Here's another nice long chapter for ya, full of dialogue! Yippy! And if you haven't seen the trailer for The Dark Knight, you have no idea what you are missing. The Joker is fantastic. Way to go, Heath Ledger!

Chapter Eleven

Mystery

"What the hell was that?" Bruce Wayne mumbled, striding out the front door of Helena's apartment building. The word mistake kept buzzing through his head as he sighed with frustration. It certainly was a mistake; of that he had no doubt. He couldn't go on a date with Helena Bertinelli. Well, technically it wasn't a date…was it? Neither of them had discussed it. "Perhaps it's just going to be an outing. Two friends going to dinner together: one male and one female. That's it. It's not a date," he continued to mumble to himself, but somewhere in the back of his head, that same voice repeating the word mistake had transformed into the word date. Alfred stood a few yards ahead of him, leaning against a black car.

"Well, Master Wayne, you look as if things didn't go to your liking." He opened the door and heard Bruce mutter.

"It didn't." The door closed and Alfred quickly walked to the driver's side, sitting down on the plush leather interior.

"So he doesn't want to sell the building, then?"

Bruce was snapped from his thoughts. "What? No—I mean, yes, he's interested. That's not what I am talking about, Alfred. Helena Bertinelli lives there."

"Does she really?" He revved the engine.

"I ran into her in the hallway. Something's not right."

"What's that, sir?" He merged into traffic.

"She makes plenty of money and lives in a place like that."

"Perhaps she spends all of her money on expensive gowns and buys expensive champagne." Bruce scrunched his eyebrows.

"What?" he demanded in near disbelief.

"It's just a thought, Master Wayne."

"She isn't that type of girl."

"What type of girl is she, Master Wayne?"

His blood froze. "What makes you think I would know something like that, Alfred?"

Alfred remained silent, stealing an occasional glance through the rearview mirror at Bruce. The young man narrowed his eyes, watching the quickly passing buildings through the window. Helena was indeed perplexing. Bruce never knew a woman to have so many mysteries surrounding her.

Alfred came to a stop at an intersection. "Well, don't let it worry you too much. There are plenty of other things you can have occupy your time."

He could hear Bruce sigh, smacking his head against the window. "I'm taking her out to dinner tomorrow."

The car was eerily silent for a passing moment. Alfred cleared his throat. "On…on a date, sir?"

"No!" Bruce shouted, much louder and quicker than he had intended. "No, it's not a date. It's…an outing between two friends."

"Call me daft, sir, but I believe that sounds like a date." Bruce closed his eyes and once again smacked his head against the window.

I couldn't possibly be going on a date. Helena Bertinelli does not date. I don't have time to date! I'm in over my head, way in over my head. My mind kept buzzing over and over again the same lyrics to the same, sad, old song.

Let's go over the facts that prove this is not a date. Fact number one: I do not like Bruce Wayne. He's pompous…and arrogant. And rich and good looking.

Perhaps we could skip that fact. Fact number two: in a traditional sense, the man pays for the food. I, or course, will be paying for my own meal. Two different people on a not-date event means that there are two meal tickets.

As of that moment, those were the only facts that I could come up with. I suppose it being on a Friday night isn't helping matters any. And that I said I would dress up. It was going to be hell.

Friday 9:30 a.m.

I walked into my office a few minutes late. But considering all of the overtime I had put in, Ricky didn't seem to mind. He barely raised an eyebrow to my presence as I rushed out of the elevator and on to the main floor. Cubicles lined up in perfect rows with people milling about. They all seemed to take their work so seriously: dressing up conservatively, the women pulling their hair back in to sleek buns and the men with perfectly trimmed beards or no beards at all. This morning, I had to seriously reconsider not coming to work in sweatpants.

Before anyone could weave their way through the mess of workers and cubicles to talk to me, I was in my private office, locking the door. For the next few hours, the last thing I wanted was a visitor. Something had perturbed me the day before. My first intention of the day was to research a strange and disturbing man by the name of Benjamin Hawks.

My laptop loaded up and I immediately signed on to the Internet, typing his name in the search bar. Hundreds of results showed. The only logical place to start would be at the first link. Clicking it lead me to a rival news organization. The title of the article read "Philanthropist Benjamin Hawks Arrested on Drug Charges". The date was five years ago, before my time as a journalist.

Benjamin Hawks, noted for his work in charitable organizations leading towards the development of homes for lower-class citizens of Gotham City, was arrested Tuesday evening on drug related charges. An inside source has revealed that Hawks had stored drugs in several facilities bordering the East coast of the city. His company, Hawks Industries, Inc., refused to comment on the situation. A statement has yet to be released by the Commissioner of the GCPD.

I scribbled down his company's name, continuing to read the article. There was a knock on my door. I got up and unlocked the door, not taking a second glance at Ricky as he entered. He closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Just researching." I didn't want a visitor or an audience. Perhaps he would make this quick, but it was doubtful. "Anything you need?"

"No, I…saw you come in. You looked a little frazzled." He rubbed his hand over his balding head, leaning against the wall.

"Frazzled?"

"Yeah. Is everything okay?"

"I'm surprised you even noticed me coming in." I began to glance over the other links. "Everything's okay."

"You sure?"

I looked up at him. "Seriously. What is this, twenty questions or something? I told you I'm fine."

"Helena, I can tell when something's up. And something is definitely up."

Leaning back in the chair, my eyes slowly drifted from the computer screen to Ricky. He was watching me, as well, his eyes filled with sincere concern. "Where's my key? To my apartment?"

"You're key?"

"You are the only other person besides me that has one. Where is it?"

"It's on my key chain, which is in my desk. Why?"

"Because, Ricky, someone broke in to my apartment the other night!" He didn't respond, but I could tell he seemed upset, what, with the twitch in his eye. "There wasn't any damage done, and nothing notable was taken. Get that look off your face, Ricky. I'm fine." He still didn't utter a sound. It was his silent way of saying 'explain'. I couldn't bear looking at him while I spoke. "I changed the locks and um…I took care of all that stuff."

"Is that all?"

"Not really, no! My car was…sort of trashed."

"Trashed?" He scoffed.

"The windshield was broken and there was graffiti written on the side. There was also a joker card under the wipers."

"Are you serious?" Ricky grabbed my chair and swiveled me around to face him. " Helena you have got to stop! This is not worth risking your life over." His eyes were wide, hinting towards his anger. "Drop the case. I'm not kidding."

"Ricky," he had me cornered. I knew he was right in a logical and rational sense. He wouldn't stop harassing me about it until I assured him I was through with it all. "I've hit a dead end, anyway."

"No! That's not good enough. I know that as soon as you get another lead, you're gonna be off after this guy again." He took a step back, shaking his head. "What—what did the graffiti say?"

"Stop the hunt or pay." He was still shaking his head. "I'm not afraid of them, Ricky."

"I'm beginning to think you should be! They're going to have your head on a platter if you keep this up! I swore to your cousin, Helena—to Marcello. I swore that I would take care of you when you came back."

I shot up from my chair, knocking it into the wall behind me. "I don't need a babysitter! I know you made a promise, Ricky, but I'm not turning back now. Marcello will get over it if he doesn't understand. I'm going to do what it takes to get this guy."

His gaze slowly went blank. There was no more fight in him—no more arguments. He knew that I would always win. If he were to ban me from the investigation, I'd quit my job. Losing my career to catch the psychopath was worth it. Everything was worth it. And he knew. His words came out softer than before. "I'm buying you a gun."

"Ricky, I—"

"I'm buying you a gun." It was more forceful this time. "You're going to live, sleep, and eat with that thing." He walked out of the office without a second glance.

Friday, 7:45 p.m.

"So…do you know what you're getting?" Bruce sat across the table, his eyes peeking over the menu. He had done a wonderful job of picking out one of the most expensive restaurants in Gotham City. The items on the menu didn't come less than 20 dollars. I had glanced over the desserts as well, noting that a chocolate cannoli was in the range of 60 dollars. For a cannoli. One. I could only assume Bruce had picked such a lavish restaurant so he could pay for my meal as well as his. But I refused to let it happen, even if it meant that I had to settle with nothing more than a house salad and glass of water.

He continued to watch me, slowly letting the menu fall on to the table. He was dressed to near perfection. His hair had refused to move out of its place, although he did nothing different with it. That's how his hair was. I lowered my own menu to look at him. He was leaning forward, his hands placed lightly on the table. Bruce seemed…eager.

"I don't know," I stated vaguely. "I'm still looking for the cheapest thing on here. When I find it, then you'll know."

"Helena, money's not an object."

"When you're buying your own meal, it is." Please don't say anything. Just let my pay for it.

"Okay," he mumbled, sighing as he did so. Good. So it wasn't a date.

"What are you thinking about getting?"

"Perhaps the Veal Parmesan." I scoffed. "What? Are you a vegetarian?"

"Not at all," I placed the menu on the table. "I'm a meat and potatoes kind of girl. Just as long as the meat wasn't a baby when it was slaughtered."

"Well, I can't let it die in vain."

"Very noble of you." He raised his eyebrows at me. I didn't give him a second look—the waiter had arrived. I ordered the chicken salad while Bruce ordered the veal, just as he said he would. But as soon as the waiter came, he had left.

"So…"

"So…" I might as well make the best of an awkward situation. "How is Wayne Enterprises?"

"It's productive. And how is your private investigation?"

"It's complicated."

He took a sip of out of his glass of red wine. "Complicated?"

"I think I've hit a dead end with the Joker." I nearly choked trying to speak. The thought of quitting the case made me nauseous. I had never been a quitter. Not once in all my years had I given up on something, especially if I had set my mind to it. "And it kills me to say it, but…I might have to stop with this whole thing. Ricky is trying to scare me out of it."

"You don't seem like the type who would want to quit." I shook my head. "May I offer a suggestion?" With a shrug from my shoulders, he continued. "Go in a different direction. Don't just focus on the Joker. I'm sure there are many other aspects of the situation you could explore."

"Like?"

"For example: where does he get his weapons from?"

He was right. I was never really an investigator. Not like this, at least. As a journalist, I write stories about people, places, and things. I write the truth. I don't ever dig for stories and I don't shove my nose in places where it doesn't belong. I've never tried to track down a crazed psychopath before. But perhaps I was going about this in all the wrong ways. I knew the obvious things about the Joker, but what about his weapons? Who was he associated with? What kind of deals could he have fabricated in the past? "I'm going about this in the wrong way. I know who and what he is. Now I need to learn about his people and associates. It's all interconnected."

"Exactly."

His one word threw me out of my reverie. I was no longer thinking of the insane killer who murdered my family. The Joker had diminished and was barely an afterthought. I was in the restaurant with Bruce Wayne, one of the most influential and powerful men on the planet. I was having dinner with him in an expensive and flourished bistro. I felt so…out of place. It was unnerving. He noticed it, too.

"Why do you do it, Helena? Why are you going after this bastard?"

"Bruce…" I sighed, slouching in my chair. "I can't expect you to understand any of this. My life is a mystery, sometimes even to me. I'm not trying to be dramatic about the situation, honestly. I know how we women can be. But…" And from the look in his eyes, I could tell that he already knew. He knew far more than I had given him credit for. Bruce just wanted the thoughts floating around in his head to be confirmed.

"Tell me—"

"Tell you what?" I raised my voice, noting that a nearby couple had sent cold glances in our direction. I clenched my eyes shut. "I know he did it, Bruce. I know he did it!" They slowly slid back open, watching Bruce's expression. "I know that he murdered every member of my family. I know that he was after my father. I know that he wants me dead, too. My car was towed in for repairs after they razed it. I changed the locks on my door, but they'll just find new ways to break in. Ricky wants to buy me a gun so I can sleep with it next to my bed! So, Bruce, what is it that you want me to tell you? What is it that you don't already know?"

Bruce was silent. His eyes remained calm and steady, looking down at the rim of his glass. His fingers, unshaken, grasped it and tilted it to one side. He watched the red liquid lean one direction before he set the glass down on the table once again. "I want to know why everyone considers you the greatest journalist in all of Gotham City. Why are you so renown?" A smile tugged at his cheeks.

"Are—are you trying to irk me?" I sat up straight, watching his lips slowly curve into a grin.

"No, I'm not trying to irk you! It's something I've wanted to know for quite a while, now. Everyone has always seemed so complimentary of you. Why is that?"

I shook my head incredulously. This man had to be one of the most perplexing, manipulative, cocky guys I've ever met. But I could easily tell that it was all a front. He was, deep down, caring and sensitive. What am I thinking? I should not be thinking this, I know! I scoffed. "All right. That I can definitely tell you. I did an article about three years ago detailing the corruptness of the media in Gotham City. I exposed nearly a dozen journalists having ties and connections to Falcone, mainly dealing with drugs. Because of this, two rival news outlets were shutdown due to all the criminal busts. The commissioner of the GCPD threw a banquet for my 'civilian efforts' and me. In his speech he used the adjectives 'renown' and 'greatest'. It kind of stuck with me." I smiled sheepishly.

"Damn! That must have taken you weeks to uncover."

"Actually it was four months to the day. Ever since then, the Gotham Gazette has been the number one newspaper outlet in the city. I've had it good with Ricky. He acts as if he owes me, but I was just doing my job. I would much rather people let me do my job then get all those compliments."

He wouldn't stop toying with his glass of wine, rocking it in circles. "Compliments are nice, though." By now, Bruce had sloshed a little droplet of wine onto the table. But he had blatantly ignored it. His eyes were focused on mine, studying me. "You mentioned your father earlier. What did he do?"

I was taken back that he would ask something like that. Didn't he know who my father was? "Franco? He was a…businessman."

His eyebrows rose. "Really? What kind?"

"He dealt with trade and commerce." The way I said it held a sense of finality to it. I was tired of hearing myself talk.