Wayne of Gotham (21 page)

It was the home address of Mallory Moxon and her crippled father, Lewis.

15247 Moldoff Avenue / Gotham / 9:36 p.m. / Present Day

Watching Ellen Doppel from the stairwell of the corner brownstone townhouse as she walked down the darkened street, Bruce Wayne again considered his options.

Moldoff Avenue was in a quiet, upscale area called the Upper East Side. Some of the trees lining the wide street were almost a hundred years old. Where they were lit by the streetlamps, each was ablaze in autumnal colors with leaves that, given the cleanliness of the street, one might believe dared not fall to the ground. An earlier rain had left the asphalt shining. There were very few cars parked on the street itself, and those few that came rarely stayed for long. It was a quiet and peaceful night.

No doubt, Bruce acknowledged to himself, because Mallory Moxon had decreed it would be so.

The Moxon muscle enforcing this peace was subtle but all too evident to Wayne's trained eye, even in the darkness. There were three broad-shouldered men chatting near the entrance of 15247—two polos and a turtleneck, all of which were covered with loose windbreakers that barely warranted the concealed weapons permits each had been issued. Two more goons lounged across the street—one on the wide stone steps to a townhouse and the other leaning not too heavily against one of the trees. There were more at the far end of the block, and a pair so close to Bruce he could hear them chatting about the Knights game last night, how Bounous had ended the eighth inning by trying to extend a single into a double and how Rising's pitching nowhere near justified his salary.

Look up. Always look up.

There were more of them poking their heads above or leaning over the low crenellation running along the top fifth stories of the townhouses. They were trying hard not to disturb the illusion of tranquility below them, but to Bruce the atmosphere was charged with the feeling of a sleeping hornet's nest.

I love kicking over the nest. I'm the exterminator.

Bruce drew in a long, silent breath. Under other circumstances, wrapped in his cowl and cape, he would have enjoyed taking this street on, sweeping the thugs into the gutter and off the rooftops until the apparent tranquility had been made real. But as he had approached the East Side sanctuary and secured the Batmobile in its hidden cove, he realized fists and fear would not get him what he wanted tonight.

What was needed was Bruce Wayne.

He waited in stillness as Nurse Doppel walked stiffly down the street, the bound book gripped tightly to her chest. He would have to wait until Doppel left before he could move—it would not do to have Mr. Grayson appear unexpectedly, especially for what he had in mind.

As he knew they would, turtleneck and the two polo boys watched her carefully as she climbed the steps to the front door. She pushed the buzzer and then spoke something into the intercom. Doppel stood waiting on the stoop for less than a minute before the door opened.

They had not met in person in more than two decades, but Bruce still knew the shape of the face and the set of her eyes. Even cut short, there was no mistaking the rust-red hair or her strong shoulders.

Mallory Moxon had answered the door.

Bruce watched as Mallory took the book from Nurse Doppel. They exchanged a few words on the porch, with the nurse looking more panicked by the moment. Bruce could see the three muscle men at the curb standing a little taller as they watched, their hands reaching automatically inside their jackets. However, in a moment, Mallory nodded and closed the door, leaving Nurse Doppel to walk back down the steps with her shoulders slumped forward—and without the book.

Bruce waited until Doppel turned the corner and then gave one last check of the position of the guards, making sure his appearance on the street would not startle any of them. When he was satisfied, he stepped up out of the stairwell and onto the sidewalk. It was getting chill in the evening, and he almost wished he had the Batsuit on just for the warmth.

It's not just the chill.
He smiled to himself.

He was completely aware of the turtleneck and his two pals as he passed them and mounted the stairs, but he studiously gave no indication of even acknowledging their existence. He stepped up and pushed the buzzer on the intercom.

“Who is it?” came the gruff, baritone voice through the tinny speaker.

Definitely not Mallory's voice.

“Barabbas,” Bruce said. “Tell Mallory Barabbas wants to see her.”

More than a minute passed. Bruce was aware of the three men moving listlessly behind him near the curb but stood still on the stone stairs facing the closed door.

Steel core and frame. Mallory's living in a safe.

The intercom cracked. “Who is this?”

The sound and tone still takes me back. It might have worked … It could never have worked …

“Come on, Malice, it's Barabbas. It's cold out here, and I need to come in.”

The thugs at the bottom of the steps behind him moved back, relaxing slightly. Bruce heard the electric buzz as several security bolts slammed back at the same time.

Getting in is easy … It's getting out that's going to be hard.

Bruce grabbed the handle and swung the heavy door open.

“I
t's been too long, Mallory,” Bruce said, settling back into the overstuffed leather chair. It was uncomfortable, and he felt as though he were going to slide out of it at any moment.

The library was on the second floor of the residence. The dark wood paneling between the towering bookcases extended upward into a surrounding balcony on the third floor. Several oxblood leather chairs and a matching couch were set about the room, with a large desk at one end. The desk was a heavy hardwood, stained to complement the paneling. The kickboard panel on the front of the desk featured a carved relief of the head of Janus—a man whose twin faces looked both to the past and the future. It had a definite “manly” feel to its construction and had probably been her father's at some point in the past. The desk's surface was cluttered with papers, but Bruce could easily make out the book Ellen Doppel had just dropped off sitting in a cleared space in the center.

“It's been fifteen years too long, but who's counting,” Mallory replied from where she sat on the edge of the desk, her arms folded across her chest. She wore jeans and a scoop-neck sweater that fell slightly off her left shoulder. Her feet were bare and her short hair had been quickly brushed out. There was a hint of makeup about her eyes, above her prominent cheekbones, and a touch of rouge on her pouting lips. She slipped down from the desk to stand in front of it. “Can I get you a drink? Scotch and soda, I think, was always your first choice.”

She casually pushed the wrapped book behind her, out of sight.

“No, thank you, Mal,” he replied. “That's not why I've come.”

“Indeed?” Mallory leaned back against the desk, a smile playing on her lips. “Don't tell me that Gotham's most reclusive son has come to pick up where we left off.”

“Mallory, please,” Bruce continued. “I need your help with something.”

“Really?” Mallory snorted in derision. “For that you can go help yourself … or I'm sure that butler of yours would be happy to call any of a number of services.”

“Not that kind of help.”

“Oh.”

“I've got trouble with the SEC.” It was a story, a tale full of just enough truth to make it palatable. The question for Bruce was whether the book he had just seen delivered was enough to make her believe his lie. “After the subprime scandal, they're smelling blood in the water. They're even saying they may go after us under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.”

Mallory genuinely smiled at that with the same radiance he remembered being so winning when they had met years before. “RICO? Now
that's
ironic, Bruce. Even you have to admit that's funny.”

“They're serious, Mal,” Bruce asserted with as much authority as he could muster. “It could force a breakup. It could mean the end of Wayne Enterprises worldwide.”

“You want me to do something about the SEC?” Mallory asked in earnest, her long, elegant hands curling around the edge of the desk behind her. “I think I could arrange that.”

“No, Mal, that's not why I'm here.”

“It would be expensive,” Mallory mused, not really hearing him as her mind worked through the logistics of the problem. “But given your revenues worldwide it would give you a good return as an investment.”

“No, Mal,” Bruce stopped her. “I don't need any fix put in at the SEC.”

“You always talked a good game,” Mallory sighed, disappointment evident in her voice. “But underneath you were always such a boy scout, Bruce. I knew it when we met up at the Du Lac Resorts when we were kids. It was a good thing Mama was on your side … Papa couldn't stand the sight of you. So what
do
you want?”

Bruce drew in a breath. “I want to talk to your father.”

Mallory stood up. The smile was gone. “You can't be serious.”

Bruce knew the Moxon house actually occupied what looked from the outside to be six separate townhomes. It was effectively a mansion in the middle of the city. Moreover, the Moxons controlled all of the surrounding blocks. Bruce had walked into the center of the Moxon criminal organization—a hidden fortress in the center of the city—but there were answers he had to have from Lew Moxon, and Mallory was the key to getting them.

“Someone has been sending me old things … diaries, book, letters,” Bruce pressed on. “They don't make much sense to me, but they're about dealings my father had with your father. I'm trying to keep a lid on them. If the SEC gets hold of them it could be bad for both of our families.”

“You've got these diaries? You have the tapes?” Mallory asked a little too anxiously.

Tapes? What tapes
?

“Not yet,” Bruce continued, “but I think I can get them.”

Mallory unclenched, her smile a bit easier now. “Well, that should be something of a relief.”

She is nervous. She is making mistakes. That's not like any Moxon … especially Mallory. She's anxious about me being here. Keep her talking … stumbling … stalling …

“It would be if I could just keep the attorney general off my back until they're safe,” Bruce went on. “What had you heard about this business, Mallory? You know me, I'm not all that up to speed on the—”

The phone rang too loudly in the room.

Mallory started visibly, nearly jumping from the desk at the sound. Her words came too quickly. “Hold that thought, Bruce. I've got to take this.”

Mallory picked up the phone handset from the desk and jabbed at the answer button. “Yes?”

She turned her face away from Bruce.

“Yes, it's here,” she said into the phone. “She left it about ten minutes ago. What? … Look, I've done what you asked, and I've gotten what you wanted. You can pick it up at eleven tonight, and then we're finished, you understand? Don't ever call this number again.”

Mallory hung up, her hand shaking slightly.

Bruce watched her carefully as he spoke. “Mallory, it's no big deal; I just need to ask your father about something called the Apocalypse.”

Mallory stiffened. “That's one word you are
never
to use in front of my father. Ever.”

125th Avenue and Broad Street / Gotham / 9:37 a.m. / October 17, 1958

Thomas had not chosen the place.

The Brass Ring Diner was reasonably clean for a dive on the edge of the theater district. It was on Broad Street, after all, and did look out on the oddly named Diamond Square, the heart of Gotham's nightlife. But as he sat in the booth, Thomas could almost smell the decay with the rising sun. Theater had been big in Gotham during the early part of the century, rivaling New York for the big first-run shows. But that was before two world wars and Korea. Now it was movies or, increasingly, television taking over the attention of the public. It seemed to bleed the life out of the theaters and the entire district had a gritty, run-down feeling to it.

In that respect, the Brass Ring Diner was exemplary of the times. It had originally been fashioned in the art deco style, bordering on Streamline Moderne, with long stainless steel panels in parallel lines, layered and curved. Even those panels were now tarnished and stained. The inlaid wood was cracking and had lost its luster. The Bakelite lamp fixtures were largely cracked. There seemed to be a film coating the rounded-cornered windows that looked out on the square. Thomas was certain the Formica tabletop was permanently lacquered in unimaginable layers of maple syrup, gravy, and spilled sodas—all polished to a dull shine.

It was Lew Moxon's idea they meet here over breakfast. It was on the way for Thomas, as he crossed the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge from the mansion in Bristol while traveling toward his continuing residency at the university hospital. He was not due on rounds for another hour and a half, so it seemed as good a place to meet as any.