Alfred recalled the precautions Bruce had taken to protect his late mother’s pearls. Poor Mrs. Wayne had been wearing those pearls the night she and her husband had lost their lives. It would be tragic if they were not recovered.

Then he realized…

“She?”

“One of the maids.” Bruce gave Alfred a wry look. “Perhaps you should stop letting them into this side of the house.”

“Perhaps you should learn to make your own bed, then.” He bent to look over Bruce’s shoulder. “Why are you dusting for prints?”

“I’m not,” Bruce said. “She was.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The rooftop of police headquarters had become Commissioner Gordon’s personal refuge, away from the nonstop phone calls, emails, faxes, meetings, and bureaucracy that came with the job. He liked to think he did his best detective work here, where he could actually concentrate without being interrupted—at least some of the time.

On clear nights like this one, the roof offered a good view of midtown, the bridges, and the adjoining islands. The city appeared quiet, but Gordon knew that looks could be deceptive. Who knew what was going on behind closed doors and in the murky back alleys? Let the politicians brag that Gotham had been cleaned up for good. Gordon had been a cop too long to take anything for granted. Crime never slept, so he couldn’t afford to, either.

Especially now that he didn’t have a certain Dark Knight backing him up.

He yawned. It was late, but he was in no hurry to return to his depressingly empty apartment. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered keeping it—he practically lived at Police HQ anyway, or so Barbara had always complained. Smacking a thick stack of files against a nearby air duct to shake off the dust, he settled back against the railing to read. A shattered searchlight, rusted over and corroded, sat neglected a few yards away. Gordon had personally smashed it with a sledgehammer almost eight years ago. But he had never had the heart to remove it.

Maybe someday. . .

“Sir?” A young uniformed officer joined him on the rooftop. He approached Gordon tentatively. “I didn’t want to bother you up here, but they’re looking for you.”

Gordon glanced up from the reports.

“What’s the problem, son?”

“Congressman Gilly’s wife has been calling. He hasn’t made it home from the Wayne Foundation event.”

Gordon remembered Gilly pawing that poor maid. Maybe he had found a more cooperative plaything.

“That’s a job for the police?” he asked.

“Sir,” the rookie said, “I’ve been a cop for a year, and I’ve only logged half a dozen arrests. When you and Dent cleaned up the streets, you cleaned them up good.” He shrugged. “Pretty soon we’ll be chasing overdue library books.”

Gordon smiled. He appreciated the young officer’s candor.

“But here you are, sir.” He indicated the large stack of files Gordon held in his hands. “Like we’re still at war.”