Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(18)

Luke was still trying to shake off the encounter, to steady himself, as he asked Gordon, “Why not use the signal tonight?”

“Because it’s gone.”

Luke blinked, even though Gordon couldn’t see it. “Explain.”

Gordon stiffened a little, the older man sweeping his sharp gaze over Luke.

He’d stood in front of his own damn mirror enough to know how he appeared in the suit: more machine than man. Especially with the eye lenses that glowed the same pale blue as the bat-symbol across his chest. No sign of the human beneath—the way he preferred it. No way to guess who he was, who he loved. And against his enemies…The Jaws effect, he’d decided: it was way more petrifying not to get a glimpse of what lurked beneath the surface. To let the mind imagine the worst.

Gordon laid a metal tray on his desk. An object rolled and hissed within its borders—a bullet.

“Someone shot it out tonight. Right as we went to signal to you.”

Luke approached the battered, paper-covered desk and plucked up the bullet. “What was the crime they didn’t want me involved in?”

Gordon’s jaw tightened. “We don’t know for certain that they’re connected, but the Museum of Antiquities was hit tonight. Someone stole an Egyptian cat statue, valued at one-point-three million. We arrived within five minutes of the alarms going off, saw no trace, went to light up the signal, and then…out of nowhere. Two shots fired, sniper-style. One to the light, the other to the power source.”

Luke held up the bullet to the light on Gordon’s desk. “I’d bet the burglary is tied to whoever stole the half million in jewelry last week. And the ten-carat diamond from the Gotham Museum.” He rolled the bullet between his fingers. “But those two jobs were done without triggering an alarm.”

Gordon removed his glasses and cleaned them on his askew tie. “And?”

Luke opened a panel in his left arm, revealing the command pad of his suit. He punched in a few orders, and the lenses on his eyes shifted, magnifying the bullet in his palm, giving him a read of irregularities and dimensions. “And,” he went on, “tonight they triggered the alarms. And then left a calling card behind.” He lifted the bullet between two fingers. “Self-made. ID-less. Sleek.” He dropped the bullet in the tray with a faint ping. “Fired by a far more elegant weapon than the usual suspects.”

Gordon put his glasses back on. “It doesn’t match any of the ammo used by the main gangs. Harley Quinn is skilled in ballistics—she’s got a sniper’s aim. But not access to this kind of ammo.” Luke nodded, and Gordon mused, “Poison Ivy doesn’t use traditional weapons, and we haven’t heard a whisper from the Riddler in months.” The man scratched his head. “You think someone new is in town?”

Luke glanced toward the rain-lashed windows of the empty precinct office. He did. “A jewel and art thief. The first two crimes were in plain daylight. It’s almost as if tonight’s burglary…” He again picked up the bullet, weighing it in his hand.

“Was their way of saying that we weren’t catching on fast enough and they were dumbing the game down for our benefit?” Gordon finished.

Luke snorted. “Yeah.”

Which was…interesting. He’d seen the reports on the thefts. No one harmed. Just obscenely expensive things being stolen. And if they’d shot out the Bat-Signal, then they knew precisely what sleeping dragon they were poking.

Or sleeping bats, he supposed.

“Can I take this?” Luke held up the bullet.

Gordon adjusted his glasses. “Sure. We’ve run our tests. Keep it.” Gordon jerked his chin toward the door in silent dismissal. Luke bristled at the order but leashed his temper. “And besides,” Gordon added, dragging a hand through his silver-streaked brown hair, “I’m not so convinced they wanted to get the attention of the GCPD.”

Exactly.

Dusty, long-sleeping parts of his brain started to fire up. He’d been a ballistics expert overseas, and this bullet, this new thief…

Come find me, the bullet seemed to say.

And maybe it was the lightning in the air, or the end-of-August heat, but Luke was inclined to take up the invitation.



* * *



—

Selina leaned against the carved oak doorframe and watched the antiquities dealer jot down another calculation on his pad of paper.

He’d been examining the Bastet statue for twenty minutes now, the golden lights of his ornate office dim save for the spotlight of the examination lamp over the statue. She’d lingered at the doorway of his office for the entirety of that time, dressed head to toe in black, her face obscured by her Death Mask and the low-hanging hood of her sweatshirt.

Such dramatics, the man had said when he let her in the back door.

She’d said nothing, opting for the power of silence and the bullwhip hanging from her side to convey any threats she might need to make. It had been minimally difficult to find the dealer, even considering how so much of the antiquities market existed in murky zones of ownership. A statue stolen outright from the Museum of Antiquities was a different matter, of course, but she’d done her research. Knew this man would find a way to make sure the statue vanished and money appeared in its place.

The man at last lowered the loupe from his eye, pulled off his latex gloves, and ran a hand over his bald, pale head. “Well, it’s certainly real.”