Is Today a Love Special?

The NYPD Midtown South Precinct, which oversaw public safety across the entire Times Square district.

A suffocating silence and heavy air had settled over the busiest police station in America.

With the Precinct Commander, the Deputy Commander, and the rest of the upper brass hauled off one after another by Internal Affairs, the station felt like a funeral home.

Violent Crimes Unit office.

"Any word from the Captain yet?"

One detective scratched his head anxiously as he asked.

"Nope. Headquarters dragged him in first thing this morning. By now, those Internal Affairs bastards are probably stripping his soul bare."

"Man, our Captain's the only one who got screwed in all this. The Commander was the one who tormented Violent Crimes the hardest — and Internal Affairs doesn't even know that?"

The detectives were heaving heavy sighs when—

Creeeak—

The office door swung open, and the Captain shuffled in with a hollow, vacant look on his face.

The moment his subordinates saw that exhaustion-ravaged face, they rushed over and poured out their sympathy.

"Captain! You must be wiped out. What the hell is this mess, all because of the Commander?"

"I hope they didn't drag you through the mud just for being tied to him."

The Captain stared blankly at the men fretting over him, then scrubbed his face dry with both hands and muttered,

"…The Commander and the Deputy aren't coming back for a while. They're done. Fired."

"Yes, sir — we saw them get hauled off this morning with our own eyes. So who's running the precinct right now? Is Headquarters sending someone?"

"Not a chance. Headquarters won't show up until the dust settles. What lunatic brass would want to walk into this mess right now? One wrong step and the shit splatters all over you."

"So someone's covering as acting, then?"

"Probably. Captain, you hear anything?"

At his men's questions, the Captain looked down blankly at the paper in his hand.

It was a temporary appointment order, stamped clear and sharp with the Headquarters seal.

"The Chief of Detectives at Headquarters doesn't have anyone free to send either… so I guess I stood out — the guy who never rode the Commander's coattails and just chased cold cases."

The Captain swallowed hard and continued.

"They want me to serve as Acting Precinct Commander for the time being. Clean up the mess."

"…Sir?!"

"C-Captain, you're the Acting Commander?!"

The Violent Crimes detectives' jaws dropped. A beat of silence hung in the air — then a roar of cheers erupted loud enough to shake the office walls.

"Hell yeah! Congrats on the promotion! Honestly, if not you, then who? Everyone else was riding the old Commander's line."

"The big shots at Headquarters must've known how hard you got run around under that guy! Damn — hang in long enough and a day like this actually comes."

But beyond the glass of that warm Violent Crimes office, the mood in the hallway was entirely different.

Senior officers from other units who'd luckily dodged Internal Affairs' blade, along with ranking cops senior to the Captain by several classes, had gathered and were watching Violent Crimes with cold, piercing eyes.

"…Does that make any sense to you? The top brass gets wiped out, so some random Violent Crimes captain just walks into the Commander's office as acting?"

The most senior officer in the Detective Bureau — a man who'd put in serious years at this precinct — sneered, brow furrowed.

"This is ridiculous. He just skipped how many ranks? What kind of backing does he have?"

"That's exactly what I said. Even if they needed a cleanup guy fast, this appointment is beyond common sense. So I just casually checked with a classmate of mine in Headquarters Personnel…"

The Intelligence officer beside him glanced around, then dropped his voice to a whisper.

"That appointment order… the Chief of Detectives at Headquarters jammed it through personally."

"What? The Chief of— the Chief of Detectives?! That three-star heavyweight?"

"Yes. Personnel threw a fit about the rank structure getting tangled, and the Chief himself stepped in and crushed it. Looks like he's a direct line to the Chief of Detectives."

At those words, the faces of every senior officer clustered in the hallway went deathly pale all at once.

The reason for their shock was simple. Inside a police organization, this was the kind of thing that shattered every rule of common sense.

In military terms, it was like a company commander — a captain — seizing the battalion commander's seat overnight, a post that oversaw hundreds of men.

And the one who'd personally come down and planted that captain in the battalion commander's chair was a corps commander — a three-star general — the kind of figure you couldn't even look at directly.

Only the Chief of Detectives, third in the entire NYPD hierarchy, could force through an appointment like that.

None of them had ever imagined that ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠behind the back of a career team captain they'd written off as a perpetual grind-it-out type, a monster of that magnitude had been standing the whole time.

"Insane… So that's why he kept hanging on even when the old Commander was grinding him into dust. He was playing in a completely different league from the start."

"We almost screwed ourselves. If we'd gone after him thinking he was just some lowly captain, and ended up on the Chief of Detectives' bad side — that would've been the end."

"Everyone keep your mouths shut. For the time being, do not cross that guy. Crawl if you have to."

Awe and fear mixed in the stares pouring through the glass.

Absorbing every one of those vicious, misunderstanding-laden looks, the Captain dropped heavily into his chair.

…Ha. This is insane. That one-dollar fortune teller actually got all of this right?

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

A few days later. The Commander's office at Midtown South Precinct.

The Captain — now Acting Precinct Commander — signed his way through the mountain of paperwork stacked on the desk without pause.

"Good. Pull every officer from Team Three over here and dig in hard. Team Two — re-trace the robbery suspect's movements from yesterday's case from the top."

"Yes, sir, Commander!"

Watching the detective snap a crisp salute and stride out, he allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.

Investigations the previous Commander had blocked with every excuse in the book were finally rolling forward without obstruction.

Other units that normally stalled on support by quibbling over jurisdiction were now cooperating with startling eagerness.

Approvals sailed through at the speed of light, and with no pressure from above, every ounce of manpower and time could be poured into catching criminals — and nothing else.

As a result, long-cold cases that had been gathering dust finally stirred back to life, and once results started showing, a fierce hunger lit up in the detectives' eyes.

Of course, that was only the surface. The real reason was different.

They were cooperating out of fear of the Chief of Detectives standing behind him — nothing more.

Still, he had learned one thing.

You needed power if you wanted to push an investigation through.

After finishing every last approval, he sat alone in the empty Commander's office, his gaze drifting to the nameplate on the desk.

Acting Commander, Midtown South Precinct

Acting.

Those two words cut through with cold clarity. He held the authority, but this seat was not truly his.

On the outside, the precinct looked like it was running perfectly. In reality, it was a sandcastle that could collapse at any moment without anyone being surprised.

He only had to look at the eyes of his classmates and senior officers he passed in the hallway to know.

They couldn't openly rebel, but the forced, awkward smiles and the resentful stares that stabbed into his back said everything.

Their jealousy and naked discontent circled the station like a time bomb waiting to go off.

The Chief of Detectives had planted him here, but coldly speaking, the two of them weren't particularly close.

There seemed to be some goodwill, but looking purely at results, he was nothing more — and nothing less — than the cleanest pawn Headquarters could put forward to dodge the media's beating.

Once the Internal Affairs storm ended and the cleanup was finished? Headquarters would send down someone who suited their tastes as the permanent Commander.

And then everything would go back to the way it was.

Back to those suffocating days of cutting tails on command, watching the press, and twisting the direction of investigations.

Do that shit all over again? After everything?

He had tasted the power to lead detectives in the right direction. Only by holding this seat could he keep running investigations the way a real cop should.

Somehow, he had to strip off the "Acting" tag and lock this position down.

The problem was that for a mere team captain with no solid connections and no political skill, becoming the permanent Commander was next to impossible.

Just as that sense of helplessness washed over him, a face flickered through his mind — the young Asian man from a few days ago, casually pocketing a one-dollar bill and tossing out the correct answer as if it were nothing.

If the people above you are blocking the way, just go find someone higher.

A dazzling insight that had solved every problem.

But one natural question rose with it.

Will it still be one dollar this time?

Having experienced it once, he knew better. The idea that advice like that cost a single dollar made no sense.

Then what does the real fee look like?

Walking in now with the heavy title of Acting Commander on his shoulders — what was he supposed to offer the man?

He couldn't even begin to guess.

But with a set face, he grabbed the jacket hanging on his chair.

Whatever the man asked for, the only option was to go and face it.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

That afternoon.

On the ground floor of a commercial building along Times Square's main thoroughfare, where throngs of people poured past without end.

The Acting Commander stepped through the door of a shop whose simple neon sign — Zen Psychic — glowed beyond the full-length glass windows.

In his tightly clenched hand was a box of donuts from a well-known bakery.

Donovan, legs crossed at the heavy wooden table, glanced up.

"Figured you'd show up around now."

At that offhand remark, the Acting Commander's shoulders twitched.

This guy really wasn't ordinary.

He asked back, face set and serious.

"…Did you see that in a reading, too?"

Donovan smirked and tilted his head.

"Nah. Lily's been dropping by for the past few days, so I figured it was about time."

"…Ah."

The answer drained the tension right out of him. The Acting Commander cleared his throat and slid the box onto the desk.

"A token of thanks."

Donovan checked the contents, then claimed the box with a look of satisfaction.

"At least you've got the basics down. I half expected you to show up empty-handed."

"I was raised with decent manners."

Whether that was a joke or not, Donovan answered flatly.

"…Yeah. Sure."

The Acting Commander sat in the chair across from him and swallowed dryly.

"Anyway, I came to say thank you. Thanks to you, we caught the real culprit clean, and I ended up in the Acting Commander's seat. Everything played out exactly the way you said."

"Well, glad it worked out."

"But…"

Just as the Acting Commander was about to carefully broach the worry that had been eating at him for days — that "Acting" tag —

"Stop."

Donovan raised a hand and cut him off.

"For the record, the rate changes starting with the second consultation."

"…!"

The Acting Commander's pupils flickered.

Here it comes.

"…I figured as much. But you should know one thing. Despite how I look, I don't have much saved up. I'm not sure I can cover whatever fee you name."

At that, Donovan let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"You think I'd shake down a detective for pocket change? Relax. I don't take that kind of small money."

"…Then what exactly are you asking for?"

"Well, running a shop right in the middle of Times Square, I figure the occasional headache is going to come up, right? When that happens, you be my backing and throw a little weight around."

Not cash — police power, as payment.

In an instant, the Acting Commander's eyes turned sharp.

He drew a hard line in ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a low, firm voice.

"…Nothing illegal. No drugs, no cleanup work for criminal organizations. Absolutely not."

"Ah, last time you called me a con man, and now this again. I told you I'm not that kind of bad guy. What do you take me for? Do I really look that villainous?"

"…You don't, I'll give you that."

"See? Detective instincts are sharp. I'm a good, law-abiding citizen."

Donovan tapped the ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠desk lightly and grinned.

"Anyway, from the second consultation on, it's on credit. I'll put it on the tab and collect when I need it. You in, or not?"

The Acting Commander hesitated for a moment. If he stopped here, his fate was to get kicked out of the Commander's seat.

"…Fine. What the hell. I'm in."

Having steeled himself, the Acting Commander nodded.

A smile rose on Donovan's face to match.

"Deal's done, then. So — what's the problem this time?"

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

How much time had passed?

"…Thank you. Really. Thank you."

The Acting Commander bowed his head again and again, half dazed. The stiff tension he'd walked in with was nowhere to be found.

Like a man who'd grabbed a lifeline at the edge of a cliff, his expression looked not just unburdened but almost overwhelmed with relief.

Donovan leaned back easily against his chair and flicked his fingers.

"Don't worry. Do it the way I told you, and it'll all get sorted clean."

"I'll keep that in mind. Call me whenever you need anything. We'll see each other again soon."

Jingle—

The Acting Commander left his goodbye and stepped out of the shop.

A pleased smile settled on Donovan's lips. He had just secured the Commander of the Times Square precinct — New York's finest legal shield.

Right then.

Bzzzt—, bzzzt—.

The old flip phone in his inner pocket vibrated heavily.

The caller was the Boss.

"Hey, Boss. It's me."

"—Stop by for a minute. I've got something to pass along, and a new job just came in."

"Yeah? Got it. On my way."

Donovan closed up the shop without a second thought and climbed into the waiting Lincoln sedan.

Not long after the car left Times Square, it pulled to a stop beneath a bridge over the East River, and through the window Donovan could see the Boss waiting with something in his hands.

Donovan rolled down the window, and the Boss spoke.

"We'll talk in the car today."

"Alright. Get in."

The moment the Boss settled into the back seat, Donovan cut straight to it.

"You said you had something for me?"

"I do."

What the Boss drew from his coat and held out was an elegant, high-end envelope. The flap was sealed tight with a red wax stamp.

"The Fixer asked me to deliver it."

"The Fixer?"

Curious, Donovan cracked the wax and pulled out the letter.

The contents were brief, but deep feeling ran through every line.

Thanks to your advice, I've grown considerably closer to her, and a few days ago we went on our first date.

I truly have no idea how to express this gratitude.

So I've enclosed my special business card. With this card, you may employ me free of charge.

Use it yourself, or transfer it to someone else — either is fine.

Inside the envelope was a single jet-black business card with a subtle sheen.

As Donovan took it out and examined it, the Boss beside him spoke with a note of surprise.

"…Getting that card from the Fixer. What kind of help did you give him?"

If an information broker like the Boss was impressed, the thing clearly carried serious weight.

Donovan smirked and slipped the card into his pocket.

"Well, I did help him out quite a bit."

The Boss looked at him, clearly not following.

But this was something he couldn't explain.

Other people's love lives weren't meant to be gossiped about.

"Boss, you got a pen?"

"I do."

The Boss pulled a fountain pen from his inner pocket and handed it over.

Donovan called up the Fixer's physiognomy in his mind and left a short note on the back of the letter.

He didn't strictly need to do this kind of follow-up care.

"I just kind of want to root for this one."

At Donovan's mutter, the Boss narrowed his eyes and asked,

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing much."

Donovan slipped the letter with the note back into the envelope and handed it to the Boss.

"Pass this back to the Fixer for me."

"Understood."

"That's everything you needed to deliver, right? Let's talk about the job."

The Boss tucked the letter away, then handed Donovan a thin file ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠folder he'd been holding under his arm.

"This client inherited an entire global hotel chain. The capital he moves runs into the billions of dollars. At his age, he's one of the heavyweights who can open and close Manhattan's prime hotels at will."

Donovan nodded.

In Korean terms, it felt roughly like a chaebol second-generation heir.

"Oh. A rich hotel heir? Which hotel are we talking about?"

"The flagship of the chain is The Grand Astoria — an ultra-luxury five-star on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan."

"Ah. That place?! Even for a five-star, the rates there are completely insane, right? I nearly fell over when I heard the room prices."

Donovan clicked his tongue and asked,

"So what kind of job does an heir to a hotel like that put in?"

"He wants us to find the woman who truly loves him."

"…What?"

Donovan echoed in surprise, but the Boss continued with an indifferent face.

"He's drowning in money and has a serious playboy streak, so right now he's juggling four or five women at once."

"Wait. Don't tell me he wants us to pick from among them?"

"Exactly. From among them, he wants the one true woman who would love him completely even if he went broke."

"…"

After that monumental background briefing, the request that dropped out was so romantic it crossed into the absurd.