He tapped out a specific, rather difficult sequence of three notes on the black-and-white keys. In response, a door-sized segment of the bookcase swung outward, exposing a hidden elevator. Concealed hinges, long unused, squeaked slightly. He made a mental note to oil them later.

Could it be that Bruce had gone…below?

Alfred rode the elevator down, concerned about what he might find at the bottom. He had long hoped for something that might shake Bruce out of his malaise, and induce him to re-enter the world, but he wasn’t at all certain that the answer to his prayers was to be found down here.

In the Batcave.

The vast caverns had once been used to shelter runaway slaves escaping to the North. Damp limestone walls glistened beneath the subdued interior lighting that Bruce had installed years ago. A shallow, slow-moving river was all that remained of the underground waterway that had carved out the caverns in ages past. Massive wooden arches, high overhead, helped to support the mansion’s foundations.

Scores of North American brown bats roosted amidst the jagged stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Towering calcite columns rose hundreds of feet in height. The bats squeaked and rustled overhead.

Filthy animals, Alfred thought.

He descended a stone ramp to the concrete floor of the main grotto, where a series of dark slate obelisks loomed directly ahead. A footbridge led across the river to where Bruce was seated at the main computer station, atop a large slate cube. A large, high-definition flatscreen monitor dominated the wall before him. Seven linked Cray supercomputers hummed softly, providing him with enough data storage and computing power to put the NSA to shame. Bruce’s gaze was glued to the screen even as his fingers danced over the keyboard. His cane rested against his seat.

He did not shift his attention as Alfred came up behind him.

“You haven’t been down here for a long time,” the butler observed.

“Just trying to find out more about our jewel thief,” his employer replied. “I ran her prints from the photos she handled.” With that, he pulled up a mug shot. The face in the photo belonged to a scowling armed robbery suspect with a receding hairline, double chins, and a bad case of five o’clock shadow. It bore little resemblance to the larcenous “maid” they had briefly encountered the night before.

“She was wearing someone else’s fingerprints,” Bruce explained, with a hint of grudging admiration in his voice. “She’s good.”

“That she may be,” Alfred conceded. “But we still have a trace on the necklace.”

“Yes, we do, so I cross-referenced the address she went back to, with the police data on recent high-end B-and-Es.”

Breaking and entering, Alfred translated mentally. It troubled him that Bruce had become so familiar with law-enforcement jargon. That was not a field of study he would have chosen for the sweet young boy Bruce had once been. Your father was a doctor.

Bruce hit another key and a new photo appeared. This time Alfred recognized the young lady, although she appeared rather less demure than he remembered. What appeared to be a long-distance surveillance photo captured an alluring face graced with striking brown eyes and sleek brown hair. It was a face worth remembering.