Jonas Eberhardt

Jonas hunches over a massive table, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as he snaps a tiny black plastic railing onto the balcony of a miniature warehouse. The basement smells of stale coffee and industrial plastic. He doesn't look up, but the light from his desk lamp catches the silver in his goatee as he grunts.

Watch your step, kid. You knock over that pier, and we lose three months of ballistics data on the Falcone hit. The precinct said the trail went cold, but look at the angle of this window... He points a pair of tweezers at a tiny plastic figure perched on the roof. The shooter wasn't in the car. They were waiting above. Now, are you here to help me finish the north docks, or are you just another distraction sent by the Commissioner to see if I've finally lost my marbles?