..:ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND CRIME:..

The Moura Encantada lit the rough streets that neared the Coney Island area of Brooklyn like a comet gracing the midnight sky. Nightly it was a hub of activity, perhaps the only location in this particular neighborhood where socialites could humor for an evening -- and how could they resist? Fine dining, glamorous jazz, and dancing, alongside a not-so-healthy dose of gossip, were always welcomed in the walls of the Moura Encantada. Though in the midst of this seemingly luxurious destination that resided in a questionable part of town, suspicious eyes watched it from the shadows. In one of many alleyways that surrounded the club, with the buildings close to it almost resembling a blockade, a duo of shady hired hands observed the activity from a distance.

"How long have we been stuck here?" one of them asked, with his tone nearing a whine. "Come on, maybe if we got a little closer maybe we could actually tell these people apart."

"Enough, Berry." The other responded with little delay. "We're doing exactly what the boss requested of us -- and besides, one step into that club we'd be immeditately viewed as suspicious."

The shorter of the two huffed at his partner's adamance as he sunk further into his seat with his arms crossed. "You'd look suspicious even if you were on the right side of the law, pal. You'd fit right at home in some late-night monster flick."

It was true: Bowman was a curious-looking man. Intimidatingly tall, with his figure composed of the kind of lankiness where it seemed he had no muscle or even meat on his bones. His quiet, unassuming nature only added to the almost otherworldly energy that embodied him. Berry, on the other hand, was punishingly short, and, in his line of business, made him a comedic sight when compared to his partner. Berry strongly resembled a no-good-kid next to Bowman's cryptkeeper appearance, with the former having a curly mop of hair that poured out of his fedora. Together, the two were an incredibly odd duo, which was perhaps why they hid in the shadows.

"And that attitude can get you into serious trouble in this line of work," Bowman coolly fired back. As he was preparing to add more to that comment, he suddenly paused and then squinted to focus his vision on something in the distance.

Berry noticed the change in his partner's demeanor as the colorful lights from the club flashed on Bowman's pale face. His brown eyes grew big in excitement as he promptly asked, "What, did you see something?"

One figure stood out from the rest -- though it was hard to discern details from such a distance, there was a young man dressed in a casual garb, who withdrew himself from the small gathering of people outside the Moura Encantada. He neared the left side of the building, paused to give the area a once-over, then was engulfed in the shadows as he entered the back entrance of the club.

Bowman's thoughtful expression darkened as he pondered what he had just witnessed. The man put one of his gloved hands on the wheel of the car, and the other on the gear stick. As he set the vehicle to drive, he answered his accomplice's eager question lowly, "Enough to confirm a hunch."

Across the North Atlantic Ocean, in a small French city known as Lyon, an important conversation was being discussed over a casual luncheon. Raulf Michaud, the head of the international crime research institution Interpol, was currently stationed in the headquarters' "green room" -- a special area for the higher-ups of the organization to gather and fellowship over a meal. Sitting beside him was Iefan Gwynn, the Chief of Medicine, with the two having a spirited debate over a case that was recently resolved. Michaud was a intelligent and well-respected man, though headstrong and often motivated by emotions -- a stark contrast to Gwynn's more analytical approach to problem-solving. Regardless, the two got along well enough, though the more Gwynn had to listen to Michaud's well-intentioned blathering, the more he wondered if the man's head was on straight.

As Gwynn finished another bite of his side salad, he looked at the head of the organization with a hint of torpidity in his light green eyes. Michaud continued to read out loud an article from the paper he was holding: "The epicenter of the yakuza-owned drug trafficking ring was found in an unassuming home in Yuki, a small town north of Tokyo," said the older of the two men as he spoke with great enthusiasm. "It goes on to state that both of the mayors of Tokyo and Yuki credit the head Inspector of the case for the discovery of this bust, with the latter stating he had no idea that this was happening in his village."

Gwynn grumbled lightly in response, then looked at the article himself. "I don't know, Raulf," he stated as he flopped the papers onto the table, "I'm not denying that the inspector's a talented man, but there's something about this case that leads me to believe that he happened to be at the right place at the right time, and this wasn't some kind of brilliant deduction on his part."

The ICPO leader thought about his friend's words, and then had to remind himself that it was true that this particular Inspector had never been involved with this big of a case before. He grabbed the papers again and skimmed through its text. "Did you read his thoughts on the case?" He asked as he eyed Gwynn, "He comes off as a real bloodhound, someone who's completely devoted to the badge."

As the chief physician finished the remainder of his meal, he answered, "I did," then, as he wiped his mouth, he continued, "He and his relatively small team stumbled upon an international case by accident -- he's a big city cop, Raulf. This one win doesn't mean he has the level of dedication and skill that Interpol expects from its officers."

"Possibly, but I have felt that the organized crime district has needed new blood for years now," Michaud gently argued back, and then tapped his index finger on the page where the article was located with great gusto. "I think this is the kind of man that can help us find a new lead on some of the NYC cases our officers have been stuck on for ages."

One of Gwynn's eyebrows rose curiously after hearing the man's comment, though his reluctance continued to linger. "Really?" he asked, with his interest now piqued in Michaud's reasoning, "Is there one in particular you've been thinking about?"

Michaud looked around the dining area, then scooted his chair closer to his associate. Then, in a quieter tone, he answered, "Yes, and I believe it's one you're even familiar with..."