by Jason Starr
“A car accident would have been reported.”
“Unless it occurred in a secluded area and hasn’t been discovered yet,” The Lady said. “Idle speculation is a waste of time. In any event, I feel as if I’ve failed you. I have a reputation to protect. I take pride in completing every job for which I’m contracted, and in having a nearly perfect close rate. I hope I have a chance to make it up to you, Dr. Strange.”
“Oh, you most definitely will,” Strange said. “In fact, I have another assignment for you. Except this person, I want him brought to me alive—and then killed in front of me.”
“That’s an unusual request,” The Lady said, “and frankly quite risky.”
“I understand that,” Strange said, “which is why I’m prepared to pay double my usual fee.”
“I see.” The Lady took a beat, then said, “And who is this person whom you want brought to you?”
“Nikos Petrakos,” Strange said. “He’s a known criminal in Gotham. You shouldn’t have too much trouble tracking him down.” He knew she wouldn’t ask questions about Petrakos. She was only interested in one thing—money.
“I have the perfect man for the job,” The Lady said, “but because of the risks I’m going to be forced to charge four times your usual fee.”
“Given that you didn’t complete the last assignment, I think four times is excessive,” Strange said, “don’t you?”
“Four times, and that’s my final offer,” The Lady said.
Strange didn’t have leverage. He needed her now, would need her again, and she knew it.
“In that case it’s a deal,” Strange said.
* * *
Strange returned to his office to see a couple of patients. He was getting ready to leave for the evening when Miss Peabody buzzed him.
“There’s a man on the phone for you,” she said. “He said you’re expecting his call.”
“Put him through,” Strange said. The call connected. “Yes?”
“I got him,” the man said.
“Fantastic,” Strange said. “Where can we meet?” The man suggested meeting outside an old shoe factory in North Gotham.
“I’ll be there,” Strange said.
* * *
Strange brought Miss Peabody along to the meeting. When they arrived at the factory, they didn’t see anyone there. The area around the complex of buildings was barren, seemingly deserted. Several lights from atop the main building illuminated the area.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Miss Peabody asked, sitting next to him in the car.
“Positive,” Strange said. He parked up closer to the front of the factory when a car approached behind him, and pulled up perhaps twenty feet behind.
“Wait here,” Strange said to Miss Peabody. He unfastened his seat belt, opened the door, and got out.
Heading toward the other car, he stopped in between the two vehicles. The driver, presumably The Lady’s man, was a balding, overweight person in his fifties with a bushy mustache. He got out of the car, and there was no one else in evidence.
“Hugo?” the man said.
“Yes.”
“He’s in the trunk.”
Strange followed the hit man to the back of the car. He lifted the lid to the trunk, revealing the bound and gagged, surly, dark-haired guy. Nikos Petrakos was trying to scream, but could only make muffled noises. He had multiple bruises and cuts on his face, some of them still oozing blood.
“Ah, fantastic,” Strange said.
“Wasn’t easy,” the hit man said. “Lotta heat out there. The cops are looking for this guy, too.”
“Can you remove the gag, please?” Strange asked.
The man said to the guy in the trunk, “You better not scream, or else.” Then he removed it.
“Can you give us some privacy, please?” Strange asked. The hit man walked away. Then Strange said, “Greetings, Mr. Petrakos.”
“Who… who are you?” Petrakos asked. His voice was hoarse, probably from choking on his own blood.
“I’m the man who hired you to break into Wayne Manor,” Strange said.
“But-but a guy named Geno hired us.”
“Yes, but I hired Geno,” Strange said. “I know, it’s very unusual, you were never supposed to find out who you were working for. But now that two of your partners are dead, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?”
“So… so what do you want with me?”
“You made a big mistake stealing the painting. That wasn’t part of the mission statement.”
“The painting wasn’t my idea, I swear.”
“Yet you used your aunt as the fence.”
Strange saw the fear in Petrakos’s dark eyes.
“Yes, I did my research,” Strange said. “I always do.”
“That… that was a coincidence,” Petrakos said.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” Strange said. “I’ve observed abnormal behavior my entire adult life. I know when someone is lying to me, so don’t even attempt to do it. It will save us both valuable time.”
Strange was a master of manipulating people, a skill he took great pride in, and he had Petrakos under his control.
“Okay, yeah, I suggested taking it to my aunt,” Petrakos said. “But I swear the whole stealing the painting idea was Roberto’s idea.”
“You’re telling the truth,” Strange said, “but the fact remains, you went along with it, so you’re as guilty as the others. Much more importantly, you’ve also put my plans in jeopardy.”
“I’m sorry,” Petrakos said. “Really I am.”
“Now you’re lying again,” Strange said. “I can’t blame you. Any man bound in a trunk with a hit man standing just a few feet away will say anything he can to save his life.”
“Please,” Petrakos said. “I didn’t meant to hurt you, or anyone. I was just trying to make a few bucks, get a better life. I’ll do whatever you want. If you want the painting, you can have it. I’ll tell you where it is.”
“I don’t care about the painting, I care about discretion. Your accomplices are dead, your aunt is dead. Does anybody else know about any of this?”
“Why should I tell you?” Petrakos sneered. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”
“I’m a psychiatrist, not a murderer,” Strange said. “I have no interest in killing you. After we finish this conversation, I will simply hypnotize you into forgetting everything you know about me, and erase this entire unfortunate incident. You’ll wake up on the side of the road, and you’ll be able to resume your life.”
“Are you serious?” Petrakos said. “You’ll really let me go?”
“I’m a man of God, and you have my word.”
“But how do I know you’re not lying? That you’re not just saying this stuff so I’ll tell you what you want to know?”
“Your concern is entirely valid,” Strange admitted, “but I’m afraid, given your circumstances, you have no leverage in this situation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have no choice,” Strange said. “You have to trust me.”
“All right,” Petrakos said. “All right, nobody else knows. The painting is in my apartment. I was gonna take it away to sell it, when this guy beat me up and threw me in the car.” He nodded toward the hit man, and winced in pain at the motion.
“You’re not lying,” Strange said. “Where’s your apartment?”
“It’s actually my friend’s apartment, but he’s away, went down south to visit family.”
“What’s the address?”
“Four-seventeen Holland Street.”
“Thank you,” Strange said, “you’ve been very helpful.” Then he said to the hit man, “Kill him.”
“What?” Petrakos said. “Wait. What’s going on? I thought you were a man of God.”
“I lied,” Strange said.
“No,” Petrakos said. “Please, don’t. Plea—”
The hit man fired into the trunk three times. Then there was sudden silence.
“Thank you,” Strange said. “Job well done. Please make sure the body is never found.”
“I will,” the hit man said.
“And I may have another job for you soon,” Strange added, “Be prepared.” Turning and walking across the gravel ground, he returned to the car where Ms. Peabody was waiting, and they drove away.
“Only one person left to eliminate now, and the slate will be clean,” Strange said.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Miss Peabody asked.
“Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No, of course not, doctor.”
He had Miss Peabody well trained, under his control. He smiled.
“I didn’t think so.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Alfred normally didn’t make it a habit to eavesdrop on conversations, though in some cases, when the conversations escalated into outright arguments, such occurrences were unavoidable.
The conversation this afternoon hadn’t reached argument level yet, though unfortunately it seemed to be headed in that direction.
Alfred had been in his bedroom, writing a letter to an old mate, when he heard Thomas’s heavy, distinctive footsteps on the stairwell, and then he heard him enter his bedroom. The conversation started up right away, and while Alfred couldn’t make out much of anything they were saying, Martha sounded upset, so it must have been about Bruce’s fight and suspension from school.
Martha had already shouted at Bruce about it—Alfred had never seen her angrier, in fact. Perhaps Thomas was defending Bruce, though Alfred had had enough experience with women to know that when one gets angry, the best strategy is to retreat into silence. The worst thing to do is take an opposing position, which seemed to be the path Thomas had followed.
Alfred opened the door to his room, with the intention of going downstairs, when he found Bruce with an ear to his parents’ door. His eyes went wide at being caught, though wisely he kept quiet.
“Let’s go, Master Bruce,” Alfred whispered. “Give your parents some privacy, all right?”
“But they’re arguing about me,” Bruce protested, also whispering.
“All the more reason you should leave them alone, mate. It’ll only get worse if they find out you’re listening in. Your father will defend you, and then your mother will get even angrier at him for taking your side and not respecting her authority. It’s a vicious cycle, you see?”
Bruce considered this.
“You’re right, Alfred.”
The two of them went downstairs, then outside, walking along the grounds of Wayne Manor.
“I hate when my parents argue,” Bruce said. “Especially when I know it’s my fault.”
“You don’t have to take responsibility for everything.”
“My mother says I should feel bad for what I did,” Bruce said. “I believe she’s talking about guilt, and yet I don’t feel any guilt for the boy I beat up. Does that mean something’s wrong with me?”
“No, it just means you’ve got the killer instinct.”
“You really think?’
“Yes,” Alfred said, “and you should be bloody proud of it. Killer instinct can’t be taught. In that respect, it’s like having perfect pitch or a knack for languages. You either have it or you don’t, and you, Master Bruce, have it.”
“How about you, Alfred? Do you have it?”
“I usually prefer to be a bit more modest about myself, but yes, I reckon I do have it.”
“I don’t think I have it,” Bruce said. “I never want to kill anyone.”
“I didn’t say I want to kill,” Alfred said. “That’s not necessary to have the instinct, though there are certain circumstances where killing is necessary.”
“In boxing the goal isn’t to kill,” Bruce suggested. “The goal is to win. Maybe it should be called winner’s instinct. I think the ability to fight and not kill is what separates us from animals.”
“That might be true for boxing,” Alfred said, “but you’d reconsider your position if you were ever in a war. Believe me, when you’re on a battlefield and see a mate, even a loved one murdered in front of you, it changes something in you.”
“It’s horrible that you went through that,” Bruce said, “but if I was in a war, it wouldn’t change anything in me. I still wouldn’t want to kill anyone.”
Alfred stopped walking, so Bruce did as well. They had made it about halfway up the long drive.
“Okay, let’s say, God forbid, someone caused harm to a loved one,” Alfred said. “Let’s say one of your parents, for instance, was murdered. That won’t happen, of course, but if it did, and you passed the killer on the street, what would you do?”
“I can’t even imagine that,” Bruce said. “I love my parents so much. But if I saw the killer, I wouldn’t kill him. I might beat him up if I knew how to fight, or make sure that he goes to jail so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. But what would killing him do except put him out of his misery? And isn’t misery worse than death? I’d definitely let him live.”
“Well then, it sounds like you’re a better man than me, mate.” Alfred put an arm around Bruce’s shoulders as they headed back toward the house.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tracking down Nikos Petrakos turned out to be much more difficult than Harvey and Amanda had anticipated. In between his stints at Blackgate, he had had six known residences. They checked out each one of them, but came up empty each time. Harvey threw Fish Mooney a call, but even she had no idea where Nikos had shacked up.
By Monday evening it was looking bleak. It had been more than twenty-four hours since the killing spree at Belladonna’s and the Star Bright Motel, which translated into plenty of time for Petrakos to slip out of Gotham, and maybe the country. The only positive was that the APB had come up empty, too, so hopefully that meant the guy was still in town.
Adding another wrinkle to the case, according to ballistics, the gun used in the Star Bright Motel was the same gun found on Frank Collins’s body. Also, on Collins’s cell there were missed calls from Thomas Wayne. So Collins must have been working for him, or had been trying to track down the Picasso for himself.
Word on the street was that Collins had a big-time gambling problem. Harvey had made an appointment to talk to Wayne first thing in the morning, where he hoped to get some answers. For the moment, however, he was spending his Tuesday night home in bed, sleeping, when he got a call.
From headquarters.
“Just got a tip on the Picasso,” the duty officer said.
Still half-asleep, Harvey had been in the middle of a weird dream where he was wearing a wedding dress, being chased across a field by a bunch of football players, screaming in a language that sounded like Chinese.
He shook his head to chase away the images.
“A tip,” he said. “From who?”
“The caller didn’t say, but he sounded legit. The address is four-seventeen Holland.”
“Wait,” Harvey said, waking up some more. “Did you say a tip on the Picasso or Petrakos?”
“Picasso,” the cop said.
As skeptical as he was about tips, this one seemed intriguing. After all, the APB had been for a missing person, not a missing painting, so maybe somebody knew something. Harvey got dressed as fast as he could, thankful that the dream had almost fully faded from his memory, and headed to the address.
He called Amanda, and she was on her way as well. Then he called for backup, including a team from the GCPD bomb squad, just in case the tip was some kind of set-up. It was past two a.m. when he arrived at the modest two-family house in a middle-class area of Gotham. A couple of lights were on downstairs.
“This better be worth it,” Amanda said. “I’m exhausted.”
“You’re exhausted?” Harvey said. “I feel like I’ve been running on fumes for the past thirty-five years.” The bomb-sniffing dogs didn’t raise a ruckus, but they found some fresh blood on the walkway leading to the front door. Harvey didn’t know what this meant—maybe it d
idn’t mean anything.
With him leading the way, they busted in.
“GCPD!” Harvey announced, with his gun drawn.
The room was empty, but the TV was on—a middle-of-the night infomercial. They checked the rest of the apartment, but the place was definitely empty. Relieved that they hadn’t been set up, they searched for the Picasso.
Harvey was searching the closet near the front door when Amanda called out.
“Harvey, come here.” He went to the bedroom, where she was holding up the painting of a guy in yellow on a horse. He stared at it for a few seconds.
“That’s worth a gazillion dollars?”
* * *
Early the next morning, after a few hours of shuteye, Harvey and Amanda rang the doorbell at Wayne Manor. Harvey was holding the painting. The butler Pennyworth answered and greeted them.
“Detectives.” Then he glanced at the painting and added, “You’ve brought an old friend, I see. Well done.”
“Is Thomas Wayne here?” Harvey asked.
“He is indeed,” Pennyworth said. “This way, please.” He led them into Thomas Wayne’s study, where Harvey glanced around and gave a low whistle.
“Whoa, nifty repair job.”
The butler left, so he and Amanda sat on the couch, waiting. Pennyworth returned with Wayne, who was dressed in jeans and a navy polo shirt.
“I can hardly believe it,” Wayne said. “In all honesty, I never thought I’d see it again.” He examined it closely, especially the signature. “It’s the original,” he announced. He looked at Harvey and said, “I’m impressed. I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d find it.”
“Never underestimate the GCPD,” Harvey said.
“Actually, we got a tip about it,” Amanda admitted.
Harvey shot her a look that said, Thanks a lot.
“A tip?” Wayne seemed intrigued. “A tip from who?”
“We don’t know,” Amanda said.
“It was anonymous,” Harvey said. “We were hoping you might know who could’ve contacted us? Do you have any guesses?”