Bruce saw a blue car waiting outside the gate, the words GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT emblazoned prominently in bold white across the doors. Standing in front of the driver’s side was Alfred, and beside him waited a woman in a light silk shirt that contrasted with her black skin, her long tan coat draped neatly across her shoulders. She straightened as their car approached. While Alfred gave the car a quick wave, the woman’s eyes fixed on Bruce.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” she said to the officer in the driver’s seat.
“Sorry, Detective,” he replied. “Hit some traffic on the way over.”
“Bruce,” Alfred said, leaning down to peer into the car, “this is Detective Draccon.”
The detective rested a hand against the open window on the passenger side. Bruce noticed the simple silver rings on her dark fingers, and her impeccably polished nails, painted a clean brown nude. “Nice to meet you, Bruce Wayne,” she greeted him. “Glad you’re not the one driving.” Then she turned away.
The windows in Wayne Manor’s parlor had been thrown open to the air, letting in dappled sunlight and a breeze. Bruce walked through the front entrance into a grand foyer that opened up to a high ceiling. A staircase adorned with wrought iron railings curved up to a balcony that overlooked the living and dining rooms. At the moment, everything seemed in a state of disarray; white canvas was draped over all the living and dining room furniture, protecting it while workers refinished the walls, and part of the stairs remained blocked off because a few loose banisters needed replacement. Alfred was busy directing two people from the garage to the kitchen as they delivered groceries in preparation for the week’s meals.
It all seemed like a normal afternoon scene, except that Bruce found himself sitting across from a stern detective, who now observed him from behind red-rimmed glasses, her stare discerning. Everything about her was perfectly put together—not a single wrinkle in her clothes. Her black hair was pulled back into rows of orderly braids that formed a thick ball on top of her head. No curl seemed out of place.
Bruce tried to figure out what category to put her in. He’d met few people in life who weren’t either cozying up to him in an attempt to get something or bullying him out of envy. But the detective—she didn’t want anything from him, she wasn’t jealous of him, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives. Right now she wasn’t trying to hide how much she disliked him. He wondered about her work, what cases she must have investigated over the years.
Draccon tightened her lips at the light of interest in his eyes. “An officer at the precinct told me he still remembers you as a small boy. Definitely didn’t see your publicity stunt coming.”
“It wasn’t a publicity stunt,” he replied. “I get enough attention already.”
“Oh?” she said in a cool, calm voice. “Is that so? Well, you’re not very good at avoiding it, are you? Lucky for you, you have an army of lawyers to help you get off easy.”
“I’m not getting out of anything,” he protested.
Alfred cast Bruce a warning glance as he placed the cheese platter and a tray of tea on the coffee table between them.
Detective Draccon leaned forward to pick up her teacup, crossed her legs, and gestured once at Bruce. “Have you ever done menial work in your life?”
“I used to help my parents in the garden, and my dad in the garage,” he answered. “I volunteered with them at soup kitchens.”
“So, in other words, you haven’t.”
Bruce opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. No. He hadn’t. Alfred managed a staff of a dozen employees to keep the mansion perfectly maintained; they were paid well to do a professional job and to keep out of sight as much as possible. Dirty dishes vanished from the kitchen, and fresh towels appeared folded and ready in the bathrooms. Bruce could recall the occasional sound of a broom in the halls, a pair of shears snipping at the hedges outside. But, with a twinge of shame, he realized he didn’t know a single staff member at Wayne Manor.
“Well, you’re about to do some real menial work,” the detective went on. “You’re going to be under my supervision for your community service, Bruce. Do you know what that means?”
Bruce tried to keep his face calm as he met her eyes. “What?”
“It means I will make sure you never want to run afoul of the law again.” Draccon took a delicate sip of her tea.
“And where are you assigning me?” he asked.
She put her cup down on its saucer. “Arkham Asylum,” she replied.
“Arkham Asylum,” Harvey mused as he and Dianne lounged around Bruce’s kitchen island that evening. “Doesn’t that prison house the criminally insane? I didn’t know a place like that could even be a community service option.”
Bruce picked at his food. He had ordered burgers and milk shakes for them so that they wouldn’t have to go to the diner, but none of them seemed able to work up much of an appetite.
“I heard the inside of Arkham is a nightmare,” Dianne added with a frown. “Does Draccon really think it’s okay to send you there? How are you going to concentrate on studying for finals?”
“You’re studying for finals?” Bruce gave her a wry grin. “Most dedicated senior I know.”
“I’m serious, Bruce! Arkham is dangerous. Isn’t it? My mom said those prisoners are guilty of some of the most horrific crimes in Gotham City’s history. And there are always jailbreaks and fights….”
Harvey grunted as he glided a quarter back and forth along his knuckles, his movements slick as water. He flicked his wrist once, sending the quarter into a perfect spin on the island counter. “No different from the world outside,” he muttered, slapping the coin down on the surface when it refused to topple over fast enough. It came up heads.
Bruce tried not to cast a sympathetic look at Harvey. His friend was here for moral support, of course, but Harvey was also holing up at Bruce’s mansion because he was avoiding his father, who had stumbled home again tonight as a drunken mess. When Harvey had tried to hang up his father’s coat, which he’d tossed onto the floor, the man had turned on him, yelling something about how his son didn’t think his father could take care of himself. There was always some tiny thing that set him off. The bruise on Harvey’s jaw had already turned purple.
“You’re staying the night, right?” Bruce asked as Harvey started flipping his coin along his knuckles again.
Harvey messed nervously with his blond hair, his eyes downcast. “If Alfred doesn’t mind,” he said. “Sorry I keep—”
“You don’t need to apologize. Stay as long as you want.” Bruce jutted his chin in the direction of the living room’s staircase. “Guest room in the east wing’s all ready for you. Just watch the shaky banisters on the stair railings. There’s a closetful of clothes for you here, all ready to go.”
“I can afford my own clothes,” Harvey replied sharply as he pushed up the sleeves of his worn hoodie.
Bruce cleared his throat. “What I meant was, you don’t have to grab anything from home. It’s all here. If you need anything else, just ask Alfred.”