A/N: Happy Holidays! I know it's been a good three months since I've updated this, and I apologize, but all I can say is life got in the way, as it always does. Thanks to those who reviewed in the meantime, asking me to continue! Greatly appreciated.

As I said in my notes last chapter, I hope this isn't seeming too slow – there's a plot I'm working towards, but I feel like this entire thing will operate better if I provide an effective buildup. So, as always, please read and review!

Thanks again to my beta, Bella (buggerfck), even if she never remembers beta-ing this part. :)

FOUR.

After five uncomfortable minutes spent sitting in the cold, metal chairs, finally, a buzzer sounded and the heavy door creaked open to reveal two people standing on its threshold. The first was a square-shouldered, burly man, clad in an orange jumpsuit and looking rather fatigued; behind him stood Pappas. The inmate shuffled into the room, his shackled hands hanging limply in front of him, and took a seat in the unoccupied chair on the other side of the table. As Pappas nodded to the two detectives and proceeded to pull shut the door, a self-satisfying sort of smile began to spread across the inmate's face for no apparent reason at all.

"Mr. Shapiro, I'm Detective O'Reilly from Major Crimes and this is my partner, Detective Adams," Miles rattled off formally. "Have you been told what this meeting is about today?"

Shapiro locked his eyes on the metal table and slowly bobbed his head up and down, his smile widening.

"Your sister, Lisa Shapiro, has been arrested on suspicion of involvement in the Langford murder case," said Audrey. Miles drew a piece of paper from inside his folder and placed it on the table within eyesight of the man. "This is her statement given approximately two hours ago claiming you have evidence that will assist us in our investigation."

Without looking at the paper, the silent man again nodded.

"Is this correct?"

"I want a deal," he suddenly said quietly, still without looking up.

Audrey glanced at Miles – they'd been expecting as much, but according to Miles, Shepherd had been adamant against deals.

"Mr. Shapiro, you aren't eligible for any deals," said Audrey, leaning forward slightly. "You've been incarcerated indefinitely for the murder of George Shapiro – you should be at County awaiting a proper trial like the rest of your co-conspirators. So if I were you, I'd consider myself lucky and rethink asking about deals."

Then, as slowly as he had nodded, Shapiro raised his head and locked his dark, bottomless eyes onto Audrey's. His mouth twitched under his bushy mustache – he seemed to be laughing, although it was a hollow, perhaps soulless laugh.

"I want a deal," he repeated, and Miles sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair. "I ain't stupid. No deal, no evidence."

"We aren't here to negotiate," snapped Miles. "You aren't going to talk your way out of a life sentence in this place, I don't care what kind of evidence you have."

"What I want," said Shapiro calmly, shifting from side to side in his chair, "'s not about me. Lisa didn't do nothing wrong. They set her up to take the fall – she didn't know what she was doing."

"Mr. Shapiro, we have incontrovertible evidence against your sister –"

"She walks," he interrupted, and his smirk vanished completely from his face to be replaced by a serious, almost sane expression. "I give you this and you let her off. That's the deal."

Audrey and Miles exchanged similar exasperated looks and Shapiro again broke out into raspy guffaws that echoed around the room, bouncing off the white-washed walls. Miles folded his arms and shook his head fiercely, and although Audrey still had her doubts about the man's alleged evidence, they didn't have the time or energy to continue with such frivolous negotiations. In a split second, she dispelled her stubborn qualms and made an executive decision.

"If your claims check out, we'll release her," said Audrey.

"Damn right we will!" barked Miles, turning on her. "Shepherd said –"

"Show us the evidence," she said, choosing to ignore Miles's splutters.

"Told them it was just a personal item," said Shapiro, chuckling. He moved his shackled hands to his lap and seemed to be rummaging in his pocket for something. "A toy. And they let me have it. Didn't even check it out. The others are jealous, you know, 'cause I get a toy in here and they don't get nothing –"

He broke off into harsh giggles again as he slowly placed his hands back on the table, the metal cuffs scraping against the surface – but this time, something dark and compact was clenched in his left hand, and at first, Audrey thought it was a gun. Her hand instinctively flew to her holster, as did Miles's, but after a moment, she relaxed as her eyes studied the object, trying to make out what it was.

"Like it?" asked Shapiro, his scruffy face breaking into a pleased grin.

"What is that? What kind of evidence is that?" demanded Miles. "Is this a joke? You're giving us a toy?"

"You know – heh, you know, some of the others in here, they got theories," said Shapiro. He began stroking the item fondly, his eyes alight like a child's on Christmas morning. "They don't think the Batman actually exists. Think you're the crazies, hunting a ghost that don't exist." He leaned forward, baring his teeth. "But I know the truth."

"How is this relevant?" asked Miles, the incredulity apparent in his tone. Now he seemed to be of the opinion that this excursion was a waste of time; their opinions apparently had swapped. And Audrey, on the other hand, was no longer so convinced. She sat quietly, studying the man and his facial expressions, her eyes flickering every now and then to his treasure.

"I know the truth – this is the truth, right here." Shapiro pounded his fist on the table, the item still clenched tightly in his palm. "Batman gave me one of his toys, so I got proof, right? Right?" He then opened his hand and placed the black item on the table gingerly, as if afraid for its fragility, and sat back in his chair, looking utterly proud of himself.

"What is it?" said Audrey.

"I told you, it's one of his toys. Probably his favorite one. I imagine he was pretty sad to lose it, don't you think?"

"Looks like some sort of gun," said Miles. He reached out and picked it up – Shapiro gasped slightly and hesitated, raising his manacled hands a few inches – and turned it over in his palms, studying it. "I'd say it's a grapple gun, but I've never seen one like this. It's so...compact. Could be easily carried and concealed. I don't recognize the make, though."

"Would you?" asked Audrey, holding out her hand to examine it herself. "How often do you play around with grapple guns, Miles?"

Miles glared at her but said nothing; he folded his arms and turned his head back to Shapiro, frowning. "How did you come to be in possession of this?"

"He dropped it," Shapiro said simply. "Before you cops showed up to rescue the Langfords. He was there, playing his part in it all, and we got in a fight, right? Didn't agree with me on something – something small, don't matter." His eyes flickered to the right. "Point is, he was stupid and dropped it, and I picked it up, meaning to return it to him 'cause I know it's his favorite. Do you think he knows I got it?"

"I don't think we can get prints off this," said Miles, looking resigned and defeated. "It's virtually useless. He's got nothing."

"We can run a manufacturer match and see what comes up," said Audrey. "Someone somewhere produced this, and no offense, but I'm not really assured by your obviously extensive grapple gun knowledge. We'll run the parts separately if we need to, we'll take it apart and see –"

In a split second with an earsplitting scrape of metal against concrete, a blur of orange shot up into the air and across the table; Shapiro's chair toppled backward onto the floor. Without a second thought, Miles whipped out his gun but barely had time to point it into the face of the inmate before he received a harsh, forceful punch straight to the nose. As he fell sideways off his chair, Audrey's hands shot to her waist but her fingers barely brushed her own gun as Shapiro came at her, his manacled hands raised – he threw them around the back of her neck and pulled her closely, within inches of his grubby face.

"That's not part of the deal," he hissed, his breath warm against her cheeks. Sputtering, she desperately reached for her gun, but Shapiro pressed the cold metal further into her skin, seething.

"What – what do you –?"

"I didn't say you could take apart my toy," he whispered menacingly, almost a completely different man from the one who had just moments before sat at the table, happily describing to the detectives how he had happened upon the grapple gun. "I don't like being fooled, lady. I won't have you tinkering with my toy. I told you, I have to give it back to him."

"We're just going to examine it, we won't –"

With a low growl, Shapiro dug the cuffs deeper into Audrey's neck, pulling her closer until their noses were nearly touching – his hands clenched around her throat and still she wiggled her fingers toward her belt, her arms painfully bending to reach the gun, her only protection –

But a second later, the cuffs loosened and the man's hands were gone from her neck – howling, he was pulled backward, away from Audrey, his arms flailing wildly in the air.

"Damn door, it always sticks!" exclaimed Pappas from the threshold.

Gasping, Audrey climbed off the table, her hands feeling the indentations the cuffs had left in her neck. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Shapiro was led from the room by several orderlies, sobbing loudly, obviously quite devastated over the loss of his coveted toy. Glancing back to the table, the small, compact item still rested upon the gritty surface, playing the part of a completely innocent party. She snatched it up and turned it over in her hands once before pocketing it.

"The deal's off," she muttered hoarsely.

As Audrey and Miles departed from Arkham Asylum fifteen minutes later, their feet again treading across the weed-ridden brick pathway outside, Miles groaned dramatically.

"Dammit. I think he broke my nose."

"I did say we'd probably make it out alive, but I guess I forgot to mention injuries were still completely possible."

Miles scoffed. Still massaging her bruised neck, Audrey glanced at him and even managed a feeble grin. "I think I know the meaning of 'depressive schizophrenia' now."

Four hours later, after extensive searches through all the databases within MCU's legal access, still nothing worthwhile had come up; Shepherd vented his opinions by grunting loudly and kicking his desk.

"Just give it up," groaned Miles, who was now sporting a large white bandage across the middle of his face. "Adams, the guy's a lunatic, that's why he's locked up, and he probably bought it in a toy store for kicks."

Audrey stared at the computer screen, her fingers still poised on the keyboard and carpal tunnel beginning to afflict her hands.

"I'm going to get coffee," muttered Shepherd. "Don't be surprised if I don't come back."

Sighing heavily, Audrey turned the gun over in her hands multiple times, feeling as if she was clinging onto a desperate, flimsy piece of nothing – the "evidence" was virtually useless. Miles was right. Shapiro had nothing to offer them, nothing to help incriminate the Batman in the murders at all, nothing to further their investigation into the true identity of the man supposedly responsible for organizing the murder plot –

"Wait," she suddenly cried, sitting up straighter in her chair. Her eyes locked on a minute, almost invisible carving on the underside of the gun, something they hadn't noticed before – they'd been so intent on running matches on the different parts that they hadn't examined all illustrative aspects of the gun quite so closely.

"What, you figured out which toy store he got it from?" drawled Miles, laughing from his chair a desk away.

"This mark – why didn't we notice it before? I think it's a manufacturer's signature! It's hardly noticeable, it's so small, but if you turn it just like this, the light catches it... Miles, come here, can you make out these letters?"

"I'm guessing it says FAO Schwartz, Adams," he said, sauntering over to the newly-energized Audrey. He casually took the gun in his hands and squinted at the letters. "I think it's an M and a... P?"

"No, I think it's a D. M.D.," muttered Audrey. "I don't know it. Hold on." She swiveled in her chair toward the computer screen again, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she pulled up three different relevant databases.

"All we have left is damn decaf," said Shepherd, appearing behind Miles again and holding a steaming foam cup. "What are you doing, Adams?"

"She's browsing toy stores, sir. We've ruled out FAO Schwartz."

After scrolling for about thirty seconds, a listing finally sparked Audrey's attention.

"McDowell Dynamics Corporation," she announced, pointing to a name on the screen. "They're a relatively unknown defense contractor based in Washington – it says here they specialize in producing small devices for military use, like Shapiro's grapple gun. And there – the signature is a match."

"So the Batman's been making regular trips to D.C., then," said Miles. "I see. I'm sure he often lunches with the President while he's there, too."

"No, no, wait, look at this," said Audrey frantically, pulling up another file. "They're too small to finance that kind of production all on their own – see, look at that figure there. The government isn't paying them nearly enough to make a profit."

"Then they're getting the money from somewhere else," said Shepherd.

"Yeah. And probably exchanging intel and surplus products in return." Another file appeared on the screen, and Audrey squinted into the brightness, scanning the page for a name, all the while hoping she wasn't on some wild goose chase –

And then she saw it.

"There." She pointed. It was familiar, a name she was used to seeing in the paper every day, but not one she'd necessarily expect to find in the middle of such a critical investigation. For a second, her stomach dropped as she began to comprehend where this chase had finally led them – but, through the shock, she realized it made perfect sense.

"It's – are you sure?" asked Shepherd. "Are you – I mean, we didn't miss anything? These records are correct?"

"Updated a couple days ago, sir, according to the date on the file."

Miles whistled. "Right under our noses the whole time."

Audrey nodded in complete agreement. Then, without quite meaning to, she glanced away from the computer and out the naked window to the right of the desk. The bright lights of a nighttime Gotham burned into her eyes, but one tall building less than ten blocks away caught her attention specifically.

"Wayne Enterprises," Shepherd muttered. "Jesus."

The surface of the dilapidated wooden table was covered edge to edge in maps, air travel documents, plane arrival and departure times, and – the most recent addition to the mess – a small collection of fake visas. A dark, bearded man was clacking away at the computer, where he had been sitting all day, determined but exhausted. Everyone else had left for the night, securing their final preparations for the journey to America or catching up on some sleep. And tonight, this man had volunteered to stay behind with the goal of finishing last-minute yet extremely necessary research.

Without bothering to stifle a yawn, he rose from his seat, stretched, and crossed the room for a data disk. But as he was passing by the small, glass tanks Hajdari had hastily set up just days ago, he paused, his heart stopping in disbelief; he edged closer, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. He had been staring at a computer screen for the better portion of the day, after all.

But no – he wasn't imagining things tonight. Completely forgetting about the data disk, he made a grab for the phone and dialed Hajdari immediately.

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived, and the two men peered into the three cages, their faces reflecting back at them in the glass.

"Twenty-four hours," whispered Hajdari. "Dead within twenty-four hours." Then, "You turned on the ultraviolet lamp directly after you called me, yes?"

The man nodded.

"Should be fine by now." Hajdari reached up to flick the switch on the large, bright light beaming down into the cages. Then, strapping on a glove, he removed a lid to a cage and prodded one of the motionless rats.

"We gave them a high concentration of the Yersinia pestis," he murmured more to himself than to his colleague, "and accelerated the rate of infection. We need to manufacture more on a larger scale so it can be mass-produced." He bent down, his nose pressed up against the glass, on the other side of which a dead rat lay on its side. "But we know it works."

Hajdari stood again and discarded the glove; his face expressed an almost sort of whimsical thrill, and his delight in their achievement couldn't go unnoticed.

"Have you found anything?" he suddenly asked, and his tone was professional once more.

His colleague nodded and motioned toward the computer, forgotten in the excitement over the dead rats. The bold title of WAYNE ENTERPRISES headed the page, under which were the words WAYNE PHARMEUTICALS in a smaller font. And, completely ignorant to his imminent involvement in their plan, the unsmiling face of Bruce Wayne stared up at the two scientists from the screen.