A/N I'm starting to think this story should be renamed The Case of the Missing Authoress! Apologies again for the delay. I'm having an awful time getting into the writing rhythm this summer and it's driving me crazy!

Chapter 2

Change means movement. Movement means friction. Only in the frictionless vacuum of a nonexistent abstract world can movement or change occur without that abrasive friction of conflict.

- Saul Alinsky

"Well, I thought that went pretty well," Trevor said as he parked his car next to one of the few spots along Gotham's river that wasn't considered life threatening. "I mean, your dad spent the entire afternoon glaring at me, except of course when he took time off to glare at you for laughing when Jimmy spilled the cranberry sauce down Sarah's sweater. Your grandmother almost split her personality by trying to be a gracious hostess while also freezing Sarah out, and you almost blew our cover by trying to show Sarah up as ignorant. You want to tell me what that was all about, Babs?"

"It's Barbara," she said coolly, "and I did not almost blow our cover."

"Oh yeah, because every senior at Bailey knows that most of Gotham's sex slave traffic actually comes out of Myanmar and not Thailand like she claimed the police thought."

"A fact which I could have very easily learned from your father, as I claimed, since he has a lot of business in that part of the world."

"It's a good thing our fathers don't actually talk to each other."

Babs scowled and muttered, "I don't know why she was talking about slave traffic on Christmas Day, anyway."

"Oh, maybe because you led her there." Trevor threw up his hands to forestall her protest. "Look, I didn't bring you out here to argue. But if you can't handle the simple fact that your daddy's got a girlfriend, maybe we need to rethink this partnership."

She flushed furiously, but as she looked at his serious face, the color slowly drained from her own. "You're right," she finally admitted. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

She leaned back in her seat and stared out the window at the December twilight. He watched her moodily, feeling the familiar frustration gnawing away at his self possession. Two years ago, when they had first formed their partnership, they had come to the mutual conclusion that a dating relationship was by far the best cover. Babs, however, had made it clear that she was consenting only for the sake of camouflage, and she had laid down a strict list of rules governing his behavior. Trevor had agreed without complaint, confident that within six months she would have forgotten all about her little list. Two years later, she had yet to bend even one of the rules, but his determination to convince her to do so had only grown stronger.

After what he judged a decent amount of time to let her cool down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a narrow box. "Merry Christmas," he said holding it out to her.

She took it wordlessly and opened it. Inside lay a watch with a band of delicate titanium links and an ivory face inscribed with Roman numerals.

"There's a recorder inside that will hold up to two hours. You can turn it on and off by pushing the button that adjusts the hands."

"Wow, this is great," she thanked him, picking up the watch and turning it over. T.W. + B.G. was inscribed on the back. "That was unnecessary," she muttered.

"I don't think so, considering that it's from your boyfriend of two years."

She made a face but laid it back in the box without further comment.

"I'd better get you home before your dad puts out an APB on us."

She nodded absently. "Yeah, maybe you'd better."

"I don't suppose you'd like to kiss me first for the sake of the season or anything."

She slipped the box into her purse, not looking at him as she answered, "Trevor, this is and always will be a business relationship, and when you pretend to forget that, it really gets on my nerves."

He rolled his eyes and put the car into reverse. "You could really stand to work on your concept of Christmas spirit."

"Don't push me, Trevor. It hasn't exactly been a good day."

As always, the front door to Wayne Manor swung open before Alex could knock.

"Dr. Peaceable, good evening."

"Hello, Alfred. I'm sorry to barge in on Christmas, but I really need to see Mr. Wayne for a few minutes."

"Yes, of course. If you'll just wait in the small library, I'll him know you're here."

The small library had very little resemblance to any kind of actual book collection, and Alex suspected that it had been created precisely for the purpose of stowing unexpected visitors until they could be dealt with. The butler helped him off with his coat, and, with the reassurance that Wayne would be with him shortly, left.

Alex sank into an overstuffed leather chair and wondered uneasily what his employer's reaction was going to be to the news he was about to reveal. After coming perilously close to crashing and burning all those months ago, Alex had created a surprisingly solid working relationship with Bruce Wayne. The tutor credited the miracle to a change in his own perspective. Instead of despising the billionaire as a vain, shallow, and completely irresponsible playboy, Alex now pitied him as a man still haunted by his own painful past. Alex had also accepted that Wayne was willing to take full responsibility for at least one area of his life when it came to the well being of his ward. Although the personal interactions of the two men were still conducted with a formal politeness, the barely veiled animosity of the first few months was gone.

Alex was meditating into the glowing depths of a seasonally appropriate fireplace when he heard the door open and footsteps announced Wayne's presence. "Dr. Peaceable, this a little unexpected. I don't suppose you dropped by just to wish me a Merry Christmas."

"No. That is, I do hope it was very merry."

Wayne smiled faintly. "It was, thank you. How is your mother?" At Alex's startled look he explained, "Dick's mentioned meeting her."

"She's doing very well, thank you." Wayne dropped into the chair across from him, and Alex resumed his own seat. "For the past year, I've been corresponding with a South American mathematician. I don't know whether Dick has told you anything about my own work…"

Bruce shook his head. "Not really."

"I'm not surprised. It's abstruse and pretty dull stuff unless you happen to be into math, but suffice it to say that this professor is one of the world's leading authorities on what I happen to be interested in."

"He needs funding?" Wayne guessed.

"No!" Alex exclaimed with more force than necessary, horrified at the thought that Wayne would think he was asking for a handout. "But he has invited me to come and spend three months with him in Colombia."

"I see," Wayne said slowly. "But that interferes with your contract here, doesn't it?"

Alex hastily plunged on. "Here's what I'm thinking: Dr. Marquéz has great DSL, despite the fact that he more or less lives in the middle of the rainforest. I've actually had a video conversation with him. I'm sure I can do Dick's lessons the same way. And it will only be for three months." He was embarrassed to hear the note of pleading that had crept into his voice. "I realize it's not ideal, but this is the chance of a lifetime for me."

Wayne nodded. "I can appreciate that. I'll discuss it with Alfred and Dick, but on the surface I don't see any problem with the idea."

Feeling gratitude toward Bruce Wayne was a novel experience for Alex, but he embraced it gladly. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"Thank the Internet. Otherwise, I'd be sending him with you." Wayne paused, then smiled. "On second thought, Colombia isn't the healthiest of atmospheres. I'd have to transplant your foreign genius here instead."

"I'm afraid you'd find that a little difficult. Dr. Marquéz is very reclusive."

Wayne looked cynical. "Everyone's for sale, Peaceable. Some people's price is just a little more original than most. That's all."

Did he really have to go and ruin the moment? Alex exasperatedly asked himself, but he refused to let Wayne's, well, Wayne-ness, taint his good mood and stood to leave. "Thanks again. I'll go now and let you spend the rest of your Christmas in peace."

Wayne nodded and offered his hand. "Good night," he said as they shook. "And Merry Christmas."

Batman peered at the riddle through the evidence bag.

"The answer is teeth," Gordon offered, just in case the Bat wasn't up on old riddles. "And it was sitting on a pillow surrounded by a ring of them."

"The victim's?"

"Yes. Except…there was an odd thing. One of the teeth was false, and it didn't belong to the body. We got DNA off it, and it belongs to a woman, but no one related to the victim. We have no idea who the real owner might be."

"You think it's the killer's? She's leaving clues to her own identity?"

Gordon shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. It could have been done by a woman. The killer forced the lock on a window while the victim was asleep and duct taped his hands and ankles together and his mouth shut. Then she used a scalpel to destroy his vocal chords. Knew just where to cut to leave him alive."

"Did you find the knife?"

"No, but the M.E. says it had to be a surgical blade."

"After making sure he couldn't yell, she pulled out his teeth," the Bat guessed.

"Yep, and then smothered him with his own pillow. She took the tape off, tucked him in, arranged the teeth with the riddle, and then pushed over a china cabinet in the living room. That's what alerted the neighbor."

"Why?"

"As far as we can tell, nothing else in the apartment was touched, so either the killer wanted to make it hard to discover that something in that cabinet was gone or she just wanted to attract attention."

"Without the noise, how long would it have been before someone would have noticed that he was missing."

"Could have been a while. As far as we can discover he had no family and no close friends. He also worked at home."

"Who was he?"

"Gilbert James Osmond, although he only published his work under his initials. He was a cartoonist for the Gotham Globe."

"G. J. O.," Batman muttered. "Isn't that…"

"The artist for the Anti-Bat strip? That's the one."

Six months ago, a new cartoon had appeared in the Gotham Globe funny pages. Simply called Anti-Bat, it dealt exclusively in highly vitriolic commentary on the Batman, accusing him of everything from organized crime to Neo-Nazism. Despite attempts by both Bat supporters and antagonists to contact him, the artist had remained elusive, known only by the GJO scrawled in the corner of each strip.

"Someone finally caught up with him," the Bat muttered, handing back the evidence bag.

"Did you ever look into him?" Gordon asked.

"I had no reason to."

"He didn't like you very much."

"Lots of people don't like me. I worry about the ones with guns, not the ones with pens."

Gordon sighed. "I wish I could say the same. Ever since Loeb came back from Metropolis and got reappointed as Commissioner, he's been all over my back. He's desperate for a way to fire me."

"We'll handle Loeb," the Bat promised.

Gordon eyed his masked ally uneasily. "I wish I had your optimism. Loeb's got a lot of influence."

The Bat remained unperturbed. "So do I. So do we."

Dick turned up the collar of his shabby, too-thin coat and huddled closer to the wall, waiting for the current gust of wind to die down before he headed on. He had been drifting around Gotham's streets for a couple of hours, looking and memorizing. Bruce had impressed upon him that paper knowledge of the city wasn't enough – personal observation turned up all sorts of discoveries that weren't recorded on maps but which could literally be lifesavers in the right situation. It was only in the last month that Dick had finally convinced his guardian that he could go solo on these innocuous expeditions, but as much as he enjoyed the freedom of roaming the streets alone, he was ready to call it a day and go home to thaw his extremities.

The wind's pitch dropped a notch and he moved on, keeping his head down but still noting that a previously useful fire escape on an apartment building was now broken and that the convenience store next to it had boarded its windows. He drifted to the end of the street, plotting a winding route to the train station, and took refuge in a drugstore doorway to wait out another particularly bitter burst of wind. He could hear excited shouting around the corner, and he edged curiously around the building. A soccer game was in full swing in the parking lot, despite the biting late December cold and the hazardous patches of ice that spotted the cracked asphalt. Even as Dick watched, one of the players slipped and landed hard, but he bounced up again and pelted toward the far end of the lot to defend his goal.

Dick huddled against the wall and tried to pick out who belonged to which team. It wasn't difficult and he soon had the boys sorted into their opposing sides. One team was mostly black kids. They played well, coordinating moves and acting as a unit. The other team was composed of a variety of races, and they were on the whole smaller and less organized. However, they were definitely scrappy and they seemed to know the lot better than their opponents since they rarely tripped over the potholes. Dick smiled as the shortest member of this team ran straight up to a guy twice his size who was barreling down the lot with the ball and tried to steal it. He didn't succeed, but he forced a pass which was intercepted by his team. The short kid made an insulting gesture before turning away, but as he did, his opponent stuck out a foot and tripped him.

The kid hit the ground hard, and when he tried to get up, his leg gave out and he fell back down. "Time out!" somebody screamed, and the next minute the short kid's team was huddled around him. One of them, slightly taller than Dick and wearing a red hat, pulled the little guy to his feet and helped him limp to the sidelines. The tallest member of the other team followed them, and when the trio stopped, they were close enough to Dick to let him eavesdrop.

"Are you ok, Demetrios?" the little guy was being asked by his teammate.

"Yeah. I just twisted it. Sprained it a little, maybe. Man, mama's gonna kill me!"

"And me too. You'd better sit the rest of the game out."

"What game?" the captain (Dick assumed) of the other team sneered. "You're a man down, Niko Freako."

"So we'll play a man down and still kick your butts." The kid in the red hat glared up fiercely.

"Ah, no, sorry. The rules are you play a full team or you don't play at all. These are the playoffs, Freako."

"I can still play," the short kid piped up.

"No way," Niko snapped. "You could really get hurt. Just give me five minutes and I'll find another player."

"Timeouts are only two minutes. That was in the rules too, or maybe you don't know how to read. Well it was nice … not playing with you." The tall kid laughed and started to walk away.

Niko looked around desperately. "Hey, you!" he shouted in Dick's direction.

Dick glanced around and realized that he was the one being addressed. "Me?" he asked as Niko jogged up.

"Yeah. You ever played soccer?"

"Not much," Dick answered cautiously.

"Look, it's the south side playoffs, and if I lose this game we're out. You don't even really gotta play. Just stand out there so that I have a full team. Here," he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a bill. "Five bucks, it's all I got."

"Keep the money," Dick said before he realized that he'd made up his mind. "I'll play."

"Thanks, man," Niko said fervently before leading the way out onto the lot. "Stop celebrating!" he shouted at the opposing team who were slapping each other on the back. "I got my substitute."

Their captain looked Dick up and down contemptuously, then shrugged. "All right, Freako. Your funeral."

Niko grit his teeth and clenched his fists as the other boy turned away. "That guy is such a dick," he muttered, then shrugged as if he was shaking something off his back. "By the way, I'm Niko," he offered, turning back.

"D…R…ick. I'm Rick," Dick managed, mentally kicking himself for not having dealt with the problem of his nickname before this.

Niko's eyes narrowed momentarily, but he shrugged again and started pointing out the rest of the team. "That's Carlos, Pete, Manny, Sun, Jake, Tim, Stefano, Lucas, and Little Joe. Our goal is that way, so don't kick the ball there, and don't touch the ball with your hands."

Dick, now Rick, grinned. "I do know that much."

"Great." Niko made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Everyone, this is Rick, he's on our team. Let's play."

The ball exploded out of a knot of boys, and Dick suddenly found himself in the middle of a merciless melee. There was no ref, and neither side had any scruples about tripping, elbow gouging, or name calling. All in all, it was not unlike a street fight, and Rick soon got his bearings and managed to block a pass by the other team and transfer the ball to Tim before getting shoved from behind. He scrambled up in time to receive a congratulatory slap on the back from Niko as he raced past.

Rather than playing timed halves, the street playoff games ran to a set number of points, four in this case. Fifteen minutes after Rick entered the game, the teams were tied at three and the light was fading fast. Pushed the current of the players, he slipped on a patch of ice and skidded to the sidelines, just inside of bounds. Before he had quite caught his balance, the ball cannoned toward him, arriving at shoulder level a couple of feet to the left. Without thinking, he jumped and kicked. The ball shot past the shocked defense and squeaked into the top corner of the goal as the goalie's lunge landed him face first in a pile of slush.

The next thing Rick knew, he was mobbed by all ten of his teammates who were screaming and dealing out forceful high fives. "I though you hadn't played much soccer!" Niko yelled, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him joyfully. "That was amazing! I've never seen anyone kick like that!"

"I've played other sports, with uh…kicking in them," Rick offered weakly.

"Whatever, man. If you wanna play soccer, you can play for me, anytime!"

Rick grinned. "Thanks." After another minute of celebrating, he unobtrusively slipped out of the edge of the crowd and headed for the train station.

"Hey, Rick, where you going?"

He looked back to see Niko shouting after him. "I'm late for dinner!"

"Remember, anytime you want to play!"

"I will!" He waved and resumed walking, trying to remember the last time he had felt so pleased.

To Be Continued

A/N As always, a tremendous thank you to all reviewers – your response to the last chapter was wonderful. Please keep it up!