Across the ocean, in Gotham City.
The commissioner's office occupied the top floor of the Gotham City Police Department (GCPD) building.
Heavy blinds concealed the gloomy sky outside, and the scent of expensive Cuban cigars filled the room.
Commissioner Loeb sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, a half-smoked cigar between his fingers. The ashtray in front of him was piled high with extinguished cigar butts.
"What did Falcone say about the Docks?" Loeb's voice was somewhat hoarse, edged with unmistakable agitation.
Across the desk, half of Flass's face was still swollen, making him look rather ridiculous. He lowered his head, his voice muffled in his throat.
"The Roman told us to 'lie low.' He said what happened was an accident, the work of that 'black cape' and the lunatic who crushed a rocket launcher. His business in the East End took heavy losses. He's busy calming down his underbosses and doesn't have time for us."
"Doesn't have time for us?" Loeb sprang to his feet, grabbed a thick stack of documents from his desk, and hurled it into Flass's face.
Papers scattered across the floor.
"That was three whole shipping containers full of human heads! And Koslov's secret ledger! You're telling me that was an accident?!" Loeb roared, veins bulging on his forehead.
"The ledger is gone! Every transfer Falcone ever made to me, every protection payment you idiots collected, all of it was in that locked briefcase!"
"Falcone has money to burn. He could hide for a year or two without starving!" Loeb slammed his palm on the desk, making the coffee cup rattle.
"If I hide, all it takes is one little piece of that ledger getting out, and tomorrow I'll be playing drop-the-soap with those sick bastards in Blackgate Penitentiary!"
Loeb paced restlessly around his office. He