Chapter 2: THE BODEGA JOB
Sam's Bodega smelled like stale coffee and fresh panic.
The owner—Sam himself, according to the faded name tag on his apron—paced behind the counter while two uniformed officers took statements from what looked like his mother. Jake was already working the scene, doing his surprisingly competent detective thing while cracking jokes about the dusty lottery ticket display.
I stood in the doorway, trying to look professional.
Then the System kicked in.
"Well, well, well. Something's rotten in the state of Brooklyn, Host. Look sharp."
The world shifted. Not dramatically—no slow-motion Matrix effects or dramatic music. Just... overlays. Yellow highlights materialized around specific points in the scene.
The security camera in the corner. Highlighted.
Scuff marks on the floor behind the counter. Highlighted.
The "forced" lock on the back door. Highlighted, with a small flag reading: INCONSISTENT.
"Anomaly Detection, Tier One. You're seeing what doesn't fit. That camera's been moved recently—dust pattern's wrong. And that lock? No force marks. Someone opened it with a key and scratched it up afterward to look like a break-in."
I stared at the camera. The yellow glow pulsed gently.
"Cole. Hey, Cole!"
Jake was waving a hand in front of my face.
"You okay, new guy? You look like you're having a stroke or something. Or a vision. Are you a psychic? Because that would actually be really cool, and I'd have a lot of questions."
"Just... examining the scene."
"You're examining the wall."
I wasn't examining the wall. I was looking at the camera three feet to the left of where Jake was standing. But to him, it probably did look like I was having a staring contest with a paint chip.
"Thorough examination," I said. "Very important. Can't miss any details."
Jake's eyebrow climbed. "Wow. Okay. I respect the commitment to staring at paint. Really." He didn't sound like he respected it at all. "Anyway, Sam says the guy came in through the back, grabbed the cash, and ran. Classic smash-and-grab. Open and shut."
"Open and shut? Host, this scene is more staged than a community theater production of Hamlet. Look at the lock. Look at the camera. Use your brain."
I walked past Jake toward the back door. The "forced" lock gleamed under the fluorescent lights—scratched and dented, but something was off.
"These marks don't make sense."
Jake followed, interested now. "What do you mean?"
I crouched, examining the damage. The scratches ran horizontally across the lock face, uniform depth, even spacing. Like someone had taken a screwdriver and deliberately damaged it after the fact.
"If someone forced this lock with a crowbar, the marks would be vertical. Pry damage goes with gravity, not against it." I touched the metal. "These were made with the door open. From the inside."
Jake's expression shifted from skepticism to intrigue. "Okay. That's... actually a good catch."
"He's listening now. Push it home, Host."
I stood, walking back toward the counter. Sam watched me with the carefully neutral expression of a man who desperately wanted to look innocent.
"The security camera." I pointed. "That angle doesn't cover the register."
"What?" Jake looked up. "Oh. Huh. Yeah, it's pointed at the chip aisle."
"Which means if anyone tried to rob the place, the camera would catch nothing useful." I let that sit for a moment. "Convenient."
Sam's face twitched.
The System flared.
[LIE DETECTION ACTIVE]
A subtle red pulse emanated from Sam—not visible to anyone else, but clear as a neon sign to me. Something about his body language, his micro-expressions, the way his weight shifted from foot to foot.
"There it is. He's guilty of something, Host. The System doesn't lie about liars."
Jake crossed his arms, studying Sam with new eyes. "Hey, Sam. Quick question. When did you move the security camera?"
"I didn't—"
Red pulse. Stronger this time.
"—I mean, it's always been like that. The previous owner installed it."
"Lie. The mounting bracket has fresh scratches. Moved in the last forty-eight hours, minimum."
"The bracket's been recently repositioned," I said. "You can see where the screws bit into new wood."
Sam's pacing stopped. His mother went quiet.
"Is there something you want to tell us, Sam?" Jake's voice had lost its joking edge. "Because right now, this is looking less like a robbery and more like an insurance claim."
The silence stretched.
Then Sam's shoulders sagged.
"It was my wife's idea," he muttered. "Business has been bad. She said if we reported a robbery, the insurance would cover—"
"Yeah, we get it." Jake was already reaching for his cuffs. "Sam, you're under arrest for filing a false police report and attempted insurance fraud. You have the right to remain silent..."
The confession took two minutes. The paperwork would take significantly longer.
[MISSION COMPLETE: Tutorial Robbery] [+50 EXP] [Current EXP: 50/100] [Mental Stamina: 85/100]
The notification faded as we stepped out of the bodega. A mild headache had settled behind my eyes—the System's version of a battery warning, apparently. First time using the abilities. Learning curve.
"Not bad, new guy." Jake slapped my shoulder. "Seriously. That was solid detective work. Most transfers from Queens can barely find their own desks, and you just solved a case in under an hour."
"Lucky observations."
"Nah, that wasn't luck. That was paying attention. You've got good instincts."
"'Good instincts.' Your new deflection phrase. Remember it."
Jake steered us toward a hot dog cart on the corner. The vendor knew him by name—"The usual, Detective?"—and within seconds, I was holding a fully loaded street dog with questionable mustard.
"Victory lunch," Jake announced, already halfway through his own. "Tradition. Every case you close, you get a dog. My treat."
I took a bite.
The hot dog was perfect. Slightly burnt snap to the casing. Tangy sauerkraut. The kind of processed meat that was probably terrible for you but tasted like everything right with the world.
Or maybe that was just the relief of not dying on my first day.
"Thanks, Jake."
"Thank me by keeping this up. I could use a partner who actually pulls their weight. No offense to my previous partners, but they were mostly useless." He paused. "Except Rosa. Rosa's terrifying but competent. Don't cross Rosa."
"Note: Do not cross Rosa."
Already on that list.
The drive back to the precinct was filled with Jake's running commentary on Die Hard ("objectively the greatest film ever made, and I will hear no arguments"), his ongoing feud with someone called The Vulture ("steals cases right before you close them, total scumbag"), and his complicated feelings about the new captain.
"Wait," I said. "New captain?"
"Yeah, McGintley's out. Some guy named Holt is coming in today. I heard he's super strict and hates fun, which is going to be a problem because this precinct runs on fun."
"Captain Raymond Holt. Arrives in approximately ninety minutes. You know everything about him, Host. Don't let it show."
I knew he was gay and had faced decades of discrimination in the NYPD. I knew he'd spent years in a dead-end public relations position because of department politics. I knew about his husband Kevin, his dry wit, his meticulous nature, his corgis.
I knew he'd become one of the best bosses any of these people would ever have.
"Maybe he'll surprise you," I said.
Jake laughed. "Yeah, right. The guy's probably some boring bureaucrat who's going to make us fill out forms in triplicate." He pulled into the precinct parking lot. "But whatever. Can't be worse than McGintley, and that guy once made Terry cry about yogurt."
"Level up available in 50 EXP, Host. Keep performing."
Fifty more points. One or two more cases, maybe. Then I'd see what Level 2 looked like.
I stepped out of the car, hot dog settling warm in my stomach, headache fading, and followed Jake Peralta back into the building that was apparently my new home.
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