8:00 a.m. – The Following Week
Ezra walked into the bullpen exactly on time, as always. Boyle was enthusiastically decorating his desk with a tiny banner that read "Welcome Back Gina."
"I never left," Gina muttered, walking in behind him.
"I know," Boyle said proudly. "It's a metaphor."
"Your face is a metaphor," Gina replied, then sat at her desk and immediately began typing what appeared to be a Buzzfeed quiz titled Which Type of Side Eye Are You?
Ezra passed her without comment and dropped into his chair. Another Monday. Another stack of cases, half of which looked like they were typed by someone who thought punctuation was a myth.
Jake appeared from the break room holding a burrito the size of a newborn. "Kael! You hungry for truth, justice, and this beautiful breakfast bomb?"
Ezra eyed the burrito warily. "I'm allergic to lies and beans."
"Then you're in luck," Jake said. "This one's 98% egg, 2% regret."
Gina chimed in without looking up, "That's also the name of Boyle's last relationship."
Boyle made a small noise that may have been protest or acceptance.
10:00 a.m.
Amy gathered the squad for the Monday briefing. "Alright team, three active investigations today. Vandal cases are paused while we wait on the lab. Rosa and Boyle, you're on the counterfeit cab scam. Terry, Jake, you're checking that warehouse theft from last night. Ezra—got something special for you."
Ezra raised an eyebrow.
Amy handed him a file. "Suspicious pattern of reported wallet thefts inside an assisted living facility. No signs of break-in. Residents all reported it the same way: wallet disappeared from inside a locked drawer."
Jake leaned over. "So… a ghost with a taste for AARP benefits?"
"Or," Amy said pointedly, "someone with access, precision, and subtlety. Like you, Kael."
Ezra flipped open the file. "This is either brilliant or pathetic."
"That's Brooklyn for you," Gina said.
Boyle added, "Old folks and a mystery? This has heartwarming buddy film written all over it."
Jake nodded. "You better get Agnes to trust you. Old ladies can smell fraud like bloodhounds."
Ezra muttered, "Noted."
12:00 p.m. – Fieldwork
Ezra visited the assisted living home in Queens. The place smelled of soup and nostalgia. The director, Mrs. Bledsoe, was firm but friendly.
"We don't like to accuse anyone without proof," she said, "but some of our staff... well, they've had complaints."
Ezra nodded. "I'd like access to the staff logbooks, visitor records, and permission to interview residents."
Mrs. Bledsoe hesitated. "They're… feisty."
"I'll manage," Ezra said.
Thirty minutes later, he was being interrogated by a woman named Agnes who claimed to have dated three astronauts and once punched a raccoon.
"You've got secrets," she told Ezra, squinting. "You smell like mystery and laundry detergent."
Ezra blinked. "That's… impressively accurate."
"I like you," Agnes said. "But if you stole Mildred's wallet, I'll break your kneecaps."
The other residents were no less intense. One accused Ezra of being a spy. Another tried to recruit him for a bridge tournament. And Mildred—owner of one of the missing wallets—just stared at him silently for ten minutes, then handed him a Werther's Original and whispered, "You've seen too much."
Ezra made a note to never underestimate seniors again.
4:00 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Ezra laid out a timeline. Five wallets. Five different rooms. All drawers opened with zero damage. No staff overlap.
Amy peered over his shoulder. "Any pattern?"
Ezra pointed. "Only one thing in common. Each room had a Tuesday visitor—different names, but they all signed in with the same handwriting."
Jake gasped. "You think it's a serial impersonator? Like one of those actors who never breaks character?"
Ezra nodded. "Or a very polite con artist."
Gina clapped once. "Love this for you."
"Tomorrow," Ezra said, closing the folder. "I go undercover as a therapy speaker."
Boyle leaned in. "Do you need a disguise? I have wigs."
Ezra stared. "Why do you have wigs?"
Boyle whispered, "I prepare for greatness."
Ezra sighed. But under the weight of the mystery and the endless quirks of his precinct…
He smiled.
10:00 a.m. – Tuesday
10:00 a.m. – Tuesday
Ezra Kael stepped into Sunny Pines Assisted Living Facility in a crisp gray suit that was two degrees too professional for the occasion and ten degrees too suspicious for the front desk attendant. He carried a leather-bound notebook, a copy of Therapeutic Icebreakers for Seniors, and the kind of grin that could either win your trust or empty your bank account.
"Good morning," he said, with the tone of someone who'd said it successfully in three different languages.
"Name?" the receptionist asked.
"Dr. Emory Kaelstein," Ezra said without hesitation. "Cognitive flexibility specialist. Here for the mental wellness circle."
The receptionist blinked. "Uh… that wasn't on the schedule."
"I'm the surprise," Ezra replied.
He was ushered into the activity room under mild suspicion, which quickly transformed into general confusion, followed by mild applause. The seniors liked surprises. Or maybe they just liked his shoes.
Agnes was already there, arms folded, suspicious eyes scanning him.
"You again," she grumbled.
"I come bearing metaphors and mindfulness," Ezra replied.
"Better bring pie next time."
Ezra began the session like a man who had once hosted TED Talks in Monaco—which, as it happened, he almost had. He discussed memory tricks, the power of storytelling, and made up a breathing exercise called "The Accordion of Calm."
But the whole time, his eyes were working. Dissecting the room like a magician reading a crowd.
There. In the back. A newcomer—early 40s, clean polo, too much interest in the handbag on the floor next to him. Ezra filed away every detail: the shoes were government-issue cheap, the eyes never lingered on one thing too long, the hands were too calm. Trained.
Ezra improvised his lesson. "Now," he said, "I want each of you to recall the most elaborate lie you ever got away with. Don't say it aloud. Just… think about how it made you feel."
There was laughter from the residents. But not from the man in the polo. He blinked once, then crossed his arms. Uncomfortable.
Gotcha.
As the group dispersed, Ezra "accidentally" dropped his pen near the man's feet.
"Oops," Ezra said. "Haven't done that since Vienna."
The man laughed—too hard, too practiced.
"New here?" Ezra asked casually.
"Just visiting my Aunt Doris," the man said. "She's… old."
Ezra smiled, and leaned in just slightly. "You're good. The drop was slick. Wallet switch, smooth as satin. But the cheap cologne? Rookie mistake."
The man's smile faltered.
"I'm not here to out you," Ezra continued in a whisper. "I'm here to enjoy the game. Don't insult it."
The man said nothing. Just stood there like someone who'd just realized they'd been conned into admitting a con.
Ezra patted his shoulder. "Next time, pick a different room. Mildred's sharper than she looks."
Then he walked away, notebook in hand, having stolen far more than a wallet—he had taken the man's nerve.
Ezra didn't act officially. Not yet.
1:00 p.m. – Precinct
Jake sat backwards on Ezra's chair like it was a teen drama from the 90s. "So? Did you get 'em? Did you use your secret powers of suaveness and vague misdirection?"
Ezra replied without looking up, "It's a process."
"Boyle thought it was a cult."
Boyle chimed in from his desk, "They were all chanting!"
Ezra paused. "It was guided breathing."
"Told you," Boyle whispered.
Amy reviewed his report. "You ID'd the guy but didn't grab him?"
"Would've blown my cover. I need him to come back next week, maybe slip up."
Jake nodded sagely. "Like a heist movie. I get it. Slow burn."
Gina walked by holding a smoothie. "If this doesn't end in a chase involving a rascal scooter, I'll be disappointed."
Ezra said, "I'll do my best."
6:00 p.m. – Ezra's Apartment
Ezra poured over his notes while a record played quietly in the background. Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. Always calmed his nerves. Until it didn't.
He scribbled timelines. Reconstructed routes. Circled the same suspect photo again and again. The wallet lift had been too smooth. Too practiced. Ezra knew the type. Because he had been the type.
He ran a hand through his hair. There was a fine line between hunter and hunted. If this man was as good as Ezra suspected, then he'd feel Ezra's presence too.
This wasn't just a job anymore. It was chess.
And Ezra never liked losing.
10:00 a.m. – One Week Later
Ezra Kael was back at Sunny Pines, this time with an entirely different alias and just enough swagger to raise three eyebrows and one blood pressure monitor. Today, he was "Dr. Gideon Vale," a retired mentalist giving a guest lecture on "memory elasticity and interpersonal deception."
His jacket was midnight blue, his shoes shined to a reflective gleam, and his pocket square folded so perfectly it could've been cut with lasers.
He arrived thirty minutes early—not to be early, but to set the stage. He swapped the room's seating arrangement, adjusted the lighting, and strategically placed a platter of store-bought cookies next to the nameplate of his would-be adversary: the polo-shirted impersonator from last week.
Agnes spotted him first. "Gideon Vale?" she asked suspiciously.
Ezra smiled. "Dr. Kaelstein had to return to Vienna. Something about a cello-related scandal."
She nodded. "Figures."
The residents began trickling in. So did the thief. This time, a different polo. Better cologne. More effort.
Ezra's lecture started with charm and misdirection. He told stories of card sharps in Monte Carlo, faux psychics in Berlin, and once, a street illusionist who convinced a diplomat to hand over his watch—while being arrested.
Laughter filled the room. Curiosity bloomed. And the thief? He was smiling again. But now, twitching slightly. Ezra saw the signs—posture, eye tension, jaw shift. The man knew. He knew Ezra wasn't just another speaker.
So Ezra upped the ante.
He performed a "mentalism trick." Asked for a volunteer. Called on the thief.
"I want you to imagine a name," Ezra said, locking eyes with him. "Someone you admire. Someone… clever."
The man froze.
Ezra held up a small card. "Was it... 'Lucien Marceau'?"
The thief dropped the pen in his hand.
Lucien Marceau was a myth in the con world. A whisper. A rumor. A ghost who never got caught.
Because he wasn't a ghost.
He was standing in front of him.
Ezra smiled gently. "You should leave, now. Before you embarrass yourself."
The man bolted.
Ezra let him reach the lobby—where a pair of uniformed officers, tipped off by Ezra thirty minutes prior, intercepted him cleanly.
"Timing," Ezra muttered to Agnes, who had followed behind him. "Always everything."
Agnes squinted at him with admiration. "You set him up?"
Ezra shrugged. "He walked into the con. I just rearranged the pieces."
She smiled slowly. "You're dangerous."
Ezra offered her a wink. "Only when it counts."
1:30 p.m. – Precinct
"Wait—you caught him?" Jake shouted, almost choking on his microwaved burrito.
"With help from the NYPD's finest," Ezra said modestly.
Boyle clapped. "That's amazing! Did you have, like, a secret plan?"
Ezra deadpanned, "No, Boyle. I just wished really hard."
Amy reviewed the report, eyebrows raised. "Anonymous tip, precise timeline, zero resistance. How'd you know exactly when he'd run?"
"I told him to," Ezra replied.
Jake gasped. "You Inception-ed a confession out of him."
Ezra sipped his coffee. "Something like that."
Gina looked up from her phone. "King behavior. Arrest and aesthetic domination? We love a multi-tasker."
Rosa passed by muttering, "Still a menace."
Ezra smiled. "A useful one."
8:00 p.m. – Ezra's Apartment
He pulled out an old envelope, marked in fading ink: Lucien M.
Inside were notes. Names. Sketches. And a photograph of a much younger version of himself, lifting a gold watch from a diplomat in Monaco.
He smiled at it quietly.
Then folded the photo in half and tossed it into the fire.
Lucien Marceau was dead.
Ezra Kael had work to do.