by Jason Starr
“Just one more thing,” Harvey said. “You said nothing else is missing, but can you think of anything else these guys might’ve wanted? Besides the family jewels?”
“What do you mean?” Wayne asked.
“Something else valuable,” Harvey said. “Some other piece of art maybe? Something they were really after.”
“Do you have any idea how much Le Picador is worth?” Wayne said.
“Let’s just say I’m confident it’s out of my price range,” Harvey said.
“It’s worth tens of millions of dollars, or more,” Wayne said. “I think it’s more than a big enough score for art thieves, don’t you?”
“Touché,” Harvey said. “But tying up the guy at the gate? Taking apart your office? These don’t exactly look like the moves of professional art gangs. Too much fuss, especially when their target was hanging in plain sight.”
“Can I ask you a question now?” Wayne asked.
“Shoot,” Harvey said. Then he pointed to Alfred, “I mean him, not you, Sniper.”
“Have you been drinking tonight?” Wayne asked Harvey.
“’Scuse me?” Harvey asked, pulling back as if offended.
“Because I think Captain Essen might want to know that one of her detectives showed up here after a night out on the town, tossing around wild, bizarre theories when he should’ve been trying to find my stolen property.”
“What makes you think I’m drunk?” Harvey asked.
“I can smell the alcohol from across the table,” Wayne said.
Harvey glared. “How do you know it’s not my mouthwash?”
Amanda stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth,” she said. “We’ll keep you updated on the progress of the investigation.” At that she spun and marched out of the room ahead of Harvey, moving at a clip.
Leaving Wayne Manor, she was looking straight ahead, in a rush to get to the car. The sky was starting to lighten to the east, but it was still pretty much dark.
Harvey had the car keys out.
“I’m driving,” she announced, and snatched it away. A headache was starting to make itself known, and Harvey didn’t protest.
“Well, that went pretty well, huh?” he said as they drove along the driveway, the headlights illuminating the open gate ahead. Amanda, at the wheel, still wouldn’t look in his direction. Harvey didn’t get what was wrong with her, why she always had to be so freakin’ moody.
“Women,” he muttered.
THREE
It wasn’t noon yet, but Alfred had already arranged for a crew of repairmen to fix the walls in Thomas’s study. Most of the other repair work had already been done, and all the blood on the floor had been cleaned up. There was practically no evidence that there had been a shootout in the house, and a man had been killed less than twelve hours ago.
“Looking good,” Thomas said to Alfred.
“The walls should be repaired by the end of the day,” he replied. “I’m sorry this happened, sir.”
“Sorry?” Thomas sounded confused. “It’s not your fault. Like Detective Bullock said—you’re a hero.”
“Not quite,” Alfred protested. “I’m afraid a hero would’ve made it downstairs much earlier. Lucky is what I was, but I assure you, I won’t let it happen again.”
“It was the middle of the night, and you had just taken a transcontinental flight. If I wasn’t working such crazy hours, I wouldn’t have heard them either.”
Alfred took a few moments to absorb this.
Thomas Wayne didn’t talk much about his work, and Alfred was always careful not to overstep his boundaries, but he was sharp—especially when it came to security. He knew Thomas had been having issues with work, and he could tell the incident bothered his employer more than he was revealing. The robbery very well might have been a cover, and there may have been another reason behind the break-in.
What that reason could be, however, Alfred could not fathom—and that didn’t sit well with him.
“Well, let’s hope the police get the painting back soon,” he said.
“I’m not keeping my hopes up,” Thomas confessed. “The police are overloaded these days, given the turf war between Don Maroni and Don Falcone’s crews. The body count is high, and increasing by the day. How hard do you think they’ll look for a missing painting? They’ll take a half-hearted look around Gotham, question the usual suspects, but if the trail isn’t obvious, it’ll turn into a cold case by this time tomorrow.”
“I can take a gander around town, if you like,” Alfred said. “I do have a bit of Scotland Yard detective work on my resume, after all.”
“I appreciate that,” Thomas said, “but you have your own responsibilities here, managing the household, seeing to our schedules and, as last night exemplified—protecting us. But I’ll need your help in finding out how the security system was compromised last night, and what exactly happened at the gate with Nigel. I know you and he are good friends. How’s he doing?”
“In quite bad shape, I’m afraid,” Alfred said. “His face may require reconstructive surgery, and one of his knees was shattered, perhaps irreparably. I’m going to pop over and visit him later on.”
“Perhaps you can put together a care package from all of us,” Thomas said.
“That’s quite nice of you, sir.”
“I know the police will talk to him, but perhaps when you visit him you can find out if he knew any of the intruders, or saw anything of importance.”
“I will as soon as he’s up to it,” Alfred said, “though I assume they were wearing the same masks they were wearing last night. Do you mean if he recognized their voices?”
“Or if he actually knew them,” Thomas said.
Alfred frowned. “You’re not implying that you think he’s lying about what happened, are you?”
“I’m saying we have to look into everything,” Thomas said, not backing down.
“So first that detective, Bullock, implied that I might have leaked the alarm codes to the intruders,” Alfred said flatly, “and now you’re accusing my best mate of letting them on to the grounds.” He gave his employer an expressionless stare.
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” Thomas said, though his voice wasn’t conciliatory. “The fact remains, however, that three dangerous men—criminals and killers—pretty much waltzed in here last night, and that can’t happen again.”
“I’ve known Nigel for thirty-five years,” Alfred said. “He’d never betray you. Besides, his face looked like beef tartar when they took him away.”
“Some people will do anything for money,” Thomas said.
“Nigel isn’t ‘some people,’” Alfred said.
“Security breaches can’t happen at Wayne Manor,” Thomas said, his voice rising. “Not ever again, and that’s final.”
The workers looked over. Wayne glared at them until they resumed working.
“Of course, sir,” Alfred said. “I understand the situation entirely.”
“Thank you,” Thomas responded, and he walked away.
* * *
Thomas regretted losing control, and taking his frustrations out on Alfred, but he was under so much stress lately he had to give himself a pass. Besides, he and Alfred were old friends, so they were allowed to vent once in a while. In fact, their ability to get angry at each other without any lasting fallout was what made their friendship stronger.
He went to the kitchen to get a bite to eat. He hadn’t slept much—an hour at most—and upon awakening he’d forgotten to eat. He felt light-headed, which probably contributed to his edginess. A roast-beef-on-rye sandwich with mustard would hit the spot, so he fixed himself one.
Unlike other billionaires Thomas knew, who lived with a full staff—cooks, maids, drivers, and people to provide practically every other service imaginable—Thomas and Martha had chosen a different lifestyle for their son, Bruce. Aside from Alfred, the Waynes only had a few full-time employees who were involved in their daily, personal live
s. A maid came several days a week, a landscaper and his staff came to work on Wayne Manor’s lavish gardens, and Alfred did most of the cooking.
They didn’t go overboard on buying Bruce things either. He had a modest allowance, and aside from living in Wayne Manor, spending vacations at the Wayne’s family chalet in Switzerland, and visiting other exotic locales around the globe, Bruce had experienced a fairly normal, low-key upbringing.
As he ate, something still gnawed at Thomas—fueling his anxiety. It had to do with the walls in his study. The idea that the thieves had been searching for a security system seemed farfetched, indeed, but the thieves certainly seemed to have been searching for something else. Unless their goal was a hidden cache of wealth, the most obvious alternative also was the most disturbing.
Could they have been searching for Thomas’s hidden office? Yet how could they even know of its existence?
If that was true, the violation of his home struck deeper than he could have imagined. Barring further information, however, it was a waste of his time trying to figure it out. He could come up with endless theories, but it was up to the GCPD to solve the mystery, not him.
Meanwhile, the sandwich had rejuvenated him. After he loaded the dishwasher, he looked out through the kitchen window to the garden, and saw Bruce out there on the veranda, writing in a notebook. Bruce didn’t have many friends from school, and spent much of his time with adults… or alone. Thomas and Martha had hoped that when Bruce started at Anders Preparatory Academy he would begin to socialize more, but so far that hadn’t happened.
In fact, he seemed to spend even more time alone—mainly reading, studying, playing video games, and watching movies. His best friend was probably Alfred, whom Thomas had hired when Bruce was quite young. The boy had always liked Alfred, and Thomas couldn’t think of a more positive role model for his son.
Nevertheless, while Alfred took Bruce to the movies and other events, Bruce still shied away from children in his own peer group. He never seemed upset or depressed, though. He was different from other kids—but in a good way. He didn’t need attention from others in order to be happy, and he didn’t desire material things. He was smart, curious, determined, and had an inner confidence that was astounding for a boy his age.
Thomas went out to the garden and approached his son. It was a sunny but cold fall day. Leaves were whipping up, but Bruce was seated on the veranda overlooking the garden, immersed in his reading.
“Gripping stuff, huh?”
Bruce hadn’t heard his father approaching, but didn’t seem startled as he glanced up from the classically bound hardback.
“Yes, Beowulf,” he said.
“Ah, one of my all-time-favorites,” Thomas said, “but I haven’t read Beowulf since college. Are you enjoying it?”
“Quite a bit,” Bruce said. “Particularly I’m enjoying reading about Grendel. Monsters fascinate me.”
“Really?” Thomas smiled, always impressed by Bruce’s precociousness, and his way with words. “Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe because it’s so foreign from my own experience,” Bruce said. “Sane people are easy to understand, but monsters are a true mystery. You can think you know a monster, but there’s always a part of the monster that’s elusive, that you’ll never know or fully understand.”
“Well, speaking of monsters,” Thomas said, “how are you after the invasion by the werewolf, zombie, and gorilla last night?”
“I’m okay.” Bruce was confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, there was a shooting in the house last night,” Thomas said. “I’m sure it was traumatic for your mother, and I just want to make sure you’re not having a hard time with it, as well.”
“Oh, I understand now,” Bruce said. “You’re worried about my psychological state.” He smiled. “I’m fine, but I appreciate your concern, Dad. Thank you for asking.”
Thomas didn’t want to let it go. “What about when you heard the gunshots, or saw the dead body?” he pressed. “Are you sure you weren’t at all frightened?”
“Nothing like that frightens me,” Bruce said in a youthful, matter-of-fact voice. To all appearances he was sincere, but…
“Now I know that’s not true,” Thomas said. “You have a strong constitution, but you’re not made of armor. You used to be afraid of the dark when you were younger, and you’ve had plenty of nightmares over the years. I remember we were at the Prado in Madrid, and there was a Rembrandt self-portrait that for some reason terrified you. You had a visceral reaction, and started crying. After that, you couldn’t even look at a poster or photograph of the painting, without getting upset.”
“The painting must have reminded me of something,” Bruce said. “A suppressed trauma perhaps, but that was the past. I think I was just five or six. I’m older now—nothing frightens me anymore. But things do make me angry.”
“Really?” Thomas was intrigued. “What sort of things?”
“When people get away with things—you could call it injustice, I suppose,” Bruce said. “It angers me that people can get away with crimes, like beating poor Nigel, without being punished. My humanities teacher told our class that seventy percent of all crimes go unpunished nowadays, and the number may be higher, since many crimes go unreported. In Gotham those numbers are probably even worse. I don’t think this is fair at all.” He paused, then added, “Criminals deserve to be punished.”
“Well, many good people in Gotham, including myself, agree with you,” Thomas said. “The trouble is that there are a lot of bad people in the world, too, and the police sometimes get overwhelmed. They can’t investigate cases as thoroughly as they’d like to. So don’t get your hopes up too much with our break-in.
“What makes the situation more complicated is a lot of crime isn’t on the surface,” he added. “It’s not just shootings and stolen paintings. It’s what’s going on under the surface that’s the real problem—the deep-seated corruption on every level that pervades our society.”
“Corruption?” Bruce’s interest had been piqued. “What sort of corruption?”
“Well, like—” Thomas cut himself off, realizing he was talking too much about subjects he didn’t want to discuss with his son. He never involved Bruce—or even Martha—in the details of Wayne Enterprises and his other business ventures, and the baggage that came with them. There were things he and his company had done, things that continued to this day, that made him ashamed, and could put his family in danger.
In many ways, Thomas retained some of his father’s old world values, and believed in keeping business and family separate.
“Actually that’s a conversation for another day,” Thomas said. “But for now it’s important that you focus on other things—like Beowulf. Do you have a test coming up?”
“No, I have to write a paper,” Bruce said. “It’s due Monday, but I don’t know what to write about.”
Pleased that his distraction strategy had worked, Thomas said, “It seems like you have a lot to say about monsters. All you have to do is put it into words.”
“I suppose so,” Bruce said. “I don’t know. I like reading literature for personal enjoyment, but I don’t like having to explain how I feel about books. I prefer science and mathematics. Literature’s all based on opinion. Any two people can read the same book and have vastly different views of it. But science and math are precise—there’s only one answer, and if you search hard enough, you can always find it.”
Thomas smiled, once again impressed by his son’s beyond-his-years wisdom. Then he saw Martha approaching from the house. She was wearing a red elegant dress, heels, and her dirty blond hair was pinned back. He knew why she had gotten dressed up—she was hosting a luncheon today downtown, to help raise money for the GMHCC—the Gotham Mental Health Crisis Center—a group that had received many generous donations from Wayne Enterprises.
“There you are,” Martha said to Thomas. “I was looking all over for you.”
God knew, Thomas h
ad made some mistakes in his life, yet he’d made some good decisions along the way as well—and the best had been marrying this amazing woman. They’d met in their early twenties—set up by mutual friends. Martha didn’t come from money, but Thomas knew from the get-go that she wasn’t a gold digger. Her honesty, integrity, and overall down-to-earthiness had been some of her most enchanting qualities. Oh, and it didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous. She became a great mother to Bruce and had raised him without the help of a full-time nanny. They had talked about having more children, but Martha felt she wanted to focus on raising Bruce and her charity work in Gotham. He respected her decision.
She came over, kissed Thomas.
“I can’t find the keys to the Bentley,” she said. “Do you have them?”
“Yes, they’re inside,” Thomas said.
“And how are you this morning, Bruce?” Martha asked, smiling.
“Fine,” Bruce said. “Just doing some schoolwork.”
“Don’t forget, you have your tennis lesson this afternoon—Alfred will take you.”
“About tennis,” Bruce said. “I enjoy the sport, but can I possibly take boxing lessons instead? There’s a gym downtown, and it has a great reputation. Many professional boxers have trained there.”
“Absolutely not,” Martha said. “Boxing is a brutal sport. Boxers get hurt, wind up with awful head injuries that affect them for the rest of their lives.”
“I don’t mind the pain,” Bruce said.
Thomas smiled, but Martha remained serious.
“No, en-oh,” Martha said to Bruce. “You’re not a fighter, so just get that out of your head.”
“Dad, what do you think?” Bruce asked.
