The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Bui leaned in and whispered something into Thanh's ear, his words barely audible. Not that it mattered—he spoke in Vietnamese. She nodded, and he slipped back outside.

"Where were we, Mr. Dent?" she asked, her tone polite but cool.

"You were about to name a price," Dent replied. "So, what's it going to cost me?"

"Money is the currency of kings, Mr. Dent. And we are neither."

Dent chuckled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's be clear—I don't throw cases, and I don't make evidence disappear."

"You surprise me," she said, tilting her head. "I thought a man born and raised in Uptown would know better. Words and favors have their own value, their own cost."

"So you want information," he said.

Her faint smile was answer enough.

"What kind?" he pressed.

"Something with the same stakes as what you're asking for—something equally difficult to obtain."

"Care to narrow that down?"

She studied him in silence, measuring the risk of saying too much. Dent knew a person's curiosities could be just as revealing as their secrets—and for once, he had the upper hand. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I haven't heard anyone call it 'West Park' before," he said, retrieving a silver cigarette case from his jacket. He flipped it open, offering her one, but she shook her head. "You mentioned earlier that I ran the Crime Alley Boyz out of West Park. Growing up, we just called it Crime Alley." He lit the cigarette, took a long inhale. "Sure, everyone knows it was originally Park Row—West Park Row, technically—but no one ever called it West Park."

"There was a time when that's what it was called," she said. "At least in Downtown circles."

"Spent a lot of time there?" Dent asked, snapping the lighter shut.

"I've been here many years, Mr. Dent," she replied. "And in that time, I've seen the neighborhoods in Uptown change names like people change clothes."

"It's part of the hustle—stay fresh or rot," Dent said, flicking the lighter's top.

"An island of chameleons," she mused. "Shedding its skin, generation after generation. You're from one of the Burnleys, aren't you?"

"North B.," Dent said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "The better Burnley, as they say." A faint smile crossed his lips. "It was a dump even then, but lively in a way it's not anymore. Back then, Uptown had a culture. Musicians from across the country stayed at the Burnley Hotel or the cheap hostels of Coventry. There were music festivals at Giordano Botanical Gardens, outdoor concerts at Amusement Mile, and acoustic nights at the Monarch Theater." He smirked, shaking his head. "Hell, I'm starting to sound old, reminiscing about the good ol' days."

"Thirty-three is hardly old," she said, and for the first time, she smiled.

"At that time, I worked in the Lower Westside," she continued, "and everyone flocked to Main Street for the live music, the drinks, the dancing. It was a golden age for Uptown."

"Sure was," Dent agreed.

Her smile faded. "Then the Waynes were murdered, and everything changed. If the richest family in the city could be gunned down, no one was safe. The downtown crowd stopped coming. So did the tourists."

The lighter snapped shut again, cutting through the silence. Dent wasn't sure if the sound annoyed her, but her eyes flicked toward it—a quiet suggestion to stop. His fingers hesitated, then snapped it closed once more. The motion steadied him like an small anchor, he pressed on.

"You said you worked in the Lower Westside—so, Chinatown?" Dent asked.

"That's right."

"But you're Vietnamese. I thought there was always bad blood between Chinatown and Little Saigon."

"There is," she admitted smoothly. "But survival in this city often calls for a dance with the devil. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure. I've danced with a few myself," Dent said with a smirk.

"And how does one go from high-paid criminal defense attorney to assistant district attorney?"

Dent leaned forward, tapping ash into the tray. "I got tired of being part of the problem."

"You've said that in interviews," she replied, voice edged with skepticism.

"I have," Dent said evenly.

She tilted her head. "What was it you said about the big papers and news stations?"

Dent chuckled dryly. "Alright, maybe the rumors are true—I'm a shill for Cobblepot and Falcone."

For the first time, her composure cracked. At the mention of those names, her eyes flickered with something close to fear. He didn't snap the lighter. He just waited, watching as she gathered herself. When she spoke again, her tone had shifted, losing its earlier ease.

"Must be difficult working under a man like Liech after he dragged your name through the mud."

Dent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "District Attorney Tobias Liech is a nuisance, not a problem."

The lighter clicked open again, then shut like a beating metronome.

Her gaze snapped to the lighter in his hands—a moment of reflection, or calculation—before she met his stare.

"What do you know about Commissioner Loeb's relationship with the gangs of Gotham?" she asked.

Dent leaned back, taking a slow drag. "Anyone can pay a dirty cop to look the other way—for the right price. But the bosses? They pay Loeb like a hotel concierge. One flat fee, and they get access to cops whenever they need them—drops, protection, drug escorts, disappearing evidence, planting it... the usual. Bigger jobs—hits, witness tampering—those require approval. And Loeb splits the take with the boys on his roster."

"Common knowledge," she said dismissively. "Any five-year-old could tell me that."

"You asked," Dent said with a shrug.

Her gaze sharpened. "What no one knows is how they pay him."

Dent studied her for a moment. "Almost no one," he said with a smirk.

"Then we have a deal, Mr. Dent."

Mei held the cassette tape with the label 12 written on it. She cracked open her cassette player and exchange the tapes then pressed play.

The recording crackled before a door creaked open, followed by heavy footsteps tapping against the floor. Labored breathing filled the silence, slow and rasping. Then came the sound of another door opening.

A young girl's voice, soft and nervous, spoke in broken English, "Good evening, Captain Flass, I'm—"

"—I don't care," a man snapped, cutting her off. His voice was rough and impatient.

"Ow," the girl whimpered as her footsteps tapped against the floor.

The breathing grew heavier, followed by the squeak of pleather under shifting weight. Another cry, sharper this time, broke through before being silenced by a growled command:

"You like that, you cunt."

Mei's face remained blank as the tape continued. The clink of a belt unbuckling was unmistakable. The girl's cries escalated into muffled screaming—a pillow most likely had been pressed against her face.

A sharp knock echoed on the recording. The sound of a door opening followed, and a younger man's voice spoke.

"Give us a minute?"

Faint sniffles and soft footsteps pattered across the room, fading.

The door clicked shut.

"The Commissioner paged me. It's urgent."

"We'll see him after," came the first man's gravelly voice.

"No, Flass. We'll see him now."

"I said after."

"I'm not taking the heat with you this time. If you want to end up on his shit list, that's on you."

"You're a fucking pussy, Brandon," Flass spat.

"Fuck you, Flass."

The tension simmered on the recording, silence growing uncomfortably until Brandon's voice returned, sharper now.

"What did Ferguson say?"

A long silence followed.

"He didn't know why Carter ratted out his crew," Flass replied.

"Anything else?"

"He mentioned that gun bust in South B.," Flass said, his voice low.

"What about it?"

"The freak was involved."

Brandon scoffed. "So what? He gets into a lot of shit."

"Not like this," Flass growled. "Ferguson said the freak busted through a window and wrecked all the guys. Fucked them up good. Ferguson got knocked out, but when he came to, he saw the freak talking to a detective."

"Lots of guys have run ins with him."

"No," Flass said with emphasis. "Ferguson said they were talking about a case."

"You're saying they were working together?" said Brandon with a tone of curiosity.

"Like partners," Flass confirmed. "That's what Ferguson told Carter. But the old bastard told him to keep his mouth shut. Said he didn't want to stir up trouble with the freak."

"He's working with a cop?" Brandon sounded stunned.

"Can you believe that shit?"

"Did Ferguson get a name?"

Flass let out a scoff, a mix of disgust and amusement. "Yeah, he checked later. Arresting officer's name was James Gordon, out of the 52nd."

Mei pressed a button, stopping the tape. Without hesitation, she picked up the phone and dialed Bui.