He already skimmed the missing-child reports before he questioned Sister Magdalene. Now he goes over them more fully while, across the city, Alfred runs a computer search for Holly Robinson.
It's a depressing review. The tidy columns of names, dates, and photos are a roll call of crushed hopes. Gordon was right; there are too many. Even one is too many.
None of them, however, match the boy he found. It could, of course, be one of the infants, made unrecognizable by time and maturation. But he doesn't think so.
"I believe I've found her, sir," Alfred says. He lists an address that is not, as Batman expected, in the East End. Holly Robinson's apartment is in a reasonably good mid-central Gotham neighborhood.
On his way there, Alfred gives him more information.
Holly has terrible credit but has started diligently making payments every month. Her rent and utilities are on time. She works as a receptionist in a middling law firm, and her three cats are all up-to-date on their vaccinations. She likes to order pizza from a place around the corner; Point of No Return is her favorite movie to rent.
There doesn't seem to be anything remarkable about her.
Then Alfred digs into the police databases.
Holly Robinson, aka Holly Gonightly, arrested for solicitation. Arrested for possession of an illegal substance. Arrested for possession with intent to distribute. Arrested for soliciting an undercover cop. Arrested in a raid on a suspected crack house, for assaulting an officer and possession of an illegal narcotic.
All of her time was served in Juvenile Detention. She was twelve at her first arrest, sixteen at her last. A short but intense career.
She's not involved in anything like that anymore … She's a good girl.
More likely, she's learned how not to get caught.
He finds the apartment building and lets himself in through the fire escape window. All the lights are off, but illumination from the street shines in through the blinds and curtains. Things look exactly the way he thought they would: A little dirty, a little worn, lots of secondhand.
A tabby cat mewls at his feet, curious. He steps forward and it stays put, watching him with bright eyes and a twitching tail.
A quick inspection reveals that Holly isn't home, and only two cats turn up during his search – the tabby and a calico. But there are three little food dishes in the postage stamp of a kitchen: Irena, Arizona, Otto. And the fridge is plastered with snapshots of three cats in different places and poses. The third cat is clearly a Siamese.
So where's the third cat? Hiding, maybe. Out wandering the neighborhood.
A blonde wig sits on the bedroom dresser; in the closet he finds a pair of high heels, badly scuffed and stained. These could be the shoes - it's definitely the wig. Add to that her police record and Sister Magdalene's identification of the purse, and he's satisfied: Holly Robinson was the woman he saw last night.
He has questions for her, and he's not going to be as nice about it as he was with Sister Magdalene.
There's an answering machine next to the phone, a cheap, outdated model, and its red message light is blinking. He presses the button. It gives a sharp beep, and then Sister Magdalene's worried voice fills the room.
"Holly, it's Maggie. Where are you? Is your cell phone still broken? Look, this is crazy, but Batman was here, asking questions about you – something about a hurt child?" A pause. She sounds genuinely distressed: "Please call me, Holly."
Another beep, and an earlier recording. It's a woman, but it's not Sister Magdalene. This voice is rich, low, and holds a note of cool amusement.
"It's me. I'm going to need you again tonight. 9:30, usual place. Bring Otto. And for God's sake, Holly, erase my damn message this time."
That explains where the third cat is.
And it proves Sister Magdalene wrong. He realizes that he's disappointed - not for himself, but on the sister's behalf.
He plays the messages again and records them. Then he puts a bug inside the phone receiver and plants two others in the tiny living room and bedroom. He's not going to stay in here, waiting for Holly and an unknown associate, when he can conduct surveillance at a safer remove.
The tabby is still sitting on the floor, watching his every move. He reaches down and brushes his fingers across the top of its head. It purrs, pushes into his hand, and rubs against his boots. Nice cat.
He wonders which one it is – Irena or Arizona?
He removes one of the devices in his belt and attaches it under the tabby's collar. It's not easily seen, even when you know it's there. The calico is more wary and won't come near him. That's fine. Holly won't go anywhere without all of them.
As he exits, his new friend meows, plaintive.
This trip has solved one of the mysteries facing him, but it's raised even more questions. Who is the woman in the earlier message? What are she and Holly involved in? What do cats and half-dead children have to do with it?
He's going to wait for Holly Robinson.
And he's damn sure going to ask.