Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 3: The Black Sedan Job

Jake Peralta leaned back in his creaky desk chair, the worn case file for Case #0451-R open in front of him. The usual bullpen chatter buzzed faintly around him, but he tuned it out, eyes fixed on the printed summary.

Jake rubbed his jaw, then sat up straighter. There are no prints. no footage. no ID. But something's gotta give.

He stood, grabbed his coat and badge, and headed out. "Let's go solve a robbery," he muttered to himself.

The bell above the door jingled as Jake stepped back into Benson Jewelry, the site of the robbery.

"Detective Peralta," said the store manager, Mr. Benson, a thin, balding man with an anxious twitch in his brow. "Back again?"

"Yep," Jake said, flipping open his notebook. "Got a few follow-up questions. Think back to the day of the robbery. Did anyone come in and act a little... sketchy? Nervous? Weird questions?"

Mr. Benson blinked. "Now that you mention it... there was a guy earlier that day. Tall. Hoodie. Bought a gold chain — nothing expensive. But he was asking if our cameras were real or 'just for show.' I thought he was just paranoid."

Jake's eyes lit up. "You have a receipt?"

Mr. Benson dug into a drawer and pulled out a logbook. "Name on the debit card was Tyrell Massey. Paid thirty-six dollars."

Jake jotted it down. "Bingo."

Back at the precinct, Jake contacted the issuing bank with a request for transaction verification and ATM camera footage. A few calls and forms later, he was watching grainy video from an ATM camera.

"There he is," Jake muttered.

Tyrell Massey stood at the ATM, his profile matching the manager's description. Same height. Black hoodie. And those sneakers — bright green soles with a stripe — oddly specific.

"Nice footwear, idiot."

Later that afternoon, Jake returned to Benson Jewelry and stepped into the alley behind it.

The first time he was here, he didn't look closely.

This time, he crouched beside a dark grease stain and found a partial tire tread in the dirt. Snapping a picture, he sent it to the NYPD traffic division's tire tread database.

An hour later, he had a match: 1998-2002 Nissan Altima.

Jake leaned back in his chair and tapped a pen against his chin. "Black sedan... Altima... now all I need is a cracked taillight and a stupid mistake."

He reached out to traffic control for street cam footage from intersections within a 4-block radius of the jewelry store.

At 8:42 PM, a camera caught a black Altima turning onto 7th Avenue. The plate was missing — but Jake paused the video and zoomed in.

There it was: the right taillight was cracked, plastic hanging off like a loose eyelash.

"That's my guy."

Jake went on a hunch.

He started visiting pawn shops in Williamsburg, showing photos of the missing items and asking the right questions.

At "Lucky Cash Pawn & Trade," the clerk was reluctant, but when Jake flashed his badge and a bit of friendly pressure, he caved.

"Yeah, some dude came in a couple days ago. Sold a bracelet, said it was a gift from his ex."

Jake looked down at the item. Thin, silver, diamond-studded — matched one from Benson's stolen inventory.

"He give a name?"

"Ty. Ty Massey or something. He didn't have ID, but he said it was his."

Jake grinned. "Of course he did."

Jake pulled up Tyrell Massey's file — priors for burglary and resisting arrest. No major charges in the last year. Known to frequent East New York.

He staked out the listed address in an unmarked car and, sure enough, within two hours the same cracked-taillight black Nissan Altima pulled up.

Jake waited.

Minutes later, a tall man in a hoodie stepped out of the building.

"Showtime."

He approached quickly, flashing his badge. "NYPD. Tyrell Massey, you're under arrest for robbery."

"What? I didn't do—"

"You were dumb enough to keep the car, dumb enough to pawn the bracelet, and real dumb for using your real name. You have the right to remain silent…"

Tyrell didn't resist. Jake cuffed him and walked him to the cruiser.

Back at the precinct, Jake handed in the updated case file.

Terry looked up from his desk. "You close the Benson job?"

Jake nodded and dropped the file with a soft thud. "Suspect in custody, stolen jewelry recovered from a pawn shop. Got him on tape, confirmed car match, and even pulled the bracelet."

Terry smiled, impressed. "You did that solo?"

Jake shrugged. "Just me, some tire treads, and a cracked taillight."

Amy, passing by with a coffee, raised her eyebrows. "You're being... weird lately. You okay?"

Jake smirked. "I'm thriving. Deal with it."

As he slid back into his desk chair, Jake felt something unfamiliar: pride. Not the joking kind. The real kind.

He cracked his knuckles, leaned back, and muttered to himself with a grin.

"One case down... two to go."