The windshield wipers had stopped in the middle of the windshield, completely jammed.
Gordon looked at the smiley-face card on the passenger seat. The curve drawn in red ink had a cheap, bloody stink to it. Beneath it lay a bullet covered in verdigris.
Intimidation.
The one trick Gotham never ran short of.
Yesterday, he would have put it in an evidence bag, submitted it through the proper channels, then watched the file get locked in a basement to gather dust.
Things were different now.
Gordon picked up the bullet and rubbed the grime from around the primer with his thumb. It hadn't gotten damp. It would fire.
He drew his service pistol, ejected the magazine, and forced the bullet someone had sent to threaten his life into the top slot.
He tore the card to pieces and fed them through the gap in the window, into the wind and rain.
The old Ford shifted into gear, spat black smoke from its exhaust, and rolled away through the standing water.
Seven in the morning. The rain had stopped in the East End, and the sky was the pale white of a dead fish's belly.
In the basement of 22 Lake Street, Maggie wore sterile gloves as she practiced suturing a piece of skin-on pork belly.
Yang Ming sat on a tall stool with a cup of black coffee in his hand.
"Your stitches are too far apart." Yang Ming tapped the stainless steel tray with his pen, just as he had when teaching Jessica. "If you sewed someone's belly up like that, one sneeze and their intestines would spill out."
Maggie's hand shook, and she nearly pricked herself. She hurriedly removed the stitches and threaded the needle again.
Someone pushed the roll-up door open from outside.
Cold wind poured in,