8:00 a.m. – Outside the 99th Precinct
The morning sun broke through a thin veil of gray clouds, casting long golden lines across Brooklyn. Ezra Kael walked up the precinct steps with the familiar crispness of his usual timing—exactly on the hour, not a second too soon or late. A calculated punctuality, like everything else he did.
He adjusted the collar of his coat and glanced at his reflection in the glass door. His hair was perfectly disheveled. His smirk subtle. Ezra Kael didn't try to look like a well-dressed international spy. He simply did. And now he was walking into a precinct where half the detectives were still arguing about whether cereal counted as soup.
He loved it here.
Inside, the bullpen was coming to life. Scully was microwaving something that shouldn't legally be microwaved. Hitchcock was trying to convince Rosa that his Fitbit was broken and not just stuck at 38 steps for the past week. Jake was already mid-sprint toward the whiteboard with a giant foam finger labeled "CASE CHAMP."
"Ezra!" Jake called. "Just in time! We've got a hot one."
Ezra set his coffee down and raised an eyebrow. "Is it actual police work or another mystery involving vending machine theft?"
Jake looked briefly offended. "This is 100% legit. Possibly even 102%. A string of art gallery break-ins across Brooklyn. Classy thief. Smooth entries. Minimal trace. The only clue left behind? A Polaroid of a blank wall."
Ezra blinked. "That's oddly poetic."
"I know, right?" Jake said, pulling out the case file and tossing it onto Ezra's desk. "Gives me major Pink Panther vibes. Or like, Ocean's Eleven if they were all allergic to fingerprints."
Amy passed by, handing out printouts. "Captain says it's high priority. Looks like someone's targeting pieces on loan from private collectors."
Ezra opened the folder and skimmed the details. There was something familiar in the method. No security triggers. A single entry point. Clean, precise—elegant.
Too elegant.
Rosa joined them, sipping coffee like it owed her money. "Terry wants us to work it in pairs. He's got some big audit meeting upstairs. Apparently, someone ordered five hundred ballpoint pens. Again."
Boyle gasped. "Wasn't me this time. I swear. I've switched to erasable gel."
Ezra glanced at the Polaroid photo. His fingers paused. His eyes sharpened just a bit. That angle, the placement, the subtle camera flare—he had seen something like this before.
From himself.
Jake leaned in, nudging Ezra with his elbow. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Or a tax form."
Ezra set the photo down and stood. "Let's just say the style rings a bell. But it's probably nothing."
Jake narrowed his eyes playfully. "You're being mysterious again."
"It's literally in my job description."
Jake pointed. "No, it's not."
Ezra smirked. "That's what makes it good."
9:30 a.m. – Fieldwork
Jake and Ezra arrived at the latest gallery that had been hit—LeClair Modern. All steel beams, white walls, and too much air between exhibits. A security guard met them at the door, clearly nervous and clutching a clipboard like a stress ball.
"This is the fifth break-in," the guard said. "Same method. Clean breach, nothing damaged, no signs of forced entry. And always that Polaroid left behind."
Jake glanced around. "Can we check the cameras?"
The guard hesitated. "That's the weird part. Our systems go static from exactly 3:12 to 3:15 a.m. every time. Just a clean blackout."
Ezra studied the light fixtures, the vents, the floor paneling. "What's missing this time?"
The guard checked the clipboard. "Piece titled Blue Descent—a watercolor from a reclusive collector. Not on public display, but we had it in the vault until the opening next week."
Jake turned to Ezra. "How do you even know where to look for a painting that hasn't been hung yet?"
Ezra murmured, "Because someone knew exactly where it was."
Jake blinked. "That… that was super ominous. I love it."
Ezra crouched beside the vault door. "This lock wasn't picked. It was mirrored. Meaning someone created a duplicate access signal."
Jake knelt beside him. "How do you know that?"
Ezra glanced sideways, expression unreadable. "I read a lot."
They finished the inspection and left the gallery with more questions than answers. Back in the car, Jake turned the radio down and shot Ezra a sideways look.
"You're awfully good at knowing how this thief thinks."
Ezra gave a slight smile. "Maybe because I used to think like them."
Jake grinned. "I knew you were cool."
Ezra chuckled. "You have a low bar for 'cool.'"
Jake held up his foam finger again. "CASE CHAMP, BABY."
Ezra stared out the window. But in his chest, something tightened.
Because he did know how this thief worked. Down to the angle of the Polaroid.
It wasn't just a copycat.
It was someone trying to send him a message.
11:45 a.m. – 99th Precinct Bullpen
Ezra sat at his desk, absently spinning the Polaroid between his fingers like a coin, the glossy rectangle catching light in sharp flashes. Jake was across from him building a wall of empty coffee cups into a "psychological crime-fighting barrier." Boyle had joined in, offering glue sticks and a hot glue gun he somehow kept in his drawer.
Ezra wasn't really listening.
His mind was back at the gallery. That Polaroid. That signature precision. The three-minute blackout—just long enough for a specialist to get in and out unnoticed. And the piece stolen? Hidden, known only to the gallery director and a select few.
It had fingerprints all over it.
Not literal ones—there weren't any. But the style. The message.
Someone from the old days.
"Hey," Amy said, sliding into the chair beside him and snapping him out of his thoughts. "You good? You've been staring into that photo like it owes you money."
Ezra offered a faint smile. "Just thinking. This case… It's not like the others."
Amy raised an eyebrow. "More so than a guy who once faked a mugging to steal his own sculpture?"
"Way more. This one's personal."
She studied him for a beat. "You sure you're okay?"
Ezra hesitated, then nodded. "I will be."
Across the bullpen, Terry emerged from his office holding a box of evidence folders and looking, somehow, more exhausted than usual.
"Alright, people," Terry called. "We've got confirmation—another gallery was hit last night. Same MO, same signature. The piece stolen was a mixed media sculpture called Immaterial Echo." He set the box down. "And the collector is nervous. Big name, discreet tastes. Wants us to handle this quietly."
Jake raised his hand. "Do we get badges that say 'Art Squad'? Because that would really help with branding."
"No," Terry said flatly. "You get lunch and progress, or I start making you run budget meetings."
There was a collective groan.
Ezra stood. "I want to visit that collector. Alone."
Terry frowned. "You sure?"
"I have a theory," Ezra said, his tone composed, "and I want to confirm it without any distractions."
Jake looked slightly betrayed. "But I am the distraction!"
"I know," Ezra said with a smile. "That's why you're perfect here."
Jake gave a proud little salute. "Thank you."
1:17 p.m. – Brownstone, Park Slope
The residence of one Harold Levington was exactly what Ezra expected—modest from the outside, fortified and opulent within. Levington was a name from the fringes of Ezra's former life. A patron, not of galleries, but of... artists who operated in shadows.
A quiet but wealthy man, with no shortage of taste and even less appetite for exposure.
Levington opened the door himself. He was older now—white hair neatly combed, a cane in one hand, but eyes sharp as ever.
"Mr. Kael," Levington said, voice like polished oak. "You were always good at disappearing."
"And you were always good at knowing where to look," Ezra replied.
They sat in a dim study filled with masks, abstract canvases, and enough old-world silence to swallow a city block. Levington poured two glasses of something amber and expensive.
"You've changed," he said, handing Ezra a glass.
"Not enough, apparently," Ezra murmured. "Someone's mimicking my old methods. Closely."
Levington swirled his drink. "You think they're coming for your legacy?"
Ezra stared at the fire flickering in the stone hearth. "No. I think they're trying to draw me out."
Levington looked at him carefully. "Then why are you here?"
Ezra didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat and placed the Polaroid on the table between them.
"Because this wasn't just a message," he said. "It was an invitation."
2:38 p.m. – Alley behind Levington's Brownstone
Ezra exited through the back gate, steps quiet on the brick. He'd declined a car. He wanted the walk. Needed it. The kind of silence only Brooklyn's backstreets could offer in the afternoon: the murmur of traffic, a dog barking three blocks over, distant salsa from an open window.
He flipped the Polaroid over again. Still blank. No note. No signature. Just white space—and the precise framing of a missing painting that was never meant to be public.
The craftsmanship was uncanny.
"Too uncanny," he muttered.
A figure passed by at the end of the alley. Not close, not slow. But something about the gait—the calm looseness, the confidence—pricked Ezra's instincts. He slipped into a narrow service path between buildings and tracked them.
The man walked with the ease of someone who never expected to be followed.
But Ezra had learned from the best.
He shadowed the figure across two blocks. It wasn't until the man ducked into a quiet bookstore that Ezra felt the weight settle in his chest. Not fear. Not anger.
Recognition.
He waited a beat. Then walked in.
The store smelled of old pages and cedar oil. A few patrons wandered, none matching the figure. Ezra's fingers grazed the spines of hardcovers, pretending to browse.
Then he saw it. On the counter.
Another Polaroid.
This time, not blank. It showed Ezra.
Taken that morning.
Ezra's jaw tensed.
"Game on," he whispered.
3:05 p.m. – 99th Precinct Bullpen
Ezra returned to the precinct, his coat dampened slightly from the mist rolling in from the East River. The Polaroid photo of himself—now tucked inside his coat pocket like a ticking clock—pressed against his ribs with every breath. He didn't need to speak to know what it meant.
He was being watched.
Jake was waiting by Ezra's desk, holding a stack of laminated files and what appeared to be a burrito wrapped in police evidence tape.
"Hey!" Jake said. "Back from your solo quest of mystery and brooding?"
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "You laminated evidence?"
Jake looked insulted. "No! I laminated copies of evidence. For efficiency. Also because Amy bought a label maker and I needed to justify the expense."
Boyle popped up beside them. "Did you find anything? Secrets? Clues? Unexpected romance with a lonely heiress?"
Ezra blinked. "No. But I did get another Polaroid."
Jake's eyes widened. "Dude. What?"
Ezra pulled the photo from his coat and set it down.
There he was. Standing outside Levington's building. Hair slightly windblown. Eyes scanning the street. The timestamp on the bottom read 1:16 p.m.—exactly one minute before Levington opened the door.
Amy joined them, brow furrowed. "Someone's watching you. Not the art. Not the collectors. You."
Jake whistled low. "Okay, even I think that's creepy. And I love creepy."
Ezra remained silent, letting the team absorb it.
Terry called from across the bullpen, waving another folder. "Kael. Your turn to brief McGintley. He wants to know why we've used three times the normal amount of surveillance ink this month."
Ezra groaned. "Again?"
Jake leaned in, whispering, "If he yells, just imagine him in tiny swim shorts. That's what I do."
"Thank you for that horrifying mental image," Ezra replied dryly.
3:35 p.m. – Captain McGintley's Office
The office door creaked open with the resistance of a hundred failed anger management sessions. Captain McGintley sat behind his desk like a disgruntled gorilla in a department store suit. His hands were already hovering above a stack of paper that looked like it might spontaneously combust from frustration alone.
"Kael," he barked. "Why the hell are we burning through more printer ink than a high school theater program?!"
Ezra folded his hands behind his back. "Visual aids. Diagrams. Psychologically complex case boards."
"You drew mustaches on every suspect."
"They help with visualization."
McGintley squinted at him. "Are you screwing with me, Kael?"
"Yes, sir," Ezra said calmly. "But only in ways that serve justice."
There was a long pause.
Then McGintley burst out laughing. "God help me, you're the only one in this damn building who knows how to give a report and insult me at the same time. Sit down."
Ezra did. And for a second—just a flicker—he saw something in the captain's eyes that wasn't pure volcanic rage.
Respect.
4:15 p.m. – Break Room
Ezra stood by the coffee pot, filling a mug and staring into the swirling black like it might hold answers. Rosa entered quietly, grabbed the largest mug on the shelf, and poured half the pot into it.
"You're off," she said, not looking at him.
Ezra didn't argue. "Someone's trying to pull me into something."
"You think it's personal?"
"I know it is."
Rosa sipped. "Then don't let them."
Ezra turned to her. "Easier said than done."
Rosa shrugged. "You're smart. Dangerous. A little weird. You'll figure it out."
Ezra smiled faintly. "High praise."
"It's all you're getting."
She walked out.
Ezra watched the door swing shut behind her, then looked down at his coffee. A thought clicked.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the two Polaroids.
Side by side, they were nearly identical.
Same angle.
Same lighting.
Same signature smudge in the top right corner. Subtle. Easy to miss.
Ezra leaned in closer. His pulse quickened.
A symbol.
Barely visible—a small mark etched into the border of the photo. Like an artist's signature.
He recognized it.
Not just from his past.
From his work.
Someone wasn't just mimicking him.
Someone was using his own methods against him.
Ezra straightened, breath shallow.
This wasn't just a message.
It was a declaration.