CHAPTER 15

Ominous clouds stood as the only witnesses to their dark meeting. The two men looked at one another for a moment, Gordon having just turned around to find the bat, who once again materialized out of nowhere. “He’s out of critical condition,” he said by way of a greeting. “He’s at Gillian Loeb Memorial Hospital. They’ve moved him from the CCU to the ICU, under heavy guard, of course. A couple of flukes saved him from both bullets, can you believe that? The first one happened to go inside, but ricocheted off of a rib and exited cleanly, while the second one probably had a problem from the lateral jump of the gun, and only went through the upper arm.”

While he wasn’t very concerned with the Joker’s well-being, Batman was concerned about what mayhem this might ignite. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Jim,” he said, taking a step forward, “but you’ll want to make sure you keep your best men watching him at all times. I mean in the room with him. The absolute best, the ones you know you can trust.”

“Already on it. But we’re spread pretty thin right now…I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are.”

The alley behind Glen’s Bakery suddenly seemed eerily quiet. One could hear an ambulance several blocks away, and a cat meowing around the corner of the alley, but besides that the city seemed utterly dead from here.

“It’s all coming apart now. I swear, what’s happened to this city?” Gordon simmered for a moment. “Guess you heard about Amanda Riddle?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well then, you know about as much as we do on that.” The commissioner took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “The package you left me the other night didn’t have much to tell us, either. We pinged the number you say that you used to contact the Riddler; it was from a cloned cell phone. As for the e-mails that were sent to Barbara, they came from proxy server companies, nothing we can trace. Same with the hacker attack on Third Bank of Gotham, a RAT was used, so there’s no tracing it.”

Batman knew what he was talking about. A RAT, or remote access tool, was popular amongst hackers and security experts these days. It was used to access computer networks from afar and yet scrambled the origins of the hacker attack, sometimes routing them through countries with special cyber protection laws, countries like Sweden and Belgium, which protected the identities of those behind certain URLs, thus obfuscating the trail. The Riddler was showing his sophistication in many ways—either he had done this on his own, or he knew where to get the kind of people necessary to make it all happen.

“We also found the van with the license plate you gave us,” Gordon said, referring to the van that Batman had chased Calabria and Hughes in a few nights ago. “It was parked and abandoned in a shopping center parking lot, the VINs completely etched clean from every part of the vehicle.” VINs, or vehicle identification numbers, were essential to identifying a vehicle whenever license plates have been switched out. It didn’t matter that they had found the van—they already had Calabria and Hughes—but it further proved to Batman that the Calabrias had big connections in Gotham, if the VINs were being erased so easily.

Gordon shook his head. “I went there, ya know? To the Comb Inn, I mean. He had Amanda Riddle tied up in room number twenty-two—once we looked closer, we found the number twenty-two hinted at all over the place, on walls, in a painting, circled on an open datebook on the front counter, everywhere. They were obviously clues meant to lead us to the room she was in. Inside…inside she was…just…”

“Torn to pieces?”

“Hacked,” Gordon said. “A, uh, whatchacallit? A guillotine. He had her strapped to a guillotine and…well…”

So then, it wasn’t just Theresa Fuller. Their killer had a predilection for traps across the board. But that hadn’t been exactly true of the riddles he’d left connected to the Tralley family. Like any serial killer, his needs were growing, his methods expanding. “And a series of riddles that would’ve stopped the trap if solved?” Batman asked.

“Yeah. One on a laptop, one written underneath the bed, and another one we found written in marker on top of one of the blades of the room’s ceiling fan—apparently, the only thing that would’ve saved her was turning on the ceiling fan, which he rigged with a motor strong enough to reel in a rope that ran from it to the five-hundred-pound weight above the blade of the guillotine.”

“Do you have the riddles with you?”

“I wrote ’em all down here, in case you think they might pertain to something else down the line,” Gordon said, handing Batman a manila envelope. “I also did some old-fashioned police work of my own with what I got outta Gaspare Calabria, since we’re so short-staffed. I’ve been bored out of my mind up in that office anyway, and the mayor and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms, so I might as well be of some use to somebody,” he said. “Anyway, I got that information there out of Calabria, and now that he’s talking, we’re getting more things out of Victor Hughes. They’re rats now. Ones on a sinking ship, and they’re all looking for higher ground.”

“What’s this about?” Batman asked, pulling out a few pictures that had been taken of a few dozen faces coming in and out of a nightclub. He knew the place, it was called the Iceberg Lounge.

“The owner’s name is Cobblepot, Oswald Chesterfield.”

“I’ve heard of him. They call him Bird Man, and Penguin. Old money, but new to Gotham. Opened up this nightclub out on Cape Carmine.”

Gordon snorted. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot you know everything.” He watched for a moment while the bat flipped through the pictures, and paused on the Penguin. “Calabria named this guy as the one who gave him the number of some other guy, the guy who hired him and Gutierrez to kidnap the Tralley family.”

“Get a name?”

“Yeah, Nygma. Edward Nygma.”

Batman considered that, and something clicked almost immediately. “So…E. Nygma?” He looked up at Gordon. “Enigma.”

Gordon looked at him for a moment, and then something dawned on him. “Jesus,” the commissioner said. “I…that didn’t even register. You think it’s a coincidence?”

“No. It’s another calling card. He left it as another cookie, a crumb to follow. It’s probably a compulsive thing for him by now. He invites people to follow him in his games,” Batman said. “You’re on the right track, Jim.”

“Yeah, well, I technically can’t do any more with Cobblepot since there’s nothing solid on him,” Gordon said, sounding more frustrated than Batman had ever heard him before. He was pacing back and forth now, glancing around a bit more than usual, not just looking for tails anymore, but looking for…what? A way out? “Cobblepot’s very organized,” he finally said. “He donates to various charities, keeps clean books as far as we can tell, but I know he’s dirty. I can feel it.”

“You’re confident about that?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

Good enough for me, the Dark Knight thought. He had learned to listen to cop hunches, especially Jim Gordon’s. “I’ll look into it,” he said, slipping the pictures and papers back into the envelope and hiding it away inside his cape. “Jim, you mentioned problems with the mayor before. What’s the problem?”

“You tell me. He’s not been communicating with me, and then outta the blue he calls me into his office, and starts asking a lot of questions about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. But this one’s persistent when he wants something.” Gordon looked at the bat meaningfully. “Watch your back out there. A lot of unfriendliness is about, my friend. If I were you I…I might just lay low for a while. I’m not sure where all of this is going, but it’s not looking good. He’s even called in the feds, an old partner of mine, Sarah Essen, she’s heading up a task force that’s coming through with one purpose: to put an end to these lone crazies.” The commissioner was reluctant to say this next piece. “They’ve lumped you in with that lot.”

“I’ll be careful.” Batman watched his old friend for a moment, then said, “Jim, is there something else bothering you?”

Gordon ran two fingers over his mustache, a nervous habit that the bat had noticed years ago. “Things are tough right now. At home, I mean. Barbara…well, she left. I don’t know for how long, but she took the kids, and well…” He trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Jim.” Batman walked over, and extended his hand. Gordon shook it.

“Thanks for your help on this. I appreciate it. I can’t expend any more manpower right now. As it is, I’m having to pull surveillance off of the Iceberg Lounge since we haven’t found anything rock hard yet, and the streets have gotta be walked and driven by somebody.”

“The Lounge will be my next priority. You have my word.”

* * *

HARLEY’S SMALL APARTMENT seemed even smaller now. The walls were closing in and then expanding outward. They’re breathing, she thought, and knew at once that it was true and not true.

Somewhere, someone was shouting at her. The voices came through the walls, from the carpet—those little green men who lived in the carpet—and from the couch. The couch in particular was loud. She wondered who lived inside there. Whoever it was, she hadn’t met them yet, but she soon would, somehow she knew it. The Walther PPK was in her hand, intermittently pointed at the floor and at herself. Once, Harley had aimed it at her own head and squeezed. The gun clicked. She had forgotten to load it. Oh, yeah, I need ammunition. She searched for it, and when she found it it wouldn’t go in. She fumbled with it for a few minutes, trying to make it fit before she realized she had it upside down and flung it across the room in tears.

The ants returned, crawling beneath her skin. She squirmed when she thought about their tiny little heads and their tiny little brains and their tiny little mouths, and saw them with her new X-ray vision as they traveled in a column up her arm, up her face, up around her nose and her lips, their little antennae searching, searching, searching for a way deeper inside her.

Her mind wasn’t so much on the ants anymore, though. The events of the trial were still running through her mind, and not just the shooting, but the Kingsley woman’s words to her. The persistent bitch hadn’t known when to back off. While she was on the stand, Harley had seen Kingsley’s little elves all around her, trying to make her look stupid. She had seen them dancing on top of Judge Cavanaugh’s head, waving at her and trying to distract her from answering the questions the way she knew how.

Somewhere in her apartment, her stereo was playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

They planned it, Harley imagined. They all did. Kingsley kept him at trial just long enough…long enough for the cripple to make his move! Her man, her love was all alone now, surrounded by enemies and without a soul to care for him, to nurture him. Every man needed a woman to nurture him, else he was alone with his heart of stone, the one that Nature gave to him. Without water to smooth the rough surface, to wash off the impurities, he would be stone forever and—

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!” she shrieked, once the ants had finally leapt into her eyes. Oh, God, they were in her eyes! Harley writhed on the ground, rubbing at her eyes at first, and then clawing at them, especially the right eye, where she could feel them burrowing to the center, each one of the ants hungry for the sweet nectar of her fovea. Her hands reached for a tool, any tool, and found a sharpened pencil.

“Mr. Jay, I’m sorrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyy!” she shouted. “I wasn’t good enough!”

Harley opened her right eye, and started poking around with the pencil’s point, looking for the little bastards and where they camped.

* * *

THE VANS PULLED into the underground parking garage of City Hall, all of them black, all of them with tinted windows. The first one out was Sarah, and she looked surprisingly like herself, not a thing had changed except maybe a bit longer hair. No longer walking a beat, Sarah Essen didn’t need to keep her hair short for fear of having some thug grab it. Still, she kept her shimmering blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

While physically she hadn’t changed much to Gordon, one thing that did stand in contrast to the old Sarah was her attire. No longer did she prefer jeans and a T-shirt and a simple windbreaker. Now, she was in a gray suit, one much nicer than Gordon fancied he could afford on a police commissioner’s salary.

“Well, well, well, Jim Gordon,” she said with that half cocked smile of hers that implied mischief no matter what time of day it was. “Look at you, my friend. They let just anybody be police commissioner here?”

“Special Agent Sarah Essen, I presume?” he said, smiling. “They hand those badges out as a door prize at Quantico?”

The half cocked smiled widened, finally splitting into a full-toothed grin. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too,” he said. “We need all the help we can get on this.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to do. Help. Don’t mean to be stepping on any toes.” She turned to indicate the man behind her. “This Gary Carlisle, my assistant coordinator.” Gordon shook hands with the man briefly. He was a tall, muscular fellow who stood a head taller than the other agents in her retinue. “Anytime you can’t get a hold of me, Gary here can help you out. I hope to be available as much as possible, but things are about to get hectic and I can’t promise I can be in twelve places at once.”

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“I understand how it works, Sarah,” Gordon said, and introduced Police Chief Clay Chapman standing behind him.

The four of them walked to the garage elevator and chit-chatted on the ride up. Sarah asked about Barbara, and Gordon said she had taken the kids to visit their grandparents, which was close enough to the truth, he supposed.

A few times, Sarah reached and touched her FBI-issue pistol at her hip. Gordon wondered if it was a habit she was even aware of, one that had followed her from her days on the force. Sarah had been around Gotham City during its darkest time, before the city’s Dark Knight had shown up, before all the craziness had started. She was one of the officers investigated by Harvey Dent back when he was at Internal Affairs, but it was only because she had been assigned to a unit that had been caught skimming drugs out of evidence lockers and selling them back to the goons on the street. Sarah had been the only honest cop in that whole unit. Gordon had wanted her for his unit back when he was first elevated to lieutenant, to help with the Falcone problem, but he had an agreement with his wife to do everything he could to keep his distance from her.

It was around that same time that Sarah had had her application accepted with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. She had taken all the tests, completed numerous college courses on criminal psychology and proven herself a competent profiler. Her flawless record with the GCPD spoke volumes, and when the time came to give her the recommendation, Gordon couldn’t think of anyone worthier for such a job. She went off to Quantico, and even had some specialized training at the “Farm” with the CIA, though she’d never said what that training had been.

Whatever the training had been, it had allowed her to go to the top of a JTTF team, or Joint Terrorism Task Force, for the FBI.

“Did you assemble everybody that I asked for?” Sarah said, exiting the elevator ahead of them.

“I did. There are sergeants and lieutenants from twelve of the thirty-one districts,” he told her, trying to keep up. They were supposed to be leading her to the conference room, but Sarah seemed to know precisely where she was going. “The rest will be there via teleconferencing, a couple are on vacation.”

“You grant vacation during times such as this, with such a diminishing police force?” she said, half humored, but half admonishing.

Gordon shrugged. “I can’t turn them down forever. Turning them down repeatedly for vacation is just one more way to upset the only decent cops we have left. Mayor Walden’s—”

“We know all about Mayor Walden,” Sarah said flatly.

“You make that sound ominous.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” she said, stepping into the conference room brimming with law enforcement officials. They were sitting in chairs in a semicircle around the room. “Mind introducing me so we can get this show on the road?” she asked him.

“With pleasure,” Gordon said, and stepped to the center of the room. “Uh, good morning, guys. Hope you’re all settled in and with some coffee in you. As you all know we’re about to get some serious help in our efforts with the growing problems we’ve had, including recruitment, the rise in gang violence and sophistication, as well as a few others details such as the Riddler case and the search for Mulcoyisy Stewart-Paulson.” With a hand, he gestured towards Sarah and her assistant Gary. “The FBI has been gracious enough to send us a special task force that will not only be helping to train rookies and upgrade our own surveillance systems a bit, but will also be a little hands-on in the investigations, as well. As to the extent of just how hands-on, I’ll leave that to Special Agent Sarah Essen here to explain. Some of you may remember her, so you know that she’s a hardworking individual and she can get things done. And I hope that you will give her your undivided attention.”

Gordon stepped away from the center of the room and took a seat.

“Morning, all,” Sarah said, taking off her jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair. She unbuttoned the cuffs of her sleeves and rolled them up. There were tables near the front that had been arranged so that a few phones and laptops could be set up so Station Chiefs in faraway districts, who hadn’t been able to make it for one reason or another, could listen in.

“Sorry if we kept you all waiting,” she said, “but traffic is brutal this morning on Vincefinkel Bridge. Looks like not much has changed since I left.” A few laughs from people in the room who were familiar with the drive. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Special Agent Sarah Essen, as Jim said. Some of you probably know me, and I certainly see a few familiar faces. Chuck, how’s it going? Beverly. Colin.” They all nodded as she took to the center of the room. “This is my assistant, Gary Carlisle,” she said, pointing to the man at the back of the room. “We can make more formal introductions later, but for right now all you need to know is my face and his cell phone number, which I’ll give you so that you can reach me whenever I’m unavailable. Any pressing questions before we get started? Is everyone here?”

No questions or remarks were forthcoming.

“Okay, then. Here we go,” she said. “First of all, let me tell you why I and my team are here. As you know, Gotham City has recently become a kind of haven for smugglers, theft rings, drug dealers, money launderers, human traffickers, and even a new serial killer,” Sarah said, pacing back and forth slowly, and looking each of them in the face in turn. “Now, that’s a problem for any city, sure, but the level of such activities in Gotham City have spiked to levels deemed by the federal government to be ‘unmanageable’ by the police force in its current state. Considering the problems your police force is having in keeping new recruits, you can see why that is. And, of course, you all got rid of many corrupt officers years ago and a mass exodus of good officers continues to this day.

“The federal government has declared a state of emergency, the first of its kind for a ‘city under siege by crime.’ That’s how they’re putting it. And though you may think that’s just hyperbole, I think you all know what we’re talking about here.” Sarah stopped pacing, and panned her head left to right, looking over her audience. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The sudden attraction of gangs like Dreaded Sun and the Molehill Mob, leaderless clans roaming Parkinson Avenue, or Park Empire as they call it now, and you all without enough support to go in there with anything less than the National Guard.

“We had some problems in this city was I was here, cancers, but along came a bat, who tried to forcibly excise those cancerous cells and now the criminals of Gotham have taken his lead and are imitating his theatrics, and look where we’re at.” Gordon saw that Sarah’s gaze rested on him a beat too long before she finally started pacing around again. “There’s a serial killer on the loose now, people. Two actually, more than likely. The first one’s been dumping bodies in Gotham sewers and in the harbors for almost two years. Eats them. Teeth marks show that he probably has his dogs or a pet bear feed on them. Sick stuff, right?

“The other unsub is way, way more sophisticated than anything we’ve ever dealt with before, even in the FBI. Now, we’ve already worked up a profile on the Riddler—he’s probably aged between thirty and forty-five years, probably employed, but his job allows him some free time. Lives alone. Very intelligent. Probably college educated. Most likely some degree or other in engineering. Has a workspace where he can hammer out his little gadgets, if not a warehouse then a sizable garage. Not a terribly unusual profile for a serial killer. But there’s something else even more alarming about him.

“The Riddler’s theatrics are fast becoming the norm. The Batman and the Joker have inspired so much craziness that it even infected the mind of Roy Higgens, one of our own, and a good man that I served with eight years ago. I say all this so that I can get through that fog in your brain that’s going to tell you, ‘No FBI lady can come in here and tell us how to do our jobs.’ I know what you’re thinking. I was a cop, too, remember? I was brought in because not only am I damn good at what I do, if I do say so myself, and I do,” she added, getting chuckles from her fellow agents and a few from the arrayed cops. “But also because I know this city, I know many of the people in it, both civilian, law enforcement, and the political landscape. I know this place. I lived here once, and I actually still do in my heart—there’s a lot here I wouldn’t mind coming back to, but not if this place crumbles down around our ears.

“Now, I’m with the JTTF, so that means we’re not just coordinating with you, but we’re also coordinating with DHS, the U.S. Coast Guard Investigative Service, U.S. Customs and Border Protection, Secret Service, TSA, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—you name it, we’re dealing with them. This is a large operation, and for these sorts of operations the FBI provides the funds for all participating agencies’ expenses, including officer overtime, cell phones, vehicles, fuel, and any and all related office costs. This is serious department coordination territory you’re stepping into now, so I’ll require unprecedented cooperation from all of you.

“Now, with all that being said, let’s get down to the specifics of how this operation is going to work, and what sort of communication will be needed between all of us.”

Over the next two hours, Sarah outlined exactly what she expected of them, and everyone scribbled notes. She described how the task forces would work, and explained that there would be more trickling in over the next eight weeks as part of a program to retrain the GCPD. Sarah asked them all to keep an open mind as this would be “an unusual transition for all of us.” Some in the audience appeared neutral, while a few barely concealed their skepticism of how well this was going to work, Gordon noticed.

When the meeting was finished, they were all dismissed. Sarah spent a few minutes speaking with Chief Chapman and three other Station Chiefs about details. Sarah left Gary Carlisle and her other agents to answer remaining questions and dish out the new expected duties of the sergeants and lieutenants. When almost everyone had cleared out, Gordon pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning on throughout the whole spiel and nodded. “Not bad. I’ve never seen you work a room before. You command well.”

“Ooooo, a compliment coming from Jim Gordon, now I’m blushing.” She actually was.

“I was wondering if we could discuss a few things, when you have the time, I mean.”

“Like what?” Sarah said, pulling her jacket back on.

“Well, the Riddler left two victims—

“Don’t call him that,” Sarah chided. “We’re dropping that name, and calling him the Riddle Killer.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because giving him a name like that reflects ‘the Joker’, and there are too many imitators or wannabes that came out of that,” Sarah said. “Official FBI stance is to refer to the unsub as the Riddle Killer, since keeping the word killer in his name will take some of the romance out of it all.” She made a tsk noise. “You boys here in Gotham have allowed a bad habit to sneak in, and that’s romanticizing these people. Unconsciously, of course, but you’re still doing it.”

“All right, then,” Gordon said. “The Riddle Killer had two victims in two separate places, and each one of the traps working on a timer. If that happens again, we should have a way of managing our people so that—”

“The Riddle Killer’s not the only reason we’re here, Jim. We have a list of things we need to accomplish here—he’s on the list, but near the bottom,” Sarah said, walking out the door with Gordon in tow. “But I see what you’re getting at, and we’re way ahead of you on that.”

“Yeah? How do you mean?”

“I’ve already got my people setting up three other stations in various hotel rooms around the city,” Sarah said. “Places to coordinate from, since Gotham has thirty-one districts and each one’s larger than the last. This way, we’ll be able to react a bit faster to any emergencies cropping up in the city, gather evidence and analyze it quickly should the Riddle Killer send us all on another scavenger hunt.” She shrugged, as if to say it was no problem.

Gordon nodded. “That’s something like what I was thinking. It’ll speed up response time,” he said. “Where are these three stations?”

“We’ve selected certain hotels and apartments throughout the city.”

“But where?”

“Sorry, Commissioner,” she said, “but I can’t tell you that.”

Gordon was taken slightly aback. “Sarah, I’m the police commissioner.”

She hit the button for the elevator and looked at him. “And that’s why I can’t trust you right now,” she said, smiling at him. Gordon was perplexed. Sarah winked and said, “We know all about your pet bat, Jim, and we know that you keep him informed of certain things.” The doors of the elevator opened up. “So that means right now, you’re an informer for one of the bad guys. I actually should already be arresting you, but I convinced my superiors of another approach.”

They got into the elevator together, the only two, and down they went. “I see,” Gordon said, thinking what she could mean. “So…I’m a target of the FBI, as well.”

“Target’s a strong word,” she said. “‘Person of interest’. How’s that?”

“To what extent are they ‘interested’ in me?” As if I don’t know already, he thought, but played dumb anyway.

“The Batman, of course,” Sarah confided. “He is officially HVT,” she said, referring to a high-value target, “and they’re very, very interested in talking to him, Jim.”

“Who is?”

Sarah snorted. “Who do you think? Everybody. From the DDO all the way up to the POTUS.”

“What would the Deputy Direction of Operations and the President of the United States want with an outlaw vigilante?” he asked. “Especially one so maligned by the press at the moment?”

“Cooperation,” she said. The elevator slowed, and the doors parted, depositing them back in the underground garage.

Gordon followed just a step behind her, wondering if he’d heard her right. “Cooperation?” he asked.

“Mm-hm.”

“With Batman?”

“Yep.”

“What for?” Gordon said. “You just said I couldn’t be trusted because of my relationship with him, and now you want to cooperate with him?”

Sarah approached one of the black vans. Two of the agents had remained behind with the vehicles. One agent moved wordlessly to open the sliding side door of Sarah’s van, revealing an array of surveillance equipment inside. “The Joker has turned out to be an influential terrorist,” she said, stopping before stepping into the van and looking at her old partner. “He’s emboldened certain aspects of your city. And now we’ve got the Calabrias, the Juarezes and the Shukurs moving into our country, all of which are from foreign soil. Now you’ve got another terrorist and a serial killer on your hands.

“Foreign terrorist organizations are becoming more westernized, with more dual passport holders and fewer cave dwellers. Now the Riddle Killer seems capable of using offshore proxy servers to help him hack into Gotham City’s power grid, as well as other organized criminal elements like the Calabrias, whether they fully understand who they’re helping or not. That means he’s got help from people in other countries, at least to some degree. We’re seeing this a lot with homegrown terrorists, like child pornographers in twelve different countries, all coordinating. The intelligence game is changing again.”

Gordon shook his head. “But what does that have to do with the Batman?”

Sarah looked at him, a playful amount of suspicion on her face. “Modern intel-gathering work involves meeting people, developing long-term relationships, learning the languages, studying histories, and learning black markets,” she said. “No matter where that information comes from.”

“You’ll use him as an informant?”

“Why not? You have.”

“But he trusts me,” Gordon said. “And you don’t.”

Sarah smiled, and it was a smile of genuine affection. “What’s the matter, Jim? You afraid of losing your best friend to bigger boys?” He started to say something, but before he could, she said, “Don’t worry, building relationships with informants means maintaining relationships with the people that they trust, too. If nothing else, you’ve done a good job keeping the bat on a leash, using him to your ends. That’s actually very smart police work, and I told my bosses that in Washington. It took a little convincing, but eventually they agreed.”

“Agreed to what, exactly? Hunt him down and then force him to be an informant for you?”

“No,” she said. “To hunt him down and deputize him.” Sarah smiled. “That is, if you can’t bring him to me in a reasonable amount of time. You’re part of the package, too.” She watched him try to work that out, and then chuckled. “Sorry for springing this on you, old buddy, but I couldn’t say it with Chief Chapman and the others around.” She got into the van as the driver hopped inside and cranked it up. Before she closed the door, she said, “I’ll call you later so you can program my number in your cell.”

“No, I…I still have the same phone, and I have your phone number still.”

“Oh? Then, why haven’t you been answering my texts?” Gordon didn’t answer, and Sarah only smiled again and nodded. “I understand. Anyways, call me. I’ve got a gown ready and everything, so I’m going to need a date tonight.”

“A date?”

“Yeah. You just invited me to the Policeman’s Ball with you.”

“I…?”

“There are some people there I’d like to meet. We’ll talk later. Think about what I said. Think about passing the offer along to your friend, see what he says.”

“I thought official FBI policy on this was to apprehend him,” Gordon said.

“It is,” she said. “Just like your official policy is to arrest him on sight.” Sarah winked at him once again and slid the door shut. The van pulled out of the garage, leaving him alone. Gordon figured they were going to any one of the secret stations she said her people had set up inside the city.

Gordon checked his watch. Four hours before the Policeman’s Ball was to begin, and he still had to change into more formal wear and make a few calls to city council, in the vain hope that Mayor Walden wouldn’t put the pressure on them again to direct funds away from law enforcement efforts. Walden wanted the money directed to his No More Broken Windows initiative, which held that if they just made the effort to spruce the city up, it would discourage crime. Gordon had to try and make the case once more that the GCPD was in desperate need of assistance. And Walden’s supporters on city council would undoubtedly do the same song and dance, defending the mayor’s stance, saying that law enforcement could do just fine on the same annual budget it had been allotted for the last decade.

Same crap, different day, he thought. Only, it wasn’t. Sarah Essen had suddenly swept into his life, and then added another variable into the mix. Her presence was supposed to have simplified things, but somehow, he didn’t think it had.