by Jason Starr
One intruder was dead, and with any luck the other two would be captured soon. If there were some larger conspiracy or plan in the works, he would find out about it soon enough.
A squeaking bat darted past overhead while Thomas scrolled though the files on Pinewood Farms. All of the files, listing patients in the program, as well as observations that Strange and his staff had made during the course of the experiments. In retrospect, some of it seemed so benign, reports of positive reactions to the various DNA-altering “therapy.” The documentation purposefully excluded the dark stuff, about the patients who had been systematically transformed into virtual monsters.
Thomas had only been privy to the whitewashed version of the program, which Strange had provided to him. But now, if the police—or any decent investigator, for that matter—got hold of these files, they could deconstruct all of the horror that had been engineered. All someone needed to do was search for the old “patients” of Dr. Hugo Strange, to discover that they were all dead or had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
With one exception, of course.
Thomas pulled up Karen’s information, which detailed the steps in her therapy from the day she entered the program to her final treatments. It had been no easy task, acquiring the full report. The file included photos of Karen taken throughout her time at Pinewood. Somehow the “before” photos were more disturbing than the “after” ones. Thomas had gotten used to the monstrous version of Karen whom he had seen for years now.
But the “before” version of her—where she seemed younger, hopeful, and without the reptilian extremity—was more shocking. It pounded home what she’d been through, how the experiments had destroyed her life, and the lives of so many others. Yes, Karen and many of the others had been convicted felons, but that didn’t mean that Strange had the right to do what he’d done to them—to use their bodies as a virtual playground for his perverse experiments.
Karen had been told that if she participated in the research, it would reduce her prison sentence, as well as help repay her debt to society by aiding in the search for cures for deadly diseases—even death itself. Would she or anyone have agreed, if she’d known the risks involved? That there were no cures on the horizon, especially not for the patients themselves?
If Thomas was right, and Strange wanted to destroy all of the evidence in order to have a clean slate and restart the program, he would need to eliminate Thomas as a threat. So as he had so many times before, he checked the files for any signs of intrusion.
Everything was there, encrypted and password-protected. The password was a series of seemingly random letters, numbers, and symbols that he had memorized with painstaking precision. So if something happened to him, no one would ever locate the files.
Thomas would take the information to his grave.
This last thought made Thomas shudder. Was it possible that the break-in was just part one of Strange’s plan? Maybe he had sent a crew of criminals on a sort of “search and destroy” mission, in the guise of a robbery, to locate the data, purge it, and then take out Thomas himself. All that would leave would be Karen, and they would have a road map that would lead directly to her.
With that thought, he stood and began to pace.
That Strange could try to kill him had occurred to Thomas before. The man was unhinged, capable of anything. In the early days, right after Pinewood shut down, Thomas assuaged his fears by hiring bodyguards for his whole family. He’d never told them the real reason for the protection, of course. He’d made up a story that some Wayne Enterprises employees had received death threats, and that the amped up security was just a precaution.
As time passed, Thomas began to feel secure that the threat had waned, that Strange had indeed moved on. But now, especially with what had happened at the cabin, the danger reared its ugly head once again.
Thomas was nervous, pacing, as a bat zipped and swirled overhead.
He wondered if he should get bodyguards again. Martha was already suspicious, and if Thomas announced that the family needed more protection, she’d demand to know what was going on. If she found out about the secrets he’d been keeping for all these years, there was no telling what she might do.
Best-case scenario, she would demand a divorce.
Worst-case scenario—if Strange found that Martha knew about Pinewood, he might identify her as a threat, as well.
At times like this, Thomas wished he wasn’t in this alone. He wished he had a confidant, someone with whom he could discuss all of this, to help him make the right decisions. Over the years, Karen had been that person, but those times seemed to have come to an end. He had told Frank about Strange, and Pinewood, but Frank only knew the essentials, and Thomas didn’t want to let him into his secrets any more than he already had.
His pacing slowed, and Thomas arrived at a decision. As difficult as it would be, he had to wait. He had to be one-hundred-percent sure that Strange was responsible for the break-in, and was planning to resume his genetic research, before making any major decisions.
Thomas sat again at his desk and lit another cigar. He felt better, here in his hidden sanctum, where he always felt safe. This was his man-cave, after all—it was just him and the bats down here. Over the years, humans had betrayed him so many times, but the bats had provided some much needed consistency in his life. When things were going rough, he could come down to his office, escape from the human world, and listen to the screeching and scratching of the bats. Weird, maybe, but everyone had their quirks.
In a dark and dangerous world, the bats always provided him comfort, or maybe even hope.
EIGHTEEN
Harvey smelled. He wore the clothes he’d worn yesterday, and arrived at the crime scene downtown. A burnt-out car still smoldered in front of a defunct warehouse. He assumed it was a GCPD patrol car, a black-and-white, though it was impossible to tell for sure. EMS workers and forensics were working, gathering evidence. The medical examiner stood to one side.
Captain Essen was there, talking to some cops. The Captain didn’t come out to most crime scenes, only the major ones. And when cops were killed, that made it major.
“Where’re the bodies?” Harvey asked a young officer.
“You’re looking at ’em,” the cop said, gesturing.
“Mother of Christ,” Harvey said. Closer now, he could make out the charred skeletons. On first glance they’d seemed to be part of the car.
“The M.E. said they went fast at least,” the cop said, “didn’t feel much pain. But I don’t know about that. Getting burned alive sounds pretty damn painful to me.”
“I’m with you on that,” Harvey said. “How’d it happen?”
“Somebody snuck up on ’em, doused ’em with gasoline, and tossed a match in the car,” the kid said. That made Harvey squirm a little.
“Well, I’ll tell ya one thing,” he said. “Whoever did this is gonna burn somewhere for a lot longer than these cops did.”
Captain Essen came over, walking briskly.
“I don’t know what’s going on lately,” she said. “This city’s going to hell.”
“Going?” Harvey said. “Where’ve you been lately? It’s long gone, Cap.”
“I had a long conversation with Officer Warren yesterday,” Essen said. “Told me how he was looking forward to going on a camping trip next month with his family.”
“Son of a bitch owed me two hundred bucks from a poker game last month,” Harvey said. “Maybe this was his way out.”
“That isn’t funny,” Essen said.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny funny,” Harvey said. “Gallows humor. Haven’t you heard of that?”
Essen just glared.
Jesus, Harvey thought, am I the last cop with a sense of humor? As he thought about it, though, he kind of understood.
“We need all available resources on this case,” Essen said. “We’ve got to contain it, not lose more good officers. That means every available detective at the GCPD, including you and Detective Wong.�
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“I want to help out,” Harvey said, “but we’re closing in on finding the Picasso thieves. So technically, we’re not available.”
Now the glare turned into a sneer.
“Dead cops are our priority now, Detective Bullock. Not some rich guy’s stolen painting.”
“Obviously this case is the priority,” Harvey agreed, “but somebody got killed when that painting was stolen. And me and Detective Wong got shot at yesterday. Damn near killed. I think it’s a priority to get those guys off the street, too.”
“The man who was killed in the Wayne robbery was a four-time loser,” Essen said. “Are you seriously comparing that animal to two of GCPD’s finest?”
Harvey knew she was right. It was just frustrating to have to let Colon go, after they’d come so close to nailing the son of a bitch. Without them, he’d be free in an hour. He could get on a ship headed out of the country, maybe as quick as today, and it would be sayonara to him and maybe the painting, too.
“I got it,” Harvey said. “The painting case goes on the back burner.”
“Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page about this,” Essen said. “Now I want an arrest in this case by the end of the day, at the latest.”
Why don’t you ask for world peace, while you’re at it?
But Harvey didn’t say it. He went over to check in with Pete Shaw, a GCPD cop who had been one of the first responders. Shaw explained that there had been no witnesses to the attack, nor were there any security cameras in the area.
“But get this,” he said, “a security camera a few blocks away picks up a dark blue sedan leaving the area. We get the plate number, track down the driver across town. Turns out it was unrelated to this incident, but the driver had been wanted for whacking his mother two days ago. You try to solve one crime, you stumble onto the solution to another one. Only in Gotham, right?”
“Only in Gotham,” Harvey agreed.
Then he saw Amanda approaching. She looked good in jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt, swinging her hips a little.
“Hey, partner,” she said.
“Hey, yourself,” Harvey said, and he smiled. “Lookin’ good.” At that very moment Captain Essen looked over, and gave him the evil eye again. His smile disappeared.
“Great,” Harvey said. “Now the Captain thinks I’m treating this like it’s a game.”
“You’re welcome,” Amanda said. “Well, this is the suckiest Sunday morning ever, isn’t it? I was at my local farmers’ market, buying a cup of Joe, when I got the call.” She looked over at the car. “Any idea which psycho did this? Or what the motive could’ve been?”
“Nada and nada,” Harvey said.
Then with a serious tone, Amanda said, “I know you were friends with Officer Warren. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Appreciated,” Harvey said. “Well, looks like this is going to be our priority for the foreseeable future. So this is the best news ever for Roberto Colon, and whoever the hell he was working with.”
Harvey caught Amanda giving him the once over, looking him up and down. She gave a little sniff, and wrinkled her nose.
“What’s wrong?” Harvey said with his chin to his shirt, thinking maybe he’d spilled something.
“So you’re taking the walk of shame this morning, huh?” Amanda was smirking.
“Maybe I just have two of the same sport jacket,” Harvey said. He didn’t know why he didn’t just tell her straight-out that he’d had a wild sexy night with Lacey White. He was an adult, a free agent. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide. If he wanted to have a fun night with an old flame, he didn’t have to beat around the bush about it.
“Sure, doesn’t everybody?” Amanda said. “Well, I hope you got some sleep at least. Looks like it’s gonna be a long day.”
As if on cue, Harvey saw a Gotham News van pull up, with Lacey riding shotgun.
“Time to rock ’n’ roll,” he said.
“Where to?” Amanda asked. “Shouldn’t we wait to see if forensics find any leads?”
“In these ashes?” Harvey said. “What do you think they’ll find? A fingerprint? Nah, waste of time.” The van came to a stop. “Let’s check out every known arsonist in town, and see who doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”
“All right,” Amanda said. “How about I follow you in my car, then I drop it back at the station.”
Lacey got out of the van, along with a cameraman.
“Sounds like a plan,” Harvey said. He wanted to avoid an awkward situation, get the hell out of Dodge, but Amanda must have seen him looking at the news truck.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your friend?”
“Friend?” Harvey said. “What friend?”
Then he looked over and saw Lacey coming toward him, smiling. Ah, crap.
“Harvey, baby, I’m glad I caught you here.” Lacey pulled Harvey’s watch out of her purse. “I think you forgot something this morning.”
He didn’t look at Amanda, but he could imagine her expression.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I don’t believe we’ve actually met,” Lacey said to Amanda. “I’m Lacey White.”
“Amanda Wong.”
They shook hands.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Amanda said.
“Good things, I hope,” Lacey said, smiling.
“Oh, the best,” Amanda said. “You’ve gotten some great reviews.”
“Oh, really?” The smile disappeared, and she glared at Harvey.
“She’s kidding,” Harvey said.
“Oh, really?” Lacey said. “So I didn’t get a great review?” Then she added, “You’re gonna pay for that next time, Harvey boy.” Spinning, she sashayed away, back toward the truck.
“Two of the same sport jacket, huh?” Amanda smirked.
“Shut the hell up,” Harvey said.
“Watch that attitude,” Amanda said, “or else, Harvey boy.” Amanda laughed, but he had to admit, the way she’d said it had been kind of hot. He couldn’t help chuckling a little.
Captain Essen saw the laughing and shot him another look.
“Officially not my day,” Harvey said.
NINETEEN
Frank had been in the middle of the best dream ever. He was on the beach, maybe an island, walking hand in hand with Michelle O’Reilley.
Michelle O’Reilley had been the wife of Don O’Reilley, a successful real estate entrepreneur in Gotham. Several months back, Don had come to Frank, suspecting that Michelle was cheating on him. Talk about dead-on instincts—oh, boy, was she cheating on him, with at least three different guys.
Frank followed her around town for a while, accumulating evidence. He got some nude shots of her through the windows of the various apartments and hotel rooms. It was easy to see why she was so popular with guys. She was drop-dead gorgeous—wavy red hair, great curves, a smile that could cure depression. It was also easy to figure out why she was straying. Her husband Don was a class-A prick. He was controlling, abusive—physically and psychologically—and her affairs were a cry out for help.
Frank wanted to save her, but that wasn’t his job. He was working for Don, not her, sort of the way a defense attorney might know his client is guilty, but he has to do his job anyway. So he gave Don the evidence and two weeks later, Michelle wound up whacked, her body found in pieces in a dumpster. Did Don whack her or hire somebody to whack her? Yeah, probably, but the cops couldn’t find evidence that he had, and Don got off Scott Free. Frank usually kept his emotions and his work separate, but the Michelle O’Reilley job ate away at him.
So in the dream Frank and Michelle were walking hand in hand along the beach on some tropical island. Warm water was splashing at their feet and, as always, she had that spectacular smile. Then they were lying down, starting to make love. Yeah, this wasn’t a sex dream, this was a making love dream. It felt good, knowing he had whisked her away from Gotham, her smarmy husband, and all those other guys who were just using her for one thing. As
she pinned him down onto the sand, he looked at her eyes.
“Thank you for saving me, Frank.”
“Any time, baby.”
Then he opened his eyes and realized he wasn’t on a tropical island with a beautiful woman. He was by the railroad tracks in the old train yard in the seediest part of Gotham, looking up at the eyes of a large gray rat.
“Goddamnit,” he said.
He flung the rat off him and tried to get up. He was disoriented, wasn’t sure how he had wound up here. As he tried to get up he stumbled on some garbage and fell again, and cut his arm on a piece of broken glass. Well, at least he was wide awake now.
Who needs coffee?
As the dream faded into vague forgetfulness, he remembered key details from last night—the knockout in the wrong round of the Sanchez-Williams fight, and then wandering around Gotham, getting smashed, wondering how he was going to avoid becoming fish food in the Gotham river when the loan sharks cracked down.
And then finally, the plan.
Ah, the plan, the sweet plan! That’s why the dream had taken place on a tropical island, because that’s where he was headed as soon as he found Tommy Wayne’s Picasso. This was Frank’s endgame, his big out. He’d put in years of hard work, helping others solve their problems. Now it was time to put himself first. What was the alternative? Do the moral thing? Stay in Gotham, give Tommy Wayne his painting back? That was a surefire way of winding up dead. To hell with morality. He’d been moral his whole life, more or less.
It was time to play on the other side of the fence.
* * *
Frank made it back to his apartment. It was a decent place—a good-sized one bedroom, but that’s all he’d ever needed. He’d had girlfriends over the years, but none of them had ever stuck because he’d always put his job first. Well, that would change when he was living it up in the tropics. He’d get any woman he wanted, and he’d have plenty of time to spend with her—to roll around in the sand and sip drinks with little umbrellas in them.
The phone rang, and he almost jumped out of his skin.
It was Tommy Wayne, wanting an update about the case. Frank assured Tommy that he had some good leads, and then got him off the phone as fast as he could. He was about to get into the shower when someone started banging on the door. Who the hell could it be, at around nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? Maybe it was the super, or a neighbor returning from a night of partying, trying to get into the wrong apartment. That happened sometimes.
