The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

The Assistant District Attorney's office occupied the 32nd floor of the Barclay Building—a Romanesque structure that only pretended at grandeur. Inside, it mirrored the decay suffocating Uptown: neglected, crumbling, tired. Dent's office, though spacious, offered little reprieve. Beyond the glass, the river stretched out, mocking him with a world he'd abandoned. In the corner, a sagging leather sofa cradled last night's suit, a careless heap of discarded fabric. A bookcase leaned as if exhausted, and a bar cart stood ready for whatever the day demanded.

Dent sat at his desk, fumbling with his tie as a twitch pulled at his left eye. He pressed his fingers against the nerve, willing it to stop. It didn't. Frustration flared, and he struck the desk with his fist. The twitching ceased—briefly. He exhaled sharply and turned to the window. Midtown's skyline sulked under an overcast sky. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the desk.

A knock.

"Come in," he called, voice clipped.

Rita Johnson stepped inside, giving him a once-over before shutting the door. She crossed to the bar cart, a thick file tucked under one arm. Her pencil skirt hugged her curves as she reached for a decanter and two glasses, balancing the file effortlessly. Setting everything on the desk, she poured two fingers of whiskey and slid a glass toward him.

"Bronson wants you at the precinct at three-thirty," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "I told him you'd be there."

Dent eyed the drink. "Bit early, isn't it?"

"I need it. And if I need one, you sure as hell do too." She crossed her legs with the effortless grace of someone far too refined to be anyone's secretary.

Dent smirked, lifted the glass, and took a slow sip. Rita mirrored him, her drink cradled in her hand, eyes flicking to the file. Dent stared into the amber liquid as if it held answers.

"Fuck," he muttered, finishing the glass. "Their deaths complicate things."

"So uncomplicate it," Rita said matter-of-factly.

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"By calling a spade a spade." She met his gaze, unflinching. "I'm not shedding a tear for those bastards."

Dent let out a dry chuckle. "And people call me a cold-hearted son of a bitch."

Rita smirked, finishing her drink. She leaned forward, setting the empty glass on his desk. "You know why Sydney transferred out of the East Side?"

Dent traced the rim of his glass. "I know they send cops to Uptown as punishment."

"Some precinct chiefs send their guys there to protect them—when they've pissed off the wrong people. That's what happened to Sydney. He caught two street cops beating a store clerk over a bad debt. Kid couldn't pay, so they made an example of him. Sydney stepped in, pissed off Loeb's boys. Three of his own brothers in blue jumped him two blocks from home. They broke two of his ribs."

A flicker of something sharp crossed her face.

"You're not dealing with cops, Harvey. You're dealing with gangsters."

"You think calling them that changes anything?" said Dent.

"You have to name a demon before you destroy it. You called Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone and Oswald Cobblepot nothing more than thugs pretending to be kings in their expensive suits. That took guts, Harvey. People respected that. They voted for that."

Rita grabbed the decanter and refilled their glasses. Dent stared at the desk, his mind circling the conversation, but the sound of the liquor sloshing in the glass pulled him back. He blinked, exhaling slowly, before reaching for the drink.

"Notice how I didn't say Oswald 'The Penguin' Cobblepot." Dent took a sip. "I know which pressure points to touch and which to avoid. I don't know how far I can go with the G.C.P.D."

"And here I thought you were the Harvey Dent—handsome, risk-taker who does-as-he-pleases. Are you that man, or just a silver-tongued devil in a flashy suit?"

A faint smile tugged at his lips. He watched her return to her seat.

"We could have a lot of fun, Rita, if you just said the word," he said, reclining with a playful grin. "I may not be sweet like Syd, but I'd make life a little more...interesting."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, I bet you would. But you're not the first handsome fella who's tried to steal me from Sydney."

"Bet I'm the youngest."

"There've been younger—trust me."

Dent chuckled, grabbing the file and flipping it open.

"Military records, his time in Chicago, and his cases here in Gotham," she said, watching him scan the pages. "I even called his old precinct for the details they didn't put in writing."

"You've got connections there?"

"I do now." She smirked.

Dent read the details aloud. "Navy SEAL. Two Silver Stars. Three Bronze Stars. Two Purple Hearts. Distinguished Service Cross. Commendations from the department and the city." He turned the page.

"He wasn't just a SEAL either," Rita said. "He was MACV-SOG."

"Which was?"

"Highly classified. Covert ops during Vietnam. The kind of stories most Nam vets claim they did—these guys actually did."

Dent kept reading. "Discharged from Chicago PD. Evidence tampering. Criminal threats. Bearing false witness. But no charges filed." He glanced up. "Your source better have more. A boy scout like this doesn't just turn dirty."

"Gordon reported two men in his unit for bribery—kickbacks from a gang hijacking transport trucks. At first, his team backed him. Then the chief got to them—offered raises, promotions—they flipped. Made formal statements against him. He was given a choice: agree not to sue and they'd discharge him. No charges."

Dent exhaled sharply. "Fucking hell. I'd have told them where to shove it."

"He's got a wife and two little ones, Harvey. Fighting back could've destroyed them," Rita said. "What I don't get is how he ended up here. Even Bill wouldn't hire a snitch."

"Bronson's son served with him. Kevin asked him to give Gordon a chance." said Dent.

"So much for that. Gillis never even gave him a partner. I went through his cases—all gangland shootings except the last. They set him up to fail."

"Bronson told me he was doing him a favor. Making it hard so he'd quit. If word got out about his past, the guys would've torn him apart. What does Sydney say?" Dent asked.

"Gordon keeps to himself and just works." said Rita, downing the rest of her drink.

"A loner with a bad record—at least on paper," Dent muttered.

"I know what you're hoping," Rita said warily. "But even if they learn the truth, they won't work with a vigilante."

Dent leaned back, drained his glass. "He's more than some guy in a cape terrorizing criminals—he's something bigger. And if I get close enough to him, we change things. Change it so good cops don't get their ribs broken for doing the right thing."

His steady gaze met hers. Rita nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You do keep things interesting, Harvey."