The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Bullock's apartment was sloppy but not filthy—less a home and more a place he tolerated. No pictures, no decor, just the essentials: a secondhand couch, a mismatched side table with a lamp and a phone, and a coffee table cluttered with weeks-old newspapers, a remote, and an ashtray.

He lay sprawled on the couch, a case file open on his chest. His snores mixed with the distant hum of passing cars. The sudden, jarring ring of the doorbell jolted him awake. Dazed, he fumbled for the phone, knocking over the lamp in the process.

"Fuck." He muttered, pressing the receiver to his face. "Bullock," he barked, his voice thick with irritation.

A sharp knock at the door snapped him fully awake. Swearing under his breath, he rolled off the couch, tossed the file onto the kitchen counter, and trudged to the door.

Another knock—harder this time.

"For fuck's sake, I hear ya!" He peered through the peephole and cursed again.

Yanking the door open, he scowled at the man on the threshold.

"Syd, if you weren't a hundred fucking years old, I'd punch ya," Bullock grumbled, stepping aside.

Johnson walked in, holding a file. "It couldn't wait, Harv. Have you heard?"

Bullock yawned and shuffled toward the kitchen. "Haven't heard shit. You want coffee?"

"Yeah, sure," Johnson replied, eyeing the cold case file on the counter. "You working old cases?"

Bullock grunted, clanking around for the kettle. "You know Witkowski? That Polish drunk from the 33rd? Pissed on his chief's desk on his last day on the job?"

"The one who's a P.I. now?"

"That's the one." Bullock flicked on the tap. "Saw him at that sports bar, Tightends. Anyways, we got to talking—said sometimes he gets leads on cold cases but can't do shit about 'em. I check 'em out now and then."

Johnson nodded, then set his own file on the counter. "These are the coroner's photos of Nguyen's hand before it was cremated."

Bullock snorted. "You came all the way here for that? I'd've swung by, Syd."

"I didn't just come by to drop this off," Johnson said, shedding his coat and draping it over a tall chair. His voice lowered. "I just came from the precinct. Pham, O'Malley, Fuentes, Shiff—they're all dead."

Bullock stilled mid-motion, eyes widening. "Holy fuck." He braced himself against the counter. "How?"

"Suicide. The Chief's doubling down on media silence," Johnson added. "But there's more."

Bullock struck a match, lit the burner, and set the kettle down. "What about Iverson and the others?"

"Loeb already had Newtown cops outside their homes since the press camped outside." Johnson said. "Bronson only knows they've been notified."

Bullock narrowed his eyes. "Newtown cops won't talk to him?"

"Most of them are retired G.C.P.D. and loyal to Loeb," said Johnson as Bullock made his way back to the couch.

"Fucking Newtown cops," Bullock muttered, flopping down onto the worn cushions. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, while Johnson settled beside him.

"It doesn't make sense," Johnson said. "All four, at the same time?"

Bullock barely looked over. "Dent's got a rep for being a hard-ass."

"They couldn't have known what Dent had on them yet," Johnson countered. "Even if they got sent up, Loeb would've paid the Buxton Brothers for protection."

"Yeah, well, prison's still no fucking picnic." The kettle whistled. Bullock got up. "What did Dent have on them, anyway?"

"Murder charges. Hits they did for the Boyz. That's why they were still being held. Dent was worried they'd run." Johnson leaned back. "As for Vice, they were helping Carter move heroin from the mainland. My guess? He wanted to get it in before the Russians intercepted."

Bullock returned with two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Johnson. He nodded toward the TV, where a sharp-featured blonde reporter filled the screen.

Vicki Vale's voice carried through the room:

"We've just received a statement from A.D.A. Harvey Dent. He had this to say: 'This morning's events are tragic and unfortunate. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families and the victims who've been denied justice. Let this stand as a warning to those who think they are above the law: no one is beyond the reach of justice. The badge our officers wear is a symbol of honor and respect. Treating it as a gang emblem is a disgrace to this city and the officers who serve it with integrity.'"

Bullock rolled his eyes and took a sip. "Fucking pretty boy's got a big pair of balls to say that shit."

"He's drawing a line," Johnson said.

"And Bronson's okay with that?"

"He agreed to work with Dent. He knew his reputation."

"Yeah, but I doubt the Chief expected him to call us all gangsters."

"That's not what he's saying."

"Doesn't matter what he's saying. Matters how it comes across," Bullock muttered. He took another sip. "How's the shit storm in Vice?"

"Busy," Johnson said, exhaling. "Mendez is complaining—no surprise there."

"That guy loves to bitch," Bullock snorted. "At least you're not stuck with the mute fucking leprechaun."

Johnson hesitated, his tone shifting. "Actually, that's why I'm here. Chief wants you to keep an eye on him."

Bullock frowned. "Wait. He's involved with all this?"

"No," Johnson said carefully. "But Gillis and I just had a talk with the Chief. Loeb's guys are looking for him."

Bullock's jaw tightened. "That what Dent and the Chief were talking about?"

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"I can't say much. Bronson and Gillis will fill the squad in later."

Bullock leaned back, staring at his coffee. "Just tell me this—he on the take?"

"Definitely not," Johnson said firmly. "The Chief thinks Loeb's guys will avoid the precinct with the press swarming, but they might tail him or approach when his family's not around."

Bullock exhaled slowly. "I hear ya. Any idea who Loeb's sending?"

Johnson's expression darkened. "Flass."

Bullock shot him a look. "Flass? Fuck me. What the fuck did the ginger do?"

"Just keep an eye on him," Johnson warned. "And if you see Flass, steer clear. Don't mess with him, Harv."

Bullock snorted. "I might be a piece of shit, Syd, but I'm not a dumb piece of shit. Even I know better than to mess with that psycho."