The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Dent and Rita had put away a fair share of liquor, so he hailed a cab to the 52nd Precinct. As the car turned the corner, he spotted gamblers loitering outside the slot casinos. They watched the reporters like old men watching birds in the park—amused, slightly curious—as they squabbled over crumbs. Amusement flickered in their eyes as uniformed officers, flustered by the press, hurried inside.

Dent exhaled slowly as the cab rolled to a stop.

The moment he stepped out, reporters swarmed—cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets for warmth and pushed through the chaos.

"No comment," he muttered as questions poured in—deals, firings, who else might be on the chopping block.

Inside, the air was colder.

The desk sergeant, Luke Diamond—a rotund man with a close-shaved head—ignored him completely. Dent took the stairs. Six flights up, he was met with hard glares and the occasional shoulder check.

On the sixth, the chief's door was shut, and the floor was mostly empty. Bronson had moved forensics here, setting up a makeshift evidence room beside his office to curb tampering. It worked—to a degree. Some techs were still dirty. Most of the lab rats, as Dent had heard them called, were out in the field. A few lingered at their desks, heads down, lost in their work.

Dent sauntered over to Nathan Lee, who was fiddling with a pager at his desk. Lee was a forensic tech but had been unofficially drafted as the chief's secretary. Dent perched on the edge of the desk.

"Mr. Dent," Lee acknowledged.

"Nate, how's it going?"

"Fine. Um—Chief said you'd be stopping by. Told me to tell you to head in."

Dent glanced at the door with cautious curiosity. "Who's in there?"

"Precinct chiefs. Most from Uptown. I recognized Rivera from the 34th in Crime Alley. Bowers from North B., the 66th."

Dent stood, gave Lee a nod, and went inside.

Ten men filled the room—none under sixty. A few sat beside Bronson's desk, others on a long sofa against the wall, the rest found a place to lean. They had worn faces, but sharp eyes, and their stares told him he wasn't welcome. But there was something else in the air—heavy, charged. Dent sensed it wasn't about him, but he might end up catching the brunt of it.

Chief Bronson sat behind his desk, waving him forward.

"What's he doing here?" someone scoffed from the far corner.

"I asked him to be here," Bronson said as Dent shrugged off his coat.

"This doesn't concern him." Another voice, quieter but no less weighted.

A colleague silenced him with a nudge.

"Dent's as concerned about our officers as we are," Bronson argued.

Scoffs and muttered curses answered him. Despite this, he introduced Dent to the men. A few gave stiff nods. No one offered a handshake.

Dent recognized the three seated before the chief's desk. Rivera, crammed into a too-tight button-up, his buzz cut severe. Bowers, slouched in a rumpled shirt under a sport coat, no tie. And Lowell in a crisp pressed white shirt—a Westside precinct chief. Dent knew him. Not in a good way.

Lowell didn't acknowledge him.

When the formalities ended, Dent leaned against the doorframe. The talk resumed.

"Loeb will retaliate, Bill," someone said. "Two of my guys—good men—got jumped this afternoon."

"I had some rookies flip," another added.

"Groups of two," Bronson instructed. "Best way to stay safe."

"Most of my guys are divorced. Loeb's people will just wait until they're home," someone snapped.

Bronson's jaw tightened. "What else would you have me do?"

"Talk to Loeb. Settle it quietly," Lowell suggested, resting an arm on the desk.

"And he does what? Transfers them?" Dent cut in. "You want these guys back on the street?"

"You did that for Falcone and Cobblepot to get their boys out. What's the difference?" Lowell shot back.

"I did my job. I was hired to represent their men in court," Dent said.

"That bullshit might work on voters, but not on me," Lowell said. "You put Falcone's guys right back on the streets in the Westside."

"I'd do the same if I was still a criminal defense attorney, but I'm a prosecutor and I intend to do my job. If we don't see this through, it embolden Loeb. There's no telling what he'll do—"

"What he plans to do is beat the hell out of every cop not on his payroll until they fall in line." Lowell stood.

"Eddie," Bronson warned, but it did little.

Dent didn't take the bait, his back never leaving the doorframe.

"I don't want to see that happen either," Dent admitted. It did little to curb Lowell, but at least he sat down.

Bowers exhaled sharply. "Before all this, I was already losing guys to Loeb's people. By year's end, I'll end up like Benitez in the 22nd."

"Most of us can't afford more losses," someone agreed.

"Tell them to stick together," Bronson said. It sounded desperate because it was.

The same concerns circled, doubt creeping into Bronson's eyes. Dent saw it—the hesitation. Whether it was age, exhaustion, or just how Bronson had always been, he couldn't tell. When it became clear Bronson wouldn't push for a deal, the meeting ended.

As the men filed out, they shot Dent hard looks, as if he were to blame. Before he could shut the door, Gillis slipped through, nodding as he stepped inside. He sank into a chair while Dent took Lowell's empty seat and fished out his cigarette case.

"Anyone?"

Gillis shook his head, but Bronson reached for one. Dent leaned in, flicking his lighter. He lit one for the chief, then his own.

"Went as expected?" Gillis asked, settling back.

Bronson didn't answer.

Dent exhaled smoke. "If you expected it to go poorly, then yes. They mentioned a Chief Benitez?"

Bronson took a long drag before answering. "He's a chief in Little Saigon. The last one who isn't on the take. He's got a handful of loyal guys, but he's a lame duck. His own cops don't listen to him anymore. He'll probably retire by year's end."

There was something in Bronson's face—weariness, doubt. The look of a man who knew how this ended.

"We're doing the right thing, Bill," Dent said.

Bronson exhaled. "Doing the right thing has consequences too."

Dent let it drop. "What about Gordon?"

Gillis sighed. 

"We decided to tell his squad tonight, then give them a choice—keep him or boot him," Bronson said, smoke curling from his lips.

"And if they boot him?"

"We desk him." said Gillis.

Dent shook his head. "I want to be there when you tell them."

"It's not your call, Dent," Gillis snapped.

Bronson hesitated, then crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "You can be there."

Gillis scowled. "Chief?"

"They should hear his plan too."

A light knock interrupted. Lee stepped in. "There's a call for Mr. Dent."

"Patch it through," Bronson said, handing Dent the receiver. "Rod, a word outside."

Bronson and Gillis stepped out. Dent wedged the receiver between his ear and shoulder, grabbing the entire phone and shifting to the window. With a flick of his finger, he nudged the blinds just enough to see them—standing by the far windows, their voices low, safely out of reach.

"Rita," he said, recognizing the voice.

Outside, Bronson and Gillis were in a hushed, heated exchange.

"What did he want?" Dent murmured, watching.

Gillis shook his head, jaw tight with anger.

"Oh, you did?" A smirk crept across Dent's face as he listened to Rita.

Bronson leaned in, whispered something. Gillis's anger shifted—to concern.

"Sal's doesn't open till eight," Dent said, checking his watch. "Of course you did."

As the men returned, Dent let the blind slip shut. "I'll be there." He hung up.

Bronson and Gillis reentered. Gillis looked shaken.

"Everything alright?" Bronson asked.

"Leich wants to meet," Dent said, voice steady.

Bronson sighed. "He'll tell you to make a deal."

"I won't."

Gillis muttered, "Maybe you should."

"No," Bronson said. "We see this through."

Dent studied them. Something had shifted. They looked beaten. That wasn't what he wanted to see. Not now.