Or. I pick or.

Chapter One:

Thirty-one-year-old NYPD Detective Dallas Kent was known primarily for three things: his love of beautiful women, his violent tendencies, and his willingness to accept bribes.

When he'd first entered the world, on a cold winter's night in 1899 in London's notorious East End, there had been no sign that he'd end up either in New York City nor as a member of the police force there; his early life had been defined by violence, drink, and poverty, and Dallas had done his time as a pick-pocket and a back-alley mugger until the family had abandoned London for Liverpool and a ship bound for the New World in 1913.

It was in New York that he'd exchanged his criminal life for a law-protecting one with the police, and it was where he'd picked his name; he had been christened Edward Arthur Kensington but that, he felt at seventeen, was a name for a pathetic and poverty-stricken boy in an East End alley, not a NYPD Officer - and so Edward Arthur became Dallas, like the city in Texas, and Kensington became Kent, shorter and snappier.

He wasn't the smartest guy in the NYPD, not by a long shot, nor particularly well-liked among his colleagues — it was widely known that Kent would keep quiet about whatever you were doing, from taking bribes to forcing confessions, unless he could gain something from speaking up — but he rose through the ranks anyway, largely thanks to a friendship with Deputy Commissioner Roger Crowell which many believed had done more for his career than any talents he might have possessed, and by the age of twenty-seven, he was a Detective.

He was well-known, by then, among New York's underbelly as someone who was as likely to accept a bribe as beat the hell out of you depending on his mood and the state of his wallet. Women had their own reasons to fear being picked up by him; the word 'no' never seemed to carry much weight with him.

Still, for all his numerous faults, Dallas Kent was a handsome fella, and one who knew how to use those looks to his advantage; he wasn't tall compared to most men but he was broad shouldered and muscular, his face was well-shaped and dominated by a long, straight nose and a pair of large, nut-brown eyes which observed the world with a hint of melancholy from under a pair of dark, elegant eyebrows; all of which gave him a noble and sympathetic air that easily drew in those who did not know his reputation.

But when he was pulled out of Brooklyn's Erie Basin on a grey, wet morning in March 1930 — four months after resigning from the NYPD and then vanishing entirely — it was at first impossible to identify him; his handsome face had been beaten beyond recognition before he'd been dumped in the water.

He was washed in with the tide.

Two dockworkers found the body caught against a row of pilings shortly after seven — one of them thought it was a bundle of rags; the other took a closer look and went pale around the mouth.

By eight o'clock there were patrolmen on the pier, the medical examiner smoking as he noted his first observations in a notebook, and a small crowd of curious onlookers.

Dallas Kent's colleague, Detective Troy Barrett, arrived at the scene at just past 8.35. He had been in the middle of shaving when the telephone rang, and the dark shadow clinging to his jawline suggested that he hadn't bothered to finish the chore.

He was greeted by the patrol sergeant at the foot of the pier:

"'Morning, Barrett."

Troy grunted in answer. The sergeant jerked a thumb toward the water.

"Two dockworkers pulled him out around seven. Doc's already taking a look."

"Statements from the dockworkers?" Troy asked.

"Got two officers on it already," confirmed the sergeant. Troy nodded and continued his way along the pier. The dead man lay beneath a canvas sheet. The outline beneath suggested a man of medium height and solid build, though little else could be discerned at a distance.

Dr Cooper did not look up from his notebook when Troy approached, though when he spoke, his words were clearly meant for Troy:

“He's been dead about a week, I believe. The water’s cold enough to keep him preserved.”

“Lucky us,” commented Troy. “Who is he?”

Cooper shrugged and lighted a cigarette.

“Not a clue,” he said, “someone's gone to a lot of trouble making identification impossible." The doctor lifted his cigarette to his mouth and made a gesture at the body. "Bat or crowbar, something along those lines.”

“Hm,” said Troy, crouching beside the body, and lifted the sheet so he could see the injuries for himself.

Even after a decade investigating murders, accidents, and suicides, the sight gave him pause; the man's face had been obliterated. Whatever features, handsome or ugly, he had once possessed, were gone — nothing left but a bloody ruin. The sight enough to have bile rise in the back of Troy's throat. He cleared it desperately and asked, “so he was beaten to death?”

“Possibly,” replied Cooper, "but I don't think so.

Troy frowned. "No?"

"Well," Cooper said, draging the word out a bit, "I can't be sure before I’ve finished the postmortem, but I believe he drowned."

Troy looked at the doctor with disbelief.

“You're tellin' me he was alive when he was dumped? Despite the injuries?”

“That's what it looks like.”

“Poor devil,” mumbled Troy and Cooper nodded his agreement. Troy turned his gaze back to the body.

The dead man had dark hair, was broad across the shoulders, and heavily built through the chest. Not particularly tall. His clothes, though blood-stained and soaked through with water, was of obviously excellent quality. Expensive. Like the leather shoes on his feet.

The man's legs were bent unnaturally at the knees, as though his kneecaps had been broken with some sort of instrument — perhaps whatever had been used on his face?

There was something familiar about him, Troy thought. The dark hair — broad shoulders — medium height — expensive clothes — the face that was no longer a face —

Troy swore involuntarily. Cooper stared at him, surprised.

“What is it?” he asked.

Troy didn't answer.

"Barrett—"

Troy interrupted: “Does he have a scar on his shoulder?"

Cooper made an irritated sound. "I won't know until the postmortem."

Troy made no answer as he started to unbutton the dead man's shirt — button after button slipped free under his hands — finally the shirt fell open.

Troy pulled the undershirt aside, revealing — yes, exactly as he thought: just below the collarbone, was an old scar beside a slight deformity, a dent where the bone had been broken and grown back slightly out of alignment.

"Fuck," Troy swore, with feeling.

“I take it, you know him,” said Cooper dryly.

“Unfortunately,” confirmed Troy grimly, looked up, met Cooper’s coolly curious gaze, and answered the unspoken question found therein:

“We’ve found Dallas Kent.”