The Party Crasher
Cointreau had no idea what was going through Vermouth's mind right now—and even if he had, he wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
His little sister was far better behaved than the child Vermouth doted on. She would never dream of barging headfirst into something this dangerous. And even if she did run into trouble, Cointreau trusted that the one in danger would never be her—she certainly didn't need anyone cleaning up her messes for her.
Needless to say, Cointreau's assessment of his own sister wasn't exactly objective. When it came to the "obedient, well-behaved" little sister who had built her own organization and struck up a partnership with the Black Organization, he was looking through rose-tinted glasses.
Deciding that what he couldn't see couldn't bother him, Vermouth looked toward Gin instead, probing around the edges of the subject, trying to pin down why he had suddenly changed targets. Once she knew the reason, she could figure out how to talk him out of the kill.
Meanwhile, in the FBI's car, Conan had already deduced from the movements of Gin's Porsche 356A that Gin and the others must have discovered the transmitter and the bug—and that they were now heading straight for the Mouri Detective Agency.
Then Agasa delivered an even worse piece of news: Kogoro Mouri had not stayed put at the professor's house like he was supposed to. Before the FBI agents Judy had stationed there could arrive, he had already left and headed back to his office to watch the horse races.
Conan and the others floored the accelerator toward Beika City, and while they drove, Conan kept dialing the landline at the detective agency.
Unfortunately, Kogoro Mouri, in his hurry to plug in his earphones and catch the race results, had yanked the phone line right out of the wall. No matter how Conan shouted into his own receiver, there was no way Kogoro could hear him.
On a rooftop not far from the Mouri Detective Agency—
Chianti and Korn watched Kogoro Mouri's movements through the scopes of their sniper rifles and spotted the earphones jammed in his ears. That only made Vodka more certain that the bug had been planted by Kogoro himself—the man clearly hadn't given up, and was now listening to check whether the device was still transmitting.
Gin raised no objection to Vodka's theory. He fished out the bug, still wrapped in its ball of paper, and issued his final ultimatum to the man he believed was on the other end—Kogoro Mouri.
"The bug and transmitter in my hand look remarkably similar to the ones on that woman last time. I'll give you ten seconds. If you're ready to tell me about your relationship with Sherry—the traitor to the Organization—then take your left hand off that earphone and raise it..."
"Ten. Nine. Eight... Four. Three. Two..."
Thwack!
In the instant before Gin could count down to one—before Korn's and Chianti's fingers, already resting on their triggers, could squeeze—a soccer ball came hurtling out of nowhere and smashed against the office window.
Gin and the others all froze for a beat. Korn and Chianti actually pulled their heads away from their scopes.
Even Cointreau's eyes widened slightly at the unexpected interruption.
He looked down and—sure enough—the soccer ball had been kicked up by that brat, Conan.
The ball gave Kogoro Mouri the fright of his life. He flung open the office window and tore into Conan, who was standing on the street below, with a blistering string of curses. Conan, seizing the opportunity, let slip the truth: the earphones were only for listening to the horse race results.
That was the opening Vermouth had been waiting for. Gin's justification had been airtight before, leaving her no room to openly interfere—but now she had an excuse, and she immediately began quietly talking him down. "Looks like this had nothing to do with him after all."
"I wouldn't be so sure. It's all far too convenient. And don't forget—Kir is missing right now, and the FBI has a hand in this. For all we know, this Detective Mouri could be in contact with the FBI."
Cointreau thought Vermouth was getting ahead of herself. Was this what they called caring clouding judgment? A couple of exchanged sentences between a kid and the target himself could never lower anyone's suspicion, let alone change Gin's plan.
And honestly, he thought the kid was reckless to a fault—brazen enough to meddle in an Organization operation, but if you're going to meddle, at least plan it properly and don't leave behind a trail of clues any fool could follow straight back to your doorstep. And look at that—he'd just led them straight to his own nest!
What Cointreau didn't know at this point was that the bug and transmitter on Kir hadn't been deliberately planted by Conan at all—Kir had accidentally gotten them stuck on herself, which was why she'd had no way to clean up the traces. But even if he had known, Cointreau probably wouldn't have changed his opinion. At most, he'd have gained an even deeper appreciation for the protagonist's luck: the Organization's clues practically lined up to deliver themselves to Conan's door.
Then again, even without knowing, Cointreau already had a fair amount of faith in the protagonist's luck.
Which was why his little speech just now had never actually been about taking Kogoro Mouri's life. He simply wanted Gin to stop dawdling and act—give the man a lesson at the very least. Let things drag on much longer, and who knew what unexpected complication would pop up next and let the whole thing fizzle out into nothing?
All these Organization members mobilized for one operation, and the end result was nothing accomplished—plus a codename member lost. That would be an outright joke.
Evidently, Cointreau's reasoning matched Gin's own, because Gin gave the order without a moment's hesitation: "Do it. Take out the brat down below along with him."
At the command, Chianti's face split into an eager grin. She swung her muzzle around at once, ready to fire.
"Wait!"
Vermouth's voice cut in immediately.
Upon hearing Gin's order, she momentarily forgot her resentment toward Cointreau for breaking their earlier agreement and suddenly turning on Kogoro Mouri, scrambling instead for an argument to convince Gin to stand down.
"There's no proof. If we rashly kill a man with such close ties to the police—"
Before Vermouth could finish, the click of a safety being flipped off beside her cut her short.
Gin raised his Beretta and leveled it at Vermouth, impatience written across his face, his eyes flashing with displeasure as they fixed on her. "Vermouth. You talk too much."
His gaze was deep and unreadable as it bored into her. "You and that detective—there's something between you, isn't there?"
Vermouth glanced back at him, a smile curling at the corner of her lips. "And if there is?"
"Ahem. I have no intention of interrupting your little exchange, but I'd say we've wasted quite enough time already. We now know the detective may not be the one who planted the bug—so kill him or don't, Gin, but decide fast. Drag it out any longer, and the FBI might come out and crash the party again."
Cointreau rolled his eyes inwardly. He'd known there was no way that shot was going off smoothly—now Vermouth herself had stepped onto the field to stop it.
What he genuinely couldn't wrap his head around was why Chianti was obeying Vermouth so readily now. He'd watched her glare daggers at Vermouth this whole time, and yet the moment Vermouth said "wait," Chianti really did hold her fire.
Cointreau found himself a little curious: if Gin gave the order to shoot again, who else would jump out to stop it? Could it really end up being the FBI?