“Now I’m going to give way to an important voice,” the mayor promised, snagging Gordon’s attention away from the lonely shadow on the balcony. The commissioner’s heart sank, and he wished he had time to fortify himself with another stiff drink. He fumbled unenthusiastically with the sheets of paper laid out in front of him, reviewing his handwritten speech one more time. He’d sweated blood over every word, but still wasn’t sure he had the nerve to read them out loud.

Then he braced himself for what was to come.

Am I really going to go through with this? he asked himself. After all these years?

“Commissioner.”

A hearty voice intruded on his reverie. Gordon looked up to see Congressman Byron Gilly muscling his way toward the bar. Judging from the man’s ruddy complexion, Gordon guessed that Gilly had already tossed back a drink or two…or three. He was a stocky man, flush with prosperity. His haircut probably cost more than a beat cop’s weekly salary.

“Congressman.”

Gilly glanced around the sprawling grounds. Manicured lawns and gardens, adorned with tasteful stone fountains and statuary, played host to the annual celebration.

“Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?”

Gordon chose not to mention the figure on the balcony. He shook his head.

“No one has,” a third party cut in. “Not for years.”

Peter Foley, Gordon’s deputy commissioner, joined them at the bar. A real up-and-comer, he was half a decade younger than Gordon, but was already making a name for himself downtown. Dapper and well-groomed, with thick brown hair as yet untouched by gray, he wore his tailored suit more comfortably than Gordon, whose attire was already rumpled despite his halfhearted efforts to dress up for the occasion.

Gordon glanced down at his clothes and grimaced. There had been a time when his wife made sure he was presentable at these affairs. But, then again, times had changed.

The mayor’s voice continued from the podium.

“He can tell you about the bad old days,” he continued, apparently in no hurry to surrender the spotlight. “When the criminals and the corrupt ran this town with such a tight grasp that people put their faith in a murderous thug in a mask and cape. A thug who showed his true nature when he betrayed the trust of this great man.” He turned toward the large color portrait of Dent. “And murdered him in cold blood.”

Ignoring the mayor’s speech, Gilly grinned as he spotted an attractive young server who breezed by bearing a tray of canapes. A black maid’s uniform, complete with a pressed white apron, cuffs, and collar, flattered the brunette’s slender figure. She froze as the congressman rudely grabbed her derrière.

“Sweetheart,” he scolded her. “Not so fast with the chow.”

She turned to face him, deftly extricating herself from his grasp. A tight smile belied the indignation lurking behind her large brown eyes. She held out a tray.

“Shrimp balls?”

Gordon repressed a smirk.

The dig flew over Gilly’s well-coifed head as he snatched a pair of the snacks and stuffed them into his mouth. The maid quickly made her escape, not that Gordon could blame her. Congressman or not, Gilly needed to keep his hands to himself.