Chapter 2
The dull thud and thwack of fists hitting the sandbag echoed through the cave. Tape tore off his hands in pieces as he landed blow after blow, his mind blank as his body operated on muscle memory alone. After spending nights in the city with all his senses on high alert and every synapse in his brain firing at full capacity, it felt good to turn it all off and just let his body work.
Gotham had been quiet for the past two nights. Quiet unnerved him. It set his teeth on edge and wound his muscles into tight, taunt strings sensitive as a mousetrap. He waited for the moment it would all fall apart The next heist, the next murder, the next plot to destroy the city. It would come. He'd be ready.
"Sir? I believe there is something over here you need to see," Alfred said, his voice snapping Bruce back to reality. Back from the blankness of the workout, his raw knuckles started screaming. He'd taken the skin off his left hand again.
"I'm not hungry," he said, flexing his hands. Nothing broken, just bruised. He'd gotten off easy today.
"Though I have been known to work wonders, oatmeal remains oatmeal. However, the image on your computer will prove far more intriguing." It was then he heard beeping coming from the batcomputer. Jogging up the stairs, he grabbed his coffee from Alfred's tray and headed toward the massive machine. Blood clotted on his hand. Alfred sighed audibly.
"What fake extreme sport did Bruce Wayne partake in to injure himself this time? Brazilian hot boxing? Andean free-style rock climbing? Nude coral reef diving?"
"Funny," Bruce said as he slid into his chair.
"A laugh a minute, Sir." Alfred was at his side with gauze and antiseptic before he could blink. Sometimes he swore that man was faster than he was.
Bruce hit a few keys and a grainy black and white still of a blonde woman wearing wire rimmed glasses filled the screen. There was no need to look at the notification flashing beneath the image, he knew. His body knew. His heart sped up, his groin tightened, and he was back on that rooftop - his hands lightly gripping her hips as she straddled him, rain drenching both of them, the scent of wet leather and sweat hanging in the air.
Catwoman.
Selina.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. There was no proof that this woman was Catwoman and he needed to avoid jumping to conclusions. He needed to focus on the evidence. Evidence is solid, concrete, reliable. Evidence does not lie. It's not subject to whims and emotions - it merely is or isn't. If justice is his overarching goal, evidence is the trail that leads him there.
The batcomputer runs facial recognition software across a hacked network of strategically-placed security cameras spread throughout the city. The software compares faces caught on tape with any mugshots or images in his files marked "active", "missing", or "whereabouts unknown". If a possible identification is made (a 96% probability of a match is required to trigger the system), the image is flagged and a notification is sent to the user. This image, taken at Gotham International Airport, was showing a 99% probability of belonging to Selina Kyle. He glanced at the time stamp - 7:36 a.m. Forty-eight minutes ago.
According to his intel, since her hasty departure from Gotham 11 months ago, Selina Kyle had lived in no fewer than six countries - Denmark, Portugal, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. He pulled up the FAA's list (hacked) of international flights arriving in Gotham. Twenty-six arrivals since 6 a.m. ET, 14 of which were from Asia and automatically ruled out as possibilities. That left him 12 flights to sort through. Knowing Selina's taste for the finer things in life, he allowed himself to discard passengers listed in economy. One flight from London and another from Amsterdam were ruled out as all the names on the first class passenger manifests were decidedly male-sounding and Selina preferred hyper feminine names. He scanned the rest.
Unsurprisingly, none of the names listed were her known aliases. Selina was smart, she changed identities more frequently than shoes. It's one of the myriad of reasons the authorities had such a hard time tracking her down. He scanned the names again, looking for something, anything, that would signal she'd come home.
His mouse hovered over a name. Katerina Kline, seat 4A, flight 2363 Paris to Gotham direct. It felt like her. He brought his fingertips together and placed them against his lips.
"Alfred, hand me a burner phone." A cheap, disposable cell phone appeared on the console. He dialed and waited.
"Air France customer service, this is Monique how may I help you?" A woman. Perfect. He almost smiled.
"Hi Monique," he said in a bright, cheerful voice. It was a voice Bruce Wayne used often. "I was on flight 2363 from Paris to Gotham this morning and I reported some personal items missing. I was calling to see if anything had been turned in?"
"Let me check. Your name?" He glanced at the manifest.
"John Sanderson. Seat 4B." Soft clicking and the buzz of an open line filled the few seconds of silence.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Sanderson, I have your report right here. Unfortunately it doesn't look like we've found your missing items as of yet."
"Did I list my watch on there?" He leaned his head back and looked at the craggy roof of the cave. His shoulders were tingling, just like they always did when a hunch started to pan out.
"No. Are you missing that as well?"
"Yes, I - oh, wait! No, I'm not. Sorry, I have it right here. I swear, this jet lag will be the end of me!" he laughed, a charming hint of embarrassment in his voice. No one could get mad at that intonation. Bruce Wayne knew that from experience. "Can we go over my list quickly? I want to make sure I'm not forgetting anything else. Like my brain." Monique laughed on the other end of the line, her voice tinny. She liked him, just as he intended.
"I show you're missing an iPad and $5000 in cash. No brain listed," she joked. He chuckled a deep, throaty chuckle that meant that he liked her, too. He could feel her blush through the phone.
"You may want to check again, I'm pretty sure I lost it over the Atlantic." She laughed again. When she was finished he allowed the silence to stretch. "Well. Thank you, Monique. Please do call at the number I provided earlier if anything turns up." She said goodbye and he snapped the burner closed, Bruce Wayne's charm disappearing once more.
"Has the cat come back?" Alfred asked, taking the phone from Bruce.
"Nothing definitive, but it all lines up. If there's anything Catwoman likes more than jewels, it's cash. Her seatmate is short several grand." He fell silent again, his eyes glued to the blonde woman on the screen. "Why, Alfred?"
"Sir?"
"She didn't get on that plane to rob Sanderson, not for a score that small. That was opportunity. There's got to be something else."
"If I may be so bold," Alfred said, handing Bruce an invitation from the stack of mail he'd brought down with breakfast. "Shall I RSVP?"
Bruce looked at the invite and shook his head. He should have known.
"Absolutely."