Chapter 70 You will regret this!

"Batman... all captured... GCPD..." Batman strained to catch the sounds coming from Falcone's end. Though there was some distance, he managed to pick out a few key words.

The detective's mind raced, and Bruce quickly considered several possibilities, most of which pointed to a single guy.

Roland.

"Good grief, it got so late," Roland yawned. "I'm not heading back. I'm crashing at your place tonight."

"Sure, just take my room," Gordon nodded, leading Roland to his quarters.

It was a study, the bookshelves densely packed with various case files. A folding bed stood against the wall, with a fully loaded Mossberg M590 shotgun resting on the headboard.

"Pretty cautious, aren't you?" Roland picked up the shotgun and inspected it.

"Do you know how to use a gun?" Gordon felt Roland's grip on the weapon looked a bit odd. "Don't go shooting it by accident."

"Oh." Roland put the gun back, straightened the pillow, and collapsed right onto the bed.

The next day, by the time Roland woke up, Gordon had already left for work at the police precinct.

Roland rummaged through Gordon's refrigerator, unearthing two pickles, six eggs, and a can of beef meatballs. He cobbled together a breakfast, then rode his bike to the construction site.

"The boss is back! There must have been a pretty fierce fight last night, right?"

"Not really, just took out some small fry," Roland said. "How is the church coming along?"

"The basement is already built, and they're working on the stone pillars now."

"Oh... this fast? I was only gone for one night, wasn't I?" Roland asked, somewhat surprised.

"This is the suburbs, not many people live around here, so they just went ahead and worked through the night."

"Gestion... exactly how much did Bruce pay them?" Roland muttered to himself.

Gotham National Bank.

The major shareholders of the bank had gathered to discuss partnering with the Falcone family.

"I cannot possibly agree to this proposal. Everyone in this room knows where the Falcones get their money!" Bruce Wayne pounded the table. "Gambling, extortion, drug trafficking! Do you want to wallow in the filth with them?"

"Bruce, your accusations against Carmine Falcone are a bit off base. All I know is that he's in the Italian footwear import business, and I'm wearing a pair right now—they're exceptionally comfortable," said Richard Daniel, president of the Gotham National Bank.

"I agree with Richard. Business is business, and this bank can make use of the cash injection from the Falcone family..."

"We're businessmen. We just need to conduct business by the rules. As for what Falcone does, what does that have to do with us?"

"Right. If two stacks of cash are placed in front of you, which stack is noble and which stack is filthy?"

The shareholders readily voiced their agreement with the bank president's words.

"Dirty money. He wants to use this place to launder it. I won't... and I can't allow that to happen!" Bruce said coldly.

"Bruce, you really should reconsider. We are all businessmen," Richard Daniel advised.

"You'll regret this!"

"I am the bank president!"

"Bang!" Bruce slammed the door behind him, leaving the shareholders staring at one another in dismay.

Upon returning to Wayne Manor, Alfred checked his pocket watch. "Master Bruce, at this hour you should still be at the Gotham Bank meeting."

"There's nothing to discuss with those people," Bruce said irritably.

"......Is something the matter?"

"Nothing, Alfred. Brew me a cup of coffee, I'm going to check on Mark," Bruce told him, then suited up in his Batman uniform and descended into the Batcave.

Inside a glass-walled containment cell resembling a giant aquarium, a puddle of sludge-like matter was churning frantically, trying to break out, yet utterly failing to shake the prison.

"Mark, let me help you!"

"Mark is dead! I am Clayface!" Clayface morphed into a drill bit, attempting to breach the glass, but the water mist inside the cell immediately reduced the newly formed drill back into a slurry of mud.

"I'll find a way to restore you."

"No need!"

After a brief, friendly exchange with Clayface, Bruce walked away with a heavy sigh. He picked up the coffee Alfred had brewed while monitoring the news feeds on his computer.

"Alfred, shouldn't I be giving you a day off today?"

"Master Bruce, is today some sort of special occasion?" Alfred paused what he was doing and asked with mild curiosity.

"Today is the last Wednesday of April—International Administrative Professionals Day," Bruce explained. "On this day, secretaries in many countries get a day off and even receive flowers and greeting cards from their bosses... Well, I suppose I should go prepare something to express my appreciation for your hard work."

"I am not a secretary," Alfred smiled. "Besides, is that even a statutory holiday?"

"Probably not..." Bruce suddenly realized something. "Wait, the Holiday Killer wouldn't choose today to strike, would they?"

Gotham City Police Department.

Francesca Hamilton, the legendary dispatcher, answered a ringing telephone. "There's been a murder at the Monica Café! Someone's been shot and killed!"

"What are you saying? I can't hear you clearly."

"Hello? Can you hear me now?"

"First of all, don't call me 'hello', and second, I can't hear a damn thing."

"You!"

After sparring with the caller for a bit, Francesca abruptly hung up the phone.

The caller on the other end, having wasted plenty of breath without even knowing if their emergency report went through, drove straight to the Gotham City Police Department and stormed aggressively into the police commissioner's office.

"What is the meaning of this?" Commissioner Loeb looked up in shock at the intruder, quickly minimizing a window on his computer screen.

"Commissioner Loeb, I have a question: why is that moron Francesca still working as a dispatcher? Do you have any fucking idea what just happened?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're rambling about," Loeb frowned, irritation creeping into his voice. "If you wish to file a complaint against Officer Francesca, you can go to the GCPD's Internal Affairs department instead of bursting into my office—"

"Let me tell you something, Fiona, the secretary to Gotham City Mayor Hamilton Hill, has been shot dead! And when I called to report it, your damn dispatcher Francesca hung up on me! So I had no choice but to come and tell you myself, you idiot!"

"Who did you say was killed?" Commissioner Loeb turned pale with horror. The mayor's secretary? That was no small matter.

"Moron!" The caller slammed the door on his way out, drawing the sideways glances of every cop in the precinct.