Part Four
The circus security came and went, tried to take fingerprints and didn't find any which didn't belong to the car's occupants. The attack was the talk of the show for a few days and then, though not forgotten, died down. For a few days people were more careful to lock their stuff before things settled back to normal.
"Dick, what's going on?"
"Nothing, Bruce. It's under control."
"How?"
"I'm following a couple of leads I have and think I know who did it. I'm working on the why."
"'Random?"
"'Unlikely."
"So you' were targeted." It was a statement. "Someone suspects that you're Nightwing?"
"No, I don't think so. I think..."
"That Dick Grayson is the target."
"That would make sense in this context, yes."
"Do you need any help?"
"No, I'm good but thanks. I'll keep you informed."
"See that you do; Alfred worries." The line was cut.
'Sure, Bruce, and you don't.'
But now Dick knew, or was about as sure as he could be that he knew who'd done it. He'd been suspicious when the men had introduced themselves but with the attack, he became convinced they were the ones who'd caused the damage and invasion of his space. He just wasn't completely sure why.
He'd run searches on them but had come up blank, even when he'd tapped into the Batcave's main computer, but it wasn't like that was his only resource.
"Barbara?"
"Dick, my favorite tumbler, when are you planing on tumbling my way?"
"As soon as I have the time, darlin', as soon as I have the time."
"If I had a nickle for every time I heard that one."
"Uh-huh. Look, I need a 20 on two reporters, or they say they are anyway. The names may be fake; Joseph Frische and Steve Windom. Their credentials list them as free lancers."
He heard keyboard tapping through the line for about thirty seconds. "No known matches as reporters or photographers but I'm getting someone named Joseph Frische as a felon for theft, convicted thirteen years ago in San Francisco, served two years then another conviction about eight years ago for assault and battery, victim seriously injured but recovered. He was released from Leavenworth about six months ago. Present whereabouts unknown and he's in parole violation."
No surprise. "Thanks, Babs."
"Anytime. Hey, Dick? Be careful."
"'Always am. I'll call you when I'm back on the East Coast."
"You better."
Dick smiled as he hung up, hoping that she meant it.
So now the question was why. Maybe it was because he was Bruce's 'son', maybe it was because someone was paying them to be hired hands—which would lead to another series of 'why's and who's', maybe they just didn't like him. Whatever the reason, the point now was to put a lid of them before they could do any real damage.
He was sure that he'd see them again soon enough.
The next night, opening night in Kansas City, he made a required appearance at the after show meet and greet to shake hands with the local worthies. As usual, the ladies, young and otherwise seemed to gravitate around him, handing him outrageous compliments on his 'moves' and slipping him pieces of paper with their numbers on them.
He gave his usual response when something like this happened, whether it was at the circus, at one Wayne Enterprises parties or eating dinner at the local diner. He smiled, thanked them and tried not to blush while he, as gracefully as possible, extracted himself form the embarrassment. It wasn't that he suffered from false modesty, the truth was that he suffered from genuine modesty and had never understood the fuss women made over him, starting when he as about four and found that he could charm a free bag of popcorn or a funnel cake from the midways stands.
He finally settled on his personal realization that women were trying to use him to get to Bruce, to get money or to get publicity. They always seemed to have an agenda and it almost never involved him personally. The only women who hadn't wanted something material from him, be it money, jewelry or publicity were Babs and Donna. Okay, and Dr. Leslie. And his mother, but that was a no-brainer.
Sighing, he shook his head. Once, just once he'd like to, well, you know, he'd like to have something real with a woman. He'd almost found it with Kory but—it hadn't worked out. One of these days, maybe if he was lucky.
One of these days he wanted what his parents had, including the kid. Maybe several kids would be better—one of these days.
A louder than usual round of applause and laughter from the crowded room brought his attention back to what he was supposed to be paying attention to, Mr. Frische and his partner. Sure enough, they were there, interviewing, or pretending to interview the Mayor and his wife while the other one, Steve Windom took pictures. The applause? Lady gaga just walked in; the woman liked circuses, not much of a surprise when you came down to it.
But back to work.
"Dick, here you are. Y'know, I never saw you perform before tonight; you're really good."
"Thanks, Joseph." Small talk? The man wanted to make small talk? "Did you want to go somewhere to talk?"
"In a while, yes, but right now this is good, watch the crowd, see if anything happens. You good with that?"
"...How about tomorrow? It's been a long day." He was tired, sweaty and would like a glass of water—or better yet, a cold beer— and a shower, followed by clean clothes.
"Tomorrow, yeah, I guess but we need to have a talk, okay? I mean we need to talk." He wasn't happy and the look he exchanged with his partner said a lot; Dick wasn't sure what, exactly it said, but it said something he was sure he wouldn't like.
"Tomorrow at, say, nine. I'll meet you on the midway, just inside the main gate."
"Yeah, we'll be there; count on it."
The implied threat was loud and clear.
The meet and greet continued for another twenty minutes or so with nothing happening beyond the usual handshakes, pats on the back and flirtations. Nothing suspicious, nothing to raise any red flags. Finally the party was breaking up and Dick could legitimately leave the hot, stuffy room.
Joseph Frische and Steve Windom were gone, or at least not where he could see them when Mario touched his arm. "Hey, me and the guys are going to change then get a late dinner or beer or something, you're coming, right?"
"I..."
"Yeah, I saw the blonde hanging on you; man, what do you do, hypnotize them? At least get cleaned up, if you don't mind some free advice."
The two of them walked back to their train car, the lights were off so Bill and Jim were either asleep, which was unlikely, or not there. No matter.
"So, who was those guys were talking to at the thing?"
"Nobody."
"Yeah, right."
"Just looking for some information they think I might have."
"Do you?"
"No."
The train car was hot and stuffy from sitting in the sun all day. Flicking on a couple of lights and pulling down the shades (it would impede the air, but would also slow down the paps and fans he knew cold be out there). Dick opened a few windows then stripped off his shirt, gathered his toiletry kit and a towel and started towards the shower car a hundred or so yards down the line.
The warm water felt good, washing away the sweat, dirt and exhaustion of the day. It hadn't, in the scheme of his life, been that hard a day, not even that long a day but he was glad that it was over.
The two reporters; they wanted something from him and it was more than just some information. They wanted something from him, something personal. They were targeting him and he was waiting for them to make their move. They were small time crooks. Well they were small time compared to the Joker or Harvey Dent or one of those guys.
A blackmail thing? Maybe but they would probably have shown their hand if that was the case, why string him along like this?
Working for themselves or for someone else? Who knew?
Revenge foe something? Maybe, but what? No idea.
The obvious connection was that they were oping to get a hold of some—or a lot—of Bruce's money but that still didn't begin the game they were playing if that were the case.
All right, this was getting stupid. He solved problems like this for breakfast and had been doing it for years. This was the kind of case Bruce would have turned over to him when he was about thirteen. It wasn't like this was the hardest puzzle he'd ever been handed to solve, right? As soon as he was dried off he'd change and Nightwing would take on the case, see what he could learn and take it from there.
Ten minutes later Nightwing was, indeed, hugging the shadows of the arena looking for whatever seemed off, wrong, not quite kosher.
It could be anything; a door ajar which should be closed and locked, someone without clearance in a secure area, a bag or package left unattended.
The huge building had been put to bed for the night. The main lights were all out, the security lights were the only illumination. There were a few night guards wandering around, one or two office workers finishing whatever needed finishing, despite the lateness of the hour. It happened and he discounted them after stealthily watching them for a while. They were just making up for lost time when their computers crashed a day or two ago because of a blackout caused by a transmitter fire.
They were legit.
The animal area was quite.
The box office was shut and dark.
The concessions were locked up behind their metal shutters.
The circus mess area was still lit up but was clearing out, the late eaters and schmoozers heading to sleep alone or not.
Everything seemed normal, a small town putting itself to bed for the night.
Then he heard the sirens.
Touching his communicator he asked "Where? What?"
Oracle's impersonal voice came through immediately. "The circus train; fire."
Crap. "On my way."
TBC
