Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (9 page)

“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—some
things.
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.”

T
he 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.”

Rachel smiled, and half stood to look over Dent’s shoulder at Bruce Wayne, who was entering accompanied by a beautiful woman. Wayne shooed away the maîtred’ and strode to Dent’s table.

“Rachel!” Bruce said. “Fancy that.”

“Yes, Bruce. Fancy that.”

Bruce nodded to the woman standing next to him. “Rachel, this is Natascha. Natascha, Rachel.”

In a pronounced Russian accent, Natascha said, “Hello.”

Dent looked up at Bruce. “The famous Bruce Wayne. Rachel’s told me everything about you.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Rachel said, “Bruce, this is Harvey Dent.”

“Let’s put a couple of tables together,” Bruce suggested.

“Will they let us do that?” Dent asked.

“They should! I own the place.”

“For how long?” Rachel asked. “Let me guess, about three weeks?”

Bruce stared at his shoes. “How’d you know?”

Rachel turned her gaze to Natascha. “Aren’t you . . .”

“Prima ballerina for the Moscow Ballet,” Bruce prolaimed.

“Harvey’s taking me next week,” Rachel said.

“You’re into ballet, Harvey?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Rachel said. “He knows
I
am.”

Bruce motioned to the maîtred’ and whispered in his ear. A minute later, two busboys carried an extra table from the kitchen area and placed it next to Dent’s.

“Let me order for everyone,” Bruce said.

It was almost eleven when the four of them ate their last bite of dessert. The Ocelot was empty except for the wait staff and a handful of late diners.