“The noted criminal known as Catwoman, identified as Selina Kyle, was pronounced dead on arrival at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital early this morning, her death apparently caused by a fall from a rooftop while attempting to steal part of a jewelry exhibit at Christie’s Auction House. More on this developing story later in the broadcast…”
‘So that explains it’. Alfred pushed the mute button on the TV remote. Miss Kyle’s death was the reason for Bruce’s mood last night, the fact that it had continued through breakfast and his departure to Wayne Enterprises Headquarters for a meeting. It also told him why Dick had been so subdued and off his feed before school today. Well it was understandable, of course. A death is always difficult, especially when it was someone you knew, even if, in this case, the victim was a career criminal.
And yes, the Master seemed to have something of a soft spot for her, but that could easily be explained away due to the fact they’d been adversaries for so many years. It stood to reason they had developed some kind of professional relationship and naturally Bruce would be upset by last evening’s events.
He shook his head as he placed the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. It was sad, criminal or not, she had been an intelligent young woman who might still have been rehabilitated to live a productive life. Alfred put the used napkins into the laundry shoot, such a waste of a life.
* * *
Sitting in English class, Dick Grayson’s mind was wandering back to last night. Of course he knew that Bruce had a thing for Selina, but still…and sure her getting killed like that was a shock but she was a criminal and that was always a possibility, right? They weren’t playing games, this was real life with real consequences; they all knew that going in. Sometimes someone got killed; it was part and parcel of what they did.
Still, she did die right there in Bruce’s arms and he’d come back to the cave with her blood on him, but he’d get over it, he always did. It may take a little time, but he would.
He was tough—who was tougher than Batman?
He’d be okay. Of course he would.
* * *
Dick went down to dinner when Alfred called him on the intercom. He’d just been finishing his homework in preparation for that night’s patrol, he’d put in almost an hour in the gym to make sure he was sharp after last night and he’d roughed out the agenda for the Teen Titan’s meeting for tomorrow.
Going into the small dining room, he was surprised to see just one plate on the table, set at his usual place. “Where’s Bruce?”
“The Master informed me that he isn’t hungry this evening and will be downstairs working when you’re ready to join him later. He suggested that seven-thirty would be acceptable, if that meets your approval.”
“Yeah, sure. Hey, you mind if I just eat out in the kitchen? I hate sitting here all by myself; I feel like a feudal lord or something.”
“I would enjoy your company, Master Dick, if you wouldn’t mind eating with an old man.”
“No more than you mind eating with a kid.” Dick smiled at him, his sadness from last nights events largely put behind him already as he looked forward to whatever was in store for tonight.
Carrying the boy’s plate while Dick picked up his glass of milk and silverware, Alfred marveled yet again at the resiliency in the young man, his ability to put things—even tragedies in perspective and move forward, to not dwell on the down side of life. He was a remarkable personality and one he wished with all his heart that Bruce would take a few lessons from.
Dinner over, Dick went downstairs, as the cave was usually referred to. He changed into his Robin costume, wishing again that it came with thermal everything since it was in the low twenties again and went searching for Bruce, surprised that he wasn’t at the computer or working out or something along those lines. Moving further back into the main cavern, he flicked on some lights and was startled to see that Batmobile already gone and the smell of exhaust fresh—he hadn’t been gone very long. Odd, it wasn’t like Batman to just go without him, not even leaving a note or some kind of message.
Well, okay. He pulled out his cell phone and pushed the AutoDial, it was answered almost instantly.
“Yes?”
“Where are you? You want me to meet you someplace or something?”
“Not tonight, I have things under control.”
“But…” The connection was broken. He tried to call back but was dumped in voice mail. Well, okay, so Bruce was still upset, it was understandable but this was still a little strange. So…at something of a loss as to what to do with himself, Dick changed back into his street clothes and headed back upstairs; it looked like he had the night off. Taking himself back up to the main house he was going to finish that English essay that was due at the end of the week then changed his mind and put in Tomb Raider instead.
What the hell.
* * *
Out on the streets the Batmobile cruised the shadier parts of the city, car windows blacked out, engine emitting a low and threatening rumbleroar.
Coming around a corner down by the docks the large car stopped as Batman saw what could only be stolen goods being loaded from a freight container into an unmarked truck. He hid the car about half a block away, switching off the lights and using jump-lines to gain the advantage of surprise, dropping into the middle of the loading crew. Kicking in two directions with a split jump and spinning as he landed, punching the three remaining longshoremen, he took out the entire crew inside of thirty seconds. Calling the contained criminals in to GCPD he left the scene to pursue the hunt for more.
Continuing over to the park section of the city, he again stashed the car, prowling through the dark trees and lawns until he found what he expected; a large drug deal in mid sale and exchange. Three dealers were getting their goods from a supplier, fifty kilos of high grade cocaine was changing hands, over a million dollars being paid with a likely ten to twenty-fold increase when it hit the streets.
The bust and take down lasted less than four minutes. Another call was made to GCPD. More criminals were locked up in a prison ward of Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital.
Next he responded to an alarm coming from Gotham Art Museum across town. There was an exhibit of French Impressionists, Monet, Van Gogh, Degas, Manet, Corbet and others being readied; the building was hosting over a hundred of the finest examples of the genre in existence borrowed from museums and private collections around the world. Priceless, they would be this side of impossible to fence on any kind of open market. This had to be a black market ring for private collectors because once out of public view and hidden in homes and vaults around the world they would be almost impossible to recover.
Batman jump-lined to the top of the building, gaining entrance through the rooftop garden and making his way down to the second floor special galleries which had been set aside and readied for the paintings. Three guards were lying on the floor just inside the screens used to close the area off while it was still in set up. There were small puddles of blood under the clearly dead bodies and Batman flashed back to the blood running into the gutter from Selina last night.
The museum faded and his mind filled with the details he remembered about her, her laugh, her eyes, the way she would tilt her head as she teased him and led him on, the way she filled her tight costume. He felt the warmth of her hand in his again and heard the sounds she would make when they were close to one another and in private. He closed his eyes and saw her face when he leaned in to kiss her last month and felt her breath on his cheek then started as he felt a sharp sting when she slapped the other side of his face.
Angry at the reversal of her feelings and annoyed at the game she’d been playing for too long, he slapped her back. Somehow she recovered and hit him with surprising force in the middle of his back, causing him to stumble but managing to shift his weight enough to turn the slip into a spin. He kicked his foot up, catching her under her chin and causing her to go down again, just like she had last night.
The fight ended almost before it began and he fell beside her, just like last night, lifting her head; dropping it and hearing the soft, sickening thud as it hit the marble floor.
It wasn’t Selina; it was one of the art thieves, dead and with his neck broken.
He checked the others.
All three of the tied guards were dead, shot in the head, execution style. The other two thieves were also dead, one with a broken back, one strangled.
Selina wasn’t there, he’d been wrong. Selina was dead.
She wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there.
There were seven men in the hall.
Six dead men; three guards and the three men who’d murdered them.
And the man who’d killed them.
He hadn’t. He wouldn’t. It wasn’t possible.
Retracing his steps he went back up to the roof garden, launched a line to take him back to the Batmobile and then home so he could figure out who’d killed the three thieves.