Ronald Greenwauld sat down in front of Oswald Cobblepot's desk. Cobblepot clasped his hands beneath his chin and leaned back in his chair. "Well, Mr. Greenwauld, how is our client?"
Greenwauld settled into the chair, also clasping his hands, but resting them on his stomach. "Mr. Devorak seemed a bit more cooperative this morning than yesterday. Judge Ottenbach gave the go-ahead for the sanity hearing. He's even pushing a few of his other cases back so we can have the hearing this week."
Cobblepot nodded. "When, exactly, this week?"
Greenwauld smiled, his eyes flashing triumphantly. "Tomorrow."
Oswald Cobblepot smiled, flashing his white, capped teeth. "Ah, my old friend Judge Ottenbach. Did he and his wife enjoy the gifts I sent them, I wonder?" Cobblepot chuckled to himself. The door to his office opened, and Groverton stepped inside.
"Someone to see you, Mr. Cobblepot."
Cobblepot motioned towards himself. "Send him in, Groverton." Cobblepot looked to Greenwauld. "There's someone I'd like you to meet, Ronald. An employee at my newest . . . facility."
Groverton stepped aside, and a tall, muscular blonde man stepped inside. He was dressed in a custom tailored dark black suit, and his hair was pulled back into a tight pony-tail. "Mr. Quentin," Groverton announced. The muscular man walked into the penthouse and approached the desk.
Both Cobblepot and Greenwauld stood. Greenwauld offered his hand to the larger man, and Quentin shook it. Greenwauld could tell that the man could have crushed his fingers if it would have suited him. "Quentin . . ." Greenwauld began, "Is that your last name?"
The blonde man smiled, although he didn't seem happy. "It's my name."
Greenwauld nodded. Quentin leaned towards Cobblepot and the two men shook hands. "Mr. Quentin," Cobblepot said proudly. Quentin pulled up a chair, and all three sat down. "Mr. Greenwauld," Oswald began, looking at the lawyer, "I'd like you to meet the new Chief of Patient Care at Arkham Asylum." Quentin smiled again; it seemed he only knew one way how.
Ronald Greenwauld smiled. "Nice to meet you."
Cobblepot cleared his throat. "Now, Mr. Greenwauld, I'd like to discuss our . . . strategy regarding Mr. Devorak." He glanced at Quentin. "But . . . not right now. I will call you later today, we can hash out the details." Cobblepot glanced to Quentin, then back to Greenwauld. "Good day, Ronald."
Ronald Greenwauld stood, nodded to the other two men, and left. Quentin took his seat. "Well, well, well . . . so good to meet you face to face, Mr. Quentin," the Penguin mused.
"When you make me an offer I can't refuse . . . well, call me crazy, I go along with it. What I want to know is, how'd you find me?"
The Penguin drew in a breath, smiled and nodded towards the door. "You have a certain reputation for being hard to pin down. My assistant is very resourceful, however."
"I guess I should be flattered that you took so much trouble to find me."
"I'll be the most powerful man in this city in a very short time, if I'm not already. I want the best people surrounding me. That's why you are where you are."
"Chief of Patient Care?"
The Penguin nodded. "It will allow you to remain in constant contact with my new patients. You can function as my liaison, so I won't have to be at the asylum constantly, thus arousing suspicious thoughts from my good friends in the media."
"What particular patients did you have in mind?"
The Penguin opened the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and removed a file-folder. He handed it to Quentin. "That information packet holds everything you will need to know initially to assume your duties. I am going to ask that you destroy those papers after you've sufficiently memorized them. If you ever need to see it again, there's a copy buried somewhere inside the casino's computer database."
Quentin nodded. "Right. Is this the only reason you called me here?"
The Penguin shook his head. "No, actually. You see, it would be a tremendous waste of someone of your caliber if I relegated your duties to tending to asylum inmates. I still need you to do what it is that you do best."
Quentin smiled. "What exactly did you have in mind?"
"Oh, well . . . I've never been a man to put all my eggs in one umbrella--forgive me, old habits die hard. There is some information I will be needing, and I was hoping you could acquire it for me." The Penguin smiled wickedly. "As a favor."
Gotham Heights High School, 12:29 p.m.
Tim sat on the opposite side of his usual table. Ariana sat with Erica at a small table across the cafeteria. Ives sat on one side of Tim, Hudson on the other. "Tim?" asked Ives.
Tim turned to his friend. "Hmm?"
Ives looked over at Hudson, who merely shrugged. "Tim, my friend, you seem a little off lately. I take it that things with Ariana aren't progressing as you'd like?"
Tim reached out for the two-thirds full cup of lemonade in front of him and took a sip. "That's an understatement."
"Maybe you should call her," offered Hudson.
Tim shook his head. "No. I've tried that every night this week, and if I keep it up, she'll end up really hating me."
Hudson stood, and slapped Tim lightly on the back. "Come-on; let's talk in the bathroom, Drake."
Tim stood and followed Hudson to the back of the cafeteria. "Are we gossipy women here, all of a sudden?"
"Any teachers looking?" Hudson asked. Tim shook his head. "Good." Hudson pushed open the door, and he and Tim stepped inside. Hudson sat down on the edge of the first sink in a row of seven and reached beneath it. From a nook under the rim of the sink, Hudson produced a pack of cigarettes. He removed a single cigarette, put it between his lips, then replaced the pack beneath the sink. Hudson then walked into one of the camode stalls, lifted the top off, and untaped a plastic bag from its underside. Inside the bag was a cigarette lighter. Hudson quickly lit his cigarette, then put the lighter back in its bag, retaped it to the lid, and put the lid back on the toilet.
Hudson inhaled deeply on the cigarette, then took it from his mouth and exhaled a long, thin trail of smoke. He looked at Tim, raising his eyebrows and smiling proudly. "What do you think? Have I got this school wired, or what?"
Tim crossed his arms. "Impressive. Now, why are we in here. I mean, other than for me to watch you give yourself lung cancer."
Hudson took another breath off the cigarette. "Leave me alone about the smoking, Tim! Besides, you tolerate it! I mean, what about second-hand smoke, and all that stuff."
Tim smiled. "Lucky for you, I don't believe in second-hand smoke, and 'all that stuff.'"
"I think you should go over to Ariana right now and apologize."
"For what?"
"For whatever you did! I'm telling you, just apologize, and it'll all be fine!"
"But, I didn't do anything wrong, Hudson! I saw Peter Devorak there, and I didn't want Ari to be hurt!"
Hudson regarded his friend with skepticism. "Sure about that? I seem to remember hearing something about a certain attractive blonde girl at that dance . . ."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Look, she was just someone who I saw at Karl's funeral. She's a friend of Ariana's."
Hudson took another hit from the cigarette. "That's what you apologize for."
"What?"
"Looking at that other girl. You go up to Ari, you tell her about your undying devotion, or some other sentimental baloney--girls love sentimental baloney. Beg her forgiveness, she forgives you, six or seven years from now, you're married with children."
Tim tried not to laugh, but couldn't hold out for long. "You're amazing, you know that. The big female expert who had to ask me to ask Erica Greene out for you!"
Hudson sidestepped the statement, inhaling again off the cigarette and smiling. "I heard that Erica came up and talked to you in study hall yesterday."
Tim nodded. "So?"
"About what?"
Tim shook his head. "About nothing, as if it were any of your business, anyway." Tim walked over to one of the sinks, turned on the water, and looked at Hudson. "We've had more than enough time to take a drain, not to mention do any number of other things. I think Ives is getting lonely."
Hudson put his cigarette under the water, then dropped it into the toilet and flushed it away. "Why is it that girls can go into their bathroom's by the hundreds without anyone giving it a second look?"
Tim started for the door. "I just don't know."
"And, why is it that guys are never allowed in the Ladies room? I mean, is there something in there that people who can count to twenty-one on their body parts just can't be allowed to see?"
Tim opened the door and shook his head. "I just don't know." Tim waved Hudson out the door.
"So, are you going to talk to Ariana?"
Tim sighed as Hudson exited the bathroom. "I don't know. Maybe I'll call her tonight."
Kansas City, Missouri, 1:13 p.m. CST
Staying up late, browsing newspapers, and police reports had yielded nothing. Late last night, a single phone call to Oracle had produced the last known whereabouts of Victor Benson. Of course, the FBI had already been through the man's former apartment, and questioned all of his friends long before Jean-Paul arrived. Still, Jean-Paul had to start somewhere.
Last night had been the first time Jean-Paul had spoken to Oracle. Somehow, he had always pictured her sounding older. She was a young woman. She was all business, not bothering to make small-talk while she conducted her information searches, but when she spoke, her voice had a politeness, a warmth that Jean-Paul hadn't expected to hear from someone of Oracle's reputation. Afterall, she was a primary contact for many of the world's most prominent superheroes, including members of the Justice League.
As Jean-Paul saw it, Victor Benson had to have made friends in Kansas City. It was a city of nearly one-half million people, and for Benson to have survived there without contact with anyone would have been impossible. Victor Benson had lived in Kansas City for nearly four months, under the name of Val Borning.
According to Oracle, Val Borning had been employed as a data entry operator at ShowCo International for most of those four months. That was where Jean-Paul would start his search. ShowCo was a large, national corporation, so chances of speaking with the company's president were slim. In a way, that was good. The president of a large company seldom had any form of close contact with his lower-rung employees. If Jean-Paul got to talk to one of Val Borning's supervisors, it could make his trip to Kansas City worthwhile.
According to one of the data entry operators, the supervisor had been a man named Fred York for the last three years. Fred York was the fat gentlemen of average height who was pacing back and forth across the front of the large computer lab. He seemed affable enough that Jean-Paul didn't have any reservations about approaching the man outright and asking his questions.
"Excuse me, sir," Jean-Paul began, standing parallel to York's path as he continued to pace, "I'd like to talk to you about a man named Val Borning. He worked here a few months ago."
Fred York looked at Jean-Paul briefly, then kept on pacing. "No, young man. Unless you have a badge with you, I won't be discussing that particular employee anymore. With anyone."
Jean-Paul began pacing alongside York. "Then, the F-B-I's already been here asking about him?"
York stopped. "More than once. More than twice. And, on every time they came here and disrupted the operation of my computer lab, not once did they even tell me what Val Borning was wanted for. Not one time did they offer me any information on this guy who I'd been supervising for three and a half months." York started pacing again, and waved his hand back at Jean-Paul, shoeing him away. "I'm not talking about him anymore, not to anyone. Now get out of here."
Jean-Paul thought of going after Fred York, but he knew it wouldn't do any good.
The FBI had been to Kansas City, they had spoken to Victor Benson's former supervisor, and most likely to his friends and family, as well. They had, in all probability, gathered a great deal of information on Benson in the past four months, and perhaps some time before that.
Maybe, Jean-Paul considered, it was time for him to stop gathering information, and start using what was already there.
Wellington Country Club, Hole 2, 4:12 p.m.
Bruce looked down at the ball, then ahead to the hole, marked by a red flag three-hundred and fifty yards away. He brought the club down to the ball, lifted it back, and swung. As he followed through, Bruce watched the ball sail through the air and land three hundred yards away, in the rough. Looking around at the other golfers, Bruce shrugged self consciously, then started towards his golf cart.
Tim followed, hauling Bruce's golf bag over his right shoulder. After securing the golf bag in the back of the cart, Tim joined Bruce in the front. They started off in the direction the ball had gone. "We really should do this sometime when no one else is around," Tim said. "I'd like to see if you can really play golf."
Bruce shrugged. "Truthfully, I don't even like golf all that much. It's all for appearances."
"Well, it's a pleasure to appear as your caddie."
The golf cart rolled over the evenly cut grass of the fairway onto the comparably unkept rough. "Come-on," Bruce said as he exited the cart and started towards the area where he'd seen the ball fall to the ground. He and Tim had been searching the ground for almost ten minutes when Bruce looked up at the sound of footsteps. Approaching them from the trees to the south of the rough was Derek Brellton, smiling sheepishly.
"Is that Bruce Wayne?!" Brellton said, sounding amazed. "How are you, Wayne?"
Bruce smiled warmly at Derek, shaking his hand. "Oh, I've been doing as well as can be expected. Although," Bruce began scanning the ground around his feet, "I seem to have lost my ball . . ."
Derek regarded Bruce sympathetically. "Oh, dear; I know how that can be. My ball seems to have disappeared somewhere in those trees down there." Derek looked briefly behind him. "Say, Bruce, I hear that there's to be a big bash at the manor tonight!"
Bruce nodded. "I thought I'd give my butler something to do. Afterall, it has been awhile, to be sure. You're certainly welcome to come, Derek."
Brellton shook his head, waving off Bruce's invitation. "Oh, I couldn't, Bruce. Besides, I've already filled up this evening. I'm actually planning on taking some time off and spending a quiet night in the penthouse for a change."
Bruce yawned. "I suppose that boredom is nice every so often. Still, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have something to . . . do." Bruce did a double take to his left. "Excuse me, but I think I see my ball over here. I'll see you later, Derek. Come-on, Tim."
"If you find a bright yellow ball somewhere with my initials on it, give me a call, would you?" Derek Brellton asked as Bruce and Tim started off to the left. When Brellton was back down in the woods, Bruce started back for the golf cart.
"Did you get the ball?" he asked Tim.
Tim nodded. "Three minutes ago."
Food Mart, 2123 East 75th Street, 5:32 p.m.
Twice a week, Alfred made a trip to the supermarket to pick up some basic supplies for his kitchen--flour, sugar, iced-tea bags, coffee, eggs, several gallons of milk and orange juice, some ice cream for when Tim or Dick visited, and several cases of ginger ale, which Bruce would disguise as champagne when he had company.
During the first of these trips to the supermarket, Dick would always accompany Alfred to pick up some bare essentials of his own, since Dick's only mode of transportation was his motorcycle, and it was hard to fit four or five bags of groceries onto a motorcycle.
Dick and Alfred had worked out a finely-tuned routine since Dick had moved back to Gotham City. Alfred would take one cart and begin at one end of the store, moving up and down the aisles, taking what he needed and dropping it into the cart. Dick would pay attention to where Alfred was, and carefully avoid him until both men were done shopping. This was done because, when Dick was fifteen, he and Alfred went shopping together for the first time. The youngster's tastes were so different that Alfred could barely tolerate the experience. Since their relationship was so strong otherwise, they decided that from then on, while they might enter and leave the store together, any shopping would be done on a strict, separate basis.
Last night, Dick had dreamt about Heidi. He had seen her face, touched her, stroked her hair. He had seen her child--a boy, who looked impossibly like Dick. He and Heidi had talked, laughed, cried. They had held each other, kissed, made love, and it was all so real. Dick woke this morning wondering exactly where he had spent the night. When he remembered where he was, that everything of that night had been a dream, Dick realized that today was his day to buy groceries, and thanked God.
At least he would have something to do for a few minutes that would take his mind off of her.
Dick's cart filled very quickly. He had been shopping on his own for so long, and his tastes changed so little from week to week, that it seldom took longer than thirty minutes for Dick to get in and out of the Food Mart. Today, it took twenty minutes. When he saw an empty checkout, Dick opted to wait for Alfred in the car, and get out of this place as soon as possible, get some fresh air.
Pushing his cart up to vacant Checkout 13, Dick began unloading his cart. The cashier, a striking young brunette, smiled at him as he laid a carton of eggs out on the small black conveyor belt that brought the groceries up to the cash register. Dick returned the smile. "Hi," he heard himself say, "I'm Dick."
The young woman smiled again. She took the corner of her name tag and held it out towards Dick, who stared at it. "I'm Heidi."
Dick felt something mentally smack him in the face. He had been coming to this store for nearly a year, and until today he hadn't given a damn about this girl's name. Now, it hit him like an eighteen-wheeler on a German highway. He looked at this Heidi, at her name tag, then at her face. She was of an almost heavenly beauty. Even so, he couldn't get Heidi Barrell out of his mind. Dick smiled at the young brunette. "Hi. Say, I've been coming here for awhile, and I've noticed you working here before."
Heidi nodded. "I've usually been working the five to closing shift."
Dick remembered Bruce's party at the mansion tonight. "What time do you get off tonight?"
Heidi smiled. "Six, actually."
"Really? What about closing?"
"Well, I came in this morning to cover for someone."
"How considerate. Are you doing anything tonight?"
Heidi seemed taken aback. "Whoa! Um . . . no. No, I'm not, actually."
Dick shuffled around on the floor for a moment, looking down. "Do you want to do something?"
Heidi laughed self consciously. "Um," she began, smiling, "I don't even know your last name!"
Dick smiled. "Grayson," he said immediately. And, if yours is Barrell, I'll drop my pants and shoot myself in the sweet spot, I swear to God.
Heidi smiled. "I'm Heidi Stone. Nice to meet you . . . Dick."
Dick had to stop himself from laughing, and was only partially successful. "Don't get your hopes up," he began, smiling widely, "My parents were calling me that for years before . . . well, anyway . . ."
They both laughed. "Ah-hmm," Alfred groaned. Dick turned and saw his oldest and closest friend standing behind him in line. Alfred looked at Dick, then rolled his gaze to Heidi. "Well, Master Dick," he said, easily suppressing a threatening smile, "I see you've become acquainted with Miss Heidi."
Dick regarded Alfred with an open mouth, then looked at Heidi. "You two know each other?" Heidi asked, just as Dick was about to say the exact same thing.
"When Master Grayson was a young man, he was taken into the home of my wealthy employer. We developed a friendship beyond the simple . . . man to manservant association."
Heidi smiled and looked at Dick. "Well, any friend of Alfred's is . . ." A mischievous grin spread over her face. " . . . at least a friend of mine."
Dick raised his eyebrows. "Really?" He pushed his cart over, reached back and began helping Alfred unload his cart. "Listen," he said to Heidi, "Alfred's . . . wealthy employer, and my good friend, is having a little get-together tonight at his . . . home. I would love for you to meet him; see the old homestead."
Heidi looked at her cash register. "Seventy-three eighty-four."
"Pardon?"
"Seventy-three dollars, eight-four cents. That's for the groceries you just bought."
"Oh," Dick said, smiling again, this time with embarrassment. He pulled out his wallet, removed a one-hundred dollar bill, and handed it over to Heidi, their fingers brushing as he withdrew his hand. Heidi slipped the bill into the cash drawer and handed back Dick's change, along with the receipt. Dick checked over the receipt, looked at the contents of his cart, then slapped the receipt down on the counter beside the cash register. "Alfred? You have a pen, by any chance?"
Alfred thought a moment, then reached into his inner jacket pocket, removing a ball-point pen. Dick took the pen and scribbled a telephone number onto the back of his receipt.
"Here," he said, handing it to Heidi, "Call me tonight. And, don't forget to wear something nice."
"Like what?"
"We'll talk about it when you call me."
Dick pushed his cart full of bagged groceries outside to Alfred's car, and waited. "So," he said after he and Alfred's groceries were loaded into the trunk and they were both in the car, "You've known Heidi in there for awhile?"
Alfred nodded. "Yes, Master Dick. Since she began work at the supermarket."
"Really?" Dick pursed is lips and nodded slowly. Looking back to Alfred, he said, "Tell me about her."
Kansas City, Missouri, 5:12 p.m. CST
Jean-Paul stepped into the phone booth and removed a slip of paper from his front pants pocket. Picking up the phone, he dialed a 1, then the ten numbers scribbled onto the paper. He waited for three rings, then hung up and redialed the number. Jean-Paul waited until the phone on the other end had rung twenty-two times, then someone picked up.
"Please enter your personal identification number," said a pre-recorded female voice.
Jean-Paul thought a moment, then punched in 22349. The phone rang another three times, then it was picked up again. "Hello, Azrael," Oracle greeted Jean-Paul. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm in Kansas City."
"No kidding. Any luck with your search?"
"No, that's why I've called you. I need every scrap of information the F-B-I has on Victor Benson, also known as Val Borning."
Oracle sighed. Jean-Paul could tell she was about to disappoint him. "Sorry, Azrael. In order to hack into the F-B-I's net, I'd have to bypass more private access codes, and disable more security programs, that by the time I'm done, you'll have forgotten why you asked me to do it in the first place. Why did you ask me?"
"I talked to my quarry's former employer today, and he said that Federal agents had already been asking about him on numerous occasions. I decided it would be easier to just look at whatever the F-B-I has on him already, then see if I could predict his next move."
"He's probably already made his next move by now. Listen, I can get that F-B-I info for you if you really need it, but it could take awhile. I'm overloaded with requests as it is now; Green Lantern just asked me for a star map showing the location of . . . Apokolips. And, I've got a stack of things here, and three full e-mail accounts."
Jean-Paul massaged his forehead, squinting as he thought. "Sounds like it would be easier if I just broke into the F-B-I and got the Benson file myself."
Oracle laughed sarcastically. "Yeah, maybe."
Jean-Paul shrugged. "Can you give me the address of the nearest F-B-I facility?"
Wayne Manor, 7:39 p.m.
Alfred had been busy in the kitchen since returning from the Grocery store. Dick, stopping by his apartment briefly to drop off his groceries, had gone back to Wayne Manor with Alfred. Afterall, the butler always refused to hire a caterer for Bruce's gatherings, and Dick knew more about cooking than Bruce did.
Dick washed his hands in the sink and dried them. "So, what's on the menu for this shindig, huh Alfred?"
Alfred was chopping carrots furiously. "This is a party, Master Dick, not a formal dinner. Mr. Wayne asked for an array of snacks, some hors d'oeuvres, nothing more. Would you please begin dicing some lettuce?"
"Sure. If this is just a party with some snacks, why the fury?"
Alfred shrugged, brushing the carrots into a pile and beginning to chop them again. "A large party requires a large amount of hors d'oeuvres, Master Dick."
"And champagne."
Alfred nodded. "Where did you put the ginger ale?"
Dick pulled a knife from a drawer and pointed with it. "The walk-in. It should remain unnoticed until Bruce needs to walk around with a glass of it in his hand."
Alfred allowed himself to smile at the joke. The butler did find it somewhat amusing, the man who threw the party mingling with his guests, drinking ginger ale and watching as they slowly slipped into drunkenness. "Once you've done with the lettuce, bring it over here. Then, if you wish, you may mix the punch." Dick nodded, ran the knife across the lettuce several more times, then scooped it up on the knife's edge and dropped it beside Alfred's chopped carrots.
"Is that the punch I saw in the walk-in?"
Alfred nodded. "Yes. Add one bottle of champagne to two bottles of the punch. Mix it in the crystal bowl."
"Cabinet above the sink?"
Alfred nodded. The phone rang.
The butler wiped his hands on his apron, then picked up the handset. "Wayne Manor . . . Ms. Heidi, it's pleasant to speak with you. . . . Yes, he's right here before me. All right, and you as well . . ."
Alfred held the phone out to Dick, who was emerging from the walk-in freezer with an armful of two large jugs of fruit punch. "Heidi?" he mouthed silently. Alfred nodded. Dick sat the fruit punch down on the kitchen table, then took the phone. "Hope you don't mind, but I gave her this number, since I knew I'd be here tonight before the party."
The Englishman shook his head; it was no problem.
"Heidi? . . . Hello! . . . No, I'm not at my place right now, I'm helping Alfred and Bruce set up for the little soiree tonight. . . . Yes, but only I get to call him Bruce. . . . You're daggone right I want you to come to the party with me-- . . . well, I think we know each other well enough; I've shopped at your store. . . . No, listen, if you really can't find anything to wear, I'll come pick you up right now and we'll hit the Plaza. . . . Have it your way. Give me your address; I'll come pick you up. . . . Maybe an hour, I'll be by. . . . Know what? . . . No! No, I was going to say that I can't wait either. . . . See you in about an hour. Is that seven seven thirteen? Okay. Bye, then." Dick hung up the phone.
Alfred regarded Dick from the side of his eye.
"She's really a beautiful girl," Dick said, almost swooning.
Alfred grinned wryly. "I've always liked her name, especially."
Dick looked at Alfred with a furrowed brow. "What?"
Alfred shook his head. "The punch, if you please."
Drake Mansion, 9:33 p.m.
Tim stared at the phone, his eyes darting from the numbered buttons to the handset that seemed to be begging to be lifted from its cradle. He took a deep breath, the picked up the phone and dialed Erica's number.
The phone rang twice. A young sounding female voice answered. "Hi, is Erica there? . . . Oh, sorry. It--it didn't sound like you. . . . Well, yes. I have thought about it, and um . . . no, no I didn't, but I did decide that, um . . . if I went out with you so soon after Ariana and I . . . you know, it would seem to weird to people, including me. I think I'd rather try and patch things up with Ariana before I start playing the field. . . . But, Erica, you're her best friend . . . no, wait, don't hang-up! No, I didn't talk to her to--Hello? . . . Hello?"
Tim shook his head and slammed the phone down. Immediately, he knew that Erica would be calling Ariana. Tim would have to beat her to it, but what would he say? Ariana had heard the "I'm so sorry, I'll never do it again," spiel before, as well as the "You're the only girl I ever think about." Even though, in Tim's case, they were true, she wouldn't want to hear that again; it wouldn't work.
She had to believe she could trust Tim again, and be right in that belief. Tim had to do more than tell her how special she was . . . he had to show her. An idea came immediately to mind, but Tim banished it almost as soon as it came to him. It returned, and again, Tim sent it away. It was obviously out of the question.
Then, Tim began thinking. During the whole rest of his life, what would he continue to put first, his obligation to others, or his own feelings? After nearly ten minutes of continuous thought, weighing of consequences, Tim picked up the phone.
It rang twice. "Hello," he said, "I know it's late, but . . . is Ariana there?"
Avenue 90, Kansas City, Missouri, 10:03 p.m. CST
Azrael moved quickly and carefully along the wall of the large white granite building that rose up across the street from the Tylus National Bank. Oracle had identified this building as the location for most of the FBI's criminal files, as well as a computer terminal that would grant Jean-Paul access to most any other file that didn't happen to be contained within the papers filed in the recesses of the building.
The back entrance to the building was at a right angle to the wall on which Azrael was pressed against. "Magnify times ten," Azrael ordered quietly. His vision enlarged, and he focused on the numeric keypad by the door. It seemed a simple enough security system, but it was most likely the first of many. This was the FBI, afterall, not the police station in Winona, Mississippi.
Azrael squinted slightly beneath his mask. "Vision normal. . . . Infared view." A heat-sensitive map of everything around him was superimposed over his normal vision. The infared clearly showed a lattice of penlight laser beams criss-crossed just inside the door. The door swung inside, so if the security system weren't disabled, just opening the door would trigger the alarm.
Azrael returned to normal vision. He didn't want to waste time trying to decipher the code needed for the keypad. Besides, he didn't know what would happen if an improper code was input. Azrael removed a small device from one of the utility compartments along the cuff of his left gauntlet that consisted of a sharp blade and a suction cup. Attaching the cup to the center of the lower panel of the glass door, Azrael pulled on the blade, and it telescoped to five times its original size. Placing the blade firmly against the glass, he rotated it around, using the suction cup as an anchor, cutting a large circle out of the glass.
Replacing the glass cutter in his utility compartment, Azrael put his two hands just inside the new opening and switched back to infared view. The laser lattice reappeared in front of him. Just on the other side of the lattice was an access panel to the floor. Azrael reached into another utility pocket and removed a small flathead screwdriver. He began to reach through an opening in the security lattice, then stopped and withdrew his hand. Shaking his head, he realized that he had to use his head this time.
"Communications. Telephone." Azrael called Oracle.
"That you, Azrael? What can I do for you now?"
"I'm at the F-B-I building you told me about. I need some . . . technical assistance."
"Sure. Just let me call up the blueprints . . . there we go. Okay."
"I'm just inside the back entrance--the glass double door. There's a web of security lasers active right in front of me, and an access panel in the floor just beyond the lasers. I need to know what's in that panel."
Oracle was silent for nearly ten seconds. Azrael could hear the clicks of a computer mouse, and occasional typing in the background. "Don't touch that panel; it's a decoy. Once it's removed, the alarm will sound. Feel around for something hard beneath the carpet just inside the door. Before the laser screen. That's the real access panel."
Azrael removed his right gauntlet and pressed his hand down into the thin, flat carpet. "I think I can feel . . . screw heads. Beneath the carpet."
"Good. You'll have to cut through the carpet to reach the panel. It was originally designed as an emergency override, in case the building was ever taken over by a terrorist force, or something like that."
Azrael sprung the triangular blade up from the top of his left gauntlet and cut through the carpet in a large rectangle around the screws. Pulling up the carpet, Azrael saw the access panel. He picked up the small flathead screwdriver and began removing the panel. "All right," he told Oracle as he took the last screw out, "the screws are out. Anything I need to know?"
"Glad you asked; yes. Lift up the right side of the panel first. There's an alarm trigger built in to keep people from doing just what you're about to do."
Azrael dug the fingernails of his gloveless right hand in under the right half of the panel and slowly pried it up. He then removed the panel completely. "Okay," Oracle said, "Now--"
"Wait," Azrael said, staring at the contents of the panel. His mind was racing, and he was hit with a sudden clarity. "I know what to do now . . ."
"How?" asked Oracle with disbelief. "I haven't--"
"It must be the System . . ."
"The brainwashing that the Order gave you?"
"I've always felt . . . a separate presence enter me whenever I put on the Azrael costume, but the last time I actually could feel the tangible grip of the System, I was wearing a different costume."
"Is this one of the hidden abilities Batman warned me about?"
"According to Batman, there are many things that I know, many things I can do, that I am still not aware of. The knowledge of this security system is obviously one of them . . . but I can't remember seeing anything like this before."
Wayne Manor, 10:49 p.m.
Dick used to hate these things.
He looked at Heidi's shining brown hair, her sparkling hazel eyes, the tiny wrinkle that appeared at the corner of her mouth when she smiled, and realized that there had been a time when he hated being at Wayne Manor during a party.
This was the first time he could remember enjoying himself. Heidi seemed to enjoy it, too. Afterall, Dick wondered, how often did an employee at a grocery store get to attend a billionaire's private party? He hadn't thought of Heidi Barrell all night.
Then, her face flashed across his mind, and the realization that his night with Heidi Stone was nothing but a distraction came rushing back. Dick shook off the complication in his face and smiled at Heidi. "Having a good time?" he asked.
Heidi laughed sillily. "Yes," she said with an excited smile. "Yes, I'm having a great time. Thanks for bringing me here."
Dick looked around at the ballroom and grinned. Heidi's look seemed to be asking, What? Dick looked at her. "Oh, sorry. I phased out there for a sec, didn't I?"
Heidi nodded. "Um-hmm."
"Sorry about that. It's just that . . . when I was fifteen--right after Bruce took me in--I went to one of these parties of his for the first time. Hated it. There were all these people, some of them not much more than . . . six years older than me, and rich as a whole tree of figs. I was so jealous . . . and then there were these women, mostly in their forties, I think, who looked at me like I was some kind of pet." Dick looked down at the floor, then around at the ballroom again, and back to Heidi. "You know, this is the first time I think I've ever really enjoyed myself at one of Bruce's parties." Dick looked into Heidi's hazel eyes. "Thank you, for coming here with me."
Across the room, Bruce was carrying on a pleasantly artificial conversation with Tyler Brandt, new owner of the Galaxy Automobile, International company. "That sounds very interesting, Tyler. You be sure and give me a ring when that new . . . what's it called?"
"The Caldera Five-hundred," answered Tyler Brandt immediately.
Bruce nodded profusely and grinned. "Right. The Caldera. I'll be sure and take a few off your hands. They should go great in my collection, right next to the Tucker. Excuse me."
Bruce brushed past Tyler and walked across the room to stand next to Alfred, who was holding a silver tray with several varieties of hors d'oeuvres he had made earlier. "What's that?" Bruce asked, picking up what appeared to be a deviled egg.
"That," Alfred said, looking at a similar egg on the tray, "is a hard-boiled egg, the yolk removed, and filled with a vegetable and fat-free mayonnaise paste. I find them quite flavorful."
Bruce stared at it, then finally put it in his mouth. Chewing, he raised his eyebrows. "Not . . . bad," he said, tilting his head to the side. Bruce swallowed. "Alfred, make up an excuse for me. I'm heading down. I can't stand this any longer."
Bruce inconspicuously slipped into what had once been his father's study, and from there down a stone staircase into the Cave.
Bruce had been gone not even five minutes when the Manor's phone rang. "Wayne Manor," Alfred answered.
"Alfred," said Bruce from the Batcave, "Tell Dick to get down here. Tim's spending the night in with his father, and I have a feeling I'll need some help with this one."
"What's happened, sir?"
"Just tell Dick to get down to the Cave. Right now."
Alfred spotted Dick near the middle of the dance floor and beckoned to him. Dick somehow found a way to excuse himself from Heidi, and started towards Alfred. Alfred moved to meet him, but was stopped by Gabriel Yen, owner of Yen's Paradise, a hotel in Gotham's Partytown.
"Alfie? What's happened to Bruce?"
"Forgive me, Master Yen, I'm not certain. Perhaps he's escaped to the upstairs with one of the many young ladies he's invited here tonight."
Yen smiled. "Yes, well . . . you know Bruce."
Alfred nodded and started back towards Dick. "Indeed," he said.
Beneath Wayne Manor, 10:56 p.m.
Dick pulled on the left glove of his Nightwing costume, and tightened up his ponytail. Batman emerged from the vault, and waved Nightwing towards the Batmobile.
"Let's go. One of my spot-check alarms sounded a few minutes ago--someone's trying to break into Derek Brellton's penthouse."
Batman slid in behind the wheel of the car, and Nightwing stopped just short of the car. "This'd better not be a falsie; I may have just totally ruined a relationship with a great girl."
Nightwing climbed into the passenger seat, and Batman slid the roof canopy shut. "Almost glad I never had a real personal life . . . seems like they're more trouble than they're worth . . ."
BrellCo Towers, 11:04 p.m.
Quentin's clawed fingers flipped through the rows of manila folders in the third filing cabinet.
Derek Brellton laid motionless on the floor behind him.
The file the Penguin had requested didn't seem to be anywhere to be found. Quentin had to strongly resist the urge to slam the drawer shut and overturn every one of the six filing cabinets in the room. He stopped, and closed the drawer quietly. Three cabinets to go . . . where is it?!! Quentin thought as he moved onto the next filing cabinet. As he stepped, he felt something strange beneath his feet: very little. Kneeling down, Quentin tapped the floor beneath his feet lightly with one claw--a hollow space beneath the carpeted paneling.
Quentin tore through the carpet and drove his outstretched fingers into the wooden paneling beneath it. Resting in the hollow section of the floor was a locked metal rectangular box. Taking a small metal lockpick from one of the storage compartments around the waist of his costume, Quentin easily picked the lock and opened the box. A file folder, thick with paper nearly a full inch, was inside.
Quentin slipped the folder into a pocket hidden in the middle of his cape, and felt someone hit him hard in the jaw.
Batman followed up the punch with a hard kick to the shoulder. Quentin rolled with it, sprung to his feet, and leapt towards Batman. Batman caught Quentin by the shoulders and rolled with his momentum, throwing him hard to the floor. Quentin blocked a punch by Batman, and hit the dark knight hard across his exposed chin with a sharp fist. Batman fell back, and Quentin rolled on top of him, drawing his right fist back for another punch.
Someone else kicked Quentin hard in the jaw, then took him by the arm and threw him across the room. It was Nightwing, and the newcomer took a step towards Quentin and lashed out with a fast roundhouse kick. Quentin caught Nightwing's foot and twisted it, throwing him to the ground. The same instant that Nightwing hit the floor, Batman leapt over him and connected solidly with Quentin's masked face.
Quentin staggered, and suddenly realized . . . why was he fighting? He already had what he had come for. He crouched low on the ground, then leapt towards the sliding glass patio doors. Quentin leapt through the glass, out onto the balcony, and then from the balcony down towards the street.
Looking around, Quentin saw no sign of Batman.
Up in the penthouse, Batman started for the balcony. "Check Brellton," Batman ordered Nightwing, then leaped off the balcony, batarang and line in hand.
Quentin aimed his right gauntlet and fired a grapple up to the highest balcony of the building adjacent to BrellCo Towers. The powerful automatic retraction in the gauntlet carried Quentin quickly up. When he reached a patio railing two-thirds of the way to the top of the building, Quentin stopped his ascent, retrieved the grapple and cord, and leapt into the air, firing again.
Batman dropped from the sky, wrapping his arms around Quentin's neck and his legs around Quentin's waist. Batman took hold of the cord that had just been fired from Quentin's gauntlet and yanked it hard, downward. The grapple on the end of it went nowhere, and both men began a hard fall.
Realizing that, if he continued to hold him, both men would most likely die upon impact, Batman released Quentin, pushing him away. Both men landed safely, rolling several feet and standing. Quentin approached Batman fast and punched at him, hard. Batman ducked, and from behind him, Nightwing blocked the punch and took hold of Quentin's arm. Nightwing spun the enemy around, taking him firmly with both arms. Batman stood before Quentin, took careful aim, and landed a hard right uppercut to the jaw. Quentin slipped into unconsciousness.
Nightwing let him fall. "Brellton is fine. Just a bump on his head." He glanced down at Quentin. "I called the police; they should be here soon."
"Quentin was in Brellton's penthouse for a reason," Batman said thoughtfully, kneeling down and beginning to feel the unconscious man's cape. He found a hidden pocket, and removed a thick folder.
"What's that?"
Batman flipped through the folder, skimming over the pages. "Information on Gotham street gangs. . . . Looks like it's information I already have." Batman flipped to the front of the folder and removed a flimsy, oddly shaped piece of paper. "Look at this, though," he said, passing it to Nightwing.
Nightwing read it, and his mouth could've dropped open--it was a newspaper article: The Gotham Globe, from nearly six years ago. "Oh my God . . . Brellton had a son?"
Batman took the article from Nightwing and replaced it in the folder. "Derek the Second. He was killed in a gang shooting when he was five years old." Batman tucked the folder away in his own cape. "He would've been eleven this year." Batman looked up towards Derek Brellton's penthouse.
"I guess Brellton was more than he put forward," Nightwing observed.
Batman nodded. "Just like me."
Gotham City Cathedral, 12:43 a.m.
"I just heard a police broadcast," Nightwing said, "Quentin's disappeared. The police arrived at Brellton's house, but Quentin was nowhere in sight."
Batman turned away and looked out across the city. "Damn," he said quietly. Turning quickly at the sound of footsteps, Nightwing and Batman saw Robin approaching from behind.
"Hey, Boy Wonder," Nightwing greeted him. "I thought you were spending the evening in tonight?"
Robin shook his head. "Dad's asleep. I guess I got a little restless."
Nightwing nodded understandingly. "Seen any action tonight?"
"Just a mugging on Seventh Avenue." Robin walked up beside Batman, looked out across the city, then turned to face his partner. "Batman--Bruce--there's something I need to tell you. And you, Dick."
Nightwing walked up and stood behind Batman. "What is it, Robin," Batman asked, concern evident in his voice.
Robin looked uncomfortably at the roof of the cathedral. "I talked to Ariana tonight," he began, looking up. His eyes moved from Batman, to Nightwing, then settling back on Batman. "I told her about me . . . about this." Robin tugged gently at the R emblazoned on his chest below his left shoulder. "I told her everything."
NEXT: "The Grinding Wheels of Justice"