When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.
Sergeant Gordon didn't mess around. He locked Rachel in the bathroom as well, and as Chris got awkwardly dressed he double-checked and triple-checked the premises for signs of entry or foul play. After what seemed a sweaty, nervous eternity, Gordon rapped on the door again, and they both exited, relieved.
Rachel took them all down to the kitchen, and offered coffee, tea, diet coke, or beer. Gordon asked politely for a cup of hot tea, and Chris guzzled a Killians before Rachel had even put the kettle on. His nerves were shot, and he felt more than a little childish for having holed himself up naked in the bathroom for nothing. Worse, even, that Gordon had to have known as Rachel brought his clothes in with her. Not that he was ashamed of their affair, and not that it was anyone else's business…but still, it wasn't exactly how he'd pictured their first meeting.
"I have to say, Mr. Holden, I'm surprised to see you still alive." Gordon finally stated after a long pull at his tea.
"After seven months of being missing?" Chris asked weakly. He didn't know why, but Gordon made him feel jittery. He had a disapproving, paternal look about him that made Chris feel as awkward and guilty as if the man had walked in on them in bed.
"After the fax Miss Dawes received this morning." Gordon corrected.
"What fax?" Chris gaped.
"This." Rachel said shakily, handing a crumpled paper across the table: I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND. But with that ominous message was a picture, a black and white picture, but just as graphic nonetheless. Chris found he was blushing scarlet, and couldn't bring himself to look into the older man's eyes. At least that explained Gordon…
They were in the house. Whoever it was after him, they'd been in the house. They'd seen, or watched, or somehow had taken pictures of…of…well…
"They were here the whole time." Chris shuddered, glancing up at Rachel. "Even before you left for work."
"Clearly," Gordon grunted in disapproval as Chris re-crumpled the paper. But there was no un-seeing what the man saw…Rachel's face, Chris imagined, must look as horrified as his own…
"Do you know where that fax was sent from?" Gordon continued. "This address. Whoever took that picture sent it from Miss Dawes' study. Now, Mr. Holden, did you hear, or see, anything unusual in the house this morning?"
"No, I, well, I…I never really got out of bed." Chris mumbled, still unable to face Sergeant Gordon.
"But how did they get in?" Rachel shuddered. "I just can't imagine anyone making it up the stairs without us hearing-"
"You were, shall we say, taken unawares." Gordon continued. "I can imagine that both of you were quite preoccupied." At this, Rachel made a dignified retreat to fetch more tea, but Chris had to endure the awkward silence, still staring at the table-top while Gordon ruminated over his humiliation. "The angle of the picture suggests it was taken from the hallway, but I offer a different explanation." Gordon said when Rachel returned. "If you'll allow me to show you-"
They made their way back up the stairs, Gordon gallantly allowing Rachel to go first, then shooting Chris such a glare as though daring him to raise his eyes to her ascending form. Chris gulped, and followed last, feeling miserable and sheepish and determined never to so much as even think of looking at Rachel Dawes ample buttocks or legs ever, ever again.
"This bedroom window is the only that has been tampered with," Gordon explained. "Your stalker, for lack of a better term, could have easily taken the picture from outside the house, then waited for Miss Dawes to leave before entering. This would, I believe, be the simplest explanation."
"But how? Why? Wouldn't it be easier to come in through the first storey?"
"Yes. But as Miss Dawes pointed out, the stairs are quite unpredictable and your stalker would have no way of knowing your preoccupation before entering."
"Sex, Gordon." Rachel blurted, blushing red. "Let's just call it sex and get it over with."
"Yes," Gordon said, mortified in turn. "Very well then. Yes. Ahem."
Chris grinned. "You were saying?"
"Yes. Well. Hmm. It would be difficult, but by no means impossible, for someone to reach the second storey from the ground. If you look here, here at the window ledge, you can see scraping suggestive of the tool used to enter."
"You'd have to be a fucking gymnist," Chris whistled, poking his head out the window to stare at the earth, nearly fifteen feet below. "There's no way."
"And yet neither the outside doors nor first floor windows have been tampered with, Mr. Holden. And might I ask you to keep your adjectives to situations where they are properly applied," he added, with an arch in one brow. "I also believe my interpretation best explains this."
Rachel and Chris both let out a gasp. Painted across the inside of the guest bedroom door, hiding against the wall, were the blood red words I FOUND YOU.
"Miss Dawes explained your situation," Gordon continued in the kitchen. "And an anonymous tipper reported to the GCPD this morning about a potential homicide in the Hermandad sector. Ordinarily, I'd feel compelled to arrest you as many on the scene described the suspect in detail. However the condition of the blood as congealed when you arrived and Miss Dawes' vouching for you whereabouts during the necessary time preceeding the discovery precludes you from the murder. Her word is good enough for me, and I am as convinced of your innocence as soundly as though you'd been declared so in a court of law."
"So it was a homicide," Chris said lowly. "She really did die."
"Yes, and no." Gordon said kindly. "While your landlady is an illegal immigrant and we have no DNA with which to match, the blood discovered was undoubtedly male."
"Your lab can tell that quickly?" Rachel asked in surprise.
"Gender and type can be determined on scene if one wishes*." The man continued. "And given the circumstances I felt it necessary to expedite the process. Whoever was killed in that apartment was decidedly NOT the woman you were renting from."
"Wait, it wasn't Abuelita?"
"Hardly." Gordon assured him. "Also, the bloodstains discovered matched what we believe to have been the victim's head, and we can estimate height to be at least five foot eleven, possibly six feet. Was there anyone else in that residence that might match that description?"
"What? Oh, no." Chris sighed in relief. "No, it was just me and Abuelita."
"Any visitors, family, or someone who could have had the misfortune of being there at the same time as your stalker?"
"No one I know of." He shrugged.
"I see." The older man continued to sip his tea. "Then this complicates things."
Chris cocked his head. "Complicates them how?"
Gordon set his teacup down in resignation. "It complicates things, Mr. Holden, because I believe it means not one, but two men have been following you, and now one of them is dead."