"Twenty-four years old. Restaurant waiter."
The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room were too bright, deliberately so. Jude squinted against the glare, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
"I was just driving by, sir. Is it really necessary to bring me in for questioning?"
The detective across the table studied him with the kind of patience that came from interviewing thousands of criminals. Blond hair going grey, mustache, tired eyes that had seen every lie Gotham had to offer.
"You don't look like a good person."
Jude blinked. Several seconds passed in silence.
That was it? That was the whole answer?
"Wait, hold on." He fumbled in his pocket. "Where are my glasses? Here."
He slid the gold-rimmed frames onto his face. The effect was immediate and slightly absurd, like putting a bow tie on a wolf. Instant respectability, paper-thin but present.
The detective's expression didn't change. "You can leave after you've given your statement. Remember to collect your personal belongings on the way out."
How considerate.
"This might be your first time here," the detective continued, "so you're probably uncomfortable. But don't worry. In Gotham, no matter which gang you work for, you'll see me again eventually. We have many opportunities to interact."
Oh. That was a threat wrapped in pleasantries. Classic cop move.
"I'm not part of any gang," Jude said carefully. "I'm just a waiter at a restaurant."
The detective's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Jude's face for microexpressions. Looking for the lie.
"But you know what that restaurant is, right?"
"I know." Jude shrugged, aiming for casual. "But I try not to get involved in their business. I'm just there to do my job. Serve food, collect tips. I'm a pure, honest citizen, officer."
"Interesting."
The detective's gaze dropped to Jude's hands. His wrists. His neck. Looking for calluses from years of gun handling. Looking for tattoos, the kind the Falcone family marked their people with.
Finding neither.
"You're young," the detective said finally. "I'd advise you not to stay at that restaurant much longer."
"They pay well, though."
The answer came out automatically, honest and slightly defensive. Jude caught himself, shifted mental gears. The detective looked familiar suddenly. Blond hair, mustache, that particular brand of weary integrity.
"Hey, I didn't catch your name?"
"You don't know me?" A faint smile. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. At least it means you haven't committed any serious crimes in Gotham."
The detective extended a hand across the table.
"Gordon. Jim Gordon."
Jude drove home in a daze.
Registered with Jim Gordon. Fantastic. Wonderful. Exactly what he needed.
Add Harvey Dent, and he had two-thirds of Gotham's Iron Triangle of justice already aware of his existence. If Batman decided to take an interest, the set would be complete. The Trinity of people Jude absolutely did not want noticing him.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Nothing to do but be a model citizen and pray the Bat stayed focused on actual criminals.
Still, the whole situation gnawed at him.
"The president of Gotham Bank resigns and gets murdered the same day?" He frowned at the dark streets rolling past. "That's got to be connected to something. But what?"
The Death Car's engine rumbled as he pulled up to Drake's building. Two in the morning, and the street was empty. No robbers, no junkies, nobody trying to break into his car. Maybe the cursed vehicle's reputation was finally paying dividends.
"Only a workaholic like Gordon would drag someone to the station for a statement at 2 AM," Jude muttered, climbing the stairs. His legs felt heavy. The interrogation had been brief but exhausting in that particular way bureaucracy always managed.
He locked the door behind him and collapsed onto the couch. His phone glowed in the darkness as he opened Gotham's news homepage and typed "Gotham Bank" into the search bar.
Results cascaded down the screen in reverse chronological order. One headline caught his eye immediately:
"Gotham Bank and Falcone Imports Nearing Partnership Agreement"
He clicked.
"Since June, negotiations between Falcone Imports and Gotham Bank have been underway. After several months of discussion, bank president Richard Daniel expressed willingness to facilitate the partnership, citing the potential for millions in available capital for Gotham Bank's investment portfolio..."
Jude scrolled down, frowning.
"Who the fuck is bold enough to mess with Falcone's business?" He paused. "Wait. The godfather of Gotham's mafia runs an import company? That's just money laundering with extra steps."
Obviously money laundering.
He clicked the next article, time-stamped that morning:
"Richard Daniel Resigns as Gotham Bank President"
"Earlier today, Richard Daniel officially announced his resignation from Gotham Bank. When pressed for details, Daniel declined to comment, stating only that he was no longer able to continue in his role as president..."
Understanding crystallized.
Daniel had made a deal with the Romans. He was supposed to grease the wheels, make the Falcone partnership happen. Then he'd backed out at the last second. Resigned right before the deal could close, leaving Falcone's operation without a key operator.
The business fell through.
Jude remembered the fragment of conversation he'd heard on the street, right before the bullets started flying:
"We should leave Gotham for a while. Paris. A little apartment..."
"No wonder he wanted to run to Paris," Jude said to the empty apartment. "Resign in the morning, get shot in the evening. The Romans don't wait. Revenge now, not tomorrow. That's Falcone's style."
He kept scrolling. A follow-up article appeared:
"Bruce Wayne Named New Gotham Bank President"
"Following Daniel's resignation, Gotham Bank's board announced his replacement: Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Enterprises. However, the playboy billionaire has already made his position clear, stating he has 'no interest whatsoever' in partnerships with import companies. Wayne suggested Falcone Imports seek cooperation elsewhere..."
Jude's eyebrows climbed.
Bruce Wayne. Of course.
"That's a man who doesn't take threats." Jude scrolled faster, piecing it together. "Can't bribe him, can't intimidate him. If Falcone wants to launder money through Gotham Bank, the old playbook isn't going to work."
But why would a regular bank president dare to stand up to the Romans in the first place? Was Daniel suicidal? And how had Bruce Wayne slid into the president position so seamlessly?
Unless...
He searched corporate news for Gotham Bank. The answer appeared in the third result:
Gotham Bank was a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises. Had been for years.
"Oh." Jude leaned back against the couch. "Oh, that's interesting."
The timeline snapped into focus. Bruce Wayne clearly opposed the Falcone partnership, but Gotham Bank had nearly signed the deal anyway. Daniel had been about to facilitate it. Then Daniel abruptly resigned, the deal collapsed, and Bruce took direct control.
As heir to Wayne Enterprises, Bruce should have had final say over his own companies. But apparently, he didn't.
"Classic movie plot," Jude muttered. "Board of directors thinks money is money, why turn down profit? Bruce thinks gang money is dirty. Board tries to go around him. Daniel was their guy, probably getting paid under the table. Then Daniel got cold feet, tried to run, and..."
He closed his phone and tossed it onto the table.
The pieces fit together too neatly. Falcone's money laundering operation needed a legitimate bank. Gotham Bank's board was corrupt enough to cooperate. Bruce Wayne was ethical enough to oppose it. Daniel had been the linchpin, and now Daniel was dead.
"And judging by the Godfather's track record," Jude said to the ceiling, "he's not going to just accept this. He'll find another angle. Push harder."
Gotham was about to get less stable than usual.
Which, given Gotham's baseline, was genuinely concerning.
Jude closed his eyes. Tomorrow he'd go to work, serve food, collect tips, convert them to asset points, and pretend he hadn't witnessed a mafia assassination. Just another day in the city that killed his dreams of a quiet life.
Gordon's words echoed in his head: "I'd advise you not to stay at that restaurant much longer."
Yeah. Probably good advice.
Too bad the restaurant was the only legal job in Gotham that paid enough to keep him alive.