**********************************************
Bruce was tinkering with the suit's circuitry, trying to squeeze a little more efficiency out of an already hyper-efficient system, when the call came. Checking the caller ID he saw that it came from Terry's house. That was no reason for carelessness, though; he set the screen to reveal as little background as possible before answering. Mary McGinnis' face sprang into focus, her expression mixing worry and annoyance in equal measure.
"I hate to disturb you, Mr. Wayne, but has Terry left yet?"
Bruce frowned.
"He left hours ago. Have you tried calling him?"
"I tried that first. I got a message saying the number was out of service, technical difficulties, that sort of thing. That's not a good sign, but I thought I'd call you before I started the real worrying. I mean, it could be nothing."
"It could, yes."
"But you don't think so either, do you?"
Bruce hesitated. True, he could think of any number of perfectly innocent excuses but even the most likely was still highly implausible. He could think of a far greater number of disasters, each one part of everyday life in Gotham.
"I wouldn't start worrying yet, Mrs. McGinnis," he lied. "It's only a little after seven. If you haven't heard anything by nine, though..."
The look she gave him told him she wasn't fooled but she didn't comment. They exchanged a few meaningless remarks, then rang off. As soon as the screen was dark, Bruce set several programs into action. It didn't take him long to learn that Terry's phone wasn't the only thing not working. The homing device in Terry's belt buckle- the one he used to call the Batmobile- was out as well. That was even more worrying; very little could interfere with that signal. The tracer in the suit was useless, since the suit was only a few yards away.
There was still the tracer in the motorcycle, though- the one Terry didn't know about. He'd installed it while Terry was out on his first patrol, along with a few other things the boy would probably have a fit over if he ever found out they'd existed. He'd removed everything but the tracer within months, having decided that Terry could be trusted. That tracer was still working, but Bruce wasn't reassured. The signal was stationary, which meant the bike was parked. The odds that Terry was anywhere near it... Bruce shook his head and downloaded the necessary information into a handheld module.
Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of Kamalic's to see Terry's motorcycle standing almost alone in the drizzle. Almost, because a police car was pulled up beside it. Two officers, a middle-aged woman, and a raggedly dressed man were having a discussion nearby. Bruce parked and joined them.
"...see him in every so often, sometimes with a red-haired woman and a little boy who has to be his brother," the middle-aged woman was saying.
'Why do you say that?" asked one of the officers, a nondescript man whose nametag read Rosten. His partner- Dreyfus, her tag read- rolled her eyes. The middle-aged woman gave him an exasperated look.
"Because he's too young to be the boy's father, maybe? Anyway, I've no idea what his last name is, but his first name is... damn. Timmy? Tony?"
"Terry." Bruce had managed to approach them unnoticed, making them all jump when he spoke. "That bike belongs to Terry McGinnis. Where is he?"
"Who are you?" Rosten demanded.
"Bruce Wayne, dimwit. Ever watch the news?" Dreyfus sighed, then turned to Bruce. "Sorry, Mr. Wayne. Ignore Rosten. I do. Got a call. Abandoned bike. Bags hanging off handlebars. Can't be too careful in this town. Turned out to be groceries, of course. Manager- Ms. DeLacey, here- came out, said she knew the bike. More or less. Don't know about this guy."
The ragged man drew himself up to what turned out to be a considerable height, affronted.
"I, dear lady, am a witness to what I begin to fear may be a crime. Having little to occupy my time in my declining years, I have taken it upon myself to watch this lot, guarding it from some of the less desirable inhabitants of this city-"
"Yeah, yeah," Rosten cut in. Dreyfus' arm twitched as though she was restraining her self from whacking her partner upside the head. Bruce gave the officer one of his better glares, which had its usual effect.
"Continue. Please."
Bruce knew he'd get the truth from the ragged man, even if it would sound like a Victorian melodrama. Luckily, after years of dealing with certain criminals- the Penguin immediately sprang to mind- he was an expert in Pretentious/English translations. The man bowed, dramatically of course.
"You are a true gentleman; I shall. As I was saying, in the course of my guardianship I have become acquainted with some of the regular patrons of this establishment. I have, in point of fact, known young Terrence since he was quite small- merely a babe in arms. I watched him grow with pride and at times with some trepidation. He has always treated me with the greatest respect and kindness, even during that unfortunate period of his life when for a short time he fell in with unsavory companions."
"Huh?" Rosten, predictably.
"He ran with a gang for a while," Ms. DeLacey translated.
"Quite. His own family was dissolving and he sought a substitute. An old, old, story, is it not? But this is beside the point. I merely meant to establish that I am well acquainted with the lad. I am quite fond of him, to be honest. Many of us are."
"Us?" Dreyfus, this time.
"Fellow denizens of the streets. He has defended more than one of us from those detestable clowns. As to what transpired this evening, that I may state relatively quickly. Upon his exit from yonder emporium, he deposited his purchases in the manner you see before you in order to don his helmet. Before he could do so, he was approached by a lovely dark-haired maiden. I was, alas, too distant and did not hear their conversation, but he left his conveyance along with his acquisitions and proceeded down the alley with his companion. He did not look happy, but neither did he seem afraid of what awaited him at journey's end. In my folly, I assumed her to be a friend of his in need of assistance. When some considerable amount of time had passed and he did not reappear, I grew concerned and called the constabulary. This fine officer and her partner-"
"Watch it, buddy."
"-arrived not long afterward. They quickly ascertained that the parcels contained foodstuffs and not explosives as they feared. Shortly after that the estimable Miss DeLacey came out and recognized the vehicle. She is, and I mean no offense by this, far better at remembering inanimate objects than living people."
"He's right," she admitted. "That's why I'm in charge of paperwork and inventory and that sort of thing. My cousin does anything dealing with people. You know what happened next, though, because that's when you showed up."
"Why were you here so late?" Bruce asked.
"Late? Oh, this is normal for me. Saturday nights I finish up any leftover paperwork form the week, do an inventory check of a random section, then walk the floor to see if I can get any bright ideas to improve the store. I'm usually out around eight, but there have been times when I've worked past midnight. I try not to do that too often, though, because Mr. Dalrymple always waits until I leave before he goes... wherever he goes at night."
"Mr. Dalrymple?" Bruce suspected he knew who that was.
"That is I," the ragged man said, confirming Bruce's hunch. "Tobias Q. Dalrymple, at your service."
"Your name's really Tobias Q. Dalrymple?" Rosten asked.
"It explains much, does it not?"
Bruce had been thinking the same thing but had no intention of admitting it. He had more important matters to deal with.
"Mr. Dalrymple, this dark-haired girl- could you describe her a bit more thoroughly?"
"Well, she did remind me of a favorite actress from my college days."
"You went to college?"
"Shut up, Rosten."
"Indeed, I did. Bowdoin College, class of '94. Cum laude, with a degree in English Literature. But that is also beside the point. Now what was the lady's name? Her character was named Amanda, she was an 800-year old thief, the actress had been Miss America, I believe... Bother."
"Elisabeth Gracen." Another memory etched into Bruce's psyche: Dick and Catwoman discovering a mutual fondness for a television show and comparing the relationship between the hero and the thief to the byplay between Batman and Catwoman. It had been particularly galling when they'd started comparing him to the hero- unfavorably.
"That was the lady's name. Thank you, sir."
"So what did she look like?"
"Tall, slim, straight dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin," Ms. DeLacey replied. At everyone's look, she explained, "My mom had a thing for the guy who played Joe Dawson. I preferred Fitzcairn, myself."
"Fitzcairn? That rogue?" Dalrymple looked shocked. Bruce, knowing an approaching tangent when he saw one, decided he'd better avert it.
"Maybe someone should check the alley."
"Right." Dreyfus nodded and headed off. "Rosten, stay."
While they waited, Dalrymple and DeLacey continued their tangent, Rosten sulked, and Bruce thought. He'd hoped the dark-haired girl would turn out to be Dana, even though he'd known it was unlikely. Terry could have been distracted by his girlfriend- but no, he still would have called by now if he were able. And he wouldn't have left his bike behind. The more Bruce thought about it, the more he realized that there was no way this could end well.
"Nothing, " Dreyfus growled, reappearing. "No prints on the bike that shouldn't be, either. Checked that with the groceries. Two sets of recent prints on them. McGinnis and... Lydia Voorhies."
"Lydia?" Ms. DeLacey looked stunned. "She works here, but she can't be the girl Mr. Dalrymple saw- she's a short blonde. Why-?
Dreyfus understood the unasked question and checked her palmtop.
"Arrested, not charged. Riding in a stolen car. Didn't know. Right. Nothing we can do now. Impound the bike. Kid shows up, no harm, no foul. If not... 24 hours, make a report."
"Wait a minute," Rosten burst out. "Okay, you're Bruce Wayne. That still doesn't explain why this is any of your business."
"Terry works for me. His mother called looking for him. I remembered he mentioned needing to stop here on the way home, so I thought I'd trace the most likely route he'd take."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble for an errand boy."
This time Dreyfus actually did smack Rosten.
"Assistant, twip."
"What's the difference?"
"A great deal."
Bruce had used the Bat-voice. Rosten gulped and shut up.
"Ummmmm..." Ms. DeLacey looked embarrassed. "This may seem petty, but what about the groceries? It's just, well, if he bought fish or something like that it's going to start to stink if it isn't refrigerated. It's getting chillier, but it's not that cold yet and that stuff's been sitting out here for at least 2 hours."
Rosten and Dreyfus looked at each other.
"Not evidence."
"We oughta talk to his mother anyway. Might as well bring it along." To Bruce's surprise, Rosten suddenly looked glum. "I hate this part. Worst thing about being a cop."
Maybe he's not a complete idiot after all, Bruce thought.
********************************************
Rosten surprised Bruce again with the gentleness in his manner as he told Mary McGinnis what they knew. She listened, speechless, then glimpsed an unmistakable carton in one of the bags.
"He remembered the milk," she whispered, and burst into tears.
To be continued
Bruce was tinkering with the suit's circuitry, trying to squeeze a little more efficiency out of an already hyper-efficient system, when the call came. Checking the caller ID he saw that it came from Terry's house. That was no reason for carelessness, though; he set the screen to reveal as little background as possible before answering. Mary McGinnis' face sprang into focus, her expression mixing worry and annoyance in equal measure.
"I hate to disturb you, Mr. Wayne, but has Terry left yet?"
Bruce frowned.
"He left hours ago. Have you tried calling him?"
"I tried that first. I got a message saying the number was out of service, technical difficulties, that sort of thing. That's not a good sign, but I thought I'd call you before I started the real worrying. I mean, it could be nothing."
"It could, yes."
"But you don't think so either, do you?"
Bruce hesitated. True, he could think of any number of perfectly innocent excuses but even the most likely was still highly implausible. He could think of a far greater number of disasters, each one part of everyday life in Gotham.
"I wouldn't start worrying yet, Mrs. McGinnis," he lied. "It's only a little after seven. If you haven't heard anything by nine, though..."
The look she gave him told him she wasn't fooled but she didn't comment. They exchanged a few meaningless remarks, then rang off. As soon as the screen was dark, Bruce set several programs into action. It didn't take him long to learn that Terry's phone wasn't the only thing not working. The homing device in Terry's belt buckle- the one he used to call the Batmobile- was out as well. That was even more worrying; very little could interfere with that signal. The tracer in the suit was useless, since the suit was only a few yards away.
There was still the tracer in the motorcycle, though- the one Terry didn't know about. He'd installed it while Terry was out on his first patrol, along with a few other things the boy would probably have a fit over if he ever found out they'd existed. He'd removed everything but the tracer within months, having decided that Terry could be trusted. That tracer was still working, but Bruce wasn't reassured. The signal was stationary, which meant the bike was parked. The odds that Terry was anywhere near it... Bruce shook his head and downloaded the necessary information into a handheld module.
Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of Kamalic's to see Terry's motorcycle standing almost alone in the drizzle. Almost, because a police car was pulled up beside it. Two officers, a middle-aged woman, and a raggedly dressed man were having a discussion nearby. Bruce parked and joined them.
"...see him in every so often, sometimes with a red-haired woman and a little boy who has to be his brother," the middle-aged woman was saying.
'Why do you say that?" asked one of the officers, a nondescript man whose nametag read Rosten. His partner- Dreyfus, her tag read- rolled her eyes. The middle-aged woman gave him an exasperated look.
"Because he's too young to be the boy's father, maybe? Anyway, I've no idea what his last name is, but his first name is... damn. Timmy? Tony?"
"Terry." Bruce had managed to approach them unnoticed, making them all jump when he spoke. "That bike belongs to Terry McGinnis. Where is he?"
"Who are you?" Rosten demanded.
"Bruce Wayne, dimwit. Ever watch the news?" Dreyfus sighed, then turned to Bruce. "Sorry, Mr. Wayne. Ignore Rosten. I do. Got a call. Abandoned bike. Bags hanging off handlebars. Can't be too careful in this town. Turned out to be groceries, of course. Manager- Ms. DeLacey, here- came out, said she knew the bike. More or less. Don't know about this guy."
The ragged man drew himself up to what turned out to be a considerable height, affronted.
"I, dear lady, am a witness to what I begin to fear may be a crime. Having little to occupy my time in my declining years, I have taken it upon myself to watch this lot, guarding it from some of the less desirable inhabitants of this city-"
"Yeah, yeah," Rosten cut in. Dreyfus' arm twitched as though she was restraining her self from whacking her partner upside the head. Bruce gave the officer one of his better glares, which had its usual effect.
"Continue. Please."
Bruce knew he'd get the truth from the ragged man, even if it would sound like a Victorian melodrama. Luckily, after years of dealing with certain criminals- the Penguin immediately sprang to mind- he was an expert in Pretentious/English translations. The man bowed, dramatically of course.
"You are a true gentleman; I shall. As I was saying, in the course of my guardianship I have become acquainted with some of the regular patrons of this establishment. I have, in point of fact, known young Terrence since he was quite small- merely a babe in arms. I watched him grow with pride and at times with some trepidation. He has always treated me with the greatest respect and kindness, even during that unfortunate period of his life when for a short time he fell in with unsavory companions."
"Huh?" Rosten, predictably.
"He ran with a gang for a while," Ms. DeLacey translated.
"Quite. His own family was dissolving and he sought a substitute. An old, old, story, is it not? But this is beside the point. I merely meant to establish that I am well acquainted with the lad. I am quite fond of him, to be honest. Many of us are."
"Us?" Dreyfus, this time.
"Fellow denizens of the streets. He has defended more than one of us from those detestable clowns. As to what transpired this evening, that I may state relatively quickly. Upon his exit from yonder emporium, he deposited his purchases in the manner you see before you in order to don his helmet. Before he could do so, he was approached by a lovely dark-haired maiden. I was, alas, too distant and did not hear their conversation, but he left his conveyance along with his acquisitions and proceeded down the alley with his companion. He did not look happy, but neither did he seem afraid of what awaited him at journey's end. In my folly, I assumed her to be a friend of his in need of assistance. When some considerable amount of time had passed and he did not reappear, I grew concerned and called the constabulary. This fine officer and her partner-"
"Watch it, buddy."
"-arrived not long afterward. They quickly ascertained that the parcels contained foodstuffs and not explosives as they feared. Shortly after that the estimable Miss DeLacey came out and recognized the vehicle. She is, and I mean no offense by this, far better at remembering inanimate objects than living people."
"He's right," she admitted. "That's why I'm in charge of paperwork and inventory and that sort of thing. My cousin does anything dealing with people. You know what happened next, though, because that's when you showed up."
"Why were you here so late?" Bruce asked.
"Late? Oh, this is normal for me. Saturday nights I finish up any leftover paperwork form the week, do an inventory check of a random section, then walk the floor to see if I can get any bright ideas to improve the store. I'm usually out around eight, but there have been times when I've worked past midnight. I try not to do that too often, though, because Mr. Dalrymple always waits until I leave before he goes... wherever he goes at night."
"Mr. Dalrymple?" Bruce suspected he knew who that was.
"That is I," the ragged man said, confirming Bruce's hunch. "Tobias Q. Dalrymple, at your service."
"Your name's really Tobias Q. Dalrymple?" Rosten asked.
"It explains much, does it not?"
Bruce had been thinking the same thing but had no intention of admitting it. He had more important matters to deal with.
"Mr. Dalrymple, this dark-haired girl- could you describe her a bit more thoroughly?"
"Well, she did remind me of a favorite actress from my college days."
"You went to college?"
"Shut up, Rosten."
"Indeed, I did. Bowdoin College, class of '94. Cum laude, with a degree in English Literature. But that is also beside the point. Now what was the lady's name? Her character was named Amanda, she was an 800-year old thief, the actress had been Miss America, I believe... Bother."
"Elisabeth Gracen." Another memory etched into Bruce's psyche: Dick and Catwoman discovering a mutual fondness for a television show and comparing the relationship between the hero and the thief to the byplay between Batman and Catwoman. It had been particularly galling when they'd started comparing him to the hero- unfavorably.
"That was the lady's name. Thank you, sir."
"So what did she look like?"
"Tall, slim, straight dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin," Ms. DeLacey replied. At everyone's look, she explained, "My mom had a thing for the guy who played Joe Dawson. I preferred Fitzcairn, myself."
"Fitzcairn? That rogue?" Dalrymple looked shocked. Bruce, knowing an approaching tangent when he saw one, decided he'd better avert it.
"Maybe someone should check the alley."
"Right." Dreyfus nodded and headed off. "Rosten, stay."
While they waited, Dalrymple and DeLacey continued their tangent, Rosten sulked, and Bruce thought. He'd hoped the dark-haired girl would turn out to be Dana, even though he'd known it was unlikely. Terry could have been distracted by his girlfriend- but no, he still would have called by now if he were able. And he wouldn't have left his bike behind. The more Bruce thought about it, the more he realized that there was no way this could end well.
"Nothing, " Dreyfus growled, reappearing. "No prints on the bike that shouldn't be, either. Checked that with the groceries. Two sets of recent prints on them. McGinnis and... Lydia Voorhies."
"Lydia?" Ms. DeLacey looked stunned. "She works here, but she can't be the girl Mr. Dalrymple saw- she's a short blonde. Why-?
Dreyfus understood the unasked question and checked her palmtop.
"Arrested, not charged. Riding in a stolen car. Didn't know. Right. Nothing we can do now. Impound the bike. Kid shows up, no harm, no foul. If not... 24 hours, make a report."
"Wait a minute," Rosten burst out. "Okay, you're Bruce Wayne. That still doesn't explain why this is any of your business."
"Terry works for me. His mother called looking for him. I remembered he mentioned needing to stop here on the way home, so I thought I'd trace the most likely route he'd take."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble for an errand boy."
This time Dreyfus actually did smack Rosten.
"Assistant, twip."
"What's the difference?"
"A great deal."
Bruce had used the Bat-voice. Rosten gulped and shut up.
"Ummmmm..." Ms. DeLacey looked embarrassed. "This may seem petty, but what about the groceries? It's just, well, if he bought fish or something like that it's going to start to stink if it isn't refrigerated. It's getting chillier, but it's not that cold yet and that stuff's been sitting out here for at least 2 hours."
Rosten and Dreyfus looked at each other.
"Not evidence."
"We oughta talk to his mother anyway. Might as well bring it along." To Bruce's surprise, Rosten suddenly looked glum. "I hate this part. Worst thing about being a cop."
Maybe he's not a complete idiot after all, Bruce thought.
********************************************
Rosten surprised Bruce again with the gentleness in his manner as he told Mary McGinnis what they knew. She listened, speechless, then glimpsed an unmistakable carton in one of the bags.
"He remembered the milk," she whispered, and burst into tears.
To be continued