Bad Management 5/
Okay id really just like to say again this wasn't written with intent of being a regular X reader it's a slow burn this baby has layers okay BUT PLEASE I PROMISE THE GOOD STUFF COMES JUST HAVE SOME PATIENCE WITH ME and THANKS TO EVERYONE WHOS READ IT AND IS KEEPING UP WITH IT.
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xx
Wednesday Afternoon
The police officer standing beside her sounds very far away. She can barely hear him.
The sight in front of her is disorienting.
The only reason she knew it had once been a truck was because the officer had told her.
The metal was corrupted, twisted into violent contortions. Electric ambers and sickly greens blossomed across the remaining aluminum, except where it had smoothed into melted pools like butter. Thick, crusted deposits caught the light, almost opalescent in places.
The cab was simply gone. The engine block had drooped like limp plastic. The frame sagged beneath its own weight, crushing the wheel wells where the rubber of the tires had once been.
The smell was acrid, so sharp her eyes watered, and her hand flew over her mouth almost instantly. The taste of hot pennies coated the back of her tongue.
It was grotesque. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and an involuntary shiver ran through her entire body.
The officer coughed, covering his mouth as he stepped back from the wreck. Her own breath caught as the metallic air settled in her lungs, and she followed him a few steps away.
The camera hanging from the strap around her neck had been forgotten. It rested limply against her chest. She wasn't sure what to make of this—who to make it out to. When she'd read it was a corrosive material, she'd never imagined it could eat something down to the greasy marrow.
"For the metal to melt like that..." the officer whistled.
"What was in it?" she mumbled.
"I wouldn't know, ma'am."
"Is GCFD going to send me the lab results?"
The man's laugh came out so abruptly it dissolved into a coughing fit.
"Hell no. They don't have labs. The state crime lab is handling the residue."
"State crime lab..."
Her voice didn't sound like hers, but maybe it was. It was like she was looking down at herself, the wreckage and the police officer from high above. She heard him, but she didn't quite understand.
"Ma'am, didn't an officer contact you? “
“ no”
“They recovered six bodies from the scene” he pauses “Found half the shipment tossed a few miles back with your driver. They think it's gang-related."
"They didn’t call.." She says to more to herself than him
"Yeah, well. Not surprising." The officer folded his arms, a frown etched into his face. "Department's been buried lately with all the suicides."
"Aren't you going to take pictures?"
The question rocked her back into her body.
She nodded, lifted the camera to her face, and began photographing the melted hunk of metal.
She slid into the passenger seat without saying a word.
Frank hesitated before turning the key. The engine rumbled to life, and the radio clicked on, a jewelry store advertisement playing softly through the speakers.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
She stared out through the windshield. "We have to talk to Greg."
—------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday Afternoon 2pm
Richard is standing over Detective Ortiz's desk. It's just enough to be annoying, not enough to draw suspicion. Anyone looking their way could assume they're having a private conversation about a case—not that he likes the smell of her conditioner.
He especially likes it when it gets stuck to his bedsheets.
It's nice.
She's nice.
A welcome distraction from the reason he's there. Not that he needs much of a reason these days to find himself next to her desk.
He busies himself watching her. The way she rolls her lips together while she looks through the files. The stray hairs that have tugged themselves loose to frame her face. His fingers itch to push them back into place, but he presses them firmly into the cool desk instead.
"Careful, Richard. If you keep staring at me like that, Janice is going to get jealous."
He huffs out a laugh. "It's not my fault you keep showing up here while I'm working."
"This is my desk, Officer. I'm innocent."
"It's Detective, ma'am. You can plead your case over dinner." He flashes her a million-watt smile.
"Alright, down boy." She huffs a laugh before turning back to the screen. "No one's reported her missing, and she doesn't have any priors."
She scribbles something onto a pad of paper before pressing it into his chest.
"That's the information you could've found on your own."
He takes it from her, catching her hand.
"I owe you thanks."
A small smile reserved for him slips out. She pats his chest before sliding her hand back to her own side.
"Go do some police work or something." She waves him off.
Dick stands in front of an apartment complex he's been to a couple of times before, both as a police officer of Blüdhaven and as Nightwing.
It's one of those complexes that's nice in the light of day. Nice if you don't ask questions.
There are beds of flowers around the edges of the building, and the grass is mostly green, save for a few yellow spots where the summer sun beats down between the buildings. The paint is new. So are the insides. He'd looked at the apartments once when he was thinking about moving out of the place he lives in now, but there were little things he couldn't overlook.
At night, the shadows crawl along the building, eating up whatever they can in a shroud. People keep their doors locked tight. Heavy bars cross most of the windows, dark curtains cutting off the light from coming in—but, more importantly, the light from going out. No one can tell who's home or what they might be doing.
Higher-end cars come through the parking lot, but they never stay.
Maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong. Maybe Amanda got caught in the dark this place gets drenched in.
They stand in front of her door. A gold-flecked 3C is fixed to the front.
Their eyes meet.
This is one of the toughest parts of the job. Knowing that as soon as they knock on the door, the life of whoever is on the other side will change irrevocably.
Their faces will be the ones that person remembers from the worst day of their life.
"I got this one," his partner says.
Sapienza brings his hand down hard against the door. The knock reverberates through the hallway, wrecking the quiet of the early evening.
He knocks again.
"Blüdhaven PD. Please open the door."
Slowly, they hear the shuffle of feet and the muffled sound of a rough voice from behind the door.
It swings open.
Dick is surprised to see a young man standing there, suit still on, wrinkled tie barely hanging around his neck. One tan pant leg has ridden up around the bottom of his knee. Sleep lines are pressed into his face, with patches of splotchy red where something had been pressed into his skin.
Different from the pooling they'd seen on Amanda.
This will fade.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you know Amanda Bright?"
The man yawns and scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowing.
"Yeah, she's my fiancée."
His eyes go from barely held open to alert as he finally takes in the two men standing in front of him.
"I'm sorry, you guys are police officers? Is Amanda in trouble?"
"Could we come in, please?"
Dick shows him the picture of the keycard they'd found on Amanda.
The man confirms it's his fiancée. He explains that she's at work right now. They haven't seen each other yet. He'd only just gotten home from an international flight.
He tells them he can call her at the office.
The officers shake their heads and tell him it's okay.
He stands instead, offering to find one of the business cards she has lying around.
Dick stands with him.
He puts a hand on the man's shoulder and gently guides him back toward the couch.
"Is everything okay?"
Silence floods the apartment.
Before Dick can answer, the man tries again.
"Was there an accident?"
He breathes the question, grasping at the last strands of hope he can find, but they're slippery, and they don't last long before Dick has to say the terrible thing.
"No, sir. I'm sorry. We found Amanda this morning in the river. We're going to need you to come down and confirm it's her."
The man's fists squeeze together in his lap.
He takes in a stuttering breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His eyes brim with emotion.
"She's at work."
Dick and Sapienza sit in silence, waiting for his mind to catch up with their words.
"That's not possible." His voice chokes. "She's at work."
"We're sorry, sir," Sapienza says, reaching over and resting a hand on the man's knotted fingers.
He collapses into himself.
His chest hits his knees, and the sobs wrack his body.
Dick's been through this many times, but it's never easier. Sometimes he thinks it actually gets harder.
Sometimes people don't cry right away. They just stare at him, or better yet, through him. The information settles inside them, and the only thing they can do is ask more questions. Try to make the picture in their head more complete. Make more sense out of the unsensible.
The grief that fills the room is heavy. Sadness clings to everything, dulling the colours around them.
Dick takes in the apartment.
The walls are a warm brown that goes nicely with the cream-coloured furniture. The apartment is open, the kitchen tucked into the back with a pass-through wall leading into the dining space.
The kitchen table is messy with stacks of magazines and colour swatches. In the middle sits a vase filled with an old bouquet of summer flowers, some of the petals already starting to brown. Next to it is a fresh bouquet, still wrapped.
Yellows and purples. Sunny and bright.
He imagines James picked them up on the way home.
Sapienza helps the man collect himself enough to sit upright again. His breaths still stutter, but he tries to calm himself, taking slow, deep pulls of air.
"We have to ask you some questions, sir."
"It's James. You don't have to call me sir."
"Okay, James. We have to ask you some questions now," Dick says, pulling out his notepad.
James nods in understanding. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.
There's a question caught in his throat, stuck behind his teeth and heavy tongue.
"She didn't suffer," Sapienza answers for him.
It's not really the truth, but it helps the grieving.
It's one of the first questions loved ones always ask.
Well, the innocent ones, anyway.
"Okay." James sniffles and wipes at his nose.
"When was the last time you spoke with her?"
James rubs a hand over his chin, eyebrows knitting together in thought.
"We talked Friday night. We didn't call a lot when I went out of town. You know, long-distance phone calls can add up. We're trying to save for our wedding."
Dick writes down what he says while Sapienza continues.
"Did she seem altered at all?"
"What does that mean?"
"He just means, was she acting out of character? Was she anxious? Acting differently?"
"I mean, yeah, she was anxious. There was an issue with the florist. Something about not wanting one flower over the other."
"How about work?"
James sighs and leans back against the couch.
His face tightens, his eyes drifting somewhere past them. Dick knows that look. The questions people start asking themselves when they think they should've known something they couldn't have known.
What did I miss?
What should I have asked?
What if I'd been here?
"James," Dick calls softly, bringing him back into the room.
"I—I don't know. We didn't talk about work when she called. But before I left, she said there were a lot of new hires around lately. She was working on that."
Dick nods, keeping his face neutral but calm, holding space for the man's emotions.
"Do you know if she had any enemies?"
"No." James spits it out quickly, almost disgusted at the thought. "Amanda's too nice for that. She wouldn't even kill a fly. Wouldn't even let me kill the spiders. Made me take them outside."
Dick smiles at that.
His eyes wander to the photos lining the wall, the two of them in different places. Amanda's smile is bright and full in all of them, just like the one on her work badge. So is James's.
They look at each other like it's only them.
"What do you think happened?" James stammers, panic creeping into his voice. "Do you think someone killed her?"
"We don't know anything yet, sir. We're still figuring it out," Sapienza soothes.
"James, do you mind if we take a look around?" Dick asks. "Do you know if she kept a diary or journal? Notes?"
"You can look in our office."
James stands, limbs loose and shoulders rigid. He moves on autopilot toward a closed door and opens it.
Dick's eyes sweep the room.
It's obviously a second bedroom they've turned into an office. The window is open, curtains shifting in the breeze. A poster board covered in a collage of wedding ideas hangs nearby.
One side of the room is neat and organized. The desk doesn't have much on it besides another framed photo of them at the beach.
Dick picks it up.
Amanda's hair whips in the wind. James is holding the camera, his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as he presses a kiss to her cheek. Amanda holds her left hand up, her ring glinting in the sunlight.
"That was right after I asked her to marry me."
Dick looks over.
James is watching him with a sad smile, reliving the memory. Fresh tears breach his waterline and land against the blue of his shirt, darkening the fabric.
"I'm sorry, James," Dick says, setting the picture back down.
The other desk is covered in binders and paperwork. Whatever Amanda had been working on had taken over the space.
Dick picks up one of the binders and flips through it.
Yellow carbon copies of shipments.
He closes it and opens the next.
Pink.
They're hastily shoved inside, some of them crumpled at the edges.
His brow furrows.
White goes to the client. Yellow stays with the company for their records.
Pink is the ghost.
So why does Amanda have a binder full of them at home?
A breeze moves through the room, and a small sticky note flutters from the desk to the floor.
Dick bends down and picks it up.
In Amanda's handwriting is a name, underlined with a question mark, and beneath it, the name of a shipping company.
"Do you know what this could be about" Dick asks, showing James the note.
"She's the maid of honour. She does Amanda's job at the shipping company they work with. They organize a baseball game for charity in the summer."
Dick nods and writes both names down in his notepad.
"Does she bring work home a lot?"
"Yeah. Her boss is kind of a weird guy. Paranoid about audits. Always asking Mandy to make sure the numbers match."
Dick hums and opens one of the desk drawers.
Inside are tapes, still in their packaging. Smaller than regular cassettes. He has some just like them in his own desk for when he dictates his files.
"Does she dictate her notes?"
"Yeah, all the time. If her dictaphone isn't here, then it's probably in her office at work."
Dick collects the binders and the sticky note while Sapienza takes James back into the living room. He can hear him explaining the next steps.
On their way out, Dick hands James his card.
"If you remember anything else, anything at all, call me."
James nods and looks down at the card in his hand. He rubs his thumb over the smooth gloss of the paper and sniffles.
"We were planning a wedding." His voice chokes. "Now I've gotta plan a funeral."
Dick doesn't know what to say to that.
There isn't anything to say.
So they stand there in silence for a moment before Dick puts a hand on his shoulder and offers another sincere apology for his loss.
The door closes quietly behind them.
The hallway looks exactly the same as it did when they arrived. Sun-drenched wallpaper and brown carpet. The air smells like old cigarette smoke and garlic from someone's dinner.
The hall isn't as quiet as it feels.
Life is still moving behind the walls.
A television plays somewhere nearby, its sound mixing with someone's music. Above them, Dick can hear people walking around.
They both blow out a breath, trying to expel some of the grief they'd swallowed before getting back to work.
Sapienza heads toward the elevator, and Dick follows behind.
Neither of them says anything until they're in the car.
Dick's brain rummages through everything they've learned.
The carbon copies.
The tapes.
The note.
"What do you think?" Sapienza asks as they pull out of the parking lot.
Dick looks down at the binders in his lap and shrugs.
"I think we've gotta go talk to her workplace."
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday Evening
They pull into Greg's driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel.
The burning afternoon sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon. Today was only supposed to be a couple hours of office filings, but she won't be able to sleep if she doesn't do this now.
"You want me to drive you home after this?" Frank asks, turning off the ignition.
"It's okay, Jason's pick—"
Her sentence trails off.
With everything that's happened, she'd completely forgotten Jason was coming to pick her up.
He could already be there.
She feels her cheeks warm with embarrassment. He'd ask where she was, and Maggie would tell him she'd just run out for an errand. Jason wasn't the type to pack it up and go home.
No. He'd wait for her.
He'd worry.
It's not like he'd hold it against her, but still. She wouldn't want to be left waiting in the dark.
"I gotta call the office," she says sheepishly.
Frank pats her knee and laughs as he opens the car door.
The air is filled with the soft chirping of crickets. Her eyes scan the street. Most of the houses are dark, but a few windows are warm with light. Someone is having a barbecue. She can see smoke from the grill floating out from a backyard, making the air a little hazy.
She sees the alleyway from Tuesday.
The one where she ran into Nightwing.
She wonders if he's back patrolling these streets tonight, or if he's somewhere else entirely.
Frank knocks on the door.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Loud enough to stir the occupants of the house, not loud enough to alert the entire neighbourhood.
The door slowly pulls open.
Once again, Maren finds herself face-to-face with the end of a barrel.
This time, it's a sawed-off shotgun.
Greg holds it over one arm, ready to shoot if he needs to.
"Shit." The word slurs through his swollen jaw as he lowers the gun.
"Well, it's nice to see you too, Gregory," she says, a smile in her voice.
"Sorry. Bad neighbourhood," he slurs.
"It's okay. Can we come in?" she asks, peeking past him into the house.
He hesitates before moving out of the doorway.
The shotgun gets tucked back in with the umbrellas.
Frank closes the door behind them.
Greg looks unsure of where to go for a moment before beckoning them toward the kitchen.
"Drinks?"
The word comes out mangled through his lips.
Maren shakes her head.
"Can I use your phone quickly?"
Greg points to where it's hanging on the wall.
Frank sits at the table talking with him while she turns into the hallway. The phone rings three times before someone picks up.
"La Salle Warehouse and Shipping. How can I direct your call?"
Maggie's voice filters through.
"Hey, it's me. Jason was supposed to be picking me up. Is he there?"
"Hold on, let me check."
The familiar hold music starts to play.
She twirls her fingers into the cord of the phone and taps her foot to the beat.
The line picks up again.
"He's not here yet."
She lets out the breath she'd been holding.
"Okay, good. Can you give him Greg's address for me?"
"Sure, boss. Is everything okay?"
She sighs, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall.
How does she answer that?
"I don't know, Maggie."
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening."
She hangs up.
When she walks into the kitchen, the energy is bubbling.
They sit around a small linoleum table. The chairs are cracked, wisps of stuffing peeking through the brown plastic casing. The kitchen is bathed in warm light. It smells like vanilla and something she can't quite place.
Her eyes move over Greg's face.
His jaw is covered in deep bruises, swollen all over, the skin pulled tight and irritated. There's a knot above his eyebrow.
She sighs.
Greg's eyes bounce between her and Frank, his fingers twitching together on top of the table.
"Sorry we didn't call, Greg," she says.
He shrugs.
"I saw the truck today. It's not even a truck anymore. Something turned it into scrap metal."
Greg doesn't answer.
Doesn't look at her.
He stares at a spot on the table.
"Greg," she calls softly. "I need your help. You're the last person to have seen it."
"It ain't safe," he garbles.
She watches him for a moment.
She can't figure out what he means by that.
"Was it the guy that forced you into the truck?"
Frank eyes her carefully before pulling a pad of paper and a pen from his pocket. He scribbles something down and slides it toward Greg.
Greg's eyebrows furrow in confusion. He slowly shakes his head, then winces at the movement.
Maren tilts her head, trying to read the note upside down.
The Hood?
Frank takes the pad back and scribbles something else.
A crude drawing of the Joker.
Greg picks up the pen and scratches it out.
Not him either.
He takes the pen and presses so hard into the pad it almost tears through the paper.
I don't know.
"What happened?" she asks.
Greg swallows thickly.
She knows it's hard for him right now. Knows he's in pain. There's a sheen of sweat building along his forehead, and the muscles in his jaw begin to jump.
He takes the pen and writes what he can.
Construction stop.
He pauses.
Guys putting cones in the road.
Another pause.
Shot the door. Pulled me out.
His hand stops.
Woke up alone.
Maren watches him.
She can see the gears moving in his head.
How safe is he?
How safe is she?
She'd hoped that after all these years, her employees had come to trust her. That they knew she had their backs.
But what did she really have to protect them with if something like this could happen?
Maren sighs and pats the hand he has resting on the table.
Her voice drops to a whisper, lower than the television playing in the other room.
"And you've never seen them before?"
"Not—"
He tries to say something else, but it gets tangled between the metal and his tongue, coming out as a gurgle of spit and air.
He grabs the pen instead.
Not affiliated.
New guys.
"Loose end," he manages, pointing at himself.
She understands now.
They left him alive.
He doesn't know the explosion killed everyone there. No one knows about him. No one knows to come looking for him.
"The police recovered six bodies. No one's looking for you, Greg. You're safe."
She watches the information hit him.
His body sags into his seat, but his face scrunches in confusion.
"Six?" he garbles.
He shakes his head.
"That's what the police said."
Greg shakes his head again and jabs his finger against the pad. He grabs the pen from the table.
Beside Construction stop, he writes:
3
Then circles it.
Maren looks at Frank.
He's already looking at her.
She doesn't know what to make of that.
So she doesn't say anything.
"We got it, Greg," Frank says.
Maren lets a smile creep back onto her face, trying to lighten the mood as if this were just a regular social call.
"Mark said you beat him."
Greg's frown deepens instantly.
A noise gets caught somewhere behind his teeth before finally forcing its way out.
"Dumbass."
Maren smiles.
"Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"
He huffs and looks away, a dusting of cherry pink colouring the tops of his cheeks.
She laughs and leans back in her chair.
"Who knew catalytic converters were so hot on the black market?"
The memory comes back easily.
Greg underneath a truck, stealing the converter. Six others already piled into a box beside him.
He'd been a sour son of a bitch, his finger curled around the trigger of a gun, ready to blast his way out of there if he had to.
Good thing Frank had been there, his own piece pressed against the side of Greg's head.
"Good metal," Greg mutters.
"He's covering your shift until you're healed."
Greg stares at her.
"Don't worry about the medical bills either."
The sound of an engine cuts through their laughter.
Greg stands so quickly his chair scrapes against the floor.
He's at the front door before Maren can even get up, grabbing the shotgun from the umbrella stand.
She pushes herself out of her chair to go after him.
Frank is already on his feet.
He moves in front of her as they follow Greg to the door.
It swings open.
"Whoa, what a way to greet a guy."
Jason.
Frank laughs and pushes the barrel of the shotgun toward the ground.
"Oh, I'm sorry! He's with me," Maren scrambles to say.
She pushes past the men.
Jason stands on the other side of the doorway holding a bouquet of orange lilies and baby's breath.
Warmth fills her chest.
"Hey," he says, catching her eyes easily.
"Hi."
Behind her, Greg taps Frank in the chest.
Maren catches him raising his eyebrows toward Jason.
That's the guy?
Frank nods.
Greg looks from Jason to her and rolls his eyes.
Frank's mouth twitches like he knows exactly what Greg is thinking.
"You don't even know the half of it," he mutters.
"Hey, Jason. Nice to see ya." Frank reaches out to shake his hand.
She turns back toward Greg.
"Sorry about that."
Jason introduces himself, and Greg shakes his hand, mumbling an apology through his swollen jaw.
"Can't be too safe," Jason says, waving it off.
They begin saying their goodbyes.
Jason and Frank head down the front steps ahead of her, already laughing about something only men could find funny.
Before she can follow, Greg's hand shoots out and catches her wrist.
His grip is strong. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make her stop.
She looks down at his hand before meeting his eyes.
"Thank you," he mumbles.
"Nothing to thank me for, Greg."
She gives his hand one last pat.
"Just get better."
The door closes behind her.
She walks down the steps, the old deck creaking under her weight.
Frank says his goodbyes before climbing into his car. He starts backing out, then rolls down the window.
"Mary wants to see both of you for dinner on Sunday."
And then he drives away.
It's just Jason and her now.
She turns toward him and smiles.
"Are those for me?" she asks, feigning coy.
Like a siren call, her voice draws him toward her.
"Wanted your opinion. Think my other girlfriend will like 'em?"
The back of her hand connects with his stomach, pushing the air from his lungs.
"My husband buys me roses, but yeah, those are fine for a girlfriend."
She walks away from him.
Jason trails after her and catches her around the waist.
The joke isn't so funny anymore.
Some other man being her husband.
His stomach turns.
He spins her around when she tries to slip out of his arms and presses his lips to hers.
She makes an annoyed sound into his mouth and tries to pull away, but he only kisses her harder, backing her against the car.
She wants to stay mad at him.
But then the hand at her waist moves beneath her chin. His mouth softens against hers, and her resolve doesn't last very long.
Her body relaxes into his hold.
She feels him smile against her lips.
Asshole.
When he finally pulls away, her eyes stay closed for a second longer.
She opens them and blinks the stars away until Jason's face comes back into focus.
"The only husband you can have is me," he says. "And you don't even like roses that much."
"Well, I'd like them from my husband."
Jason presses his forehead against hers, trying to hide his expression.
"So. Really nice dinner, really nice bottle of wine, I'll rub your feet, you can tell me about your day, and I'll never have another girlfriend.
Shelooks down at the bouquet still in his hand.
"Shame."
She reaches for the flowers.
"She would've really liked these."