by Jason Starr
While Thomas thought that a boxing class would be good for Bruce—toughen him up—he knew it was important for parents to put up a unified front, and he didn’t want to be disrespectful to Martha.
“I think you just got your answer from your mother,” he said.
Bruce seemed disappointed, but he was a smart kid—he knew that Thomas wouldn’t bend, and it would be a waste of time to try to manipulate him. He had taken it as far as it was going to go.
“I understand, Mom,” he said. Then he said to his father, “There’s a big fight on TV tonight. Can we watch it together?”
“Right, the Williams-Sanchez bout,” Thomas said. “I forgot that’s tonight. I’d love to.” Then he noticed Martha’s disapproving expression, but tried to avoid it.
“Great,” Bruce said, and he returned to reading his book.
As Thomas and Martha walked side by side through the garden back toward Wayne Manor, Martha spoke.
“Sometimes I worry about Bruce,” she said.
“It’s just a fight on the television,” he replied. “The whole country will be watching it.”
“No, it’s not that,” Martha said. “I just feel like he’s looking for trouble.” A frown wrinkled her perfect features.
“I think it’s age appropriate,” Thomas said. “He’s not looking for trouble, per se. He’s just looking for a little adventure.”
“Well, I think there’s a way to achieve adventurousness without getting your head bashed in,” she persisted. “If he wants adventure, he can go hiking, or take a trip to Africa, or read spy thrillers. People who look for fights wind up getting killed.”
“But there are situations when he might need to defend himself,” Thomas said. “Last night for example. Those men were armed and dangerous. What if they’d come upstairs?”
“He would’ve tried to fight them, and they would’ve shot him,” Martha said. “My point exactly.”
Judging from her tone, Thomas knew there would be no way to win this argument. When she got stuck on an opinion she rarely budged.
“Well, we won’t have to worry about head injuries on the tennis court,” Thomas said, hoping to put the issue to rest. They entered the house through the back entrance. Construction noise came from Thomas’s study—an electric saw, a drill.
“Any word from the police?” Martha asked.
“No, and I doubt we’ll hear much,” Thomas said.
“Really, why’s that?” She looked puzzled. “Detective Bullock said there have been other robberies lately, didn’t he? He seemed confident he’d crack the case, even if he’d had a few too many last night.”
“That didn’t exactly inspire confidence,” Thomas said. “I wouldn’t count on Detective Bullock, if I were you.”
“He’s a man’s man,” Martha argued, “but it seemed to me as if he was sincere. One of the good guys.”
“A good guy.” Thomas let that linger as they headed along the wide, lavish hallway. Then he said, “I agree, Bullock seems like a good guy, but sometimes I wonder if there are any truly good guys left in law enforcement. The whole system is so corrupt, from the top down, that it’s impossible to have confidence in anyone anymore.” It was his turn to frown. “Something has to be done about it. Somebody has to come to this town, and clean it all up—but I don’t know who that person is, or whether cleaning up GCPD is even possible.”
They entered the drawing room.
“Well, I still have faith, and I certainly hope the police find the painting soon,” Martha said. “It’s not just about the money. I mean that’s important, of course, but the Picasso is a masterpiece, and it needs to have an owner who appreciates its value. Great art is like a beloved pet—it deserves a great home with a kind, loving owner.”
Thomas opened the drawer of the antique oak armoire, took out a set of car keys and handed them to Martha.
“I swear I looked in there five minutes ago, and didn’t see them,” she said. “God, I feel so scatterbrained today.”
“That’s understandable,” Thomas said. “We had a wonderful relaxing time in Switzerland, and then we come back to a difficult situation. Still, I guess that’s just par for the course in our beloved city, right?”
“Sad,” Martha agreed, “but probably true.” They left the drawing room. A repairman—an older man with a potbelly, carrying a can of paint—passed by in the hallway on his way to Thomas’s study.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wayne,” the man said in a friendly, respectful way. They smiled, acknowledging him. When he was out of earshot, though, Martha spoke.
“I think it could’ve been an inside job,” she said, her voice low. “I mean, think about it, people come in and out of Wayne Manor all the time—workers, acquaintances, delivery people. Many seem nice, but how do we know who is and who isn’t trustworthy? And how long have we had this new alarm system? Over a year now, right? In all that time, someone could have seen one of us setting the alarm, and memorized the code.”
“I guess anything’s possible,” Thomas said. “We’ll change the code, that’s for sure, and maybe even upgrade the whole system.”
“But if it was an inside job,” Martha said, not letting it go, “I still don’t understand why they destroyed the walls in your study. What were they looking for? And why in there?” She noticed his expression. “I know, I know, I’m playing detective, but I can’t help it. I feel like the answer’s obvious, but we just don’t know it yet.”
Thomas didn’t want to tell Martha about his secret office—mainly for her protection. If she didn’t know the office existed, no one could extract the information from her. For the same reason, he didn’t tell her much about what he did on a day-to-day basis at Wayne Enterprises, and the sordid people with whom he sometimes had to interact.
He wanted to run Wayne Enterprise with honesty and integrity, but sometimes in Gotham that was simply impossible. He had enemies, including some on his own board of directors. Nevertheless, he didn’t intend to be deceitful to Martha in any way—his secretiveness was for her own protection.
The less she knew, the less the danger.
“Look, who knows why they tore up the place?” Thomas said. “Maybe they were trying to disable an alarm—that was my first instinct. Or it’s possible they weren’t looking for anything at all. Maybe they just did it because they’re destructive, mentally unstable, anarchistic, or all of the above. Sometimes people don’t need a reason to act crazy. It’s just what they do.”
“Well, I still think there has to be an explanation,” Martha said. “There’s something they wanted—in your study. Maybe something they thought was there, in the wall. Something hidden. So that means it had to be somebody who knows you.”
“The guy who got shot, the one in the werewolf mask,” Thomas said. “I’d never seen him before in my life.”
“But somebody may have hired them,” Martha said. “Somebody you work with. Somebody who’s visited the house before.”
“We may never have all the answers,” Thomas said, seeking to keep his voice even. “Not every mystery is meant to be solved.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, though he knew better than to think she’d let it go entirely. “I’d best be going. The luncheon awaits.” She kissed him on the cheek, and walked briskly toward the door.
As Martha left, Thomas began to think.
Maybe she’s right. There had been something else behind the home invasion—something they were looking for, and didn’t find. Maybe—as Harvey Bullock had suggested—they thought there were treasures in his study, but his private records, which he kept in a safe in his secret basement office, were more valuable by far.
If a business associate was, in fact, behind the robbery, there were far too many suspects to consider, including members of Wayne Enterprise’s Board of Directors. And there was one person in particular he needed to rule out. Not a business associate, per se, but someone with whom he had once worked, on a project he regretted every waking hour. A former friend wh
o had become a bitter enemy.
Thomas went upstairs to his bedroom where he could be assured to have privacy, and picked up the phone.
“Frank, there’s been a new development,” he said. “We need to meet immediately.”
FOUR
“Heard we may have a print match on Mr. Werewolf.”
Gotham City Police Department Headquarters was already bustling and noisy in the early afternoon, as Amanda Wong approached Harvey Bullock’s desk in the center of the cavernous room. Despite the high, arching windows and hanging lights, the steel beams and railings, open holding cells, dark wooden front desk, and concrete walls left shadows in every nook and cranny of the chaotic landscape. Old-fashioned metal desks, piled high with paperwork, seemed vaguely out of place in the Victorian workspace.
“Who is he?” Harvey asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Amanda said, “but let’s go find out.”
Harvey stood, grabbed his coffee mug, and followed his partner, weaving through the mob of beat officers, detectives, recently arrested criminals, and then down the long corridor to the Forensics Department. As with the rest of the GCPD, the laboratory seemed like something out of the past, with brick-and-tile walls, cluttered granite countertops, and thick wooden blinds.
The body of the werewolf guy was laid out on a cold metal slab. Edward Nygma, a young lab technician, was peculiarly intent on his examination as they entered, and to Harvey it seemed as if he might be enjoying his work a little too much.
“Ohmigod, visitors,” Nygma said quickly, as if surprised—and maybe a little annoyed—at being interrupted. “Knocking is polite, you know,” he added, pushing his glasses up on the narrow bridge of his nose.
“If you want some more time alone with your new friend, we can come back,” Harvey replied. Truth be told he, like everybody else at the GCPD, liked to kid around with Nygma, give him a hard time, but the kid was all right. A freak show, yeah, but harmless.
“Well, we are getting to know each other.” Nygma grinned the way he always did, showing too many teeth. “I always love meeting new people.”
Man, this kid was weird, with his nerdy glasses and goofy, toothy smile and all. Then again, anybody who wanted to work with dead bodies all day long, as his freakin’ career, had to be one taco short of a combination plate.
“So what’s the verdict?” Harvey asked. “Who is he?”
“What word of five letters only has one left when two are removed?” Nygma was grinning again.
“Sweet mother of Christ,” Harvey said. “I’m barely through my second cup of java here, Ed.”
“A stone,” Amanda said.
“She’s a smart cookie,” Nygma said, in his usual smug, know-it-all tone. “Label me impressed.”
“So his name’s Stone?” Harvey said.
“Byron Stone,” Nygma said. “He was released from Blackgate Penitentiary two weeks ago, where he’d served twelve years of a twelve-year sentence for manslaughter.” He looked down with a look of… admiration? “No time off for good behavior for this bad boy.”
Harvey went over to the body on the slab.
“Byron Stone, yeah, now I recognize him,” Harvey said. “I didn’t connect the dots last night, ’cause he’d been off the board for so long. I was a beat cop when Stone took the manslaughter rap. If I remember correctly, he was a career criminal, hired gun, typical Gotham freelancer. No loyalty to any criminal organization. Worked with Falcone, Maroni, and anybody who had cash money to pay him.”
“Basically, he could’ve been working for anybody,” Amanda said.
“Basically,” Harvey said.
“So I suppose that puts you back at ground-zero,” Nygma said, sounding almost happy about it.
“You need to make some friends, Nygma,” Harvey said. “I mean friends who are alive.” Without another word he turned and headed for the door, one step ahead of his partner. Walking back through the station, he said to Amanda, “Since Stone just got outta lockup, it’s unlikely he’s connected to the other painting robberies.”
“Unless he was a recent hire,” Amanda said.
“Good point,” Harvey said. “Let’s find everybody who’s interacted with Stone since he got out of jail—there must be an old cellmate or someone he shot his mouth off to. And let’s see if anybody knows who he went to work for. The top two choices are Maroni and Falcone.”
“Our first stop should be a visit with Fish Mooney,” Amanda said. “She’s running that club for Falcone, and you two have a history, don’t you?”
That made him stop. He stared her down.
“How the hell do you know about me and Fish?” Harvey asked.
“I saw it on the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of worst-kept secrets.”
Harvey almost smiled. Yeah, all right, Amanda could be funny—when she wanted to be—but that didn’t mean he had to like working with her.
“Well, don’t believe everything you hear,” he said.
“So you and Mooney don’t have a past?”
“Oh, we have a past all right,” Harvey said. “I said don’t believe everything you hear, but that don’t mean some of it ain’t true.” They reached his desk. He chugged the rest of his murky coffee, then grabbed his hat and overcoat and together they left the precinct. At the car, Harvey said, “I’m driving this time, so don’t even ask.”
Amanda frowned and looked him over. “Is this how you are in a relationship?” she asked, then she handed him the keys.
“Relationship?” He grunted a laugh. “I haven’t been in a relationship since my high school girlfriend, and that lasted three weeks. I like to get out while the going’s good.”
* * *
On the way to Mooney’s Nightclub, Harvey pulled out a flashing light and put on the siren to make better time, weaving through traffic.
“You should avoid Chinatown,” Amanda said. “The traffic’s terrible this time of day.”
“If we go through the theater district, it’s even worse,” Harvey said.
“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about.” she said. “You’re so controlling. You’d be the type of guy who always has to hold the remote, and who has all the light switches on his side of the bed.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger,” Harvey said.
She looked away, out the window. Harvey could tell he’d hit a sore spot.
Finally she said, “I don’t have time for a relationship.”
“Lonely person’s greatest excuse,” Harvey said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know your type. You get on the horn with your girlfriends on Saturday night, and complain about how there are no good men in Gotham anymore—everybody’s taken. That all the single guys are only out for one thing, or they’re too this, or too that. Or when you meet one who seems okay, you try to change him into something he’s not, and that blows up in your face. Then you wallow away your sorrow with a big carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Meanwhile it’s your attitude that’s the problem. You know, a chicken-and-the-egg kinda thing.”
“First of all, it’s vanilla swirl,” Amanda said. “Second of all, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about that,” Harvey said. “Perfect example. Your attitude is your own worst enemy. If you could just rein it in, a guy would be able to put up with you, but your loneliness becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Yeah?” Amanda said. “And what about your loneliness? You’re not exactly the ideal relationship counselor yourself.”
“I ain’t lonely,” Harvey said. “I’m alone. Big difference.” He swung a left on State Street, heading toward Chinatown. Then he had to hit the brakes because of bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“What did I tell you?” Amanda asked.
“And what did I tell you?” Harvey said. “Attitude issues. I can spot ’em a mile away.”
Although they were only about ten bloc
ks from Mooney’s, it took them another half hour to get there. Fish had taken over the location ten years earlier, from a Chinese bookie who used to use the place for cockfighting. Harvey had been to the old joint many times, and it was still hard to believe this was the same place.
Fish had done a great job with the renovations—and getting the stench out. When they entered the moody, low-lit club, Harvey had to squint as his eyes adjusted from the brightness outside. It was late night twenty-four hours a day at Fish’s. Up ahead, a few sad sacks were sitting alone at tables, looking unemployed, sipping their drinks, gawking at the scantily clad young woman on stage who was singing, appropriately, the blues.
“Been workin’ all day… but ain’t gettin’ no pay…”
“Hey, Harvey, what can I do for you?”
Butch Gilzean, Fish’s bulky right-hand man, was sitting at the bar. He was in a suit and tie, sipping a drink. Harvey had never seen Butch kill anybody, but if he was working for Fish Mooney, it was a good bet that the guy had at least broken a neck or two.
“Looking for my lady,” Harvey said. He didn’t have to glance over to know Amanda was rolling her eyes. “Oh, sorry,” he added quickly. “This is my… partner, Amanda.” He turned to her and gestured. “Amanda, meet Butch.”
“How do you do?” Butch said, checking her out, eyeing her up and down.
“She’s single and lookin’,” Harvey said. “I mean, if you wanna take her out sometime.”
“Oh, yeah?” Butch had seemed half asleep before. Now his interest piqued.
Amanda gave Harvey a vicious look.
“How ’bout some drinks?” Butch asked.
“I’ll have water,” Amanda said.
“Bourbon,” Harvey said. Why not? It was afternoon—way past the time for a little hair of the dog.
“Harrrrvey.”
And there she was—the goddess herself. She had come out from the back and was strutting toward them, hips swinging in a dress that barely went to mid-thigh. She had a tight body—stronger than most men—but the muscles didn’t overwhelm the curves. And the best part, as far as Harvey was concerned? How she smelled. Her natural aroma always sent shock waves through his brain. She was the kind of a woman a blind man could fall for.
