CHAPTER 16

Brilliant streamers greeted the guests at the front of Wayne Manor tonight, as did a couple of fire jugglers who stood by the front gate; fire jugglers borrowed from Haley’s Circus.

The Policeman’s Ball started at 5 P.M., and it was sprawled all over the open grounds of Wayne Manor. Five E.P. specialists had been hired to deal with traffic on the long road leading up to the manor. Cars snaked up the long, scenic drive where cherry blossom trees flanked either side of the road. The trees had been imported from Japan during the time when Bruce Wayne’s father’s father had really started to develop the family business. The Policeman’s Ball was timed every year to happen during the spring blossoming and various cherry blossom festivals.

With twilight not too far away, the guests arrived in the main reception area. Inside the manor itself, candle flames danced around crystal decanters and the high-domed ceiling echoed the low murmur of the first arrivals.

The cars pulled up around the large U-shaped driveway and circled around the huge, 15,000-square-foot front yard. Valets waited to take the cars of those who drove themselves while others directed limousine drivers to take their vehicles around to the large parking garage. Streamers of vibrant colors hung from cloth tents, around which fires had been started in small hanging cauldrons. There were three bands playing, one a string quartet inside the ballroom itself, the other were two were a bit livelier jazz bands that played outside on a raised stage on the open grass.

The gymnasium where Bruce Wayne usually trained had been converted for the occasion. Gone were the weight benches, treadmills, and curl bars. In their place were rows and rows of tables covered in white tablecloth, red candles lit in silver candlestick holders, and a buffet ranging from common steaks to delicate soufflés. All along the line were Macadamia nuts, caviar, white and chocolate truffles, French potatoes, shellfish, tempeh, sundried tomato sandwiches, ready-made club sandwiches, omelets, and dessert sundaes. More formal meals were available by requesting a menu, the most popular of the night would be the light crème brulee of foie gras with Tonga beans. There was something for everybody, including a variety of wines brought up from the cellar that contained Bruce Wayne’s personal collection.

There were other things added that if you didn’t pause to appreciate it all you just might miss them. Fragrant lilies had been set in small vases and placed here and there throughout all areas that the ball covered, ever so subtly insinuated into the aesthetic. There were candles lit around murals and statues, which might fool the spectator into believing they had arrived at the opening of a large new art gallery instead of a Policeman’s Ball. The floor-to-ceiling arched windows were opened to allow a cool breeze to flow through.

To get a greater view of all that Bruce Wayne owned and lived in, couples walked hand-in-hand up to one of the five balconies that hadn’t been roped off. From here, they could also look down on the couples dancing out on the open lawn, or peek back inside at those dancing on the “floating” rotating dance floor, capped with marble that had been polished to a mirror shine.

Wayne Manor was absolutely bustling with over a thousand guests by nine o’clock, and so far the host himself hadn’t made a single appearance. Alfred Pennyworth maneuvered through the crowd, a tray of champagne glasses in hand, and offering light conversation wherever someone seemed to expect it—by now, Alfred himself had gained a degree of notoriety for being the most trusted confidant of the playboy billionaire.

The charity ball, which had donations going towards the GCPD and both the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundations, had been organized six months in advance. Extra staff from numerous catering services had been brought in to serve the multitude of guests, and four separate teams of decorators had been needed to complete the ambiance, ensuring that it all flowed and nothing clashed or looked tacky.

Security on the place was pretty tight, especially since so many politicians and high-ranking officers were in attendance. Bruce had had Alfred get them the best security professionals in Gotham, the ones who were ex-Secret Service agents and bodyguards for various celebrities. A few of them were working “halls and walls” duty, checking corridors and making sure no one went anywhere they weren’t supposed to, while others roamed about undercover in formal dress wear. No expense had been spared in making sure that the evening went off without a hitch.

* * *

WHEN BRUCE FINALLY entered the party, it was without great ceremony. He was just there, having come up from the study where he had ascended the spiral staircase from the cave and checking to make sure he had no more grease stains left on his hands from working on the Bat Hawk. He had then stepped outside and walked across the lawn, walking briskly over to the ballroom, coming in from the back door.

When Bruce entered, he managed to do so quietly. He looked out at his guests, only a handful of them had turned and recognized him. Many of them were busy in excited chat, while others contented themselves with small bowls taken from the buffet. He smiled that big, arrogant smile that he had practiced in front of mirrors, just to play the part. They must never juxtapose me with the Batman. That was his rule. Bruce’s whole life had become a deception, the only person he could relax and be himself in front of anymore was Alfred, and even then not for long.

“Maureen!” Bruce said, kissing an elderly woman on her cheek. “Maureen Saunders! Look at you! You’re looking as ravishing as ever!” Her name was Marlene Sanders, but again, it paid to make people think you were dense. It paid big time.

Maureen played her part and didn’t remind her host that he had gotten her name completely wrong, and she smiled demurely and said, “Oh, Mr. Wayne, you are the flatterer!”

“Gentlemen,” he said to the three men assembled with her, “I ask you, is it merely empty flattery to state the truth? Is it?”

They all chuckled. An older gentlemen that had been included in Maureen’s circle of friends said, “Mr. Wayne, we were just talking about Haley’s Circus. You’ve got some of the fire jugglers outside. Have you had a chance to see the circus for yourself?”

“You know what? I haven’t. I’ve been meaning to, though. I was invited by the mayor, but I had prior engagements.”

“Oh!” Maureen said, touching his chest. “Mr. Wayne, you simply must see it! It is fantastic! I’ve seen circuses come and go, but this one is something special. I tell you, the Flying Graysons are incredible?”

“Who?”

“The Flying Graysons,” Maureen said, almost indignant that he hadn’t heard of them. “They’re a family of trapeze artists. Mr. Wayne, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen what this family can do! Utterly death-defying stunts, incredibly high in the air! The father holds the world record for the highest high-wire act ever completed.”

Another of the men around her said, “And they do this full production where they continuously swing over the crowd’s heads while other acts are going on. The youngest of them is just a teenager, and he was leaping and spinning around poles that were above my head the whole time while the lion tamer was doing his act! I tell you, I didn’t know which to watch, the lion’s tricks or the boy above me.”

“That sounds…exciting,” he said.

He chatted Maureen up a bit more, and even danced with her for one song before moving along to his other guests. Bruce was lionized everywhere he went, treated as though he were the favorite friend of people who’d only met him once, maybe twice ever.

Josephine Markus of the Gotham Informer materialized out of nowhere. Bruce could have sworn he had told Alfred specifically that no members of the Informer ought to make it, but it turned out Ms. Markus was dating a fine young Officer Dennett, and since all invited persons were allowed to bring one guest of their own, well, he couldn’t rightly kick her out. Bruce happened to know Ms. Markus from a past interview that had turned into a debacle, and he knew that she was a divorcée because she had come onto him rather strongly during that interview—him turning her down was what he believed had caused that interview to be printed with an overtly slanted bias. Bruce suspected that her dating Officer Dennett, who was being honored later tonight for having taken a bullet in the line of duty, was no coincidence, but couldn’t say anything about it.

“It’s an honor to have you hear in my home, Officer,” Bruce told him, shaking his hands. “Your bravery and courage is all that stands between us and the oblivion that bastards like the Joker and the Batman would have us spiral into.”

“Well,” Dennett said, glancing around to make sure no one heard him say this. “Don’t count the bat out yet, Mr. Wayne. And don’t believe everything you hear.”

Bruce didn’t have to feign curiosity. “Is that to say that you appreciate the bat and his vigilantism?”

“I’m just saying that the streets are more complicated these days than they were a decade ago when I first joined the force,” Dennett said. “The problems are more dynamic. There’s lots of overlap. The Falcones are thieves, conmen and money launderers. The Juarezes are drug dealers, smugglers and human traffickers. Dreaded Sun are jacks of all trades, but masters of none, and are into anything, anytime, for the right price. The Molehill Mob just wants chaos.

“And then, all these groups will work together from time to time when groups like the Calabrias come in to play liaison between them all. The Juarezes and the Suns work out an underage prostitution ring, while the Falcones and the Juarezes move money and sometimes people between here and Argentina.” Officer Dennett shrugged. “Then you have the wild cards, the ones you don’t know where exactly they fall. Terrorists, like the Joker, or like this sicko who worked on Theresa Fuller. Just sayin’, sir, the landscape is different.”

Bruce nodded. “I guess I’ve failed to fully appreciate the problem.” He snapped a finger at Alfred, who happened to be walking by at the moment. “Here, Officer, let me freshen that up for you,” Bruce said, taking the bottle of champagne off of Alfred’s tray and refilling Dennett’s cup himself.

After he had excused himself to discuss some things with his butler, Bruce walked near the old man on his way to return a few empty glasses to a nearby table, where a pair of caterers were washing them and refilling them to be set on other trays, which a fleet of butlers constantly returned for. “How’s it going?” he asked Alfred. As they walked, Bruce very nearly bumped into a fellow who looked in a hurry to get to the nearest restroom. “Oh, excuse me!” Bruce chuckled, moving around him. The man barely heard him, and continued staggering on.

“Splendid so far, sir,” Alfred said. “Though there is a decidedly icier tone in a certain area just outside, where the politicians seemed to have mysteriously congregated, as though someone had herded them all into one place and told them to remain there.”

Bruce smirked, lifting a glass of red wine to his lips and sipping. “You’ve done dozens of these before, Alfred. You know they’ll stay out there all night, away from anyplace they’d have to mingle with the commonfolk, or the officers that we’re all here to honor.”

Alfred glanced over Bruce’s shoulder, and then said, “Just be yourself, sir.” That was their code phrase, and it meant that he needed to act like Bruce Wayne to the nth degree because someone nearby had met both Bruce Wayne and Batman. When Bruce turned, he had a big, idiotic smile on his face, and came eye-to-eye with Commissioner Gordon. “Hey, it’s the Commish!” he said loudly, because Batman never spoke loudly. “How’s it going, sir?”

James Gordon had a woman on his arms, and it wasn’t Barbara Gordon. He remembered what the commissioner had said the night before, about his wife leaving him and taking the kids, and he tried not to look too disarmed in the moment. Is this what caused it? Is there another woman? In an instant, Bruce wrestled with what all he knew of Jim Gordon, and decided, no, it couldn’t be that.

Could it?

The woman was certainly beautiful, dressed in a low, flowing black gown to match Gordon’s tux. She had gone minimal on the jewelry, just a small silver bracelet and a single ring, and her golden hair was layered and cascaded over one shoulder. The woman also looked very familiar. “Things are fine, Mr. Wayne,” said the commissioner, extending his hand. Bruce took it, shook it, and kept the stupid grin plastered all over his face. “I just wanted to come over and say thank you for this fundraiser. The Gotham City Police Department could certainly use it.”

“You know I’m always happy to help Gotham’s finest.”

“This is the third year in a row you’ve done this, though, and you’re really the only one reaching out,” Gordon said, and then smiled. “I don’t mean to sound like a downer, just stating the facts. For your help, there’ll be an award tonight for your continued help to us. I’m actually not supposed to tell you that, so promise me you’ll act surprised when they hand it out.”

“Thank you, Commissioner, but that’s really not necess—”

“Yes, it is. Actually, we owe you more than just a plaque, but we can’t afford it.” He chuckled mirthlessly. Then, all of a sudden, he remembered the woman standing beside him. “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? Mr. Wayne, this is Special Agent Sarah Essen. Sarah, this is Mr. Bruce Wayne.”

“Sarah Essen?” Bruce said, taking her hand and finding that her shake was every bit of that of an alpha male’s. “That’s where I’ve seen you before. You were once on the GCPD, weren’t you?”

“It’s been eight years, but yeah, that was me, Mr. Wayne. I’m surprised you remember me at all?”

Bruce had slipped up just a tiny bit by revealing what he knew. It was just so hard playing stupid all the time. “It’s just one of those things that sticks in there. I never forget a face, and a pretty one, too,” he said, looking her up and down. That’ll fix it, he thought. But her beauty was actually remarkable for a woman who had been so determined on the force. Bruce recalled reading copied police reports that Gordon had handed him with notes written in her handwriting, from work she had done on various investigations. From what Bruce could recall, Sarah Essen was very thorough. “You also tracked down a serial killer a while back, right? That was you on TV, if I’m not mistaken.”

“The Trenton Strangler. Yes, that was me.” Sarah looked a little abashed.

“Sarah will be helping out the force a bit in the coming months,” Gordon said.

“Oh!” Bruce said, smiling at her. “Well then, between the funds we raise tonight and your help, the GCPD may be able to gain some footing again.”

“That’s the hope, Mr. Wayne.”

“Well, I wish you success, of course. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few other guests I need to say hello to. I’d love to stay and chat, but there are just so many here tonight.”

“We understand, Mr. Wayne. And thank you again.”

“Not a problem. And be safe out there.”

* * *

WHEN WALDEN SPOTTED Gordon and Essen talking to Bruce Wayne, he was temporarily taken off his stride. He’d been speaking to Councilwoman Mary Houston about how this ball would supply plenty of extra funding for the GCPD, on top of its usual annual budget, so once again there was probably no need to listen to any more arguments from Commissioner Gordon or his people, especially since they had federal funding coming in with Agent Essen’s task force. Now, having seen the pair talking to Wayne, the mayor temporarily lost his train of thought.

Walden had spent three years trying to get the attention of Bruce Wayne, one year of which had been his entire first year as mayor. He had met Wayne just once before, at the last Policeman’s Ball, and then only briefly. Wayne moved about the room like any good host, touching base with numerous people. Walden respected his swagger, although he was something of a lackwit. Still, the fact that Gotham’s wealthiest man and benefactor hadn’t yet joined Walden’s close-knit circle of friends, and yet spoke to Gordon and Essen both in a way that made them appear as old friends, irked the mayor.

I invited him to join myself and Zucco at the circus, and he turned us down. Walden hadn’t forgotten about that. Walden had been introduced to Seth Blair by Anthony Zucco three years ago. Zucco had come into play during the U&E Planning deal, which had wound up putting patronages (what Seth had called bribes) towards Walden and his campaign. Zucco was a man that had barely escaped criminal prosecution in his past, but he had escaped it, and Walden was a little resentful that one of his old business partners was still being looked at by some people as a criminal. Pretty soon, he would have to abandon Zucco altogether.

Walden knew that some of Zucco’s old operations, such as Yolanda Labs, had at one time been in stiff combination with subsidiary companies of Wayne Enterprises. He holds it against me that I still speak to Zucco, he thought, looking at Bruce Wayne while he laughed a little too much at a senator’s jokes. He resents me for it. I know he does.

And now here Gordon was, getting all chummy with Wayne.

It doesn’t matter, Walden thought. He’s not long for the commissioner’s job. He had gotten the news from one of Seth’s people in a phone call early this morning, and Pam’s sources at the Informer had confirmed it. The story was going to run in tomorrow’s paper, but already some bits of the story were leaking onto the Informer’s website. It would be hitting Gordon and Essen just about any moment now…

* * *

GORDON USED TO feel uptight at these kinds of events, but Barbara was more outgoing, and having been married to her had cured him of most of his apprehension. And what she hadn’t cured, being commissioner had. Over the last year, talking to people over a phone had been most of his job. Recently, getting to work on a real case again had reinvigorated him, despite the cost to his family, he was sorry to say.

Gordon had spotted Walden earlier, but stayed away from him. If anyone noticed that they never crossed paths at this party, then it would certainly cause more gossip about their stressed relationship, but Gordon was willing to accept it.

“Wayne seems nice,” Sarah was saying as she got a refill of her wine from one of the caterers. “He lacks subtlety in his flirting, but he’s still young, I guess. Well, younger than me, anyway. The world’s filling up with those, though,” she laughed.

“Tell me about it,” Gordon said.

“I hear he’s a little weird.”

“Who, Wayne?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well, right now Gotham will take whatever it can get. Bruce Wayne maybe a weirdo, but he’s our weirdo,” he said. “And he’s all right. He’s done good for himself.”

“For himself? I thought all of this money came from his parents.”

“Don’t underestimate him. I was there…I was there the night his parents died,” Gordon said, shaking his head at a waiter to turn down another finger sandwich.

“You’re kidding,” Sarah said, looking at him with renewed interest. “You never told me that.”

“I was at the station when they brought him in,” Gordon said, thinking about that night. He remembered the shock in the boy’s eyes, the nonstop trembling in his hands, and that utterly lost look he had, as though he’d just arrived from another planet and didn’t know anyone. “Poor kid was scared speechless. He blamed himself for a time. Alfred, that’s his butler, he was given custody of Wayne, and when Wayne got old enough he scared a lot of people around him by suddenly disappearing.”

Sarah nodded. “I kind of remember that. He was globe-hopping, right? Spending his parents’ money like it was on fire?”

“That’s what they say.”

She looked at him. “You don’t think so?” Gordon shook his head. “What do you think happened?”

He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I dunno. He came back…different, that’s for sure. Arrogant, laughing all the time like an idiot, burning down his own property like a drunken buffoon.” Gordon was a cop, and so he suspected everyone of keeping secrets, but whatever secrets Bruce Wayne had were sure to be one-of-a-kind. “Hard to say about him. But I know he appreciates law enforcement, and that’s all I care about.” Still, he couldn’t deny that there was something about the playboy billionaire that sang a familiar tune in Gordon’s mind. It almost reminded him of—

Sarah’s cell phone chirped loudly at her side.

“Jesus, Sarah,” Gordon chuckled. “Even I turn those off when I go to an event.”

“Well, we at the FBI don’t. We—” Sarah stopped in midsentence, squinting down at the screen of her smartphone.

“Sarah?” Gordon said. “What is it?”

She looked up at him, and just as she did, thunderous applause went up outside. In the ballroom they stood in, Alfred Pennyworth got on a microphone and advised everyone to step outside, that the award ceremonies were about to commence. People took their drinks with them as they began shuffling towards the doors, but Gordon continued looking at his old partner. “Sarah?”

“Jim…come outside with me.” Her voice was calm, a little too calm, a parent trying to keep a child from panicking.

“Sarah, what—?”

She took him by the arm, leading him out another door, away from where the ceremony stage was, and down a flight of stone steps outside. As they were walking out, he caught a glimpse of Mayor Walden, looking right at him. The mayor nodded at him, as if there was supposed to be an understanding. Once they were outside on the lawn near the garage, Gordon said, “Sarah, what’s going on? What is it?”

“Look,” she said, and held the smartphone up to him so he could read its screen.

Gordon read it once, then snatched it from her hand, scrolling down. It tried to register with him, but just wouldn’t. How? he thought. I don’t understand. How?

AUDIO RECORDINGS REVEAL POLICE COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON PURPOSEFULLY WITHHOLDING VITAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE “RIDDLE KILLER” FROM CITY OFFICIALS

Jim Gordon stood there for a moment, and then handed the phone back to Sarah, slowly. “Well, that settles it,” he sighed.

“Settles what, Jim?”

“I’m not cut out for politics,” he said, walking away in search of something to punch.

* * *

“THANK YOU ALL for coming! Thank you!” Bruce said, clumsily removing the mic from the mic stand and walking out to the center of the stage. Behind him, the band was exiting the stage to take their first break of the night. “How about a hand for The Hurlihees, folks? The best jazz group in Gotham, for my money!” Cheers went up around the throng of people who had politely given each other enough space so that they could walk freely, and so that the waiters could still shuffle around and offer drinks.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Bruce looked out at the assembled crowd, spotted a few familiar faces, including Mayor Walden, who walked directly up to the front of the stage, parting people like the Red Sea. “In just a moment, folks, we’re going to have some fine officers up here to recognize some of their own for exceptional work in the field of law enforcement. But first I want to thank you all for coming here tonight and lending support not just to your law enforcement, but also donations to the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundations, which will help local schools and art centers develop better facilities to provide the kind of care and cultural integrity that Gotham deserves.”

More applause went up. Bruce waited for it to end and then continued.

“My wish for these Policeman’s Balls is to create an atmosphere of pure joy for you men and women in uniform,” he said, looking out over the hundreds of heads. “The focus here is to promote camaraderie for you guys, and to develop strong ties between you and the communities you serve. That’s why I invite not just police officers, but politicians and civilians, too. I want them to talk to you. I want them to see that you’re just regular guys and gals, too. And if they should sometimes ask too many questions about your job while all you can think about is partying and having a good time, well then, please remember to have a good time, and also remember that they are just naturally curious. I admit I’m curious myself, as I have no idea what it takes to really fill you guys’ shoes whatsoever!” A few chuckles from the crowd. “You guys have something I don’t have, the ability to do something I can’t do, that I could never do.” He raised a glass to all of them. “I raise a toast to all of you tonight, and I, along with all the rest of civilians present tonight, wish you godspeed, and pray that you always stay safe keeping the wolves at bay.”

Cheers went up, and Bruce bowed away from the center of the stage and stepped off, handing it over a Chief Clay Chapman, who would be handing out the awards and plaques for the night. “Not so fast, Mr. Wayne,” Chapman called. “C’mon back up here, we’ve got a little something for you.” Bruce smiled as a few polite laughs went through the crowd. Chapman had in his hands a small plaque wrapped in white cloth. “For your years of charitable donations and hosting these balls, we at the GCPD thought it was time we gave something back to you.”

Chapman took the square plaque out from the cloth and presented it to him. Bruce feigned surprise and put a hand to his face to conceal his embarrassment. “This is on behalf of all of us at the precincts, from all of us who have benefited from the donations you have given us, and from our families, as well.” Bruce didn’t have time to really read it because it was facing the crowd, but it was engraved with the sigil of the Gotham City Police Department, and had signatures from various senior officials engraved all around it, as well as Commissioner James Gordon’s. There was an inscription, too, but Chapman was moving the thing around for everyone to see. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne, for all you’ve done.”

“My pleasure, Chief Chapman.” Bruce took it, and smiled. Someone yelled for a speech, and Bruce laughed, “But I just gave one!” The crowd laughed, and so he said a few words. “Well, I’ll just say that you guys are welcome here anytime. Any kind of service that I can do for the people of the GCPD is the least…” He trailed off for a moment. Bruce’s eyes had looked down at the inscription on the plaque, and froze there.

I am a riddle, yes, it’s true,

But if I am not its, his, hers, or theirs,

Then I am this to you

Bruce swallowed a lump in his throat. “Um…the…the least I can do…to give back,” he finished, and looked up at the crowd, who probably thought he had only stammered out of nervousness, or too much to drink. He nodded, “Thank you.” They applauded again and raised their glasses as he exited the stage at once.

As the crowd toasted him, Bruce touched Chapman on the arm as the chief was about to return to the mic. “Where did you get this?”

“What?” asked Chapman, perplexed. The crowd continued to applaud.

“The plaque. Where did you get it?”

“Um…er, we had it made at Everlasting Awards, down on Fifth Avenue. Why?”

“Where has it been since it arrived here this evening?”

Chapman looked at the crowd nervously as the cheering began to fade, and they all looked on at the stage expectantly. “It was…behind the stage, I suppose, in the box where we’ve got all the others.”

Bruce nodded, and jogged down the steps and went around the stage. On the microphone, he could hear Chapman telling everyone how this ceremony was going to work, and for everyone to make way for the recipients so that they could speed this thing along.

Around the back of the stage, Bruce found a female officer lifting a box, and she was on her way to join Chapman onstage. “Excuse me!” he said. She turned to look at him. “Can I have a look inside really quickly?”

“I’ve gotta have these onstage in like thirty sec—”

“It’ll only take a minute,” he said, removing the lid of the box and taking out more than thirty plaques, one at a time, and reading them. They were all just fine, none of them altered. “Did you see anyone back here messing with this box?”

The officer shook her head. “No. I’ve been with them most of the night.”

“The one that Chief Chapman presented me with, was it the only one wrapped in white cloth?”

She thought for a minute. “Yes, I think so. He wanted to hide it to keep it a surprise.”

“Thank you,” he said, and put them back inside for her. “Sorry to have bothered you.” She went around to the front of the stage, and Bruce remained behind, staring down at the plaque in his hands, trying to convince himself it was a coincidence, that it was just some sick attempt at humor. No. No one here would do this.

The knowledge crept up on him like spider legs. He’s here.

* * *

GORDON MANEUVERED THROUGH the crowd with Sarah in tow. “Jim,” she whispered. “Jim, you need to calm down. Think about your job. Think about Barbara and the kids—”

“They’re gone!” he hissed. “And so will my job if this son of a bitch has his way!” He pushed through Sergeant Whentley and his wife without an apology uttered. Sarah tugged at his sleeve as he searched the crowd for Walden’s head. When he finally caught sight of the bulky fellow and his wife, he marched right over and got in his face, just as an award was being called out to Officer O’Neil for his bravery during a gunfight with some Molehill Mobsters that had opened up on Downtown at a bank robbery last year. “You son of a bitch, you leaked it, didn’t you?” he said.

Walden’s eyes went wide, and next to him, his wife Katherine halted in mid-applause. “Excuse me, Gordon?” the mayor said.

He held up Sarah’s phone. “You and your little pet Pam, you leaked our conversation to the Informer. They’re always eager for a scoop. You probably had it doctored up a little, didn’t you? Edited out any unflattering remarks you made yourself! Is that it, Mr. Mayor? Is that how you want to play this game? Because if you do—”

“Excuse me, but I am here with my wife at a charity event for our people in uniform—”

“Who you didn’t give two spits about for your entire first year in office!” Gordon said. He was so livid he didn’t care that his voice was starting to be heard over the festivities. Nearby, people had stopped what they were doing, and from somewhere a photographer snapped a shot. “Where did Pam have the other recorder hiding, in her purse? Did you have it in a drawer where you could—?”

“If any conversation you and I had was recorded without my permission, I’ll see to it that the people who spread that tape are punished. You have my word on that.”

“Sure, sure. And in the meantime you’ll let the press crucify me!”

“Well, I can’t help what the press thinks about whatever it is you’re suggesting I spread.”

“Mayor Walden,” said a more diplomatic voice. It was Sarah, stepping forward and between them. “I’m Special Agent Sarah Essen with the FBI. We haven’t met yet, but my people will be working closely with the GCPD over the next few weeks, and we will be conducting investigations into various threats to Gotham City, including terrorism, organized crime, and this new serial killer. But we’ll also be reviewing the records of all GCPD personnel, and also the inner cogs of the political machine here in the city, just in case corruption still exists from the days before the bat appeared.”

Walden looked at her like she was some fly. “Glad to have you,” he said dismissively, and turned his eyes to Gordon. “But what’s that got to do with what he’s accusing me of?”

“Nothing. Just thought I’d introduce myself.” Sarah grabbed her date around the arm and said, “C’mon, Jim, we’ll miss the rest of the ceremonies.” It took three tugs to tear Gordon’s eyes away from the mayor’s, but when he finally followed her, he felt himself simmering down. “That could’ve been handled more delicately.” She smiled at him, and hugged his arm. “But it’s good to see that you’ve got some moxy in you. In the old days you weren’t so tough, you were too much of a nice guy to bust somebody’s chops.”

“You should’ve stayed out of it,” he said.

“So that you can scream some more and have that lady take pictures of you—did you see the lady with that one officer? Yeah, I guess she’s a reporter of some kind, snuck in here with a camera.”

Gordon looked around, spotted the woman she was talking about. “That’s Josephine Markus. Damn it! I lost my cool in front of her.” He fumed, and as they approached the front of the stage, Gordon whispered to her, “Why did you intervene like that?”

“I had to undermine him a little, since you were already off to a good start,” she laughed, and then turned serious. “Besides, I can’t have him forcing your hand—he likely planned this kind of reaction from you.”

Gordon looked at her. “What? Why?”

“To embarrass you publicly, make you look unfit to hold the office of police commissioner, and force you to resign.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s in the pockets of Mulcoyisy ‘Nate’ Stewart-Paulson,” Sarah said.

Gordon turned and looked at her, and that old wry smile was on her face again as she nodded towards the stage. “Fill you in later, Jim. But right now, let’s give some officers the congratulations they deserve, and the recognition of their fearless leader, Commissioner James Gordon.”

* * *

HE SEARCHED EVERYWHERE for Alfred, but couldn’t find him. Maybe he’s in the back, getting more drinks or supplies, he thought. Bruce moved through the crowd earnestly, smiling briefly at people who tried to stop him for conversation, but otherwise ignoring them and not caring how impolite he seemed.

Bruce went back inside the ballroom, where only a few stragglers remained because they hadn’t been able to find a good vantage point in the crowded yard, so a few of them were watching from the open floor-to-ceiling arched windows or from the balconies. He pushed his way around a paid magician who walked through the crowd and worked it with card, coin, and materialization tricks.

An inspection of a few empty halls revealed nothing. Bruce stopped to ask the head of the security team operating inside the manor if anything strange had been reported. “Uh, just a drunken officer who fell off a wall outside, sir,” he said. “Other than that, nothing.”

Bruce said, “If you see my butler Alfred, tell him I’ll be in my study.” He walked away, and nearly bumped into Sam Rutherford, one of the usual housekeepers he employed for these large events. “Sorry, Sam,” he said.

“Sir, a package for you at the front door.”

Bruce couldn’t be bothered right then. “Just tell them to leave it on the doorstep.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bruce went down a few more empty hallways, but before he did he took the Smith & Wesson tactical pen out of his left pocket, which he kept on his person at all times for protection whenever he was in civilian clothing. He kept the pen clenched tightly in a fist as he checked the other halls of the ballroom, and poked his head into a few rooms. He jogged across the grounds to the mansion itself, where only a handful of lights were on.

“Hello? Alfred?”

Nothing but echoes, and then silence.

Bruce took out his cell phone, and found Alfred’s number to call him. It rang and rang, but Alfred never picked up and it only went to voicemail. He put the phone back in his pocket, and then stepped back outside, running around the side of the mansion, looking up at the windows and inspecting the shrubs that hugged the walls. From here, he could hear Chief Chapman calling out someone’s name, and the applause for the next recipient. After several minutes, Bruce went back inside.

He stepped into his study where he looked at the plaque again. I am a riddle, yes it’s true. But if I am not its, his, hers, or theirs, then what I am to you?

“Yours,” Bruce said out loud to the empty study. He considered that. It’s not a random thing, he thought. This riddle was meant for me. It says so itself.

Bruce considered the implications of that. Someone had gotten in here and tampered with the awards, or at least switched one out for another. But how? Well, there were ways to find out. He could pay a visit to Everlasting Awards and see if anyone had dropped by over the last few weeks to check on the plaque that Chapman was having made for him, or else see if one of the employees had tampered with it. He could look at tonight’s guest list and see who all had been invited, and check the guests each person had brought with them, since they all had had to RSVP before attending the party. There were also security cameras all around Wayne Manor, so perhaps the culprit was on one of the—

His phone twittered in his pocket. Maybe that’s Alfred. He took it out, and found that it was a text message from an unknown number. He checked it: I have the power to crush ships and smash roofs, yet even I must fear the sun. What am I?

Bruce’s level of alert went up another five notches. He’s dancing all around me. He switched off the phone and put it back in his pocket. He had just started to turn and leave the study when he heard a low voice utter, “Master Bruce?”

He dropped to a crouch, pen in hand, ready for anything. Alfred was stepping through the door behind him, and reaching out slowly to flip the light switch. The lights came on, and the old man was looking at him rather quizzically. In his arms he had a brown box. “It’s just me, sir. One of the guards told me to find you here.”

Bruce held up the plaque. “He’s here, Alfred,” he said, handing it to him.

“I know, sir,” he said, and traded the box for the envelope. “I signed for it just now. It arrived by special delivery. The gentleman said it was scheduled for exactly this time at night.”

The package Sam was talking about. The box was so light it felt empty, and practically was. When Bruce sat it on his desk and removed the lid, he found there was just one piece of paper lying inside, one rolled into a scroll and sealed with red wax and a red ribbon. Alfred had already broken the seal. Bruce unrolled it, and saw the neatly-typed message:

I am present in mathematics and biology,

And I am a name in graph theory;

I have not an electrical circuit in me,

And yet I am essential to mass communication.

I am also a cable, and the second half of your social.

What is my name?

Bruce thought for a minute. “Network,” he said, looking on the back of the parchment to see if there was anything else. “He texted me another riddle. The answer to that one is ice, I think. That gives us yours, ice, and network.”

“Another anagram message, sir?”

“Most likely,” Bruce said, looking around the study. “Alfred, come up with some excuse for me and tell our guests I won’t be coming out for the rest of the night. Apologize to them, and then see if you can get to Gordon and warn him about this. Tell the security teams to help Gordon in any capacity that they can. I’m going into the cave to check our security feed. Be on the lookout for anyone suspicious.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Alfred turned to leave, Bruce said, “And hey!” The butler paused at the door. “Be careful, old man.”

* * *

ALFRED RETURNED TO the ceremonies just as the last of the names were being read. “Sergeant Carlos Ramón Martinez!” Chief Chapman called.

The crowd cheered as Officer Martinez went up the stairs to accept his plaque and a medallion that the chief put around his neck himself. The audience was tired, that was plain to see. They had been applauding for a while now as officer after officer got called to the stage, and there was only so long that people could be expected to do that and maintain their enthusiasm. Alfred surveyed the crowd, searching for Commissioner Gordon. It took him a moment to find him, but he finally spotted the commissioner right at the front of the stage in front of a throng of people.

The butler uttered polite “excuse mes” all the way to the front of the crowd, and touched Gordon on his shoulder. The commissioner had been whispering heatedly with his lady guest.

“—told you we’d talk about this later,” the woman was saying.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Commissioner,” Alfred said. “But Mr. Wayne wanted me to relay a rather urgent message.”

Gordon sighed. “Can it wait? We’re still in the middle of—”

“The Riddler, sir. Mr. Wayne thinks he’s here.”

Alfred had the complete attention of Gordon and his date.

* * *

BRUCE ZIPPED DOWN the fireman’s pole and jogged down the steps. The bats must’ve sensed something wrong, because they were restless; he could hear their fluttery wings and their screeches of unrest as he went up onto the dais and started tapping away at keys.

There were two different passwords that needed to be entered on two separate screens in order to get to all of the footage. The footage came up on an array of screens, and he rewound to the beginning of the night. Bruce was looking for anyone that fit the description that Oswald Cobblepot had given Gordon—Tall and pale. Thin, but not skinny. Dark hair, with a receding hairline. There were a few culprits, but most of them Bruce knew personally once he zoomed in to take a look. He tried to guard himself against assumptions. That doesn’t mean none of these people are him, he thought. Don’t discount them just because you know them, Bruce.

Then, something caught Bruce’s attention. Something had zipped by on one of the cameras as he had been rewinding and fast-forwarding. It had looked like a big white sign. And, when he rewound to that spot in the footage, he discovered that that’s exactly what it was. On one of the cameras just outside the gym, around the back where no guests would have need to go, someone had approached out of a shadow, someone in a dark-green dress suit, and they held up a piece of paper like any standard 8 ½” X 11” copier paper and showed it to the camera.

Which creature in the morning goes on four legs, at mid-day on two, and in the evening upon three, and the more legs it has, the weaker it be?

“Man,” Bruce said out loud to himself and his friends in the darkness. It was the riddle of the Sphinx, one of the oldest known riddles in recorded history. These are all too easy. He wants these riddles answered.

The Riddler held the paper up to the camera for about fifteen seconds, and then turned and walked away. Bruce tried to zoom in on his face, but it was still ensconced in shadow; probably the reason he had chosen that particular camera in the first place. But it also looked like the Riddler might have thrown on a balaclava, or some other dark covering to conceal his face. His clothing was what caught Bruce’s eye. The camera revealed it in full color. It was a dark-green suit, and it looked quite expensive. A suit like that would stick out on the camera footage of the rest of the party, where almost everyone was wearing black or white suits and gowns.

Bruce flipped back through the security footage of the ballroom, the gym, and the outside cameras facing the lawn and the stage. Then, in the ballroom, he caught sight of the dark-green suit. It was quick, the gentleman only entered the frame for two seconds and then was gone, but when he was there he glanced up for just an instant, holding his hand up like he was scratching the side of his head. He’s hiding his face. He knows where all the cameras are. He was paying attention, watching out for when he came too close to them.

Bruce followed him closely, in and out of the frames, where he was virtually handed off from the edge of one camera’s sight to the periphery of another. He never quite entered the frame completely, and he exited very fast, still scratching at his face, or pushing at his thinning hair. Then, he surprised Bruce when he boldly entered into the frame of one camera and made right for Bruce himself.

There Bruce was, in the video, walking alongside Alfred earlier in the night. Bruce remembered the moment clearly. He had asked Alfred how the party was going, and Alfred had explained that there was a nest of politicians, all conglomerating in one area outside away from the others. And then, a gentleman had briefly interrupted their conversation by bumping into Bruce and moving off hurriedly. Bruce had assumed it was just a drunken fellow in desperate need of a bathroom to relieve himself, and now, as if watching from another dimension, Bruce cursed himself as he watched the Riddler bump right into him and then quickly move off with nary a word of apology spoken.

No, Bruce thought. You’ve gotta be kidding me. Why? Why would he take the risk? Why would he be so blatant as to…?

Then, as fast as the thought occurred to him, he started patting himself down. Bruce reached into his pockets, they were all empty…except for the inside left jacket pocket. He reached inside, felt something there, and withdrew it. It was an envelope, placed there from an old put-pocketing trick—the planter had taken his target (Bruce) by complete surprise, bumping into him and putting his hands in random places of his body to regain balance, creating an overload of sensations, from surprise to embarrassment to the various touches, all of which were done to conceal the careful placement of a single object on his person.

Bruce opened the envelope, and read what was inside.

* * *

NEITHER GORDON NOR Sarah told anyone at the party why they were being detained. Everyone, including Mayor Walden, was not allowed access to their vehicles, despite numerous protests from very rich people who thought they deserved better treatment. While encouraging them not to panic, he tried to explain to them that there was an unspecified emergency that needed seeing to. Whenever they asked what this meant, Gordon was glad to tell them that they should ask the FBI, who was taking over this crime scene.

“I want statements from everybody,” he was saying into his phone. “You hear me? Everybody.”

While Gordon had started coordinating with Bruce Wayne’s security teams to make sure no one left the premises, Sarah got on the phone to her assistant Gary Carlisle and told him to bring two teams down to Wayne Manor and start a sweep. Gordon had it from the butler, Alfred Pennyworth, that Mr. Wayne himself had gone to his panic room. Good, probably the best place for him right now if he’s being targeted. Alfred had mentioned the strangeness with the plaque, and then the package they had received and the disturbing text message. Assuming it wasn’t just some kind of sick practical joke, it meant the Riddle Killer was now targeting someone a bit higher in profile than his previous victims.

Gordon was currently coordinating with Alfred, who, as it turned out, was one cool cookie under such pressure. “If you’ve got any security personnel to spare, or any standard housekeepers that you absolutely trust, I’d appreciate it if you asked them to stand at these doors here,” he was saying, pointing to the ones that exited out the east side of the ballroom.

“Yes, sir,” the butler said.

“I’ve got some of our officers volunteering to set up a perimeter—I hate to do this to them on a night they’re supposed to be off, but well…” He sighed, thinking. “If you can, make sure no one gets their car keys back from the valets until the entire manor has been cleared.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform the valets at once.”

“And tell Mr. Wayne I’ll want to see those riddles.”

“Yes, Commissioner,” the butler said. “Of course.”

* * *

HOURS OF SEARCHING turned up absolutely nothing of consequence. There was a man and a woman who had gone missing, no one seemed to be able to account for them over the last hour, but eventually they were found putting their clothes back on in a lounge area behind the tennis courts. One of them, the woman, was once on the Gotham City Council, but no longer. Her name was Gloria Ezbenozae, and she was married, but not to the man she was with behind the tennis courts.

The little embarrassing moment wasn’t of consequence except for the fact that neither one of them had been accounted for over the last hour, so Gordon didn’t focus too much on the incident. Instead, he was far more interested in getting the security camera footage from Mr. Wayne, who was all too accommodating once he finally reemerged from wherever it was he had been hiding. Wayne handed over his cell phone, which had the text message, as well as the plaque and the scroll with their riddles.

“I saw a suspicious fellow wearing a dark-green jacket tonight,” Mr. Wayne was saying. “He was moving around a little strangely. I marked him earlier, but didn’t think it would lead to this. He’s got dark hair, with a receding hairline. I know most of the people here in my house tonight, either personally or by reputation and pictures in the news, but I’ve never seen him before. You might want to start looking for him.”

“I’ll inform my people to look for him at once. And I’ll understand if you want to return to your panic room now, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon told the billionaire.

“Thank you, Commissioner. And…I’m sorry I let this happen.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Wayne. This was all the Riddler’s doing.”

“Yes, but I promised security and protection to you and your people for this night, which was meant to be a celebration for all you’ve done. Now,” he sighed, “I’ve just put you to work again.”

Gordon smirked. “It’s all right. We’re used to this. It’s what we do.”

Wayne nodded and left them to it. He walked away with his butler in tow, just as Sarah was walking over to Gordon, her cell phone in her ear. “My people just pulled up at the front gate. We’ll have to question every single party guest.”

“Well, there are around a thousand guests here tonight,” Gordon said. “Many of them are extremely powerful people, not used to being detained. Most of them get away without a speeding ticket just by saying who they are.” He put his hands on his hips, and looked around the ballroom at where most of the guests had been herded. “But a lot of them are my cops, and they know how this thing goes, so they’ll be cooperative enough.”

“How’s Wayne?” Sarah asked.

“He’s fine. He’s rich and he’s been targeted before. He’s just a little embarrassed that this happened at his place during a night like tonight.”

Sarah said, “Are those the riddles he left?”

Gordon looked down, suddenly remembering the three objects in his hand. “Yeah, Wayne just gave them to me.”

“Well then, let’s have a look.”

* * *

DOWN IN THE cave, the billionaire and the butler sat quietly reviewing what they’d been given by the Riddler. Bruce had returned to the cave immediately with Alfred right behind him, neither one of them speaking. “May I ask, sir, why you didn’t give Commissioner Gordon all of the riddles in your possession?” Alfred asked, finally breaking the silence. “If you have these two here, then why not give them all to him, and see if he can help you suss out the ultimate meaning of it all?”

Bruce had just finished showing Alfred the last two riddles he’d discovered, the first one from the security footage and the second one that had been placed inside his pocket. Through the monitors in front of him, he was watching the live feed of the party, searching for any sign of the black-haired man in the dark-green suit. So far, there wasn’t any sign of him. He knows how to move in and out of a room, in and out of a house. Everything Bruce knew about the Riddler, whether from his own experience or from what Gordon had told him—from the cloning of cell phones, to the usage of proxy servers and cloaked Internet service providers to accomplish his goals—and everything he knew of the Riddler’s abilities at engineering and trap-making so far, told Bruce that the man could easily move in and out of the context of society. He knows where to move and when.

This new behavior, now documented on film, showed that the Riddler knew how to scout out a location, map it out in his brain quickly, and then settle himself into his environment, insinuating himself in such a way that he was practically invisible. He could insinuate himself into a party, dodge the cameras, and maneuver around security teams. And he also has terrific pick-pocketing and put-pocketing skills.

“Because, Alfred,” Bruce said, standing up from his chair. “I’ve already solved them. All of them. They’re not that hard. They’re juvenile again, and purposely so.” He showed Alfred the letter that had been planted on him at the party.

I am at every bar, and you can’t leave without me.

I am not heavy, but it can be hard to pick me up.

All your friends can share me, but only one can have me.

What is my name?

“A bar tab,” Bruce said. “Or, just ‘Tab’ since the riddles asks ‘What is my name?’ He’s very exact in that way, making sure that he asks the question not always in the standard ‘What am I’ so that he gets the exact lettering he needs to create the anagram messages.”

Alfred nodded, looking up at the frozen image on the screen, where the Riddler had posed to him the riddle of the Sphinx. “Man, yours, ice, network, and tab,” he said. The old man considered it for a moment, and then looked up at Bruce. “You say you’ve solved it, sir?”

Bruce nodded. “I put it into the anagram searcher, but it came up with over a hundred thousand possibilities. I started ticking them off one by one, and was down here for nearly thirty minutes before it came to me. The last anagram messages were to Batman, so I searched for his name in here, and found it. Tab and man can be arranged to make Batman.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, I figured, assuming the message was meant for Batman—which might’ve been wrong, but just assuming for a moment—what might that mean for Bruce Wayne, since the riddle on the plaque specifically said it was meant for me?”

Alfred looked at the riddles all written out on the screen, trying to see what only his master and ward could see.

Bruce reached forward, and tapped two keys on the keyboard. “I came up with this,” he said. On the center screen, everything went away except five words:

I know your secret Batman

Alfred read them in disbelief, and then looked at the man who had been like a son to him. “You’re sure it can’t be anything else, sir?”

“It’s too big of a coincidence, Alfred.” Bruce sighed. He propped his elbow on the armrest, and rested his chin on his hand. “This is it, old man,” he said. “It’s out. My secret’s finally out.”