "someone's coming to kill you—we have to get you out of here, ASAP."
The blood drains from the Mayor's face, and he ushers her inside, nervously locking the door and bolting it. Voice slightly higher than normal, sweat beading on his balding head, James says, "I have a country house where we'll be safe—but I can't leave without emptying my safe. It contains my emergency funds," he explains, "and some important documents."
Jamie wants to yell—the idiotic man has a target on his back and he's more worried about his money than his life? But instead, she takes a calming breath and follows the Mayor, hand covering over her holster, glancing behind her at intervals.
They're just about to reach the end of the short hall when the doors are knocked inwards, the force of the fall causing the both of them to stumble. A tall, darkly dressed man holding a metal tube stands outside the doors; and Jamie, panic fading away, shoves the Mayor into one of the adjacent rooms, yelling, "Lock it behind you!"
The man advances; pulling out a gun and shooting at the lock, lunging at her. She dances back, hissing as he manages to clip her shoulder with another gunshot, but she gives as good as she gets; letting herself shift fully into her avis form, fingers fading into talons, slashing them across his cheek.
She barely manages to avoid the wickedly sharp spike that shoots out from his metal tube with a sick snick , eyes widening as it sinks into the wood panelling next to her instead of in her neck. Fortunately, he loses a precious few second to trying to get it dislodged; and in that time, her backup arrives—she's never been so glad to see Bullock's hulking figure before.
They both duck, and Jamie accidentally knocks open the door to the room the Mayor's hiding in, tripping and falling flat on her back. The man enters a second later. "Really," he says, putting a boot on the centre of her chest and pinning her to the ground, "your actions are commendable, officer, but my clients hired me because I'm a professional—I always finish the job."
He shifts slightly, readying his weapon, and lunges at the Mayor, huddled in the corner, terror on his face—
A single gunshot rings out, and he falls to the floor, blood welling out of a wound at the base of his neck; mild surprise the last expression on his face.
The next day, the Mayor, as a means of preventing a gang war, announces to the media that he has merged the two project proposals, with Falcone building the low-income housing, while Maroni gets to build a toxic waste disposal site.
"As for Arkham Asylum," he says, voice crackling over the TV, "we will refurbish the existing building and bring it up to modern standards—it would be too costly to demolish it and build a new mental health facility."
Jamie, sitting on one of the armchairs in the Wayne Manor's living room, watches Bruce pace the floor. "He deliberately excluded the centrepiece of my parents' plans for Arkhman!" he spits, outrage seeping into his tone. "Everything they worked to leave—their whole legacy, it's controlled by criminals!"
"Master Bruce," Alfred protests. "That's simply not true!"
"Mister Pennyworth is right," Jamie agrees, " you are your parents' most important legacy, and you're free of corruption."
For a moment, they sit in silence, save for the background noise fo the television. "Can Gotham ever be saved?" Bruce asks, ignoring the look that Pennyworth shoots him.
Jamie sighs. "It's worth trying regardless," she says, trying to make her words sound as convincing as possible. Bruce seems to notice that she hasn't answered his question properly, though, and his lips twist.
Suddenly, Jamie's phone rings; and when she checks it, it's the number Osvalda had previously called her from. "Sorry," she says, rising, "I need to take this."
Bruce waves her off; and she makes her way into the hallway, far away enough that Pennyworth and Bruce can't hear her. "Hello?" she says. "Osvalda?"
There's a beat of silence; andd then Osvalda's voice crackles over the line; faux cheerily. "Detective, my friend!"
"Just Jamie," she corrects. "What's up?"
"Well," the other says, nervously, "you remember when I called you to warn you? The alibi I used? Maroni's right-hand man, Frankie Carbone, was the one who overheard that part of our conversation, and now he expects me to—well, to bring you to the restaurant for a date."
Jamie blinks; silent for a moment. "What?"
"Oh—nevermind—"
"Hang on," Jamie interrupts, "I didn't say no, I was just surprised."
"It's a matter of life or death, my friend," Osvalda adds, sounding somewhat desperate. "Please—if you don't, Maroni will have me executed!" Her panicked voice rings across the line; and then she clears her throat, and more quietly, says, "Please—"
Jamie interrupts her again, this time speaking more softly. "Of course," she says. "How about we meet up somewhere and we can hash out the details—tomorrow evening at GC Jitter's, maybe? If you're free then?"
The relief in the other's tone is palpable. "Thank you, friend—I don't know how I'll ever repay you—"
"Friends don't owe each other favours," Jamie says, firmly. "Goodnight, Osvalda. And—" she hesitates, before adding, "stay safe."
When Jamie gets home, it's to the scent of something delicious in the air. Selina informs her that it's almost six, and she's made lasagne since she realised a few hours before that Jamie probably wasn't going to be home in time to cook dinner. "I can follow a recipe," she says, "and surprisingly, you already had most of the ingredients. I just had to pop over to the grocery store and buy some canned tomatoes."
"Thanks," Jamie says, and gets to tidying up the apartment.
Ten minutes later, there's a knock on the door. Selina leaps up, racing to answer it. "Ed!" she exclaims. "Jamie found our scrabble set and..."
Selina continues to babble as she goes into the kitchen, presumably to pull the lasagne out from where it's being kept in the oven to keep it warm. Jamie moves to take Ed's coat; seeing the slump of her shoulders, and the way her mouth tightens, and asks, quietly, "Something happen?"
Ed sighs. "Nothing more than usual," she says. "I managed to pull of a partial print, only for Alvarez to complain that he can't do anything with that. And Bullock was, well..." she grimaces. "Let's just say he's less tolerable without you around to curb him."
"I'm sorry," Jamie says, frowning. "I wish I could do something about it."
Ed shrugs. "I have no idea why the man hates me so much."
"Well," Jamie says, firmly, "forget about that nonsense—Selina made lasagne and we can play scrabble and we can watch a movie afterwards—that should help take your mind off of it a bit."
It does seem to manage to do that; Selina ties with Ed over scrabble, and the lasagne is delicious, and they watch bad procedural shows, and Ed even winds up laughing at some of the inconsistencies with real life.