Summary: Steve Rogers is a multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels.
After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N – a first year detective – to the case.
Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart.
Word Count: 1,683
Warnings: Language, acts of thievery, language, angst, maybe some smut, possibly more to come as series continues.
Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for your invaluable help with this. GIF credit
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Pulling on a pair of black latex gloves, you ducked under the strip of yellow caution tape that a rookie in their blues held up for you and Sam. Your partner whistled low as he surveyed the spacious floor plan, and it wasn’t in admiration.
“Someone worked hard at covering their tracks,” Sam said.
You narrowed your eyes as you took in the sight. “Or it’s a distraction.”
“Distraction from what?” Sam scoffed.
“Inside job, maybe,” you mused, your head shaking slightly. You crouched down and grabbed some folders, their insides spilling out. Opening the file, you quickly scanned through the papers.
Sam remained standing, hands on his hips. “You find something useful?”
“Nah,” you answered. “Just some profiles and financials on a non-profit. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.”
“How do you know about out of the ordinary financials?” Sam scoffed.
Standing tall, you shoved the folders into his stomach. “My grandpa was an accountant for Howard Stark back in the day,” you rasped. “Thought it would be good for me to know, to be prepared for my future.”
You pushed past him and rolled your eyes, hating yourself for how you had snapped at Sam. It wasn’t his fault that you were crabby, and as much as you wanted to blame it on Fury, you couldn’t. You were the one that had stormed into your sergeant’s office demanding a case. What was the saying… be careful what you wish for? You had just been about to round the corner when there was a voice that didn’t belong.
“I hope you’re using gloves,” the new arrival said with an air of authority. “Would hate to see another one of The Brooklyn Bandit’s crime scene contaminated.”
Whirling around on your heel, you found Steve Rogers standing there, a dark suit clinging to his frame, an even darker wool trench coat draped over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, an eyebrow arched. You found yourself staring and you gave yourself an internal talking to.
“Who let you up here?” you demanded to know, stalking toward the new arrival.
“I live here, officer,” Steve shot back, his tone unamused.
“It’s detective,” you growled. “Detective Y/L/N.”
“My apologies,” Rogers answered, though you didn’t believe for one second he was sorry about anything.
“In case you failed to notice, this,” you spoke slowly, hooking a thumb over your shoulder, “is an active crime scene, and you,” you took another step toward him and aimed your finger at his chest, “are not allowed to be here.”
Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I live here,” he repeated himself. “Of course I’m allowed to be here.”
“Here, in your home, yes,” you snapped back. “Not here, where the actual crime took place.”
Sam was at your side, jabbing you with his elbow. “Mr. Rogers, thank you for coming in,” he greeted Steve, his hand held out, Steve shaking it a moment later.
“You called him in?” you whispered harshly to your partner. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Steve was smiling wide when you turned your attention back to him. “You were saying?”
Sam stepped in front of you, his way of making sure you didn’t say or do anything that could possibly get you fired. “Let’s go downstairs, shall we?”
With your teeth clenched, you glared at the duo as they disappeared from the room. You closed your eyes and pulled in one ragged breath after another in an effort to calm down. You hated it when people like him, the rich and entitled, talked down to you. God, you wanted to show him, show all of them, that just because they had a fuck ton of money meant absolutely nothing.
Squaring your shoulders, you turned around and headed back to Steve’s desk. There were files spread all over it, papers slipping from the edges, fluttering to the floor, joining the shards of broken glass from the window. Careful not to cut yourself, you dropped down and combed through the debris.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” you murmured to yourself.
“What’s that?” asked Peter Parker, the youngest, and newest, member of the crime scene unit.
You were shaking your head, looking at the floor, then looking at the broken window, which was on the opposite end of the room. Peter watched as you walked over, counting your steps as you went, turned your back to the window, and threw the glass in your hand back the way you had come.
Peter flinched and covered his face. “Hey, watch it.”
“I need to know the exact distance from the desk to the window,” you instructed, picking up the glass you had just thrown on your journey back. “I also need to know where the window was hit, where it would need to be hit in order to achieve the distance, what was used to smash the window, and what would need to be used in order to get glass all the way over here. Got it?”
Nodding, Peter scribbled notes onto the notepad. “Anything else, boss?”
“Get it to me as fast as you can,” you added, ripping the gloves from your hands. “I need to know what the fuck is going on here.”
Sam knocked your feet off your desk, shooting you a glare as he dropped into his seat. “You got any idea how much I had to sweet talk Rogers into not having you pulled you from the case?”
“What are you talking about?” You arched a brow as you propped your feet back on the edge of your desk.
“That little stunt you pulled back at the crime scene,” his eyebrows all but shot off his forehead. “Or did you forget.”
“You’re the one that didn’t tell me that you called him in to interview,” you accused, pointing at your partner.
Sam raked a hand over his face and scoffed. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? You come in here, full of piss and vinegar, chip on your shoulder, ready to prove a point.”
You failed to see why that was a problem. “And?”
“And,” Sam bit out, “it’s going to put a target on your back.”
With your brows pulled together, you sat up. “Is that a threat?”
Sam was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the truth. I’ve seen plenty of detectives, throwing their non-existent weight around, making enemies when you’re supposed to be making friends.”
“Just because he’s filthy rich doesn’t mean I’m gonna butter him up, Sam,” you argued.
“I get that, I do, but -”
“But what, Sam?” You were leaning forward, forearms on your desk, hands clasped together. “You talk about having a chip on my shoulder. What about Rogers? He talked to me, to us, as if we were some small town police officers. What’s the difference between me and him, huh?”
Sam sighed heavily, shaking his head at the fire in your eyes. “Forget it, Y/L/N. Just… forget it.”
You had just popped open a beer when your phone rang. It was your mom, and no matter how tired you were, no matter the shitty day you’d had, you couldn’t ignore her.
“Hey, ma,” you greeted after swiping your thumb across the screen.
She chuckled gently. “Hay is for horses, sweetie,” she joked.
Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you asked, “How are you feeling today?”
Your mother had breast cancer, stage three, aggressive as hell, and kicking her ass. The doctor said she had twelve to eighteen months left to live. That was two years ago. During those two years, your mother had undergone a double mastectomy and five rounds of chemo, each round more hostile than the last, sucking the life from your mother. So, when you asked how she was doing, part of you really didn’t want to know, that part wanted to hear her say, The cancer is in remission, I’m perfect.
“As good as I can be,” she answered, her voice frail and tired. “Chemo was a bitch.”
“Isn’t it always?” you sniffled, chuckling ruefully.
“Tell me about your day, love,” she pleaded softly.
You rolled your eyes at just the thought of telling her about, not only being put on the Brooklyn Bandit case, but telling her that you’d met the infamous Steve Rogers, and he was a tool.
“Sam and I got assigned a high profile case today, the Brooklyn Bandit,” was what you said instead.
“Oh, yes,” she perked up noticeably. “I saw that on the news. That poor Steve Rogers. He does a lot of work with veterans, you know.”
You managed to hide your groan, but barely. “I know, mother.”
“What? Can’t I dream about my daughter falling in love with someone amazing like him?”
“It’s not gonna happen,” you rebutted before taking a long drink.
“I said, like him,” she clarified sternly. “Not him.”
“Guy’s a douche,” you couldn’t help but mutter under your breath.
Her sharp intake of breath was more than enough of a clue that she had heard you. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, watch your tongue.”
“Sorry, mom,” you mumbled, your cheeks going red at the mental image of her standing over you as a child, her finger in your face, scolding you for saying you hated your best friend.
“You’ve always had a temper on you,” she noted, no ridicule or shame in her voice.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Gee, I wonder where I got it from.”
When she laughed in return, it made tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “God, it’s good to hear you laugh, ma.”
“It’s been too long,” she confirmed before giving a yawn.
“Get some rest, okay? I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she hummed.
After disconnecting the call, you swept away the tears on your face and drained the bottle of beer quickly. Gasping for air, you pushed up from the couch, threw the bottle in the recycling, and headed into your room to change into something a little more comfortable; dark and form fitting, easier to keep yourself hidden, away from prying eyes.
Chapter 3: Scrotebag
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