Dangers in the Dark

That's Not my Name 13.1

Another day beginning and Jim was back on the job. Finally! He had never been so happy to be back in his detective's suit, badge in his pocket and driving to a crime scene where Harvey had said he would meet him. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel happily, Jim hummed along to the latest tunes that played from his radio. Despite the fact he was about to go and investigate a possible murder scene, he couldn't help the small smile that fell on his face as he walked towards an exhausted-looking Harvey.

"You're up early," Jim commented.

"I haven't made it to bed yet," Harvey told him before a small smirk played on his face. "Word is you got caught with Doc Thompkins in the locker room."

"Strictly business," Jim corrected him, trying to hide his smile.

"Yeah, right," Harvey scoffed before his face fell serious. "Does Holly know about you two?"

"There is no 'you two'. Not yet anyway. It was just a kiss," Jim sighed. "I'll only tell her if things get serious. She's still pretty torn up about Barbara, I'm sure of it."

"Well, she is a tough kid. She'll be fine. Though I doubt you will be if she finds out you hid this from her. You'll be coming into work with a shaved head and I will be sure to get it on camera then frame it and put it up in the precinct for all to see," Harvey said.

"Brilliant," Jim muttered before he turned the conversation back to business. "Any word on Fish?"

"No. Club's all shot up. Blood everywhere. No sign of Fish. It's her own damn fault," Harvey answered. "She played the game; she knew the risks."

"Sorry, Harv, I know you have a thing for her," Jim offered his apology.

"I don't got a thing for nobody. My thing is for me. And don't call me that. That name is reserved for my favourite Gordon," Harvey told him, making Jim suppress an eye-roll. "If anyone can make it out of a scrape like that, it's Fish. The woman's nails. Come on. We got a case."

"Yeah. So, what do we got?" Jim asked as he followed Harvey through to the back room of the warehouse.

"Public service homicide. Vic's a douche," Harvey answered brutally but honestly. In the back of the room, a middle-aged man had been tied up to the conveyor belt that moved along the ceiling and he was just dangling there. Though it was clear that the actual cause of death was most likely the puncture wound in his stomach that was still dripping small drops of blood as they walked over to him. But beside him was another cop that Jim had only ever heard of through reputation. And boy did this guy have a reputation. "Flass, Gordon. Gordon, Flass."

"Hi," Jim said, shaking Flass's hand.

"Hey," Flass responded, giving Jim's hand a firm shake.

"Flass works Narcotics," Harvey told him. "Hence the bling and the no doubt expensive yet somehow cheap-looking Italian suit."

"Ah, Bullock. Still dressing in the dark and smelling like a tap-house whore," Flass replied bitterly.

Nodding at Flass's comment, Harvey directed Jim's attention to the bloodied victim.

"One of Flass's connections tipped him off on the body. Tell Gordon about the kid," Harvey requested.

"Pinky Littlefield," Flass answered. "Dealer from a crew known as the Uptown Assassins. He works this block. Well, at least he did."

"Any drugs on him?" Jim asked.

"Didn't find any," Flass shook his head. "My bog wild guess, deal gone bad. Kid like this, bound to happen sooner or later."