by Jason Starr
“No,” Wayne said. “I have no idea.”
“Are you sure?” Harvey pressed. “I mean, think about it, because honestly there’ve been a lot of holes in this case that are, well, hard to explain.”
“I wish I could help you, but I have much less information than you do,” Wayne said.
“What about the alarm system?” Harvey asked. “You have any new theories about how it might’ve been disabled?”
“As far as we can tell, someone must have hacked into the system somehow,” Wayne replied. “I’ve had discussions with my engineers, and the software people at Wayne Enterprises, and if there was a breach, it won’t happen again.”
“Of course, that’s what you thought before it happened the first time,” Harvey said. “The thing is, these guys were low level thugs. I’d be surprised if they knew how to turn on a computer, much less how to hack into one.”
“Well, you’re the detective,” Wayne said, sounding a little irritated. “I guess you’ll have to figure that part out, won’t you?”
Harvey sort of smiled, trying to play off the jab Wayne had just landed.
“Do you know a PI named Frank Collins?”
Wayne hesitated, then said, “Why do you ask that?” Harvey couldn’t tell if the hesitation confirmed that Wayne knew Collins, and was trying to figure out what to say, or if he was just confused. He glanced at Pennyworth, but the butler was hard to read, as well.
Then Harvey said, “Just trying to figure out what he was doing down at this Belladonna’s place, and why he got killed. He must have been investigating the robbery, and when we checked his phone, we saw some missed calls you made to him.”
“I was hoping to keep this confidential,” Wayne said, “but yes, I did hire Frank Collins to help find the Picasso.” Harvey noticed that Pennyworth seemed surprised by this.
“I was shocked when I heard what happened to him,” Wayne continued. “It’s awful—a tragedy. I’m completely baffled how it could have happened. I know that sounds trite—whenever someone does something horrible, out of the blue, friends and family always say there were no signs, that they never saw it coming. But in this case it’s true.”
“Why didn’t you tell us he was working for you?” Harvey asked.
“Private investigators are called private for a reason,” Thomas said. “Martha and I wanted that painting back—it has great sentimental value. I was devastated when I heard that Collins was killed, of course. He was a good man.”
“For a good man, it’s possible that Frank Collins killed three people at that motel,” Harvey revealed, “including a guy at the desk who was a good friend of mine.”
Wayne seemed stunned by the revelation, and for a long moment he didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded sincere, but somehow Harvey didn’t buy it. Why should he be?
“Did Frank give any indication that he might snap?” Amanda asked.
“No,” Wayne said. “Absolutely not. Never. I would never, ever, have hired him if I thought he might become unhinged in any way. He’s always been entirely professional, a stand-up kind of person. But I don’t have to tell you two that. He was a GCPD detective, for God’s sake. Obviously he didn’t seem unhinged when he worked for you.”
This was true, Harvey realized.
“Well, this just keeps getting stranger by the day,” he said. “Two of the guys who broke in here the other night are dead, and the other one is missing, which already is pretty freakin’ weird. The fact that the PI was killed with a meat cleaver seems to connect his murder back to the robbery, given the way they left the walls. But to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure where any of this gets us.” He looked at Wayne and Pennyworth, then at Amanda, then back at Wayne.
“Did Collins tell you anything about what he may have discovered?” Amanda asked.
“No,” Wayne said. “He didn’t tell me anything, I had very limited contact with him after I hired him to help find the painting, which was quite frustrating, in fact. I spoke with him briefly on Sunday morning, and he said he was making progress on the case, and would update me soon.
“I hadn’t had any contact with him since that call,” he continued, “and I have no idea how he or the others wound up dead. That said, if there’s any way I can possibly assist in the investigation, I’d be happy to. But if you don’t have any more questions right now, I have a lot of work to do this morning.”
“I understand.” Harvey stood. “We’ll be in touch.”
Pennyworth led them back to the front door and wished them a great day. They walked back toward their car.
“So? What do you think?” Amanda asked.
“He’s hiding something,” Harvey said.
“I got that, too,” she said. “But what?”
“Who the hell cares?”
Harvey’s gut told him that Wayne was holding back, but nobody was squeaky clean in Gotham, not even Thomas Wayne. Everybody had secrets, and it wasn’t his job to uncover all of them.
“He got his pretty picture back, and everyone who got killed was a lowlife—even the damned PI,” he growled. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
TWENTY-NINE
That evening, Thomas hung the Picasso in its old spot on the wall of his study.
“A little to the left,” Bruce said.
Thomas shifted it ever so slightly.
“Bit to the right,” Alfred said.
Thomas adjusted it again.
“More to the left,” Bruce said, “just a fraction of an inch.”
Thomas did it.
“Bit more to the right now,” Alfred said.
“All right, that’s enough,” Thomas announced, and he got down from the ladder.
“It still looks crooked,” Bruce said.
“Well, I think we’re going to have to leave it that way, and learn to live with it,” Thomas said.
“I don’t know.” Bruce stared at the painting. “I think it will always bother me.”
“Well, I think it’s past your bedtime now, isn’t it?” Thomas replied.
“But it’s only nine o’clock,” Bruce protested.
“You’re being punished remember?”
“Oh, right,” Bruce said. “I forgot.”
“Forgot?” Alfred responded. “Or chose not to remember?”
“It’s not like there’s a difference,” Bruce said. “Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Alfred.” He gave his father a hug, and left the study.
“What would you say to a glass of Scotch?” Thomas asked Alfred.
“I’d say hello.”
Thomas poured the drinks and put on some music—Chopin’s Nocturne in B Major. Alfred had already sat on the couch and Thomas sat across from him in a leather armchair.
“It must be nice to have the painting back,” Alfred said.
“Yes, it is,” Thomas said, “but I have to say, it’s shocking about Frank. I considered him a good friend, and it’s awful when a friend betrays you that way. Have you ever been betrayed?”
“I’ve lived a long life,” Alfred replied. “I reckon I’ve experienced just about everything.”
“Well, it’s not the first time it’s happened to me,” Thomas said, thinking about Hugo Strange. “Maybe I’m too trusting, or I don’t pick up on the signs well enough. Going forward, I’ll need to keep my ears and eyes open a little bit wider.”
There was a lull in the conversation as they sipped the Scotch, listening to the Nocturne.
“You know I usually don’t discuss personal matters with you,” Alfred said, “as I prefer to respect your space in such matters. And if I overstep my boundaries, I’ll blame it on the Scotch, so I have my built in excuse. But I don’t want to look back at this time with the regret of knowing I could’ve said something, but I didn’t.”
“What’re you getting at?” Thomas asked. He tensed, wondering what was coming. Alfred shook his glass, the ice clinking against the side.
“You know, Martha has felt in the dark late
ly,” he said. “You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Thomas said, vaguely relieved.
“Just saying,” Alfred said, “if you ever need a mate to chat about anything with, I’m always here.”
Thomas took a moment, perhaps studying Alfred’s sincere expression.
“Did she tell you anything specific?”
“You know I don’t like to get in the middle of these sorts of things, so it’s probably better you ask her that. But I know she’s sort of, well, curious about your trips to the country.”
“Oh, that,” Thomas said. “I’ve assured her there’s nothing… er… romantic going on. You can be sure of it, as well.”
“I have no doubt about that, sir,” Alfred said.
“I just like to get away, to get fresh air now and then,” Thomas said. “I hike, I sit by a lake and stare at the water. It helps to reenergize me. Everybody needs to get out of Gotham once in a while to gain some perspective on things, and I’m no exception.” He kept his tone as casual as he could manage, and thought he was pulling it off.
“I understand, sir,” Alfred said. “I’m just trying to alert you to an expanding rift that may be occurring in your marriage, so you can give the matter the proper attention it deserves. Do a bit of mending, I suppose.”
“Then there’s you and Martha,” Thomas said.
“What about me and Martha, sir?”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. I saw you talking the other day.”
“What day was that, sir?”
Thomas couldn’t remember. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Wayne?” Alfred seemed offended. “I hope you’re not implying that you think your wife and I—”
“No, of course not,” Thomas said quickly. “I know that’s ridiculous.” In reality, however, the thought had occurred to Thomas—more than once. He wasn’t a fool, after all. He knew he’d been aloof, evasive, not giving Martha the attention she deserved.
He’d been neglecting his marriage as well, not working hard enough on getting things back on track. Meanwhile, Alfred was a strong, handsome, well-travelled, sophisticated man. While he didn’t think either of them would ever cross the line, Thomas couldn’t deny the possibility. Every day, husbands and wives deceived one another.
And friends betrayed friends.
“Well, you can rest assured,” Alfred said. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”
“But…” Thomas paused. “I have to admit, I have been a bit jealous.”
“Jealous?” Alfred seemed shocked. “By God, of what?”
“Okay, jealous is too strong a word,” Thomas said. “But when I see you and Martha talking sometimes, you seem like good friends.”
“I reckon that’s because we are good friends.”
“Right, and that’s what’s been missing with us lately,” Thomas said. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Wayne Industries, and trying to deal with…” He almost blurted out Hugo Strange’s name, but caught himself in time. “…other outside forces in this city that, admittedly, it’s had an effect on my marriage. We’re not as close as we once were.”
“Then perhaps it’s a good time to take a holiday.”
“But we were just away in Switzerland.”
“That was with Bruce and me, as well,” Alfred said. “I’m suggesting that you go alone, just the two of you.”
“This is a tenuous time at work,” Thomas said. “There are so many things demanding my attention. I can’t just take off for Europe.”
“How about a beach holiday then?” Alfred said. “A long weekend. Getting away for a few days would do you some good, and give things in Gotham a chance to cool off.”
“What needs to cool off?” Thomas asked noncommittally.
“I’m not referring to anything specific, sir,” Alfred said. “It’s just an overall sense I have. From my days on the battlefield, I’ve gotten quite adept at detecting when trouble is looming. Anyway, I think jetting off to an island for a romantic weekend could be a good idea for you and the missus. Getting away from these forces you mentioned, it might be a good thing.”
“Running from problems never solves them.”
“I’m not suggesting that you run away,” Alfred said. “I’m suggesting taking a break, that’s all. A bit of perspective never hurt anyone. You yourself said you go to the country for perspective, so all I’m suggesting is that you get the perspective as a couple, for a change. I’m suggesting this as a man who has loved and lost, so I’m aware of the importance of doing things together, rather than individually.
“And, without overstepping my boundaries here, while it feels as if things in Gotham haven’t yet come to a boil, they’re headed in that direction,” he added. “It may be good to let things simmer for a bit.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said. “I’ll think it over, though I still don’t think leaving is the answer. It’s good to know that you’re looking out for me and my family, and watching my pot to make sure it doesn’t boil over.”
“I guess we’ve officially beaten that metaphor to death now, haven’t we?” Alfred said.
Thomas smiled.
“Well, I should retire myself.” Alfred finished the rest of his drink in a swallow. “In all seriousness, sir, I do think you should consider it. It would do you and the missus a world of good.”
“In all seriousness, Alfred, I will.” But, the truth was, Thomas had already made up his mind.
When Alfred left the study, Thomas poured himself another glass of scotch. Sipping it, he stared at Le Picador on the wall, as Chopin played on.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
THIRTY
Harvey took a sip of lukewarm coffee, reading the report on the Picasso robbery. Captain Essen had just signed off on it.
On the surface it seemed like a cut-and-dried case. A few ex-cons got together to rob Wayne Manor, and the bad guys wound up dead. Things happened like that all the time—dumb criminals fighting with each other, fighting over money, or to prove who had the biggest cojones. In this case, there were a bunch of unanswered questions.
How had they gotten codes to the alarm? That was the big one. Did they hack into Wayne’s system? If so, how? And what did Frank Collins want out of all of this? Why did Collins go psycho, and shoot people up at a motel? Why did he snap?
Where was Nikos Petrakos?
Who made the anonymous tip?
And why?
“You know how to read?”
Harvey looked up, saw Amanda standing there, smirking. Was he imagining it, or was she getting prettier? When they had started working together, he’d barely noticed her, looks-wise, because he’d been so worked up about the idea of having a female partner.
Now that he’d seen her in action, and saw how good she was at her job, she’d become a lot hotter. Or that’s how it seemed, anyway. Where were those hips last week? And how about those lips? How come he hadn’t noticed that sexy pout?
“I’m just full of surprises,” Harvey said.
“Everything in order?” Amanda asked.
“Seems to be,” Harvey said.
“You sound skeptical.”
“I’m always skeptical,” Harvey said. “Somehow a case doesn’t feel wrapped up when there are more questions than answers.”
“We can still try to figure out what went down at that hotel.”
“No, that’s not likely to go anywhere,” he replied. “Waste of time.” Abruptly he shifted his eyes downward. Yeah, okay, he was looking at her chest. So what, he couldn’t help it. Why did it bother him all of a sudden?
“What’re you doing?” Amanda asked.
“What do you mean?” he said. “I’m closing the books on the Wayne robbery.”
“No, I mean, you’ve been looking at me differently all day.”
Damn. Harvey thought he’d been more subtle than that. Then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised, since the words “subtle” and “Bullock
” didn’t exactly go together.
“I was just noticing that shirt,” Harvey said. “It’s a nice color.”
Amanda put her chin to her neck and checked herself out.
“White’s a nice color?”
Crap. Why hadn’t he come up with a better line?
Well, too late now, had to go with it.
“Yeah, I love white,” he said. “White is pure, innocent, vaginal.” He heard it as soon as he said it. “I mean virginal—virginal.” Like that made it any better.
Thankfully the Captain came over at that moment.
“Shooting at a DJ’s Drugstore on Davidson.”
“We’re on it,” Harvey said, grabbing his coat and fedora.
* * *
The drugstore wasn’t far—Harvey and Amanda got there in less than five minutes by car. Compared to their recent cases, this one was like a walk in the park. Some young thug had attempted to rob the store, and the owner blew him away with a sawed-off shotgun. Harvey and Amanda talked to the owner, looked at the body, then it was taken away in a bag.
Boom, just like that, case closed.
Heading back to their car, Harvey said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if every case was this open and shut?”
“How about a drink?” Amanda asked.
“My favorite question,” Harvey said. They went to Harvey’s favorite watering hole—Old City, downtown. Before they knew it, they were through the second round.
It was the first time they’d gone out drinking together, and Harvey was impressed by how Amanda was throwing back the Guinnesses—two pints so far, halfway into number three. It was nice to not talk to her about police work for a change, too. They had some good small talk going—Harvey told her funny stories about his old man and his brother, and she told him about growing up all over the country because her father had been in the military.
“I was wrong about you, Bullock,” she said abruptly.
“Yeah?” Harvey said. “How’s that?”
“Well, to be honest, when I first got the assignment to work with you, I wasn’t thrilled about it. For one, your reputation preceded you.”
“Hey,” Harvey said, “I’ve worked long and hard to build up a lousy reputation. It’s a work of art, like a Picasso.”
