The room was dark. Once upon a time, it had been a manager's office; three outdated Hot Grrrrls calendars hung on one wall, a standard-issue first-aid kit just behind them, and the bars of light from the door trammel fell across an enormous Employee Safety Guidelines chart on the back wall. Someone had come in with a red marker and defaced the Safety Guidelines- HOW TO PREVENT EQUIPMENT ACCIDENTS became HOW TO CAUSE EQUIPMENT ACCIDENTS. BASIC INJURY ASSESSMENT was now STUPID! and the man in the CPR diagram was sporting a wide red smile and holding a knife.
Joker growled and leaned back, the rolling chair squealing softly. He hated that sound. He hated it! He hated waiting like this, cooped up, in the dark, the silence... Clowns shouldn't be forced to be still. They need to be laughing, bouncing, stabbing something.
But there wasn't much choice. He looked down at the diagrams on the desk, growled in frustration, and ripped them away. The brief relief of the sound of tearing paper was gone all too quickly.
"Batman," Joker said, to the darkness. "Why isn't he here? Why isn't he... He should be looking for me by now! He should be missing me. WHY ISN'T HE HERE YET?" A peach-colored coffee cup full of nails flew across the room and broke against the wall, followed by a picture frame, a pair of pliers, a stack of files, and the manager's keys. Joker's breath turned into ragged laughs. He turned and grabbed at the desk, gathering an armful of blueprint paper, diagrams essential to his plans, and-
The door opened, and Edward Nashton walked in, stiffly. He had both legs in casts, his face was startlingly white, and his hospital gown was flecked- no, spattered- with red. He had a gun, too, a big gun. Joker stopped, blinked twice, and calmly released the papers.
"Hello," he said, straightening up and rubbing his hands on his purple coat. "Eddie, isn't it? How'd you find me? Or, I guess I should ask... who was it... that told you?"
"Nobody," Nashton said, unsteadily. He wasn't looking good; his eyes looked glassy, and there was sweat on his pale cheeks. He wavered a little, lifted the gun in Joker's direction and let it hang again. "You... it was easy. The factory..."
He was going to pass out, Joker noted with faint disappointment. But damn, the boy was fighting to stay up. He was just so... interesting, like watching a kitten in a box with electrodes attached to its head that Joker could push at will.
"What'd you do, kill a cop?" Joker asked, nodding at the gun. Nashton's eyes went down to the gun, and came back up to meet Joker's. Empty. "The, uh, the model. Glock 9339, Gotham special." Joker pushed the chair forward and let the boy fall into it. "I like it. But, uh, knives are better."
Nashton looked up, his eyes going wide and spacy, and flopped face-first onto the desk. Joker sighed, shook his head, and pulled a large jackknife out of his left pocket. The cryptographer had gotten in so easily. Too easily.
Joker put his hands to his fingers and whistled for the guards.
The first thing Nashton was aware of was the crippling, stabbing pain in his right leg. The second was the presence of a human arm folded around his shoulders and a warm, unfamiliar body pressed next to his. His eyes flew open, and Nashton screamed. He shot backwards and fell off the side of the bed. He felt the impact of hitting the floor- oh, God, he felt it- but the next few moments were a blur, as he was temporarily blind and deaf with pain.
And someone was shaking him. The pain receded just enough for Nashton to open his eyes- and he nearly screamed again. Unless he was hallucinating- and he dearly hoped he was- he'd just been sharing a bed with the Joker. Currently, Gotham's most infamous murderer was kneeling over him, his face a terrifying mask of paint and teeth, and looking at him with mock concern.
"...okay, Eddie? I mean, I really didn't mean to startle you. Were you, uh, having dreams?"
"You," Nashton said through clenched teeth. "You were in bed with me."
The darkness around Joker's eyes stretched and widened as he raised his eyebrows.
"In bed...? Oh, ahahaha, please, Eddie. It's not, uh, like that. I was just trying to make ya feel better." He motioned to someone, someone Nashton couldn't see and didn't really want to, and looked back at Nashton with a wolvish, infected smile. "I hate to tell ya, Eddie boy, but... you're not really my type."
Nashton shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't. Everything was blurred, and the pain, the pain was unbearable. Then Joker was handing him something- water, and a small orange canister. Pills. He almost laughed. Yes, he would certainly take the pills handed to him by the world's most evil mass-murderer, he wouldn't question it at all, he'd love to die of slow poison-
"No," he said, shoving them back. "No pills." Joker said something, tried to threaten him, but he shook his head stubbornly. No pills. Besides, he could handle the pain on his own. With great effort, Nashton sat up and looked around.
The whole warehouse was full of clothing. Velvet, suede, faux leather, silk- they hung from silver racks, all coats. Hundreds of coat. Black, blue, brown, green, grey, purple... The Joker's face filled his vision, scowling in mild irritation, and he felt a knife point against his throat.
"I knew you'd be here," Nashton said, raggedly. "Your... costumer. Hideout. April 6, 2004, Leoncavallo Wardrober's defaults due... largely in part to mob pressure. Why didn't the mob move in? Answer: They did. Alfonso Maggiore, age 43, becomes warehouse manager and oversees shipment of narcotics. September 15, 2007. Maggiore found with throat cut in back alley. No one reclaimed his position... because you were here. Because you couldn't resist."
Joker raised his eyebrows again.
"That's good, Eddie," he said. "So why couldn't I resist?"
Nashton half-chuckled.
"Leoncavallo Wardrober's. The suit wasn't cheap. Pagliacci."
"Ooh." Joker retreated, nodding his head and sucking his lips as if in thought. "You know... I, I think that's right. You, you're a smart boy. So why'd you come back? Do you, uh, still know who Batman is?"
Nashton smiled and pulled himself up a little, tucking his arm under him to support his weight. His thoughts were returning now, moving faster and sharper than before. Isn't it obvious, clown?
"Batman is Batman," he said. "Why did I come back? Because... I have a plan. A plan for Gotham. Not... not for you. Too unpredictable. But I can give you the Batman."
Joker blinked rapidly, his tongue flicking over the scars. Even through the haze of pain, Nashton could already see it. He had him now.
"What do you need?" Joker asked.
"I need... a cameraman."
Alfred came down the stairs of the cave, tray in tow, and stopped.
"Master Bruce!" he said, rebukingly. "You told me you would try to get some sleep!"
"Can't," Bruce said shortly. He didn't even look up from the console. "I've got work to do."
"You promised me," Alfred said, "after the Joker, you promised me you'd look after yourself more. You won't catch him by running yourself ragged, sir, and the only thing you'll accomplish by depriving yourself of sleep down here... is proving the press right when they say you belong in Arkham." He lowered the tray and set a newspaper, a plate of toast, and a green nutrient smoothie next to Bruce. "You're becoming obsessed with the Joker, proving him right."
"Not the Joker," Bruce said, still not looking up. "Catwoman. She knows, Alfred, she knows."
Alfred sighed.
"Very well, let me amend my statement. You're becoming obsessed with Catwoman, and it's affecting your work. Not to be rude, sir, but shouldn't you focus on the real danger at hand?"
"I underestimated her once," Bruce said grimly. He sighed and finally turned to face Alfred, looking incredibly disheveled and stubbly after two days of not shaving. "Now she knows my name. I don't know who she is, or what she wants. For all I know, she's put my identity up for underworld auction. Do realize what that would mean? Not just- for me, but for you. For Selina..." he paused, shook his head, and turned back to the computer. "I know literally nothing about her motives, Alfred. And that... terrifies me."
"I see. And the cryptographer...?"
"He's in the hospital, Alfred. Two broken legs. Besides, Nashton is..." Bruce shook his head. "Too arrogant to just give the secret away. I know his type; the League of Shadows was full of them. Arrogant, overconfident, narcissistic, and intensely self-interested. He'll try to blackmail me. That's the logical progression..." Bruce paused and scribbled something down on his notepad.
Alfred coughed slightly, and pushed the newspaper forward a bit with his forefinger.
"I'm guessing you haven't seen the papers, then, sir."
With a quick glance at Alfred, Bruce picked up the paper and read the headline. Without a word, he turned to an article in the middle of the paper, read it, and swore silently.
"Sir?"
Bruce just shook his head, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter, and dropped the newspaper back onto the tray.
"Idiot," he said, finally. "I underestimated him. I... she distracted me. Of course she did. I should have seen this coming... dammit. For all I know, he planned this from the beginning. Or she did." He lifted one hand and covered his forehead. "Alfred. Get me the strongest cup of coffee you've ever made, and lay out the black Armani. I'm going downtown."
Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.
A loud knock on the apartment door interrupted the rhythm of Selina's pushup routine, and she sat up, reluctantly, and reached for the sweat towel from the coffee table. Dusk was already shading her window pink, and she glanced at the wall clock. Five fifteen. Who knocked on upscale Gotham apartment doors at five fifteen on a weekday?
"Better not be the Jehovah's Witnesses," she muttered, sauntering to the door. She pushed her eye against the door and frowned. Two large men in suits stood outside, arms akimbo. The taller one wore dark sunglasses. Cliche much?
"Hello, can I help you?" Selina asked, opening the door boldly.
"Take it easy, ma'am," the tall one said, holding up his hands appeasingly. "We're just here to deliver a message."
"Mr. Thorne requests the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight," the other man said. "Seven o'clock, Tony Minore's. Nice place, got a great view of the city."
Selina arched an eyebrow.
"Business, or pleasure?"
The men traded looks, and the tall one coughed to hide a smug smile.
"You'll have to ask Thorne himself," he said. "By th' way, I was s'posed to give you this." He pulled a white envelope from his suit coat and handed it to her. "Good day, ma'am."
"Good day," Selina said coolly. She shut the door, pulled the bolt home, and turned over the envelope. There was no name, just a question mark written in green ink. Selina rolled her eyes and tore open the envelope.
HELLO KITTY
A RIDDLE FOR YOU
RCPGCJEORCPGCJCJZJKKJYYDE
CJWKJYUIKOCWOKPIYNUEOYDEYO
DECNOUEDDRYLQJEOIYZ
HYPPIYLEAPQNY?
There was something paper-clipped to the sheet of paper. Selina frowned, turned it over- and stopped. It was the Joker. It was an 8x10 glossy color photograph of the Joker, sitting in a rather dingy office, wearing a dark purple coat and Grinch-green vest, and smiling. He'd even autographed it in what she hoped was red marker-
Look forward to meeting you, J O K E R
Selina blinked several times and stared at the picture. On impulse, she turned it over and checked the development date. It was less than two days old.
"That means nothing," she said, thinking aloud. "It could have been taken weeks, months ago."
She flipped the photo back over and frowned, studying it again. Definitely not a Photoshop. Joker actually had one hand on the top desk drawer, as if opening it, and the transition from skin to wood was far too realistic. She focused on the background: it was a dimly lit, ill-kept office, and most of the backdrop was cast in shadow. A beige cylinder- a furnace boiler- filled one corner, and she could just make out a tarnished stovepipe at the top. The walls were covered with papers, and string. Selina squinted and focused on bringing the details out. Green and red string cobwebbed the walls, covering up- typed papers, rap sheets, tabloid interviews, newspaper headlines. Selina could just make one out, a central article circled and recircled in red ink.
WHO IS BATMAN?
"Nashton," Selina growled. She dropped the paper and photograph, tossed her towel at the hamper, and headed for her bedroom. The suit was already laid out on the bed, waiting for her. Time to go downtown.
Gordon half-turned from his desk and pulled the dusty blinds down slightly. Outside, Bullock was visiting his friend the hot-dog vendor, and maintaining a lively conversation with Flass. Gordon sighed and let the blinds spring back. Things had changed irrevocably in the hospital. Bullock had returned to the station a little more easy-going, a little more cynical, a bit more forgiving and less inquisitive when Flass brought suspects in for interrogation. His arrest rate had dropped twenty percent, and the big detective's new Rolex had not escaped Gordon's sharp eyes.
He'd lost Bullock. Gordon took off his glasses and set them on the desk. He'd betrayed him, sent him back to the darkness of a corrupt cop's life, and Gordon knew full well who to blame. It wasn't Batman's fault. Now, every time Gordon saw Bullock reach for his hip flask, or pat a fellow cop- a dirty cop- on the back, or laugh heartily at one of Flass's jokes... it hurt. Bullock had fallen; the second Harvey Gordon had lost.
There was a sharp knock at the office door, and Gordon looked up quickly.
"Bruce Wayne," he said, rising and offering a hand. "What a... surprise to see you here."
The playboy billionaire was dressed in a ridiculously sharp suit- probably tailored just for him- and played with what looked like gold cuff links. But his face was unusually haggard- too much partying?- and there were dark circles under his eyes.
"Well, you know," Wayne said, carelessly, "I've got to see what my tax dollars are doing. How's it going, Commissioner?"
"Ah-" Gordon reached for his glasses and replaced them. "Fine, Mr. Wayne. We're just fine."
"Really. Well, to be honest, I came down when I heard about, uh, Nestor."
"Nashton," Gordon said.
"Right. Black hair, green eyes, met him at the gala?" Wayne said. "That's him. I read about his accident- er- I heard he'd been kidnapped or something- and then I remembered I lent him, ah, book from my library-" he hesitated significantly.
"And you thought you'd come down and confirm for yourself," Gordon said, beginning to understand. Wayne was curious. It was the old rubbernecking instinct, though why someone as famous as Bruce Wayne would take interest in a common crime was beyond Gordon. Still, famous people must have curiosity too; and Bruce Wayne was far too influential to deny. With a short sigh, Gordon reached for his master keys and nodded to the door. "Honestly, Mr. Wayne, I've been in shock for the past few days. The Joker's escape..." he shook his head. "I haven't had time to look through Nashton's office, but if you'd like to tag along, perhaps you can locate your, uh, book."
"You're too kind," Wayne said, falling in step behind Gordon. "It's a, uh, first edition from my father's library. Lacar or Lacan, something like that. Little brown hardcover."
"Right," Gordon said. He stopped in front of Nashton's office, fitted the key to the lock, and opened the door.
Both men involuntarily took a step back. Nashton's office looked like it had exploded on itself. Papers hung, loose and flapping, from every wall, covering nearly every inch of drywall and metal. Someone had come threw and torn handfuls of clippings off, crumpled them, thrown them on the floor, and the walls were still thick with paper. Red twine hung loose and tangled from the walls as well, an informational cobweb trampled and torn by a giant's foot. Every drawer on the desk was standing open. The chair lay twisted in a corner.
"My God..." Gordon said. "He... destroyed it."
Bruce Wayne stepped past him and into the office, and Gordon hurried behind him.
"Mr. Wayne- Mr. Wayne- please don't touch anything."
"Why, is this a crime scene?" Wayne turned around, blinking in innocent surprise and holding a framed photograph. "Check this out. Guy had a serious cat fetish."
Gordon cringed slightly and took the picture. And stopped. It was the Catwoman- a clear, 8x10 picture of the Catwoman, a picture unreleased to the press. She was standing on a rooftop, hands on her hips, and Gordon could almost feel the energy pulsing from her stance.
And she had a large, wide, red smile scrawled over her face. There was a sticky note attached, written in Nashton's neat, flowing hand.
Crazy thief.
Gordon shook his head, bewildered. His eyes returned to the smile and Catwoman, and his mind kicked back into action.
"As of right now, this is a crime scene," he said. "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside, Mr. Wayne-"
"No prob. Let me know when you find anything," Wayne said easily. "Thanks for showing me around, Commissioner. I should probably be getting back."
The next few moment were a blur. One moment, Gordon was turning to show Wayne out, gingerly clutching the photo frame to avoid placing fingerprints on it, and the next moment he was sprawled on the floor, his stomach throbbing. Gordon looked up and saw a woman in a trench coat- and mask.
"Catwoman," he said. "Listen. You've got to get out-"
She frowned, glanced at the photo, and laughed.
"Yeah, I know, Mr. Happy's all jealous over his boy-friend," she said. "Thanks for the warning. Hi, Bruce." This last was accompanied by a flick of her whip, and a red-faced Bruce Wayne was reeled back into the room. "Can't let you get away that easily."
"You two know each other?" Gordon said, astonished.
"No," Wayne said, through gritted teeth.
"Oh, come on, Brucie. After all we've meant to each other?" Catwoman shook her head, amused. "I actually just stopped in to visit Eddie, but since he's out..." she flicked her wrist, and the whip cracked back to her and coiled at her waist. "I'll just take his message and leave. Oh, and please don't try to follow me. You remember what happened last time we tangled...?"
She blew Wayne a kiss, leaped out of sight, and the door slammed shut behind her.
Almost immediately, Gordon and Wayne hit the door simultaneously. It was locked. Gordon reached for his keys- and realized she'd managed to pick his pocket. Keys, cellphone, and wallet were all gone.
"God damn it!" he swore, hammering on the door. "I don't believe this."
"Relax," Wayne said. "I'll just use my iPhone-" he pulled it out and waggled it enticingly. "-to call for help. Call Alfred."
"You're calling your butler?" Gordon said.
"It's the only permanent number on my cell," Wayne said. "Well, that and Fox. But he's more of a semi-permanent number. Like Selina. And possibly Vesper. Hey, Alfred. Yeah, long story short, the city's most famous cat burglar showed up and locked Gordon and me in the closet. That would be wonderful. Yes. Yes. Thanks so much." He looked up at Gordon. "He called the police. And he's coming to pick me up. Can't wait to tell this story at the club."
Gordon just watched, skeptically, as Wayne popped the phone into his pocket, smiling the wide, vapid, slightly shallow smile of the very rich.
"How do you know Catwoman?" he blurted out. The billionaire paused and covered with another smile.
"Look, I, uh, met her a few years ago on a cruise," he said. "She had the costume, but I thought she was just, you know, into that kind of stuff. We hooked up. She walked off, and so did my wallet. I cancelled my credit cards and deleted her phone number. That's it, I swear."
Gordon looked at him, hard. Wayne determinedly maintained eye contact.
"I'm telling the truth," he said.
"Sure you are, Wayne," Gordon said. "Sure you are."
Many, many thanks for the reviews! I've long been interested in the Batman/Catwoman dynamic, and the idea of a "love triangle" between Catwoman, Batman and the Joker. The Riddler's involvement (and alliance with the Joker) just thickens the pie... or sweetens the plot... or something like that.
By the way, I will give an in-story shoutout and/or the theme of my next story to the first person to crack Riddler's code.
Peace, love, and Batarangs.