Chapter Eleven

'Are you nuts?' Lacey exclaimed. 'Tell me you are not seriously considering this.'

'How else are we going to get to the truth?' I said. 'Someone, in this whole hall of mirrors, is lying.'

'He wears that suit for a reason, Em! You are not going to be able to land a meaningful blow on him. Like he would let you, anyway.'

'The head's vulnerable.'

'So you're going to crack his skull. Brilliant. Do you want to spend the rest of your days in Blackgate Women's?'

We were sitting round the coffee table in their living room, James's laptop open, his papers, the book and my notes spread out over the surface. Harry was leafing through various pages, shaking his head. They had come to scoop me up, with an overnight bag and my precious evidence. On my way back to the apartment to gather everything, I had only just avoided running into the Bat. I was approaching the intersection, to cross to the store side of the street, when I saw, further down, the black car glide to a halt and the Bat get out and ring my doorbell. Ignoring his call on my cell, hiding round the corner until he had pulled away, I rushed inside the apartment and packed as fast as I could. Fortunately he didn't park in the alleyway in back and come to sit on the fire escape outside my bedroom window.

'Just call the police. Tell them about Creepy Guy. Let them deal with it,' she said.

'He didn't confess to anything, that's the point. He just said the Batman was copying his MO. Besides – we don't have a name to give them.'

'But – but – you can't take the law into your own hands. You just can't.'

'I just – want – answers. I just want to know – who I can trust and who I can't.'

'I get that. But we can't just kidnap someone and waterboard them till they confess.'

'That's not what she's saying,' Harry said.

'Then what is she saying? Because I'm rapidly losing the plot here.'

She wasn't the only one. I was, too. I didn't know which way was up anymore.

'All I'm saying is – let's start with Ranald Fairfax,' I said. 'Just a – a robust conversation. Find out if he was involved with the tower land purchase.'

'Why? Why does it matter?' Lacey asked.

'Because it is possible that James was murdered for what he knew. About the land deal, about the significance of the site to the Unalachtigo.'

They looked at me then, the look you give the child who has come out with the most far-fetched excuse possible for whatever offence they want to wriggle out of. Then they looked at each other, the 'what are we going to do with her?' look.

'It's late,' Harry said in his calm executive's voice. 'Let's sleep on it, shall we? See how it looks in the morning.'

But I couldn't sleep on it, of course. My brain was wired, buzzing with the new information I had learned, trying to process and make sense of it all. I wasn't really interested in what Ranald knew or didn't. I was confident we could get that out of him if need be. It was more important to me to know if the Bat was involved.

Five a.m. found me in jeans, t-shirt and sweatshirt jacket, zipped up against the pre-dawn chill, standing a yard or so in front of the steps up to the front door. With Harry's precious special edition Gotham Knights baseball bat in my right hand, hidden behind me, hardly able to breathe, I watched in the half-light as the black car purred on to the driveway. He cut the engine and got out, but he stayed next to the car.

'Conscience. What's up?' A brisk, annoyed tone that I had not heard before.

'I want to know – ' I started to tap the baseball bat against the back of my leg. Now he was here, I was struggling to get the words out, even though I had rehearsed what I was going to say while I waited.

He pulled a face and put his hands on his hips, a gesture of impatience that told me to get on with it. My hackles rose.

'Did you kill Ouray Mahigan ?'

'What?' His mouth dropped open. He choked back a laugh.

'It's a simple question.'

'And here's a simple answer. No.' He was quite emphatic. 'Why would you even think that? Why would I? This had better be good.'

'You want me to shout it out, out here, in front of the neighbours? To protect the Archangels.'

He did laugh then: a short, bitter laugh of incredulity. 'Are you on something? Because it sure sounds like it.'

'Because you are one. You are one. Aren't you?'

'What on earth has gotten into you? Does Lacey know you're out here, ranting?'

He started to walk towards me. I brought up the baseball bat, two-handed, rolling and setting my shoulders, like I was ready for the pitch. He stopped and put his hands out wide.

'Did you kill my husband? Did you kill James?' My heart was pounding now.

He pursed his lips into that thin-lipped pout.

'So you're going to beat it out of me? Go ahead, if it makes you feel any better.' He turned his head, tilting it slightly away, and tapped a spot on his left jaw. 'Right there. Do it, Emma.'

That husky, almost growl, that he reserved for the streets. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I shivered.

He stood there, hands on hips, a short swing away, but he knew somehow that I wouldn't – couldn't. He came up to me, standing so close the bat was almost pressed against his chest. His anger was clearly visible in the tightness of his jaw. His glare, from those hooded, protected eyes, was too intense for me meet, and I had to look away. He took hold of the bat at the taper, his hand above my hands. The power of that transmitted down the grip. I flinched. The struggle for control was short and sweet. I caved. He wrenched the bat from my grasp, turned and threw it as hard as he could, slamming it into the sidewalk. It clattered and skidded further down the street. Behind me, the front door opened. He couldn't stop himself grabbing my upper arm, to make sure I didn't bolt.

'I thought you knew me better than that,' he hissed, his face uncomfortably close to mine. He dropped my arm and strode back to the car

'You dragged me out here for this? Whoever has been talking to you has been feeding you a tissue of lies.'

Glaring at me, he slapped the roof of the car – hard.

As Lacey ran down the steps, he got in the car and started the engine, backed off the driveway and roared away. Curtains twitched, shutters flicked open a crack.

'Christ almighty, Em, what the hell have you been doing?' Lacey shrieked.

Getting into an arm wrestle I was never going to win. I had been lulled into a false sense of security, that the Bat would not turn his violent anger on me. He was right: I did not know him very well after all. There would probably be a bruise.

'Shit! My bat!' Harry cried.

My last state was worse than my first. Not only did I still not know how the Bat was involved, if at all, I had angered and alienated him. He would not give me answers now, I was sure. Lacey tried to be sympathetic, but she thought I was mad. Both she and Harry failed to understand what it was I wanted to know and why.

I was restless, so I went back to my apartment and the store. I could walk about, up and down the aisles, dipping into such of my favourite books as were on the shelves. But nothing soothed me, nothing kept my attention for long. Late afternoon, I brought down my own copy of T S Eliot:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two . . .

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I wasn't going to solve the mystery of James's death, if indeed there was one. And I had been ridiculous, thinking I could intimidate the Batman, someone who moved in a world of extreme violence, threatened and real. I was a fool to have thought I could deal with any of this, meddling in a world I did not understand and could not navigate. Best to leave it to the experts. Or the madmen. Better to wait for Gotham Developments' offer, and settle, and put this whole miserable saga behind me.

While I was reading Prufrock and feeling sorry for myself, the door opened, the bell jangled and Ranald entered.

'There you are,' he said. 'You are one difficult lady to get hold of.'

'Did Lacey send you?'

That stopped him in his tracks, halfway across the store, and froze the smile on his face.

'No. She doesn't have any contact details for me. Why would she? You weren't answering my texts. I was worried, okay? Is that all right?'

I fished out my cell. Five texts that I had not even read.

'I'm sorry.'

Putting my elbows on the counter, I buried my face in my hands. The stress overwhelmed me. He came to put an arm round my shoulders.

'Hey, hey, what's up?'

I leaned against him, fishing out a tissue to dry my eyes. He was a reassuring, comforting presence.

'Wanna talk about it?' he asked. He pulled up a stool and sat expectantly at the counter.

He listened attentively while I told him what I thought it was okay to tell him about the tower land deal, the collapse, the connection to Larsson Construction, the suspicion that corners had been cut on the materials specification.

'Oh, Emma. I'm so sorry.' He reached to take my hand and squeeze it. 'No wonder you're upset. Can I do anything to cheer you up?'

'I need some information. I think you can help with that.'

His face started to close down into a puzzled frown as I suggested that Wayne Enterprises were involved in cheating the Unalachtigo out of the land.

'That's a serious accusation.'

'Yes. I know. I'm sorry, I couldn't – find a nice way to say it. Were you – were you involved?'

'Fifteen years ago? I don't remember, to be honest.'

'Can you check?'

He pulled a face. 'I can try. Is it important, after all this time? I can honestly say that we don't own any part of the site in any way now, if we ever did.'

'A lot of people are telling me a lot of lies. If I can find out the truth about this – I will have a fixed starting point. Maybe I can start to unravel it all.'

'Do you have any clues? Any reference numbers?'

'I can send you what information I have. Just so you know, I don't know if it ties up with my husband's death.'

It was a gamble. If he was Bruce Wayne's spy, then I was sending his boss a signal that I knew something. But somehow, somehow, I wanted him to be genuine. If he wasn't, then he was an extremely good actor.

'Oh, my God, Em. I have no idea what you are having to go through with all this. I thought my divorce was bad enough. I assume you don't want to go out to eat?'

I nodded.

'Then will you let me order in? Good. Okay, let's close up. No-one's coming in now.'

And just like that he took charge, and made decisions, working out how to wind down the blinds and lock the store. Upstairs, he left me to work on James's laptop and send him the documents I had mentioned. Then we had take-out and a quiet evening in front of the tv. Although he sat next to me on the couch and trailed his arm across the top, behind me, his fingertips resting gently on my shoulder, he didn't try anything on. Eventually I took his hand and pulled his arm round me, so I could lean against him. He kissed the top of my head. His warm physical presence was calming, enjoyable – and a little thrilling. I felt a bit guilty about that. After all, James had only been gone for three years, almost no time at all. I had no patience with men (usually older ones) who replaced their wives after an indecently short period of mourning, like they were just a broken piece of kit that needed substituting. I didn't think I would be like Queen Victoria, in mourning for the rest of my life, but I wanted to feel I had honoured James and our marriage. Nature might abhor a vacuum, but there were vacuums and vacuums. And once I allowed another man into my life, my bed, I would feel like I was leaving James behind somewhere. But Time was carrying us apart anyway, whatever I felt about it, however much I tried to ignore it.

When he left, Ran took my face in his hands and kissed me properly.

'It will be okay, Em. We will be okay. We'll sort this.'

I nodded. I wanted to believe him, but he didn't know the half of it. I would have given almost anything for him to be able to sort it for me, to make this whole sorry mess go away. He embraced me, gave me a tight, encouraging smile, and left.

While Ran did his investigating at Wayne Enterprises property division, I persuaded Harry to dig for bodies at Gotham Developments. At first he was reluctant and I couldn't blame him, after what had happened with Creepy Guy and the Larsson papers, but I guilt-tripped him with his friendship with James. Harry was a straight-up kind of guy, no hypocrisy or mind games with him. Despite Lacey's revelations about what Harry thought of James, I knew that, deep down, Harry's affection for my husband was genuine, and he would also want to know the truth about what had happened to him.

Because I had an untraceable laptop now, the one James was using for his Unalachtigo work, I tried logging in to the GoD private network with his ID and password, which I had found in his pocket diary. To my surprise, it worked. Harry warned me that I would have only one shot at poking around in the files; once the tech department realised that James's log-in had been used, they would shut it down and come looking for me.

I didn't know what I was expecting to find and I didn't really know where to look. Unsurprisingly, James had been locked out of many of the areas on the system. I searched for his document on the significance of the tower site, without success. I read his email exchanges with Rafe Harlowe, but nothing incriminating came to light. It was not possible for me to tell if there were any gaps in the exchanges, apart from jumps in content. But they could have just been filling in gaps in face-to-face conversations. Whoever had cleaned up after James's death had done a good job. I hoped Harry was having better luck, with his higher level of clearance on the system.

What I did find, and what the fixers had missed, was James's planner. And there, the day before he died, was an appointment: at an address that could be the Wayne Foundation building, with someone identified only as B. Was that Bruce Wayne? There was only one way to find out. But I would need something to offer him, in order to get in. He had not asked to see me, and after I had threatened the Bat the way I did, he probably wouldn't want to. There was only one thing he had suggested he wanted, and that I now had. If he was an Archangel, then I would be giving him information that he already knew, unless they operated in small cells, like terrorists, but I was willing to bet that they didn't. If he wasn't – maybe something in his reaction would tell me that.

Hesitantly, I pressed the buzzer of the entry phone outside the lobby to the private penthouse suite in the Wayne Foundation building. It was raining in the wind; umbrellas were starting to go up. I hoped they wouldn't keep me waiting outside for too long. Alfred Pennyworth's voice answered.

'Mrs Rossingdale. What can I do for you?'

His tone was more surprised than suspicious. Did he not know what had passed between the Bat and me the last time we met?

'I would very much like to speak to Mr Wayne, if that's at all possible, Mr Pennyworth.'

'What is it in connection with?'

'I have information that should be of interest to him.'

'I will find out for you.'

The entry phone went quiet. It seemed an age before the door lock buzzed and I was able to push my way in. The elevator was humming, hopefully on its way down to collect me. It was my turn to be surprised when the door opened and Mr Pennyworth stepped out.

'Mr Wayne has asked me to enquire as to the nature of this information,' he said. There was no warmth in it.

Bruce was angry with me; I was being denied entry.

'Tell him I have the names he wanted. The names he is looking for.'

He studied my face. I forced myself to meet his gaze and not look away. He was a tough cookie, not remotely deferential. He produced a cell phone and sent a text. While we waited for the answer, he made small talk about the weather. Two Brits in Gotham City, talking about the weather. At least it wasn't the NFL.

At last the answer came, and I was granted an audience. When I entered the living room, there was no-one else there. I stood self-consciously by the sofas, not daring to take a seat uninvited. Mr Pennyworth stationed himself by the door on the far side of the room. He adopted the guardsman's long stare: he wasn't going to entertain me while I waited.

It was difficult to check my watch when he finally made an appearance, but I guessed Bruce kept me waiting for at least ten minutes.

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

Hands studiedly in his pockets, unsmiling, he entered from the direction of the elevator, making me jump as he walked past me. When he was the other side of the sofas, he turned. A movement from Mr Pennyworth made him turn his head in that direction.

'No. Stay,' Bruce said.

Mr Pennyworth remained parked close to the wall. They studied me. I had no idea who was supposed to speak first. No handshake, no invitation to sit down. Bruce appeared to have been unable to stop the Batman's anger with me from seeping over into his everyday persona. And either he did not trust me not to offer violence (laughable, if he took a minute to think about it), or more shockingly, he did not trust himself.

'I understand you have information for me,' he said, in a tone that could have frozen sea water.

Slowly I opened my tote bag to pull out a folder. Tense, they watched every movement of my hands. Suddenly I realised they were half-expecting to see a gun. Mr Pennyworth had not asked to search my bag before he had let me into the elevator. When I had got the folder out, I put my bag

slowly down on the floor and kept my hands in view. At the edge of my eye-line, Mr Pennyworth's shoulders relaxed a little and his hand came out from inside his jacket. Bruce's face remained like granite as I held out the folder to him. He came towards me, only as close as was necessary, and took it reluctantly. As he opened it and removed the sheet of paper, I said:

'The names of the Archangels.'

He glanced up sharply.

'Where did you get them?' He scanned the document quickly.

I didn't answer. I knew he wouldn't hear anything I was saying when he got to the last line. It wasn't my original list, but one written especially for him, with his name removed and another added. He walked over to the couches and sat on the edge of the nearest one, elbows on knees, one hand covering his mouth. Mr Pennyworth took the liberty of coming up behind him and reading over his shoulder, taking an audible breath in before melting back to his place.

When Bruce looked up, and gazed towards the view from the windows, I said:

'My husband. He was into a whole lot of stuff I knew nothing about.'

He turned and nodded to Mr Pennyworth, who disappeared through the door. Finally he gestured to me to take a seat. I was still wearing my coat; Mr Pennyworth had obviously been instructed that I was not stopping.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Did you know about your father's involvement?'

Slowly he shook his head. When he turned his face towards me, he was struggling to hide an expression of pain and sadness; the face of the lost boy, which I had seen before – on someone else.

'Well, we can't know everything about our parents. And it doesn't mean he was involved – in anything like this,' I said. Whatever this might turn out to be. But they had died before he had had much chance to discover, if at all, that his parents had feet of clay, that they weren't the perfect human beings he had believed them to be when he was a child.

'My father was a physician,' he said. 'He wasn't really a businessman. He did good in the world.'

I nodded sympathetically. We all liked to see our parents like that. But they made mistakes, like all humans.

'And when I took over – there were so many papers, so much to get my head round. I didn't find any reference to this.' He sounded sad but genuine.

Mr Pennyworth broke the moment by entering with coffee. Did this mean I was forgiven? Had I made up for the baseball bat incident? He offered to take my coat, which I gave him.

'And what do you want in return?' Bruce asked. He looked tired. Burning the candle at both ends wasn't doing him any good.

How could I say – your forgiveness, or rather the Bat's forgiveness; a return to the relationship the Bat and I had before I broke it? Your continued protection?

'Does there always have to be a quid pro quo?' I asked.

'I find there does, usually.'

So he wasn't going to melt just yet. So be it.

Fortune favours the brave, allegedly. I so needed to rule out the thought that Bruce Wayne had any involvement with a possible hit on my husband, or in the collapse of the tower, so I had to ask, however difficult it was. I took a deep breath.

'I – er – I've been looking through some of James's things. I came across his planner.'

'And?'

That same impatience the Bat had shown me on Lacey's driveway.

'He had an appointment to meet someone. Here. The day before he died.'

He frowned, but I knew he knew where I was coming from.

'There are a lot of people in this building.'

'But not many who want to know the names of the Archangels. Which he knew.'

'He could have had business with many people in the Foundation.'

He was playing hard ball. Despite the incident on Lacey's driveway, I knew I would have to try as well.

'I doubt it. Did you have an appointment with my husband on 12th March 2014?'

'I don't remember everything I was doing three years ago. Do you?'

'Around this date, yes, I do. If you could check, I would be most grateful.'

There was no way he wouldn't have kept records, someone as rich and important as he was.

He stood and walked to a large, leather-topped desk in front of the end wall, a few steps behind the couch he had been sitting on. Producing a small laptop, he opened the lid. Nervously I waited while he checked his planner.

'It appears that I did,' he said.

I caught my breath.

'And did you? Meet him, I mean. It's a simple question.'

He gave me a sharp glance. Again, he searched for something. He shook his head.

'No.' He didn't rise to my bait, and echo the exchange I had had with the Bat.

'Any idea why that was?'

James didn't tell me anything about his work for the Unalachtigo, so he hadn't mentioned any meeting with Bruce Wayne.

'I'm guessing he didn't show up.'

'Did you find out why?'

'No.'

'What was it about?'

'I really have no idea.'

'Yes, you do.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You would not have taken the meeting without knowing what it was about.'

He met my annoyed look with an intense one. His lips were pursed in a way that clearly showed his displeasure. Was he not used to people answering him back?

'You know. I know you know,' I said desperately. 'It might be important. A day later, he was – dead.'

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your loss.'

'Is that it? Is that all you have to say about it? What if you could have saved him?'

'Don't – don't put that on me. Don't.'

Seemingly agitated, he got up and walked to the windows. This was not going the way I had hoped.

'I'm not – I'm just – but you don't take meetings without knowing what they are about. Do you?'

He turned.

'Does it matter now, what he wanted to talk to me about?'

'I don't know. It might.'

'How? How is that going to help you?'

He shook his head and turned away again.

'I don't know – he never talked to me about this. I don't know if he was in fear for his life, that last day. I don't know if – if – people were after him. I don't know if he was going to ask you for help.'

'And what help could I have given, do you think?'

Called off the Archangels, or their enforcers. James would have calculated the odds, made a decision on whether he was walking into the lions' den. He would not have done that if he had had the slightest inkling that he would be putting himself in danger. Ouray Mahigan knew the truth, and paid for it with his life. James knew: had he paid for it? Was Bruce the connection? James must have been going to tell Bruce what he had found out about the Archangels and his father, in the hope that Bruce would know what to do with the information. But he was a boy; why would he know, unless he had connections.

'I don't know. I don't know. I just wonder – ' I could feel the tears rising, starting to choke me. He turned an impassioned face towards me.

'Don't – don't torture yourself like this. You can't change anything. You can't – go back – and change – anything.'

To my surprise, his eyes were shining. We were both close to tears. He bit his lip and turned away. I heard his intake of breath, then the shaky sigh. Hastily I wiped my eyes.

'Anything else?' Any more damaging questions that would arouse too much emotion. More in control now, back to being the young professional, he faced me again.

'It would really help me if . . . if I knew how you are – if you have any contact with – the Falcone family.'

That caught him off guard. His eyes widened slightly, briefly. For a long few seconds he debated whether to answer, or more likely, throw me out. But again, he knew where I was coming from. I did not need to spell it out.

'My father saved Carmine Falcone's life when he was young, and kept the police out of it. Falcone thinks he owes me. I will never ask a favour of a gangster, if that is the reason behind your question. I won't work with them.'

'But you have been seen with him. Talking to him.'

He must surely have wondered who my informant was. Briefly I worried if I was putting Calvin at risk.

'He and I are sometimes in the same room. I can't help it if occasionally he seeks me out and attempts to speak to me. Because of this obligation he feels.'

Biting my lip, I leant back against the cushions. He was either a very accomplished liar, or genuine. Which meant that Calvin was mistaken, had misinterpreted what he had seen or heard. I didn't know what to believe.

He stood behind the couch, leaning on his hands on the back of it.

'I am not – responsible – for your husband's death. I could not have saved him.'

There were questions, no doubt, that he also wanted to ask, but he couldn't, because they involved the Bat. Like who had been talking to me, and putting those fanciful ideas in my head about the Bat being responsible for murder. Two murders, possibly. So we both knew what the other knew, but we were pretending that we didn't, that the Bat was a real, other person. Maybe he was, in Bruce's head. Maybe the only way he could keep his sanity was to keep the Bat in a separate box, along with the anger and grief of his loss. An alternative universe, where it was okay to impose your own version of truth, justice and the American way on your city. Where it was okay to punish people who didn't abide by the same code as you. Maybe he had just watched too much Die Hard, too much Death Wish. Too many Taken movies. Man on Fire. Was that him?

He walked over to the door and opened it, the usual signal for Mr Pennyworth to appear. I didn't have much time. Jumping up, I walked into his path, forcing him to stop. If looks could kill . . .

Gingerly I put a hand on his upper arm; I had done this with the Bat, and he had found it calming. Not so Bruce. I felt his muscles tense beneath my hand, noticed his jaw tighten. Although he appeared to be looking at me, his eyes were shuttered; mirrors that only reflected me back to myself. He gave nothing away.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm really sorry. I wouldn't have . . .' broken that beautiful jawline. It was hard to stop myself reaching out to touch his face. 'I was really stressed. It was a stupid idea. What else can I say? I'm sorry.' I took my hand away from his arm. His expression didn't change. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to ask – about my husband. I hope you understand. I'm sorry for doubting you.'

How many times did I need to say it?

That could have been a plural you; I had no idea if I was talking to or about one or two people. I didn't dare go any further. He gave me a faint nod of acknowledgement, but nothing else.

I retreated back to my own couch, but I didn't sit down. I stood behind it, awkwardly. This meeting was over. Fortunately, at that moment Mr Pennyworth chose to enter. Seeing me on my feet, he approached Bruce to ask if he should order a car for me.

'Yes. Yes, of course.'

The look Bruce turned briefly towards me was – what? Distress, that he couldn't ask those questions, that he appeared to be physically incapable of engaging in the conversation he knew we really needed to have? I had tried to start it, and failed. Or was it anguish for what he had learned about his father, a stirring up of old trauma? Then he left. He just – walked out of the room. Mr Pennyworth and I looked at each other, stunned. He was being borne away from me on a tide that I couldn't understand, in a direction I couldn't follow.

'I'm so sorry,' Mr Pennyworth said.

'He's had a shock,' I said. It was my turn to be caught off-guard.

He looked after Bruce, the way he had gone. 'If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll arrange that car.'

It took him a few minutes to return. He handed me into my coat, then held out his hand to indicate I should walk back to the elevator.

'Is he all right?' I asked.

'He will be. What happened?'

'Nothing that you didn't see. We were just talking about . . .' What? The dead. The impossibility of changing that, however much we might wish to. 'Loss, I suppose.'

'Was he talking about his father?' Mr Pennyworth nodded in understanding.

'Is that usually a problem?'

'Sometimes he handles it, sometimes he doesn't.'

'It's been a long time, though, hasn't it?'

'It was as traumatic as it could get for him. Some things, they don't leave you.'

I felt bad then, for suggesting he should have come to terms with it by now. Mr Pennyworth held open the elevator door for me.

'I'll look after him, don't worry.'

'I know.'

'Take care now.'

No offer to help, no reassuring reminder to phone, and let Bruce decide what needed a response and what didn't.

The door closed, the elevator carried me back down to real life. But my problems there had not really been resolved. I had a bit more information now than when I had arrived. I was almost sure that Bruce himself had not killed James: he outsourced all the violence to his alter ego. He had denied any part in it, and I had to trust that that denial was good for the Bat as well. Therefore he himself was unlikely to present a threat to me. And I had to take his word that he had not asked Carmine Falcone for a murderous favour, either, despite the connection Calvin thought he had seen between them. Judging by his reaction, I was pretty sure he had not known of his father's involvement with the Archangels, therefore he wasn't one, despite what Creepy Guy wanted me to believe.

I stepped out into the Gotham streets and turned up my collar against the chill wind off the river. The car was waiting. Bruce, the Bat and I were not good; I had failed to repair that relationship. The gates of the fort were closed, the cavalry were not going to ride to the rescue. And I had no idea how I was going to sort this mess I found myself in.

Quotations from:

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T S Eliot

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