Fifth Avenue.
10:47 p.m.
Metropolis at night slid by him in the window, a glowing panoply of life and light. Every store window lit up in the accoutrements of a post-Christmas, pre-Valentine's Day spending glut. He almost thought about asking Mercy to pull over so he could revel in the utter humanity of it all.
But business called. And after the Joker, anyway, he needed a bit of a reprieve.
The limousine drove past Schonenfeld's Men's Store. Luthor leaned back in the seat and touched his chin thoughtfully. The limo stopped at a red light—the intersection of Fifth and Breeding. Luthor looked forward.
"How long?"
"Five minutes."
"Good," he said and looked out the window. On the other side of the glass, an elderly couple were stopped in front of the Stacys window display. The woman, a hunched geriatric, was buried underneath a mink coat and a loose pillbox hat. The man wore a tweed walking hat—probably a relic from a childhood spent in the Old Country—and a navy peacoat. Aviator-style eyeglasses hung off a bulbous nose.
Luthor inhaled slowly. The mink bedecked woman pointed at a model Lionel train winding its way around another model of the WGBS building. The peacoat man rolled his eyes and pulled her away. Luthor pursed his lips.
The limo lurched forward, leaving Stacys behind.
He stared out the window a moment longer.
"She'll be in the middle of her nightly crossword," Luthor said from behind thin and motionless lips. "Wondering how many E's in therapeutic."
The Halldorf Hotel.
10:30 p.m.
Bruce tells me to go home after I tell him Luthor left for the night. No point in pursuit, he tells me; we don't want to drive him off. I agree, and I find the alley off Breeding Street, where I left the spare clothes satchel.
Its twenty minutes across town on main streets before I get back to the hotel. The doorman looks only so surprised to see me waltzing up the drive in jeans and a sheepskin bomber jacket—the kind with the all-too-comfortable fleece around the neckline. Even so, he does his job and lets me in, and for his troubles I give him five bucks. As I walk across the lobby, I start cataloguing. Everything.
The desk attendant looks harmless enough: a slightly older girl than me—eighteen by the looks of her—with too much makeup. The white oxford she's wearing, probably a hotel mandate, is too tight and shows off her less than ample goods for God and everyone. Her hair looks gawdy: dark brown fry-curled at the bangs and pulled back to the crown, then free hanging. Here eyebrows are nonexistent, and chapped skin shows through the ruby wax covering her lips. She's got that Cleopatra kind of eyeliner going on—so much that either she just woke up, or she should trade up on abusive boyfriends.
She puts down the Cosmo magazine when I reach the desk and smiles, showing yellow teeth. Probably smokes on her breaks. Probably took this job to satisfy her parents—and by default, probably did something to really piss them off. A maxed out credit card or three, maybe.
"Help you?" she asks and cracks her gum.
"Uh, Tim Drake in 509. I seem to have misplaced my room key. I don't suppose I could get a replacement?" It's a true enough story. I was in such a rush to get to LexCorp that I changed into my suit and left the room card on the bathroom counter. Stupid.
"Sure," she says. She turns around and roots through a filing cabinet for a minute or two. When she turns back around, she hands me a small manila envelope with 509 embossed on one side, and eases back into her seat. Her oxford struggles to stay buttoned, and for a moment I think she's going to stupid lengths just to show me whatever she thinks I'm interested in. "It's a magnetized card. I'm sure you've seen them before."
"Yeah. Thanks."
I turn to leave, and she winks at me. I let out a small puff of air that passes for amusement.
"Oh," she says. I turn around and she's holding an oblong cardboard box in one hand. "This was delivered earlier. Said it was for your eyes only."
Interesting. "Thanks."
Five minutes later I'm in 509, sitting on the ottoman at the foot of Bruce's bed. Staring at the box in my lap.
"Hmm."
It looks like anything delivered by UPS, only no address tag. Just my name scrawled on the outside and underlined twice. Way to emphasize importance. I stare at it for five minutes before rolling my eyes.
"Oh hell," I say. The sides are fold-out wings, and they open pretty easily. I pull the lid back, and there it is.
A Beretta. Jet-black, 9mm, probably a 1951 model by the grooves and barrel design. Loaded, too. A yellow post-it note is nestled in an open space between the hammer and one corner. It read in small caps "arm yourself."
Droll.
Strange. This is an Italian gun. Used by Italians, made by Italians. It's not surprising to me that it's stateside (Metropolis is a big town, and before Luthor hit it big, it was a mob town under the late Gazzo family). But there are only so many people that could get this gun straight from the manufacturer, like this nice and shiny and perfectly unfired one seems to be. It is, however, surprising to me that it was delivered to Tim Drake.
Luthor knows Robin is here. He doesn't know Tim Drake is.
So either he's baiting me for reasons unknown.
Or else he's figured it out.
Shit.
Stryker's Island Metahuman Penitentiary.
4:02 a.m.
Batman sat, slightly hunched, in a metal chair at the far end of a folding table. The room around him was typically drab—the atmosphere meant to convey some kind of futility. That whoever entered…this was their last chance at saving themselves.
At squealing.
And squeal they did.
Superman had taken Winslow Schott up to the roof and dangled him by his shoelaces. After ten surprisingly long minutes and a change of underpants, Schott caved.
Told Batman everything.
Joker had been in town for a little under a week. In that time, he'd ingratiated himself with Luthor enough to swindle the Metropolis Mogul out of a missile that had slipped through one of LexCorp's piles of military contracts. Or so Schott said. Batman couldn't be sure of the truth.
Schott made them a deal. He played stoolpigeon in exchange for consideration on his sentence, and took the World's Finest to an abandoned rathole warehouse behind the Endymion Theater in Bakerline. The previous tenant had been someone Schott referred to only by the name Teng.
The name rang enough of a bell to unnerve Superman.
He took Schott back to Stryker's and told him to burn on his deal.
At the Bakerline warehouse, Batman discovered traces of radiation. A rather sizeable trail, too—this meant it was recently moved in and even more recently moved out. For locations unknown.
That was three hours ago. Batman's been sitting in one of the Penitentiary's interrogation rooms ever since, going over the information in his mind.
Schott knew the warehouse. Knew exactly where it was. He knew there was radioactive material moved in and moved out soon thereafter, and he seemed appropriately concerned about it—not just to save his own hide, but for the same reason anyone's afraid of radiation.
In a world of super-heroes, genetic mutations aren't all they're cracked up to be—especially ones from nuclear sludge.
"That was too easy," Superman said. He was hovering a constant foot above the ground, tracing the outline of the table. To the unsuspecting eye, he was pacing.
"Yes," Batman said. "All roads lead to the same point."
"Schott knew about the warehouse and whatever was there, despite being in prison. What if Luthor got word to him in prison? You think Luthor would be that lazy?"
"He knows I'm on him," Batman said. "I suspect he's worried enough, with both Joker and I in the picture. When he figures out you're in the investigation, he might just lose it."
"Well, he's too smart not to suspect me. "Superman nodded compliantly. "So what do we do?"
Batman inhaled. Behind the star-lite lenses, his eyes searched the room looking for answers.
"LexCorp's contracts with Washington probably allowed some prototypes to fall through logistical holes. Hypothesize that a convoy gets conveniently left behind at a weigh-station out in the middle of nowhere. What are the chances a truck with LexCorp's logo on it gets hijacked by the Joker?"
Superman stopped hovering and landed. "You think the Joker stole whatever was stinking up that place with plutonium?"
"No," Batman said. "I think it was given to him."
1938 Sullivan Street.
11:15 p.m.
Won't she be surprised.
No need to play it up or down. Just straightforward. Ring the damn bell.
Ding dong.
Roll your eyes at the ridiculous sound effect the thing gives off. Maybe you should buy her a new doorbell. Or pay for a doorman. She could use one.
Time seems to stop, and you wait, uncharacteristically patient, for her top open. Hands that sound vaguely human scratch at the locks behind the door. The deadbolt. Then the turnstile. Then the sliding chain at last. The door opens, and she's standing there in a pink robe. Her hair is loose—almost passes for messy—and she looks quite different without cosmetics. But you're used to that. Heck…this is like a little reunion.
One chance to do this. One chance to make up for everything. Don't play innocent, don't play nice. Just hold out the damn roses.
"Lois," you say and don't hold back on the smile. "Hello."
Continued...