Chapter 4: First Day at the Nine-Nine
POV: Kole Martinez
The Nine-Nine bullpen felt like stepping into a television set—because it was one, in another life. Every detail matched his memories with surgical precision: the arrangement of desks, the color of the walls, the particular quality of fluorescent light that made everyone look slightly jaundiced. The reality of it hit him like physical force.
These people are real.
Kole stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, trying to process the impossible transition from fiction to fact while maintaining the composure of a professional detective reporting for duty. His photographic memory absorbed everything—the coffee-stained bullpen carpet, the motivational posters that managed to be both earnest and ironic, the specific chaos that came from dedicated people doing important work with insufficient resources.
"Detective Martinez?"
The voice belonged to Sergeant Terry Jeffords, approaching with the measured stride of a man who'd learned to project calm authority despite wrestling with his own demons. Larger than he'd seemed on television, more present, radiating the kind of protective energy that made him the squad's emotional anchor.
"That's me," Kole said, offering his hand. Terry's grip was firm without being aggressive, the handshake of someone who understood power but didn't need to prove it.
"Terry Jeffords. Welcome to the Nine-Nine. Captain Holt wants to see you first, then we'll get you introduced to everyone."
Captain Holt.
The name carried weight that three years of episodes couldn't fully convey. This was Raymond Holt—the man who'd transformed the Nine-Nine from a dysfunctional mess into one of Brooklyn's most effective precincts through sheer force of will and surgical precision. A legend in the NYPD, a leader who demanded excellence and somehow made it seem achievable.
And he's about to meet a detective whose entire existence is a lie.
Holt's office occupied the far corner of the bullpen, glass walls providing transparency while maintaining the psychological barrier between command and execution. The captain sat behind his desk with perfect posture, reviewing Kole's transfer papers with the methodical attention of a man who understood that details mattered.
"Detective Martinez." Holt's voice carried no warmth, but no hostility either—simple professional acknowledgment. "Please, sit."
Kole settled into the chair across from Holt's desk, conscious that every movement was being evaluated. The captain's face revealed nothing, but his lie detection caught undercurrents of assessment and skepticism flowing beneath the neutral surface.
"Your record at the 74th is impressive," Holt continued, not looking up from the papers. "Eighty-seven percent closure rate over eighteen months. Commendations for the Morrison case, the warehouse incident, exemplary performance under pressure."
All Martinez's accomplishments. None of them mine.
"Thank you, sir."
"However," Holt said, finally meeting Kole's eyes, "your closure rate is statistically improbable. Detective Martinez, I trust your methods are equally impressive as your results."
The words carried multiple layers of meaning. Surface level: a compliment about effectiveness. Deeper: a warning about scrutiny. Deepest: a threat about what happened to detectives whose methods didn't withstand examination.
He suspects something.
"I'm thorough, sir. Good at noticing details others might miss."
"Attention to detail is certainly valuable." Holt's tone suggested he'd reserve judgment about everything else. "The Nine-Nine operates differently than some precincts. We prioritize results, but never at the expense of procedure. Excellence in service of justice, not personal glory."
This is a test.
"That's exactly the kind of environment I was hoping for, sir."
Holt studied him for another moment, then nodded once. "Sergeant Jeffords will introduce you to the squad. We'll start you on routine investigations, see how you adapt to our methods."
Routine investigations with Scully and Hitchcock. Classic hazing.
"I appreciate the opportunity, Captain."
"Don't disappoint me, Detective. Or yourself."
Terry was waiting outside Holt's office, ready to begin the introductions that would determine whether Kole could successfully infiltrate the fictional family he'd watched grow together over three seasons of television.
"Let's meet the team," Terry said, leading him into the bullpen proper.
The first desk belonged to Jake Peralta, who looked up from his computer with the kind of calculated casualness that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment. Slightly smaller than Kole had expected, but carrying himself with the loose confidence of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't eventually charm or think his way around.
The protagonist.
"Jake Peralta," he said, standing to offer his hand. "Heard you were transferring in from the Seven-Four. Good closure rate over there."
He's already researched my background.
"Thanks. Looking forward to working with everyone."
Jake's handshake lasted just long enough to suggest evaluation rather than welcome. His eyes held intelligent assessment mixed with reflexive competitiveness—the look of someone sizing up potential threats to his position as the squad's golden boy.
He doesn't trust me yet. That's smart.
"Jake's one of our best detectives," Terry said diplomatically. "You'll probably be partnered with him on some cases."
"Cool, cool, cool," Jake said, though his tone suggested it might not be particularly cool at all.
The next introduction was Amy Santiago, who approached with a manila folder in one hand and what appeared to be a color-coded schedule in the other. Smaller than Rosa, more intense than Gina, radiating the kind of organized energy that came from trying to control a fundamentally chaotic universe through superior preparation.
"Detective Santiago," she said formally. "I've prepared a briefing packet about our current case load, departmental procedures, and optimal filing systems."
Of course she has.
"That's very thorough. Thank you."
"Thoroughness is essential for effective law enforcement." Amy's smile was professional, but her eyes held the same competitive assessment Jake had shown. Another high achiever measuring herself against potential rivals.
Rosa Diaz didn't approach—she simply looked up from her desk and nodded once, an acknowledgment that might have been greeting or dismissal. Dark hair falling across a face that revealed nothing, posture suggesting she could transition from paperwork to violence without changing expression.
Exactly as terrifying as advertised.
Charles Boyle hovered near Jake's desk like a satellite maintaining careful orbit around his personal sun. Slightly older than the others, carrying himself with the nervous energy of someone who'd found his place in the world and feared losing it.
"Charles Boyle," he said when Terry prompted him. "Jake's partner. We've been working together for two years."
Translation: Don't even think about breaking up the team.
"Nice to meet you."
Gina Linetti didn't look up from her phone, where she appeared to be composing something that required significant emotional investment.
"Mystery Mike has arrived," she announced without shifting her attention. "Tall, dark, vaguely handsome in that 'I definitely have secrets' way. Either former military or yoga instructor, can't decide which."
Mystery Mike?
"Gina's our civilian administrator," Terry explained. "She's... unique."
"I'm essential," Gina corrected. "Also, I'm getting strong 'witness protection' vibes from your new guy. Or possibly soap opera amnesia storyline."
Too close to the truth for comfort.
Scully and Hitchcock occupied adjacent desks in what appeared to be a state of permanent semi-retirement. Both looked up when Terry approached, though Scully had what might have been a sandwich or possibly a small animal protruding from his mouth.
"The veterans," Terry said diplomatically. "Scully, Hitchcock, meet Detective Martinez."
"Welcome to the Nine-Nine," Hitchcock said cheerfully. "Fair warning—the coffee's terrible, the vending machine steals quarters, and Terry gets weird about proper nutrition."
"Terry heard that," Terry said mildly.
"Also," Scully added after swallowing whatever had been in his mouth, "Captain Holt can hear you breathing wrong from three rooms away, so maybe work on that."
These are the people I'm supposed to work with on my first assignment.
"Speaking of which," Terry said, "Captain Holt wants you to start by reviewing some cold case files with Scully and Hitchcock. Get familiar with our filing system, case documentation procedures."
Jake's smirk was barely concealed. "Routine paperwork review. Classic first-day assignment."
Hazing the transfer. Fair enough.
"Sounds good," Kole said, accepting the stack of folders Scully produced from somewhere within the chaos of his desk.
The next hour passed in bureaucratic purgatory. Cold cases from the past two years, each one a story of incomplete investigation and frustrated detective work. Kole settled at a spare desk and began working through the files, his photographic memory absorbing every detail while Scully and Hitchcock provided running commentary about the futility of police work and the superiority of various snack foods.
But fifteen minutes into the first file, Kole's enhanced perception began catching patterns the original investigators had missed.
The Brennan case from three months ago—elderly woman mugged outside a grocery store, no witnesses, suspect description too vague to pursue. But the incident report mentioned a distinctive smell the victim remembered, something chemical that didn't belong in the area.
Paint thinner.
The Peterson robbery from six weeks later—young professional attacked leaving a restaurant, wallet stolen, similar lack of useful witness information. But Peterson had mentioned hearing music from a passing car, something classical that seemed out of place in the neighborhood.
Wagner. The Ride of the Valkyries.
The Richardson assault from last month—college student beaten and robbed near the subway station, no surveillance footage, investigation stalled. But Richardson's statement included a detail about the attacker's shoes making an unusual sound on the pavement.
Cleats. Baseball cleats.
Three different cases. Three different neighborhoods. Same perpetrator.
The certainty hit Kole like physical force. Someone was working a pattern across Brooklyn, selecting victims based on opportunity and isolation, leaving behind carefully orchestrated crime scenes designed to frustrate investigation. The original detectives had treated each incident as separate, random street crime. But his photographic memory saw the connections they'd missed.
Should I say something?
The question carried enormous implications. Pointing out patterns three experienced detectives had overlooked would mark him as either exceptionally perceptive or impossibly lucky. Both would attract attention he couldn't afford.
But people are getting hurt.
"This is interesting," he said carefully, spreading the three files across his desk.
Scully glanced over, sandwich paused halfway to his mouth. "Which part? The complete lack of useful evidence or the inevitable sense of existential despair?"
"The similarities." Kole pointed to specific details, being careful to reference information that was clearly documented rather than insights that required superhuman perception. "Brennan, Peterson, Richardson. Look at the timing, the locations, the victim demographics."
Hitchcock wheeled his chair over, genuine interest replacing his usual food-focused detachment. "Three different precincts, three different investigating teams. Nobody would have connected them."
"Until now," Scully said, suddenly more alert. "Martinez, you might actually be onto something here."
Shit. Too much, too fast.
"Could be coincidence," Kole said quickly. "But might be worth cross-referencing with similar incidents."
"We should definitely bring this to Captain Holt," Hitchcock said, already reaching for his phone.
No. Absolutely not.
"Maybe wait until we have more than just pattern recognition," Kole suggested. "Do some background work first, see if the theory holds up under scrutiny."
Scully nodded approvingly. "Smart. Holt appreciates thorough preparation. Nothing worse than bringing him half-baked theories and incomplete investigations."
Crisis averted. For now.
The rest of the afternoon passed in careful information gathering, with Kole using his abilities to analyze the cold cases while deliberately pacing his insights to seem like normal detective work rather than superhuman pattern recognition. Every revelation was carefully attributed to standard investigative techniques, every connection explained through conventional wisdom rather than impossible powers.
But even as he maintained the deception, Kole found himself genuinely impressed by the Nine-Nine's approach to law enforcement. Jake's creative problem-solving, Amy's meticulous organization, Rosa's intimidating competence—all of it filtered through Holt's unwavering standards and Terry's emotional intelligence. This was policing as he'd always imagined it could be: smart, dedicated, effective.
I want to be part of this.
POV: Jake Peralta
Evening descended on the bullpen like a blanket, most of the squad heading home to lives that existed beyond the precinct walls. Jake remained at his desk, ostensibly finishing paperwork but actually watching Detective Martinez gather his things with the careful attention of someone trying to solve a puzzle.
Something doesn't add up.
The new transfer moved through the bullpen with the confidence of someone comfortable in police environments, but there were details that felt wrong. The way he'd analyzed those cold case files, spotting connections that three different detective teams had missed. The casual competence with which he'd navigated Nine-Nine politics on his first day.
Nobody's that good right out of the gate.
Jake had done his research over the weekend, pulling Martinez's record from the 74th Precinct database. Impressive stats, solid commendations, exactly the kind of detective who might legitimately transfer to the Nine-Nine. But the file raised more questions than it answered.
Where did he come from before the 74th? What's his training background? Why does someone with his closure rate need a transfer?
"Staying late on your first day?" Jake called out as Martinez headed for the exit.
The other detective paused, turning with what looked like genuine surprise. "Just want to hit the ground running tomorrow. Those cold cases are more interesting than I expected."
"Yeah, Scully and Hitchcock are full of surprises. Usually unpleasant ones."
Martinez smiled—the kind of controlled expression that suggested practice at managing first impressions. "They seem dedicated to their work. In their own way."
Diplomatic answer. Careful not to criticize colleagues he just met.
"You settling in okay? Brooklyn's different from Manhattan."
"The pace is similar. People are people, cases are cases."
Another careful answer. This guy's good at saying nothing while seeming responsive.
Jake leaned back in his chair, studying Martinez with the frank assessment that made suspects uncomfortable and colleagues defensive. "Where'd you train before the Seven-Four? Your record shows you started there eighteen months ago, but there's not much background before that."
Let's see how he handles direct questions.
"Various assignments," Martinez said smoothly. "Moved around a lot early in my career. Finally found a good fit at the 74th."
"And now you're here. What made you want to transfer to the Nine-Nine specifically?"
That one hit home. There's something he's not saying.
Martinez's expression shifted almost imperceptibly—not quite evasion, but definitely calculation about how much truth to reveal.
"Heard good things about Captain Holt's leadership style. Wanted to work somewhere that prioritized results over politics."
True but incomplete. Classic deflection technique.
"Well, you definitely came to the right place for results. Just ask Charles—he'll give you a detailed breakdown of our solve rate by category, subcategory, and probably astrological sign."
That earned a genuine laugh, the first natural reaction Jake had seen from the new detective all day.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Interesting. Humor gets past his defenses where direct questions don't.
"See you tomorrow, Martinez. Try not to solve all our cold cases on day two. Makes the rest of us look bad."
"I'll pace myself."
Jake watched Martinez leave, noting details that might mean nothing or might mean everything. The way he moved through the bullpen like he'd been there before. The unconscious familiarity with which he'd navigated to Holt's office. The specific knowledge of Nine-Nine procedures that seemed too detailed for someone who'd supposedly learned about the precinct through reputation alone.
Either he's exactly what he seems—a good detective looking for better opportunities—or he's something else entirely.
Jake's instincts, honed through years of investigating people who lived by deception, whispered that Detective Martinez was definitely something else. The question was whether that something was dangerous or just inconvenient.
Time will tell.
He pulled out his phone and started composing a text to Charles. If anyone would appreciate an in-depth analysis of the new detective's behavioral patterns and potential motivations, it would be his partner.
"We need to talk about Martinez. Something's not right about him. Meet me at Shaw's?"
The response came back within seconds.
"I KNEW IT. I could tell from his handshake. Meet you there in twenty. I'm bringing charts."
Of course he's bringing charts.
Jake grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, already planning the conversation that would either confirm his suspicions or reveal him as paranoid. Either way, Detective Martinez had just become the Nine-Nine's most interesting mystery.
And Jake Peralta loved solving mysteries.
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