A/N: Standard Disclaimers Apply

Chapter Five: Girls of the Hill

I got back to my bike in a foul mood. Naturally, I didn't trust Lenny to deliver the list, but I did trust his fear of the Russian Mob. Still, there were other ways to find out who's been dealing Rohypnol other than talking to the rats like that. My motorcycle roared to life, and I rode off toward an even rougher section of the city: Finger Hill. It was once very fashionable, but as the city grew, the money went elsewhere. After skulking through Gotham for so long, I hated to admit that Finger Hill felt like home.

The street corners were dotted with prostitutes and their pimps trolled down the streets in their tricked out cars. I rode down the center of Sprang Street, occasionally revving my engine to announce to the world that I had arrived. Some of the would-be johns rolled up their windows and drove home to their wives.

"Baby, you just cost me fifty," I heard one of the girls complain as I drove over to the curb.

"He wasn't worth it Tanya."

"And you are?" Tanya said throatily and laden with sarcasm. She lit up a cheap cigarette, and the fumes mingled with her heavy perfume. Tanya was the mother hen for the girls on the Hill. She kept some of them out of trouble, sent more than a few runaways back home, but, for some reason, still played the game.

"Any girls been approached for some cosplay?"

"All the time, baby. Why do you think we stand out here?"

"I'm serious Tanya. Did you know Tracy Wollencraft?"

I showed her a picture of the dead girl.

Tanya took a long drag. "Yeah, I've seen her. I didn't know her as 'Tracy' though. She called herself 'Raven' when she worked the Hill because she said she looked like your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," I protested. "Can you remember the last time you saw…" I couldn't bring myself to call the girl by her street name, "…Tracy?"

"You know how it is around here. Girls come; girls go. I guess you'd say the Hill has a high turnover rate. So what happened to her?"

I narrowed my eyes, "Ran into the wrong kind of mark."

Tanya sighed deeply.

"How many other Goth girls are working the Hill?"

"I couldn't tell you for sure, cupcake, I haven't taken a head count. But they tend to hang out at The Loft."

"Thanks Tanya," I said. I reached into a small pocket and handed her a business card. "If you're ever in real trouble, go here. See you around."

I pulled away from the curb and drove down to the Loft. The building was an old packing plant dating from the nineteen-teens. Since then it had been bought sold, nearly torn down, sold again, condemned, uncondemned, and now a nightclub catering to the "alternative" crowd. I watched the wannabes try to out-Goth each other for entrance, and the regulars roll their eyes, from the roof of the club. The place felt familiar. I moved along the tar-covered roof and cast my eyes upwards.

I'd been here before.

This was the building that Kommie brought us to the first time she came to earth. I looked over to the skylight and could almost see her with that pink wig and in her sister's clothes. I knew it wasn't any time to open the scrapbook, but remembering that little tidbit gave me a definite advantage, I hoped. And after I looked through the skylight, my hope had been realized. The current owner kept the same layout. Good.

I walked over to the roof access door and disabled the alarm in twenty-nine seconds. Took too long. But I made up time by picking the lock in two seconds. There was an androgynous pair making out in the stairwell, obliviously drugged or drunk, and I picked up one of their black long coats and slung it over my shoulders. I suppose it would have fit me the last time I was here, but it was tight and restrictive. Worse, it smelled of incense and smoke. I walked out on to the dance floor level. There was a Goth-punk band playing throatily on the stage while people jumped about. Not my taste in music, but I wasn't here to socialize.

I leaned against a support beam and watched the bar. The place was busy, and the clientele was young, dark, and pale. Many had colors that didn't appear in nature streaked through their already dyed black hair, multiple facial piercings, heavy eye make up, and tattoos seemed be the Loft's membership card. I closed my eyes and thought about Wollencraft. I tried to picture her here, trying to pick up a mark or had been approached by one. When I opened my eyes again, I more closely observed the bar. I wasn't paying attention to who they were serving, but now what. The drinks were simple, unpretentious, but (watching the bartender free pour out a little more alcohol than his boss would rather him to) potent.

Since 1999, Rope contains a dye to turn a liquid blue, but once you moved away from the lighted bar area, you couldn't tell if you were drinking coffee or water. The few tables were lit by small oil lamps, but it they only had one candle's worth of light. I looked around some more and saw the orange glow of multiple candles coming from an alcove on the other side of the room.

After weaving through the patrons, I turned into the alcove and narrowed my eyes.

The small space was dotted with small votive candles in wide bowls against a black background. Hundreds of photographs and press clippings hung, framed in dark metal frames, hung on the back wall, and a piecemeal blue cloak opened like bird's wings behind it.

It was a shrine.

It was a shrine to Raven.