Gotham

by Jason Starr

“Is it Colon?”

  “Who?” Essen asked.

  “Roberto Colon, one of the art thieves we’re looking for.”

  Lacey stirred, muttering, “Did I give you permission to make that call?”

  “Forget the art robbery, this is way bigger. Two cops were killed last night. Set on fire in their squad car.”

  Harvey sat up, ignoring all his pains.

  “Cops?” he asked. “Who?”

  “Warren and Lewis,” Essen said.

  “Goddamnit.” Harvey didn’t know Lewis, a rookie, too well, but he and Warren broke in together. “I’ll be there A-S-A-P.” He ended the call and started getting dressed, pulling on his pants.

  “Where you going?” Lacey asked, fully awake now.

  “Somebody set a couple of cops on fire.”

  “Oh, crap,” she said. Then she added, “I’ll probably get called in, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you down there.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then I guess I’ll see you around somewhere.” Harvey put his shirt on, and grabbed his socks and shoes.

  “That how you want this to play out?” Lacey said, an edge appearing in her voice. “Just see if you happen to run into me again? So you can call me, drunk from a bar, and see if I want to have a good time?”

  Harvey thought about it for a beat, pulling on both socks.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Harvey,” she said, the edge gone again. “Your honesty.”

  “It’s nice to know I have one endearing quality.”

  Both shoes were on.

  “I wish I was more like you,” Lacey said.

  “No, you don’t,” Harvey said.

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “Till we meet again.”

  Harvey left the apartment.

  SIXTEEN

  “Are you okay?”

  Thomas went out to the gardens to call Karen. He knew calling her from home was a bad idea, especially with Martha getting suspicious, but he needed to make sure she was okay.

  “Yes, everything’s just awesome,” she said.

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Thomas said, “Seriously. Has anyone else showed up?”

  “Yes, five more guys with guns, but don’t worry I killed all of them.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Thomas said. He glanced back at Wayne Manor. Did he see movement upstairs, in Alfred’s room? It looked like the curtains had jostled, but it might have been the wind.

  “It will be fine, I promise,” Thomas said. “I’ll come back in a few days, or as soon as I can, to check on you. You should have plenty of food, and I took measurements on your broken window. I’ll get that all fixed.”

  “There’s no rush,” she said. “Come whenever you feel like it.”

  She sounded oddly calm, and Thomas couldn’t tell whether she was really doing okay, or if depression had set in. He often worried that she might sink into a deep depression, and attempt suicide. She had already suffered so much, she didn’t deserve to any more.

  He wasn’t sure he could handle it.

  The world was random, and there was no such thing as justice, as far as he could tell. If there was justice, Hugo Strange would be the one to get depressed and commit suicide. That would solve a lot of problems.

  “Hang in there,” Thomas said. “Brighter days are ahead.” After he ended the call, though, he realized that had probably been the worst possible thing he could say to a depressed person, especially when he didn’t believe it himself.

  He glanced back at Wayne Manor—no sign of Alfred or anyone else watching—and then he called Frank.

  “How are things looking?” Thomas asked.

  “Great,” Frank said, “coming along.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, and a little hoarse.

  “Did I wake you?” Thomas asked.

  “No, no, I’ve been up for a while,” Frank said. “So, um, yeah, I think I have a couple of leads on the painting.”

  “Any link to you-know-who?” Thomas had gotten in the habit of not mentioning Strange’s name over the phone, as wiretapping was always a possibility. It was probably a futile gesture, but he’d take reassurance anywhere he could get it.

  “What?” Frank seemed lost for a beat, then he said, “Oh, oh him—no, nothing yet.” He coughed, or maybe cleared his throat. “But I have ears on the ground, and I’m sure I’ll call you later with an update.” He coughed, definitely coughed, again.

  “Very good,” Thomas said, still thinking that something about Frank seemed odd today. Maybe he was just imagining it.

  “Oh, did you check in with Karen?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “And I think you may have been right in your suspicions.”

  “Why? She told you something? Has he been in touch with her?”

  In person, Thomas would’ve told Frank about the person he’d killed, Scotty Wallace, and the fear that Hugo had sent him, but he didn’t want to get into the gory details, or any of the details really, over the phone.

  “Let’s just say I’m more concerned than I was yesterday,” Thomas said.

  “Gotcha,” Frank said. “Hey, I need to get going, but I’ll be in touch with you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” Thomas said, and he ended the call.

  Walking back toward the house, he felt again that Frank definitely hadn’t sounded like himself. He sounded distracted, as if there was something he wasn’t saying. Thomas had never doubted his trust in Frank before, but he began to wonder if Karen had been right. Had it been a mistake to tell Frank about Pinewood Farms?

  “Stop it,” he said out loud to himself. Frank was an old friend, and a pro.

  Entering through the back door, Thomas saw Bruce coming downstairs the way kids do—almost skipping. He stopped at the bottom stair.

  “Hey, good morning,” Thomas said.

  “Good morning,” his son said. “Mom’s looking for you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I’m right here.” Thomas jumped a little and looked behind him. Martha was there.

  “You look very pretty today,” he said.

  While she did look pretty, she didn’t look any prettier than usual. Yet after all the tension, Thomas wanted to get the new day off to a good start.

  “Thank you,” Martha said, “that’s sweet.” Then she said to Bruce, “Have you finished all of your homework?”

  “Yes, Mom. I finished my Beowulf paper as well.”

  “In that case,” she said, “I think we should all do something as a family today. How about a movie?”

  “The circus is in town,” Bruce said. “I haven’t seen the circus since I was seven years old. Can we go?”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Martha said. “What do you think, Thomas?”

  Thomas agreed the family time would be nice, but after being followed to Karen’s, he was concerned about taking his family out in public without some sort of protection, at least until he had a better sense of what was going on.

  “Sounds fun,” Thomas said, “but how about we have Alfred come along as well?”

  “Great idea,” Martha said. “Should I ask him?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Bruce said. “I’m so excited.” He dashed upstairs, taking the stairs two steps at a time. About a minute later, he shouted from the top of the landing, “Alfred said yes. Yes!”

  Thomas felt much better going around town with Alfred, his secret weapon, in tow.

  * * *

  A short time later, Alfred drove them in the Bentley to the old fairgrounds on the outskirts of Gotham.

  The massive tent where the main performances took place towered over smaller tents and trailers where the performers lived while the circus was in town. They pulled up by the main entrance to the grounds, a valet parked the car, and then the Waynes and Alfred headed into the central area. Thousands of Gothamites had come out on the sunny Sunday afternoon to enjoy the festivities. Some recognized the Waynes a
nd waved or said hi to them.

  “This is wonderful,” Martha said. “What a great idea to come here today.”

  “Look,” Bruce said, “it says he’s the strongest in the world.”

  Sure enough, in front of a tent hung a sign,

  STRONGEST MAN IN THE WORLD

  A man, maybe seven feet tall, with massive muscles, lifted a barbell stacked with weights over his head.

  “You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley,” Alfred said.

  But Bruce had already moved on, and was staring at another sign.

  THE SIAMESE SINGERS

  Two young women, apparently conjoined at their hips, were singing some song in the baroque style, a cappella. They had surprisingly good voices, and a crowd had formed around them to listen while a grown man with a head no bigger than a cantaloupe went around and collected money in his tiny baseball cap. The spectacle reminded Thomas of the comment Karen had made about winding up in a freak show.

  The morose thought must have showed in Thomas’s expression.

  “Are you okay?” Martha asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Thomas insisted. Abruptly someone knocked into him, hard, and Thomas stumbled and almost fell backward, but Alfred grabbed hold of him.

  “Mate, are you alright?” Alfred asked.

  “Fine,” Thomas said. Then he looked over at the young man—really a teenager—who had knocked into him. The boy had an odd, sinister smile.

  “Watch it, jerkoff,” the boy said to him.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” Martha said.

  “Screw you.”

  “Hey, that language isn’t necessary,” Martha said.

  “She’s right, mate,” Alfred said. “And an apology is in order, as well.”

  The boy didn’t say anything, just kept smiling.

  “Being rude isn’t funny,” Bruce said to him.

  “Says who?” the boy said. “Just because you’re Bruce Wayne, you think the whole world has to be polite to you?” Despite his ominous words, his grin seemed to grow even larger. Then an older woman, wearing a long flowing shawl with bright colors and shiny bangles, came over to the boy and slapped him hard on the back of his head.

  “Come along, Jerome,” the old woman said, then she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him away into a trailer.

  The trailer had a sign:

  SNAKE CHARMER

  “She may do well with snakes,” Alfred commented, “but her way with people leaves something to be desired.”

  “That boy is creepy,” Bruce said.

  “Well, we are at a circus,” Alfred said. “Attracts all sorts, I suppose.”

  “It’s all right,” Thomas said, brushing himself off. “Let’s enjoy our day.”

  While the circus was one of the hottest tickets in Gotham, as benefactors who helped to sponsor the event, the Waynes had access to the best seats in the house. At the circus, this meant front row. One act after another paraded past, often within feet of them, including the trapeze artists, acrobats, a tap-dancing elephant, a man swallowing fire, and of course, clowns.

  Bruce soaked it all in, alternating between awe and glee. When Thomas was younger, he cherished the days when his parents—now both dead—had taken him to events like shows and circuses, and on family trips. Similarly, Thomas knew that someday Bruce would look back at days like these, and savor the memories. While he felt fortunate that he’d grown up with a privileged lifestyle, and was happy that he’d provided the same for Bruce, he also knew that, in the end, memories were far more valuable than money.

  He had brought his camera and, afterward, he took photos of Bruce with the circus performers. Then, outside of the tents, he had Alfred take a family photo of the three of them with their arms around one another. It would make a great family portrait, and might work as this year’s Christmas card, as well.

  SEVENTEEN

  After the circus, they went out to dinner at one of their favorite French restaurants. Thomas and Bruce had the mussels, while Alfred and Martha both tried the duck. The adults shared a twelve-year-old bottle of delicate Bordeaux that had been well paired by the sommelier.

  The drive back to Wayne Manor was uneventful, and Bruce struggled not to fall asleep in the back seat—and failed. When they finally arrived at Wayne Manor, he woke, and instantly broke out in a smile.

  “This was one of the best days of my life.”

  That comment made Thomas’s day.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bruce,” he said.

  “We had a great time, too,” Martha added.

  Still grinning, Bruce headed up to his room, and was followed shortly thereafter by Alfred. Martha looped her arm in her husband’s, and gave a small yawn.

  “I’m exhausted,” she said to Thomas, “and tomorrow’s a busy day. Coming to bed soon?”

  “In a bit,” Thomas replied. “I have some work to take care of.”

  “On a Sunday night?” Martha asked. Her contented look was replaced by a small frown.

  “I have a big week ahead of me,” Thomas said, “and a lot of meetings to prepare for. Unfortunately, Monday morning comes far too quickly.”

  “I understand,” she said, though she sounded as if she didn’t quite buy his explanation. Nevertheless, she kissed him—a quick peck on the lips—and then headed upstairs.

  The undercurrent of his talk with Martha still lingered, despite the fun day they’d had, and she still harbored her suspicions. Martha was nobody’s fool. Perhaps she suspected that when he went into his office alone, late at night, it was to have secret conversations with a lover. That would be a natural assumption.

  Ironically, the truth was exactly the opposite. He had never cheated on Martha, and had no interest in seeking any sort of relationship outside of his marriage. He went into his office for solitude, to escape from the world. He was a public figure in Gotham, always under scrutiny for something, and sometimes he needed his alone time, to isolate himself, in order to function. Only then could he properly provide for his family.

  He would have reassured Martha, but without disclosing details he simply couldn’t share, there was little he could say that would ring true. He might be able to placate her later, but what would happen the next time he disappeared upstate for an afternoon, to see Karen? The suspicion would return, and the only remedy would be to tell her the truth.

  Yet he couldn’t tell her the truth, without also telling her about Pinewood Farms. If Strange suspected that Martha knew anything, he’d probably try to eliminate her, as well. A methodical man, Hugo would seek to tie off all loose ends. No, the way Thomas looked at it, if the mistakes of his past led to his demise, then so be it—but he intended to do everything in his power not to drag Martha down with him, even if it meant allowing her fears to perpetuate.

  He shut the door to the study and locked it. Instantly he felt more relaxed. To keep the mood going, he put on some soft classical music—a Tchaikovsky violin concerto—and smoked a good Cuban cigar. This was how he wound down—his form of yoga and meditation. With every exhale of cigar smoke, he felt less stressed and more focused.

  Confidence returned, the feeling that somehow all his problems would work themselves out. Strange would back off, or wind up in jail for orchestrating an armed robbery, Karen could lead a normal—or at least semi-normal—life. The board members who had been trying to oust him from his position as president and CEO would back down. The corruption that had infested Gotham in every dark shadow finally would taper off.

  Bruce would grow up in a safer, more peaceful city.

  His mood bolstered, Thomas called Frank, but got his voicemail. Although Frank had told Thomas he’d called to check in, Thomas wasn’t concerned. Frank was one of the good guys. He worked in mysterious ways, at his own pace, but always got the job done in the end.

  Any doubts Thomas had harbored went up in smoke.

  Thomas finished most of the cigar, then smothered the stub out in the ashtray on his desk. He left the music on—
the way he always did, to make it seem to everyone else in the house that he was still working in the study—and then he flicked a switch. The fireplace parted, and the entrance to the basement appeared. He entered the stairwell, shutting the fireplace entrance behind him. Downstairs, he tapped B-R-U-C-E into the control panel on the steel door and, voila, he was in his secret office.

  He looked around warily. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—not that he expected anything to be. Unless someone hacked the password—he’d have to change it to something more complicated when he had a chance—the only way in would be to blow up the door.

  Before that, someone would have to find out about the office’s very existence, and the only people who had access to any of this information were several trusted security people at Wayne Security, the subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises, who had designed and helped install the security features, including the steel door. Was it possible that someone at Wayne Security could have leaked this information, perhaps to Hugo Strange?

  As of a couple of days ago, Thomas had felt there was little chance of this happening, but the break-in proved that he was more vulnerable than he’d thought he was. People were capable of crossing any line for a good payday. If a corrupt board member at Wayne Enterprises, or some other rogue employee, wanted to access information that hurt Thomas, they could do so, and there was little Thomas could do to prevent it.

  “Every king is vulnerable to a coop.” Thomas had said that to Lucius Fox, one of the few people he trusted implicitly. Someone didn’t have to turn rogue on their own—there could be a web of deceit. For example, one of the workers who had installed the steel door in the basement could have told a friend about it, and that friend could have told another friend. Was this likely? Who knows? It was impossible to defend against everything.

  As Thomas logged onto his computer desktop, he reminded himself that the worst-case scenario hadn’t yet occurred. If the intruders knew about the exact location of the office, they would have found a way in. While someone might have leaked the codes to the main security system at Wayne Manor, now new codes had been set up, and tighter security, so Thomas’s secrets were as safe as they could possibly be.