AN: Bonus chapter: 400 PS: 3 extra chs together.
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[NINE-NINE] [Briefing Room] [9:01 AM]
The room was buzzing with low chatter and rustling papers. Terry stood at the front, flipping through a stack of case files like a bouncer deciding who gets into the club of law enforcement. His muscles flexed every time he turned a page, making the files look like pamphlets in his giant hands.
"Alright, squad," Terry said, raising his voice slightly. "Cases for the day."
He handed the first file to Amy, who perked up like a teacher's pet on espresso.
"Amy, you're on the library murder."
Amy gasped. "Finally! A library murder! I've waited for this my entire career."
Jake looked over. "Why would anyone want to kill someone in a library? Was the Dewey Decimal System involved?"
Amy beamed. "Jake, library murders are elegant. They're precise. They come with footnotes."
Jake nodded. "That actually sounds terrifying."
Terry moved on and handed Charles his file.
"Charles, you've got a park homicide. Seventy-five-year-old male. Shot six times while feeding pigeons."
Charles's expression went from mild interest to horror to sorrow to...strange excitement. "That's tragic. But also... deeply suspicious. Who would shoot a seventy-five-year-old man? Unless—plot twist—he was an ex-assassin and the pigeons were his network."
"Charles," Terry said, not even glancing up. "Don't make this weird."
"No promises," Charles muttered, flipping open the file like it was a tabloid.
Terry walked over to Rosa and handed her a much thicker file.
"Rosa. Biker gang. They rolled into Brooklyn three days ago. Our informant says they're dealing stolen motorcycles, including some vintage collector bikes."
Rosa flipped through the photos of leather-clad men with matching tattoos and aggressive facial hair.
"Perfect," she said. "I haven't punched a guy wearing fingerless gloves in weeks."
Terry cleared his throat and turned toward Jake with a special kind of smirk that only a man holding two Jake-bait cases could manage.
"Peralta. You've got a choice."
Jake raised an eyebrow and leaned forward dramatically, hands on the desk. "A choice? What kind of choice are we talking? Like Coke or Pepsi? Tacos or burritos? Secret lair or volcano base?"
Terry raised his left hand. "Case one. Your old pal Doug Judy. The Pontiac Bandit is back. Three cars stolen in the last two days. And as usual, he left a message for you at the crime scene."
Jake's face twitched. He looked like a Labrador who had just seen a squirrel. He narrowed his eyes and said in a very low voice, "The Pontiac Bandit is back."
Terry nodded slowly, then lifted the second folder. "On the other hand... Bruce Willis is filming in Brooklyn. Someone stole his million-dollar vintage Ford Mustang off the lot. They left behind a death threat written in fake blood on a vintage Die Hard poster."
Jake stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He grabbed the edge of the table for support and blinked. His jaw dropped open. For a moment, his mouth moved, but no sound came out. He looked like someone had just told him Christmas and his birthday had been combined into one national holiday, but he had to choose which to celebrate.
He looked at Terry. Then the files. Then Terry again. Then the air. Then his own hands. His brain had hit the spinning rainbow wheel of death.
"I... I don't... how... this is... wha..."
Jake raised a finger, trying to formulate a sentence, but it just wobbled helplessly in the air. "Doug Judy... best frenemy... but Bruce Willis... is Bruce Willis."
Rosa leaned over to Amy and whispered, "He's short-circuiting."
Amy nodded. "He's been training for this moment since 2002, and it's finally here. His brain isn't built for decision-making at this level."
Jake took one step forward, still caught in an existential crisis. "Do I go with emotional betrayal? Or cinematic destiny?"
Boyle raised his hand enthusiastically. "I say go with Bruce. The Pontiac Bandit will taunt you forever, but you only get one chance to retrieve John McClane's ride."
Jake turned to Boyle, eyes wide. "You think Bruce would let me sit in the car if I solve the case?"
"He might let you drive it," Boyle whispered reverently.
Jake turned to Terry, eyes pleading.
"You're saying I can only pick one?"
Terry nodded. "One case, Peralta. Choose wisely."
Jake pointed dramatically. "I want Doug Judy. He's my white whale. My smooth-talking, Motown-singing, cruise-loving whale."
He paused.
"But also... Bruce Willis. Die Hard is my spiritual autobiography. That man is the reason I jumped off my garage with a garden hose in 1997."
Then he froze again.
"Wait. No. I can't choose. This is like being forced to choose between my two children. Or worse... choosing between my favorite Die Hard and my favorite Die Hard sequel."
"Jake," Amy said without looking up, "You don't have children."
"I know!" he cried. "And that's the only reason I can even pretend to make this decision."
Terry tapped his watch. "You've got ten seconds."
Jake began pacing. "Okay, think. If I take the Pontiac Bandit, I get Judy. And Judy means jazz hands, betrayal, and possibly a duet. But if I take Bruce Willis, I get the chance to meet my idol, possibly fist-bump him, and maybe become his Brooklyn sidekick."
He turned to Terry. "Can I arrest Judy while interviewing Bruce Willis at the same time?"
"No."
Jake clenched his fists. "This is emotional terrorism."
Rosa piped up without looking away from her file. "Take the Bruce Willis case."
Jake turned, shocked. "Arg! You aren't making this easy, Rosa."
She shrugged. "Judy always comes back. Bruce Willis doesn't."
Jake blinked. "That... was weirdly poetic."
Amy added, "Also, if Judy is back, that probably means it's another setup and he's just trying to get a free cruise again."
Jake squinted. "I hate how right you all are."
Finally, he turned to Terry with resolve.
"I choose Bruce. I choose the Willis."
Terry handed him the file. "Try not to get arrested trying to get an autograph."
Jake took it solemnly. "No promises."
As the squad dispersed, Jake opened the file and whispered, "Yippee-ki-yay, mystery thief. Your days are numbered."
From across the room, Rosa muttered, "Please don't say that to Bruce Willis's face."
Jake grinned. "Oh, I'm definitely saying it to his face."
Terry sighed deeply and handed out his final file to the janitor by mistake.
...
...
[Ray's Patrol Route] [4:47 PM]
Raymond White, or as most of the Nine-Nine now called him (quietly and behind his back), the super rookie, leaned against the hood of his patrol car. He took one last bite of his hotdog, eyes scanning the street like a hawk disguised as a man with mustard on his chin.
It had been a productive day. Five arrests by five o'clock. Not that he was keeping score. Okay, he was absolutely keeping score. Ray wiped his mouth with the edge of the brown paper napkin he kept in his jacket pocket. He washed it down with a long swig of Coke, straight from the bottle.
The hotdog vendor gave him a salute.
"Same time tomorrow?" the man asked.
Ray gave him a slow nod. "As long as you keep the spicy mustard and don't put ketchup anywhere near the cart."
"Got it, boss."
Ray got back in the car and pulled out into traffic.
Earlier That Day…
[9:28 AM – 3rd Avenue]
Ray stopped a snatcher who had picked the wrong grandma. The woman had tried to hit the guy with her handbag, but the thief had already taken off running. He chased the thief into the alley and one minute later walked back out, dragging him by the collar.
The grandma offered him a Werther's Original. He accepted it without breaking eye contact.
[11:03 AM – Delancey and 6th]
A street fight broke out in front of a smoothie shop. Three drunk girls were involved, two smoothies were casualties, and one chihuahua somehow ended up in a fanny pack full of glitter. The girls were screaming, the crowd was recording, and the dog was just along for the ride.
Ray stepped between them and held up his hand.
"Ladies. No one wins a street fight in Crocs."
They froze. One of them dropped her straw. Another burst into tears. The third tried to twerk at him as a distraction. It failed. All three were arrested, glitter confiscated as evidence.
[2:17 PM – Bike Rack outside a Coffee Shop]
A man tried to steal a bike by picking the lock with a plastic spork. He looked up to see Ray standing directly in front of him, arms crossed.
"Is that a spork?" Ray asked.
"Uh. No?"
Ray nodded once and reached for his cuffs.
[4:02 PM – Parkside Avenue]
A man attempted to climb a streetlamp to steal a decorative banner. No one knew why. When Ray arrived, the man was halfway up, shouting something about needing it for his "festival of personal reinvention."
Ray parked, rolled down his window, and asked, "Do you have a permit for reinventing yourself?"
The guy froze.
"No?"
"Come on down."
Ray arrested him after fifteen minutes of coaxing and two full eye-rolls. He would have let him go with a warning, but that guy threw a punch at his face. The end result? A broken right hand. Ray simply moved away, and that guy punched the metal pole with all his strength. It turned out that he missed his medication and went hyper. Still, law.
[Now 5:59 PM]
Ray was finishing the last of his report from the patrol car. He logged the arrests, noted the glitter incident, and flagged the spork guy for attempted theft and misuse of cafeteria-grade utensils.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Rosa.
Rosa: Dinner at my place? 8 PM. Don't wear pants.
Ray smirked, turned off the ignition, and replied.
Ray: Copy that. Bringing extra smoothie. For science.
He stepped out of the car, stretched his arms, and cracked his neck once. Another day, another few crimes neutralized before sundown. He checked the time again and muttered under his breath, "Plenty of time to shower. And hide the glitter."
...
[Rosa's Apartment] [10:13 PM]
Raymond sat alone at Rosa's small dining table, staring at a flickering candle that was now half its original height. He had changed out of his patrol uniform and into a black button-up shirt and charcoal jeans. The shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. He had even styled his hair slightly, which was more effort than he typically allowed himself. The apartment smelled like rosemary chicken and wine, a romantic blend that now hovered awkwardly in the air like a guest waiting for the party to start.
He glanced at his watch again. Then at the door. Then at the phone sitting next to the empty wine glass. He picked it up and checked it one more time, even though he had already checked it twenty-three times in the last forty minutes.
Still no messages.
He had already called Rosa four times, but she didn't pick up.
He had texted her, but nothing.
He had called Jake. Jake answered on the second ring, halfway through eating what sounded like an aggressive sandwich.
"Dude! I thought you two were already doing the deed. Rosa left the precinct like three hours ago."
Raymond replied calmly, "She's not here."
Jake had chewed for a moment, then mumbled, "Maybe she stopped for snacks. Rosa sometimes rage-buys beef jerky when she's anxious."
Then he had hung up after shouting, "Title of her beef jerky tape!" to no one in particular.
Raymond also called Amy, who sounded concerned but not alarmed.
"She left on her bike around 7:30. Oh, I remember her talking about some problem with her bike. Maybe she went to the garage."
"Can you give me the address of that garage?" He asked.
"Of course. It's on the 25th Avenue. There's a big billboard of a Mustang. It's just under it. You can't miss it," She replied.
"Thanks."
After he disconnected the call... Ray went straight out of the apartment. He made sure to cover the food and lock everything properly.
Rosa isn't the type to miss calls and texts, and she's definitely not the type to lie about a romantic dinner. So, she's probably in danger.
Ray took a cab to his house. It was just 10 minutes away from Rosa's apartment. He looked too calm and focused, not letting his emotions get in the way.
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[27 advance chs] [No double billing.]
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