Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

"Watch What Happens" written by Jack Feldman and Alan Menken. Recorded by Kara Lindsay on the Newsies original soundtrack album (Ghostlight, 2012).

All I know is nothing happens if you just give in.
It can't be any worse than how it's been.
And it just so happens that we just might win,
so whatever happens!

—Jack Feldman, Alan Menken, "Watch What Happens"

Chapter 49—If You Just Give In

"Hopefully," Dick concluded, "that'll be the end of it. If Bressi keeps her on a tighter leash for her own protection, we won't have to worry about her getting in our way," he looked down and added in an undertone, "not to mention, in the way of a random bullet."

Seated at the computer console, Bruce nodded. "Maybe not so random. Before the first mob war, the wives and children of rival Families were considered off-limits. Unfortunately, once a taboo is broken, it becomes easier to repeat the breach." His voice took on a bleak note. "When I was born, Crime Alley was known as Park Row. It was considered a safe neighborhood. Until the night that an armed robber took the lives of two parents in front of their young son."

Dick took a step toward the chair. "Bruce…"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm all right. It was just… an effective way to illustrate a point." He shook his head once more. "And one that's been preying on my mind, since it was discussed in class today."

"What!?"

Bruce nodded. "The module on Criminal Investigations. The instructor has been teaching the material for over twenty years—I checked after class. She likes to use local cases as examples and," he sighed, "apparently, it didn't occur to her to review her notes and confirm whether any of those examples might be of," he gripped the edge of the console desk with both hands, "more than academic interest to any of her students. I suppose I can understand it," he continued, his voice tightly controlled. "It was something of a celebrated case. It being unsolved is a bonus—there's always a chance that someone will come up with a fresh hypothesis. In fact, that's one of my current assignments," he added. "It… won't require much new work on my part," he said, forcing a smile. "What I mean to say is… I did the assignment years ago, in far greater detail than she can possibly imagine. It's just a question of opening the file and arranging the data according to the format required by the instructor, so…"

Dick's hand was on his shoulder. "Bruce."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I didn't break down. I didn't storm out of class. I suppose, these past two years of therapy have accomplished that much. It was an afternoon class. I knew I just had to keep control until I could get back here…"

When Dick squeezed his shoulder, Bruce reached up and covered his son's hand with his own.

Oswald Cobblepot turned his swivel chair around so that he faced the mahogany shelf that hung over his desk. Frowning, he reached for one of the many brass knickknacks—a miniature penguin—and weighed it experimentally in his hand before he set it on his desk and peered at it through his monocle. Clucking a bit to himself, he opened a drawer and extracted a soft polishing cloth, with which he set about removing the layer of dust and grime that had formed over the lacquered finish. So intent was he on his work that it was several long moments before he looked up to see one of his employees waiting patiently in the doorway. He set the knickknack down at once. "Yes?"

The man didn't react and for a moment, Cobblepot felt a surge of irritation. Then he remembered: Gabriel Lonan was deaf and, at this precise moment, his eyes were directed at the outside window, rather than on his employer. He resumed polishing, this time watching his employee and waiting to make eye contact. It didn't take long.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot," the guard said in a monotone. "I've been going over the security footage from yesterday and I believe there's something that might interest you."

Cobblepot replaced his monocle. "Indeed?" he asked, remembering that the more clearly he enunciated, the easier it would be for Gabriel to read his lips. "Do tell."

"It would be better to show you, sir," Gabriel replied, unconsciously touching his index finger to his nose and then pointing toward his employer. "Would you mind?"

Cobblepot frowned. He knew his employee well enough to be aware that the man rarely used sign language in his presence unless he was unusually excited or agitated. He supposed it was no different from any other person who fell back into their mother tongue in stressful situations. He smiled.

"It's certainly clear that you think this is of unusual importance," he said, setting the brass piece down and rising to his feet. "Very well, my good sir. Do lead on."

With a sigh of relief, Bruce returned the shotgun to its place in the trophy room. He was tempted to abandon the exercise, now that he could hit his targets with 90 percent accuracy. Even Farnham had dropped him a grudging compliment last week. Still, he knew he'd never maintain that accuracy if he stopped these evening drills. He sighed again. In order to wear the suit again, he needed to succeed at this. In other words, he had to pass firearms handling in order to get to a point where he'd never need to handle a firearm again. He was gaining a greater appreciation for irony all the time.

The phone was ringing as he returned from the trophy room. When he saw Brenner's name come up on the Caller ID, he nearly let it go to voicemail. He had an idea what he might be calling about and he wasn't in the mood. Then he reminded himself that as squad leader, it was his duty to provide assistance where warranted. Steeling himself, he picked up the phone. "Bruce Wayne."

"It's Cadet Brenner, sir," the voice on the other end said respectfully. "I… was wondering about the criminal investigation assignment."

He was glad he'd steeled himself. "Yes," he said, trying not to let his irritation show. It was only sensible that Brenner would want to ask his questions of someone who was indisputably more in the know on the subject than any of their classmates.

There was a moment's pause. "Sir… Sergeant Englehart said that we could work on it in teams if we wanted to. I was wondering if you did."

Bruce blinked. "Pardon?"

"I thought maybe we could pair up for that one and I know we'll have another two-person team assignment in Evidence Collection next week. I figure… I've got a little more time this week and it's no big deal for me if I do most of the work on this one if you'll do the same for EC. I mean, seriously, you shouldn't have to do this material; it must be kid stuff to you, right?" Then in a more chastened tone, Brenner added, "Sorry. I didn't mean…"

Bruce closed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly. "Stand by," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I'm emailing you a file. It's… everything I've gathered over the years. Perhaps, you could rework it so it's organized according to course specs."

"I'll get right on it, Squad Leader," Brenner replied with a smile in his voice.

Bruce hesitated. "Brenner… Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to sorting through it."

"I didn't think you were, Squad Leader. I'll call back if I hit any snags."

Bruce thanked him again and ended the call. When he replaced the phone in its cradle, he felt as though he'd shed a far greater weight than that of the device he'd been holding.

Penguin scanned the footage and sniffed loudly before turning to his employee. "I recognize Benny Mandragora. He looks a bit like his father did at that age. Who is the girl?"

"I didn't know at first," Gabriel admitted, "but I thought I'd seen her before, so I checked it out." He pressed a button on his smartphone and passed it over. "This article ran two days after the Metropolis Massacre. Compare the photo of the girl to the footage…"

Penguin caught his breath. "Clara Bressi?" He shook his head nervously. "What is Benny playing at? This could wreck everything! Wak! If he means to use her against Tony…"

"Mr. Cobblepot," Gabriel said, "please, look at me, sir. I can't see what you're saying."

Penguin collected himself through sheer force of will. "Thank you, Gabriel, for bringing this to my attention. You've done well. That will be all, for now."

Gabriel frowned, but he knew a dismissal when he saw one. He got up at once and the two walked out of the monitor room together before parting ways.

As he walked back to his office, Penguin was already weighing his options, trying to determine whether this was intel to pass on to Oracle, whether it would be wiser to tell Bressi of his niece's whereabouts, or whether to contact Mandragora—and threaten to tell Bressi. So many possibilities, so many ways for the dice to fall. He could afford to wait a little before making his cast. The city was in flux at the moment and it behooved him to wait a bit before deciding which horse to back. He had time. And useful information. Which put him in quite the interesting position… for now.

As cages went, Clara had to admit that this one wasn't particularly uncomfortable. It was just… pink. Pink shag carpet, pastel pink silk comforter and curtains on the canopy bed, lacquered pink furniture, pink draperies, pink lampshades, pink-on-pink patterned wallpaper… She felt like she was drowning in Pepto-Bismol. In her muddy shoes, black skinny jeans, and blue button-down top, she looked completely out of place—and putting her bomber jacket back on wouldn't improve matters. Considering her circumstances, that was probably a good thing. She pulled aside the pink draperies, tugged at the cord on the pink window blind to raise it, and looked out. At least the Georgian bars that made geometric diamonds of the window panes were silver-gray. She examined them hopefully, but they appeared sturdy and unlikely to loosen.

She sank into the frothy pink beanbag chair, rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and thought. Not for the first time, she wished she'd taken her knapsack with her when she'd left Uncle Tony's. Her tools and weapons were in it. Not to mention a couple of word puzzle magazines. The regular occupant of this room seemed to be more into Dora the Explorer and Barbie. She opened the desk drawer and found a small box of labels with a pink-and-purple (so she did know about other colors) border and the words 'Property of Sabrina Mandragora' in gold cursive script. She dug her hands into her jacket pockets and pulled out the contents: her school ID, a couple of pieces of fruit taffy, an emergency subway token she hadn't realized she'd had on her, and a couple of tissues. Useless. She tried the door again, not really expecting it to open. She knocked, but nobody appeared to be nearby. She sank to her knees and squinted through the keyhole, trying to see whether she could make anything out, but saw nothing but blackness. Her eyes grew wide. It could be that the hallway was dark, or that there was something shielding the lock, but it could also be that her captors had left the key in the door. And if they had…

Clara opened another one of the pink desk drawers and wasn't really surprised to find a pastel-pink writing pad adorned with sparkly winged unicorns. It didn't matter what it looked like; it just might be her ticket out of here! She went to the dresser and smiled. The comb or, more specifically, its long narrow handle was most welcome.

Returning to the door, Clara knocked once more. "Hey!" she called. "I gotta use the bathroom!" She didn't. And in fact, she'd already discovered that the only other door in the room led, not to a closet, but to a private full bathroom. No, what she really wanted to know was whether anybody was close enough to see or hear her.

When five minutes of repeated banging brought neither voices nor footsteps, she slid the writing pad partway under the door. Then she poked the handle of the comb through the keyhole and was rewarded by a soft clunk, as the key fell onto the pad. Carefully, she pulled the pad back and almost cheered aloud when she saw the key reposing on the top page. She'd done it!

She put the key in the lock and turned it. When the door opened, she made her way stealthily down the hall.

Oswald Cobblepot sat at his desk and weighed his options. He had to decide what was most important to him in the current climate: neutrality… or profit. He knew Clara Bressi's whereabouts, a salient piece of intel that offered him a virtual banquet of opportunity.

If he approached Tony Bressi, he knew full well that he could never offer to sell him the information. Bressi would either extract the price from Cobblepot's own hide, or he would pay, yes he would pay… but he would also ensure that he never did business again with any of Cobblepot's interests. Bressi controlled the unions. Many of the exotic items on the Iceberg's menus were freighted to the restaurant on trucks driven by union workers. No matter how much he tried to discourage brawling on the premises, sooner or later, some idiot tourist would attempt to take a selfie with one of his regular patrons. That… never ended well. Thankfully, the Bat contingent hadn't defenestrated anybody recently nor damaged any walls, but they had in the past. Should repairs be needed, they would almost have to be done by union workers. He took pains to keep his cooks and wait-staff happy enough with their salaries and benefits that they felt no need to form or join a union of their own, but one day, they might demand more than he was willing to grant and then, in all likelihood, he'd have another solidarity group on his hands. No, he couldn't afford to be on Tony Bressi's blacklist. He could just give him the information. In retail, doing so would be termed a 'loss leader'—selling a small item for less than its value in the hopes that the customer would come into the establishment to purchase it and, while there, pick up other items which were not being sold below cost. Telling Bressi his niece's whereabouts would tell the mob boss that Cobblepot was well-disposed toward him, which would certainly lead to certain favors and benefits coming his way. Bressi's star was currently on the rise. It was a sound move…

…But the situation was too volatile, which was why Cobblepot had resolved to stay neutral in the first place. Were he to be recognized as one of Bressi's supporters, he would lose the custom of the Mandragoras, the Inzerillos, and their supporters. He didn't precisely need their money, but he did need them to keep supplying him with intel. Besides, were they to consider him among those ranged against them, they might retaliate. The Mandragoras had a lock on most of the alcohol sales. He couldn't afford to tick them off.

He could approach the Mandragoras and offer to sell them his silence. They might pay him handsomely not to tell Bressi what he knew. Whatever plans they had for young Clara would require time to set up. Even if they only meant to have Bressi sweat for a while before they delivered an ultimatum…

…And the situation was still volatile, and his neutrality would still be compromised.

He could shop his information around to the highest bidder, taking care to exclude both the Bressis and the Mandragoras from his list of potential buyers. Someone would either take matters into their own hands, or spread the word. His neutrality would be assured. But if Bressi or Mandragora were to find out… It might just end their petty war and lead them to unite against a common foe, as Batman had hoped. Only they would unite against him, rather than Intergang. Unacceptable.

He should tell the Bats. They'd probably leave him alone for weeks. They'd almost certainly rescue the girl. The civil war in the streets that nobody wanted would be averted. If anyone challenged him, he could simply point out that it was hard to turn a profit when his patrons were too busy killing each other to stop in for a drink.

The Bats wouldn't pay him for his intel and he might still lose profits in the short-term, when his more short-sighted regulars branded the Penguin a stool pigeon.

He shook his head slowly. He wasn't about to go to the Bats. Not when he'd so recently sent their Oracle such a juicy bit of information. No, for now, he'd simply sit on the intel, gambling that it would appreciate in value rather quickly.

It was the wisest move, but even so, he felt a rare prickle of conscience. Or, perhaps, it was mere self-doubt. It was only a prickle, barely even a twinge, but for the briefest instant, he found himself wishing that Batman would burst into his office to intimidate him, just so he could pass on the information without worrying about his reputation.

He waited for a few minutes, but when no Bat appeared, Cobblepot gave a mental shrug, waddled over to the minibar, and fixed himself a vodka and tonic.

Clara was almost to the top of the staircase when she stopped. If she left, she thought, what would that mean for her brother? On the one hand, Benny Mandragora might well have been bluffing. She knew what kind of security there was on the estate. It wasn't easy to get a spy onto the grounds.

She'd managed to sneak off, of course, but it was easier to break out than to break in. If Mandragora had somehow managed to get someone into Uncle Tony's house, then once he told the guy to… she swallowed hard. Then she gave herself a mental slap and forced herself to think about why she'd gotten into the car in the first place. Once Mandragora told his man to kill her brother, the guy would be lucky to escape with his life. And Mandragora would have a hard time placing a new spy on the grounds. Forget that. He'd have a hard time living out the week. Unless…

Her heart was pounding a crazy drum solo and she hugged herself and tried to relax. Suppose that it wasn't one of Mandragora's people? What if it was someone from one of the smaller Families, or someone like the guy she'd roughed up her first night out—someone who was trying to get into the Families and wanted a chance to prove himself? If he did it… if he pulled the trigger, assuming he didn't escape, her uncle's people might just shoot the guy without finding out who he worked for. And even if they caught the guy…

Clara let out a long breath. She couldn't do it. She couldn't take the chance that Mandragora wasn't bluffing. She had to stay. Slowly, she made her way back to the Pepto-Bismol room. Instead of replacing the key where she'd found it, though, she locked the room from the inside and slid the key into the desk drawer under a box of crayons. Maybe she couldn't leave the grounds, but there was no way that she was going to stay cooped up in all of this pink if she could help it.

"You what?" Steven Mandragora regarded his youngest son with a mix of shock and rage.

"I have Bressi's grand-niece, nice and safe," Benny repeated. "And at the right time, I can let Bressi know."

For an instant, the elder Mandragora sat frozen. Then, without warning, he slapped his son across the face. "You idiot!" he hissed. "You've just signed all of our death warrants!"

"B-but we can use her to keep Bressi out of our hair," Benny protested, his hand flying to his rapidly reddening cheek.

"Really?" Don Mandragora demanded. "Because you just crossed a line and once Tony Bressi finds out what you did, he's going to play by the new rules. How's the security at Saint Monica's, Benny? You gonna bet your daughter's life it'll be good enough?" A vein bulged in his forehead as his voice rose in volume.

"I'm gonna call your brothers and warn them about what's in the wind. Thanks to you."

Benny swallowed. "I can… return her," he said faintly.

"She knows who you are?" his father asked. "She saw your face?"

The younger man nodded.

"Then it's too late for that." The older man's voice was bleak. "We gotta make sure that girl can't tell her prozio what you did. And we gotta make sure her body's never found. Or if it is, that it can't lead back to us." He waved his son away violently. "Go! Get outta here."

"Do you want me to—?"

"Don't you dare lay a hand on her, not yet," Don Mandragora ordered. "Not until I've taken care of the arrangements. We can't be connected to her. We can't have anything of hers left behind in your house once she's been taken care of. And, just in case she does turn up, we can't be spotted anywhere near her…" he paused for a moment, "…final resting place. I'll take care of what needs to be done," he said heavily. "For now, just… keep her out of sight."

"Should I take Sabrina out of Saint Monica's?"

Mandragora laughed bitterly. "Because that won't look a bit suspicious. No, keep her where she is. I'll get some of our people on the grounds to keep an eye on things. They won't notice a new cook or gardener. And Benny?" His expression hardened. "You better hope we can fix this. Because I'm telling you now that if I lose any of my grandchildren, grand-nieces, or grand-nephews because of this little stunt… From that day forward, I will consider myself as if I have only two sons. I won't kill you," he added. "But I'll cut you off and I'll let it be known that I have. How many friends do you have in this city? How many will you have if you no longer have the connections you currently enjoy?"

Benny's face, already white, took on a faint greenish tinge.

"Oh and Benny," Mandragora added, "the girl can't help being born a Bressi. Don't go taking anything out on her. You treat her like a little princess until it's time to do what's got to be done. I don't want the coroner to find a single unnecessary mark on her. Capisci?"

Benny nodded.

Any worries that Mandragora's goons would suspect her of doing anything more than sitting patiently in her frothy pink prison evaporated when one of her captors showed up the next morning with breakfast. She could smell the bacon and eggs and, despite herself, her mouth was watering. She heard something being set down with a slight clatter and guessed that the tray was now on the spindly-legged console table she'd seen just outside the door of her prison. Then she heard a man's voice muttering, "Oh, hell. Where did I put that damn key?" She heard clinking sounds; the guy was probably going through his pockets. Then his footsteps retreated down the hall, but the breakfast smells remained, wafting under the door.

It had taken no small amount of willpower for Clara not to unlock the door and take the tray. She was hungry.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a man in his late thirties entered, holding the tray. "Breakfast," he announced, giving her a friendly smile.

Clara glowered. "How long are you planning to keep me here?" she demanded.

The man shrugged as he placed the tray on the dresser. "That's up to Mr. Mandragora. Do you want anything?" he asked. "Deck of cards, Cosmo… I could loan you an iPod; just tell me what kind of music you like."

She raised her eyebrows. Then she forced her lips to curve upwards in a winning smile. "Music would be good, but I like to browse. Maybe you could lend me a tablet and I'll download it myself."

The guard might be absent-minded enough to forget where he'd left a key, but he wasn't stupid. "Sorry. Can't give you internet access. At least, not without supervision. I'll tell you what, though. If you really want to browse, I can come back a bit later and we can check out the selections together. Sound good?"

No. But she forced herself to keep smiling. "Sure." She still didn't know what Mandragora wanted with her, how she fit into his plans, or what it would take for her to get out of here. But she thought that if she could get some of his people to relax around her, she might stand a chance at finding out. And if she got them actually liking her… well, that couldn't hurt either.

She poured ketchup onto her eggs and lifted a forkful to her mouth.

When the signal went up the following evening, Batman was more than a little irritated to find a youth clad in jeans and a bomber jacket standing on the rooftop of GCPD headquarters. "What's going on?" he demanded. "This signal is for police use only."

The teen swallowed hard, but met Batman's angry glower with a direct gaze. "I'm sorry, Batman. My father didn't have any other way to contact you. I'm Joe Bressi. You rescued my sister and me from Bane a number of years ago."

It hadn't been him. It had been Jean-Paul, but Dick wasn't about to tell him that. "You're Tony Bressi's son?"

"That's right. We need your help. Family issue. Not… Family business," he added quickly. "Family… family. My cousin's disappeared. At first, we thought she was just hiding in the house; Clara does that when she wants to be alone and she's wanted to be alone a lot since she came to live with us. But no one's seen her since last night after supper, her bed wasn't slept in and she wasn't in school today. I've lived on the estate my whole life, Batman. Between Maria and me—my sister, I mean—I think we know every hiding place there is on those grounds. We've checked them all. I… know you don't like us much. Maybe I even get why. Clara's just twelve, though, and she used to live up north in the suburbs. She doesn't know how bad this city can get. Please. Will you come back with me to the house?"

Batman hesitated. "Why did Bressi send you? Why didn't he come himself?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't want to meet on top of a building crawling with cops when he doesn't own them all. Maybe he knew you'd be angry when you realized it was one of us turned on the signal and he figured you wouldn't punch a kid. I dunno. He told me to talk to you, I didn't argue. So. You gonna help us?"

Beneath the thin veneer of bravado, the teen was clearly worried. If Clara had managed to get off of the grounds despite her uncle's precautions, he had good reason to be. Batman tilted his head, considering. "You okay with heights?" he asked finally.

Joe blinked. "Sure. I guess… Wait," his eyes grew wide. "You mean…?"

Batman flung an arm around the kid's waist and readied his grappling hook. "I mean, hold on tight. This could get a little windy."

"I'll rattle my contacts," Huntress said slowly. "See what falls out."

Batman frowned. "What aren't you telling me?"

Huntress shook her head. "Hopefully? The kid ran away. It happens. Children rebel, or they're desperate for attention, or they're sure there's a better life waiting around the bend. If she's gone of her own free will, it's not good, but it's not as bad as it could be."

"Cass said one of her great uncle's bodyguards has been training her in hand-to-hand combat and she's been sneaking off at night to try to find the Metropolis massacre-ers." Batman made a face. "That's not a word, is it?"

Huntress didn't smile. "Great. You know that if she finds them, there is no scenario where things turn out well. Either they kill her, or she runs, or she loses her nerve… and if, by some miracle, she beats them? With everything Intergang is putting into their takeover bid, they're going to have to make an example out of her. And if Bressi finds out…"

"Mob War Two," Dick nodded.

Huntress sighed. "Before the first mob war, wives and kids were considered off-limits. Especially girls; boys sometimes got involved in Family business early. Darla Aquista's death changed all that. Even so, I can't think of a single head who'd want to move against Bressi through those kids. There's still a code. And there's a difference between not being careful about who's in the crossfire versus cold-blooded murder. It may be the Montagues and the Capulets," she continued, "not to mention about eight other noble households… in fair Gotham, where we lay our scene," she added in an undertone, "but there are certain… standards. When Romeo crashed the party, Lord Capulet didn't have him tossed out on his ear or challenge him to a duel. If Falcone or Thorne recognized Clara walking alone, one of the first things they'd do would be to get her off the street and the next thing they'd do would be to call Bressi, tell him she was safe, and make arrangements to return her safely."

"You said heads," Dick pointed out. "What about the others?"

Huntress let out a long breath. "It depends. And we're forgetting that there are plenty of people out there who aren't connected to the Families, who might have taken her." Her expression darkened. "You know as well as I do that there are some sick puppies out there with an interest in very young girls. And with Catwoman out of town, some of the pimps who used to supply them are coming out of the woodwork. A kid walking alone after dark… if nobody recognized her, she'd be fair game."

Batman nodded. "I know most of those players. I'll be… visiting them shortly. I've sent her photo to Oracle; she's cross-referencing. If a security camera picked her up; hell, if someone uploaded a video to MeTube and she was passing by in the background, we'll be a little closer to finding her. Meanwhile…"

"Meanwhile," Huntress said grimly, "I'll keep tabs on the Families. And, as much as I want to find the girl, seeing as you want me to stick to your no-kill policy? You'd better hope it's not one of them, because if it is, all bets are off."

"You heard me," Enrico Inzerillo snapped. "How can I get a man or several onto the Police Academy grounds?"

Sergeant Michael Forrester was grateful that he was off-duty and out of uniform. The dimly-lit pub in which he and Inzerillo were seated generally attracted the better sort of customer, and thus was unlikely to be the site of a police stakeout. Still, it was certainly possible that a fellow officer was here for the food or the blues trio that had just finished a set and was taking a breather. Forrester cast a furtive glance around the dining area and relaxed when he failed to spot a familiar face. He might be able to explain being spotted talking with the mob boss, but not if anyone was close enough to overhear the conversation. "It won't be easy," he said. "Security's tight there. And even if you can get past the checkpoints, virtually every instructor there is a cop. At this point in the training program, most of the cadets should be fairly decent with guns, too. And they'll all know hand-to-hand combat."

"Surely there are weak points," Inzerillo pressed.

Forrester snorted. "You'd have better luck trying to fire a proton torpedo down a two-meter wide thermal exhaust port. It would have been hard enough a couple of months ago, but since they caught an assassin on the grounds, they've stepped up security even more."

"But someone broke in?" Inzerillo demanded. "So, it's possible?"

"The Mad Hatter mind-controlled an ex-marine who'd been enrolled at the academy and withdrew. The guy made it inside and was apprehended inside of twenty minutes. That, despite his special skills and training. You got a man like that? Or a woman?"

Inzerillo frowned. "You're sure there's no other way? You aren't holding out on me? Because if you can't be of any use to me, I wouldn't have a real reason to keep protecting you. From the consequences of your actions, that is." He smiled unpleasantly. "I mean, the Falcones are still looking to find out who it was ran over their man Vito, 'round about six months ago. These days, I've had some reverses. I'm drinking more. And I get pretty damned talkative after a couple of shots, you know?"

The beer sloshed in Forrester's stein, when he set it down on the table a bit harder than he should have. A splash of golden-brown liquid spilled out onto the dark wooden surface. He mopped it up with a napkin before it could drip off of the edge and onto his lap, then lifted the stein and took a gulp. "Give me a day or two," he said dully. "I'll try to come up with something."

Later that afternoon, Clara slipped out of the room, when the house was still. She spent an hour exploring the second floor, where her prison was located. There were four other bedrooms—including the master one, two more bathrooms, and a brightly-lit office with a writing desk of some light-colored wood, a carpet that reminded her of milky tea, and a chair with floral upholstery that matched the draperies. More to the point, there was a cordless phone on the desk. Clara reached for it, but then stopped. She could hear voices coming from downstairs. If someone overheard her, if anybody picked up an extension downstairs and heard her making her call, then Luka was as good as dead.

She smiled. She knew where the phone was now. She could wait until tonight, when everyone was asleep, to make her call. Meanwhile, it was best for her to return to the pink room—and fight the urge to walk all over that pristine comforter with her shoes on.

She was listening to the MP3 player two hours later, when the key turned in the lock and she found two hard, burly men standing in the doorway. One of them motioned to her to come with them.

Ten minutes after that, she was squashed in the back of a black sedan, sitting between the two goons, as the car sped out of the Mandragora estate gates, headed for the Aparo.

In the Iceberg Lounge, Derek Powers examined the photograph for a moment, before handing it back to Fixx. "I don't want anything to do with kids," he said shortly. "I have enough on my plate with my own boy. What do I want with her?"

Fixx smiled. "For herself? Nothing. However, as a bargaining chip…" he chuckled softly. "The other night, one of my acquaintances told me that she was looking for me. Why, I have no idea. But I admit that my curiosity led me to ask a few questions, make a few inquiries, and pay a few people in the know." He smiled in satisfaction. "The girl is Tony Bressi's grand-niece. She's currently in the wind. I don't think I need to tell you how many people in this city would like to get their hands on her. If we were to manage it… well, I can think of a few advantages to having one of the most influential crime bosses currently active owing us a favor. Can't you?"

Powers could. He shot Fixx a malevolent smile of his own. "Where would you suggest we start looking?"

"Looking?" Fixx echoed. "Listening. Here. To people who may not be able to keep things to themselves when they've had a couple of drinks too many. Especially the less… colorful clientele. The costumed customers of this fine establishment and the mob seldom mix. When they do, they don't often fight. With a few notable exceptions, such as the proprietor of this excellent restaurant, they tend to steer clear of each other. When they don't? Well, that's when things get messy. Things are too tense right now for us to risk them getting messy." He paused. "Of course, a man in your position may have access to resources that others do not. You're something of an investigator yourself, Mr. Powers, are you not?"

Derek nodded slowly.

"And I'm sure that Batman's old company must have some discarded prototypes or gadgets or what have you that might help you locate a missing twelve-year-old."

"And we know she's looking for you," Derek added, with a speculative gleam in his eye.

Fixx's smile broadened.

One of the goons sitting beside her smelled of garlic and pepperoni. The other one was drenched in Axe. There was a foam air freshener cut out in the shape of an evergreen tree dangling from the rearview mirror emitting a strong pine fragrance. Clara felt her stomach turn over, whether from the combination of odors or from her nervousness, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that she had to get out of the car before she puked.

"Uh…" Her throat was dry and she wasn't sure if they were paying attention. "Um… have you got any Dramamine? Cuz I think I'm gonna throw up."

One of her seatmates glanced at her. "Joe," he called to the driver, "crack a window. Kid's turning green."

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror and uttered a word Clara's great uncle didn't use in her presence. "There's a truck stop coming up in about five miles," he snapped. "Can you hold on until then?"

Clara closed her eyes. "I dunno."

Joe pulled over to the shoulder of the road. "You gotta be sick, be sick out here," he said, unlocking the doors. "Not in the Mercedes." Garlic-and-Pepperoni Guy got out first and held the door for her. Clara gulped in fresh air and tried not to shiver in the chill of a mid-spring evening. She thought about running, but two things stopped her: the wire fence that separated the highway from the local farmland, and the realization that she probably couldn't move fast enough to get away from her captors. A few minutes later, feeling a bit steadier, she sighed and headed back to the car.

"Can I sit by the window?" she asked hopefully. "Please?"

Axe Guy shook his head. "Sorry, kid. You're the only one short enough not to block the rear view."

"Just hang on for a couple of minutes, kid," Joe said. "When we get to the truck stop, we can grab you some of that Dramamine and maybe a pack of mints. Just… please, don't be sick in the car. I don't want to have to clean it."

Clara nodded. "I gotta use the bathroom, too," she muttered. "When we get there."

"Yeah," Joe replied. "We got a couple hours' drive ahead of us, so that's not a bad idea. Sit tight, kid. We'll be there before you know it."

The gas station was connected to a small food court, with a long corridor leading to the bathrooms. Axe-Guy escorted her to the entrance of the ladies room. Clara locked herself into a stall and wondered how long she could stay here before Mandragora's goons got tired of waiting. She considered finding out. This was a busy area and other women were coming in and out—not exactly a place where men could enter inconspicuously. On the other hand, she couldn't stay here forever. And sooner or later, there would be a lull in traffic, or they'd ask some woman—a food court employee or traveler—to check up on her, saying that she'd been in there for too long.

With a mental sigh, Clara unlocked the stall and went to the row of sinks. She looked around. One of the other women standing close by gave her an evil look. Clara wondered what her problem was. Then she realized that she hadn't flushed the toilet. She hadn't used it either, but after having been in there for so long, the woman must be thinking… Clara fought the urge to giggle and looked away quickly.

And then, she smiled. There was another way out of here, an emergency door—and she was staring right at it. She just needed to wait until the room was empty before she used it. She looked around again. Some of the stall doors were closed, but it was just her and Pucker-Face in the communal area. Clara ran the water and made a great show of slowly washing her hands. A toilet flushed and another woman came over, washed, and left. Clara just squeezed more liquid soap into her palm and diligently lathered up again. Finally the evil-faced woman left and Clara took off her jacket and ran for the emergency door.

An alarm bell sounded, as she emerged into the twilight, but she didn't stop. The Mercedes was parked around the corner; even if Axe-Guy figured out what she was up to, she still had a couple of minutes before he could get back in the car and get Joe to drive after her. And if he took off after her on foot instead, she hoped he had his running shoes on.

She sprinted for the trees. When she came to the four-foot high wire fence, she was ready for it. Gripping her jacket by the inner lining with both hands, she pressed the bomber jacket leather-side-down onto the thin metal wire, bracing herself as she scrambled over. She landed on an exposed tree root and pitched forward, falling on her knees and elbows in a muddy ditch. Remembering something Bruno had told her about camouflage, she scooped up a few fingers' worth of the mud and rubbed it liberally onto her face. Once night fell, it would make her that much harder to spot if they went searching with flashlights. Come to think of it, if she kept her face down, lying in this ditch might not be the worst way to wait out her pursuers. If she ran, they'd see her. If she cast about looking for a different place to hide, if the ditch was muddy, the ground might be too. And she did not want to risk leaving footprints. She listened carefully for footsteps or conversation. Hearing none, she guessed that they hadn't thought to look for her here yet. She moved her hands, feeling out her surroundings and smiled. Dead leaves, branches, twigs… she could use this. She rolled against the side of the ditch closest to the rest area, the side that would be harder for anybody to see if they were on the other side of the fence looking down. She did her best to bury herself in leaves from the neck down. They stank now, but it wouldn't take her long to get used to them. Then she draped her jacket over her head. She knew it probably wasn't perfect, but it might be good enough to hide her now that night was coming on. In a couple of hours, she could start moving again.

Oswald Cobblepot had finally made up his mind. When the chips were down, Bressi was a far stronger ally than Mandragora ever would be, and given Bressi's alliance with the Bats, Cobblepot had no doubt that his intel would reach their (pointed) ears, as well. And it would do so without his needing to worry about what might happen, should any of the Iceberg's patrons learn that he was voluntarily passing information through that channel. Penguins were quite robust birds. Stool pigeons, on the other hand, had considerably shorter life expectancies.

He picked up the telephone from his desk. Then he frowned, remembering how Batman had bugged his office in the past. He walked into the hallway and gestured toward one of his guards. "Give me your phone, Gentoo," he ordered. When the henchman complied, Cobblepot carried it down the hall to the storage room. Once inside, he dialed a number.

"Forgive my presumption in calling your direct line, Don Bressi," he said smoothly. "This is Oswald Cobblepot. And I believe that I have some information that might be of interest to you…"