Clean Cop, Dirty City
- Eddies
- 563
Tags: @Lizaveta Isakova
He took a long breath. A very, very, long breath. Another long ride up another elevator, though not as high as he'd like. He liked the views up top. This time, out of uniform- well, a Patrol Officer's uniform. In the weeks since the bank robbery and subsequent shootout, Jack had been all over the news, and all over the place. The Department gave him a medal and wanted more out of him- so plainclothes he went. VICE was the first to grasp at him, and he was happy to be there. It was a natural fit, and he was good at it so far. In fact, the CIs that had come forward or had been found were a wealth of information. All independently sourced, located, interrogated and briefed. And they all produced results.
Guns, drugs, you name it, they knew where it was. They knew who sold it, who was buying, and where it was. In fact, they were hitting four warrants in the next two days. But something itched at the back of Jack's mind. Some facet that he couldn't shake. That things were too good, the CIs were too cooperative, too well-informed. Details that were intricate, lengthy and the targeting specific. The NCPD didn't look too many gift snitch horses in the mouth, though. The NCPD, didn't at least. They were clean hits, good arrests, and a lot of product, guns, and warrants. They were effective, they were good, and they had opened a lot more doors to further investigations. Homicide closures, robbery closures, this and that. Things that wouldn't be possible at all without the information that lead to the warrants, seizures, interviews from these CIs. Needless to say, Jack and the new team he was apart of was making waves.
However, something negged at the back of Jack's mind. Something perched at the back of his skull, hanging there like a cooing crow.
They all came to them. They all came with information. They all came with names, locations.
Things that snitches don't normally come with.
Ever.
So he dug. He interviewed. He interrogated. He broke an arm, then another, then dislocated a shoulder. Then the truth came out. They all came from the same area, same sort of people they interacted with. They were engaged together. They were in the same circles. So it was easy to deduce where they all came from. Formerly associates, underlings of Grigori Abramov now leading an army of vagabonds, goofballs and crooks and thieves. Former associates that now had a new boss. And one word slipped up "she".
She had been at the funeral.
She'd been the one to murder Grigori.
It was only natural that she was in on it. It was easy to see what happened after that. All he had though, was a hunch, was a suspicion. Jack stepped off the elevator, being approached by a lightly-augmented woman holding a clipboard.
"Do you have a reservation, sir?"
He showed his badge.
"Right here."
He said, walking around her. He eyed a towering security guard in a pressed suit, then another. He approached her at the table, eyeing her own personal security detail standing off set of her and behind. She didn't want to see them, not during the show. He took a seat next to her in the private booth, folding his hands on the table. He took a deep breath, watching the show- a soft jazz quartet applying their trade on stage. A rarity in Night City, un-electronic music. But he knew her to be fans of the classics, of the finer things.
"Big last few weeks, Miss Isakova."
His English hardly had an accent anymore. It was damn near perfect.
"Lots of new things for you. And for me. But- that's why I'm here." He turned his head. He knew that he didn't have any real proof. She knew that too. But proof and knowing were two different things. So he just wanted to know. And maybe she knew that, too.
"What are you up to, Lizaveta?"
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