Nightwing

Angela Shay shifted her feet uncomfortably, stifling a shiver due to the cold. She’d learned long ago never to approach a situation such as this with one’s arms crossed. The cues communicated through body language were essential, and crossed arms showed lack of confidence. A lack of confidence with people like this would probably be fatal. Assuming, she thought as she clicked her heels on the concrete floor of the warehouse, if her mysterious employer was who he claimed to be.

“Inspector Shay” came the gravelly voice behind her. Shay spun, expecting to see herself face-to-face with her employer, only to find such a thing impossible.

A quick gasp later, Shay adjusted her line of sight. “You’re alone,” she said, rapidly regaining her composure. “I’m surprised.”

“I’m never alone, Inspector. There are no fewer than eight snipers in this building with a bead on you. You just can’t see them.”

“I heard you were dead. Or at least missing.”

“Oh, but I am. Missing, that is. Not dead, as you can see. Surprised to learn it’s been me pulling your strings all this time?”

Shay thought back to when she’d first heard his voice on the phone. Her stomach still hadn’t quite recovered. “You, uh, you could say that. Do you blame me?”

“Heh. No, I can’t say as I do.”

Shay felt utterly out of her depth. She was used to controlling situations with her sexuality, distracting a man’s attention with a cross of her legs or a bat of her eyelashes. In this situation, though, her sexuality felt entirely useless. She was going to have to improvise as best she could. “So,” she replied after a pause. “I’m just loving our little cat-and-mouse game here, but I’m also freezing. Can you let me know why you called this meeting?”

She couldn’t quite be sure, but Shay thought she saw a smile form on her employer’s lips. “Glad you asked, my dear, glad you asked. You see, Angela, I think it’s time you got promoted.”

“… really don’t have any comment at this time, Ms. Ortega. You’ll have to direct questions to my attorney.” The phrase spoken, Stanley Plika slipped quickly behind the wheel of his Dodge Neon, flashbulbs popping all around him. Olivia Ortega heard his car start up, and stepped away instinctively as the vehicle roared to life and peeled away from the Finger County Courthouse.

Bummer, she thought. She was almost always able to rely on Stanley Plika for a good quote. Of the four individuals claiming to be the legal heir of Roland Desmond, Plika was the most gregarious. I guess a week in court doing nothing will affect anyone, she thought, then raced back toward the courthouse steps.

Plika’s lawyer was nowhere in sight, but G. Lee Williams and his client, Preston Orcutt, were now descending the courthouse steps, and the media throng shifted toward them. Orcutt had his head down, but Williams looked ready to talk.

“Mr. Williams! Any comment on the proceedings thus far?”

“Mr. Williams! What is your reaction to the Judge’s ruling that your client’s civil litigation history is admissible?”

“Mr. Williams! Have you seen the Inquirer story claiming that Melinda Kolins used to be a hooker?”

Williams finally silenced the crowd with a wave of his hand, and took a microphone from one of the reporters. What a ham, Olivia thought. If this isn’t the most melodramatic..

“Folks,” said Williams, flashbulbs again lighting the air as dusk fell. “We are pleased with the progress of the trial to date, and we are optimistic that justice will prevail, and that Mr. Orcutt will be rightfully ruled to be Desmond’s heir. I cannot comment on any specific rulings issued by the Presiding Judge. Beyond that, we have no comment at this time.”

“But that’s the same thing you said yesterday!” moaned one reporter.

“It’ll have to do.” replied Williams. “The fact is, this is a very involved process, and it needs to be handled inside that courtroom, rather than out here, in the court of public opinion.”

“Don’t you think the people have a right to know what’s going on?”

“I do. And you will. Soon.” With that, Williams returned the microphone and departed, leaving the media to flail more questions in this direction. Olivia focused on Preston Orcutt, being swept along by his attorney and staff. Even from a distance, Olivia could see that Orcutt’s eyes looked glazed over, like he was outside of himself. Wow, she thought. This trial is really having an adverse effect on these people. Wonder how many of them will make it to the finish line.

“-schematics on the house, Miss Gordon. I’m afraid this may be a bit out of our – pun unintended – League.” Alfred Pennyworth’s voice was, as usual, completely dry.

Babs pondered the diagrams now appearing on her desktop screen. The house had become a huge distraction as the wedding plans fell into place – or maybe it was the other way around. It was really difficult to say which task was more annoying at this point. “You’re telling me,” she deadpanned, “That Bruce Wayne doesn’t have the resources to pull this off?”

“He has the financial resources, to be sure.” came the reply. “It’s more a logistical issue than anything else, ma’am. It-.. “

“Alfred, you can call me Babs. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Yes. Well. In any event, it is rather difficult to convert a suburban home into a suitable crimefighting base without attracting attention. We faced the same difficulties in establishing Master Bruce’s subterranean grotto. In that case, though, we at least had the relative privacy afforded by the Manor’s isolated location. In your and Master Dick’s case, there will be neighbors right next door.”

“So your concern is how to physically move the equipment in?”

“Indeed.”

“Sounds like we need someone who can move at the speed of light and vibrate stuff through walls, eh?”

Alfred chuckled. “I’m sure Mr. West would be up to the task, Miss.”

“… and he’s in the wedding party, and hasn’t even thrown my hubby-to-be a bachelor party yet. Tell you what, Alfred. If you can get the equipment to the house, Wally will get it inside.”

“Indeed, Miss. And where is Master Grayson this fine day?”

“Oh you know,” Babs sighed. “Getting into trouble, no doubt.”

Dick knocked cautiously on the door of the apartment belonging to Lester Balcom. It was a longshot to believe he’d be there, but it was possible someone else might be. “Lester? Open up, Lester. I just want to talk to you.”

Dick looked over at Frank Drebbin when he didn’t get an answer, then nodded. Drebbin took the key voluntarily provided by Balcom’s landlord and opened the door. It creaked as they shoved it open. Drebbin pulled his gun and headed inside. Dick reached briefly for his holster, then thought better of it and inched inside behind Drebbin.

They’d checked out the layout before entering, so they knew what to expect. Two bedrooms, one and a half bath, living room, and kitchen. Not the Ritz, but not a dump either.

Dick and Drebbin fanned out through the apartment, checking each room, but discovered no people, living or dead, and no signs of blood. After checking the entire apartment, they returned to the living room, Drebbin’s gun now back in its holster. “Well, he’s not here.” said Drebbin, stating the obvious.

“We need to get a look at what’s on that.” Dick pointed to a laptop computer sitting on a desk in the corner of the living room. “Think we can legally take it?”

Drebbin thought a moment. “I don’t think so,” he shook his head. “Right now we don’t actually know that a crime has been committed. BFPD’s not going to let us seize property based on a missing person’s report. It’s open and obvious, though. We can turn it on and check it here.”

“Someone could have tampered with it, though. And we don’t have the know-how to figure that out here. We need to turn it over to the pros.”

“Could be,” said Drebbin. “But I don’t think it’s happening. Procedure, you know?”

Dick sighed. Drebbin was right, of course. Still, though, he had a feeling about that laptop. If the BFPD had hit a dead end, maybe it was time for Nightwing to make an appearance.

“-progressing so well in your therapy, Amy. Glad to hear things are going so smoothly.” Dr. Lapsing smiled as she snapped Amy Rohrbach’s chart closed. George was beaming as the doctor left the room.

As the door clicked shut, George turned his attention to his wife, now laying back in her bed. A week after waking up from a coma, Amy was walking with minimal difficulty and had completed two days of strengthening exercises. Each morning brought a battery of neurological tests, but most so far had been normal. “You really are doing great, honey.” said George. “You’re going to be back to normal before you know it.”

Amy winced inwardly, but forced a weak smile. “Thanks. I’m pretty wiped out. You want to take off and let me catch a few winks?”

George nodded, and stood. “Yup; school’s letting out soon anyway.” Time to pick up their son. George had basically been a single dad for almost six weeks now, and still hadn’t uttered a single complaint. He kissed Amy on the forehead, then picked up his coat. “We’ll stop by to see you later.” Amy nodded as he left.

As soon as the door shut, Amy’s head collapsed on her pillow, and the weak smile vanished. Back to normal, George has said, as if it was a foregone conclusion. Amy wasn’t so sure. She looked at her bandaged hand, now forever missing a finger. Dr. Lapsing had raised the possibility of a prosthetic, but no final decisions had been made. Even with a prosthetic, though, could anything ever really be back to normal? Even now Amy saw her life in pre-coma and post-coma terms. In one sense it was liberating, a second chance at life. In another, it felt like the person she’d been had died. She remembered very little of her accident, but she knew why it had happened. She hadn’t been smart enough. She hadn’t been good enough. And because of that, her husband was playing Mr. Mom and the BFPD was strolling along without her.

Amy realized, more than she ever had, that she really did have it all before her injury. A loving husband, a great son, and a job that mattered. And now all of it – all of it – had been taken from her in an instant. As determined as she was to get it all back, and as optimistic as the doctors seemed, Amy had to wonder if she could really do it. After all, she hadn’t been good enough to hold onto all of it in the first place. And if she couldn’t get it all back, what would the rest of her life be like?

Amy only knew she was crying when she heard a tear hit her pillow. She looked again at her hand. Nothing – nothing – was ever going to be the same.

“Vultures!!! Get out of my yard!!” Lori Uthrow had gone through another long day, and the media delegation camped on her lawn was really starting to annoy her. She fought past the assembled media into her home, then quickly locked the door behind her. She’d left the shades drawn that morning, and the only light came from a small table lamp.

Lori relaxed only a moment before she heard a tinkle. It sounded like glass falling on the floor. Her body stiffened. “Who’s there?”
“No need to be alarmed, Ms. Uthrow.” came the reply. “I’m not here to do you violence.”

“Step into the light where I can see you.” Lori demanded.

“Sorry, no.” said the male voice. “My appearance can be… bothersome to people. I’m not exactly GQ material, if you know what I mean. Best that we just chat.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about the Blockbuster trial. You see Lori, it’s like this.” A pause for effect. “I know you’re a fraud. I know you’re not the heir.”

Anger flooded Lori’s veins. “Yes I am.”

“No.” The voice betrayed none of the emotion Lori felt. It was completely dispassionate. “No, you’re not. You’re a sad little girl from Topeka, Kansas who is in way over her head.”

“You need to get out of here. Leave or I’m calling the police.”

“In a moment. First, though, I have something to tell you. You know Kyle Derring?” Lori felt her face flush at the mention of her son. Even after she’d put Kyle up for adoption, she’d never lost touch with him. “Of course you know him.”

“What do you want?” Lori repeated. It was all she could think to say.

“Kyle’s the whole reason you think you’re the correct heir, right? You think there’s a paternity suit in there somewhere? Let me assure you, legally and realistically, there’s not. You’ve got nothing. But there’s a little boy in Fayetteville, Arkansas, who has a lot to lose.”

“You bastard!” Lori almost screamed. “Don’t you even think about hurting him! I’ll kill you!”

“You should hear how absurd that sounds. You don’t even know who I am.”

Lori was silent, paralyzed with rage and fear.

“Now,” said the voice after a pause. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

“-Olivia Ortega, with breaking news from the Blockbuster trial. It has been confirmed that alleged beneficiary Lori Uthrow has withdrawn from the suit. We have learned that Ms. Uthrow has taken a voluntary dismissal with prejudice of all claims against Ersatz Insurance Company. This effectively ends her pursuit of the assets formerly belonging to Roland Desmond.

“Ms. Uthrow was unavailable for comment, but sources confirmed that she has left the courthouse, along with her attorney, and is no longer participating in the trial.

“With Ms. Uthrow’s withdrawal from this case, there are three remaining potential heirs in this matter.”

They’d shared a look before Lori left. As her attorney was handing up a copy of the dismissal, Melinda Kolins had caught Lori’s eye, just briefly. She was searching for a hint of what she knew to be true, and she saw it quickly. It was all over Lori’s face.

They got to you, Melinda thought. What was it? What did they use on you? Did they call you a hooker, too? Was it the threat of what they did to me that scared you away?

They’re bastards. Whoever they are, they’re bastards.

Now Melinda looked at Lori’s empty seat, and her resolve stiffened. This was wrong. This could not stand.

They won’t get to me. They can’t get to me. It doesn’t matter what they say, or what they threaten. I’m in this for the long haul.

Nightwing fiddled with his earpiece. “You’re breaking up a little tonight, Oracle. It’s hard to hear you.”

“Sorry,” came the garbled reply. “Some of my equipment was moved off-site today. Should still be enough to transmit, though.”

Nodding silently, Nightwing kept hacking on Lester Balcom’s laptop, searching for a clue. He’d poked around all Lester’s files that he could find, to no avail. Normally, he’d be frustrated, but he’d learned never to underestimate Oracle’s abilities. “I could just hijack the whole system and bring it to you, you know.”

“No need.” Nightwing could hear Oracle’s fingers typing rapidly on her own keyboard. “I can get everything I need from here, and it looks less suspicious if the computer doesn’t vanish.”

The word “suspicious” made Dick’s throat clench a little. He was well aware that his actions were totally illegal, and frankly a betrayal of his oath as a cop. At times like this he felt like a hypocrite for being on the force at all. He wondered how long his current double life would survive, or if he’d have to choose between his careers eventually. And he wondered which career he would choose if the time came.

“Aha.” Oracle’s voice broke his reverie. “Once again Oracle saves the day, Man Wonder.”

“Got something good?”

“Do I. Your boy Lester got an email on the last day he was spotted. It’s been deleted, and whoever was here thought they’d scrubbed it from his system, but we’ve got it. It tells Lester to meet – get ready for this – Angela Shay at a dive bar over near the docks.”

Nightwing thought back to Shay’s recent overtures to him. “Shay, huh. Not surprising she’d be dirty. It’s hard to see her as being the big mastermind behind Balcom’s disappearance, though. What would she have to gain?”

“Good question. Maybe we’re missing puzzle pieces.”

“Maybe.” Nightwing’s gut was screaming at him now. “But this just feels wrong. Whoever targeted Balcom also targeted the other families. That doesn’t make any sense for the police.”

“Why not? The police have been dirty for years.”

“Yes, but not on their own. The police aren’t a gang, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. They’re always allied with one or more of the families. They might target one group or another, but they’d never take a shot at all of them at once.” Suddenly it dawned on him.

Oracle noticed the pause. “Something the matter, D?”

“Unless,” Nightwing answered, the pieces falling into place. “Shay and the cops are allied with someone else. Not the families; another player.”

“But who?...... oh.” The line went dead silent.

They’d been watching television all day, quietly absorbing every detail of the trial. The woman was bored, annoyed with her companions and eager for something more exciting. Maybe later this evening.

“—wrapping up coverage of Day 9 of the Blockbuster trial. The big news today, of course, was the withdrawal from the suit of claimant Lori Uthrow, narrowing the field of potential heirs to three. Of course, it remains the position of Ersatz Insurance that none of the three are rightful beneficiaries of the insurance policy belonging to Roland Desmond.

“Today’s testimony largely focused on forensic and other expert witnesses who evaluated the likelihood that Desmond could have survived the blast at Crosswhite Memorial Hospital. Norman Hackson was called as an expert in the field of forensic pathology, and testified that the blast would certainly have claimed Desmond’s life. He was vigorously cross-examined by Erstaz’s attorney, however, and was forced to concede that investigators were not able to definitively state that Desmond’s remains were found at the blast site.”

The woman crossed her legs provocatively, looked over at the two men. “Last chance to call it off.” Neither of her companions blinked, or did whatever passed for blinking for them.

Olivia Ortega’s voice picked up timbre on the television. “It appears the litigants are leaving the courthouse now. We’ll try to get a live statement.” There was confusion as the camera crews angled into position. The graceful figure of Angela Shay emerged from the courthouse. “Inspector Shay! Inspector Shay!” called Ortega. “Do you have any comment on today’s proceedings?”

The woman watched as Shay refused comment. She smiled maliciously; she did not like Shay at all. Again she glanced at the other two TV viewers, checking on one, observing the other.

Shay declined comment, and was quickly off-screen. Ortega, and the rest of the assembled mass, turned their attention toward the litigants, who were exiting the building. The representatives of Ersatz were first, ducking quickly into a car without comment, as they had done throughout the trial.

The claimants were next, coming down as if in a row, each flanked by his or her attorney. G. Lee Williams was smiling proudly for the cameras, as always. The others seemed embarrassed by the spotlight.

The avalanche of questions began again. “Mr. Orcutt, how do you feel about---“ “Ms. Kolins, are you really a prostitute?” “Mr. Plika, any comment on whether Ms. Kolins—“

And then the first shot was heard. Then another. Another. Confusion turned to panic as the reporters realized what was happening. Armed guards drew their weapons as more gunfire rang out. Everyone dove for the ground. The camera toppled on its side, abandoned by its owner. The test pattern filled the screen.

Audio returned ninety seconds later. “—is Olivia Ortega. We are under attack at the Finger County Courthouse! Someone is shooting at us.” The audio went out again, then resumed twelve seconds later. “—shot her. Melinda Kolins has been shot! We’re just… where are the police?!?”

“Extravagant, don’t you think?” asked the woman.

The large man on the couch flipped off the television with the remote. His speech was deliberate but clear. “Effective.” he thundered. “It was effective. Kolins didn’t.. listen to intim..idation. So now she’s.. dead.” The couch cushions buckled as he stood.
The woman smiled. “It looks that way, doesn’t it. Now we see who really runs this place, don’t we.” It was a statement, not a question.

Roland Desmond nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s clear.. who’s in charge.” Thunder clapped outside as a rainstorm began in earnest.

To Be Continued...

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