The door to Bob's office clicked shut behind Marco. Bob lunged around his desk. He fumbled with his lighter.
"Talk," he said, lighting his cigarette. "What connections have you got? You know what our regular budget looks like. It's not even enough to replace body armor for the whole department, let alone deal with whatever the hell crawls out of Azarath. We need heavy firepower. We need specialized equipment. And we need a goddamn war chest."
Marco settled into the chair across from him. "While I was on leave, did anyone from Star City try to contact us?"
Bob froze mid-drag. "Star City?" He leaned back, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Yeah. Few days ago, some office from the Star City General Charity Foundation sent an official letter. They wanted to send a representative to coordinate some kind of donation handover ceremony."
He tapped ash into the tray on his desk.
"I figured it was another favor you'd pulled, but the wording was vague as hell. I didn't want to admit I had no idea what they were talking about, so I gave them the standard bureaucratic runaround. Then I told them we'd be fully prepared and would welcome them whenever they were ready." He spread his hands. "So? What's the story?"
Marco smiled. "While I was on vacation, I passed through Star City and attended one of their charity galas. Someone wanted me to give a speech on stage, so I took the opportunity to... let's say I made an impression on some wealthy donors."
"A speech?" Bob snorted. "What'd you do, channel your inner Roman senator? How much did you—"
"Three million dollars."
Bob went still. The cigarette remained frozen halfway to his lips. His eyes widened slowly. The color drained from his face in stages, first the normal ruddy complexion fading to pale, then rushing back in a deep flush that crept up from his collar.
"How..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "How much?"
"Three million," Marco repeated calmly. "I thought they'd already wired it over. Turns out they want to do some kind of ceremony first."
"Three... three million..." Bob set his cigarette down in the ashtray. Then he was up, moving around the desk faster than Marco had seen him move in months. He grabbed Marco by the shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
"Marco. My boy. Tell me you're not messing with me. Tell me it's really three million dollars."
"Real as it gets, Chief. Three million in cold, hard cash."
Bob released him and stepped back. He let out a breath that was half laugh, half something that might've been a sob if he were the type to cry. He walked in a small circle, then stopped, jabbing a finger at Marco.
"Alright. Okay. Here's how this works." He was getting his balance back. "I'm taking a third. The other two million, that's going to work for us."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Did you forget what we just talked about in the conference room? Staying alive? Heavy weapons? Demons?"
"That's exactly what the two million is for, you idiot." Bob returned to his chair and sat down, pulling out another cigarette. "You think three million is enough to buy military-grade hardware? You're not thinking big enough."
He lit up, took a long drag, and continued.
"Even if you doubled that money, tripled it, it wouldn't be enough for the kind of equipment we'd need to deal with supernatural threats." He gestured vaguely with the cigarette. "Gotham PD's annual budget is somewhere between one and one-point-five billion dollars. If there's a special program approved, it can go even higher."
"But that money goes through headquarters... You're planning something."
"Not planning to take over, if that's what you're thinking." Bob shook his head. "Gunning for Commissioner? That's a headache I don't need. Too much responsibility." He tapped ash into the tray. "No, what I'm thinking is restructuring. I'm going to meet with some government officials, float a proposal to split the GCPD. East-West division, or maybe North-South. Each district gets independent oversight and budget allocation."
His expression hardened. "Two million buys influence. It buys meetings with city councilors. It buys support from aldermen who've been looking for ways to reform the department. More than that, it buys enough votes to get this thing on the table and passed."
"Brown won't go for it," Marco pointed out. "He'd lose half his territory."
"He is a problem that's about to solve itself." Bob smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "I've got plenty of dirt on him. So do a lot of the rank-and-file who've been waiting for someone to give them cover to talk. And your police relief fund?" He nodded appreciatively. "That got a lot of officers on our side."
"So you're going to use the money to push the restructuring through, then use the new independent budget to equip us for what's coming."
"Now you're getting it." Bob pointed at him with the cigarette. "Once we're our own district with our own budget, we'll have everything we need. And Brown can rot in whatever hole they throw him in after Internal Affairs gets done with him."
There was a pause. Marco shifted in his seat.
"Chief... how are you doing? Mentally, physically?"
Bob blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Me? I've never been better. If this works, we get half the budget... Wait. Why are you asking me that?"
He stubbed out his cigarette and sat up straighter, gripping the armrests of his chair.
"What's going on? Is this good news or bad news?"
"Hard to say," Marco admitted. "There's another sum of money in play. But I'm not sure we can get it."
Bob waited.
"You remember the second Falcone vault robbery? When twelve million went missing?"
Bob's eyes went wide. "Jesus Christ. You're telling me you—"
"Not me," Marco cut in quickly. "I think Cobblepot did it. Either way, we should be able to get at least half of it back."
Bob's hands tightened on the armrests so hard the leather creaked. His breathing became deep, like a man trying not to have a heart attack. He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, then closed them again.
"We can't go at this head-on. We'd start a war we can't win." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "We need leverage. Something long-term that keeps him on the hook, plus a steady short-term return that makes cooperation worth his while."
He looked at Marco seriously.
"Don't even think about trying to take it all. That kind of money generates enemies. Let me think on this. I need to figure out the right approach."
---
The forensics department was quieter than the rest of the precinct, insulated by thick walls and the kind of heavy door that suggested unpleasant things happened behind it. Marco found Edward at his workstation, surrounded by reports and evidence bags.
"Perfect timing." Edward looked up, his expression brightening. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
"Yeah? What's up?"
"Dionysus." Edward set down the file he'd been reading. "You said his powers didn't work on you?"
"That's what he told Wonder Woman, yeah." Marco leaned against the counter. "Why?"
"Because that's fascinating from a scientific perspective." Edward stood up, moving toward his medical cabinet. "Most divine or supernatural abilities seem to affect everyone within their area of influence. But if you're somehow immune, or resistant, that suggests something unique about your physiology or... metaphysical makeup, I suppose."
Marco watched him warily. "What are you thinking?"
"I'd like to run some tests." Edward pulled out a sealed syringe and a tourniquet. "Starting with a blood sample. Just basic analysis to see if there's anything unusual in your biology."
"You're a forensic pathologist," Marco said slowly. "You work on dead people."
"Yes, but I'm capable of drawing blood from living subjects." Edward gestured to the chair. "Sit. This will only take a moment."
"Ed—"
"It's for science, Marco. Surely you don't object to contributing to scientific knowledge?" Edward was already tying the tourniquet around Marco's upper arm before he could protest further. "Besides, if you do have some kind of natural resistance to supernatural influence, wouldn't you want to know about it? It could be useful information."
Marco sighed. "Fine. But if you fuck this up—"
"I won't." Edward tore open the syringe package. "Although I should mention, I don't usually draw blood from living people. My patients are typically less mobile." He positioned the needle. "Hold still. This might hurt a bit."
"Might... OW! FUCK!"
The needle went in at entirely the wrong angle, and Edward's grip was more enthusiastic than skilled. Marco gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to pull away as Edward fumbled with the vial.
"Almost there," Edward muttered, adjusting his angle. "Just need to—"
"JESUS CHRIST, ED!"
"Got it!" Edward pulled the needle out, not quite as smoothly as he probably intended, and pressed a cotton ball to the puncture site. "See? That wasn't so bad."
Marco glared at him, pressing the cotton ball harder against his arm. "You're a goddamn butcher."
"I'm a scientist," Edward corrected cheerfully, labeling the vial. "And now I have a sample to work with. Give me a few days to run the analysis, and we'll see if there's anything unusual about your blood chemistry."
"If I get an infection from this, I'm blaming you."
"You won't get an infection." Edward was already turning back to his workstation. "Thank you for your contribution to science, Marco. This could be quite illuminating."
Marco stood up, still pressing the cotton ball to his arm, and headed for the door.
Behind him, Edward was already pulling out equipment, muttering to himself about baseline comparisons and cellular analysis.
"Crazy bastard," Marco muttered, but there was no real heat in it.