Chapter 5: Peralta's Suspicion
POV: Jake Peralta
The break room coffee tasted like someone had strained it through a gym sock that had seen better decades, but Jake needed the caffeine more than he needed dignity. His laptop balanced precariously on his knees while he cross-referenced databases, hunting for the inconsistencies that his gut insisted existed in Detective Martinez's background.
Something's off about the golden boy.
Three days of observation had only deepened his suspicion. Martinez moved through the Nine-Nine with the confident ease of someone who belonged, but there were micro-tells that didn't add up. The way he'd navigated directly to the supply closet without asking for directions. His casual familiarity with departmental procedures that varied between precincts. Most telling, his complete lack of surprise at Gina's aggressive weirdness.
Nobody adjusts to Gina that fast. Not even other weirdos.
The 74th Precinct database painted Martinez as exemplary—high closure rates, solid commendations, the kind of record that justified transfers to elite units. But when Jake dug deeper, requesting actual case files rather than statistical summaries, the picture became frustratingly incomplete.
The Morrison case that earned Martinez his first commendation existed as a single-paragraph summary: "Detective Martinez's thorough investigation and attention to detail led to successful resolution of complex robbery investigation." No specifics about methods, evidence, or the breakthrough that cracked the case.
Thorough investigation and attention to detail. Generic praise that could mean anything or nothing.
The warehouse incident was even more opaque—another commendation for "exemplary performance under pressure" without any description of what actually happened. Jake had worked enough cases to know that genuine police reports were dense with procedural minutiae. These read like someone had deliberately scrubbed away anything that might reveal Martinez's actual investigative methods.
Either the 74th has the most incompetent file clerks in the NYPD, or someone's sanitizing this guy's record.
"Fascinating reading?"
Jake looked up to find Martinez standing in the break room doorway, holding an empty coffee mug and wearing the kind of neutral expression that suggested he'd noticed Jake's intense focus on the laptop screen.
Shit. How long has he been watching me?
"Just catching up on some old cases," Jake said, closing the laptop with what he hoped was casual indifference. "You know how it is—always something that didn't quite make sense the first time around."
"The Valdez armed robbery?" Martinez asked, refilling his mug with the toxic sludge that passed for coffee. "I saw you were working that one yesterday."
How does he know which case I'm working? He's been here three days.
"Among others." Jake studied Martinez's reflection in the coffee pot, looking for tells that might reveal whether the question was innocent curiosity or something more calculated. "You settling in okay? Everything living up to expectations?"
"The Nine-Nine has a good reputation. So far, it's been earned."
Diplomatic non-answer. This guy could run for office.
"What kind of reputation, specifically? I mean, different people hear different things about us."
Martinez turned, meeting Jake's eyes with steady directness that could have been confidence or very good acting.
"Results-oriented. Willing to think outside the box when conventional methods don't work. Leadership that backs their people when they're doing the job right."
Those are all true. But they're also exactly what someone would say if they'd researched us thoroughly before arriving.
Before Jake could probe deeper, Terry appeared in the doorway with the expression of someone delivering news that would complicate everyone's day.
"Jake, Martinez—Captain Holt wants you partnered on the Moretti bodega case. Active investigation, potential leads to follow up."
Partnered. With the mystery man.
"Cool, cool, cool," Jake said, though nothing about this development felt particularly cool. "When do we start?"
"Now. Crime scene's been processed, but there are witnesses to interview and surveillance footage to review."
Jake gathered his things while Martinez finished his coffee with unhurried efficiency. The bodega robbery had all the hallmarks of a routine street crime—masked suspect, register cleaned out, no obvious witnesses—but Holt's decision to assign both of them suggested complications beneath the surface.
Or he wants to see how we work together. Test the new guy under real conditions.
The subway ride to Bensonhurst gave Jake an opportunity to probe Martinez's knowledge while maintaining the pretense of professional collaboration. He started with softball questions—thoughts on the case file, theories about suspect motivation—before gradually introducing more specific departmental terminology.
"Initial response used a 10-54 protocol," Jake said casually. "Probably overkill for a simple robbery, but better safe than sorry."
Martinez nodded without hesitation. "Domestic disturbance response for a commercial robbery? That does seem excessive."
He knows 10-54 is domestic disturbance. That's not common knowledge outside the department.
"Could have been dispatch error," Jake continued, watching Martinez's face for any sign of uncertainty. "Sometimes they default to higher response levels when they're not sure about threat assessment."
"Makes sense. Better to have backup you don't need than need backup you don't have."
Textbook answer. Exactly what someone who'd memorized the manual would say.
Jake escalated to truly obscure codes—administrative procedures that varied between precincts, radio protocols that had been updated within the past year. Martinez fielded each test with the kind of casual competence that suggested either extensive experience or very thorough preparation.
Either he's the most well-informed transfer in NYPD history, or someone coached him very thoroughly.
Moretti's bodega occupied a corner in a neighborhood that had seen better decades but hadn't given up hope for better ones to come. The kind of family business that served as community anchor, where regulars paid for groceries with gossip and the owner knew three generations of customers by name.
Anthony Moretti was sixty-something, thick through the middle, with hands that spoke of decades handling inventory and the resigned expression of someone who'd just discovered that being a good neighbor didn't guarantee protection from bad people.
"Detective Peralta," he said, recognizing Jake from previous cases. "Thanks for coming back. I remembered some more details after you left yesterday."
Yesterday I was here with Amy. How does Martinez know about my previous visit?
"Mr. Moretti, this is Detective Martinez. We're going to ask you a few more questions, see if we can't find the guy who did this."
Martinez stepped forward with professional courtesy, but Jake noticed he positioned himself where he could observe both Moretti and the store's interior simultaneously. Tactical awareness that suggested either good training or paranoid instincts.
"Can you walk us through what happened one more time?" Martinez asked. "Sometimes details come back when you're talking about it."
Moretti launched into his account with the practiced ease of someone who'd told the story multiple times. Standard robbery narrative—lone suspect, mask and hoodie, in and out fast, no unnecessary violence. But as he spoke, Jake noticed Martinez's attention focusing on specific details with laser intensity.
He's noticing something I'm missing.
"The broken glass by the register," Martinez said when Moretti finished. "Can you show me exactly where the pieces fell?"
Moretti led them behind the counter, pointing to areas where crime scene techs had already collected evidence. But Martinez crouched down, studying the scattered fragments with the kind of focused attention that suggested he was seeing patterns in apparent randomness.
"Interesting," he murmured, pulling out his phone to photograph angles that looked completely ordinary to Jake.
"What's interesting?"
"The way the glass shattered. See how most pieces fell toward the back wall, but there's a cluster near the front? That suggests two impacts—initial break when the register was forced, then a second impact when something else hit the case."
Jake looked at the same evidence and saw broken glass. Martinez apparently saw a story written in physics and trajectory.
How did I miss that?
"Could be the perp knocked something over during the robbery," Jake suggested.
"Could be." Martinez stood, but his attention remained fixed on details Jake couldn't identify. "Mr. Moretti, did you notice any unusual smells during the robbery? Cologne, cigarettes, anything that stood out?"
Why would smell matter for a robbery case?
Moretti frowned, accessing memories he hadn't considered relevant. "Now that you mention it... yeah, actually. Something chemical. Like paint or cleaning solvent."
Martinez and Jake exchanged glances, both recognizing the potential significance of that detail.
"Can you be more specific about the smell?" Martinez pressed.
"Paint thinner, maybe? My nephew works construction, I know that smell. But why would someone smell like paint thinner to rob a bodega?"
Good question.
They spent another twenty minutes documenting details and collecting contact information for potential follow-up interviews. Standard police work, but Jake found himself increasingly aware that Martinez was operating on a different level of perception. Where Jake saw a straightforward robbery, Martinez apparently saw a complex puzzle with pieces that revealed their significance only under specific examination.
Either he's incredibly observant, or he knows more about this case than he should.
The realization crystallized as they left the bodega and headed toward their next interview location. Martinez moved through Brooklyn with confident navigation despite claiming unfamiliarity with the area, somehow knowing which shortcuts would save time and which streets to avoid during afternoon traffic.
He's been here before. Recently.
"You know this neighborhood pretty well for someone who just transferred from Manhattan," Jake observed.
"I do my research," Martinez replied smoothly. "Street maps, crime statistics, demographic patterns. It helps to understand the environment where you're working."
True but incomplete. Classic deflection.
They were heading toward the subway when Jake's radio crackled with an update that changed everything.
"All units, suspect from the Moretti bodega robbery spotted heading north on 86th Street. Hispanic male, early twenties, dark hoodie, considered armed and dangerous."
Jake broke into a run without conscious decision, muscle memory and adrenaline taking over. Behind him, he heard Martinez keeping pace, their footsteps echoing off concrete as they pursued a suspect who'd just graduated from property crime to active flight.
This is where we find out what the new guy's really made of.
POV: Kole Martinez
The chase began like a symphony of chaos—radio chatter, pounding feet, the particular quality of urban air when violence hung in the balance. Jake moved through Brooklyn's maze of alleys and fire escapes with the fluid confidence of someone who'd turned pursuit into art form, his body reading the urban landscape like sheet music.
Follow his lead. Copy his movements. Don't think about how impossible this should be.
Kole's combat adaptation hummed beneath his skin as Jake vaulted a dumpster with practiced ease. The technique downloaded instantly—timing, leverage, the specific way Jake used his momentum to clear obstacles without losing speed. When Kole replicated the movement three seconds later, it felt like he'd been doing it for years.
Too smooth. That was too smooth.
Jake glanced back, surprise flickering across his face as he registered Kole's seamless parkour. But there was no time for questions—their suspect had gained ground while they'd been navigating obstacles, forcing them to push harder through increasingly complex terrain.
The fire escape ascent required different skills entirely. Jake moved up the metal framework like a spider, using architectural details to his advantage, turning structural elements into stepping stones. Each movement was economical, efficient, born from countless hours of pursuit through similar environments.
Watch. Learn. Execute.
Kole's body absorbed every technique as Jake demonstrated it, muscle memory updating in real-time. Hand placement on rusted rails, foot positioning on narrow grates, the specific way to transfer weight when metal creaked ominously under pressure. By the time they reached the rooftop, he was moving with Jake's exact style, as if they'd trained together for months.
This is insane. I shouldn't be able to do this.
But insane or not, it was working. They'd gained ground on their suspect, who was discovering that running across Brooklyn rooftops required skills most people didn't possess. The gap between hunter and prey narrowed with each building they crossed.
"There!" Jake pointed toward a figure struggling to navigate between two structures separated by an alley that looked wider than it probably was. "He's going to have to jump or go back down."
The suspect chose poorly.
His leap fell short by maybe six inches—close enough to grab the opposite building's edge, not close enough to land safely. He dangled three stories above concrete, legs kicking frantically as his grip slowly failed.
He's going to fall.
Jake reached the edge first, dropping flat and extending his arm toward the panicking suspect. "NYPD! Grab my hand!"
But the angle was wrong, the distance too great. Jake could reach the suspect, but pulling him up would require leverage and positioning that the narrow rooftop couldn't provide.
Kole arrived at the edge and immediately understood the physics of the situation. Jake's approach was textbook—safe, procedural, exactly what academy training prescribed. It was also going to fail.
One chance. Make it count.
"I've got him," Kole said, swinging over the edge with movements he'd observed Jake use moments earlier. But instead of simply extending his reach, he used the building's architecture—drainage pipes, window frames, decorative stonework—to position himself at an angle that provided better leverage.
Just like the gym. Copy the technique, adapt to circumstances.
He grabbed the suspect's wrist with one hand while maintaining his own grip on the building with the other. The man's weight threatened to tear him loose, but Kole's borrowed parkour skills included the upper body strength necessary to maintain position under stress.
"Stop struggling," he called down. "I've got you, but you need to stop moving."
The suspect—mid-twenties, Hispanic, definitely fitting the bodega description—looked up with a mixture of terror and resignation. His grip on Kole's wrist was slipping, sweat making the connection treacherous.
Not going to hold.
Above him, Jake was coordinating backup and emergency response, but help would arrive too late to matter. Either Kole pulled the suspect to safety in the next thirty seconds, or they both fell.
Time to find out if combat adaptation works with rock climbing.
He'd watched enough climbing videos to understand the basic principles—three points of contact, distribute weight efficiently, use legs more than arms. His body translated theory into practice with supernatural fluidity, finding handholds and foot placements that provided the leverage necessary to haul a panicking suspect up three stories of aging Brooklyn architecture.
Two minutes later, both men sat on solid rooftop, breathing hard and contemplating the physics of gravity. The suspect, now identified as Ramon Vasquez, age twenty-three, seemed more relieved to be alive than concerned about being arrested.
"How did you know that route?" Jake asked as they waited for backup to arrive via more conventional paths. "The fire escape sequence, the rooftop navigation—you moved like you've been doing this for years."
Because I copied your exact movements in real-time using abilities that shouldn't exist.
"Lucky guess?" Kole offered, hating the inadequacy of the lie.
Jake studied him with the frank assessment of someone who'd just watched impossible competence in action. "That wasn't luck, Martinez. That was training. Serious training."
Say something. Anything that sounds plausible.
"I used to rock climb in college. Guess some of the muscle memory carried over."
"Rock climbing." Jake's tone suggested he found this explanation roughly as convincing as alien abduction. "Right."
The arrival of backup saved Kole from further interrogation, at least temporarily. Uniform officers took custody of Vasquez while Jake and Kole provided preliminary statements about the arrest circumstances. Standard procedure, routine paperwork, the bureaucratic aftermath that followed successful police work.
But as they rode the subway back to the Nine-Nine, Jake's silence carried weight that had nothing to do with fatigue.
He knows something's wrong. Maybe not what, but definitely something.
"You did good work back there," Jake said finally, his tone suggesting the compliment came with reservations. "Quick thinking, good instincts."
"Thanks. You too."
"The thing is, Martinez—I've been doing this for a while. I know what normal detective work looks like, and I know what exceptional detective work looks like. What you did today... that was something else entirely."
Here it comes.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"I mean you moved through that chase like you knew exactly where we were going. You spotted details at the crime scene that I missed completely. You executed complex parkour sequences like you'd been practicing them your entire life." Jake turned to face him directly. "So I guess my question is: what aren't you telling me?"
Everything. I'm not telling you everything, and I can never tell you everything.
"I'm naturally observant," Kole said, falling back on the prepared deflection. "Good at picking up patterns, reading situations quickly."
"Naturally observant." Jake repeated the phrase like he was testing its flavor. "Right."
The rest of the ride passed in charged silence, both men processing the implications of what had happened while carefully avoiding direct confrontation. But Kole's lie detection caught undercurrents of suspicion and curiosity that suggested Jake Peralta was just getting started with his investigation into Detective Martinez's background.
He's going to dig deeper. And when he does, he's going to find more questions than answers.
Back at the Nine-Nine, they processed Vasquez and completed their paperwork with professional efficiency. The bodega robbery case was officially closed, another successful resolution for the squad's statistics. But Kole could feel Jake's attention like weight between his shoulder blades, analytical and persistent.
I need to be more careful. Much more careful.
As evening settled over the precinct, Jake gathered his things with the deliberate movements of someone who'd reached a decision. He paused at Kole's desk, expression mixing professional courtesy with personal reservation.
"Good work today, Martinez. Really. Whatever else is going on, you're a hell of a detective."
"Thanks. Same to you."
"We should do it again sometime. Maybe next time you can tell me where you really learned to climb buildings."
Jake left without waiting for a response, but Kole's enhanced perception caught him pulling out his phone as he headed for the exit. A text message, sent with the quick efficiency of someone who'd already composed it mentally.
He's reporting to someone. Probably Charles.
The realization settled in Kole's gut like lead. Jake Peralta's suspicion had evolved from casual curiosity to active investigation. Soon, Charles would be involved, bringing his obsessive attention to detail and emotional investment in protecting Jake from potential threats.
The Nine-Nine's best detectives are now investigating me.
Kole stared at his computer screen, pretending to finish reports while his mind raced through possible countermeasures and damage control strategies. He'd wanted to join this squad, to work alongside people he'd admired through seasons of television episodes. But every success made him more visible, every demonstrated competence raised more questions.
I can't be both good at this job and invisible. Eventually, I'll have to choose.
The choice was coming sooner than he'd hoped.
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