Chapter 8: Meeting Jessica Day - Part 2
POV: Kole Martinez
The case file sat on Kole's desk like an accusation, Jessica Day's contact information both invitation and ethical minefield. Professional obligation demanded follow-up investigation, but every instinct warned him that pursuing this case would lead to complications he wasn't prepared to handle.
She's a victim. You're a detective. This is literally your job.
But even as he rationalized the necessity, Kole knew his motivations were more complex than simple professional duty. Jessica Day represented something unprecedented—a fictional character made real, a glimpse into the larger implications of his impossible situation. Understanding her presence might provide answers about his own transmigration.
Or it might just be an excuse to see her again.
The distinction mattered more than he wanted to admit. Detective Martinez was supposed to be a professional law enforcement officer, not someone who used his position to pursue personal interests. But Kole's feelings about Jessica existed in a gray area between professional and personal that defied easy categorization.
Focus on the crime. Everything else is secondary.
He pulled up the incident report and began cross-referencing Jessica's description with known offenders in the area. His photographic memory processed mugshots with mechanical efficiency, comparing facial features against her fragmentary description while his enhanced pattern recognition searched for connections she might have missed.
Male, early twenties, five-eight to five-ten, callused hands suggesting manual labor.
The criteria eliminated most career criminals, who tended toward different physical profiles and employment patterns. Kole refined his search to focus on recent arrests for similar crimes, particularly those involving victims who matched Jessica's demographic.
Teachers, tourists, women alone in unfamiliar areas.
Three possibilities emerged from the database, each with arrest records that suggested opportunity-based criminality rather than sophisticated planning. Kole studied their photos with clinical attention, letting his memory replay Jessica's description while searching for matches.
There. Second mugshot from the left.
Miguel Santos, age twenty-four, employed by a construction company until three weeks ago. Arrested twice for similar crimes in the past eighteen months, both involving tourists in areas near major hotels. The face matched Jessica's general description, and his employment history explained the callused hands she'd observed.
Time for field work.
Rosa looked up from her computer as Kole approached her desk, her expression shifting from neutral attention to professional interest as she registered his focused energy.
"Need backup?" she asked without preamble.
"Possible suspect identification on the teacher mugging. Want to check his usual haunts, see if we can spot him before issuing a warrant."
Rosa nodded approvingly. "Smart approach. Better to grab him in public than kick down doors without certainty."
And less paperwork if we're wrong about the identification.
They drove through Brooklyn with Rosa's preferred music—something aggressive and Eastern European that seemed designed to intimidate vehicular traffic into compliance. Kole navigated using knowledge that theoretically came from Martinez's experience but felt more like inherited instinct.
First stop: the construction site where Santos was last employed.
The foreman was a thick-set man whose attitude toward police inquiries suggested extensive prior experience with law enforcement visits. He confirmed Santos had been terminated for unreliable attendance and suspected drug use, but claimed no knowledge of current whereabouts.
Lying about something, but probably not about Santos's location.
Kole's lie detection caught undercurrents of general evasion rather than specific deception about their suspect. The foreman was hiding something—payroll irregularities, safety violations, immigration issues—but nothing related to their investigation.
Second stop: Santos's last known address.
The apartment building was standard Brooklyn housing—aging brick, fire escapes that had seen better decades, the particular entropy that came from too many people with too few resources occupying too little space. Santos's former landlord was more cooperative but equally uninformative.
"Miguel moved out two weeks ago," she explained. "Left owing rent, took his stuff in the middle of the night. Haven't seen him since."
Timing matches his employment termination. Probably struggling financially, which explains increased criminal activity.
"Any idea where he might have gone?" Rosa asked.
"Family in Queens, maybe? He mentioned cousins. But he was always vague about personal details."
Third stop: known criminal associates.
The database provided addresses for three individuals who'd been arrested alongside Santos for various minor offenses. Two had moved or were unreachable, but the third proved more promising.
Carlos Mendez operated a small auto repair shop that looked legitimate from the outside but carried undertones that suggested additional revenue streams. He emerged from under a car hood as they approached, wiping greasy hands on coveralls while his eyes cataloged their obvious law enforcement credentials.
"Detectives," he said warily. "What can I do for you?"
"Looking for Miguel Santos," Rosa said without social preamble. "When's the last time you saw him?"
Mendez knows something. His body language shifted the moment Rosa mentioned Santos's name.
"Miguel? Haven't seen him in weeks. Why, what's he done now?"
Lying. Definitely lying.
Kole's lie detection screamed warnings about Mendez's response. The man knew exactly where Santos was, probably had recent contact, and was actively concealing information from police.
"He's wanted for questioning in connection with a robbery," Kole said. "Nothing too serious, but we need to talk to him."
Understated threat. Make it seem routine so Mendez doesn't feel compelled to warn Santos.
"Robbery?" Mendez's surprise seemed genuine. "That doesn't sound like Miguel. He's not violent."
True. Santos's record shows property crimes but no assault charges.
"Sometimes people get desperate," Rosa observed. "Especially when they're unemployed and behind on rent."
Mendez considered this, apparently weighing loyalty against legal exposure.
"Look, I don't know where he's staying," he said finally. "But he's been hanging around the McDonald's on Flatbush sometimes. Working day labor, trying to pick up cash jobs."
Partial truth. Mendez knows more than he's saying, but the McDonald's information is accurate.
"Which McDonald's specifically?" Kole asked.
"The one near the Atlantic Terminal. He meets guys there in the morning, looking for construction work."
Perfect location for cash labor pickup. Also perfect for identifying tourists unfamiliar with the area.
They found Santos exactly where Mendez had suggested, sitting at a corner table with coffee and a newspaper, scanning job listings with the methodical attention of someone whose financial situation had become genuinely desperate. He looked smaller than his mugshot suggested, younger, carrying himself with the defeated posture of someone who'd discovered that life was significantly harder than expected.
This is the guy who mugged Jessica.
The recognition triggered something protective and angry in Kole's chest. Santos might be young and desperate and struggling with circumstances beyond his control, but he'd chosen to solve his problems by victimizing innocent people.
Time to end his crime spree.
"Miguel Santos?" Kole called out as they approached his table.
Santos looked up, immediately recognizing their law enforcement credentials and calculating his chances of successful flight. The McDonald's was crowded, escape routes limited, and both detectives were positioned to cut off his most obvious exit strategies.
Smart enough to recognize when he's caught.
"Yeah, that's me," Santos said resignedly. "What do you want?"
"We want to talk about Tuesday afternoon near the convention center," Rosa said, settling into the seat across from him. "Specifically about a woman you approached for directions."
His face. Complete recognition and guilt.
Santos's expression shifted through surprise, resignation, and something that might have been relief. The weight of carrying guilty knowledge was apparently heavier than he'd expected.
"I didn't hurt her," he said quickly. "I just took her purse. I didn't hurt anyone."
Confession. That was easier than expected.
"Why don't we continue this conversation somewhere more private," Kole suggested, already pulling out handcuffs.
The arrest proceeded without drama—Santos was too tired and too guilty to resist, and his cooperation suggested he understood that honesty might earn him some consideration during sentencing. By evening, he was processed and booked, Jessica's purse was recovered from his cousin's apartment, and the case was officially closed.
Professional obligation requires notification of victim.
Kole stared at Jessica's contact information, knowing he should make the call but hesitating for reasons that had nothing to do with procedure. Calling her about the arrest was legitimate police work. But everything else—his impossible knowledge of her background, his recognition of her from fictional sources, his growing interest in seeing her again—existed in ethical gray areas that made professional contact feel like personal exploitation.
She deserves to know her attacker was caught. Make the call.
Her phone number had a Los Angeles area code, reminding him that Jessica Day existed in his current reality but belonged to a different coast, a different life, a different universe of problems and relationships.
Probably has a boyfriend. Probably has complicated roommate dynamics and teaching responsibilities and a whole life that doesn't include mysterious detectives from Brooklyn.
But he dialed anyway, professional duty overriding personal uncertainty.
"Hello?" Jessica's voice carried slight confusion, suggesting she didn't recognize the number.
"Ms. Day, this is Detective Martinez from the Nine-Nine. I wanted to update you on your case."
"Oh! Detective Martinez, hi. Please tell me you have good news."
I have great news. I also have feelings about you that I can't explain or act on.
"We caught the guy who mugged you. Miguel Santos, twenty-four years old, unemployed construction worker. He confessed to the crime and we recovered your purse."
"Really? That's amazing! How did you find him so fast?"
Through supernatural abilities and investigative techniques that would sound completely insane if I explained them honestly.
"Good police work and a little luck," Kole said instead. "He was working day labor near where he committed the crime, made him easier to locate."
"Will I need to testify or anything? I've never been through this process before."
"Probably not. His confession and the recovered evidence should be sufficient for conviction. The DA's office will contact you if they need additional testimony."
"That's... wow. I honestly didn't expect you to catch him. Thank you so much."
Jessica's gratitude carried genuine warmth that made Kole's chest tighten with emotions he couldn't properly identify. Relief that justice had been served, satisfaction at completing a successful investigation, and something deeper that felt dangerously close to personal attachment.
Say goodbye. Hang up. This is where professional contact ends.
But instead of ending the call, Kole found himself continuing the conversation.
"How are you feeling? Sometimes victims experience delayed reactions to crimes, even when they seem minor."
"I'm okay, I think. A little shaken still, but mostly just relieved that it's over. And grateful that there are people like you who actually care about doing their jobs right."
People like me. If you only knew what kind of person I actually am.
"It's what we're here for."
"Is it though? I mean, not to sound cynical, but I've heard stories about police who don't really care about small crimes like muggings. You made me feel like my case actually mattered."
Your case matters because you matter. You matter more than you realize and for reasons I can't explain.
"Every victim matters," Kole said, meaning it completely.
"I wish more people thought that way."
There was something wistful in Jessica's voice, a quality that suggested her optimism about human nature had been tested by experience and found slightly wanting. Teaching kindergarten probably provided daily evidence that people were capable of both wonderful and terrible things.
She's been disappointed before. By people who should have protected her, people who should have cared.
"Can I ask you something, Ms. Day?"
"Jessica. And yes, go ahead."
"You mentioned feeling out of place in New York. Is that just because you're visiting, or something more?"
Why are you asking this? This isn't professional anymore.
Jessica was quiet for a moment, considering her response with the care of someone who'd learned to be cautious about revealing vulnerability to strangers.
"Sometimes I feel out of place everywhere," she said finally. "Like I'm trying to fit into a world that was designed for different kinds of people. Does that make sense?"
Perfect sense. I'm living in someone else's body in someone else's reality, pretending to be someone I'm not.
"It makes complete sense."
"You sound like you speak from experience."
More than you know.
"I'm new to Brooklyn myself. Still figuring out where I fit."
"Maybe we could figure it out together sometime," Jessica said, then immediately seemed to realize how that sounded. "I mean, as friends. I don't know many people in New York, and you seem like someone worth knowing."
She's asking to spend time together. Outside of professional context.
The invitation hung between them like electricity, full of possibility and danger in equal measure. Kole knew he should decline politely, maintain professional boundaries, avoid the complications that would inevitably arise from pursuing personal relationships based on impossible knowledge and borrowed identity.
Say no. Protect her from getting involved with someone who doesn't really exist.
"I'd like that," he heard himself saying. "Are you free for coffee sometime before you head back to LA?"
"Friday evening? I fly out Saturday morning, so it would have to be somewhere near my hotel."
"I know a place. Quiet, good coffee, easy to find."
This is a mistake. A huge, complicated, inevitable mistake.
"Perfect. Text me the address?"
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call, but Kole barely heard the conversation. His attention was focused on the magnitude of what he'd just committed to—a personal meeting with a fictional character who was rapidly becoming a real person in his mind.
Jessica Day. Real, vulnerable, interested in spending time with Detective Martinez.
Who is Detective Martinez? Not Kole, the transmigrated nobody from Chicago. Martinez the competent detective with mysterious abilities and a fabricated background.
She likes someone who doesn't actually exist.
The thought should have been devastating, but instead it felt like challenge. Maybe Detective Martinez didn't exist yet, but he could. Kole could become him, earn the identity through actions rather than inheriting it through impossible circumstances.
Time to figure out who I want to be.
Friday evening, a coffee shop in Brooklyn. Jessica Day would sit across from someone she thought was Detective Martinez, and Kole would try to deserve the trust she was offering.
This is either the beginning of something wonderful or the beginning of something catastrophic.
Either way, it's beginning.
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