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Chapter 11 - In the �Haven

Dick Grayson sat in a bar on Fairfax Avenue, sipping from a beer bottle he�d emptied in the restroom sink and refilled with water. The busy hum of a Thursday night surrounded him: high-pitched laughter, the stirrings of a drunken argument, a tuneless song piped in over ancient speakers. He�d come to the bar to be seen. Soon enough a few of his fellow officers came in, nodded stiffly in greeting, and went to their usual booth. They did not ask Dick to join them.

A tall, middle-aged black man sat down next to Dick and ordered a scotch malt whiskey. He was dressed warmly for the increasingly cold Bludhaven winter. The humid bar, hot with so many bodies and a broken air vent, forced him to remove his tan overcoat and a pair of imitation-leather gloves. The man turned, glanced at Dick briefly and began to sip his whiskey, keeping an eye on the action in the bar. A gorgeous blond waitress bent over a table of slightly intoxicated Japanese businessmen, working her chest hard for a good tip. The man beside Dick smiled at the scene.

�Busy night,� he pointed out conversationally. �I�ve never tried this place before. You?�

�I stop by every couple of weeks,� Dick replied, not shopping for a new best friend. He only wanted to put in an appearance tonight to show that he was �one of the guys� before heading out on patrol as Nightwing. Dick hadn�t really felt like socializing in the last few weeks anyway.

�Son, if you don�t mind me saying�you look like something�s weighing on your mind,� the man tried, dark brown eyes signaling an ulterior motive. Dick�s alarms started to go off: he doubted the older man was hitting on him, since it wasn�t that kind of bar, but�

�How�s the case going?� the man asked. Dick shook his head in question. �The case you�re working with Holly.�

Dick took a sip from the bottle of beer to gain a beat before replying. This wasn�t the man from the racetrack. This man screamed �COP� and no one on the Bludhaven force knew anything about the case with Holly. Dick struggled to figure out what angle this man was working and kept coming up with nothing.

�Sorry,� the man smiled, �I�m being rude. Name�s George Flannery,� he said, offering his hand. Dick shook it warily. �I used to be on the Gotham force about ten years ago,� he explained. Dick nodded slightly. The force in Gotham back then was more like Bludhaven�s today: hopelessly corrupt and violent. Bruce had done some housecleaning his first year out as Batman and gotten rid of the worst of the department. Dick wondered if Flannery had lost his job in the process.

�Who are you?� Dick asked.

�We have a common acquaintance,� Flannery explained. �Little black brother. Calls himself the Prophet. Thought you�d be expecting me.�

Dick blinked in surprise. This was the Prophet�s �dark man�? A sixty year-old retired Gotham cop? From the way the Prophet had spoken of him, Dick had been expecting a character out of a Stephen King novel, and Flannery hardly fit the bill. He was more Bill Cosby than Randall Flagg.

�Look, I didn�t mean to startle you with this. But I�ve been talking to the Prophet for a while, and he�s told me some interesting things about you. I thought you�d be a guy worth getting to know, and I think I�ve got some information you might want.�

�What kind of information?� Dick asked. Flannery shook his head, sipping his whiskey.

�Not here. It doesn�t concern your day job.�

Dick masked the surprise and fear in his eyes, drinking from his beer bottle and meeting Flannery�s open, honest gaze directly. �What do you mean?�

�Look,� Flannery said, drawing closer to Dick, �I�m not interested in that part of your life. Most of it I knew already. Some of the players had to be filled in and the Prophet did that for me. I�m more concerned with what you�re working now, with Holly. I don�t think you know who you�re dealing with. Who Holly really works for.�

�And?� Dick prompted.

�I�ve got a folder on her a mile long,� Flannery promised, fishing a thick manila envelop out of the pocket of his discarded overcoat. �Pictures, mostly. Your little gal pal has been swimming in some dangerous waters. She knows a few sharks. Does the name Selina Kyle ring a bell?�

Dick kept his face immobile, frozen with surprise. He knew that no cop in a hundred miles had any info on Selina. Legally she was dead, and so was Catwoman.

�Maybe,� Dick replied, wondering what information Flannery could possibly offer that would connect Holly Robinson with Selina Kyle. �What do you want in return?�

Flannery smiled as if he�d just decided something. �Time for that later,� he told Dick, putting the envelope back in his overcoat pocket . �For now, let�s just say I�m a concerned citizen who just wants to help. Come by my place later tonight,� Flannery asked, handing Dick a business card with an address scribbled on the back. �Leave the badge at home.�

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Renee Montoya checked the address plate, found the name she was looking for and buzzed apartment 407 in the six-story brownstone. No answer. She backed out of the shelter of the foyer, looking up at the right window on the side of the building. She shielded her eyes against the biting wind and ice crystals swirling in the air around her. �Terrific,� she mumbled, seeing that no light was on in the apartment she wanted. Renee glanced around the deserted street. It was late and there was no traffic in the quiet residential neighborhood. The hotel was strictly lower middle-class, caught halfway between a flop house and a Sandman Inn. She tried the buzzer again, hoping the occupant of 407 was asleep and had missed her first request for entry. Still nothing.

�I�m not driving back in this storm,� she told herself, buzzing for the super. He finally answered on the fourth ring, a gaunt-faced man with a skinny black cat wrapped around his shoulder. The cat hissed at Renee, who glared at the little beast in turn. �El diablo gato,� she informed the super, who shrugged and stroked the cat�s greasy fur. �I need 407. I know it�s late, but�.�

�No problem,� the super replied once Renee flashed her badge. �He�s been a good tenant. What�s the Gotham PD want with him?�

�Just a friendly conversation,� Renee replied, following the super up a narrow flight of stairs. �How long has he been staying here?�

The super scratched the four-day growth of stubble on his painfully angular chin. �A couple, three weeks. maybe. Pays rent on Sundays, quiet, polite. No trouble. Sophia likes him.�

Renee paused behind him and the cat peaked over the man�s shoulder, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim hall. �Sophia has the run of the place,� he added. Renee got the feeling that tenents either got along with Sophia or they found a new hotel.

�I don�t like cats,� Renee replied coldly, coming to a stop just behind the man. �This it?�

�Yep,� the super replied. �Want the door open?�

Renee cocked her head, listening. There was only silence behind the cheap pine door. �I have to tell this man that his daughter is dead,� she said sadly. �Think I need a warrant?�

The super massaged Sophia�s ears, and the cat emitted a low, guttural purr. �How old was she?�

�Too young,� Montoya replied. �From Gotham.�

�I�m glad we got out when we did,� the super said, his frown pulling his thin face into a death�s-head leer. �That town is�loco,� he tried. Renee didn�t bother to correct his accent. �The �Haven�s not perfect by any means, but-�

�Could you knock?� she interrupted, wanting to get this over with. They�d ID�d the dead girl on the train late that afternoon. Someone (one guess who) had left the relevant file on her desk at Central. Janine Flannery, 19 years old. Runaway from Gotham. Her father was a retired cop and now Renee had to tell him the GCPD had pulled his little girl off the 5:36. She hated her job sometimes.

The super rapped sharply on the door. No answer.

�He�s home,� he told Montoya. �Key�s downstairs. The guy�s pretty old, right?�

�Past sixty,� Renee said, unsnapping her holster. Something felt wrong. �Did he seem healthy to you?�

The super shrugged, the cat on his shoulder forgotten. �Looked like one of those broken-down old vets at the VA. Told me he was in the �Nam. He�s a cop, right?�

�He was,� Renee replied. �A long time ago.� She asked him to knock again. The man complied. Still no answer.

�Mr. Flannery?� Renee called through the door, keeping her faint Puerto Rican accent in check. People in neighborhoods like this usually weren�t too accommodating towards people who rolled their r�s. �Can I speak with you?�

Some indiscernible noise echoed through the hall and Renee bit her lip, deciding quickly. �Open it,� she ordered. The super slid the cat off his shoulder and set Sophia down on the carpeted floor gently, removing a ring of keys from the pocket of his rumbled corduroys. He shot the key home and the deadbolt slid back. Renee pushed through the door, hand on her gun. �Keep back,� she told the super, who had already reclaimed his cat and headed off down the hall.

�And they say chivalry is dead,� Renee muttered, moving forward into the dark apartment. The light switch by the door was dead and she moved slowly through the darkness, a piece of furniture (an overturned sofa?) brushing against her knee. The air felt strange, electric, and there was a faint odor in the room. Renee had seen enough death to recognize the scent: blood. Without another thought, she drew her gun.

She flicked on a flashlight and held it parallel to her .45, shining the beam along the barrel of her weapon. The place was a disaster. Overturned boxes, broken bits of furniture and clothing was strewn about the hotel room. Most of it was indiscernible junk, the kind found in every cheap hotel room in America. Furniture in mono-chromatic colors, ugly pastel paintings on the wall ripped to shreds, their frames bent and broken. Renee had a feeling that even the Gideon Bible in the bedside drawer would be in tatters.

She kept moving and found the bedroom door. The room was so silent she could hear her own heartbeat and Renee paused a moment, breathing deeply. This was stupid. She should call for backup, someone she could trust. Bullock, she thought wildly, before remembering her partner�s fate. Allen then. Someone.

Her hand on the trigger, she slammed through the bedroom door and shone her light on the only living person in the room.

�Freeze!� she bellowed, lowering her voice to sound more forceful. The bright beam of the flashlight swung into the room, illuminating a young, muscular man crouched on the floor. He stood slowly, hands raised high in the air. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing: even after years on the Gotham force, she was still shocked when confronted by a Mask.

�Detective Montoya,� Nightwing greeted her pleasantly, hands still in the air. He held something in his hands: it looked to Montoya like an advanced fingerprint kit, much too high-tech to belong to a county forensic team. Renee swept the flashlight down to the floor to see what he�d been so fascinated with. Detective George Flannery, late of the Gotham Police Department, lay dead and bleeding on the cheap yellow carpeting.

�Is he�?� Renee asked, returning the beam of light back to Nightwing�s face. He blinked a few times, then slowly nodded.

�You�ve got a remarkable sense of timing,� he told her. �I just got here myself and found him like that.�

Renee kept her weapon up, not quite ready to believe him. She�d seen this one up close a few times. His tight spandex costume was a bit of a sensation among the female cops on the Gotham force, given his remarkable physique and devil-may-care grin. Nightwing was far more sociable than his darker counterpart, but she still preferred dealing with Batman. Less crap to cut through.

�What are you doing here?� she demanded.

�I was about to ask you the same thing,� Nightwing replied, smiling a little. �Ladies first.�

�I don�t think so,� she frowned, gesturing with the .45 to make her point. �Talk.�

�Fine,� he relented, sighing. �Can I at least put my arms down? I�m a hand-talker.�

Renee nodded, knowing that if he�d wanted to, he would have already disarmed her. She knew who had trained him.

Nightwing lowered his arms, folding them across his chest. �He and I have a mutual acquaintance. We met in a bar earlier tonight and he wanted me to come by. Said he had something important to tell me.�

Renee shined the light on his face again, unable to see if he was telling the truth. The mask concealed more than his identity. �And what did he have to say?�

�It was about a case I was working,� Nightwing said, unable or unwilling to reveal more. �Your turn.�

Renee sniffed, lowering the light to the body of the dead Gotham cop. �I suppose you heard about the body we pulled from that Bristol train a few weeks ago?�

Nightwing nodded.

�That was his daughter.�

Renee finally found out what a Mask looked like when caught completely off guard. Nightwing�s jaw literally dropped and she doubted it was part of an effort to deceive her. �His daughter?� he replied, shocked.

Montoya nodded. �Your partner gave me the ID.�

�Guess I�ve been left out of the loop,� Nightwing muttered, wondering why Barbara hadn�t said anything. He knew she�d probably put everything together for Bruce.

�Who did this?� Renee asked, crouching to examine the body. She didn�t touch Flannery or disturb the crime scene. Nightwing, who had been trained in forensics from the age of thirteen, hesitated before crouching beside her. He�d probably contaminated the scene when he�d touched Flannery to check for a pulse.

�How long until you have to call the Bludhaven PD?� he asked.

�Ten minutes,� she told him.

�That�s more than enough time,� Nightwing assured her, rolling Flannery gently onto his back. The dead man�s head lolled to the side and Renee grimaced. His face had been badly beaten and someone had raked long claw marks down the side of his face. One eye was swollen shut and the other stared out into space. Flannery�s lip was split and blood had congealed on his chin. She didn�t doubt the rest of his body was in a similarly abused condition. Renee looked up.

�Someone enjoyed doing this,� she said in the quiet room. �Someone liked hurting him.�

�Or wants us to think they did,� Nightwing corrected, brushing his fingers over the scratches on Flannery�s face and neck.

�What?� Renee asked. Nightwing didn�t reply, standing quickly and backing away. �Find something?�

�Nope,� he replied, covering. Dick had spotted the manila envelope Flannery had flashed at the bar. He removed a tiny digital camera from one of the concealed pouches on his forearm, taking a few snapshots of Flannery�s body before asking, �Mind if I look around before you call in the fuzz?� His tone sounded a little less jovial than before and Dick hoped she wouldn�t notice.

Renee sighed. �Knock yourself out,� she told him, glancing around the apartment. She scanned the place with her flashlight, her back to him. When she turned, he was standing by the bed, examining the window. One of the lower panes had been broken.

�This was the perp�s entry point,� Nightwing said, checking the shards of glass around the broken window for traces of cloth or skin. �Fibers,� he announced. �The Bludhaven PD should be able to pick it up from here.�

�We�ve got a better chance of finding whoever did this if you handled things,� Renee said tonelessly. It cost her a lot to admit that. Most of the Gotham cops didn�t even like to look at the Batsignal, let alone invite a Mask to help out on a crime scene. But Renee was a realist and she knew that something like this might be beyond the capabilities of the Bludhaven PD. Forensics was not their strong suit. Neither was catching the guilty.

�I�ve got to check on some things,� Nightwing said, heading for the bedroom door. �Thanks for� Thanks,� he told her. �And Montoya,� he paused, turning to her, sympathy lurking beneath the slitted eyelets. �Keep your chin up. Say hi to Jim for me.�

He disappeared from the doorway, moving into the darkness of the rest of the apartment. Renee squared her shoulders, alone with Flannery�s corpse. She wondered how many crime scenes Nightwing had seen since he�d been a little kid in that silly Robin costume. Batman�s family relationships were a mystery to her. She knew there had been three boys and two girls who�d helped out Gotham�s premier vigilante, but only Commissioner Gordon had ever been able to tell them apart. She turned back to her job, resolved to find a phone and get some air.