BATMAN: The New Continuity

Tommy Godfrey gave a sigh as he climbed the front steps of the police station. He had been back in town exactly twenty-six minutes when he had walked through the door into his apartment and played his phone messages. The third message had been from Michael, his younger brother.

The desk sergeant when Tommy walked in was a short, balding Black man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. When the sergeant spoke, it was with a low, thick rasp that one would expect to hear coming from a jazz singer instead of a policeman. "Can I help you?"

Tommy nodded politely, placing the fingertips of both hands up on the edge of the tall desk. "My brothers, Michael and Vincent Godfrey were arrested day before yesterday. I just got the message on my machine that they were here."

The sergeant opened a thick notebook and flipped through a few pages, tracing his finger down to the middle of a page and nodding. "They were brought in with a friend of theirs really early Monday morning. No one came into bail 'em out; we were holding 'em until their hearing tomorrow." The sergeant rested his hands over the pages of the notebook and leaned forward toward Tommy. "You're their brother? You here to bail 'em out?"

Tommy started to nod, but ended up shrugging instead. "Can I see them first? Before you let them out?"

"Sure," the sergeant said with a small nod. He turned and waved his hand, catching the attention of a uniformed officer standing nearby. The officer, a younger White man who by Tommy's estimation was obviously new to the uniform, stepped up dutifully.

"Sergeant?" the young officer asked.

The desk sergeant pointed at Tommy. "His brothers're down in lock-up. Take him down for a few minutes so they can have a word."

The officer motioned for Tommy to follow him, and they began walking down a long hallway that started to the right of the sergeant's desk. At the end of the hall was a set of concrete steps that led downstairs to the jail. Another uniformed officer sat at a metal desk at the bottom of the stairs, stationed at guard duty right before the iron-barred doorway leading back to the jail.

The guard stood, a full four inches shorter than Tommy. "Here to visit with someone back there?" he asked, directing the question more to the other officer. The young officer who had played escort gave a nod. "Okay," the guard said, now speaking directly to Tommy, "I'll need you to empty your pockets."

Opening a drawer in his desk, the guard produced a brass-plated bowl, its finish dulled to non-existence, and sat it on top of the desk. Tommy fished his key ring out of his front pocket and dropped it into the bowl, along with his wallet and a small penknife. When that was done, he stopped and looked expectantly at the guard.

"The ring and the watch, too," the guard directed him. Tommy pulled the yellow lustrium ring off of his right ring finger and set it into the bowl. The ring was from his college alma mater, University of Coast City, which didn't even exist anymore. His watch was an Indiglo, seven months old, holding no personal weight whatsoever; Tommy removed that as well and placed it in the bowl with his other effects.

The guard looked in the bowl, then back up at Tommy and gave a nod, looking past him to the wall. "Just a quick search before I can let you go back."

Tommy sighed, then nodded and turned around, standing with his hands against the wall beside the desk, his back to the guard. The guard conducted the search unenthusiastically but thoroughly, patting Tommy down, starting at the shoulders, down both arms, across the chest and stomach, down to the buttocks and briefly to the groin, then down the legs. "Remove your shoes please, sir," the guard instructed. Tommy did so, and the guard checked the inside of both loafers, then felt for any foreign objects hidden in the socks.

"You know, I am here to bail the guys out; there's nothin' in there to help 'em escape," Tommy informed the other man wryly.

The guard put Tommy's shoes back on the floor in front of him. "Go ahead and put your feet back in there. You're all right." The guard slid a clipboard across from the other side of his desk. "Gotta sign in so we have a record of your visit in case anything happens."

Tommy slipped his shoes back on, then took the pen the guard held out to him and signed his name on the first empty line. The guard picked up the clipboard and appeared to take a moment to scrutinize the signature. His eyes rolled up from the sign-in sheet to Tommy, and he walked past him to the barred doorway. The guard pulled a key ring from his belt and slid one of the keys into the lock on the left side of the bars, unlocking them and sliding them open.

"Don't take too long," he cautioned Tommy.

"Sure thing, officer."

Tommy started back the corridor, barred concrete cells on either side of him. He jumped slightly as he heard the bars slide shut behind him with a bang and lock with a turn of the guard's key. "Michael?" he called cautiously, looking into the cells as he passed.

An arm stuck out between the bars of a cell near the end of the hall. "Tommy?" came a familiar voice, tinged with relief. "Tommy, we're back in this one."

Michael Godfrey stood at the bars of the third cell from the back on the left side of the corridor. Standing directly beside him was Greg Youngman, and directly behind them both was Vincent Godfrey, the oldest of the three brothers. Tommy looked at his two brothers and sadly shook his head. "Miles is in the ground six months, and already I think he's the one better off," he said half under his breath, looking down at the concrete floor.

Tommy looked up and met Michael's eyes, holding his gaze for a moment, then shifting sharply over to Greg Youngman for a moment. "What'd he talk you into this time?" Tommy asked, nodding toward Greg, eyeing first one brother then the other. "Hmm?"

Greg gripped the bars, opened his mouth to speak. "It wasn't my fault, Tom. Everyth -- "

Tommy cut Greg off with a firm wave of his finger and a sharp look. "Shh," he hissed harshly. "You shut your mouth. . . . I'm talking to my brothers."

Vincent cleared his throat. "You don't have to talk to Greg like that, he didn't talk us into anything. It was both of us as much it was him."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding in disbelief, "I'll bet it wasn't even his idea to start with, huh?"

"Not fair, Tom," Greg protested.

"Don't sit down," Tommy told Michael and Vincent, "I'm gonna go out front and bail you outta here."

Tommy turned and started back up the corridor. Greg leaned into the bars, looking after him. "Me too, huh, Tom? Get me outta here, too."

"Sergeant up front said the hearing for you three is tomorrow. You can spend another night here, Greg, and after that, I don't give a shit what happens to you."

The guard up front was sitting at his desk, writing something on another form on another clipboard. Tommy rapped his knuckles on the square lock of the bars. "I'm bailing out Michael and Vince Godfrey," he said as the guard stood, "better let me outta here so I can get my wallet over there."

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
10:01 a.m.

Kitch opened the door of his office, stepped in and hung up his coat, then stepped one foot out, paused, and scanned the squad room. He counted five detectives and six desks. "Where's Berkley?"

Bullock looked up at his lieutenant as he took a healthy bite out of a runny egg-and-cheese sandwich. "Who's Berkley?"

"Christopher Berkley, Detective First Grade." Kitch stepped both feet out of his office and pulled off the jacket of his gray suit. "He's our new sixth man. He was supposed to transfer over from 78th Vice today." He reached one arm back into his office and hung the jacket on the rack over his coat, then brought his arm back in front of his eyes and checked his wristwatch. "He's late."

Bock took his mug and stood from his desk, walked over to the coffee pot that sat on a stand next to the water cooler, directing a slightly disgusted glance toward Bullock, as he chewed on another large bite from his sandwich. "Jesus, Harvey . . ." Bock filled his mug three-quarters full with black coffee and held it with both hands beneath his pursed lips after he had put the pot back down. "He's only late by two or three minutes, El Tee," Bock observed just before taking a cautionary sip. "Maybe he's having trouble finding the place," he added, smacking his burned lips.

"He couldn't find One Police Plaza?" Montoya asked from her desk, lifting her head up from her own cup of coffee and looking at Bock, incredulous.

Cone leaned back in his chair and looked at Montoya lazily, shrugging. "It's a big town." He turned his head around to Kitch. "How long's this new guy been a cop in Gotham?"

Kitch inhaled, held the breath thoughtfully for a moment. "His whole career, I think."

Soong stood from his desk and started with his mug toward the coffee pot. "How long's that been?" he asked as he passed Bullock and Bock's desks.

Kitch shook his head. "I'm not sure, exactly. Not too long. He's Third Grade; that means he's probably pretty young."

"Or pretty bad," Bullock offered with a mouthful of eggs and cheese.

Bock grimaced. He reached across his own desk to Bullock's, picking up a napkin that had come with the sandwich and tossing it at his partner. "Wipe your mouth if you're gonna sit across from me, for God's sake."

"All right," Kitch said with a disapproving shake of his head, "when Berkley gets here, one of you show him his desk and then send him into me." Kitch turned around and started into his office. He stopped after a step and turned to look at Detective Cone. "Oh, Ben? The Commissioner called me late last night; he needs the final report on the Harris case sometime today."

Cone gave a nod as Kitch withdrew into his office. "No problem, Lieutenant," he said just before Kitch closed the door.

Soong walked past Cone back toward his own desk. "You can handle the report yourself, Ben?"

Cone nodded. "I'm not sure exactly what I'll be able to say. I mean, I think we've got all the specifics of the crime, but no motive. We've got the I-D of the killer, but no whereabouts."

"Just don't try to pad the report with a lot of bullshit," Bullock advised, then swallowed hard.

Bock rolled his eyes and looked down at his desk, muttering "He swallows after he talks . . ."

"Commish hates reading paperwork anyway," Bullock continued, eyeing Bock sideways, "and he can't stand it when he thinks it's taking him longer than it should."

Cone shook his head and sighed. "I'll put something respectable together." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, wiping his face with his hands. "I hope most of the cases up here have a little more closure than this one," he remarked, looking over his hands at Bullock and Bock.

Bock gave a shrug. "With the Joker as your perp, you're lucky you got as much as you did. Me and Harvey, and Harvey and Montoya -- between the three of us, we've worked Joker murders a dozen times, and we're still lucky if we get anywhere near him."

"I've been a cop seventeen years," Cone said, pushing away from his desk and leaning back in his chair, "and I'll bet I can count my unsolved cases on one hand."

"You'll get used to it once you've had to swallow a few unsolved," Soong assured him.

"Sure he will," Montoya said, looking from Soong to Cone. "You just have live with things being out of your reach sometimes. It's tough sometimes, but it's the territory that comes with Major Crimes."

"I guess I'll get used to it," Cone said, folding his arms and letting out a sigh.

Bock watched as Bullock shoved the final third of the egg sandwich into his wide mouth and chomped down over it. "Well," Bock began, standing, "I'm not gonna wait around here for the new guy to show up. Harvey, let's me and you take a drive out to Tallman Heights."

Bullock stood from his desk and picked up the napkin Bock had thrown at him earlier, wiping his mouth, then crumpling the napkin up and stuffing it in the white paper bag the sandwich had been in. "Sure," he said, smacking his lips and brushing his palms together. The big detective reached around behind him and pulled his sportjacket up off of the back of his chair.

"What d'you two have going on over in Tallman Heights?" Montoya asked, standing up and leaning back on the edge of her desk as Bullock and Bock were starting toward the stairwell.

"Still that child homicide from One-Eight," Bock said, stopping in the doorway.

Bullock adjusted the collar on his jacket, straightening the lapels. "Our suspect's worthless brother disappeared on us just when we got the go-ahead to go get 'im. He's got more family right here in Gotham, over in Tallman Heights."

"Need any help?" Montoya asked, standing upright, folding her arms.

Bock shook his head. "No. Thanks, Ren�e, but I think we've got it."

Bullock nodded. "Yeah, no sweat. I've seen the guy; little, skinny, wears these thick black-rimmed glasses. Just the sight of a guy like Hardback and he'll probably shit himself."

Bock regarded his partner with a grin as they started out into the stairwell again. "You fat, racist son of a bitch," he said looking over his shoulder at Bullock, still grinning.

"Hello sir," Bullock said in his most professional voice as they started down the steps, "I'm Detective Bullock. This is my partner, Detective Negro."

The Intersection of Landau Street and Stone Avenue
11 Blocks West of Police Headquarters
10:09 a.m.

The driver's side door to the little gray Horizon opened, and Chris Berkley stepped out, brow wrinkled as he looked toward the human chaos up ahead.

Ten minutes ago a dark purple Grand Prix sped through a red light, crashing into the front of a light green Skylark that had just entered the intersection. The drivers (a Black man in the Skylark, a White man in the Grand Prix, both looking to be in their late 30's) still sat in their respective vehicles. On all sides of the intersection were cars, most shifted into park, some still with their drivers holding down their brakes, all waiting for the two cars, which were not so badly damaged and still plainly mobile, to move.

Berkley put his hands into the large pockets of his tan overcoat and gave a weary sigh as he approached the two cars. As he walked, he looked around and met the eyes of a man close to his own age who sat behind the wheel of a black Lumina. The man looked at Berkley with a shake of his head and rolled his eyes. Berkley nodded in agreement, then looked down at his wristwatch: he was ten minutes late.

"Well . . ." he started to whisper to himself as he was almost to the middle of the intersection, "fuck first impressions anyway."

The driver of the Grand Prix looked up, and Berkley knocked lightly on the driver's side window. The driver rolled the window down and indicated the Skylark with his eyes. "Is he going to move on to a neutral place so we can exchange information?" he asked, looking up at Berkley.

"I'm sorry?" Berkley asked, tilting his right ear toward the driver for a moment, then regarding him straight-on. "Look, sir, you two have been sitting here for ten minutes since you collided with that guy. Now, I don't know what exactly you're trying to do here, but --"

"This isn't my fault!" the driver of the Grand Prix insisted, pulling off the wire-rimmed glasses he wore on his face and staring up sharply at Berkley.

Berkley reached into the inner pocket of the sportcoat he wore beneath the tan overcoat and pulled out his badge. He presented it briefly before the driver, then returned it to its pocket. "I'm a detective with Gotham P.D., sir, and I'm late for my shift thanks to you."

The driver held up an insistent finger. "This isn't my fault!"

"Sir," Berkley began strongly, "I'm not here to place blame. And I don't want to hear about what you thought you were doing, or what you think this driver over here was doing, all right? I just want you both to get your vehicles off of the goddamn road so that I and the rest of the drivers waiting to use these streets can get to wherever we're going." Berkley turned and started around to the driver's side of the Skylark. "See if you can handle that," he said to the Grand Prix's driver as he walked.

The man behind the wheel of the Skylark already had the window down and was waiting for Berkley when he walked up. "You gonna tell me the same thing you told him?" the driver asked, nodding toward the man in the Grand Prix, who was watching Berkley intently.

Berkley shot a momentary glance through the Skylark's windshield at the man in the Grand Prix, then shook his head. "Probably not. Not unless you're as much of a self-concerned asshole as he was."

"I really don't think of myself that way," the Skylark's driver said, shaking his head. "I only haven't moved yet because I thought it was better procedure to wait for him, or for the cops to show up."

"Well, I am the cops," Berkley said, pulling his badge out for a few seconds, "but I'm not officially here. I was on my way to work. I'm late for my shift, actually."

The driver of the Skylark regarded Berkley apologetically. "Oh, you're a detective?" Berkley nodded. "Oh, I'm sure sorry about this."

Berkley shook his head. "No problem. Listen, I drive that Horizon sitting over there behind the crosswalk. I saw the whole incident."

"You did?" the Skylark's driver asked, hopeful.

Berkley nodded. "I did. Now listen, what I want you two to do is find a few spots off the road to park and wait for the cops, all right? It looks like he hit you square but not too hard, so you can probably still drive this thing."

"Certainly will give it a try," the Skylark's driver said with a nod.

"All right." Berkley pulled a notepad out of one of his overcoat pockets, took the small pencil that was held in its spiral binding, and scribbled something onto the pad's top sheet. He tore that paper off and handed it to the Skylark's driver. "That's my name there. Christopher Berkley. I'm with the Major Crimes squad at One Police Plaza, and I can be reached at that number. I saw everything that went down here, I saw him hit you, so if you need someone else besides all the rest of these people to help with the corroboration of your story, just contact me there."

The Skylark's driver took the paper and gave Berkley a smile and an appreciative nod. "Thank you, really. I hope our making you late won't cause you any trouble with your captain."

"Nah," Berkley said, pushing out his lower lip thoughtfully and shaking his head slowly, "once I explain what happened here, everything should be fine. Now, you two get off the road."

Berkley walked back to his Horizon and climbed in. He let out another weary sigh. He looked out his windshield as the Grand Prix finally backed away from the Skylark and drove over to a vacant parallel parking space next to the curb of Stone Avenue. The Skylark found a spot just up the street from there. As shifted his own car into gear and drove at last through the intersection, Berkley looked at the drivers of both vehicles and remembered why he so hated being a cop, and at the same time, why he loved it just as much.

Beneath Wayne Manor
10:15 a.m.

Dick trotted down the stone steps and found Bruce sitting at the computer console, wearing only the bottom half of a black karate gi, holding Section C of the Opal City Press in front of him as he read it. Dick reached the bottom of the steps and glanced momentarily over at the main computer screen, then at the newspaper. "You mean that Opal City's largest newspaper isn't publishing an on-line edition yet?"

Bruce did not look up from the paper, but his eyes stopped reading for an instant. "No," he answered simply, then brought the two halves of the paper together and opened to the next page. He read in silence for several seconds, while Dick stood awkwardly near the bottom of the steps. "You spent the night?" Bruce asked finally, turning his head slightly to the right to read the next page.

"Yeah," Dick said, scratching the top of his head. "No wheels, and I didn't feel much in the Nightwing mood, so I asked Alfred if it was okay to crash in my old room. Just for one night." Dick slipped his hands in his pockets and regarded Bruce with narrowed eyes. "That was okay, wasn't it?"

"You lived here a long time, Dick," Bruce said, still reading.

Dick shrugged. "If you wanna call four years a long time . . ."

"It was your choice when you left," Bruce reminded him, closing up the paper and turning it over to read the back page.

Dick rolled his eyes. "I know whose choice it was; you don't have to remind me of that every time I end up sleeping here."

Bruce folded up that section of the paper and dropped it down with the rest of the paper, waiting on the floor at his feet. "Which you are welcome to do anytime," he said, gathering up the whole Opal City Press and lifting it up and over to a stack of newspapers that stood behind him on the console.

"I need a new bike," Dick said after Bruce had stood from the console and was starting back toward the elevator at the back of the plateau. "Transportation, you know . . ."

Bruce stopped several feet from the elevator platform. "I was wondering what you were going to do about that," he said over his shoulder, turning his head slightly.

Dick regarded Bruce curiously. "Were you really?"

"Dick . . ." Bruce protested wearily.

"Nevermind," Dick said, holding up his palms. "The reason I bring it up is that, while you and Robin were out on patrol last night, I took a few minutes and came down here to look over the on-line classifieds. I didn't find anything I liked, really, or could afford, but --"

"If money is a problem --"

"I'll pay for it, but thanks," Dick interrupted insistently. "Anyway, I did find the website for this little bike shop that's on a used-car lot north of here . . ."

Bruce nodded. "Alfred is off picking up some of my dry cleaning. He should be back within the hour, then he can go with you if you like." Bruce took another step toward the elevator.

"But, see," Dick began, stopping Bruce after another step, "this place isn't just a five-minute drive up the road. It's in Karsted, about fifty miles north of here. And, the place opens at eleven in the morning . . ."

"You want to be there first thing," Bruce stated with understanding.

"You got it," Dick said, holding up his right thumb. "The bike I'm looking at has only been out for two days, and it could sell at anytime -- it's a steal, practically."

"I see," Bruce said with a nod. He stepped onto the elevator. "You can take one of the cars," he told Dick, then started the platform down.

Dick started across the plateau toward the descending elevator at a quick-step. "No, but, see . . ."

The elevator stopped abruptly. Dick reached the edge of the plateau and looked down to see Bruce waiting, standing on the elevator approximately one-fourth of the way down to the lower plateau. ". . . I could take a car, no problem," Dick continued. "But, who would drive the car back?" Dick put his hands in his pockets and regarded Bruce with a kind of tense apology on his face. "I need to leave soon, and I need another man. Alfred's off running an errand, Tim's in school, so . . ." Dick gave a meaningful raise of his eyebrows, even though Bruce wasn't looking at him.

Bruce paused for a moment, a long moment. He shifted the control handle to Up, and the elevator began to rise. When it reached the top, Bruce stepped off swiftly, brushing unceremoniously past Dick. "It will take me a minute or so to get dressed, then we'll leave," he said over his shoulder as he moved to the stairs, somehow managing to make it sound like an order.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
10:24 a.m.

Berkley paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, taking a breath, looking to his right through the doorway into the squad room. He didn't see very much activity. He didn't see any activity, in fact. Exhaling slowly, trying his best to relax, Berkley started quickly toward the door.

He stepped into an empty squad room. No one to be seen. Berkley turned around and found the coatrack. He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on an empty peg, then turned back around and looked over the empty room. He clapped his hands together nervously, eyes darting back and forth.

The door to an office in a corner of the room opened and a tall blonde man who looked to be in his mid-thirties stepped one leg out. He looked at Berkley expectantly. "So?" he started, holding his palm out. "You're Detective Berkley, correct?"

Berkley nodded, immediately assuming an apologetic demeanor. "Yes. Yes, sir. I'm sorry I'm --"

"You're . . ." The blonde man's eyes shifted briefly to Berkley's right, where a clock hung on the wall. ". . . twenty five minutes late."

Berkley nodded again, still apologetic. "I have a good explanation for that, though, sir."

The blonde man waved Berkley over to him, then withdrew into his office. "Let's talk about it in here."

Berkley stepped up, walking into the office and assuming a spot right in front of the desk, practically standing at attention. The blonde man sat down behind the desk, leaning back in a padded rolling chair. "Explanation or excuse?" he asked, looking up at Berkley.

"Hopefully it's an explanation that will excuse my lateness, sir," Berkley said, fighting off a faint smile, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Let's hear it," the blonde man said with an inviting nod.

Berkley inhaled deeply. "I witnessed an automobile accident about ten blocks from here while I was en route. It caused quite a delay at the intersection."

The blonde man nodded again, then tilted his head down and regarded Berkley from beneath his brow. "Did you call the accident in? Did you report it?"

Berkley shook his head. "No, I didn't."

The blonde man's eyes widened for a moment. "You didn't? Why not?"

"My radio is busted, sir. It's been in need of repair for nearly a week now," Berkley explained.

The blonde man looked at Berkley stiffly for a moment, then fell into a faint, lingering laugh, smiling and shaking his head. "You've been a cop here your whole career, right? What's that been?"

"Seven years," Berkley said, looking at the blonde man behind the desk uncertainly.

"Don't you just love it?" the blonde man asked, smirking, cynical. "They put radios in our cars because they say they can't afford to pay for additional squad cars for detectives. Well, no wonder -- they can't afford to fix broken radios." He lapsed into quiet laughter again.

"Things could be better, sir, definitely," Berkley agreed, nodding, smiling at the other man's apparent amusement at the sorry state of things.

"There wasn't a pay phone around you could have used? To call in the accident, or at least call the squad here?"

Berkley shook his head. "I didn't see one around, no, sir."

The blonde man stood from his chair, standing behind the desk, just an inch short of being eye-to-eye with Berkley. "It's a minor miracle to find one that works, anyway." He extended his hand. "Lieutenant Samuel Kitch."

Berkley took it, shook it. "Chris Berkley."

"I know," Kitch said, taking his hand back with a smile and sitting back down. "Welcome to Major Crimes."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Berkley lingered in the office for a moment, looking out a window into the vacant squad room. "Looks like we're pretty busy in here."

Kitch glanced out into the squad room as well, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, everyone's out working something." He leaned forward, pulling a dossier to him from the edge of the desk. He opened it and scanned the top page inside. "Bullock and Bock are still working their child homicide, but I sent Soong, Montoya, and Cone to Hertzog Avenue on a robbery-slash-homicide we just got from the Twelfth Precinct this morning." Kitch slapped the folder shut. "You can head over there and see if they need any help. Introduce yourself, get acquainted, learn how we operate around here."

Berkley gave a satisfactory nod, brushing the sides of his jacket back and putting his hands on his hips. "Okay, sounds good." He turned and started out of the office.

"Chris," Kitch called after him, stopping Berkley with one foot out the door. Berkley looked back expectantly. "I'll call someone, see about getting your radio fixed. Until then, you can ride with whoever you're partnering with."

"That sounds fine, Lieutenant," Berkley said, and started toward the coatrack.

4650 Knickson Avenue
Apartment 3-F
10:33 a.m.

The man in the photo Tommy was holding was Miles Godfrey, dead from mouth cancer for half a year, although the people who knew him would tell you that he really died the day of his diagnosis. Tommy was twenty-four years old, but he thought he had lived quite a while in that time, and he had observed two separate reactions that people could have when told by a doctor that they have cancer.

Most people in a situation like Miles had been in would have knuckled down, lowered their shoulder, and charged right through; fought all the way, and done some serious living, too. Miles took the other route; he still took chemo and bottles and bottles of medication -- he didn't want to die. But the difference, as Tommy saw it, at least, was that Miles expected to die. He never made plans, never left the house except for chemo treatments. He had already been dead, and even now, six months after, Tommy was fighting hard not to hate him for that, for giving up.

Tommy took a long look at the picture, the only professional studio picture that Miles had ever allowed to be taken of him, snapped just over two weeks before the diagnosis had come. "He was a good father to us," came Michael's voice from behind. Tommy gave a sideways glance behind him, then set the picture back up on the little stand and stood up, turning to face his younger brother.

"He was," Tommy said, nodding in solemn agreement, "you're right. Didn't take too good care of himself, though." Tommy looked Michael in the eyes, folded his arms across his chest, then slid his eyes to the left and looked past his brother into the kitchen, at the sink, where his older brother, Vincent, stood. "I wonder what Miles is thinking about when he thinks of his boys now," Tommy said with a melancholy sigh.

"I think he understands," Michael answered, Tommy's eyes coming back to him.

Tommy leveled a piercing stare on his younger brother, his eyes trying to penetrate Michael's thick skull with their gaze. "You ever think about that when you let that fuck Greg Youngman talk you into doing something stupid?" he asked Michael softly but pointedly, turning his head to the side slightly, directing the gaze out the corner of his eye.

"You mean, I ever think about Father when Vince and Greg and me is pullin' a gig?" Michael asked cautiously, sliding his hands into his back pockets, leaning back slightly.

"You ever think about Miles when you're doin' that?" Tommy clarified immediately, arms still folded, gaze still sharp.

Michael gave an uncertain shrug. "Sometimes I wonder what if it was him who had to keep bailing me out," he offered, shrugging a second time, looking at Tommy with a tilted head, as if that were the best he could do.

"So you don't care that it's me who has to keep coming in to take you home?" Tommy wanted to know, unfolding his arms and sliding his hands into his front pockets, keeping up the constant stare.

"No, Tommy, it's not that . . . I --"

"You sound like you're glad Miles is dead, so as you won't have to face him after doing something stupid," Tommy interrupted strongly, continuing, "And now you don't care what your brother thinks of you, either?" He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms again.

"That's not it, Tommy . . ." Michael protested weakly, throwing his palm out for an awkward instant.

"That's not it?"

". . . 'course I care what you think of me," Michael said, sliding both hands into his front pockets and rigidly straightening his arms, meeting Tommy's piercing look with a nervy one of his own. "'Course I do."

Tommy continued to stare at his brother, tense, silent. Vincent walked in from the kitchen, stopping to stand several feet behind and to the right of Tommy, watching both of his brothers. "Michael? You two done talkin' in here?"

Michael turned hesitantly to meet Vincent's eyes. "I . . . I think we are," he said, his gaze darting back to Tommy for an instant.

"Okay, you ready to take a ride?" Vincent asked, jerking his thumb over toward the door.

"Yeah," Michael said, stepping away from Tommy and grabbing a brown leather jacket from the arm of the couch. He walked over next to Vincent, and they turned together toward the door.

"Stick around a little while if you want, Tommy," Vincent said over his shoulder. "Thanks for bailin' us out."

"Where the fuck are you two going?" Tommy asked just as Vincent started to turn the doorknob.

Vincent shrugged. "Just out for a ride, maybe fuck around a little while."

Tommy crossed his arms again. "Fuck around with who?"

Vincent sighed heavily, looked at Tommy with annoyance and mild disbelief. "Miles is dead, Tommy. And neither one of us made you his . . . his fuckin' understudy, or whatever."

Tommy held Vincent's gaze steadily for a few seconds, then broke it, looking down at the floor and shaking his head. "Right, go on. Go on out. What the fuck do I care, right?" Tommy shrugged, then nodded his head back, his chin indicating the door. "Go on, what the fuck do I care? I'm only your brother, right?"

Vincent sighed again, pinching the top of his nose, squinting. "Tommy, for Chrissakes . . ." he began, but trailed off. He waved his hand dismissively at Tommy and turned back to the door, grasping the knob again. "Like I said, hang around for awhile if you want." He opened the door, and Michael slipped out. Vincent lingered a moment, looking at Tommy with sad eyes. "I guess I'll see you next at the courthouse tomorrow, if you decide to come." Vincent stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Tommy remained in the apartment. He turned around and sat down on the couch, reaching over and taking the photo of Miles off the stand beside him. Tommy looked down at his father's big, weary eyes, and wondered just how much of that wear he had been responsible for.

Northeast Federal Bank
34799 Hertzog Avenue
10:51 a.m.

Montoya turned around just in time to see the gray Horizon pull up to the front of the bank. The driver's side door popped open, and a tall White man with light-brown hair stepped out. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties; youthful, but experienced. He approached the entrance to the bank, presented a badge to the uniformed officer who was watching the perimeter. He opened the door and stepped inside, looking all around the room with sharp, observant eyes.

"I'm looking for Cone and Montoya and Soong, from Major Crimes," the newcomer said in a slightly-louder-than-conversational voice, phrasing his statement more as a question.

Montoya raised her arm and beckoned to him. "Over here," she called, immediately turning her back on him and stepping toward the blown bank vault, where stood Cone and Soong.

"Hi," the new voice said from behind. Montoya turned around and faced him, while Cone and Soong merely turned their heads vaguely in his direction and gave nods of acknowledgment. "Chris Berkley, Detective Third," he introduced himself, offering Montoya his hand. She shook it briefly and let it go. "Just joined the squad today."

"Yeah," Montoya said, "I know." She turned back toward Cone and Soong. "You were late for your shift, huh?" she asked him over her shoulder.

Cone had been examining one of the twisted steel hinges along the side of the vault's doorway. He pushed away from it and turned around, offering Berkley his hand, nodding firmly at him as he shook it. "Ben Cone, good to meet you." Cone took his hand back and took another step away from the vault, turning to stand opposite it, next to Berkley. "Nice to have another new guy around," Cone said, leaning toward the other man slightly. "I've only been here for this week."

Berkley started to say something to Cone, then stopped and turned to Montoya for a moment. "Yeah, I was late. That's complicated . . . the lieutenant told me to just come over here and see if you guys could use a hand." He nodded at Montoya with a smile, filling an awkward silence, then turned back to Cone. "Just got here, too, huh?" he asked.

Cone nodded. "Yeah, to Major Crimes? Just transferred over on Monday."

Berkley nodded along. "And where before that?"

"Fifty-Second Precinct Homicide, my whole career."

Soong turned around, letting his right hand linger on the blown hinge for a moment, then joined Cone and Berkley. "I'm not exactly bomb squad material, but that looks like it'd almost have to be plastique to me," Cone said, looking past Soong's shoulder at the vault. "What do you think?"

Soong looked over his shoulder at the vault again, then turned back and offered his hand out to Berkley. "Kevin Soong," he introduced himself as they shook hands, then turned his look to Cone. "Nothing else could've blown the hinges open like that," Soong said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"But the thing is, though," Montoya began thoughtfully, her thumb and forefinger positioned on her chin as she regarded the vault with sharply narrowed eyes, "plastique -- this much of it, anyway -- is expensive. But it's available to anyone who can afford it." She sighed and planted her hands on her hips. She directed a sideways glance to Cone. "That could either narrow our suspects, or blow the list wide open."

Berkley narrowed his eyes and looked at the blown vault, contemplative. "So . . ." he started slowly, still eyeing the vault, "either we've got someone rich enough or with the resources to pull this job the old fashioned costly way . . . or, someone found a cheaper way to do it."

His second idea brought interested glances from all three of his fellow detectives, and Berkley merely shrugged. "There's gotta be a cheaper way," he said with a shrug. With varying degrees of certainty, his colleagues seemed to agree.

Henry Thomas' Used and Restored Motorcycles
6 Auto Mall
Karsted, New Jersey
11:02 a.m.

"This really is a very small town," Henry Thomas said, leaning against the cashier's counter and wiping his hands on a handkerchief, looking at Bruce. "Most visitors don't come up here except for the dealerships." He turned to Dick and flashed a wide, practiced salesman's grin, off-white and toothy. "We're the main attraction."

"I can see that you are," Bruce said in his high, billionaire's baritone, turning his head to glance out the large windows that lined two walls of the bike shop: on the used-Toyota lot just beyond a three-foot-high concrete dividing wall, a sales representative was doing his best to convince someone, who, Bruce surmised, must have been a young college student from out of town, into buying a 1991 Camry that couldn't have been worth more than six thousand dollars, judging from its condition. Bruce narrowed his eyes for a moment, then turned back to Henry Thomas.

Dick slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back casually on his heals. He looked past Thomas' left shoulder and fixed his gaze on what he hoped would be his new motorcycle in a few minutes, sitting two-feet above the rest of the floor on a circular display stage in the showroom's far corner. "So," Thomas said with a smarmy warmth, looking at Dick with a smile, "what can I do for you two today?"

Bruce turned and looked expectantly at Dick. "I'm only along for the ride," he said with a careless shrug.

Dick nodded once at Bruce. "Right." He turned to Thomas and pointed toward the bike he was interested in. "I had my eye on this one back here, the Ninety-Six Triumph."

"Yes?" Thomas asked, as if he wanted to make certain that Dick was pointing at the 1996 Triumph Trophy that sat on the display stage, its sleek, midnight-blue body standing out impressively beneath the show lights focused on it. "The Trophy?"

"That's the one," Dick said with a slight smile, starting slowly toward the bike. Henry Thomas smiled as though he could smell the sale. He all but rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation as he followed Dick to stand next to the Trophy. Bruce walked along several feet behind, watching the salesman with suspicious eyes that were poised to revert to the vacuous baby-blues of a witless rich man in an instant.

Dick took several minutes to give the bike a quick once-over, check the paint, the tires, the seat. "Like that seat?" Thomas asked. "That's real Corbin leather."

Dick threw his right leg over the seat and straddled the bike, taking it by the handles and rocking it gently from side to side several times, ensuring it was properly balanced. "Tank full?" he asked finally, still straddling the bike, looking up at Henry Thomas.

Thomas rubbed his index finger under his nose, and after a moment, shook his head. "No, I keep the ones in the showroom empty."

Dick nodded, as it did seem to make sense. "Have you got a pump?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, hoping to make his intentions clear if they weren't already.

Thomas nodded hesitantly. "Sure, to fill up the ones outside in the lot. But, if you're thinking -- "

"I'll pay for the gas whether I end up getting the bike or not. How about that?" Dick offered, letting the Trophy lean on its kickstand and bringing his leg back around, stepping away from the motorcycle but remaining on the elevated display stage. Dick cast his gaze out the glass of the opposite wall and shrugged. "I'm just gonna take it for a short little cruise, that's all. I won't even leave the lot; I just want to see how she runs."

"Oh . . ." Thomas squeaked out, rolling his head into a nod and then looking down at the floor thoughtfully. "I . . . don't see a problem with that!" he said with low-key approval, his salesman's smile faded a bit. I'll let you take it for a short ride around the lot, but I must say I am a tad disappointed that you don't seem to trust me . . ."

Dick shrugged and took a short hop off the stage, standing less than a foot from the salesman for a moment, then stepping past him. "If you wanted people to trust you, Henry, you should've gotten into another line of work," he said over his shoulder with a grin. "And," Dick continued as he moved past Bruce toward the door, "changed your name, too; no one trusts a guy who shares a name with the kid from 'E.T.'"

Henry Thomas watched as Dick strolled up to the door, shoving it open easily and moving outside into the lot. Bruce moved to follow, but paused a moment. "We'll wait for you to bring the motorcycle around to the front, here," he said before starting himself for the door. "And we won't hold the 'E.T.' against you," he added with a shallow, slightly overbearing laugh as he went.

The phony laugh and bright voice disappeared when Bruce stepped out onto the lot and walked up to stand next to Dick. "I'm very nearly certain this man is going to try to overcharge you for this motorcycle," he said, looking out over the expanse of cars parked on lots with eyes drawn narrow.

Dick looked over at Bruce, mildly surprised. "Just 'very nearly certain'? You're not absolutely sure that this guy is out to screw me over this bike?"

Bruce continued to gaze out over the lot, not looking at anything in particular. "The only absolute is the absence of absolutes," he answered, rolling his eyes down to the sun-bleached asphalt at his feet.

Dick began slowly shaking his head. "I didn't ask for you to come up here with me so you could alert me to the vile machinations of the evil motorcycle salesman, like I was some naive kid."

"Now it's you doing it," Bruce told him dryly.

Dick held up his palms, waving them slightly, shaking his head again, as if symbolically backing away from what he had said. "I'm sorry. Old habits, or whatever. . . . I'm glad you came with me, it's good that you're here . . ." Both men were silent for a moment, a moment that ended with Dick adding ". . . so the car can get back."

Bruce promptly turned to his right and started away from Dick. "I'll go see if he needs any help bringing the motorcycle out," he said before turning the corner and walking around to the back of the building.

Dick mentally scolded himself. He considered going after Bruce for an instant, to apologize, try to explain why he had to fuck up what, for a few seconds at least, was a non-typically agreeable exchange between them. But, Dick wasn't certain he knew the reason for that himself. He stayed put, taking a step back and leaning against the wall.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
2:47 p.m.

The phone rang, and since it had been Berkley's idea to request an extensive list of cheap plastic explosives from the F.B.I., he was silently elected by his fellow detectives to answer it. He reached for the phone sitting near the edge of his new desk, picked it up, and tapped open Line 2. "Major Crimes, Detective Berkley."

Montoya was sitting at her desk, already on the phone herself, a collection of glossy color photographs depicting the blown bank vault from Northeast Federal in various close-up shots. She held the phone between her head and left shoulder as she spoke. ". . . Right, that's what I was thinking; it has to be plastic, because it would've had to have been pushed into the spaces between the vault's door and the -- and the vault itself, right? . . . That's what I assumed, too."

Detective Cone stood behind Montoya, leaning over her slightly, examining the photos himself. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, and she turned her head to look at him while she listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. "What about a chemical explosive?" he mouthed silently.

"Uh-huh," Montoya said patiently into the phone. "What about -- what about a chemical explosive? . . . Uh-huh . . . Well -- all right, hold on a second." She put her hand over the bottom of the hand-set and looked back at Cone. "He wants you to be more specific. Like, do you mean specifically a liquid chemical compound, or . . . ?"

Cone nodded. "Right, that's it. Maybe some kind of liquid chemical explosive that could've been sprayed or swabbed into the vault door."

Montoya nodded and turned back around, bringing the handset back to her mouth. "Maybe a liquid compound that was sprayed or -- . . . I see. All right, hold on a second." She looked back at Cone. "He says with something like that there would've likely been more trace residues than he recovered."

Cone massaged his forehead for a minute. "Okay, but what if they used a chemical explosive that also had . . . I dunno, maybe some kind of accelerant in it, or something, that helped enough of it burn up that it wouldn't leave a traceable residue behind? Ask him about that."

Soong emerged from the bathroom and walked past Cone and Montoya to his desk.

"I think so, hold on a moment," Berkley said into his phone, then laid the handset down at his desk and stood, glancing over at Montoya's desk, then sliding his gaze over and focusing on Soong. "Do we have a fax number?"

Soong gave a nod and indicated Kitch's office with a nod. "I think he has one in there. I can't remember the number, though."

Berkley started for Kitch's office.

Montoya thanked the person on the other end of her phone line, then hung up, stood and turned around, sitting up on the top of her desk, looking at Cone. "He said that even with a high-powered accelerant, there would still be some detectable trace from the smoke, so liquid explosive is probably out."

Cone shook his head ruefully. "Well, it was as good a hunch as I could come-up with. If we're looking at something as common as plastique for our explosive, it's gonna be a devil to trace to its source."

"What about the guard?" Montoya suggested, reaching behind her and snatching a copy of the casefile from Soong's desk, opening it. "Murder-slash-homicide, remember? The on-duty security guard was shot and killed sometime during the job. If nothing else, we could run the ballistics."

"We'd almost have better luck tracing the explosive," Soong said, not sounding optimistic.

Berkley walked back to his desk from Kitch's office, sat down, picked up the phone. "The fax here is Five-Five-Five, Eleven-Oh-One. . . . Okay? All right, thank you." He hung up the phone and slid his sliding chair away from his desk, leaning back, stretching his arms up over his head. "The F-B-I is faxing us a list of alternative explosives, stuff that does the same job as plastique, only cheaper," he said, looking over to his right at his three fellow detectives. "It's a start, at least."

The door to the office opened and Kitch stepped out. "I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Piszer from Twenty-Third Robbery; he's got a case there that fits the M-O of our Northeast Federal job. Ben, I want you and Kevin to go follow-up on that. The suspects were in the system until this morning, when two were bailed out by their brother. Their last name is Godfrey, and they live in an apartment at Forty-Six Fifty Knickson Avenue."

Cone pulled his notepad from his pocket and scribbled down the address.

"Got it?" Kitch asked, putting his fist to his mouth and clearing his throat.

Cone nodded and flipped the pad closed. "Yeah, got it."

"All right." Kitch pointed his thumb back toward his office. "Chris, Ren�e, when this fax is done coming through, I want you two to find someone who would know where the things on that list can be acquired around here. Mob contacts, street snitches, anyone you know, anyone you can find. Get 'em in here, find out what's being sold and who's buying it."

Kitch turned and retreated straight away back into his office. Berkley and Montoya settled in at their desks to wait for the fax to complete, while Cone and Soong were on their feet and moving for the coatrack.

Wayne Manor
3:19 p.m.

Dick trotted up the steps and opened the mansion's front door, stepping briskly into the vestibule surrounding the entrance, and straight into the living area. "Hey!" he called out, looking around as he made across the living room for the dining room, "Prodigal son in the house!"

An intercom mounted near the door leading from living room to dining room crackled for a second, and through its speaker the voice of Alfred said, "I'm in my quarters, Master Dick."

Dick stopped dead in his tracks and spun around ninety degrees on his heel, starting for the stairs.

He indeed found Alfred in his quarters, sitting in his ancient leather recliner, reading the newspaper by the light of a nearby lamp. The butler folded the paper in half and sat it down, and plucked the bifocals from his nose when Dick walked in the room. "Good day, Master Dick," he said with a genial smile.

"Where's Bruce right now?" Dick asked, sitting down on the edge of a leather-upholstered couch that sat on a line perpendicular to Alfred's chair.

Alfred interlocked his fingers and rested them calmly on his trim stomach. "I believe he is enjoying -- if that term is applicable -- a swim in his very-beneath-ground pool at the moment, catching up on his laps, as he spent his late-morning with you."

Dick nodded several times thoughtfully.

"So," Alfred began, sitting up rigidly in his chair and then resettling himself, "how have you found yourself today?"

"Pretty good, actually," Dick answered, after a shrug. He sat back in the center of the couch, throwing his arms up over the back on either side of him. "The new bike runs like a dream."

"I'm pleased to hear it," Alfred said, smiling faintly. "How went things with you and Master Bruce?"

Dick gave another shrug, took longer to answer this time. "Not bad, although they could have been better."

Alfred resettled himself in the chair again, leaned forward slightly, looking at Dick with a concern that only seemed faint because it had become so familiar. "How so?" he asked simply.

"I don't -- . . . well, okay, here's an example: I talked the guy selling me the bike into letting me take it for a little spin around the lot, just to see how she runs, right? While the guy's getting it ready, I go outside, and Bruce tells me that the guy is looking to gouge me on the price. Which isn't all that far-fetched, really . . ."

"Master Dick, if you're going to penalize Master Bruce merely for offering advice, you can never --"

"It's not that he gives me advice," Dick explained, "it's that he gives it to me like he thinks I have no idea what I'm doing. I mean, he might not mean to be, but he's condescending as hell a lot of the time. Like, after I decided I was gonna buy this bike, the Trophy, the salesman gives me twenty-two thousand dollars as, like, his rock-bottom final offer, even though the ad I saw advertised twenty thousand. I know the bike, and, if you could find it, most dealers'd only charge eighteen thousand at the most. But, before I had a chance to bargain the price-tag down myself, Bruce is already taking charge of my situation. He's playing playboy, you know, so he can't let on as to how much smarter he is than this salesman guy; he tells him something about how one of his fellow wealthy socialite friends bought an identical bike six months ago for eighteen thousand dollars. The guy dropped the price down to nineteen, and I took it at that."

Alfred looked at Dick silently for a long moment, then slid his eyes just to the side as his face took on a thoughtful expression. "You would have preferred to have negotiated for a lower price yourself."

Dick nodded. "Yes, absolutely. I mean, it's like he doesn't think I can do it, like I'm still the teenager in elf boots who he has to look after."

Alfred's brow furrowed deeply, and he looked at Dick with a quiet, painful expression. "He has never once had anything but your best interests at heart."

Dick nodded profusely, having heard that before, many times. "I know he does . . ."

"In many ways you are closer to him than anyone," Alfred continued. "You are like a brother to him, and at times, perhaps even a son. I do wish you would be better at considering that."

"I do try . . ."

"As does he, Master Dick."

"I know . . ."

Alfred let a quiet moment pass, looking down at his lap. "Well," he said, his voice brighter than it had been, "enough of this dour old talk. . . . You seem more than satisfied with your new transportation."

Dick smiled. "Oh, yeah. It was definitely worth the extra thousand. Rides like a dream. And, you won't believe the looks of this thing when you see it -- I'll show it to you. It's sleek, mean, a great color of dark, midnight-blue. Perfect for Nightwing."

"I am glad to hear that," Alfred said with a proud smile that slowly descended into gentle, probing concern. "I trust, however, that this motorcycle shan't serve as an obvious bridge between your two identities."

Dick waved his hand carelessly in front of him. "No, I don't worry about that. It's not the Batmobile, for God's sake. It's a common enough bike. Besides, I'll probably tool it up a little, maybe get Harold to help me put on a reversible license plate or something. It won't be career ending, or anything."

Alfred nodded, seemed satisfied. He trusted Dick. "Will Nightwing and his new mode of transport be making an appearance tonight?"

"Probably," Dick said, bringing his arms back and leaning forward on the edge of the couch cushion. "I'll probably go solo tonight, let Robin swing with the boss. I could use the solitude for a few hours, just me and the dregs of society." Dick thought a moment and looked at his watch. "Speaking of Robin, he should be getting off school in a few minutes. Maybe I'll give him a call."

"Master Robin returned and went home nearly two hours before the Batman's patrol ended last night," Alfred said, sounding a bit puzzled. "He seemed a bit more tired than usual. Perhaps 'weary' would be a better, term, however . . ."

"Yeah," Dick said knowingly, "he told me all about that."

Alfred regarded Dick with interest. "Did he? It was nothing serious, I hope."

Dick shook his head. "Nothing of grave, ultimate importance. But, it was a pretty big deal as it was. . . . Him and Ariana went to see 'Zorro' last night."

"Oh my," Alfred said, distant, not quite knowing what to say. "That was an experience unto itself, I imagine."

"I guess it was. He called me before, seemed pretty edgy about the whole thing. I haven't talked to him about it since they went, though; when he came in last night, he went home right away, said he was going to bed."

Alfred nodded understandingly. "I suppose it could have been a bit trying, with his burden of knowledge on the subject."

Dick shrugged. "Well, if I recall, it was you who saw fit to share that knowledge with him."

"Yes," Alfred admitted solemnly. "Timothy . . . is an extraordinary young man. But, even so, I wonder at times . . ."

"If he was going to be Robin, he needed to know some of it, at least," Dick offered. "Besides, what if you hadn't told him? For all you knew, 'Zorro' could have been his favorite movie, and not knowing, he would've talked about it all the time, and Bruce would've fired him before he'd even been Robin a whole week."

Alfred allowed himself an amused smile, albeit a brief one.

4650 Knickson Avenue
3:26 p.m.

Soong slammed the passenger door shut on Cone's car and hopped up over the curb. "Found a spot okay that time, didn't you?" he remarked with a slight grin as Cone joined him on the sidewalk and they started up the front steps of the building.

"Let me see . . ." Cone muttered as he examined the apartment buzzers next to the doorway. He found one labeled "Godfrey" in scrawled handwriting next to the button for Apartment 3-F. Cone pressed the button twice rapidly, then lowered his head to listen and hung his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

"Yeah, what?" came a slightly impatient voice over the speaker.

Cone looked at Soong with a raise of his eyebrows, then turned back to the speaker. "Yes, which Godfrey brother are you, sir?" he asked loudly.

The voice on the other end of the intercom took a few moments to respond. "Huh?" he asked finally, puzzled. "Why? Who're you?"

"I need to talk to two of the Godfrey brothers," Cone explained. "I'm a detective. Which one of those are you?"

Another long pause. "Do you think he's checking his wallet for his I-D?" Soong wondered, whispering to Cone.

"Thomas," the voice said across the speaker, "Thomas Godfrey."

Soong gave an "I-told-you-so" nod toward the intercom. "Do you live in that apartment, sir?" Cone asked.

"No," Thomas Godfrey said, "those're my brothers. . . . What d'you need them for?"

"It's related to their recent arrest -- but they're not in any further trouble. We just thought they might know something about a similar case we're working."

"You don't think they're part of this . . . similar case?" Thomas Godfrey asked.

Cone shook his head. "No, sir, that's impossible; they weren't bailed out of jail until this morning. By you, if I'm correct."

"Yeah, I bailed 'em out.

Cone listened to the silence of the speaker for a moment, then started, "Could we possibly talk to --"

"I always do," the voice of Thomas Godfrey interrupted, lingering on that thought from a moment ago.

"Yes, yes, sir, but could we possibly come up and talk to you for a few minutes?" Cone asked. There was no answer. Cone shared a look of curious concern with Soong. "Sir," he started again, "we're asking you to cooperate, here. Could you please buzz us in so we can talk to you, sir? . . ."

The buzzer sounded, and Soong reached over quickly to open the door before it ended. "Thank you, sir," Cone said into the speaker as he followed Soong inside. As they walked toward an elevator at the end of the hallway, Cone knew that they had been granted nothing more than a grudging admittance.

When the elevator reached the third floor, the doors slid open and Cone stepped out into an empty hallway. Soong followed after a step and looked up and down the hall briefly. ". . . they run right from left," he said, then turned to his right and started down the hall. The first door he passed was Apartment 3-D. He walked by another one, and stopped at the third door he'd come to, 3-F.

Cone reached up and knocked twice sharply on the door. He waited a few seconds, then knocked again when he heard no response from the inside. "Sir, open the door," he called after he'd knocked a third time. "You're not helping anyone by refusing to cooperate here, sir," Cone advised him.

Cone exchanged a nervous look with Soong. Both men unholstered their guns, Soong unzipping the front of his black leather jacket to get at his, and they assumed positions against the wall on either side of the door. "Sir, open the door," Cone ordered again, again with no response from inside. "Sir," Cone began tensely, "if we believe you're withholding information that is valuable to our investigation -- and your refusal to open the door indicates that you may be -- we have the legal right to break this door down and come in there and get you and drag you out of here in cuffs if necessary." Cone paused for a moment, licked his lips. "Do you really want that, sir?"

Another tense second passed. Soong and Cone locked eyes. Soong adjusted his grip on his gun, tightened his palm around it. Cone took in a final breath, the muscles in his leg growing impatient, ready to swing him around in front of the door and kick it in. He'd been in situations like this numerous times throughout his career, and they were his least-favorite part of the job. "All right," Cone whispered, "go when I say."

A lock opened from within the apartment, and the eyes of both detectives shot toward the sound, fixing on the round brass keyhole mounted above the doorknob. "I'm opening the door now," came the voice of the man who'd said his name was Thomas Godfrey. A second later, a chain was unhooked and the door came open a crack.

Cone looked over and saw a man's eyes peeking out, calm but alert. Cone holstered his gun, and Soong did the same. Godfrey opened the door the rest of the way, holding out both hands to show he was unarmed. He stepped aside, and Cone and Soong walked into the apartment.

"You don't live here with your brothers, do you, sir?" Cone asked, turning around slowly and closing the door.

Thomas Godfrey shook his head. "No, this is their apartment. I'm just killing time, taking a few hours for myself."

Soong zipped his jacket halfway up and hung his hands in its pockets. "You wouldn't feel more comfortable taking some time at your residence?"

"My brothers got most of the stuff from the family," Godfrey explained. "There's times when my place feels a little empty. I like to be around the heirlooms and things every once in awhile."

"Is there someplace we can sit down in here, sir?" Cone wondered, looking past Godfrey to the kitchen behind him. "Maybe have a talk?"

Godfrey read Cone's look, and turned around, starting slowly for the kitchen. He gestured for the detectives to follow him, and the three of them sat down on either side of the countertop that stood across the floor from the sink, Soong and Cone on the outer side, Godfrey on the inner side, nearer the sink.

"Are you and your brothers close, sir?" Cone asked immediately once they'd all sat down, interlocking his fingers and resting his hands on the countertop.

"Not the last few years," Godfrey said, sighing as he spoke, "not like we used to be."

Cone nodded with a sympathetic understanding. "How long have your brothers been in trouble legally, sir? Very long?"

"They just got done serving three years for armed robbery. Got paroled. They've been into things they shouldn't be most of the time since high school."

"Did you ever have any contact with any of their friends? Someone who helped them out with their jobs, maybe helped them out with supplies or . . . ?"

Godfrey's face took on a look of grim disgust, reigned-in anger. He nodded once, biting his lower lip. "Son of a bitch named Greg Youngman."

Cone and Soong exchanged a momentary glance. "This man's a friend of theirs?"

Godfrey nodded again. "He's still in the lock-up, as far as I know. He was the third guy on this last bonehead bank heist they pulled, and I'd bet you, like, Donald Trump money that it was that son of a bitch's idea in the first place." Godfrey shook his head ruefully. "They always followed him, whatever he wanted 'em to do. . . . Thought he was so smart."

Cone reached into his coat and pulled out his pad and pencil. "Greg Youngman is his name?" he asked. Godfrey gave a nod. "Can you give me an address?"

Godfrey thought for a long moment, hesitated, then shook his head.

"Sir, by not telling us, you're not helping anyone. We're not after your brothers, here -- they were already arrested."

"I don't know where he lives," Godfrey said, putting his palm to his chin.

"All right," Cone said, flipping his pad shut and pocketing it as he stood up. He leaned slightly in Soong's direction. "If he was in the system, we can get his address from there." He turned back to Godfrey. "Thank you, sir," he said as he and Soong started for the door. "When your brothers get back, let them know we stopped by. And, if we can't catch a break in this case we're working, we might stop by again to talk with them."

Godfrey gave a hesitant nod as the detectives started out the door. "I'll tell 'em."

"So, now we go check out this Youngman guy?" Soong asked when they were out in the hall and walking toward the elevator.

They got to the elevator, and Cone pushed the Down button. "Yeah, we'll get there. I want to check back at the squad, though, first. Maybe Ren�e and Chris already got somewhere."

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped inside.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
5:02 p.m.

Montoya sat down at the table across from the tall, skinny man in the too-big trenchcoat. "So, you're Lester Punny?"

The man nodded. "It depends on who you ask, you know," he said with a sly smile. "But, for you, yeah, I'm Lester Punny." His smile faded slightly, and he looked Montoya up and down, as much of her as he could see. "What am I under arrest for here, Detective?"

Montoya raised her eyebrows, shook her head. "Oh, nothing. It's not that I couldn't, you know. But, we needed someone to bring in for questioning for a case we're working today."

Punny leaned against the back of his metal chair, tilting his chin upward and looking at Montoya with a knowing smile. "You want me to spill my guts about some people? Play fink, or whatever?"

"Maybe," Montoya said, shrugging, folding her arms on the tabletop.

Berkley had been leaning against the wall, and now stepped up to the edge of the table, standing tall beside the seated Punny, looking down on him. "The case we're working is the second of two identical bank robberies since Monday, only this time with a dead guard tossed in."

Punny held up his palms at that, sliding his chair away from the table, its legs screeching for an unbearable instant on the concrete floor. "Whoa, okay . . . heists, they aren't . . . they aren't my thing, right? Not my fort�."

Montoya regarded Punny with a look of profound disappointment. "And I thought we had an unspoken respect here, Lester . . . " She shook her head almost mournfully, looking down at the table. "We both know you move in the same circles as most of the people in this town who're involved in trafficking, getting and sending God knows all what to God knows where."

"You'd have to be pretty dumb to think you could tell us that it's only narcotics that you've seen guys moving," Berkley said, pulling the chair in front of him out from beneath the table slightly and leaning forward on the back of it.

"What is it you'd like me to have seen being moved?" Punny asked, as if the multiple choice selection could've been endless.

"We received a fax from the Bureau earlier today," Montoya began, "listing some of the cheaper or more unique alternatives to your traditional rigging explosives. One of the things on the list was something called a 'compressed plastique.' You know anything about that, Lester?"

A faint smile crept across Lester's mouth, which he quickly suppressed. "I might have run across that once or . . . or once. Very interesting stuff, you know."

"Certainly sounded like the most exotic thing on that fax paper, Lester," Montoya said. "So, tell me about this stuff. What's it do? Where can I find it? How much is it? Who's buying it . . . ?"

Lester leaned forward, one arm in front of him across the table, regarding Montoya in a serious-yet-sly manner, as if he were about to reveal a secret of grave importance and was relishing being able to do it. "That's the technical name for it, compressed plastique. Well, that's not the technical name; the real one has a lot of numbers in it, too. I'm not sure of that one. But, the street name for it is C-D Four, since it's flat and shaped like a C-D."

"Is it comparable to C Four?" Berkley asked. "Like, in terms of power?"

Punny nodded. "Oh, definitely. Even moreso. And cheaper."

Montoya regarded Punny, mildly puzzled. "So, what's the deal with this stuff? Why so cheap if it's so much better?"

"Because it's hot as molten steel, this stuff. There's not much of it, but anyone who's got it is in a big hurry to get rid of it."

Berkley stood up straight and folded his arms. "How come?"

"See, you gotta understand," Punny began, gesturing to Montoya with his hand, "this compressed C Four comes from the Defense Department. Like, Federal government stuff. Thing is, about a dozen or whatever of the disks disappeared from some Fed hold, or whatever -- I don't know the details. Anyway, long story short, some of those little disks ended up here in Gotham. The Feds are mad-dog to get 'em back, so anyone who's got some that can't use 'em is ready to get rid of 'em as fast as they can, for whatever price they can get."

Montoya nodded. "So, that's why this stuff is so cheap. Any chance you could clue us in as to who's been buying it around here?"

"Can't be too many people," Berkley offered, eyeing Punny sharply.

Punny gave a shrug, made a clicking sound in his cheek. "You know, up until this point of the interview, I've told you all the information I had, due to my great and overwhelming concern for the well-being of the people in this city."

"That explains the circles you move in, huh, Lester?" Montoya asked, a faintly sarcastic smile crossing her lips.

"Was it Christ who told us to go to where the sinners are?" he asked with another shrug.

"Let's get on with it, Lester," Montoya prodded.

"What I'm saying is, after right now, if you want specifics from me, I'm going to have to ask that a reasonable fee be paid," Punny explained.

Montoya and Berkley exchanged a brief glance; Berkley patted the air in front of him, motioned for Montoya to let him take the lead for the moment. She held his gaze for another moment, then looked back to Punny.

Berkley pulled the chair in front of him out all the way and sat down, reaching behind him and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he did so. He flipped open his billfold and took an initial glance at the money he had inside. "The department, they reimburse us for whatever we give to . . . snitches for information," Berkley said, keeping his eyes on his wallet, "so there really isn't a practical limit to what I can give you here. It's pretty much up to you."

Punny's eyebrows went up, interested. "That so?"

Berkley nodded firmly. "Oh, absolutely." He pulled a stack of bills out of the wallet, a fifty on top. He peeled back the top half of the fifty and revealed another fifty behind it, then a twenty behind that, and another twenty behind that one. "How much would you say a human life is worth, Lester?" Berkley asked pointedly.

Punny obviously had no idea how to react to the question. He looked absently to Montoya for an explanation; she only shrugged.

"Lester, at this robbery we're working on, whoever bought that C-D Four and pulled that job also murdered the on-duty guard," Berkley explained, placing the pile of bills from his wallet on the table between he and Punny. "Murdered him. We find who pulled the bank job, we find his murderer." Berkley touched his index finger to the center of the top fifty. "So, how much is that human life worth to you? What price are you putting on us finding these thieves, these killers?"

Berkley picked up the top fifty and slid it across the table toward Punny. "Fifty?" he asked. Punny offered no reaction. Berkley laid the second fifty down on top of the first one in front of Punny. "Another fifty? That's a hundred." Berkley folded his hands over the rest of his money and leaned over the table, settling his chin atop his hands. "Is that guard's life worth a hundred dollars to you?"

Montoya was leaning back away from the table, against the back of her chair, arms folded, her look shifting from Punny to Berkley and back again, detached, objective.

Punny watched Berkley uncertainly, his eyes moving back and forth between the detective's face and the two fifty dollar bills he'd laid out. Punny wet his lips with a quick pass by the tip of his tongue. "The man you want to talk to is named Chuck LaBrock," he said finally. "His street name is Shifty Charlie. The he spoke when I talked with him, he's the one that bought up all the C-D Four disks when they ended up here."

Berkley sat up in his chair. "I appreciate that, Lester. We'll get right on that."

Lester Punny stood falteringly from his chair. "That's all you want, right? I'm free to go?"

Montoya nodded and indicated the door with a wave of her hand. "Right through there, Lester. That's it."

Punny reached down and snatched the top of the two fifty dollar bills Berkley'd put on the table, and stuffed it into his pocket as he made calmly for the door. "Just the one fifty'll be fine," he said as he opened the door, then stepped out the next instant.

Berkley shared a look of quiet disbelief with Montoya, then she stood and left the room. Berkley stayed behind a moment, standing, picking up the remaining fifty and sliding it back into his wallet, along with the rest of his money.

4650 Knickson Avenue
6:52 p.m.

"Where the fuck you gonna tell me you've been for this long?" was the first thing Tommy Godfrey asked when his brothers walked through the door. Both Vincent and Michael greeted him with looks of confusion and absent wonderment.

"Tommy," Vincent started as he slowly closed the door behind him, "you're still here?"

Tommy regarded Vincent darkly, folding his arms. "You're not drunk," he said, his voice ripe with suspicion.

Vincent shrugged. "So? What, you think I'm gonna go get wasted every time I step out the door? That's the kinda guy you think I am?"

"It was me who violated my parole like a dumbass," Tommy began, spitting the words out, "I know I'd be out there swallowin' every last drop of freedom I could afford. More, even. . . . Neither one of yas is drunk, so where the fuck've you been?"

Vincent took his coat off both arms at once, and flung it hard down onto the couch. He took two big steps and stopped, face-to-face with Tommy. "When Miles was alive he didn't -- wasn't up our asses like this!"

"When Miles was alive, two of his sons weren't fresh outta the joint and breakin' parole!" Tommy shot back, venomous.

"Step back, Tommy, all right?! Just step back and keep out of it!" Vincent yelled, holding his index finger an inch from Tommy's eye, then turning around abruptly and stalking into the kitchen, patting Michael hard on the shoulder as he passed him.

Michael put his hands on his hips and leaned forward slightly at the waist. He looked at Tommy and gave a slow, melancholy sigh. "Tommy, all we're doin' is tryin' to get out of it, that's all." Michael put his hands in his front pockets and shrugged. "We know it's us that got us into it, but now we just wanna get out of it."

"Get outta what?" Tommy asked, almost bewildered. "You broke parole, Michael. You and Vincent are back in fuckin' Blackgate probably this time tomorrow."

Michael shook his head. "That ain't it at all, Tommy," he said gravely. "There's nothin' to do with law here. Right now, prison's lookin' pretty good compared to what else we got comin'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tommy demanded, folding his arms, turning his right ear toward his brother as if he couldn't quite hear.

Michael waved his hand in front of his face. "Don't worry about it, all right? We'll handle it all right."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean, Michael?" Tommy asked again, his eyes coldly set on his brother's face. "Is it Greg Youngman? Did that son of a bitch set you up for something?"

Vincent stormed back into the living room from the kitchen, walking straight for the couch. He grabbed his jacket and stuck his right arm through the right sleeve. "Mind your business, Tommy!" he yelled at his brother, regarding him with a look of pointed anger. Vincent let his fire linger on Tommy for an instant, then shifted effortlessly over to Michael. "Come-on; I got another idea for us."

Michael turned away from Tommy and waited for Vincent to open the door, then followed him out into the hall without another word.

"Leaving again?" Tommy yelled through the closed door, yielding no response. He gave his two brothers what he thought was enough time to get into the elevator, then opened the door and walked out into the hallway himself.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
7:01 p.m.

"Charles 'Chuck' Archibald LaBrock," Detective Cone said, looking down at the thin, light-blonde, mustached man who sat at the table in Interview One. "Also known as Shifty Charlie. . . . You are one tough guy to track down, you know?"

Chuck LaBrock shrugged, a smug grin on his gaut face. "I guess I appreciate you saying so."

"Sure you do, Chuck," Cone said amicably, sitting down at the table and folding his hands in front of him. "I guess I won't have to tell you why we spent a few hours' worth of overtime finding you and dragging you in here, will I?"

"I think you're gonna have to, actually," LaBrock answered, sounding a bit embarrassed. "I don't know for sure why I'm here, no."

"Oh . . ." Cone said, sounding as if he'd been caught off-guard, his voice cracking slightly. "Well, then let me explain: you sold some very illegal and very dangerous stuff to at least two separate parties in this city. One of those parties not only used the C-D Four disks you sold them to blow a bank vault, but they killed a guard at the bank in the process. That's robbery and murder, and you made it all possible."

LaBrock looked to have suppressed a laugh. "What leads you to that assumption, Detective? Even if I sold 'em this stuff -- and, I'm not admitting to anything -- you can't prove I told 'em to go rob a bank and kill a guy with it."

"I'm going to be as honest as I can with you on this now, Chuck," Cone said in a calm, neutral tone. "I think my best road to take right now is to offer you a deal out of some of this. And, I really hate this part of the job, too; having to bargain with pieces of dirt like you. But, the most important thing I want to accomplish is finding the rest of this explosive, if there's any left, and also finding the gutless scum that killed that guard. So, -- and I talked this over with my lieutenant, so this is all up-and-up -- I'm willing to let you off the hook for this guard's murder, if you can tell me who you sold that C-D Four to."

LaBrock grinned regretfully, shook his head. "That'd be admitting to selling a Federally-banned substance."

Cone agreed, nodding, affirmed. "You're right, it would be. But, you can either tell me who got that C-D Four from you, and go to a Federal penitentiary for a few years, or you can not tell me, and wait until we get enough to put you away for a lot longer, on that charge plus as an accessory to that murder."

"Accessory how? Some guy shoots a guy, you don't arrest the clerk at the Wal-Mart he bought the gun from," LaBrock said quizzically.

Cone cocked his head thoughtfully to the side. "Well, you've got a point there, Chuck. But, let's say you had more to do with it than that. What if you not only sold the perps the explosive, but you put them up to the robbery, too?"

LaBrock turned his head slightly, regarding Cone uncertainly from the corner of his eye. "There's no way you can prove that."

Cone waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, the hell I can't." He stood from his chair and walked over behind the seated LaBrock, leaning forward, his mouth next to LaBrock's left ear. "'New' evidence, 'new' testimony . . . I'm a detective and this is a big town, Chuck. I can make it look like you shot both Kennedy's and Oswald, if I feel like it."

"You're not the type," LaBrock said, though not with the highest confidence.

"Chuck, Chuck, Chuck," Cone said in a harshly chiding tone, "are you really willing to bet your freedom on whether or not I'm an honest cop?"

"And if I call my attorney in here?"

Cone stood up straight, walked back around in front of LaBrock, shrugged carelessly. "Go on and lawyer-up. I don't care. Even if I don't get who killed that guard, I've got you. And, I'll make sure you're put away for the next thirty years, Chuck, and that's with good behavior."

LaBrock looked to the side, folded his arms in a show of self-assurance, and looked back sharply at Cone. "How long you figure they put crooked cops up for?"

Cone smiled wickedly and quickly sat back down across the table from LaBrock. "How're you going to prove that? Huh? This is a private interview room here, Chuck. One door. One window, that leads outside. No witnesses. Just you and me. Not even your own lawyer would take your word over mine." Cone folded his hands neatly and looked at LaBrock expectantly. "What'll it be, Chuck?"

7:06 p.m.

Montoya looked up from her desk and saw Cone emerging from Interview One. "So, what do we got?"

"I got him to confess to selling the C-D Four, and he gave me two names, one of which we already had," Cone answered, adjusting the collar of his overcoat.

"Which names?" Soong asked, standing from his desk.

"Livon Denning, lives in the East End -- he's the one we don't have."

Montoya stood from her desk and walked up behind Berkley, who was seated at his. "Who's the one we do have?" she asked Cone.

"Greg Youngman. I think he's still in the system from being arrested with the Godfrey brothers, but whether he's out or not, we should still hit his apartment -- LaBrock in there said it takes six of these C-D Four disks to blow off a bank vault, and this Youngman bought twelve."

Berkley nodded grimly. "So, he's got enough for one more bank."

"But he didn't pull this one yesterday," Montoya stated for clarification.

Cone nodded. "Right. That must've been this Livon Denning." He took out his notepad and tore off the top sheet and passed it to Montoya. "That's Denning's address. I think what we should do is, Ren�e, you and Chris go pick up Denning, and me and Kevin'll go to Youngman's place with some uniforms and see if we can find the rest of those disks."

Montoya took the paper, then patted Berkley on the back. He stood, and they started for the coatrack.

Soong started for the stairs as well.

"Hold on, Kevin; I'll clue in the lieutenant," Cone said, moving toward Kitch's office door.

Kitch was at his desk, arms folded, contemplating an open manila folder in front of him. He looked up when Cone opened the door and stuck his head inside. "What's up, Ben?"

Cone pointed over his own shoulder with his thumb. "Ren�e and Chris are going to pick up the probable perp for our robbery-slash-homicide."

Kitch nodded. "All right."

"And," Cone continued, "Kevin and I are going to the apartment of the perp of a related crime, to see if we can find the rest of that C-D Four."

"You've got probable cause?" Kitch asked, just to make sure.

Cone nodded. "This guy I've got locked in the cage in Interview One just as much as told me that's where the rest of is."

Kitch gave a final nod of approval. "Okay, Ben. Get outta here. Good work."

Cone closed the office door and walked toward Soong. "Good to go?" Soong asked as they passed through the doorway.

They started down the stairs. "You can't still buy a handgun at Wal-Mart, can you?" Cone wondered aloud as they went.

132 Agatha Drive
7:44 p.m.

"Come-on, Michael, where the fuck is it?" Vincent asked again in a demanding tone.

Michael shook his head helplessly as he stood up, looking down at a cluttered dresser drawer. "I . . . don't know."

"Well, come-on and think. I mean, you used to live here, for Christ's sake. Think of where it is."

Vincent threw his head back and rolled his eyes up in frustration. But then he left them there, and they widened with possibility. "Michael . . ." he whispered, hushed.

Michael shoved the drawer shut and turned around. "Maybe he put it in the mattress. Like, if we slit the fabric and --"

"No, Michael," Vincent said, still looking up. He pointed to the ceiling, and Michael's eyes were drawn there as well. "Tiled ceiling," Vincent said, blinking in disbelief. "Tiled fuckin' ceiling, I cannot believe this!" He stamped his foot on the floor in anger. "We been here and we missed it."

"Shit . . ." Michael said, distant, looking up at the ceiling. "You think he put it up there?"

Vincent threw his arms up and regarded his brother with annoyance. "Where else you think it is, Michael? It's not a real big apartment, here." Vincent's eyes slid to the side and he focused on something next to the bed behind Michael. "Grab that chair," he ordered.

Michael hopped-to, turning on his heel and picking up the chair, passing it over to Vincent, who sat it down on the floor right where he stood and stepped up on it. He pushed the ceiling tile above him up and slid it back until there was enough room for his head, and then stood up straight so that his eyes were above the level of the ceiling. He squinted.

A second later, he bent his knees and brought his head back down from above the ceiling. "Find me a flashlight or something, huh?" he instructed Michael, who quickly turned to his left and exited the bedroom. A minute later, he returned with a small black Mag-Lite flashlight, and handed it up to Vincent.

Vincent held the flashlight next to his eyes and shined it in the space above the ceiling tiles. He squinted again at first, until he realized that he could probably see better if he widened his eyes. He did, and looked around, and saw nothing.

Tommy Godfrey had been sitting in his car across the street from 132 Agatha Drive for almost half an hour when he finally popped open the door and got out. He waited until two cars rolled by, then started across toward the opposite curb. He took his time when he climbed the front steps, one step at a time; he was not anxious to discover exactly what he was going to find in Apartment 2-C.

"But, who was it who had that song about buying hand-guns at Wal-Mart? And she got in a lot of trouble for it?"

Cone shifted the car into park and looked over at Soong and shrugged. "I'm not sure. I don't get to listen to a lot of music."

Soong opened his door and started to get out. "Was it Sheryl Crow? . . . 'a handgun he bought at Wal-Mart,' or something . . ."

Cone shut off the car, took his keys, and got out of the car, too. He shook his head. "But you can't still buy one at Wal-Mart, right?"

"No," Soong said, looking right then left as he prepared to cross the street. "If you could still buy one, she wouldn't have gotten in so much trouble for putting that in the song."

They both started across toward the opposite curb, Cone putting his hands in the pockets of his open overcoat.

"So, we're looking for flat C-D-looking things in here?" Soong asked.

Cone nodded as he stepped up on the curb. "Six of them. Round and flat like C-D's, with plastique centers." He started up the front steps, taking them two at a time. "There's a detonator, too, that we should find; a little black hand-held box with a multi-pronged wire attached. If we can find it in here . . ."

Soong followed his partner up the stairs and waited for him to open the door. "You could still probably buy a little B-B handgun," he said, holding open the door for himself after Cone had gone inside.

"What?" Cone asked, looking behind him as he started back a short hallway toward the elevator.

Soong quickened his step slightly to catch up to his partner after having shut the door. "You know," he said, as though his meaning were transparent as could be, "at Wal-Mart."

Tommy Godfrey stepped off the elevator and took a moment to look left and right down the hall. He saw Apartment 2-C to his right, and turned at once to that direction.

The door was unlocked when he got there, so he opened the door and walked right in. He saw no one at first, but heard a voice from the bedroom.

"Goddammit . . ."

It was Vincent's voice; Tommy knew that right upon hearing it. He started slowly into the bedroom, leaning forward a bit so that the rest of his body followed behind his head. "You here too, Michael?" he called as he went. "First you couldn't wait to get out, now you spend the whole time in here?" Tommy stepped into the bedroom and beheld his two brothers, Vincent standing on a chair, holding a flashlight, a ceiling tile ajar above his head. Tommy saw Michael and shrugged, silently asking for an explanation. "What the fuck is this?"

Vincent stepped down off the chair. "Tommy, for Christ's sake . . ."

Tommy ignored his older brother and looked to Michael. "I'm guessing Greg ain't home yet," he said, looking around. "I hope they bring that motherfucker into court in fuckin' leg irons tomorrow."

Vincent held up his palm. "Calm down, Tommy. For Christ's sake . . ."

"Shut the fuck up, Vincent, all right?!" Tommy yelled at the top of his lungs, then turned again to Michael. "Now, tell me what the fuck you two've been doing here all day."

Michael shook his head, holding his arms out at his sides. "We ain't been here all day, Tommy. We just got here a little while ago."

"I see," Tommy said, bitingly. "So, where the fuck've you been all day, then? Jesus Christ . . ."

Michael started to speak, but Vincent shot him a sharp look, pointed to him. "Michael . . ." he said warily.

Tommy turned angrily to Vincent. "You shut the fuck up and let him talk. . . . Michael?"

"We were gonna let you in on it at first," Michael tried to explain, shrugging, apologetic. "I wanted to wait for you to get back . . . but Vince and Greg said we'd better go ahead with it. Two-on-one, you know."

"So, what," Tommy demanded, "you wanted me to help you rob a fuckin' bank? Is that it?! . . . Jesus Christ, you two . . ."

Vincent shook his head disapprovingly. "I told him you wouldn't be into it, Tommy." He lapsed into faint laughter, shaking his head. "You were always such a fuckin' wuss . . ."

Tommy bit his lip, looked down at the floor, then looked back up and met Michael's eyes, pleading. "What are you two doing here? Now? What've you been doing all fuckin' day? Just tell me that, Michael, okay? Just tell me . . ."

Michael cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to talk, but couldn't find the words. When he looked at Tommy, his eyes were full of sadness, regret. His head began to shake, as if the motion were unconscious. "You know how it is, man," he began slowly. "Once you got a prison record, jobs are, like, impossible to come by, you know? . . . Vincent -- he needed money for his place, and I had a little shit job at some fast food hut, so I moved in with him so he could pay his rent, right? And, Greg . . . Greg had this great, like foolproof job for us . . ."

"You robbed a fuckin' bank to pay Vincent's rent," Tommy said, shaking his head, darkly disappointed.

Michael held up his hand a moment. "Yeah, but wait . . . see, Greg bought these things from a guy he knows, these disks, right? But he could only pay for half of what this guy wanted; we were gonna pay the other half with the score from the bank, only . . ."

Cone looked at Soong and nodded. "Sounds like a full house to me." He reached up with the back of his right hand and rapped sharply on the door three times. "Excuse me, is anyone there?" he called, reached casually behind his coat for his gun as he did so. "Gas company."

There was silence for a long moment. "What?" came a perplexed voice from inside after the moment had passed.

"Gas company, sir," Cone repeated. "There's a leak somewhere in this building, says the super here. We need to check everywhere, so could you open the door?"

Tommy started for the door.

"Fuckin' gas company my ass," Vincent said to him, starting quickly after his brother and grabbing him by the arm before he could get halfway out the bedroom. "You open that door and let them in, I put a hole in your fuckin' head."

Tommy pulled free of his older brother, shaking him off violently. "Put a fuckin' hole in my head with what, you fuckin' irresponsible fuck?"

There was another insistent knock at the door. "Hello?" came the voice again from the hallway.

Vincent reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled a small black snub-nosed pistol. He held it out, waving it back and forth in the space between he and Tommy. "With this, you sacrimonious son of a bitch! Little motherfucker, but it does the job."

Soong and Cone shared what must have already been the umpteenth puzzled look of their short association. Cone knocked again. "Is anyone there? Come-on, let's open the door, okay? I need to get in here. Please?"

There was no response from inside the apartment. Cone could only imagine what must've been happening on the other side of the door. In fact, he strained his brain trying to do just that, to anticipate the situation, to try and prepare at least some general contingencies for the powder-keg he was about to set off.

They met eyes, Cone and Soong, and each man saw that the other was ready for the rapidly approaching next few moments. Cone reached out and turned the knob. The door wasn't locked.

Cone opened the door and swept down and inside all at once, his eyes up and focused, his nine-millimeter steady out in front of him. He turned immediately to his left and beheld two men standing close to each other, just beyond a doorway, inside a bedroom. One of the men held a gun in his hand.

The man with the gun raised it and fired. Cone ducked to the side and fired a single shot in retaliation. As he felt his shoulder hit the hardwood floor of the apartment's living room, Cone saw Soong sidestep into the apartment out of the corner of his eye.

Tommy watched Vincent slide to the floor in front of him, his snub-nosed still clutched instinctively tight in his right hand, his left hand now instinctively clutching his wounded right shoulder. The trenchcoated, mustached bald man who'd shot him was just starting to get up from the floor in the living room.

Driven by a combination of dumb shock and primal instinct, Tommy took a big leap forward and moved for Vincent's gun. He lowered his head just as the second shot rang out.

Soong had seen Thomas Godfrey moving for the other man's gun, and had fired at his shoulder. It was at the last possible instant that Godfrey had lowered his head down and to the right, and Soong's bullet struck him squarely in the top of his skull.

As Soong completed his first step into the apartment, Thomas Godfrey fell still, lying over the wounded form of the other man, the only motion that of the other man writhing in pain beneath Godfrey's body, and of the blood spurting like a waning fountain from the top of Godfrey's head.

Cone had recovered his balance in another second, and stood beside Soong, regarding the grisly scene. As Cone started cautiously toward the two figures on the floor in the bedroom, Soong heard the voice of a third man from within. "Tommy . . ." he said, more utterly aghast than anything else, "Aw, Tommy . . .Jesus Christ . . ."

8:22 p.m.

A man named James with a Corner's Office jacket zipped up the heavy black bag that held the body of Tommy Godfrey. James couldn't have been older than twenty-six. Soong tried to think of how young he had been the first time he saw anything like what had happened tonight. He decided he must've been twenty-two, when he was a fledgling cop.

Soong felt Cone's hand on his shoulder, and turned to look on his partner, the man he already called his friend. "I haven't talked to the lieutenant yet," Cone said softly, offering Soong a mug of coffee which he politely pushed away. "But, I'm pretty sure he's going to want both of us to talk to one of the department shrinks about this. It was always standard procedure at my old squad."

"Yeah," Soong said, first with a shake then with a nod of his head, "we do that, too."

Vincent Godfrey, strapped to a gurney, still moaning in pain, his bloody shoulder patched up neatly for the trip to the hospital, was carried down the front steps by two paramedics. He was the last one out of the apartment. Soong walked up and sat down on those front steps, clasping his hands and letting them hang between his knees. Cone sat down next to him after a moment, regarding him with concern.

Cone inhaled thoughtfully and held the breath. "I piece it together like this," he began, his tone gentle, analytical. "Greg Youngman buys twelve of those C-D Four disks, pays for six, intends to pay for the second six with the cash from the botched robbery. Tommy Godfrey bails out his two brothers, leaves Greg in the stir. This guy, LaBrock, who sold the disks, wants his payment. Since Youngman's still in jail, he takes the Godfrey brothers as his road to being reimbursed. They don't have the money, of course, so they come back here just ahead of us and their brother, hoping to find the other six disks so they can give those back to LaBrock, and make everything right."

Soong looked at Cone silently.

Cone nodded slowly. "That's how I see it. That'll be my point of view that I put in the report."

Soong continued to look at Cone without a word. Eventually, he nodded, and got up from his seat at the steps. Cone got up after a few seconds and followed him over to the back of the ambulance they'd just loaded Vincent Godfrey into. Soong looked in just before they closed the doors, and caught a glimpse of the youngest Godfrey brother, Michael, sitting in the ambulance, next to his brothers. Michael's arms were folded tightly across his midsection, as if he were colder than he'd ever been.

"I've had to shoot nine people," Cone said to Soong as the ambulance started to pull away. "I've been a cop for a long time, I think, and I think I had at least eight different reasons for shooting those nine." Cone took a moment and wet his lower lip slightly with his tongue. "Three of them I shot dead. And, for a few days after every one of those three, I spent a lot of time questioning to myself why I did it, and if I absolutely had to do it, and sometimes whether or not I should keep being a cop at all." Cone put both hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, shrugged, shook his head. He struggled a bit to find the right words. "I've just found that it might be better, in the long-run, to try and distance yourself from the whole thing, you know? Not to . . . not to ignore it, exactly, but just to be able to lock it away temporarily until you can devote a lot of time to really dealing with it."

Soong thought he understood. He watched the ambulance grow smaller and smaller as it drove farther and farther away. He hung his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, and looked at Cone with a solemn, grateful smile. They both started for Cone's car at the same time. "What kind of word is 'sacrimonious,' anyway? Is that even a word?" Soong wondered aloud as he stepped up on the curb.

Thursday
Somewhere in the Swiss Alps
1:04 a.m.

Perhaps Jean-Paul Valley would've reflected on just how far he had come since Cincinnati, had his mind been allowed that freedom even for a moment in the last few weeks since he had found himself back here.

But, Brother Rollo would have none of that. Rollo himself had overseen every aspect of Jean-Paul's retrieval and subsequent reconditioning. Bringing the former Azrael back to the ice cathedral of St. Dumas had been a task of no difficulty; afterall, what was The System if not a labyrinthine web of post-hypnotic suggestions? It was only a matter of triggering the right one.

The man standing next to Rollo in front of the seated Jean-Paul was Brother Mercior. It had been Mercior's idea, as the new master of the Azraels, to recall Jean-Paul to the Order for this particular assignment. The Order had been without an Azrael for months now, with the loss of Jean-Paul, and the rejection of Quentin's audition to fill the part. Rollo was actually rather pleased at that last one, though; Quentin would've made an atrocious Azrael. So wild and disobedient. And hardly angelic.

Jean-Paul, for all his obstreperous tendencies, had functioned as an exemplary Azrael. He might still have been serving St. Dumas today, had it not been for the interference of the infidel, the Batman.

Brother Mercior lowered the golden medallion and let it drop into one of the pockets of his robe. He turned to Rollo, put his palms together in front of him, and bowed briefly in a show of solemn respect for his superior. "He's progressed back almost entirely into The System, my lord."

Rollo looked at Jean-Paul, seated placidly in the chair in the center of the darkened room, and nodded at Mercior. "He's ready, then." Brother Rollo turned around and started for the door. "Inform him of his objective." Then, Rollo was gone.

Mercior pulled out the medal again and held it in front of Jean-Paul's face. Jean-Paul's eyes focused on the medal, on its golden circle and nothing more. "St. Dumas needs you to leave us here and embark on a mission for the sake of the Order, Azrael," Mercior began in an even, commanding voice that would have made even the un-hypnotized feel compelled to obey him. "When you leave the cathedral, you will be taken by plane to an airport in Bern. From there, you will take a plane to the city of Metropolis in the United States. In Metropolis, you may find a man who has done a great wrong to St. Dumas and his holy Order."

Jean-Paul nodded robotically. "I will serve St. Dumas as you ask. Who is this man?"

"He is a physical marvel to say the least. Most resilient. He should provide you with quite a challenge. . . . We call him 'defiler,' Azrael," Mercior said, "but to most, he is called 'Superman.'"

Jean-Paul gave another nod.

"He is an interloper," Mercior continued, "a hindrance to the Order. He is very distinctive in appearance; you'll have no trouble finding him. And, when you do find him, it is your duty to St. Dumas to kill him." Mercior lowered the medallion and regarded Jean-Paul expectantly. "Do you understand your mission, Azrael?"

Jean-Paul nodded once more.

"Excellent," said Mercior, "now repeat it to me."

"Go to Metropolis from Bern," Jean-Paul began, his voice empty of any humanity. "Find Superman, the defiler. Kill him."

Mercior nodded with satisfaction. He smiled down on Jean-Paul. "Welcome back to the Order, Azrael. Venerable St. Dumas be praised."