Batman 6 - The Dark Knight Read online

Then he returned to the kitchen, filled a silver thermos with coffee, and took the elevator down to the building’s garage.

  Seven minutes later, he parked the Wayne limo in a corner of a railroad yard, got out, carried the thermos to a rusty freight container that sat, lopsided, on concrete blocks. He got a key from his vest pocket and opened a padlock on the container’s hatch, then stepped inside.

  A hiss. The floor lowered, taking Alfred down to the long, low-ceilinged concrete chamber he usually entered through a tunnel that led to Wayne’s apartment building. But today, he thought it wise to assure himself that the elevator entrance was in working order, and was pleased to learn that it was. A hundred years ago, Hiram Wayne had this room built because he wanted to experiment with a steam-driven subway train. The train proved to be a bad idea, but the Wayne family had retained ownership of the ground Hiram had used for his experiments. This chamber had been forgotten by everyone, and although Bruce had heard it mentioned by an uncle, he doubted its existence until recent excavation had uncovered part of it. Bruce sensed that it might some day be useful and, again with the invaluable help of Alfred and Lucius Fox, had pumped out water, reinforced walls, done everything necessary to make it habitable.

  Batman’s massive vehicle sat in the center of the room, near a cluster of computers, printers, workbenches, power tools, and microwaves. Bruce sat amid the clutter, watching a television tuned to GCTV, the local all-news station.

  “It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt, and you can swap not sleeping in a penthouse for not sleeping in a mansion,” Alfred said, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.

  Alfred handed the cap to Bruce and sat in a nearby chair to join his master. When the news report ended, Bruce returned to what he had obviously been doing when the broadcast had come on, stitching a gash on his arm from where one of the Chechen’s dogs had bitten him.

  Alfred took the needle from him, and said, “When you stitch yourself up you make a bloody mess.”

  “But I learn about my mistakes.”

  “You ought to be pretty knowledgeable by now, then.” Alfred busied himself with doctoring.

  “The problem this time was my armor,” Bruce said. “I’m carrying too much weight. I need to be faster.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Fox can oblige.” Alfred peered more closely at the wound. “Did you get mauled by a tiger?”

  “A dog. A big dog.”

  For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, Bruce said, “There were more copycats last night, Alfred. With guns.”

  “Perhaps you could hire some of them and take weekends off.”

  “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to inspire people. I would never resort to guns or to killing anyone. These gang members are making it dangerous, Alfred. Innocents could be killed by their antics, and I don’t want to shoulder the blame!”

  “I know, Master Bruce. But things are improving. Look at the new district attorney.”

  “I am. Closely. I need to know if he can be trusted.”

  “Are you interested in his character . . . or his social circle?”

  “Who Rachel spends her time with is her business.”

  “Well, I trust you’re not following me on my day off.” Alfred held up a stack of surveillance photos he saw on a side table. They were of Rachel Dawes with Harvey Dent, and they had obviously been taken over the past several weeks, perhaps even months. “Are you sure about that?”

  “If you ever took one, I might,” replied Bruce.

  “Know your limits, Master Bruce.”

  “Batman has no limits.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “I can’t afford to know them.”

  “And what happens the day you find out?”

  “We all know how much you like to say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “That day, Master Bruce, even I won’t want to. Probably.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The weather that Monday morning in Gotham City was gorgeous. It seemed that winter had finally gone, and spring had arrived. At 9:30, District Attorney Harvey Dent was running up the steps to the courthouse and at 9:31 he burst into one of the chambers. The courtroom was filled with lawyers, spectators, uniformed policemen, and Salvatore Maroni, who was to be tried that day.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Dent said to no one in particular as he sat at the prosecutor’s table next to Rachel Dawes.

  “Where were you?” Rachel whispered.

  “Worried you’d have to step up?” Dent grinned and opened his attaché case.

  “I know the briefs backward.”

  Dent’s grin widened and he pulled a silver dollar from a pocket. “Well then, fair’s fair. Heads, I’ll take it. Tails, he’s all yours.”

  Dent flipped the coin in the air, caught it, slapped it on his wrist, then uncovered it and displayed it to Rachel.

  “Heads,” Dent said. “You lose.”

  “You’re flipping coins to see who leads?”

  “My father’s lucky coin. As I recall, it got me my first date with you.”

  “I’m serious, Harvey. You don’t leave things like this to chance.”

  “I don’t.” Dent winked. “I make my own luck.”

  From the defendant’s table across the aisle, Maroni said, “I thought the DA just played golf with the mayor, things like that.”

  “Tee off’s one thirty. More than enough time to put you away for life, Sally.”

  The bailiff told everyone to rise, and court was in session. The judge entered and took his place at the bench, banged his gavel, and told Dent to call his first witness.

  “I call Wilmer Rossi,” Dent said.

  Two uniformed guards brought in a thin man wearing a shabby suit. This was Wilmer Rossi. He sat in the witness box, was sworn in, and gazed at the approaching district attorney.

  Dent leaned toward Rossi. “With Carmine Falcone in prison, someone must’ve stepped up to run the so-called ‘family,’ right?”

  Rossi nodded.

  “Is this man in the courtroom today?”

  Again, Rossi nodded.

  Dent turned his head to stare at Maroni. He was smiling. “Could you identify him for us, please?”

  “You got me, Counselor,” Rossi said. “It was me.”

  Dent turned back to Rossi, no longer smiling. “I’ve got a sworn statement from you that this man, Salvatore Maroni, is the new head of the Falcone crime family.”

  “Maroni? He’s the fall guy. I’m the brains of the organization.”

  There was a brief burst of laughter from the gallery. Dent looked up at the judge. “Permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

  “Hostile!” Rossi screamed. “I’ll show you hostile!”

  Rossi lifted his hand from his side, and somehow it was holding a gun. He aimed at Dent’s face, barely four feet away, and pulled the trigger. There was a click as the gun’s hammer fell on the firing pin, but there was no shot. Dent took a single step forward, grabbing the gun with his left hand as his right, curled into a fist, struck Rossi in the mouth. Rossi slumped back into the witness chair and spat blood.

  Dent ejected the clip from Rossi’s weapon, letting it fall to the floor, and crossed to where Maroni sat. He dropped the empty gun onto the table in front of Maroni, and said, casually, “Ceramic .28 caliber. That’s how it beat the metal detectors. Made in China, I believe.” Turning back to the witness box, he said, “Mr. Rossi, I recommend you buy American.”

  Dent straightened his tie and watched the bailiffs wrestle Rossi from the witness box.

  “Your Honor,” Dent said to the judge. “I’m not done with this witness . . .”

  An hour later, Dent was striding through the courthouse lobby with Rachel, who was panting slightly as she struggled to keep up with him.

  “We’ll never link that gun to Maroni,” she said. “But I’ll tell you one thing—the fact that they tried to kill you means we’re getting to them.”

  “Glad you’re so pleased, Rachel,” Dent said. “Oh,
by the way, I’m fine.”

  Rachel tugged at Dent’s sleeve until he stopped. She smoothed his lapels. “Harvey, you’re Gotham’s DA. If you’re not getting shot at, you’re not doing your job. ’Course, if you said you were shaken, we could take the rest of the day off . . .”

  “Can’t. I dragged the head of the Major Crimes Unit down here.”

  “Jim Gordon? He’s a friend. Try to be nice.”

  Dent and Rachel kissed good-bye, and he resumed walking. Dent turned down a short corridor and entered his office. James Gordon was already there. He stood and shook hands with Dent.

  “Word is, you’ve got a hell of a right cross,” Gordon said. “Shame Sal’s going to walk.”

  “Well, good thing about the mob is they keep giving you a second chance.”

  Dent went to his desk and took a sheaf of currency from a drawer.

  “Lightly irradiated bills,” Gordon said.

  “Fancy stuff for a city cop,” Dent said. “Have help?”

  “We liaise with various agencies—”

  “Save it, Gordon. I want to meet him.”

  “Official policy is to arrest the vigilante known as the Batman on sight.”

  “And that floodlight atop headquarters?”

  “If you have any concerns about . . . malfunctioning equipment . . . take them up with maintenance, Counselor.”

  Dent tossed the bills onto his desk, his annoyance visible. “I’ve put every known money launderer in Gotham behind bars. But the mob is still getting its money out. I think you and your ‘friend’ have found the last game in town, and you’re trying to hit ’em where it hurts—their wallets. Bold. You gonna count me in?”

  “In this town, the fewer people know something, the safer the operation.”

  “Gordon, I don’t like that you’ve got your own special unit, and I don’t like that it’s full of cops I investigated at Internal Affairs.”

  “If I didn’t work with cops you’d investigated while you were making your name in IA, I’d be working alone. I don’t get political points for being an idealist. I have to do the best I can with what I have.”

  “Look, Gordon, you want me to back warrants for search and seizure on five banks without telling me who we’re after?”

  “I can give you the names of the banks.”

  “Well, that’s a start. I’ll get you the warrants. But I want your trust.”

  “You don’t have to sell me, Dent. We all know you’re Gotham’s white knight.”

  Dent grinned. “I hear they’ve got a different name for me down at MCU.”

  A mile uptown, Lucius Fox was presiding over a board meeting of Wayne Enterprises. Despite his impeccable suit and trim haircut, Fox did not much resemble what he, in fact, was—the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. There was nothing of the fat cat in his manner or appearance. Rather, he seemed to be what he really was, an inventor who also happened to have an IQ that was off the charts. Until his boss, Bruce Wayne, had returned from wherever it was he’d gone for seven years, Lucius was quite comfortable being a nonentity. He was known to be a favorite of Thomas Wayne, Bruce’s father, and so the new cadre of executives who gradually took control of the company after Wayne’s death didn’t trust Lucius any more than he trusted them. They didn’t fire him outright: He neither knew or cared why. Instead, they had exiled him to a department that did less and less business with every passing quarter, a department devoted more to research than quick-profit deals. Then they relocated that department to a subbasement, slashed its budget, put Lucius in charge of a staff they immediately discharged, and wished him the best of luck in his new endeavors. Fine with Lucius. More than fine. It felt like Christmas morning under the tree. He had all these toys to play with—others called them “research projects”—and plenty of time to play with them, all alone in his basement den. He kept his own hours, his own books, his own counsel.

  As for money: The new occupant of the big office, William Earle by name, thought he was plenty smart, detail-oriented, the kind of captain who ran a tight ship. Fox thought he was a moron. Lucius had educated himself about computers before digital knowledge was a required subject for anyone with any desire to make a mark in American business because, to him, it was plain that computers would soon be essential tools, as necessary as cash registers had been in his father’s time.

  Bruce Wayne was Lucius Fox’s candidate for the only man in Gotham City who might possibly be stupider than Earle. Then, unexpectedly, the young Wayne inserted himself into Fox’s life. He was genuinely interested in what Fox was doing, and bright enough to comprehend it immediately. But Fox sensed that Bruce was more than merely curious. He wanted something. Make that plural—somethings. Things like high-powered vehicles and body armor and climbing gear and weapons—not exactly the playthings of a wastrel.

  Bruce never explained himself to Fox, but it was apparent that he did not doubt Fox’s understanding of exactly what Bruce was doing with his nights. The pretense that Fox was blissfully unaware of the Bruce-Batman connection became a running joke between them.

  Bruce changed Fox’s life, utterly. After he and Bruce had collaborated on Earle’s exit, Fox became the head of Wayne Enterprises, and was exhilarated to finally use his skills and intelligence to implement Thomas Wayne’s vision. Fox privately described the empire he controlled as the “anti-Enron” of the East Coast. Good as all that was, Bruce’s real contribution to Fox’s happiness was what happened between the two of them and was never acknowledged: Fox’s complicity in Bruce’s nocturnal activities. Oh, the idea of fighting crime in a Halloween costume seemed ridiculous to Fox until he saw how effective it was becoming. Then he began to revel in his own secret identity: Batman’s toolmaker. He and Bruce and a few others, like that Gordon fellow and the district attorney, Dent, seemed to be saving the city. That was worth doing and besides, he was enjoying himself. He’d imagined that by this point in his life, he’d be a mellow old guy who spent a lot of free time in parks and watching sports, generally being bored and frustrated. Instead, he not only had a mission, he liked having a mission, liked the challenges and the ability to focus his energy, experience, talent and intelligence on a single and highly worthy persona: Batman’s inventor. Yes, indeed.

  At the moment, he was sitting relaxed at a conference table, leaning forward a bit, listening intently to a dignified Asian man, wearing a suit far pricier than Fox’s own. This was a man Lucius Fox knew as Mr. Lau, the president of a business entity that called itself L.S.I. Holdings. Seven other men, members of Fox’s staff, sat around the table, all of them tapping out notes on laptop computers. Bruce Wayne was sitting at the head of the table, in front of a large window.

  Lau was speaking: “In China, L.S.I. Holdings stands for dynamic new growth. A joint Chinese venture with Wayne Enterprises would result in a powerhouse.”

  Fox replied in a measured voice. “Well, Mr. Lau, I speak for the rest of the board, and Mr. Wayne, in expressing our own excitement.”

  Lau looked at the head of the table. Bruce Wayne’s head was bowed, his chin resting on his chest, apparently asleep.

  Everyone got up and quietly left the room.

  Fox escorted Lau to the elevator, and as the doors opened, Lau said, “It’s okay, Mr. Fox. Everyone knows who really runs Wayne Enterprises.”

  “We’ll be in touch as soon as our people have wrapped up the due diligence,” Fox said.

  Lau nodded and entered the elevator. Fox watched the doors close and turned to where a lawyer named Coleman Reese was waiting.

  “Sir, I know Mr. Wayne’s not interested in how his trust fund gets replenished,” Reese said. “But frankly, it’s embarrassing.”

  The two men began walking down the corridor.

  “You worry about the diligence, Mr. Reese,” Fox said. “I’ll worry about Bruce Wayne.”

  “It’s done. The numbers are solid.”

  “Do it again. Wouldn’t want the trust fund to run out, would we?”

  Fox reentered the boardroom,
where Bruce Wayne was now standing, gazing out the window.

  “Another long night?” Fox asked.

  Wayne turned, nodded, then smiled.

  “This joint venture was your idea, and the consultants love it,” Fox said. “But I’m not convinced. L.S.I.’s grown 8 percent annually, like clockwork. They must have a revenue stream that’s off the books. Maybe even illegal.”

  “Okay,” Bruce said. “Cancel the deal.”

  “You already knew?”

  “I needed a closer look at the books.”

  “Anything else you can trouble me for?”

  “Well . . . I do need a new suit.”

  Fox scrutinized his boss. “Three buttons is a little nineties.”

  “I’m not talking about fashion, Mr. Fox, so much as function.”

  Wayne took some large sheets of blue paper from an attaché case and spread them on the table. For the next few minutes, Fox examined the diagrams on them. Then he said, “You want to be able to turn your head.”

  “It would sure make backing out of the driveway easier,” Bruce said, smiling.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I trust you don’t need the new gear tonight.”

  “No, Mr. Fox, tonight I have a date with a ballerina.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Ocelot was Gotham’s newest dining sensation. It was possible to spend a middle-class worker’s monthly salary on a meal for six, if one went a little heavy on the wine. The food was spectacular; a fusion of French, Thai and, incredibly, St. Louis barbecue. It should have been ghastly; instead, it was delicious. But it wasn’t the cuisine that drew most of its clientele to the Ocelot; it was the chance to be seen, and to let the world know that money was no object.

  Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent allowed themselves to be seated at a table in the center of the cavernous room. As they waited for menus, Dent looked around and frowned.

  “It took three weeks to get a reservation, and I had to tell them I worked for the government.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “This city’s health inspector’s not afraid to pull strings.”