Title: Criminal Acts
Author: StargazerNataku
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It continued with an informant…
Warnings: None
Chapter 2
Bruce Wayne flinched as the curtains to his penthouse bedroom were thrust open, allowing copious amounts of midday sun to stream in through the floor to ceiling windows, reflecting against the white paint and matching furniture blindingly. "Alfred…" he groaned, turning his face out of the pillow and opening one eye just enough to glare at his butler, who was looking just a little too pleased with himself.
"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred said, though the smirk hiding in the corner of his eyes showed the amusement he took in waking the younger man that way. "But you do have that meeting with Mr. Fox this afternoon, and if you wish to be there in time…" He moved over to the small breakfast table in front of the windows, chair turned to make the best use of the panoramic view of Gotham's skyline, and busied himself with the tray he had brought. Bruce got out of bed and dropped into pushups. "Besides, nocturnal activities or no, it is later than you usually lie abed and I do have a vested interest in keeping you in one piece."
"As the inheritor, I'd think you'd like to see me go," Bruce teased, falling back on an old familiar joke while switching to sit ups. Alfred moved to make the bed behind him and lay out his suit.
"I would have a very hard time explaining my part as accomplice to your chosen hobby."
"That is true," Bruce commented as he moved to the tray and picked up the cup of coffee Alfred had poured for him in a fine porcelain cup. A single cup of black light roast to start the day right was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself in his stringent diet, and Alfred knew how to brew a perfect cup of coffee. "Perfect as usual," he told Alfred as he scanned the front page of the Gotham Times, also set there for his perusal, frowning over one of the articles.
"I thought the headline would interest you, Master Bruce," Alfred commented. "You haven't made the front page in awhile."
"Batman's a wanted criminal, Alfred," Bruce answered. "He shouldn't be in the paper at all, much less on the front page."
"Hard to avoid, when you're putting yourself in the middle of a shootout," Alfred commented.
"It was the best I could do at the time, Alfred. It meant no one was killed."
"And all the better for it, sir. But I am curious as to how long you expect to play the villain."
"As long as necessary," Bruce answered, setting the paper aside. "Forever if I have to." He could feel Alfred's disapproval, but the man changed the subject instead of voicing it.
"You do remember you have the benefit for the Natural History Museum this evening, sir?"
"Yes." He flipped through the sections of the paper until he reached the business pages, pulling them loose and scanning the headlines there as well.
"I'll lay out your tuxedo then."
"Not necessary, Alfred," he said, flipping to the stock pages.
"You're not planning on attending?"
"No," Bruce answered, distractedly taking a sip of his coffee. "There's a large shipment coming in tonight that Gordon's probably going to move on. I need to be there."
"Is that wise, Master Bruce? You know the mayor's pushing the Commissioner just as hard to arrest you as he is to get the drug trade under control."
"I know, Alfred, that's front page news too." He motioned to the table, where the front page lay to the side and the sidebar article which read 'War on Crime! Mayor Garcia promises to slow drug trade, calls for Batman's arrest.' "Garcia's a fool if he thinks that Gordon isn't doing all he can, and it's going to catch up with him in the end. There's only so much that can be done through regular channels. Particularly with narcotics."
"And thus it needs to be done outside regular channels."
"Precisely, Alfred."
"Shall I send your regrets to Mr. Madison, then, sir?"
"That won't be necessary, Alfred. He always reminds me when I skip something he's throwing." Bruce smirked. "I think he expects it of me by now. I'll just explain when I see him at the campaign benefit Friday."
"What will your excuse be this time?"
"I'll let you come up with one, Alfred, you do seem to enjoy it."
"Very good, sir. I'll bring the car around for when you're ready."
"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, finishing his coffee and moving towards the bathroom to shower. By the time he had finished, dressed, and gone downstairs, Alfred was waiting at the door with an Italian leather briefcase.
"I put in the most recent designs, Master Bruce, including everything that was on your desk in the downstairs office."
"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, preceding him out the door. "We'll see how Lucius likes my most recent ideas. He does seem to enjoy aiding and abetting my projects."
"Well, sir," Alfred said as he opened the door to the Rolls Royce, "Neither of us can help ourselves." Bruce laughed and got into the car.
Gordon arrived at the MCU at seven thirty-seven, later than usual because traffic was heavier than most mornings. When he reached his office, his secretary was there already, looking crisp, professional, and perhaps in the most contrast to Gordon, awake. He barely had time to hang up his overcoat before she provided him with a cup of coffee made just as he liked it—a dash of cream and two sugars—with copies of the night shift's reports. He took a sip of the coffee first, leaving the manila folders closed on his desk as he did every morning, deciding that there was at least something good about being the Commissioner. Marge's coffee never made up for the days the world went to hell, or the long nights trying to keep up with the steady stream of violence they have dealt with since the Joker's insanity, but it makes that first moment at his desk bearable and even, if he dared think it, enjoyable. It was only after savoring the richness of that first sip that he opened his eyes and made himself open the file on the top of the stack.
Marge left him alone for the first half hour as usual, then knocked smartly and entered to give him his schedule for the day. She sat, crossing her legs properly at the ankles and, when he shut the folder he was reading, began to list the meetings and commitments on his schedule for the day. "You have lunch with the mayor, today, sir," she told him. "He wants to talk about the proposed budget I put on your desk last week. I highlighted the parts which are pertinent to the department, so there isn't any need for you to read the whole thing. Oh, and at four thirty you have the tuxedo fitting for Mr. Wayne's fundraiser next month. I might remind you that the mayor requested your presence this time quite…adamantly. I sent in the response card in the affirmative two weeks ago."
"Okay," Gordon said.
"Here is the name and address of the shop." She handed him a piece of paper.
"This isn't going to cost me a fortune, is it?" he asked, glancing at it before folding it in half and sticking it in his pocket.
"No, Commissioner. I made sure the rental would be reasonably priced when I made the appointment."
"All right, thank you Marge. The benefit is?"
"Saturday, March twenty-third," she answered. "About a month from now."
"Anything else I need to know?"
"Detective Stephens needed a few minutes of your time."
"Is he here right now?"
"I believe he's out on a case."
"Have him come in when he gets back. I'll just be reviewing the budget, nothing that can't be interrupted."
"Very well, Commissioner. Is there anything else you need from me?"
"No, I'm fine for now, Marge, thank you."
She rose and tucked his scheduling book in the crook of her arm and disappeared quickly. With a sigh, Gordon dug through the haphazard piles of papers on his desk until he found the budget, slightly crumpled and conveniently flagged and highlighted for his perusal. There was that, at least, he decided as he flipped to the first page Marge had marked. She was worth double her weight in gold. Maybe even triple, considering how small she was.
His eyes were nearly crossed when the knock came on the door. Gordon looked up from the papers, finished the note he was making in the margin and called for whoever it was to enter, pushing the stack to the side thankfully. "Mornin' commissioner," Stephens said as he shut the door behind himself. "You look about as tired as I feel."
"Morning comes earlier every day," Gordon commented as Gerry sat in the chair opposite Jim and leaned back comfortably.
"That's age talking, Jim," Stephens told the other man. "We're not twenty and capable of running on four hours of sleep anymore, as Jess reminded me so kindly at breakfast this morning."
"I suppose not," Jim agreed, remembering the mornings he got that same daily reminder at the breakfast table. Now, the only place he got that reminder was from the mirror in his bathroom which, combined with the harsh fluorescent lighting he has not had a chance to change, clearly showed him every wrinkle in his face and emphasized the circles under his eyes. "What do you have for me?"
"Remember that suspected O.D. from last week, the young woman?"
"Remind me," Jim requested.
"Victim was Eira Broden, age seventeen. Found unresponsive by her father, one Richard Broden. Declared DOA by the paramedics. All signs clearly pointed to an overdose of methamphetamines."
"All right, I remember," Jim answered. "What about it?"
"I just got back from meeting with her father," Stephens said. "He wants to make a deal."
"For what? Does he think the death wasn't accidental?"
"That isn't it at all. He wants to turn himself in for dealing, and wants to cop a plea deal with the D.A. From what he made it sound, he wants to turn over everything he knows. Names, dates, everything."
"How much do you think he's got?"
"I did a bit of digging, and I think he's in pretty deep with the mid-levels of what's left of the Chechen's operations. It'll be enough to make the deal worth it. Besides, if the stuff he tells us is true, we can get a bunch of dealers off the street and at least a few shipments."
"True enough," Gordon said. "All right. Let me call the DA's office and see if we can't get someone over here to make the deal before this guy ends up in the river." He dialed the number, then sat back to wait after the secretary put him on hold. As they waited in companionable silence there was another knock on the door and Marge brought in the mail, setting it on his table with a slight incline of her head. "Thanks," he said, flipping through it as he had a brief conversation with one of the assistant D.A's. "Stephens, can you have him come over now?"
"That should be fine." He rose and disappeared out of the room to make his own phone call as Gordon ended his and set the phone back into the cradle. He turned instead to the mail and opened the first envelope, scanned the invitation to another political fundraiser, and tossed it to the side. The second, larger envelope contained another copy of the proposed police department budget with new edits; it joined the invitation to the side to look at when he had a spare minute. The last, a plain white envelope, he opened and from it withdrew a single sheet of paper; reading it he shook his head and gave a little chuckle.
"Something funny, commish?" Stephens asked from the doorway as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"Another death threat," he commented, showing Stephens the front of the message, composed of letters clipped from the newspaper and pasted onto a plain sheet of printer paper, wrinkled from the glue. "This author reaches new heights…or lows, more accurately. Can't even spell 'dead' properly."
"How'd he spell it?"
"D-E-D," Jim answered.
"Nice."
"I was wondering if I'd go the week without one. Guess not."
"Well, you know what they say, Jim."
"I know. If you're not getting death threats you're not doing your job. And these nuts," he waved the paper slightly. "Don't worry me nearly as much as the ones who don't inform you of their intentions beforehand."
Stephens inclined his head in agreement, then changed the subject. "Broden's on his way. I'll get it worked out and make arrangements for protective custody."
"All right, Gerry," he said. "Can you send Bair in for this?" he motioned at the letter. "He can get it where it needs to go."
"Sure thing, boss."
"Thanks." Gordon set it carefully to the side and pulled the budget back in front of himself with a sigh, checking the clock to be sure he still had the time before he had to leave to meet the mayor. Contenting himself that he had plenty of time, he pushed his glasses up on his nose and went back to work.