Chapter 3: Probable Puppeteers
"Beauty may be dangerous, but intelligence is lethal." ~ Unknown
"If I don't see that new shipment in my docks by tomorrow morning, I will personally cut you up into tiny fucking pieces and throw you into the sewers myself!"
Rob hardly winces at the bone-chilling threats that his boss throws onto those around him anymore. The only times he does wince, is when either Mike, Jack or himself are on the receiving end of said morbid threats. To speak of Two Face having a rampant temper is an understatement as large as saying that the Joker may be tad crazy. However, after hearing Eve's theory of Joker's sanity, that last understatement may not even be as much of an understatement as Rob originally thought.
"Keller, Mulder, Donovan, get your asses in here now."
"Looks like Harv is out to play tonight," Mike glumly observes, referring to the more crude half of Two Face whose violent tendencies more often than not result in one of them being beaten around a bit.
Jack snorts in dark amusement. "Nights like this make you miss Harvey."
They pass the near-quivering man whom had just been on the receiving end of Two Face's wrath as they forward into the office, not sparing the unfortunate individual a glance as they close the door behind them. Even though a couple chairs are pleasantly placed before him, facing his boss, Rob decides to remain firmly standing. Easier to bolt out of the office should Harv get too ill-tempered.
Harv – whose half-scowl half-smirk is always plastered on his scarred face when he's won the coin toss and is out to play – instantly slackens in exhaustion when he's left alone with his top three men. He's still terrifying and temperamental – he always is – but around Michael Donovan, Robert Mulder and Jackson Keller he's at his best, which, contrary to what others may believe, is something.
"When I find out who's behind this mob war, I'm gonna string out his fucking torture for months," Harv promises, running a hand through Harvey's dark, chestnut brown hair before dragging it haggardly down his half of their face.
"Figuring out who's pullin' on Maroni's strings may've just gotten a whole lot easier," Robert Mulder announces to his boss, swiftly tossing a slim file onto Two Face's desk.
Two Face stares cautiously at it out of the corner of his eye, his rigid, sharp jaw marginally unhinged to partially bare his teeth. "Care to enlighten me Mulder?"
"It's a file on a woman known as Evangeline Winter," Rob takes charge out of the trio of henchmen, dutifully disclosing "Mike, Jack and I met her at that cafe you took up on the edge of O'Reilly's turf, ya know, the one Maroni tried to snatch?"
"Yeah I remember, but what's some broad you idiots met at my cafe got to do with this mob war – a war which is becoming a royal pain in my ass," Two Face growls in questioning, his mood evidently souring by each passing moment.
Jack represses a flinch. "She was asking us what seemed like some innocent, sly questions, yet when she split the joint after gettin' a phone call, the cashier and barista informed us that she was also snoopin' around and askin' them questions about how Maroni tried to put up a protection racket in the joint, and how you swooped in and got them off the hook."
"So we did some digging and found some guy named Eduardo Garcia. In the history on his Face Book page, we found an image of her with him and a post about him bein' thrilled about her 'solving his case'. In our free time we gave the guy a visit, politely asked him a few questions and found out the gal's a private investigator," Mike concludes their somewhat productive discoveries. Well, in his opinion they're productive discoveries, considering how they've only had three days since their exchange with Evangeline and only pursued their suspicions of her between all the work their boss has thrown at them. Amidst all the crime and back stabbing resulting from the mafia feud, Mike's surprised they had any free time at all to get this done.
Yet even with all this information uncovered to him, Two Face only skims through the file as his lackeys babble on, casting the couple images of the so called 'Evangeline Mendax Winter' some appreciative glances.
Bitch has got a nice ass, but she ain't worth the time at the moment, Harv internally comments to his other half residing in their joined mind, eyes devouring her image and the information for a few moments longer.
As much as it pains me to admit it, I'm going to have to agree with you. Between Maroni's uncharacteristic provocations and Markovic and O'Reilly breathing down our neck for our help, a private investigator that isn't even a part of the GCPD is the least of our worries, Harvey Dent reluctantly acquiesces with his criminal half, mind a buzz with all the commotion kicked up by the crime families at the current moment. Still, we should have a guy check on her every once in a while. If she miraculously discovers anything before the rest of us, she may be of use.
She's just some pretty broad who's tryin' to make a name for herself Harvey. She ain't a risk. She's barely a pebble in my fucking shoe. If she was workin' alongside Gordon or the Bat, that would be different, Harv scowls at the previous DA, the both of them unaware of the uncomfortable silence that consumed the room the moment the trio of henchmen realized their boss was bickering with himself again.
Harvey is still indecisive. Look, we have more than enough men. It's not going to severely harm our numbers or ranks if we spare one guy to occasionally check in on her. Like I said before, she may hit a stroke of luck and find something that may prove to be of use. After all, we can't just ignore her entire existence. She's poking around our territory. Harvey knew as soon as he broached Evangeline prodding at their turf that Harv would go all territorial on him like a damn dog. Sharing a brain with the guy can sometimes turn out to be advantageous.
Harv menacingly growls.There has to be over a hundred cafes in this fucking city, and she manages to find our one? Fine. I'll have Louie or Mack look the bitch up in a week or so, but I'll have to check with O'Reilly and Markovic to see if they actually hired her themselves before we go about stalking the broad, Harv eventually concludes, addressing Harvey's light concern.
By the time the 'super criminal' asserts his focus back on his men, the abrupt movement of his head snapping up to meet their uncomfortable stares is enough to startle them back a couple inches. "We'll organise something later. For now though, I need a status update on the casino I invested in down on 3rd. And don't fucking disappoint me."
Within the passing four days succeeding the café investigation and her elder brother's sudden phone call, Evangeline Winter has been deeply engrossed within Gotham's infamous Rogue's Gallery. Commissioner Gordon has tried reasoning with the North Carolinian that being entangled within a mob war is one of the very last things a Gotham Rogue would set out to accomplish, yet after Rob's subtle drop of his opinion, Eve is almost certain that a rogue plays a part in this undertaking. Whether it is a half-rogue, half-mob man like Two Face or Black Mask, or an all-out notorious mastermind such as Scarecrow or Joker, she doesn't yet know.
Eve vehemently deliberates over the public files of each so called 'super criminal' that are strewn out in front of her. Nothing particularly noteworthy has been spotted over her cameras yet, only a few suspicious discussions from Falcone men. So far Falcone has been distrustfully quiet amongst all the vigorous uproar from the other families. As if he's more knowledgeable than he's letting on.
The entire investigation is becoming an entanglement of various theories and judgements. Just as Eve is becoming confident in an established theory of hers, a piece of evidence precipitously swerves around a sharp corner and knocks it from its pedestal. The only firm conclusion Eve has come to is that there is a player outside of these families that has intervened and had a hand in this calamity of feud. Question is, who?
She mulls peacefully to herself the current situation, legs perfectly crossed atop the inviting covers of her bed, numerous photos, files and papers scattered like patches of snow before her. "Okay, so a few reports have said that members of the organised crime syndicates have stated that Maroni is uncharacteristically acting brashly on impulse, and relatively violently too. Yet these findings don't make it seem as if it is the result of black mail... it's willingly, yet atypical."
Suddenly, it's as if God himself has determined that Eve's devoutness to this case has earned her a hint at the next piece to this puzzle, for unexpectedly, one particular name seems to stand out like a splatter of red on a blank white canvas amongst all the other photos and files.
Jervis Tetch.
"The Mad Hatter..." The private detective incoherently mumbles aloud, a coy grin surfacing on her face. Isn't he known for creating mind control devices?
It's a mere arbitrary speculation on her behalf, but something about the delusional mad man seems to stick out to Evangeline like a sore thumb. Perhaps Mr. Tetch owed a mob member a favour? Or, like Rob suggested, it could be some form of black mail. Eve didn't know, nor did she think that anyone down at the GCPD would be aware of the appropriate answer either. Only one man besides Tetch and his puppeteer could affirm or disprove her theory.
I wonder if Gordon would allow me the pleasure to borrow that spotlight atop his precinct?
"Ey Sam, don't cha think the boss is actin' a bit off lately?" Seymour Rickman – a low, nobody lackey – asks his mate Andy Murdocca as they idly wait outside their boss' office.
Andy jaggedly rubs the side of his face, fingers scraping along his progressively growing stubble and emitting a scratchy, irritating sound. "I dunno Ricky, I mean, he's more violent than usual I guess. If I wanted a volatile, crazy boss I would've signed up with Two Face."
"You're tellin' me," Ricky snorts his displeasure disdainfully.
"Any particular reason you gentlemen are lazily loitering around when I specifically remember calling you to my office?"
Andy barely regains his composure from the sudden shock quick enough to prevent his cigarette from prodding hotly at his right eye. Ricky on the other hand, quite nearly carelessly drops his loaded, lethal firearm. Both men skittishly scamper to attention, blubbering out "S-Sorry boss."
Sal Maroni simply dusts off their incompetence like a speck of dust, towering and looming over them whilst taking one long, foreboding drag of his freshly lit cigar. "I've got a job for you fine gentlemen. Lefty here," Maroni soberly addresses Rickman, gesturing to Murdocca, "says you can be trusted. And I trust Lefty. If you don't live up to this expectation, both of you will have a date at the morgue. Capisci?"
The men nod firmly in unison. "Yeah boss."
"Good," Sal allows a momentary grin to play at his lips, ominously leaning in closer to them. "Cops and the Bat found out I shot the kids behind the Monarch Theatre. No one was there that night but me, the kids, a few of their men and a few of my men. I want the two of you to flush the mole out. Whether it be one of my men or one of theirs, I couldn't care less. Just find me the rat. And keep it quiet."
"Got it boss," and "On it boss man," are the simultaneous, automatic responses blurted out by Ricky and Lefty, taking Maroni's concise, sharp nod afterwards as an act of dismissal. Inelegantly, they scuttle away and vanish from Maroni's imposing, professional presence, abandoning the Italian mafia boss to his own feuding, disorderly conjectures and thoughts.
The smooth, papery sensation of the warm cigar plays at Sal Maroni's lips, his calloused fingers relieving his mouth of the alleviating tobacco only for him to puff out an obscuring cloud of charcoal smoke like a dragon. The mob boss distantly and witheringly stares at where his two men scurried off to. "No rats or bats are going to interfere with this. And sometimes, to catch a rat, all you need is the right trap."
Evangeline Winter graciously thanks the commendable Commissioner again for permitting her to use the spotlight she lit only moments ago. "Really Gordon, it means a lot. If he can confirm or disprove this suspicion of mine, not only will I be able to rest better, but I can dutifully move on with the investigation. Speaking of which, how are you going with it?"
James Gordon huffs out exhaustedly, the simple gesture quite clearly conveying his answer. "Not well at all. Too many bought out cops in my precinct to get enough steady information on any of the families. I'm unfortunately relying on you and Batman quite heavily for this one. Wish I could help more, so like I said before, if you need anything, just ask. Besides restricted files. Those I can't willingly give you."
The private investigator expressively beams her gratitude. "Don't worry about those, but for everything else, thank you very much. Without all your help, I would be working at a much more moderate and stagnate pace."
"Don't mention it kid," the fifty eight year old Commissioner dotingly replies, briefly patting her shoulder before he progressively ambles back to the door. "He'll most likely be a while. Just give a yell if you want a cup of Joe or something Eve."
"Will do Jim," Eve gingerly promises, casting the officer a succinct glance as his heavily coated back disappears behind the chipping, time-worn door. The thirty four year old Southerner absentmindedly sighs, her soft breath entering the crispy air in the form of a fresh, delicate white puff. She's still attempting to acclimatize herself to the arctic temperatures of this city, and unfortunately enough she thinks it may be a while to come before she does so.
According to her white and gold Michael Kors wrist watch, she has been patiently waiting around for nearly forty minutes before the baritone, gravelly voice of the Caped Crusader amusingly shocks her from behind. "You called."
She squeaks – almost like a mouse – and elegantly spins to face the towering, dark wall a mere meter away from her. "I understand your need to be secretive and inconspicuous when you're fulfilling your duties as a vigilante, but perhaps you should consider a bell or something when you're convening with allies and friends."
"I don't have any friends," the Dark Knight laconically replies, yet doesn't entirely deflate the light humour dancing in the atmosphere.
Eve dazzlingly smiles. "I find that hard to believe. You are quite the popular man in this town, especially with the criminals. Your girlfriend must get jealous often."
"Don't have a girlfriend either," the dark clad vigilante once again monotonously responds, the lower, revealed half of his face veiled by shadows and shrouding his razor sharp jaw.
"I find that even harder to believe," Eve continues to playfully tease, and almost frowns perplexedly at herself for doing so. I don't tease. I never tease. This is the Batman Evangeline; act professional and state your business. "But I didn't call you just to interrogate you about your social and love life. I need a bit of help, and you're the only man who can get the job done."
This manages to pique the Dark Knight's interest. "What do you need?"
Eve nervously breathes, toying with the sterling silver ring on her middle finger like she always does when she's apprehensive. It's nothing spectacular, like her necklace in that sense. It's simply a silver ring that has a small, polished heart with a petite cross in the centre of it, a tiny diamond sitting snugly in the middle of said cross. Plain, but that's the way she prefers it.
"I got a tip from a source, who shall remain anonymous, that a rogue may have had a hand in controlling Maroni to—"
"You think he's being controlled?" Batman intervenes, intrigued by her opinionated theory.
The North Carolinian nods. "Word is going around that he's not acting himself. The signs don't point towards black mail, but they don't point towards the usual Sal Maroni either. Due to a rogue being involved, and Maroni not particularly behaving like himself, I devised this somewhat far-fetched theory that maybe Jervis Tetch and his mind control devices could be involved. Like I said, it's far-fetched, but if someone is controlling Maroni and that same someone cashed in an owed favour with the infamous Mad Hatter... we might have something."
The Dark Knight – being the world's greatest detective – immediately catches onto her train of thought. "You want me to dig around and find out if Tetch owed any favours and see if they've been recently cashed in."
Eve almost appears sheepish. "Only if you have the time. I know you're a busy man. In fact if you don't have any time to spare, I would greatly appreciate a few names of men in the mob ranks who will talk for the right price—"
"I'll get you your information," Batman sternly promises, his eerily dark silhouette gliding across the expanse rooftop and about to vanish into the night before the private investigator calls out.
"Thank you! And, well, please try not to break too many bones! I don't know how I feel about bodily harm being inflicted unto others because of my own possibly incorrect speculations."
This time, when the Dark Knight's chin steadily twists to the side so he may readily toss his response over his shoulder, Eve parts her rosy lips in minimal bewilderment upon spying the small, humoured smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll try, but no promises Miss Winter."
Evangeline Winter hardly hears his daunting dark cape flutter once when he dissipates into the shadows. His empire.
Edward Nygma exasperatedly exhales, not even attempting to conceal his evident boredom and mild irritation behind a mask of moderate patience and affability. He doesn't mind his companion's occasionally crude company often, but due to the ongoing trying times in Gotham, Two Face's borderline petulant presence is beginning to test his self-control.
"Sionis ain't helping anything either. If anything he's being fucking childish and callow, trying to hit at my businesses while the families are in disarray," Harv tempestuously complains, ironed tie haphazardly loosened and half-black half-white blazer undone in a display of leisure whilst he nurtures his glass of Johnnie Walker scotch whiskey. The manner in which he's sprawled in is akin to a cat, but not your common, every day, mundane domestic feline. No, Two Face's movements and mannerisms are more comparable to a regal, visceral jungle cat. The way in which his muscles and shoulders languidly roll, even before he slinks in for the kill. He may not be as suave or sumptuous as jaguar or leopard, but when taking into consideration his sheer brutality and power, the man is a tiger. Yet, unfortunately for Gotham's Puzzle Prince, Two Face can also prattle like a parrot after a taxing, demanding day of work followed by a few strong intoxicants to loosen his lips.
Even though the infamous Riddler is able to neglect the faint buzz of the bar life around him, he's incapable of effectively spurning his comrade's grievances as efficiently. He does, nonetheless, entertain the crime lord and his gripes. A man with such power in numbers, wealth, connections and strength will undoubtedly come in handy one day. "Roman Sionis is an obscene ignoramus who doesn't possess a single word in his vocabulary above three syllables. He does, however, have an inconvenient tendency to figuratively push the wrong buttons on everyone he comes into contact with. He's no match for a superior intellect such as I, but I do still hold a grudge against him for robbing me of one of my warehouses. Perhaps I'll throw a few of his dull, inane men into some of my death traps."
"Can you throw him into one of your death traps?" Harv hopefully suggests, swiftly downing the last of his rusty coloured beverage and slamming the empty glass onto the sleek bar counter. It is his bar, so he couldn't really give a damn if someone spotted him out in the open like he is right now. With everything going on, his intimidating security detail has startlingly increased in numbers and strength tenfold. He's presently safer than the damn President of the United States himself.
Edward Nygma does ruminate over the prospect for a few moments, his aloof lime green eyes narrowing in consideration as his thin lips press into a fine line. "I do suppose that would be entertaining. That barbaric buffoon wouldn't last three minutes in one of my master creations. However, I don't particularly feel like sticking my nose into this currently sloppy and premature squabble between the Irishman, the Russian and the Italian. Besides, I have other much more important affairs that require addressing."
Harv curtly scoffs. "What, coming up with another half-baked death trap for the Bat? Didn't the last thousand or so times teach you anything?"
"He cheated! Every time, that insolent, boorish primate cheated!" Nygma seethes out at no one in particular, neglecting the partially amused expression shining through the eyes of the tiger besides him. "Unfortunately for him, this time I have devised a puzzle so great, it will render him a blubbering, broken down mess begging for I, the Riddler, to free him of his idiocy."
"Of course you have," Harv borders on derisive when he concurs, slyly slipping out a hundred and sliding it under his drained glass. "Not that this hasn't been an entertaining evening, but I still got a mob war to take care of. Fucking Italians, Russians and Irish wouldn't last a day without yours truly."
More like they wouldn't last a day with yours truly, Edward reflects internally, because contrary to what everyone who has ever known may say, he does know when to preserve his thoughts and block his verbal perspicacity into them. The most Harvey would've done if he voiced his previous judgement would've been to glare in an unimpressed manner, but Harv is the wild card. Harv is erratic and unpredictable. Whether he would've vulgarly lashed out verbal abuse or physically expressed his displeasure at Nygma is, ironically, like flipping a coin. There's a fifty-fifty chance of ending up with either.
Don't mistake Edward Nygma for being intimidated by the brute. Oh no, that's not the case at all. It's like he formerly mentioned; the certifiably crazy man may one day be of use to the Riddler. So in conclusion, Nygma wasn't going to potentially discard a future beneficial tool for his genius creations and plans just because he couldn't keep his trap shut. That would lower him to the same level of all the other ignorant, hairless apes in this city who can hardly generate commendable thoughts and ideas, let alone know when to keep them to themselves or not.
"Not that you're their babysitter or anything my dear friend, but perhaps do us all a favour and make sure they remain out of the other rogues' ways? As we both know, Joker is coercive and uncontrollable at best. If he jumps into this petty altercation, we may not have any crime families bar you and Sionis by the end of the month," the intellectually pompous Prince of Puzzles forewarns, index finger delicately circling the edge of his untouched glass of bourbon lethargically.
"Wouldn't that be a tragedy," Harv sarcastically mutters to himself, nodding stiffly to Rob who in turns nods to a few other men stationed across the room. "See you around Nygma. Try not to get locked up into Arkham anytime soon; I still need ya for those… transactions."
Edward disinterestedly waves him off. "I would like to see those dim-witted cretins who call themselves police officers try and catch a mind such as mine."
Harv only reacts to Edward's slander towards Gotham's law enforcement with a grunt, carelessly tossing his over coat over his left arm. Without so much as another word, Two Face saunters purposefully to and out the exit, his threatening, formidable flunkies flanking him on either side. The Riddler regards the parade impassively, abandoning the full glass of alcohol on the expanse counter and suavely arising from the bar stool. His fingers automatically move to button up his iconic green blazer, the bright, alarming purple question mark standing out prominently on his back. Retrieving his emblematic, gold question mark cane from where it rests against the bar, the notorious rogue ambles assuredly out of the bar, cane adeptly swinging by his side.
Nygma is accustomed to the polar temperatures Gotham can drop to on winter nights by now, but the first nip is always a little jolt to his superior senses. Most cities are an entrancing vision at night, with all the lights turning it into a painting. A pitch black canvas speckled with endless assortments of yellows, oranges, reds and a few blues, greens and violets here and there, some in the form of lines, squares and dots, others blurred into indiscernible shapes and zigzags. But Gotham isn't like that. No, Gotham's lights are few and sad, all the dread, despair and crime shrouding what should be happy, blithe lights. The pollution is unbearable, casting a permanent, sombre bruise-like cloud over the city that hardly ever enables its citizens to spy upon the stars or moon. The Batman's impending silhouette of doom whenever he flies by does nothing to lessen the terror or atmosphere either.
Edward barely makes it down the side alley of one of the many bars that belong to Two Face when his phone unexpectedly calls out to him from his pocket. Frowning, the enigmatic criminal fetches the self-invented cell phone and identifies the alert to be from his security system.
Whenever Edward Nygma nears a security system or camera of any kind, his security phone detects it meters before he enters its domain or peripheral vision and effectively shuts it down whilst he is in the area. This is why Mr. Nygma is mildly surprised by the sudden signal from his device, tapping on the notification and using the presented information to pinpoint where the camera is. Harv and Harvey have voiced their opinion on using security cameras to guard businesses more than enough times to fit several novels. They want them on the inside, not the outside. Outside means any wandering imbecile can disconnect it and poach it for parts or information. Whereas if they're inside, it's not as simple a task due to all the onlookers and guards swarming the building like bees in a hive. So why would there a security camera outside one of his bars?
Swiftly leaping atop the potent but fortunately closed dumpster, Edward Nygma scrutinises the carefully situated camera with intrigue. It's placed in a way that cloaks it in shadows, masking it from anyone who even offers the 'empty' area a second glance. Not only that, but the angle at which it's tilted and the highly professional, high-calibre technology that it seems to comprise of is as commendable as mob security cameras, yet of a different classification and company brand than the cameras generally bought by the crime families.
Digging around the inner pocket of his impeccable suit, Edward fishes out his compact yet do-able tool kit of small tools that he insists on having on-hand at all times. He skilfully detaches the mystery camera from the harsh brick wall and inspects it closer, intensively turning it over in his hands.
The egregious Riddler once again finds himself posing the question of why, may God only know, is there a security camera outside one of Harvey Dent's bars?
God won't be the only one to know soon enough, Nygma inwardly vows. For I, the Riddler, have just stumbled upon my next enigma.
A/N: Double whammy! Two chapters in a row! You have no idea how much fun I had writing this chapter. I love writing Batman's Rogues Gallery. Sorry you didn't get to see much of the Harvey side of Two Face, but I hope Eddie popping up at the end made up for that! Please feel free to leave some constructive criticism, especially if you feel any of the characters are becoming a little OOC and if Eve is becoming a tad Mary-Sue. I try not to make Mary-Sue characters, but Eve is naturally just one of those people who tries to be kind and polite to everyone – doesn't mean everyone likes her though.
Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx
~ T.L