Chapter 14

In a luxurious home office, the fire crackled casting an orange glow across the room as Carmine Falcone relaxed, sinking into his favorite dark red lounge chair. He swirled his most expensive scotch in his right hand, today was a good day, it was more than good, it was a day worthy of opening his sixty-year-old Macallan. He can still remember the embarrassment the day he was outbid for this bottle, the way his old friend grinned at him as he raised his numbered eighty-seven paddle in the auction house. He can still hear the auctioneer's excited cry, 'sold to number eighty-seven for one million nine hundred thousand,' the auctioneer's wooden mallet slamming against the podium may as well have been him hammering the last nail in his friend's coffin. He wasn't as rich back then as he is today, but money doesn't equate to power, power is its own form of currency and he has always been flush with it. It didn't take long for him to make contact with a hitman that went by the name Deadshot, famed for never missing. One hundred thousand dollars was all it cost to wipe away his embarrassment and recover what should have been his all along. He took a sip of his scotch as he thought about Detective James Gordon, he had a plan for him, and just like this scotch, he would never allow what was his to getaway.

"Sir, they're here," a guard stated from the doorway entrance to Falcone's office. "Bring them in," Falcone replied, as he rose from the comfort of the lounge chair and started to make his way to the seat behind his desk. "Should we pat them down sir," the guard asked for clarification on how to handle the guests. "Always," Falcone advised as he sank deep into the leather of the office chair, setting the whiskey glass on top of the rustic walnut wood desk. He knew his guests weren't dumb enough to hurt the hand that feeds them, but it never hurt to be careful. The two detectives entered the office as they walked over to the desk, the chairs scraped against the floor as they pulled them out from the desk. Falcone had to hide his grimace at how the detectives behaved, he needed them for tomorrow, he couldn't teach them better manners tonight. "Boss," the leader of the duo detectives said, "what do you need?" Falcone brought his hands together and rested them on his chin, "tomorrow you will bring me the recording of the evidence room in your precinct, make sure you wipe the server, don't fuck this up or this will be the last thing you do." Falcone forewarned as his threat hung around the necks of the two detectives. "Sure thing boss," the detectives stood up as their chairs scraped against the wooden floor, "McCluskey," Falcone snapped, "you and your partner better not watch the video." The two detectives nodded as they turned around and left.

Falcone sat silently as he stared at the door the two detectives just used, he missed his friend. His thoughts reminisced about James Gordon's father Frank. Frank helped Falcone build what we had today, and he knew how to pull out a fucking chair without scratching the floor. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't regret having to murder his friend.

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James Gordon pulled up his driveway, he couldn't remember the last time a day had worn him out like this. The night sky created a beautiful contrast from the light glowing from the windows of his home, as he stepped out of his car and walked towards his door. "I'm home," Gordon yelled as the smell of fresh cooked food filled his house. "I'm in here, in the kitchen," his fiance greeted loudly as her voice echoed off the walls of their home. Gordon tugged at his tie loosening it, while he walked towards the kitchen. He rested his shoulder against the door frame as he watched his fiance's back as she stirred the pot on the stove. "Hey you," he smiled as the weight of the day slowly melted from his shoulders. His fiance turned around as her smile lit up the room as she looked him in his eyes, "hey back," she bantered as she completed their greeting ritual. "Sit, dinners almost done," she ordered as she turned around to attend the pot on the stove. Gordon walked over to the dining room table where his beautiful daughter sat in her high chair giggling. "Barb," James beamed as he sat next to his daughter and caressed her face, his daughter face nuzzled into his hand as another giggle escaped from her mouth. A large thud brought James and his daughter's attention to the large bowl of spaghetti his fiance set in the middle of the table.

James tried to hid his cringe from his wife, "what's wrong," she asked concerned. James brought his eyes to hers, "this case I was working on today, this mother did some horrible things to her child and the child was covered in old spaghetti sauce. It just brought up the case that's all." James said as he scooped a generous portion of pasta and sauce onto his plate and passed the bowl to his wife. "Oh, is that why you had to leave early this morning," she wondered, placing a small amount of food on the plastic plate in front of her daughter. "No, I had to go in early because a young woman was found murdered, but not in the typical ways. It wasn't a robbery or a domestic abuse situation, it was like the killer was using her as a sculpture for his art." James sighed as his fiance gasped, "that's awful, did he leave any evidence behind?" She worried as she server herself a small serving of spaghetti, "you know, its the craziest thing, he left his name." James said, "I reached out to Falcone-," he let slip, as his wife's hand snaked over the table and slapped him on the face. "You fucking promised me," She screamed as the baby began crying in her chair. "Not like it's dangerous enough to be a detective in this shit hole of a city, but now you are getting mixed up with the man that killed your father." She hissed, trying to keep her voice down as she looked at her crying daughter. "He never does anything for free, what did you promise him James." She demanded as her head snapped from her daughter to her fiance. "Nothing babe, I promise," James lied as he tried soothing his fiance. "Bullshit," she scoffed as she stood up, hoisting her daughter out of the high chair and grabbing her daughter's dinner. "Don't even think of coming up the stairs you prick," as she stormed out of the room and up to her bedroom daughter and dinner in hand. James looked down at his full plate of food, "Fucking spaghetti."