The GPD Commissioner lives in a better house, in a better neighborhood, than a honest lieutenant ever could.

"Better", of course, refers to bank accounts, not moral fiber. Most of Jim Gordon's new neighbors were arrested shortly before he moved in. Most of his new neighbors are sitting in Blackgate waiting for their turn before a judge, where they can protest that they were never connected to organized crime.

Right now Gordon's neighborhood is pretty quiet, and not just because it's early hours.

Batman catches Gordon as the cop is walking from his front door to his car. Yawning, checking his watch in the scattered pre-dawn light. He's got a manila file folder and a cup of coffee in one hand, his keys in the other.

Gordon looks up from his keys. Starts and almost drops the coffee. "Jesus! Good morning to you, too."

"I need a favor," he says.

"No," Gordon says immediately, shaking his head. "No, I still owe you. What is it?"

Gratitude is an unnecessary element to his work, but it's oddly comforting just the same. That doesn't mean he wants to talk or even think about it.

He hands over the prostitute's purse. It's small and boxy, with a long, thin strap. Shiny black PVC, scuffed in a few places. A cartoon cat sticker grins stupidly on one side. "Process this."

"I take it this is evidence?" When Batman gives a curt nod, Gordon says, "The sooner the better, I suppose. Okay. I'll have something for you tonight."

"One more thing. Reports on missing children. Boys. Four to six years old."

"Local?"

"Start there."

"This is about missing kids?" Gordon asks, lifting the purse.

"It may be something worse."

A car drives by and Gordon glances at it, half-suspicious the way an honest cop should be in a neighborhood built on corruption, and Batman takes the moment to disappear. Theatricality: Never walk away like a man when you can vanish like a ghost.

He gets back to his makeshift cave as the sun edges over the city skyline. Alfred's there, of course, with a full breakfast, the newspapers, and sympathy.

He appreciates the sympathy. He likes the coffee even better; it takes the edge off his fatigue. Tonight was easy, but last night he broke up a carjacking ring, and he hasn't had a chance to sleep for more than one or two hours since.

The newspapers he could do without. The aftermath of earthquakes in Sumatra, continued government crackdowns in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, troops under attack at the Afghan border, a spate of bombings in Romania – evils he cannot counteract. Problems he cannot solve.

There's a reason he's limited his scope to one city. To his own city.

"How's the boy, sir?" Alfred asks.

"Lucius said he'll let me know." Until then, worrying is pointless. His time is better spent trying to figure out two things: Who is the child, and how did he get to that alley?

He takes out the single blonde hair he pulled off the boy's clothes and puts it under a microscope. It's synthetic, as he thought.

"A wig," he says, running a hand over his face. Just as well, since he's not set up to run DNA tests here. He should be, though. He'll have to ask Lucius about that.

"That could make things more difficult," Alfred agrees.

He cracks a yawn despite himself. "I'll run it through the GC-MS anyway."

"I can do that just fine on my own, Master Wayne," Alfred says, the picture of affronted dignity, as though all proper butlers know how to operate a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer. "There's no reason for you to lose any more sleep."

He looks at the older man, amused to be told – although never in so many uncouth words – to get his ass into bed. "Yes sir."

Alfred gives him a dirty look and shoos him away from the machine.

"Wake me if Lucius calls," he tells Alfred, and then, like any good nocturnal creature in the daytime, he goes off in search of sleep.