Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 5: Murder on Pacific Street

The morning air was heavier than usual. Jake Peralta, in his usual running gear, jogged through his neighborhood park with a slower pace than usual. His mind was fixed on the final unsolved case — Marlon Briggs, murdered in his own apartment.

This one's different, he thought. No dumb wine bottles or cracked taillights to guide me. Just a dead guy and silence.

Back home, Jake made eggs, glanced at the Craigslist messages about the Mustang (which still hadn't sold), then showered and headed to the precinct.

Amy spotted Jake walking into the bullpen with his usual coffee, though his swagger was noticeably muted.

"You look serious," she noted. "Like... 'you turned down free donuts' serious."

Jake shrugged. "Got murder on my mind. The Briggs case."

Amy softened. "You working that one solo too?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "No offense to Boyle, but this isn't a meatball case. I need to think. Deeply. Like a noir detective, but with better skin care."

Amy gave a small nod. "This one's a test. People are watching — including the captain, when he arrives."

Jake tapped the folder. "Time to earn the badge."

Jake arrived at the Pacific Street apartment complex, a quiet, older building with a crumbling staircase and faded beige walls. The building superintendent, Mr. Delgado, met him near the lobby.

"Detective Peralta," Delgado said. "You here about Briggs?"

"Yeah," Jake replied. "Need another look at the unit. And a couple of questions."

Delgado handed over the spare key. "I let the guy's cousin in to clear out some things, but otherwise it's untouched."

As Jake entered the apartment, the air smelled of stale food and grease. He scanned the room, walking past the yellow tape. The small kitchen table was cluttered. Two coffee mugs sat there. One had a lipstick stain.

We missed that before, he noted.

He looked around. No signs of struggle beyond the fatal blow location — the bloodstained corner of the kitchen floor. Jake crouched down, then stood, noticing scuff marks near a chair. It looked like someone had stood up in a hurry.

Jake knocked on the apartment to the left of Marlon's. A middle-aged man answered.

"You hear anything the night he died?" Jake asked.

The man nodded. "Yelling. Arguing. Two male voices. One of them said something about 'owing me' or 'you promised.'"

Jake took notes. "Time?"

"Late. Maybe 10 PM?"

The next neighbor was a young woman. She said, "Marlon was trying to clean up his life. I think he was in prison before. He mentioned reconnecting with someone recently — an old friend or something."

Jake's brows furrowed. Old friend. Prison. Debt. Lipstick. This is getting messy.

Back at the precinct, Jake searched Marlon's record. Drug possession, minor distribution, served five years. Got out three years ago, no issues since. Worked as a mechanic in Gowanus.

Jake then pulled up visitation and correspondence logs from Marlon's prison time. One name popped up multiple times: Leon Draper, former cellmate. Recently paroled. One minor assault case post-release.

Jake ran Leon's address — a run-down duplex in Flatbush.

Time to meet the maybe-murderer.

Jake knocked, badge visible. A large man in a tank top answered. Leon Draper.

"Leon Draper?" Jake asked.

"Yeah. What's this about?"

Jake stepped forward. "Marlon Briggs. Your old cellmate. He's dead."

Leon blinked. "...Seriously?"

"He was murdered in his apartment. Blunt force trauma. We know someone was with him that night. Neighbors heard yelling. I know you visited."

Leon shifted slightly. "Yeah, I was there. But I didn't kill him."

"What happened?"

Leon hesitated. "He owed me money. Promised to help me out once I got out. Gave me nothing. We argued. That's it."

Jake's eyes scanned the hallway behind him. Near the door: a pair of muddy size-11 boots.

Jake pointed casually. "Those yours?"

Leon shrugged. "Yeah."

Jake pulled out his phone, showing the crime scene footprint photo. "That's from Marlon's place. Guess what size it is."

Leon's face tightened. "I didn't kill him."

"You said you never went inside."

"I stood in the doorway—"

Jake grinned. "Right. Then how come your fingerprints are on a mug with lipstick from his table?"

Leon froze.

Jake's voice hardened. "You had coffee. You argued. It got heated. He told you no. You grabbed something — probably from his own tool bag — and you hit him. You panicked. Ran. Thought no one would connect it. But we did."

Leon sat in an interrogation room an hour later.

Terry stood outside the window with Jake, watching the silent room.

"You're building a real track record," Terry said. "You nailed this one."

Jake sipped his coffee. "Yeah. Leon confessed. Said he used a wrench. Got scared and left through the back exit."

"We recovered the wrench?"

"Behind the dumpster at his apartment. Still had blood on it. CSU confirmed it."

Terry gave Jake a solid nod. "Captain Holt's gonna like this."

Jake turned. "You think so?"

"You're starting to prove you're more than jokes and instinct. You're doing the work."

Jake let that sit in.

Later that evening, Jake was typing up the final report. Amy approached his desk quietly.

"I heard about Draper," she said.

Jake glanced up. "The murder weapon has been recovered. The DNA match's on the mug. And the Case is closed."

Amy leaned on the desk slightly. "You're getting scary good at this."

Jake smiled, but didn't gloat. "Guess I'm leveling up."

Amy nodded, then added softly, "You know… if you ever wanted to partner up again—"

"I'd like that," Jake said, cutting her off with a grin. "As long as I still get to drive."

"You sold your car."

Jake leaned back. "Exactly. So you drive."

They both laughed.