Case File 2738 Epilogue: Gone Missing

Part Four

I know everyone thinks I did this big, altruistic, strong shoulder to lean on, best friend number with Roy but that isn’t the way it went down. I sort of wish it was but then there are always things we do that turn out differently than we hoped.

I knew he was on the edge. I did. I think the others may not have noticed because they were all busy—Donna was all wrapped up in Terry, Garth was back in Atlantis and Wally was Wally. Something like heroin addiction in one of his friends would pretty much have to hit him over the head before he’d consider it as a possibility. Come to think of it, I guess it did.

I knew Roy and Ollie were on thin ice. I knew he was upset and Ollie was busy with Dinah and didn’t notice. If he did notice he blew it off or assumed that it was just a phase or something. I knew better but at first I just kept my mouth shut—well, not completely, in my own defense. I did say something when I kept smelling pot coming from his room. I saw the pill bottles in his bathroom with way the hell too much in them and from too many different doctors. I did—I just let it slide for the most part. I guess that I hoped it would go away or someone else would deal with it. I was butting heads with Bruce then and had my own shit to deal with.

The kicker, the final straw was when we’d made that big bust down near Philly and turned over like 25 K’s of pure heroin to the cops down there. Except there were 26 K’s. I guess he thought no one would notice or figure that someone miscounted or something but I knew he’d stolen one.

Shit—I knew I really had to do something because with that much shit he’d kill himself. Hands down. No question and take it to the bank and I couldn’t let that happen. It would have been my fault that one of my best friends—one of my only friends was dead if I hadn’t stepped in. I did it for him—of course I did, but I did it for me, too. I couldn’t be responsible for his death. I couldn’t have lived with that on my head.

The JLA made out that I was this big ass hero because I forced him to go straight—well, he wanted to or it wouldn’t have worked—but they’re all wrong. I did it for me as much as I did it for him and I feel like a fucking hypocrite about it every time he thanks me yet again.

“Is this true?”

“Yeah.”

“I had no idea.”

“No one does. Roy doesn’t know.”

“…But you still saved his life.”

“I guess. Yeah.”

 

* * *
 

“Okay, Clark, Dick and I will make the collar, pick her up and talk to her. Thanks.”

“I’ll do it, Bruce.” Both Batman and Superman looked at Nightwing, calmly sitting on the edge of the computer desk. “This is my problem. I caused it; I’ll settle it.”

“I understand how you feel, but we want to help with this one, Dick—she’s probably the only way to get Alfred’s location and if she…”

“I can handle it. Bruce, the note on the back of the photo reiterated the demand—how are you coming with that?” He paused for about half a second as though deciding whether to finish his thought. “How come you never used a GPS implant on him? It would have made this easier.”

Bruce gave him a hard look, a ‘back off and drop it’.

“Well?”

“Because he didn’t want me to.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Dick didn’t bother to hide his anger and sarcasm. His only answer this time was the too familiar Batglare.

Bruce refused to be drawn into this and went on as if the question hadn’t been asked. “I spoke to Cliff down at the bank and he’s agreed to release securities in the amount of one billion dollars. They can transferred to whatever account has been set up off shore.”

“I assume the money is traceable so you can get it back?”

Bruce and Dick both gave Clark a look—they weren’t rookies, thank you. “Of course.”

“Dick, I’d like to act as back up, if you don’t mind.”

An expression of real annoyance crossed Dick’s face. “I know how large a breach of security this is as well as you do. It’s contained—it will be contained.”

“But, there are rumors that some of the information is being offered on the Internet to the media. There’s also word that foreign nations have been made aware of the existence of your journals and the doctor’s notes and everyone from the Iranian government to Simon and Schuster are showing interest.”

Dick paused. He knew this was bound to happen. “Okay, tell you what. You guys get the JLA and the Titans to talk—personally—to anyone who might have an interest in exploiting this and explain to them why it would be a really bad idea.”

“It’s going to take more than that, Dick; you’re being naïve—we’re talking about world wide sales in the billions—and that doesn’t even begin to address the security and terrorist issues that have been brought up.”

“Has anything actually leaked yet, Bruce? I mean is anything confirmed?”

“Not yet, no, but you know as well as I do that it’s just a matter of time.”

“But she also agreed to wait for the payoff before she’d offer the thing to anyone else.”

“And why the hell would you believe that?” Dick encountered Bruce’s disgust and disdain before, he’d even seen it directed at him, but this hit a new low.

Bruce and Clark were right. Dick knew this and he’d known all along that this could happen. As soon as he started typing his own version of his therapy sessions into his laptop he knew he was taking a risk and he knew the shrink would ask him just why he decided to tempt fate.

The answer was easy; because he never thought push would meet shove. He’d managed to separate his personal life from his professional one so well that, well—he’d let it slide.

 

* * *
 

The woman wanted the money later that day at three PM. It was to be delivered to a drop point in the middle of a suburban warehouse store. Dick was to go to the book section and slide the transfer paperwork under the third book from the top of the stack of Danielle Steel’s latest piece of pap.

The woman had to know that she’d be picked up the minute she got the drop. It didn’t matter. If she wanted the money—and she did, then she had to come here and get it. Unless, of course, she had someone she trusted with a billion dollars to get it for her.

Dick pulled into the parking lot at two-thirty. He was in disguise as a graying biker with long hair and tats and wearing old leathers and riding his dad’s old Harley. He was ready.

 

* * *

I really didn’t know she had it in her to do something like this. I swear to God I never suspected she could do this. I mean I’m supposed to know people, right? I’m a shrink, a psychologist, trained to be able to understand people and their motivations, needs and all of that.

I never, in million years—or maybe I should upgrade it to a billion under the circumstances, would have thought it for a second.

I didn’t.

And now everything is going to blow up and it’s because I trusted her and I knew better.

 

* * *
 

Bruce skimmed Dick’s journal while he waited for him to report in.

Six months ago: I know Bruce loves me. I do know that. I just wish he could get the hell over himself, get over the whole fucking ‘I’m the Bat’ crap and lose the cowl and just be human once in awhile.

Nine months ago: This sounds like it’s horrible, but sometimes I’m glad I’m who I am and that I had the bullshit happen to me that I have. I mean no one would want to go through watching their parents die—I don’t mean that and I wish to hell every single day that they were still here but if they were I wouldn’t be me. If that makes any sense. I’d still be Dick Grayson but I’d be ‘Dick Grayson of the Flying Grayson’s performing for your pleasure’. I wouldn’t be Robin. I wouldn’t be Nightwing. I wouldn’t be Officer Grayson. I sure as hell wouldn’t be Richard John Grayson Wayne and have more money than I’ll ever be able to spend in my life instead of living paycheck to paycheck the way we used to. ‘We’ being me and Mom and Dad.

I know what they say about how we were poor but it didn’t matter because we had love. Uh-huh. Yeah, we had lots of love and that was great but even I was getting tired of Mac and Cheese and hot dogs when the show was in a slump and bookings were down.

The rich are different. They have more money.

Six weeks ago: Okay, I admit it. When I was a kid I used to get a kick out of making Bruce jealous about how much I liked Clark. I like Clark—I like him a lot and I still kind of pinch myself knowing I can call him a friend but I also got a charge from the look on Bruce’s face when he knew I’d spent the afternoon with him or when I took the name ‘Nightwing’. Hell, at least he noticed.

Fourteen months ago: I’m not sure about this. I probably shouldn’t be writing anything down like this because of the possible security nightmare but—crap—I need to get things out. I’m not the fucking Bat. I’m not Superman or Arthur who just does whatever he wants and screw the consequences. I’m not Ollie who just goes out and gets laid when he’s upset or tense or something. I can’t be like them. I don’t even know if I want to because they’re—shit. They’re not me, I guess. I’m not them. Sometimes I feel like I need to just talk to someone but it’s not that easy, is it? Nothing is that easy. I’m Nightwing. I’m everyone’s rock. I’m the Titan’s leader. I’m the go-to guy for the JL. I’m tough. I’m ‘da man.

I can’t talk to any of the Titans. I tried and I guess Garth gets what I’m saying but he’s big on suck it up and don’t waste anyone’s time with your problems. It’s why he’s so tightly wound all the time. Roy has his own problems, so does Donna and Wally wouldn’t get it. I’m going to see a shrink. I know—it’s the big ‘holy crap’ and you’ve got to be nuts to see a head doctor but sometimes I think I’m going to blow if I don’t, like a pressure cooker. I saw one explode once and that’s how I feel sometimes. It’s not good.

Bruce would have fucking fit if he knew so this stays with me.

The kicker is going to be finding someone really trustworthy. With all the crap I need to get out, to get some perspective on, it’s gotta be someone whose mouth is a steel trap. Clark said he thinks he may know someone and I’m going to talk to him tomorrow and get a phone number.

Clark knew? Clark? He gave Dick the doctor’s number and a recommendation.

This would require a conversation. A serious conversation.

 

* * *
 

Dick walked into the large store. It was generic for it’s type; cement floor, high ceiling and harsh fluorescent lighting with shelving units going up at least twenty feet, filled with boxed items and cases. Rows of tables held piles of cheap clothing, towels, foodstuffs, shoes and whatever. The customers ran the usual gamut from obvious poor to well-heeled and all hoping to save a buck.

He made his way to the middle of the store where the long rows of tables holding the books, movies and music were found. There were a few people browsing, not making any contact with one another and all intent on their own agendas. He appeared to anyone who bothered to notice, as the kind of man you’d stay away from and whose foot you’d go out of your way to avoid stepping on his foot. Picking up and putting down several of the offerings, he made his way along the row, doubling back along the opposite side and slowly wandering along the stacks of best sellers and discounts.

In the middle of the row, between the latest Nora Roberts and next to the new Steven King was the pile of Danielle Steel’s he was looking for. Picking up the top copy and pretending to skim the blurbs on the flaps he put it back, hiding what he as doing with his body. He slipped the envelope between the third and fourth books on the stack then moved away to the next aisle to pretend he was scooping out the yard furniture. Ten minutes later he entered the men’s room, removed his leather jacket, fake beard and wig then climbed the stairs up to the manager’s office. After showing his Interpol badge he was led to the security office to watch the monitors.

It would be a short wait.

TBC


4/23/08
 

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