The rain had stopped.
Gotham's sky was still an impenetrable leaden gray, weighing down so heavily it was hard to breathe.
The air inside the Safehouse on the edge of the East End was stale. Gordon pushed open the rusty iron door and tossed the bloodstained Cipher Ledger onto the battered iron table. "Get to work." That was all he said.
Harvey stubbed out his cigarette in an ash-filled soda can and grabbed the ledger.
He did not ask what Gordon had been through. The muddy water dripping from the hem of Gordon's trench coat and the utter coldness in his eyes told Harvey everything. The Chicago detective who had once worked within the rules, compromising at every turn, was dead.
The Gordon standing before him was a blade honed to an edge.
"Koslov's ledger alone won't be enough to nail Loeb." Harvey rapidly leafed through the densely packed transactions.
"In court, all Loeb has to do is spend a fortune on a few top lawyers, and they'll find dozens of ways to get this thrown out as illegally obtained evidence. We need a living witness. Someone who can pin down this entire chain of corruption."
"Arnold Flass," Gordon said. "He's Loeb's front man."
"I know, but he's buried deep in the East End, with dozens of armed thugs on his payroll. Going in by force would turn into a disaster." Harvey rubbed his temples.
"We don't need to bring him in. Someone's already helping us." Gordon looked through the glassless window into the deep night.
At three in the morning, Flass emerged from an underground casino in the East End with twenty thousand dollars in freshly collected cash tucked inside his coat. Just as he reached the mouth of the alley, the streetlight flickered twice and went out.
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