Leslie spread her coat over the backseat of her uncle's car and patted every pocket. Then she emptied her purse - wallet, card holder, notebook, keys, agenda, mess - item by item.
«I really don't have it», she said. «Those posters about pickpockets are on to something.»
Her uncle looked to her in the rearview mirror.
«Maybe you left it home?» he asked. «When did you last use it?»
«Home. But I remember putting the battery in my suitcase. Maybe I left it on the bed.»
«We'll check your suitcase once we get to the apartment… And if your phone isn't in it, we'll call your boyfriend, he'll check your place…»
«I'll be calling Jim anyway. I promised to check in.»
«Alright. We can see about getting you a replacement after that? There's a Best Buy two blocks away from my place, I hear prepaid phones are not that expensive.»
«Thank you!»
«Now don't expect any advice from me on the topic. Never needed a cell and never will!»
They drove through New York - slowly, very slowly, in a traffic worse than Gotham's - to uncle Harry's and aunt Meredith's building. They parked, got Lee's suitcase out of the trunk, and a police car stopped next to them.
«Leslie and Harry Thompkins?», the driver asked, getting out of the car.
He was holding a photocopy of Leslie's driver license's photo.
«Yes?» the doctor replied, concerned.
A second cop got out of the passenger seat of the patrol car and got his radio out.
«We have them, captain. They are unharmed. They just arrived at the uncle's residence.»
«We've been looking for you, Miss Thompkins», the first officer explained. «You've been reported as an abduction victim.»
###
Renee glared at Falcone. Then she glared some more. The old man, who was sitting on the other side of the table in Giulia's elegant living room, just sipped his coffee and smiled.
«Am I to ever be tortured for information?» the cop asked. «Executed and thrown in the river? Or is it going to be weekly tea parties 'til the end of time?»
The crime lord lifted his eyebrows.
«I'm not a barbarian, Renee. I don't generally approve of spies, but I'm not going to fault you for doing your job, especially since Giulia assures me that she recognized you from day one and made sure you couldn't get any information. If you had not seen me, you would probably have been freed. As things are, you did see me, and I can't risk releasing you yet. But you will be.»
«Allow me to doubt that.»
«You will be. You saved Giulia and her sons. She considers herself in your debt, she wants you unharmed and free. When it is convenient for everyone involved.»
The old saying was «the enemy of my enemy is my friend», and Carmine seemed to be a traditionalist. Still, an alliance between the Falcone and the Maroni was unheard off. Of course, the only thing Giulia had in common with Sal seemed to be their sons. Her approach of organized crime was cooler, actually organized, and - while she had vocal outbursts - she could not be lured into brash retaliation and careless attacks. It explained why Cobblepot's head was still squarely on his shoulders. She was doing a good «job» - if leading a crime family could be called that - and it was not that much of a stretch that Carmine would approve of her methods.
«I still don't think you got out of my basement cell just for coffee and cannoli», Renee pointed out.
«No. No. I do want information. But let's be civil. I'll just ask.»
«And I'll just shut up.»
Falcone clicked his tongue.
«I don't expect the deep secrets of the GCPD. I already know them. I want your input on Barbara Kean.»
Renee froze, staring at him in shock.
«Barbara Kean», he repeated. «It is my understanding that the two of you used to be involved.»
«What do you want with Barbara Kean?»
«Ah. Of course. You wouldn't know, you haven't been reading the news. Had she already escaped from Arkham when you were captured?»
Escaped was not the term Montoya remembered. She knew about a raid on Arkham Asylum and an abduction. That was what the news had been saying. It had not occurred to her that Barbara could have orchestrated the whole thing, not without knowledge of the criminal world and contacts there. But Barb' had plenty of contacts elsewhere. A friend of a friend of a friend could have helped her out. She was not without resources. And she was driven. Renee had only managed to visit her once in the asylum, and Barbara's grinning, empty coldness had scared her. She knew from their past the blonde could be mean, and angry, and spiteful, but it had always been at her lowest. Happy Barbara was caring and warm, and would tease you and comfort you and drag you to parties, and dance for hours with a smile on her face. She was not one to smirk at you with dark pleasure, and to tell you «It's a shame I didn't get Thompkins, but I'll do better next time».
«What happened?» the cop asked.
Falcone had a folder brought to him, and opened it on case file photocopies and news clippings.
«She's making quite a name for herself. Armed robbery, so far», he explained, handing her a folded newspaper page. «The odd murder. It's a bit concerning, really. We're not altogether sure she's affiliated with Cobblepot, but her choice of 'sidekick' did raise that question. She has been spotted with Butch Gilzean, who is known for his previous allegiances to Penguin and Fish Mooney.»
Renee knew Gilzean. He was the dumb, cowardly asshole who had acted as Fish's right hand for years. He was the brawn to her brains, since he had none of the later, but he'd been good at organizing her men and bringing theatrics to the missions she gave him. He believed himself a great comedian. He was also-
«That makes no sense. Gilzean held her hostage, when people found out Cobblepot was alive. She would have been terrified of him.»
Carmine picked patient files out of his folder and pretended to read them.
«Miss Kean's psychiatrists are not quite sure of what her problem is - they do use a lot of obscure terminology - but they seem to agree on her no longer being able to experience fear.»
Renee reached for the photocopies, but Falcone pushed them away.
«I would not recommend reading this. Not if you ever had any kind of fondness for miss Kean. Those notes are very… Detailed. Let's just say Barbara's ability to feel anything was severely crippled, and leave it at that.»
The detective wanted to read it all anyway, just in case there was the slightest chance of recovery, mentions of treatments that might work, anything.
«So what, you think Penguin somehow hired her to steal some paintings she happened to know about?»
«He might have. We'll find out. But there's a more pressing issue. An hour ago, miss Kean managed to trick Jim Gordon into delivering himself to her. She had him believe she held his girlfriend hostage. He has not yet been found, and a great many people are looking for them, trust me on that.»
«What?»
«It was a very well planned operation. The timing was perfect, the car's exit route defended by armed men. Gordon's weapons and phone were disposed of first thing… Anyway, the vehicle could not be followed. Now, detective Gordon recently rescued me from a very bad spot. I'm in his debt. Which is why I came to you as the only available person who knows Barbara Kean. Where would she go? Where would she hide? Do you have any clue?»
Renee looked down at the Gazette's article about the robbery at the Cohen's. There were two pictures of Barbara: a mugshot, and one of those tabloids candid shots from a charity gala.
She pushed the page towards Falcone.
«I don't know. I have no idea. This is not Barbara anymore.»
###
Jim found himself alone on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, in the rain, with no shoes. There was nothing he could do now, except find a phone, call the precinct, and explain what had happened, so he started walking. He didn't really feel much. He did not really notice when the rocks on the road cut into his feet to the point of bleeding. He didn't pay attention to the cold.
Weeks of repeated failure and frustration were coming crashing down, washing him out.
He wasn't one to ever stop and reflect on what had gone wrong. That was the trick. You never stopped. If you did, you never started moving again.
So he had to go back, report, and then do… Something. He did not know what yet, since every single step towards his goals had brought at best nothing, and at worst grief. Nothing was ever fixed, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and the tunnel moved steadily down into the abyss. You didn't fight crime in Gotham, you fought ever-spreading rot that could not be cut nor burned down, and that would taint and twist everything it touched. It was a sickness of the mind you could catch if you were not prepared.
Harvey was right. Jim finally got it, why there could be no heroes in Gotham. It had finally sunk in. You could endure the pain and be ready to die for your goals, be ready to be gunned down in an alley or gutted in a slaughterhouse, it did not matter at all, because the currency you kept putting on the table was never you. You paid with someone else's pain and someone else's blood, and to reach your goals - up, up, up - you had to be willing to stand on a pile of corpses.
He looked down and noticed the blood on his hands, all of it Barbara's. Revulsion forced him to the ground, and he washed the stains away in a puddle, wiping the mud on his pants, rubbing his skin raw. Then he heaved, and puked, and got up - soldier through it - or he'd have broken down into sobs and never moved again.
One foot in front of the other. Put one foot in front of the other. And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor…
A car drove past him, then another, and then he realized he could have hitchhiked. He did, getting a truck to stop.
«You alright?» the driver asked when he got in. «What happened to you?»
«I was robbed», Jim replied.
It was much simpler, and easier to believe.
«They sure dropped you far enough. Going to the city?»
«Yeah. If you could drive me anywhere that has a phone, I'd be grateful. I just need to call someone to come pick me up…»
«Sure. There's a motel five miles away. Won't be a long ride.»
«Thanks. Thanks.»
A few minutes later, the man parked on the motel's parking, and handed him five dollars in change, a can of coke, and a pack of Oreos. That little mercy nearly had Jim weeping.
«Good luck», the stranger said. «I hope your friends can get here soon.»
The cop nodded.
«Thanks again. You have no idea how grateful I am for this», he said, shaking the man's hand.
Goodbyes were exchanged and the car drove away, leaving Jim standing alone in front of the motel. He considered going in, but there was a phone booth outside, and using that phone did not require facing people. He walked to it, put a coin in, and tried to remember the precinct's number. He did. Then the idea of talking to someone there seemed like too much, so he called Harvey instead.
«Bullock?» his friend snapped.
The blond found himself without a voice.
«Jim, Jim, is that you?» Harvey asked.
Jim breathed in.
«Leslie is d-»
«LESLIE IS FINE», his partner shouted into his phone. «She's fine, she's okay.»
Except that wasn't true.
«No, no», Jim corrected him, so, so tired. «She's dead. Barbara ordered her killed. I heard her being shot.»
«She's fine! She was never abducted, Kean got her phone. Just her phone!»
The blond blinked and found himself sitting on the pavement. He curled up. It didn't register.
«Sarah is on the phone with Lee right now», Bullock added. «We had the NYPD looking for her everywhere, they found her at her uncle's. She's at the station, she's safe, nothing is going to happen to her. Are you okay?»
No.
«Jim?»
Harvey waited.
«Jim. Jim, I'm coming to pick you up - shit - where are you? Can someone find me what that fucking number is?» he shouted, moving away from his phone. «Jim? Are you hurt?»
«I'm okay», Gordon said.
Then he sobbed.
###