Marco had opened the captain's office door countless times before, but it still felt like walking into a burning building.
"Cough, cough... Can't you smoke a little less? I just got back and already I'm choking." He ran a hand across his throat in a mock death gesture, fumbled for the window, and yanked it open. Bob shivered violently and rushed to throw on his coat. Marco dug a mask out of his pocket and put it on. "Good thing I came prepared."
"It's five below zero out there, and you just open the window like it's nothing!" Bob grumbled, pulling his coat tight and wrapping a scarf around his neck. "Besides, smoking more or less doesn't make a difference. My neighbor never touched a cigarette in his life and only made it to thirty."
"Cancer?"
"Car accident."
Marco rolled his eyes. "And what does that have to do with smoking?"
"I'm saying life's unpredictable." Bob crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray. "So, how are those two rookies working out?"
"Anna's fine. Learning fast, good instincts, but she's emotional sometimes. She gets impulsive. Not ready to work solo yet." Marco tapped the desk lightly a few times. "As for Alan... he's very good. Serious, thorough, responsible, plans ahead. But he's slow on his feet, and lacks quick thinking. Fieldwork and on-the-spot command are his weak points."
"All right. You planning on keeping them both?"
"Pair them up. Or maybe later put Anna with Darnell when he gets back." Marco paused, suddenly remembering something. "Wait. Darnell got injured before he'd even been here three months, right? When he comes back, he's gonna be the least senior guy all over again."
"And you're already planning to give him shit about it, aren't you?" Bob shook his head. "Grow up. If you've got this much free time, help me deal with something."
"What?" Marco jumped slightly. "Don't tell me another officer got caught jerking off in his car by reporters."
"No, not that. Falcone came to see me. He wants us to catch that caped freak as soon as possible." Bob held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, sniffing it longingly. "What's he dressed as again? An owl?"
"A bat."
"Right, a bat. First the Court of Owls rumors, now a bat. Gotham really should build a museum for winged creatures." Bob let out a bitter laugh and sank deeper into his chair. "If it weren't for the bounties from the Romans and the Maronis keeping people scared, the streets would probably already be filled with copycats. By the way, what about Otis? Doesn't he have sources? Any idea who that lunatic really is?"
"No clue. The guy left no trace at all. Nothing to investigate." Marco couldn't exactly tell the truth, so he improvised. "But lately he's been watching the Child Protection Bureau—"
Ring ring ring...
A string of phone rings cut him off. Bob waved at him dismissively, sat up straight, and grabbed the receiver.
"...Speaking. What? Oh, yes, yes... right... exactly! Oh my God! Of course, of course, he's more than welcome! On behalf of the entire department, I extend our deepest respect and gratitude to Mr. Wayne for his generosity. No problem at all... everything will be arranged. Great, see you soon!"
Clack!
The receiver slammed back down. He gripped the desk with both hands, his face glowing like he'd just won the lottery. His eyes darted around excitedly, unable to settle on anything.
"Look at this! Gotham's great, generous, benevolent heir of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne himself, heard the speech you gave in front of headquarters and is coming this afternoon to donate to the East End precinct." He shot to his feet and grabbed Marco's arm. "You're coming with me. Quick, what do we do now? Should we get rid of all the detainees? Make the place look empty?"
"Don't be stupid. If you hide all the detainees, it just shows you don't do anything around here." Marco gave him a look. "The furniture and equipment are crap anyway. Have them stash the decent stuff in storage, clean the place up, and stack paperwork until it's about to spill off the desks. Make the rich guy think the East End precinct is poor but diligent, committed, just lacking money to do the job properly."
"Exactly, exactly. That's what I was thinking." Bob grabbed the phone and dialed the internal line. "Attention everyone, full cleanup! Now! And anyone who drags their feet on this, I'll break one of their legs!"
When orders come from the top, results always happen faster than when complaints come from below.
By noon, the desks and floors were wiped spotless. Cracked window panes were taped over with clear packing tape. Trash and dirty magazines from the drawers were thrown out, except for the used coffee cups, which were deliberately left scattered casually in waste bins. Everything had to look busy but underfunded.
---
When the Wayne Enterprises black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur rolled into the parking lot, preparations were complete. Bob watched through the window as uniformed officers guided the convoy into the freshly cleared parking area.
"They said on the phone Wayne wanted to keep things low-key," Bob muttered.
"Maybe this is their most low-key car." Marco sighed.
"Being jealous won't help. This is fate."
Bob led Marco toward the lobby entrance, stopping between the second glass door and the main entrance just as the man himself stepped inside, surrounded by bodyguards, assistants, and a handful of reporters.
Bruce was like a beam of expensive light cutting through the dim, cluttered space. Even the dust floating in the air seemed to shrink back from him. His polished custom leather shoes touched the stained, cracked terrazzo floor like a king surveying his domain, or a tourist visiting a disaster zone, depending on how you looked at it.
Bob stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Mr. Wayne, it's a pleasure to have you at the East End precinct."
Bruce gave a slight nod and shook hands with Bob. "Captain McGinnis, I saw your officers' remarks on the news. I was moved by their dedication and spirit of service. It made me want to personally support frontline workers. I hope I'm not disturbing your work."
"Of course not. We exist to serve the people of the East End and all of Gotham." Bob stepped aside and gestured toward the stairs. "Our coffee and donuts are pretty good today. Would you like a cup before the tour?"
"I'm somewhat particular about coffee, but I never turn down police-station coffee." Bruce smiled, then turned and offered his hand to Marco. "And this must be Officer Vitale, the one who spoke on the news. A pleasure to meet you, officer."
"Oh, uh... likewise, Mr. Wayne. The pleasure's all mine."
Marco wiped his palm on his sleeve somewhat awkwardly before shaking Bruce's hand. The handshake was firm, but there was something not quite right about the strength behind it. Weaker than expected. Maybe the rumors about an injury were true.
"You can call me Marco."
"All right, Marco." Bruce smiled warmly. "Lead the way, Captain."
As the two men walked toward the back, Anna sidled up to Marco.
"Hey! Sir, what does it feel like to shake hands with a billionaire?"
Marco paused, letting his thoughts settle, then held his hand out to her dramatically.
"Take a look. See if any gold rubbed off."
Anna stared at Wayne's retreating back. "That cashmere coat alone is worth five years of my salary... Sir, when we see him off, can I stand next to you?"
"Sure. You're on souvenir duty." Marco handed her a tray. "But don't go dreaming about becoming Mrs. Wayne. The hearts in your eyes are about to set the station on fire."
"I'm just imagining! Who wouldn't want a handsome, rich boyfriend? Look at that perfect jawline." Anna pouted, sighed, and shook her head. "Forget it. He's too much of a playboy anyway. Not for me."
---
The tour took about twenty minutes.
When everyone returned to the platform set up in the lobby, an assistant rolled over a velvet-covered cart. Bruce stood to the right, and together with Bob, lifted a corner of the cloth to reveal a giant blank check printed with the Wayne Enterprises logo.
The pen scratched across the board, first a "1," then six zeros.
Bob's breath stopped completely, as though the numbers had sucked all the air from his lungs. His grin threatened to split his face in half. If Marco hadn't discreetly jabbed him in the back with a pen, he might've burst out laughing right there on camera.
"...Mr. Wayne, thank you for your support of the police department and our public services. This will mean safer streets for our children..."
Listening from behind, Marco had to admit, Bob's public speaking was always flawless. His poker face, however, was hanging by a thread.
"Captain, it's an honor to support the people who safeguard Gotham's soul." Bruce checked his watch and offered his hand again. "I seem to have taken up too much of your crime-fighting time."
They shook hands. Accepting his commemorative plaque from Anna, he turned toward the exit. Bob stopped at the lobby doors while Marco escorted him down the front steps.
Halfway down, Bruce suddenly paused. He lowered his voice.
"Marco, there are no cameras here now. May I ask you a... perhaps rather personal question?"
"Of course, Mr. Wayne. For a million-dollar donation, I'd even tell you embarrassing stories from when I was a kid."
"Oh, no need for that." Bruce chuckled, then his expression turned serious. "What do you think of Captain McGinnis?"
"What do I think?" Marco scratched his head, playing confused. "He's... a good man, I guess."
"I mean..." Bruce searched for a careful way to phrase it. "There seem to be some rumors. About him being corrupt?"
"Of course not." Marco shook his head firmly, his tone almost offended. "That's going way too far. How could those be rumors? They're all facts."
Bruce's eyes widened slightly, genuinely taken aback. He'd expected outright denial, or perhaps a discreet confession. But this matter-of-fact admission completely blindsided him.
He took a breath and pressed on.
"Then when you said he's a good man..."
"That's right. Him being a good man doesn't conflict with him being corrupt." Marco nodded. "If you ask me, what someone does doesn't matter as much as the results they get. He takes bribes, sure. But he keeps the East End stable. No riots or chaos. People can walk to the corner store without getting shot. That's better than those idealistic types who always make a mess of things trying to do everything by the book."
"You mean... that caped vigilante?"
"I don't know what ideals he has. I don't even know what he wants. From what I've seen so far, the likeliest explanation is that he's trying to boost business for orthopedic surgeons."
"He wants to—" Bruce paused mid-sentence, then abruptly changed his tone. "You're right. Who knows what goes on in a lunatic's mind." He glanced back at the precinct building. "Also, you cleaned up today's environment last-minute, didn't you?"
"Uh... you noticed?" Marco shrugged. "Can't be helped. We couldn't have you writing a check on top of pizza boxes and beer cans."
Bruce smiled, and slipped a business card into Marco's hand.
"Well said, Marco. If anything comes up, call me directly. My personal line."
"No problem, Mr. Wayne."
Marco watched the stretched Rolls-Royce convoy slowly pull out of the parking lot. He flicked the business card between his fingers, feeling the weight and texture of it.
"Premium cardstock. This thing's worth at least fifty bucks."