89: Chapter 89 Bad Debts and the New Police Badge

The next day, Chen Mo didn't go to the bank.

Driving his Porsche 911, he parked ostentatiously in front of New York's 127th Precinct.

Only this time, no one looked at him like he was some nouveau riche upstart anymore.

In Chief Sullivan's office, the air conditioning was blasting, but it still couldn't mask the smell of cheap coffee mixed with old case files.

"Robert, you are an absolute bastard."

Sullivan slammed a manila envelope onto the desk; inside was Ivanov's arrest warrant and the case closure report.

"You pinned Lawrence Astor's death and that bank manager Paul's car accident all on that unlucky Russian.

Now that Russian guy is nowhere to be found, the FBI is searching the whole world for him, and you—"

Sullivan pointed at Chen Mo's nose. "You've become the hero who cracked a transnational money laundering case and a mob murder."

Chen Mo sat in his chair, slouched with his legs crossed, playing with the new badge he had just received.

It was gold, significantly heavier than his previous silver detective-trainee badge.

"Chief, the chain of evidence is complete," Chen Mo said with a shrug.

"The surveillance footage of that Russian under the Astor Building, the massive cash flow in his accounts, and his intent to acquire Astor Bank.

That's what you call motive, opportunity, and means—all three present and accounted for."

"Chain of evidence, my ass!" Sullivan cursed, pulling out a cigar from his drawer and tossing one to Chen Mo.

"Don't think I don't know what kind of tricks you pulled. You were behind that anonymous tip, weren't you? And you were the one who leaked the info to the media?"

Chen Mo didn't say anything, only bringing the cigar to his nose to sniff it.

"Whatever, I can't be bothered to care. Anyway, that old bastard Lawrence was no saint. He's dead, and that's that—as long as he didn't die in my precinct."

Sullivan sighed, slapping a transfer order onto the desk.

"The higher-ups are very pleased with your performance, especially the Mayor's Office. They think you're the department's rising star and can pull in a lot of votes for them. So, congratulations, Detective Robert."

Chen Mo picked up the transfer order.

[Robert Chen is hereby appointed as a Detective Second Grade of the New York City Police Department, and is ordered to report to the Brooklyn division of the Organized Crime Control Bureau (OCCB) effective immediately.]

"The Organized Crime Unit?" Chen Mo raised an eyebrow. "That's a place that deals exclusively with gangs."

"Yes, and it's also the easiest place to catch a bullet," Sullivan laughed gloatingly.

"Don't think a promotion is a good thing. That Porsche of yours is way too flashy, and those old-timers in the Organized Crime Unit aren't as easygoing as I am. Especially your new boss, Sergeant Miller."

"Miller?"

"Also known as 'Mad Dog' Miller. The guy is an old hardhead who won't tolerate any nonsense.

He hates two kinds of people most: criminals, and cops like you who drive luxury cars and wear Armani."

Chen Mo folded the transfer order and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

"Sounds interesting."

"Good luck, and don't die in some gutter," Sullivan waved his hand. "Now get out of here."

Leaving the Chief's office, Chen Mo didn't report directly to the Organized Crime Unit.

He went downstairs, changed out of his expensive suit in the precinct locker room, put on a worn leather jacket, took off his Patek Philippe to stuff it into his pocket, and swapped it for a simple Casio.

To run with the wolves, one had to shed the sheepskin first.

The Organized Crime Unit's office was in the basement, where the air was thick with the smell of mildew and heavy tobacco smoke.

Phones rang one after another, and the walls were plastered with photos and relationship charts of various gang members.

When Chen Mo pushed the door open and walked in, only a few people looked up at him before continuing with their work.

"Are you the new guy?"

A low, raspy voice called out from a corner.

It was a desk piled high with case files, behind which sat a gray-haired, heavily stubbled old man.

He wore a rumpled shirt with an open collar, revealing a yellowed undershirt beneath.

Between his fingers, he held a cigarette that was about to burn down to his skin.

Sergeant Miller.

"Detective Second Grade Robert Chen, reporting for duty, sir." Chen Mo walked over and placed the transfer order on the desk.

Miller didn't look at the transfer order. Instead, he raised his head and sized Chen Mo up with a pair of cloudy but sharp eyes.

"I've heard of you," Miller said, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with butts.

"The pretty boy who rode a woman's coattails to the top, drives a Porsche to work, and has ridiculously good luck."

A few muffled chuckles echoed around the room.

Chen Mo didn't get angry; he just smiled. "Sergeant, luck is also a form of strength."

"In this department, luck won't save your life." Miller stood up. He wasn't tall, but he was built solid, like a boulder.

"This is Brooklyn, not some Manhattan office building. Every crack in the brickwork here is stuffed with drugs and bullets. The gangs aren't going to go easy on you just because you're sleeping with a Rockefeller's daughter."

He grabbed a file and slammed it against Chen Mo's chest.

"Since you're here, don't just sit around. This is the latest activity report on the 18th Street Gang. They've set up an underground casino over in Sunset Park and are dealing a new kind of drug. I want you to go and dig up everything on them."

"Alone?"

"What, you want me to hire a babysitter for you?" Miller sneered. "If you're afraid to die, go back upstairs to a desk job, or go back to hiding behind your woman's skirt."

Chen Mo picked up the file and casually flipped through it.

The 18th Street Gang. These guys had been expanding aggressively lately, and they had a reputation for not playing by the rules.

"No babysitter needed." Chen Mo rolled up the file. "Give me two days."

"I'll give you one day." Miller sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. "If you don't finish the job, turn in your badge yourself."

Chen Mo turned and walked out.

When he reached the door, he paused and glanced back at Miller.

"Sergeant, the reason I don't like driving the Porsche is because it's too slow. Also, I don't rely on luck. I rely on this."

He pointed to his own head, then pushed the door open and left.