The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

The Gotham River severed the city from the mainland, its murky waters licking at the edges of the Hills. It wasn't a neighborhood, but an abandoned shipyard—slowly crumbling under the weight of time and tide. Saltwater nipped at the fractured concrete of the old quay, spilling over the docks in sheets as smooth as glass. Wet winds peeled the rust from steel cranes, shaving them down one chip at a time.

Harvey Dent maneuvered a black Mercedes through the maze of wreckage, the engine growling low and menacing. Its headlights sliced through the gloom. Among the gutted warehouses lay a debris of soggy sofas, discarded mattresses, and upended shopping carts. The area was filled with anything two desperate hands could haul over a chain-link fence. He veered smoothly around a shattered television, the tires skidding momentarily on the slick pavement. Ahead, a harsh spotlight punched through the haze, drawing him forward. He pressed the accelerator.

The tires screeched to a halt near a metal railing. Rain hammered the car hood as Dent stepped out, his black coat whipping in the wind. He strode toward the edge, rain slicing across his face, his gaze locked on the scene below.

In the flooded dry dock, a diver's flippers disappeared into the restless water. The searchlight's beam fractured the surface, shimmering like broken glass.

Dent stood rigid, the corner of his left eye twitching as a frustration simmered beneath his calm veneer. Black hair clung to his forehead, dripping rainwater into his piercing gaze. He was seething and scheming, but his thoughts were interrupted by yelling.

"Harvey!" Chief Bronson's raspy voice cut through the storm, he stood near a coroner's van.

"Is it him?" Dent shouted back, his voice slicing through the downpour.

Bronson struck by an uncontrollable cough, raised a shaky hand and gestured toward the van. Hazard lights blinked erratically, red shadows throbbed against the warehouse walls. Near the van's rear doors stood Sergeant Rusty McDonough and Detective Tommy Chen. Rusty, square-jawed and grizzled, looked as weathered as the crumbling docks. Chen, wiry and young, ran a hand over his shaved head, now slick with rain.

"Evening, Harvey," Chen said, his voice taut. "Hate to drag you out here."

"Where is he?" Dent demanded.

Rusty flicked his flashlight toward the van. "Face is mangled, but the tattoo checks out. It's Ferguson."

"Show me."

Chen hesitated before opening the van's rear doors. With reluctant hands, he unzipped the body bag and recoiled at the stench. Dent stepped forward, covering his nose, while Rusty unfazed by the smell directed his flashlight beam onto the bloated corpse.

Ron Ferguson's face had twisted into a grotesque mask, his features consumed by swollen flesh. Bulging folds obscured his eyes, and his split lips peeled back, exposing shattered teeth.

"Forensics says he's been in the water less than an hour," Rusty said grimly.

The tattoo inked into Ferguson's throat confirmed it: four letters—CABz.

The rancidness clawed at Dent's senses, his throat tightened. Around him, the rain seemed to hush and the darkness encircling felt watchful, writhing in the storm like it were alive.

"Who called it in?" said Dent.

"Anonymous tip," Bronson replied, stepping from behind. His pallid face was drawn, another harsh cough racking his frame. "Didn't say much. Just where to look."

"How long can we keep this quiet?" Dent's gaze remained fixed on the corpse, as though willing it to speak.

Rusty gestured toward the diver clambering out of the dock under the harsh light. "Our forensic techs are solid guys, they'll hold, but the coroner's office? Some of them are chatty. We've got until dawn at best."

"Then we move tonight," Dent snapped. He turned to Bronson. "If Ferguson knew what Carter was up to, then so do they. Worse case scenario, they might be burning evidence as we speak."

"Rushing this might backfire," Bronson warned. "We need to think it through."

Dent's jaw tightened. "And risk them slipping through?"

Chen chimed in hesitantly. "You think Isaiah talked to Ferguson?"

Dent's expression hardened. "He was Isaiah's number two."

"Can't you ask him?" said Chen.

"He's in wit sec now, I can speak to his handlers, but that's about it," said Dent.

"When he came to you what were his words exactly?" said Bronson.

"He said he'd give me his whole crew and his operations in exchange for immunity and protection. He swore no one knew his plan, but I wouldn't trust the word of a gangster."

"We'll have to," Rusty muttered, his tone resigned.

Dent clenched his fists inside his coat pockets. His gaze flickered toward the river, he could only hear the water thrashing violently. A moment of silence passed, broken only by the rain.

"Harvey, we can't drag them out of their homes in the middle of the night," Bronson said quietly.

A heavy pause followed before he continued. "We'll do it first thing in the morning," Bronson relented, his tone low and resigned.

Rusty nodded. "It's the right call. We risk turning every cop in the city against us if we play it wrong."

Chen added, almost reluctantly, "Plus dragging them out in front of their families—its against the rules."

Dent gave a faint nod, hiding the twitch in his eye with a slight tilt of his head. He hated it, but they were right.

"We'll call a meeting at the precinct," Bronson proposed. "Bring them all in at once. Rusty and Chen will assemble a trusted team for the arrests. We'll handle them one by one."

"Fine," Dent conceded. "We'll do it your way. Wait until morning."

"What will you do in the meantime?" Bronson asked, studying him.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Dent said with a faint smile, glancing at his watch. The ticking hand seemed louder than the rain.

Chen smirked. "We all know you're scheming, Harvey."

Dent chuckled dryly. "Always am. But you have my word—we wait. And you know I keep my word."

As plans were set and orders exchanged, Dent cast one last glance at the river. It churned in the storm, a bottomless black that swallowed the light. A thought struck him, sharp as a blade. He smiled faintly as he walked back to the car.