The man that exited the 4-Runner wore a long trench coat, reaching all the way down to his matte black boots and brushing the wet pavement. Not much else could be seen in the dark, the majority of his face was obstructed by a tall collar, but there was a threat of a concealed firearm and a tangible sense of bearing. This was a man who was not afraid to bloody his knuckles. Underneath the streetlamp, the guy wearing the hoodie watched with an uneasy eye, making a hopping motion between feet, but he didn’t run.

The chief strode up, leaned casually against the post, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. The flare of a match met the tip, followed by a cloud of exhaled smoke. When the chief tilted his head up to get a look at the other man, the lower half of his own face became visible in the orange light. Clean shaven, a grim jaw with hard lines, unused to smiling for any reason. The brim of his hat concealed his eyes.

“So,” he addressed the crook, “where can I find Pantaglio Ramon?”