"Detective Thompson, Sir! We can't do this! We need to give announcement fi...DETECTIVE!?"
The young detective Summerfield struggled to keep up with the old man's stride. In his forties, Michael Thompson was still as strong as boys in their twenties. Heck, he seemed more vigorous than his younger peers in the force. The only complain toward him might be the attire mimicking those hard-boiled private eyes shown in 90's black-and-white TV shows. His rough personality as well. "It was for intimidation. Works better that way," that was his only answer regarding his style. Sure, it intimidated criminals. But the effect was the same for civilians.
Said detective was now shoving through Liberate Recover Bank's hallway despite protests from the workers around him. Summerfield was left further and further behind as he kept on bowing down with shame, apologizing on his superior's rude antics. Out of a whim he had decided to pay a visit to the Bank in the midst of their investigation. Before Summerfield could say anything, there they were, half-running through the Bank office's hallway as if they were the owner.
Detective Thompson stopped in front of the head office's door, knocking it with heavy thumps three times. He didn't wait for answer. A woman, one of the employees, tried to stop him but failed. He was already inside the office. Uninvited. Unwelcomed. With a flick of his hand he showed the badge of the Force.
"Michael Thompson, NYPD. Miss Lacey Dune, I presume?"
The smoke from his cigar started to puff up, filling the room with choking smell.