"For years, this city had broken free from the shackles of darkness and seen daylight again. But when night fell and Gotham was once more steeped in that inky darkness that could not be dissolved, it was as though it had returned overnight to that secretive and cruel previous era. When I heard news of yet another murder, I could not help hurrying out. The gust stirred up as I threw on my coat could have blown all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. But Rodriguez remained the same. He stood beneath the lights at the Green Street office entrance, the clean lines of his overcoat hanging straight down, reminding me of an old fountain pen once stored in a gun case. Undoubtedly, the news had made him even more weary. What a grueling night—but dawn would always come. That was what I thought, though I did not say it aloud, lest I disturb his brief nap in the car, or the threads of the case he was weaving in his mind."
Schiller leaned over to glance at the paper in Victor's hands. Victor even raised an eyebrow at him smugly. Schiller turned away with a helpless look and said, "Let's make a bet."
"Bet on what?"
"Who the dead person is."
"That seems a little disrespectful to the deceased."
"But it could make this story more interesting."
"Then I'll bet Pelota is dead." Victor considered it and said, "There's a high chance Milos is the killer. Pelota might have known something, so she was silenced."
"Then I'll bet she isn't," Schiller said. "Of course, you'd better not secretly swap our answers in your writing after The Truth comes out."
"Of course not," Victor said. "The detective is supposed to be the smart one. The assistant only needs to ask