The room was rustic and out of the way, buried at the end of an alley that few would enter and ever fewer would leave. It was the sort of place that had no name, but those who wished to find it always could. The decor left much to be desired. A few scattered tables with candles in the center were surrounded by wobbly chairs and draped in dark shadows, giving each seat the utmost privacy. A shaft of light cut across the bar as he entered the room, and he could feel the weight of the patrons' stares as he settled onto a stool at the end of the bar.

The bartender scowled as he watched the man sit down. Tossing his rag into the cluttered sink, he crossed to the man and rested two meaty hands against the inside edge of the bar, hovering imposingly. A dark tattoo of a burning skull bulged from his left bicep. In a gruff voice, the bartender asked, "What's your business here?"

"Just cooling my heels for a few, that's all," the man replied, folding his arms across the surface of the bar and burying his head in the crook of his elbow. His shoulders shivered slightly beneath the worn leather of his jacket.

"You'll do well to look at me when I'm talking to you, else I'll toss you back into the street," the bartender threatened, slamming his fist against the surface of the bar. His raised voice attracted the attentions of a few patrons. He glared down at the man with a fierce intensity, awaiting his answer.

"Look, I don't want no trouble," the man said in response, trying to hush his tones as he raised his head from his arms. A black watchcap cover his head, nearly obscurring his eyes, and a thick scar twisted across his left cheek. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days, the bags thick beneath his eyes. "I just need a place to relax for a couple minutes, and then I'll be on my way. No trouble, I promise."

The bartender scoffed briefly, and then a smile crept into the corners of his mouth, thin and barely there, but a smile none-the-less. Releasing his grip on the bar, he took a couple steps back and remarked, "Keep your nose clean, and we won't have any problems. Most everyone here just wants to keep to themselves. You just make sure to do the same. What can I getcha?"

"Royal on the rocks would be great. God knows I can use it."

"Hot outside?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. Place is crawling with swine, couple blocks over."

"The Wiltshire?"

"Yeah, was holed up in there just til I got in contact with some of the old gang. It ain't the best accomodations, but it was better than tossing cash around and calling attention to myself. Fat lot of good it did, though. Cops zoomed right in on me. Was lucky to be outta the way when they got there. Barely made it out as it was."

"Ha! That flea bag has cops going in and out at least three times a week. You sure you weren't followed?"

"If I was followed, I wouldn't'a stopped. I ain't aiming to be caught, 'specially when the law tells me to steer clear of Gotham, y'know?"

The bartender set the drink down in front of the man and went back to polishing his glasses as he responded, "Lot of folks round here trying to keep their heads low, but the law's the least of your concerns. Gotham's not got a big tolerance for crime, cops or otherwise. Bigger things to worry about, if you know what I mean."

"You talking about the Batman?" the man asked, chuckling softly as he took a sip of his drink.

"Not so loudly. Street talk may say that the Bat is nothing but a myth, but folks round here know better than that," the bartender whispered, glancing warily around the room. "Thing is, I want to keep this place as quiet as possible. Everyone deserves to have someplace to go. Batman finds out about it, and I'm as good as shutdown. What brings you back to Gotham anyway?"

The man wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sighing as he exhaled. Tilting his head to the side, he responded, "I was hired to bring in a mark. Only, when I got here, the guy was already laid low, so I'm thinking that I'm screwed. Then there's this reward offered on the tv news, and everything's looking better suddenly."

"Yeah, I think I saw something about that. Simon Westlake, think his name was. Had him a pretty penny, s'what the press is saying," the bartender said, nodding as he spoke. "Someone's offering money for his missing body, right?"

"That's the deal," the man confirmed, glancing nervously from one side to the other. Leaning forward, he asked, "Any idea where I could get some information on that?"

The bartender points cautiously to a table against the wall where a single man sits with his back to the room. "Go see Lenny. He's usually got the skinny on most of the lower end stuff in Gotham. Rumors, news, jobs, he knows it. He's kinda picky about who he talks to, but if you take it slow, he might warm up to ya."

"Did you get any sleep at all," he asked from across the desk. He had changed clothes sometime during her nap. A freshly-pressed suit clung to his thin frame. Sliding a cup of coffee in front of her, he continued, "Looking at you, you probably fell asleep right on the desk. I envy you there. Noise would have kept me awake."

She sat up straight, twisting to the left to stretch her back. Shaking the tangles from her hair, she glanced at him and asked, "How long was I out?"

Crispis shrugged back at her, checking his watch. "I was only gone for an hour or two. Couldn't have been too much more than an hour. Any news on the morgue watch?"

"No John Doe's in the last four hours, if that's what you mean. We've got blue canvasing the street and so far, they're turning up nothing. Tell me that you've brought me some good news," Montoya responded, taking a quick taste of her coffee. "Lemme guess, precinct?"

"It was the best I could do on short notice," he said with a shrug, sliding his jacket onto the back of his chair. "Forensics went back to the scene last night. Looks like your hunch was right. They extracted three bullets from the building across the street, same caliber as those in the wall."

"Looks like someone wants to toss us for the goose."

"Not necessarily. There was still blood on the carpets, so I still say that something happened. But, then again, it might not be Westlake's blood. Plus, we still haven't found the gun that matches the bullets."

Montoya shook her head in disagreement. Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she noted, "That's the least of our concerns with the body missing. The way I see it, one of two things could have happened in that room last night. One, Westlake was attacked and there was a scuffle. Two shots went into the wall, three into the building next door. There may have been more, but without a witness or a body, we'll never know. Two, Westlake's faked the entire thing, and the shots were made to throw us off the trail."

"Only there's been no movement on his insurances or bank accounts. So, we lack a motive in the faked death scenario," Crispis responded, tenting his fingers against the base of his chin as he spoke. "Forensics said the bullets came from a H&K, clip-fed, so there's definitely a possibility of multiple shots. Only problem there is, there are no gunpowder burns in the carpet samples that forensics took. So, if the victim was shot, the perp didn't put an insurance bullet into him."

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything. Have we been able to track down any of Westlake's family or business contacts?"

"Estranged wife left him shortly before the quake. Ran away with a younger man, or at least that's what the gossip press gave as the 'official' story. We're heading into the office later today to interview some of his colleagues. Trouble is, Westlake was noted for being secretive and a loner. He didn't often involve people in the day-to-day of his business."

"Still, it's a place to start, and it's enough to get Bullock off our case for the day," Montoya noted, sliding her chair back and climbing to her feet. "Give me a second to run a brush through my hair, and we'll be on our way."

"I'm told you're the man to see for information in this burg," he said, taking a seat across from Lenny and resting his drink, half-gone, on the table. He stared intently, letting his confidence show on his face as he awaited an answer. "What can you tell me about Simon Westlake?"

"Who wants to know?" Lenny asked in response, refusing to lift his gaze from the table. He was a gaunt man, up in his years with the skin pulled tight across his slim face. A pair of glasses rested against the old wood of the table, scratched and marred, the lenses thicker than the width of the frame.

"The name's Matches Malone."

"Used to run jobs for the Roman, didn't ya? Falcone was a good man, until that nasty bit with his son," Lenny replied, smiling to himself nostalgiacally. "Yeah, I never forget a name. Faces? They're a little harder to work with. Years have taken their toll, I guess. But I'm off-topic. You wanted information on Westlake?"

"That was before Dent fed him to the courts," Malone responded, trying to mask the contempt in his voice as he spoke. "But yeah, I'm looking for whatever you can give me. Was supposed to come in and do the job myself, but it's already been done, apparently."

Lenny laughed slightly, and his voice pitched forward into a raspy cough. As he caught his breath, he looked at Matches and said, "Not everything is how it looks. You work in Gotham long enough, you know that. No, no...Westlake sold his soul too easily. Lost it all in the quake, and thought he'd take the easy way out to make it better. The terms were a little non-traditional, if you catch my drift. Now's he holding up his end of the bargain?"

"Sounds like he got in over his head. That why I got the mark?" Matches asked, nodding as the pieces made more sense.

"You should know better than to ask why. A job is a job. You do it, you get your money, and you move onto the next job. No questions asked. "You wanna get a bead on Westlake? Check with the Russians, down at the harbor. Word is they got the kinda funds to restructure the finer points of this city. Luthor and Wayne may have rebuilt the skyline, but it's the outside money that's gonna rebuild the streets. Mark my words on that."

"The Russians, you say," Matches said inquisitively, mulling over the thought in his head.

"That's the good word, my friend."

"I don't believe you," she said, plain-faced and unflinching. She could be intimidating when she wanted to be. Even Bullock knew when to stay out of her way. And she intended to use every ounce of that persona in getting the truth. "Why don't you stop tugging me around and get out with it? We know something's going on and I want every sordid detail. We can do it here, or I can drag you out in a pair of handcuffs in front of all your friends and coworkers. You make the choice."

The woman recoiled in her chair, trying to move back but finding no room to retreat. Her face was a mess of tears and running mascara, washing the youth from her face in a river of gray. Trembling, she pleaded, "I'm telling you everything I know. I promise. Mr. Westlake didn't tell me anything about the business. I'm just his secretary."

"As I said, I don't believe you. Someone here has to know something, and I'm starting with you. Now if you can't tell me what I want to know, you better damned well tell me who can. I'll give you five minutes to think about it," Montoya said, slamming her fist against the table and standing up. In mock frustration, she ripped her jacket from the back of the chair and strode away from the sobbing girl, letting her words and actions take impact.

"Don't you think you're being a little too harsh on her?" Crispis asked in a whisper, waiting til Montoya was standing next to him until he started. He looked through the small spheres of his glasses at the secretary and shook his head. "You certainly laid into her."

"Not at all. I'm tired of this case already, and it's only been a day. If this thing drags out any longer, I'm going to start pulling random people off the street. Nobody's talking, but someone's got to know something. The harder we are on people, the more likely the next person is going to talk."

"The motivation of fear, eh?"

"Hey, you can play good cop all you want, but I'm going to do things my way," Montoya concluded. Turning her back to Crispis, she spun swiftly on her heels and shouted toward the girl, "You have someone you want to call before we head down to the station?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you want to hear," the girl whispered, almost so that Montoya didn't hear her.

Advancing swiftly, Montoya leaned over the girl and insisted, "Repeat that, please."

"I didn't kill him," the girl sobbed. Her fingers flexed and softened along the surface of the desk, her fingernails grinding into the dark cherry. "He asked me to come by for dinner. I didn't want to go, at first, but it seemed like more of a friendly invitation than anything else. When I got there, it was all different, though."

"Did you see anything?"

"No, he was fine when I got there, fine when I left. He wanted me to do him...umm...favors. I said 'no' and went to leave. But he wouldn't let me go. He grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me up to the bedroom. I didn't want to go. Kept trying to get away. He hit me, and I tripped, broke the mirror. But then he stopped. I think he finally realized what he was doing. I didn't wait to find out. I just ran."

"You were the one?"

"Yeah, I called 9-1-1 when I heard the shots," the secretary confirmed with a nod. The tears were flowing once again, and she fought to catch her breath in-between sobs. "I didn't call right away because I thought maybe he was shooting at me. And then they asked for my name. I couldn't give it. I didn't want to be part of some scandal. So I just ran again."

"Why did you come back to work?" Montoya asked, suspiciously. Things still weren't making sense, and she couldn't quite understand why. "If a man tried to force himself on me, I certainly wouldn't put myself in a position where he could do it again."

"I don't know. I needed something to do, something to distract myself. Something had to be normal again, you know?"

Montoya glanced back toward Crispis and said, "Get the D.A. on the phone and make sure he obtains a warrant. I want a search on her house. Have someone bring her home to help, but make sure she stays in custody. She's still a suspect until I have evidence that substantiates her claims." Montoya focused her attention back on the suspect and said, "Miss Dougherty, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used in a court of law. You have the right to counsel. If you can not afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to you. You have the right to stop questioning at any time and request counsel. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

The girl nodded in response, her sobs silently rippling through her chest. Montoya nodded toward Crispis who walked behind the girl and tapped her on the shoulder, urging her to stand up. She reluctantly replied, and he gently pulled her arms around her back, easing the handcuffs around her wrists. Trying to reassure her, Crispis added, "Don't worry too much. Chances are, this will be over and done with rather quickly, for you."

Montoya watched them shuffle off, then hung her head in resignation. The case was only getting more and more involved, and she didn't like where things were headed. From her belt, her cell phone rang, cutting the silence. Flipping it open, she said, "Montoya here. Go ahead. No, I understand. Crispis and I will be right there."

She burst into a run, sprinting from the office to catch up with her partner. Calling his attention with a whistle, she slid into the elevator beside him and said, "We have some blue on the way to fetch Ms. Dougherty. Unfortunately, we're needed downtown. Seems our body just showed up in the oddest place."

Next Issue: The mystery behind the death of Simon Westlake continues to unfold, but is there a truth to be learned, or is this just a dismal forecast of things that are coming to Gotham? Things get deeper, and the GCPD and Batman are caught right in the middle of it.