A/N Ergh. I can't believe I've averaged a grand total of one chapter a month this summer! Sigh. The harsh realities of graduate school are really settling in this semester. I promise I will not give up on this story, but the updates will probably continue to be slow. sad pandas abound On the bright side, I did get a lot of work done on an original piece this summer (go me!), and this chapter is lovely and long. Enjoy, my wonderful reviewers!
Disclaimer See Chapter 1.
Chapter 3
Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend.
- Agatha Christie
Bruce picked up the ends of his tie and frowned intently into the bathroom mirror.
"You should just wait for Alfred," Richard informed him from his seat on the counter.
"I can tie my own tie, Dick."
"Rick, Bruce, it's Rick now. One letter different, how hard can that be to remember?"
"You know, the first time you met Alfred you made a point of being called Dick."
"I was eight, what did I know about the crudities of the world?" Richard idly pulled open a drawer and rummaged through its contents. "Can I have this?" he asked, holding up an electric razor by its neatly coiled cord.
"For what? Your teddy bear?"
"I have been shaving for two months. I think I deserve a little respect."
"You mean you've been plucking for two months … agh!" Bruce's cry of anguish was inspired not by Richard's threatening move with the razor but by the suddenly lopsided bow in his hand. Pulling the crumpled tie free from around his neck, he picked up a fresh one.
"And I have my own shaving equipment, thank you. Actually, I wanted it for parts. The micro-blades come in handy."
"Go ahead, I upgraded two months ago."
"Thanks." Richard sat tossing the razor in one hand, watching with interest as Bruce mutilated his second tie and punctuated the occasion with a few foreign expressions. "Alfred said you're not supposed to speak Chinese in front of me," the boy remarked.
"That wasn't Chinese. Now shut up before I use that thing on your head."
Prodded by the remark, Richard curiously examined his physiognomy in the mirror. "Do you think I should dye my hair? It's such a weird color."
Bruce spared a second from his tie-bowing efforts to glance at his ward. Richard's hair had slowly darkened over the years, from light gold to a murky shade that was neither blond nor brown.
"Tanya suggested black," the boy suggested, "but I don't know."
"Who's Tanya?"
"She works in the stables at the club. Blond, about one twenty-five, I'd say a size … six."
Bruce stared at him. "Since when do you estimate women's sizes?"
Richard leaned back on his hands and quoted glibly, "'A man should be able to size a woman at first glance. I personally believe that knowing a woman's size will tell you a lot about the way she sees the world, and consequently, tell you whether you want to date her.' You said that in a People interview two years ago."
Bruce frowned dourly, although whether it was because of his ward or his demolished third tie was unclear. "If you ever quote an interview to me again, I will personally see to it that you eat the paper it was printed on. What is wrong with these ties?"
"The same thing that is always wrong with them, sir," Alfred's longsuffering voice said from the doorway."
"I mean, it's not like I don't ever tie one successfully," Bruce griped, allowing his butler to take over.
"One in seven seems to be your average, sir," Alfred informed him, stepping back to view his handiwork with a critical eye. "That ought to do."
"Thanks," Bruce sighed, reaching for his jacket. "You sure you don't want to come, kid?"
"I know, how can I stand to pass up this brilliant opportunity to watch a bunch of people dressed up like penguins get drunk?"
"You've been watching Mary Poppins again, and I thought you'd like the opportunity to practice your sizing."
"Nah, that's what we have five hundred channels for."
Alfred's eyebrows rose marginally as he glanced from one smirking male to the other. "By the way, Master Wayne, I blocked channels 69 and 147 as you requested, as well as 111, 134, 156, and 345."
"69!" Richard exclaimed. "I told you that was research!"
"Yeah, research. Like that one hasn't been tried before." Bruce said as he buttoned his jacket.
"By you, sir, if memory serves," Alfred put in.
"Five hundred channels, and all I'm allowed to watch is BBC News and the Discovery Channel," Richard mourned.
"Don't forget PBS," Bruce said brightly. "You need more Mr. Rogers in your life."
Ten minutes later, Bruce was behind the wheel of his Audi, speeding toward Gotham's biggest New Year's Eve bash. The great thing about New Year's Eve, he reflected, was that you could disappear when the clock struck twelve, and everyone would just assume you had moved on to another party. The down side was that he would have to put up an even bigger pretense of partying than usual. He would, of course, end up fully clothed in the pool, a move that had almost become his trademark. The party wasn't considered a success unless he allowed some idiot to sneak up behind him and shove him into whatever water was available. Tonight it would be the pool. At least, he was fairly certain it was too cold for the fountains to be running.
He pulled up in front of Casino Windsor and let an obsequious valet get his door. There was a red carpet rolled out to the curb, and another attendant with an umbrella to shield him from the icy pellets that had begun to rain down. A flurry of clicks and flashes pursued him toward the door, no doubt belonging to representatives of media outlets not fortunate enough to get an invitation inside. Anyone, of course, could come and play, but the special holiday cover charge, if not waived by an invitation, was so ridiculously high that it simply wasn't worth it to many of the smaller papers. The reporters would get their snow blurred shots of arrivals and then go home to warm beds or parties of their own. Bruce felt a brief stab of envy as he crossed into the hotel's warmth, but New Year's Eve was simply one of those things that couldn't be helped.
Rather than heading toward the casino floor, he made his way to the front desk of the hotel lobby. "Would you ring Ms. Couture's room for me, please?" he asked.
"Of course, Mr. Wayne," the desk attendant said politely. She had no doubt been primed with photographs of every expected guest worth more than five million. "You can go right up," she told him after she had made the call. "Suite 3790."
"Thanks," Bruce said and headed toward the elevators.
Irina Couture was the hottest new thing on the Paris fashion runways. Half Russian, half French, blond, size 0, she was also Bruce Wayne's latest flavor of the month, as Gotham Gossip put it. They had been seen together three times in the last two weeks, and Bruce had already determined that tonight would be the last. Fortunately, he was convinced that Irina was using him much as he was using her – for the sake of the press – so it shouldn't be difficult to engage her attention with another lucrative option.
It took her almost a minute to answer his knock, and when she did she obviously wasn't ready to go since her feet were bare. "Come in," she invited, some vaguely European accent tingeing her words. He guessed that her English was probably perfect and that the accent was for effect only. She tilted up her cheek and he obediently kissed it, trying not to wrinkle his nose at her overpowering perfume.
"Ready to see in the New Year the American way?" he asked lightly as she led him into the suite.
"I am looking forward to it," she purred, waving him toward a seat. "Shall we have a drink before we go down?"
"Thanks, but I prefer to start at the party," he said casually, dropping onto the sofa. It was easier to hide the liquor in a room full of people.
She hesitated at the mini bar, her hand already curled around a bottle of cognac. "We could start the party up here."
Bruce resigned himself and accepted the glass of amber liquid. "To the most beautiful thing in the room," he said easily, lifting his booze in her direction as she perched on the arm of the sofa.
"Bruce, you are so sweet!" She touched her glass to his and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. "I was wondering if I might ask a small favor of you tonight."
"Only a small one?" he questioned, trying to keep the cynicism out of his voice.
"Very small. There is a man I would like to meet."
He lifted a dark eyebrow. "Introduce you to other men? That would be quite a sacrifice on my part."
"Hardly." She gave a tinkling laugh, then placed a finger under his chin and leaned close. "Everyone knows that four dates is Bruce Wayne's absolute limit."
It was a frequently repeated statistic in the tabloids, and he didn't try to argue. "Who is the lucky fellow?"
"Lex Luthor."
Bruce looked surprised. "Luthor? I hadn't realized he would be here tonight."
"Oh yes. Nice of Mr. Manetti to invite the competition, isn't it?"
Since Lex Luthor had bought the Deep Harbor Casino nearly two years ago, it had been closed for renovations. Its grand re-opening was scheduled for the end of January.
"Very nice. I have to tell you that I've never actually met him."
Irina shrugged. "But you will tonight, and then you have only to mention my name. I will do the rest."
Rumor had it that Luthor preferred brunettes, but if she was up on Bruce Wayne's dating limits, then no doubt she was also aware of Luthor's. "Whatever you like," he promised.
"You are sweet," she said again, then set down her glass and picked up a pair of rose colored stiletto heels that had obviously been dyed to match her strapless gown. "Help?" she asked, making her clear blue eyes wide and innocent.
It was a small price to pay for an easy breakup. Bruce obediently knelt and buckled the satin straps as she extended one long leg and then the other. "Ready?" he asked, pulling her to her feet.
"More than ready," she purred, picking up her small purse and leading the way to the door.
On the casino floor, he slipped an arm around her waist and smiled brilliantly as cameras snapped before guiding her to the cashier. "Twenty thousand," he said, passing over his bank card. "And the same for the lady."
"Bruce, you are so sweet!" she cooed approvingly.
He was beginning to get tired of that word. "I want you to have a good time."
They settled for a while at a roulette table, but Irina paid little attention to the ball ricocheting around the wheel. Instead, her eyes scanned the crowd, looking, Bruce knew, for Lex Luthor.
They lost a little and moved on. One of Irina's friends waved her over to a blackjack game, and for a while she seemed to forget about her prospective quarry. Bruce didn't play but split his attention between watching her and the rest of the crowd, idly toying with the stem of a cocktail a house attendant had pressed on him.
After half an hour Irina pushed back her chair, her eyes glinting with frustration. She had lost three thousand dollars and professed she was ready to move on. "But first," she said in her charming accent, "I must … how do you Americans say it … powder my nose?"
"Only in the old movies," he replied, and escorted her to the ladies' room. A server pressed another drink on him as he waited outside. He swirled it idly, looking for a place to dump it, and he had just settled on a convenient potted palm when a furious brunette stormed past him. He waited until she was safely inside the restroom before casually tipping his glass over the dirt.
"The alcohol is really very bad for the roots," an amused voice informed him.
Bruce looked over slowly, already knowing who he would see. Selina Kyle, looking even more stunning in her black cocktail dress than he had remembered, stood smiling at him.
"Cheap rum," he explained, setting the glass on a low table and walking forward. Her eyes were an even deeper blue than he had remembered. "How are you? It's been awhile." Awhile since he had seen her in person, at any rate. The burning kiss they had shared two years ago had figured prominently in a few very pleasant dreams.
"Busy. Acquiring things for Lex Luthor is an overtime job."
Bruce tilted his head questioningly. "I thought you were in charge of gilding his reputation?"
"That too. Congratulations, by the way, on Wayne Enterprises' new conquest."
The board had just finished negotiations with the government on a set of contracts. Unlike the armaments projects that had predominated under William Earle's reign, however, these were for agricultural equipment destined for overseas relief programs.
"Thanks," he replied with a rather vacant smile.
Selina leaned forward confidentially. "Tell me, how did you get your proposal before the senate committee so fast?"
"I'm really not up on all the technicalities," he apologized.
"In that case, you probably aren't aware that LexCorp was also planning a bid."
"Were they?" he asked innocently.
"Oh yes. A very generous one. But, as my employer is fond of saying, let the best man win!"
Somehow, he doubted that Luthor really had such a generous attitude toward his competition. "Look, we're at a party. Let's not talk business tonight."
Her eyes were glittering with amusement, and he was certain she had seen through his evasions. But she acquiesced, responding, "Of course not. I wouldn't want to strain any of the faculties you'll obviously be needing tonight."
"You're mean," he accused.
"Only to people I like," she promised.
"Selina, there you are." The smooth voice belonged to a man who was internationally renowned for his wit, sophistication, and business acumen. But perhaps he was most famous for nothing other than his brilliantly bald head. Lex Luthor laid a possessive hand on Selina Kyle's arm and said, "I was beginning to think you'd deserted me as well."
"I ran into an old friend," she replied, looking at Bruce.
More of her irony, he thought. He could hardly be considered an old friend when they had met only once.
"Bruce Wayne." It was a statement, not a question. "It's nice to finally meet you."
"Likewise." Bruce met Luthor's charming smile and reached out to shake his hand. Expecting a strong grip, he was surprised when the other man's bony fingers slid limply out of his grasp. Momentarily disconcerted, he caught the flash of amusement in the pale eyes and felt a prickle of irritation.
A staccato tapping of heels came from inside the bathroom, and the angry brunette reappeared in the doorway. She froze, staring at the trio in front of her.
"Lauren, I thought you'd left," Luthor said.
The brunette jerked her chin up. "One of us is leaving," she said coldly, "me or her." Her murderous gaze turned on Selina. "Which will it be, Lex?"
"I don't why you're asking me, Lauren, you're a grown woman. Selina already makes her own decisions." There was a faint tinge of malicious enjoyment in his tone. Selina merely looked bored.
"Have it your way then," Lauren hissed and stalked away from the bathroom and toward the exit.
The moment she moved, Irina appeared in her place. "What an unpleasant woman, she would not let me out," she complained in her charmingly accented voice.
Perfect, Bruce thought. He would be shed of the model before the evening was half over. "Irina, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine." Selina smiled faintly as he shot her own words back at her. "This is Selina Kyle. She is invaluable to LexCorp. And this, of course, is the man himself, Lex Luthor."
Irina barely gave Selina a glance before turning all of her not inconsiderable allurements on Luthor. "Mr. Luthor, this is such an honor! I have heard so much about you."
Luthor took his time looking her over, a gleam of interest appearing in his pale eyes. "You've heard nothing good, I'm sure."
Irina's brilliant eyes widened. "But on the contrary! And besides, a man who is all good is always a little boring, no?"
"That's one way of looking at it," he agreed. "Bruce, there's a rather different party going on in the back rooms. Why don't you and your charming companion join us?"
Bruce inwardly debated. On the one hand, a game in the back room probably meant serious, high stakes poker, which might be difficult to leave early. On the other, he was curious to observe Luthor at close range. And on a third hand, if he had had one, refusing might cause Irina's invitation to be retracted. "Sounds good," he said easily.
Luthor stepped forward and with an old fashioned gesture that nevertheless managed to be utterly suave, he offered his arm to Irina. "May I?"
She took it, laughing a little. "And they say there are no gentlemen in America."
Bruce followed the pair, Selina walking by his side. She cast a sideways up at him and remarked, "You don't seem to be upset by the fact that you have lost your date."
He smiled a little. "Let the best man win."
She surprised him by chuckling softly. "I suddenly get the feeling you're playing a different game."
The "back rooms" were a series of elegant salons, dedicated to the use of serious and very, very rich card players. They were much quieter than the main floor, and set up with a variety of well spaced tables. There were no mirrors or other reflective objects.
The four of them joined a game of five card draw, where three players were just leaving. The minimum bid was a moderate thousand.
"So, Lex, did you come to check out the competition?" Bruce asked, as he threw in his chips.
"I prefer to think of myself as supplementing the variety of entertainment available in Gotham City, rather than competing against what's already here," Luthor said smoothly, tossing his chips after Selina, who sat between them, folded.
"That's a good line," Bruce approved.
Luthor arched his nearly non-existent eyebrows. "Who says it's a line?"
"Sorry, no offense intended," Bruce said easily, tossing down his three of a kind.
Irina, who had drawn a royal flush, squealed excitedly as the pot was pushed toward her.
"No offense taken," Luthor finally answered as the next hand was dealt. "By the way, I'm having a little house party just prior to the grand opening of my new venture. I hope you'll join us. And you too, of course, Ms. Couture."
"I'll have to check my schedule," Bruce replied, keeping a note of interest in his tone so that the words would not be taken as an insult.
"Clear your schedule, it'll be worth your while," Luthor promised.
"The party of the New Year," Selina added, with only a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
"I will come," Irina promised. "I am shooting in New York all this month."
"You should consider Metropolis," Luthor suggested.
Irina's mouth pulled down in a perfect pout. "But you will be here, with your new casino, so what is left to interest me in Metropolis?"
Luthor smiled at her, an expression that reminded Bruce of a hungry panther. "What's a plane ride?"
She laughed, and when she reached out to put her chips in the center, her arm brushed against his.
The game continued, with Luthor playing recklessly and losing heavily. Irina, on the other hand, was enjoying a streak of excellent luck, and her crows of triumph grew increasingly triumphant as she raked in pot after pot. Bruce played carelessly, managing, through no fault of his own, to break about even. He noticed Selina was doing the same, although her game was more cautious, and wondered if the stakes were high for her or if she was merely bored by the game as he was.
Shortly before midnight, Luthor's chips ran out. Irina, who had pushed the bid up to include half of her night's winnings, generously offered to accept an IOU.
Luthor shook his head. "Hard cash only, I make it a rule." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet case. Inside it lay a modest but lovely diamond necklace, easily worth ten thousand dollars. Withdrawing his stack of chips from the pot, he laid the necklace in its place.
Irina's eyes went huge, with wonder and, Bruce suspected, with greed. She immediately called Luthor's bluff (everyone else had folded) triumphantly throwing down her third royal flush of the night. Luthor laughed and tossed his cards face down on the table. "Congratulations. I'd better quit while I can still afford a cab home."
Irina, her face flushed, drew the velvet box toward her and picked up the necklace reverently.
"May I?" Luthor asked. He took the necklace and carefully fastened it around her throat, his fingers lingering at the base of her neck as he bent to speak softly in her ear. She turned her face toward his and smiled coyly. Bruce restrained the urge to roll his eyes.
"The fireworks ought to be starting soon," Selina reminded them as she rose from the table. "Shall we go and watch?"
There was a particularly nice balcony reserved for VIP guests. It overhung the heated outdoor pool, which was filled for decorative purposes despite the freezing weather. As they walked toward the glass doors, Selina suddenly caught Luthor's arm, the one that wasn't wrapped around Irina. "There's Jean Luc," she said, pointing at a slight man in a black tuxedo. "I should speak to him. I'll join you on the balcony."
The rest of the party moved through the glass doors. Bruce braced himself for the winter air, but to his surprise the open balcony was as warm as the interior of the hotel. He heard a gentle rushing sound and, stepping to the waist high rail, stretched out his hand. Jets of hot air shot up in a solid wall all along the railing, to meet the overhanging roof, enclosing the balcony in its own invisible heat shield. Expensive, he thought, and wondered if the floor and the railing had currents running through them to keep them warm. Clever though the air idea was, it wouldn't be completely effective on its own.
The rail grew crowded around him. A few steps away he saw Irina fingering her new necklace smugly and glancing at a woman next to her who also wore diamonds around her neck. Below them, the space around the pool was filling with people, although it must have been much colder down there with only the little heat that the pool gave off.
"Ten!" the crowd suddenly shouted as a neon laser number appeared in the sky. "Nine! Eight! Seven!"
Glancing around the balcony, Bruce noticed that Selina had not yet rejoined them.
"Four! Three! Two! One!"
A profusion of gold and red fire burst across the sky, greeted with screams and clapping from the crowd. Through the sparks, it was just possible to read the laser writing which now spelled HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Expensive, Bruce thought again, but considering the haul that the casino was no doubt making tonight, it wouldn't matter.
Fresh bursts of color erupted across the sky and down by the pool and off key and no doubt tipsy group started in with Auld Lang Syne. Something small and sparkly arced through the air from behind him and began to fall over the railing. Automatically, he reached out and caught it. As his fingers closed around the smooth metal, a heavy force rammed into his shoulders, tipping him neatly over the rail. The sound of screaming was cut off as he hit the water, which, despite the heating mechanism, had developed a thin film of ice.
Bruce hit the bottom of the pool and shot back up, the screams refilling his ears as his head popped up above water. Hands were reaching down to pull him out, and he was immediately surrounded by concerned hotel staff, armed with enormous towels. Above him, the screaming on the balcony continued, suddenly dissolving into distinguishable words with a European accent.
"Help me! I have been robbed!"
Gordon was sitting in the living room, waiting for Babs to return from her date with Trevor. Admittedly, it was New Year's Eve, and she had permission to be out late, but Gordon's protective sense was turned on increasingly high alert as the hand of the clock eased past one-thirty. If she's not home in fifteen minutes, I'm calling her cell, he vowed.
The hands on the clock seemed to move with excruciating slowness. There was nothing good on TV. He stalked uneasily from the living room to the kitchen, looking for a distraction. Gordon was reaching for the handle of the refrigerator when a sheaf of notices pinned to the front by magnets caught his eyes. Pulling them off, he examined the usual start of term notices from Bailey, Barbara's high school. They were all printed on heavy cream colored stationary with the school crest stamped at the top. Ridiculous, Gordon thought, wondering how much of his daughter's tuition money went to pay for this stuff. There were two sheets, one a reminder about the date and time of the opening assembly, the other a schedule for the sports program.
We ought to go to more games this semester, Gordon told himself, Jimmy would like that. He continued to stare at the sheets, a niggling little thought swimming up from the back of his brain. Something about these notices bothered, something he felt he ought to know about them. Do I have to sign anything? But we paid the whole bill in the fall...
His reverie was interrupted by the vibration of his pager, and he snatched it off his belt, ridiculously expecting to see Babs' number even though he knew she would have called his cell or the house phone. Sighing at the sight of the all too familiar digits, he grabbed his phone and dialed O'Hara.
"Chief, there's been another of those riddle murders," the captain said as soon as he picked up.
Gordon swore. "Where?"
"North east side. The Old Orchard neighborhood. We've got three bodies."
"I'm on my way," Gordon said grimly. Cutting off the call, he hurried upstairs to dress and then went straight back down to the garage through the kitchen. On second thought, he darted back into the hallway and scribbled a large message on the phone pad. Babs – Call me when you get in. –Dad He propped the note on the stairs where she couldn't miss it and ran out to his car. And if he doesn't have her home by the time I get through with this, there will be a fourth body for the department to deal with.
There was no chance the media was staying out of this one. The north east side was one of Gotham's most affluent areas, utterly different from the shabby tenement where the first murder had been committed. Two news crews were there, haunting the yellow tape boundary when Gordon pulled his car to a stop. He ignored the shouted questions and hurried inside to find O'Hara.
He found him in what was apparently the family room. A wide screen TV and comfortable couches took up one half, while a pool table and bar filled the other. The bodies were laid in a neat row in front of the TV: an old man on the far left, a middle-aged somehow familiar woman in the middle, and a golden haired infant closest to Gordon.
"A bullet in the temple each," O'Hara said grimly.
"He didn't torture these?" Gordon asked, turning away from the gruesome sight.
"Not that we can tell."
"Where the riddle?"
O'Hara pointed to the coffee table where a sheet of paper lay surrounded by three framed photographs. Gordon crouched and saw that there was one each of the victims. He looked at the sheet and read the single line.
What goes on four legs at morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?
"What's the answer?"
"Man," O'Hara said softly. "We crawl when we're young, walk when we're adults, and use a cane when we're old."
Gordon's eyes flew to the oldest corpse and saw the polish cane resting across its chest. "He chose this family because it fit his riddle?" he asked, repulsed.
"Not quite. We don't think the child belongs to the house. And there are a couple members of the family who aren't here. The woman is Georgia Stern. She's an investigative reporter for that cable news network, GNN 49. The old man is her father-in-law. But she's got a teenaged son and a husband who are nowhere in the house. We're trying to locate them now."
"Georgia Stern," Gordon repeated thoughtfully. That was why the middle victim looked familiar. She had a late night show which he rarely watched because she liked to puff up her facts with a lot of speculation. Doubtless, she made more than a few enemies in her career. "Both in the media business," he muttered, thinking of the first murder.
"Yes," O'Hara agreed. "And there's something else they had in common. Neither of them like the Batman. She did a whole series of shows on him last fall with a very negative slant."
Gordon vaguely remembered that, but the city was periodically gripped with anti-Batman sentiment. It usually died down after a few weeks, punctured when the Bat pulled off something spectacular, and he had assumed Georgia Stern was merely riding the bandwagon to gain some extra viewers. He came out of these speculations to find O'Hara watching him intently. Gordon stared back, and then realization dawned. Glancing around to make certain the forensic specialists were involved with other things, he stepped close and said softly, "Captain, are you suggesting that Batman is knocking off his enemies?"
"No, sir," O'Hara replied promptly, "but I think that other people are going to make the connection. It's better that we do it first."
"You're right," Gordon muttered, just as his cell phone rang. "Excuse me." Stepping outside the room, he flipped it open and was relieved to see Babs' number on the screen. He flipped it open and hit Talk. "Hello, sweetheart."
"Hi, Dad. I'm just checking in like your note ordered."
Gordon could hear the tolerance practically oozing from her tone. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Did you have a nice time?"
"It was all right. Where are you?"
"Crime scene, triple homicide. It's pretty ugly."
"Tell me about it in the morning?"
"Barbara, you know how your grandmother feels about murder over breakfast."
"After breakfast, then."
"I'll tell you what I can," Gordon sighed.
"Goody. Night, Dad."
"Goodnight, sweetheart." He hung up and returned the phone to his pocket. Babs' interest in his work always unsettled him. A certain pride certainly stirred at the thought of his daughter following him into law enforcement, but a large part of him couldn't help wishing that she was interested in something a little safer like medicine or interior design. If she would go somewhere besides Gotham. It's not quite as bad, other places.
Gordon walked back into the room just in time to hear a CSI making a pronouncement on the riddle. "Can't tell for sure until we check it, but it looks like the same printer. It's got the bubble on the e."
The news was both good and bad. The printer used was a high quality but standard laser jet. There were probably a thousand of them sold in Gotham every week. On the other hand, if both riddles were printed on the same machine, it meant the killer had established a pattern, which would make him easier to catch. In addition, this particular printer made a tiny flaw on the small e's, so it would be easy to match the riddles to the machine if they could track it down.
Gordon sighed, running a hand through his increasingly gray hair. If this crime scene was anything like the last one, then there wouldn't be any clues to the killer's identity. Whoever the guy was, he was smart and thorough. Gordon turned to O'Hara. "I'm going to head back home. Call me when you find the son or the husband. Or who the kid belongs to."
A low light was burning over the kitchen sink when he came in through the garage. He smiled at Babs' thoughtfulness and switched it off on the way out. As he walked slowly up the stairs, he realized that something was wiggling around in the back of his mind. A tiny fact that his subconscious had registered and was now trying to push to the front. Gordon had dealt with this sort of intuition before, and he knew that the best way to coax it out would be to relax and leave it alone. So he purposefully tried not to think about it as he pulled on his pajamas for the second time that night and began to brush his teeth.
His mouth was full of foam when it hit him. Spitting frantically and dropping the toothbrush into the sink, he ran downstairs to the kitchen, stubbing his toe on the doorjamb. Hopping on one foot and trying not to yell with pain, he snatched the notices from Bailey off the fridge, sending the magnet clattering on the floor.
Fumbling for the overhead light, he at last got it on and bent over the top sheet, the reminder about the beginning of the term. A the caught his eye and he squinted at the paper through his glasses, heart pounding, hoping that weariness wasn't throwing off his sight too much. And there it was: A small bubble right before the outside tip of the e.
To Be Continued
A/N Huzzah! Selina is back! Review, O Dearest Readers, and let me know how you feel about it!