The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization by Greg Cox Page A

out of place in this low-rent district, the deluxe sports car only attracted a few curious glances. It wasn’t uncommon for the upper classes to go slumming in Old Town, looking for drugs and other illicit diversions. Like the yuppie who had just followed a young girl into the apartment building, only to storm out in a rage minutes later.
    Looks like he didn’t get what he wanted.
    Bruce crouched inside the automobile. A hand-held tracking device informed him that his mother’s pearls were just across the street. He was weighing his next move when Selina Kyle emerged from the townhouse and hailed a cab. She looked as if she was dressed for a fancy date, or a party. The pearls hung elegantly upon her neck.
    He had to admit that she wore them well.
    He gave the cab a slight head start before pulling away from the curb. The tracker beeped on the dashboard.
    Let’s see where she’s going with those pearls, he thought.
    The cab dropped her off in front of the Gotham Museum of Art, where some sort of lavish celebration was being held. Spotlights splashed across the museum’s graceful neoclassical façade as limos disgorged elegant men and women in formal attire. Throngs of paparazzi lined the red carpet, snapping shots for tomorrow’s society columns and websites. Flashes went off incessantly, practically blinding the arriving guests. Bruce couldn’t help wishing that Selina Kyle had chosen a somewhat less public venue for her night on the town.
    Good thing I put on a decent suit tonight, he mused.
    He pulled up to the curb and turned the Lamborghini over to a valet, who appeared suitably impressed by the sweet ride. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the attention he was about to receive, Bruce removed his cane from the back seat.
    “Look at that,” a paparazzo chortled nearby. “Another rich stiff too out of shape to climb out of his sports car.”
    “No, that’s Bruce Wayne!” another photographer said excitedly. He pushed forward to capture a shot of the famous recluse. “Hey, Mr. Wayne! Where you been hiding?”
    Dozens of lenses swung toward Bruce, who quietly pressed a button on his key fob. All at once, every camera in the vicinity went dead. Frustrated paparazzi clicked uselessly and cursed their equipment. Bruce repressed a smile.
    Climbing the steps, he approached the front entrance.
    “I’m not sure my assistant put me on the guest list,” he said to a man who stood in the doorway.
    “Not a problem,” the awestruck greeter assured him. “Right through here, Mr. Wayne.”
    Bruce entered to find a tasteful charity masquerade underway. Twinkling white party lights were strung upon the walls and ceilings. Rose petals fell like confetti. Gotham’s A-list, wearing colorful masks along with the rest of their finery, mingled and massed throughout the gallery. The main exhibition hall, located below the mezzanine, had been converted into a dance floor. A live band performed on a stage in front of an exhibit of sixteenth-century Dutch oils.
    Thirsty revelers congregated at an open bar. Champagne fizzed in crystal flutes. Marble sculptures posed on their pedestals. Oddly enough, Bruce was the only person not wearing a mask.
    Too bad I left my cowl at home, he thought.
    But where was Selina Kyle?
    Nodding politely to anyone who tried to engage him in conversation, Bruce wove through the crowd with ease, searching for the elusive thief. He eyed the priceless masterpieces hanging on the walls. Was the “cat” planning another elaborate heist?
    Of course, he thought. That’s her M.O.
    Taking the stairs up to the mezzanine, he leaned upon the railing and scanned the main hall below. A sea of masked partygoers, at least a quarter of them wearing little black dresses, made locating a singlewoman challenging. It took him a moment, but he soon spotted Selina on the dance floor, sharing a slow dance with a well-fed older gentleman wearing a simple white domino mask. She sported a lacy black mask of her own,