American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 188 Dio's Long Christmas (Part 2) - Why does the place where the detective is present resemble a human?
Under the most dazzling light of the crystal chandelier, the charity luncheon reached its climax.

Dior stood upright on the makeshift small stage, his voice clearly carried through the microphone to every corner of the hall.

He didn't say much, only emphasizing:

"Gotham needs not only prosperity, but also compassion built on order and a responsibility for the future."

These words were concise yet to the point, precisely catering to the apparent moral demands of the audience, and drawing enthusiastic and prolonged applause.

And in a seat near the front.

Coppert sat there irritably, his round body almost filling the velvet chair.

Several empty silver plates were already laid out on the long table in front of him, which was covered with a clean white tablecloth. He had obviously turned all the frustration he had suffered at Dior's place into food.

As he fiercely sliced ​​a juicy piece of roast steak with his silver knife and fork, as if he were cutting Dior's flesh, he muttered something under his breath to the quietly sitting Lark beside him:

"Eat more! Lark! Don't be shy! This is all on that guy's tab... no, it's on our tab! We have to get our money's worth!"

Having just been specifically mentioned by Dior in a speech, encouraged to contribute more to charity, and then forced to sign a sizable check in public, undoubtedly made his already sensitive nerves even more irritated.

Maintaining her aloof expression, Lark merely nodded slightly in exasperation at her boss's childish behavior, symbolically touching the salad on her plate with her fork, a stark contrast to Cobblestone's ravenous eating.

By the way
She looked warily at the middle-aged man walking towards her.

"Hello, you must be Mr. Cobblestone?"

As a voice came from nearby, a well-dressed but somewhat pretentious middle-aged man with a businesslike smile, holding a wine glass, walked leisurely to their table.

Noticing someone approaching, Coppert elegantly wiped his greasy mouth with a napkin, raised his eyelids, and recognized the person.

A shrewd glint flashed in his small eyes, which was then followed by a warm smile befitting a businessman.

Howard Black.

An uninvited businessman from the metropolis.

And
He glanced sharply at the surroundings out of the corner of his eye.

Copeport noticed that Richard Sionis and Cassius Elliott, who had just calmed down their argument, were now both looking at his table.

The two men's eyes were filled with undisguised scrutiny and a hint of barely perceptible vigilance, as if they were assessing something.

He sneered inwardly.

I'm not one of those fools who are easily deceived by appearances.

From beginning to end, he saw it clearly: this Howard Black, who suddenly appeared, was like a slippery eel, 'inadvertently' conveying certain sensitive information between Elliott and Theonis, and was one of the culprits who instigated the dispute between the two.

Now that the conflict has been forcibly suppressed by Dio, this guy immediately sidled up to him like he'd smelled a large pack of wild dogs, his intentions obvious.

"Mr. Howard Black?"

The penguin's voice carried surprise, and a hint of enthusiasm:
"What a rare guest. What wind blew you from that glittering metropolis to our place... um, 'unpretentious' Gotham?"

"I hope my uninvited visit has not disturbed your enjoyment, Mr. Cobblestone."

Howard Black smiled and raised his glass, hinting, "I just think that the recent 'wind' in Gotham seems quite interesting, full of new... 'vitality'."

“I think any visionary businessman wouldn’t want to miss out, wouldn’t you agree?”

He offered deliberate flattery, but his gaze kept drifting towards Dio's direction.

He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth again, the movements slow and deliberate. Cobblestone responded in a voice only the two of them could hear, with a hint of sarcasm:
“Mr. Black, we Gotham people like to be direct in business. We old guys might not be used to the ‘fresh air’ you’ve brought from Metropolis.”

"Especially the kind of wind that... can make the table wobble, easily knock over wine glasses, and splash everyone's dresses, that wouldn't look good, wouldn't you say?"

His words pointed out that Blake had been secretly stirring things up.

This also suggests that Iceberg does not want to get involved in the complex vortex between him, Theonis, Elliott, or even Luther.

The attitude is clear: no persuasion.

“Mr. Cobblestone.” Blake’s smile froze for a moment. He tried to persuade him further: “Perhaps we could find another place to discuss this in more detail? I believe we’ll have common ground in certain ‘emerging areas’…”

"Hey--"

Cobbett interrupted him abruptly, took a sip of his wine, and said in a dismissive tone, "Today is a charity luncheon, Mr. Black. It's too much of a mood for business. Look, Mr. Dior is still up there watching."

He deliberately brought up Dior as a form of implicit warning.

And coincidentally, it was also
Following Copeport's gaze, Howard met Dio's seemingly all-seeing red eyes. The gaze was calm and unwavering, yet it sent chills down Howard's spine.

“In that case,” he chuckled awkwardly, raising his glass in a gesture of respect, “I won’t disturb Mr. Copperfield’s enjoyment of his meal any longer. I hope we’ll have the opportunity to work together again in the future.”

So he wisely turned around and blended into the crowd.

However, his back view appeared somewhat hurried and disheveled.

Watching him leave, Cobblestone snorted and continued to devour his steak.

It was as if they had only chased away an annoying fly.

Um.
But the fate of this annoying fly is not simply that of being driven away.

The undercurrents in Gotham never truly subside because of a seemingly harmonious banquet.

Seemingly eager to blend into the crowd and escape Howard Black's earlier embarrassment, he casually picked up a new glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.

He put on a business-like smile again, trying to strike up a conversation with several seemingly distinguished guests next to him, continuing to solidify his position at the banquet.

He even imitated the sophisticated celebrities around him, raising his crystal-clear wine glass high, intending to join in a collective salute.

But just as his lips parted slightly, about to speak—

A sudden change occurred!

"Cough! Uh... cough cough cough—!"

Blake suddenly burst into a heart-wrenching cough.

He suddenly arched his back, the rosy color on his face vanished in an instant, and within a few seconds it turned into a horrifying bluish-purple.

He could no longer hold the wine glass in his hand, and it slipped and shattered on the expensive carpet, splashing the wine everywhere.

"I...I feel..."

He gasped for breath, his hands gripping his throat uncontrollably. "Breathe...no..."

"boom--!"

Under the gaze of countless eyes that shifted from curiosity to horror, he staggered backward, knocking over a silver platter full of delicate pastries held by a waiter, the sound of shattering dishes mingling with the low growl emanating from his throat.

Finally, his legs gave way and he collapsed heavily onto the carpet.

His body convulsed violently a few times, then stiffened completely and stopped moving.

Those eyes, which had been gleaming with social ambition and cunning just seconds before, were now filled with pain and disbelief, staring blankly at the dazzling chandelier on the ceiling.

The silence lasted only a moment—

"what--!!!"

The ladies' terrified screams shattered the tranquility of the banquet hall, while the men's suppressed gasps rose and fell.

Many people even gagged, trying to vomit up the alcohol they had drunk.

Damn it... I've fallen for it!

The originally harmonious and orderly scene instantly descended into chaos.

Dior stood near the podium, his wine glass steady in his hand, his red eyes fixed on the center of the sudden chaos, a flash of anger in them.

Cope also put down his knife and fork, his fat face no longer showing the anger it had before, but only a hint of schadenfreude.

He muttered to the lark in a low voice, "See? The wind was blowing erratically, and it really got its comeuppance."

Bruce, who was with Philip, was about to walk forward quickly, but...
He glanced at his uncle, who looked much older than he remembered, took a deep breath, and helped him toward an empty corner.

After all, other people with professional qualifications had already stepped forward to handle the situation...

"Get out of the way! I'm a prosecutor!"

Harvey Dent reacted, pushed aside the panicked guests in front of him, rushed forward, and knelt down on one knee beside Howard Black's stiff body.

He displayed an almost instinctive ability to respond to emergencies, his fingers precisely probing for the carotid artery, while his other hand deftly pried open Blake's droopy eyelids.

"There are no vital signs."

He raised his head and reported to Gordon, who had followed closely behind, in a deep, solemn voice.

Then he professionally scanned Blake's entire body, his brows furrowing deeply:

“There were no obvious external injuries, but the pupil symptoms and the sudden onset of…” He paused, as if searching for more accurate words, “It looks very much like an acute heart attack.”

Natural death?

At this time? In this setting?
How can it be!

"Everyone stay where you are! No one is allowed to leave until the police arrive!"

Gordon straightened up, speaking loudly, trying to take control of the situation.

However, his orders seemed particularly weak and powerless in the face of the wealthy and powerful people of Gotham. The crowd merely stirred, and many people glanced towards the center, but no one really paid any attention.

This forced the incompetent Gordon to crouch down again, get closer to Harvey, and whisper in a low voice, full of suspicion: "What a coincidence, Harvey."

"Just after he caused trouble, before he even had a chance to drink that glass of wine?"

"This is downright blatant conspiracy!"

"What happened, you two?" Interrupting Gordon's words, the golden figure parted the restless crowd and strode over.

Dio showed no panic. His red eyes swept over the corpse on the ground and the two Gotham law enforcers crouching down, as if he were examining a trivial accident.

Without asking any questions or even waiting for a reply, he turned to Rocman, who had appeared silently beside him, and gave instructions in a clear tone that drowned out some of the noise:

"You can arrange for the guests to proceed to the east wing to rest. You can provide some drinks and snacks to help them relax; the cost will be charged to the club's account."

His instructions were swift and decisive; the shadow of death did not affect him in the slightest. His primary task now remained maintaining dignity and order.

Rocman immediately bowed: "Understood, sir."

He then turned around and began to efficiently guide the crowd to the side hall with the waiters.

After doing all this, Dior finally turned his gaze back to Gordon and Harvey, his tone still flat, carrying a formulaic regret:
“Detective Gordon, Prosecutor Dante, I am sorry that this happened in my territory. The Iceberg Club will cooperate with the investigation to the best of its ability.”

These words were perfectly worded, expressing both a cooperative attitude and clearly defining the boundaries of responsibility, leaving even the skeptical Gordon unable to find any fault with them.

Gordon exchanged a glance with Harvey and nodded. They temporarily suppressed their urge to ask more questions and nodded, which was considered an acceptance of Dio's superficial cooperation.

Then, they quickly began preliminary on-site investigation.

Harvey carefully examined Blake's mouth, fingernails, and the carpet and scattered items around where he had fallen.

The experienced-looking man didn't look like a prosecutor; he looked more like a forensic pathologist. Gordon took a deep breath, went to the side hall, showed his badge, and, trying to remain calm and authoritative, questioned the guests and waiters one by one.

The testimonies obtained all indicate that Blake had been chatting with various celebrities since he entered the banquet hall in the morning, and had only consumed the drinks provided by the venue. He did not leave alone or come into contact with any suspicious persons.

Could it be that the iceberg deliberately murdered the guest?!
Harvey straightened up, brushed off non-existent dust from his hands, and said to Gordon in a low voice with a hint of helplessness and frustration on his face, "All the prima facie evidence points to a sudden myocardial infarction."

"It may be caused by excessive excitement or emotional agitation."

"There are indeed such precedents in medicine."

"But, of all times, in this particular setting, at this particular time..."

“Damn it, we desperately need a coroner right now, Gordon.”

Where am I supposed to find you a coroner right now? Do you expect all the powerful people in Gotham to be psychopaths who dissect corpses for fun every day?

Gordon's frustration made him inwardly curse Harvey's unrealistic request.

His brows were furrowed tightly, and he even turned his gaze to Dior, who was standing to the side with a cold look in his eyes.

He stepped forward, trying to control his words and remain calm:
"Mr. Dior."

What are your thoughts on this 'accident' that happened at your club?

Dior's expression remained unchanged, as if he had anticipated this problem.

He slightly raised his chin, calmly meeting Gordon's gaze, but uttered words that sent a chill down their spines:
“Sheriff Gordon, people die every day in Gotham, from all sorts of causes, in all sorts of places.” His tone was as calm as stating a basic fact of Gotham: “What matters is never the fact that people die, but rather…”

"Who died, and why, now, at this time?"

It's still just as watertight.
It even carries a Gotham-esque chilling quality.
Gordon clearly felt provoked, but couldn't find any fault with it.

Yes
This is fucking Gotham.

Gordon took a deep breath, but he still intended to continue asking questions.

Even knowing that you won't get an answer.

"Di"

"Dudududu——!"

But his phone in his pocket started vibrating uncontrollably at an inopportune moment.

It sounded particularly jarring in the quiet hall.

"F**K!"

Gordon cursed and had to step back temporarily, taking out his phone.

But when he saw the number displayed on the screen, his expression changed slightly.

He turned around, lowered his voice, and answered the phone: "It's me."

Harvey and Dio were both looking at him.

But Gordon, listening to the phone, gradually changed his expression from serious to ashen, and his grip on the phone tightened suddenly.

He didn't argue, only occasionally squeezing out a few monotonous syllables through gritted teeth:
Yes, I understand, but...

Until the final order seemed to be given on the other end of the phone, all his struggles turned into an almost inaudible sigh.

He hung up the phone, turned around, and instead of looking at Harvey, focused his gaze on the corpse on the ground.

When I raised my head again
His face showed only exhaustion and helplessness.

"Preliminary assessment."

His voice was hoarse, as if he were repeating someone else's verdict:

"Mr. Howard Black died of natural causes, sudden myocardial infarction."

Avoiding Harvey's incredulous gaze, he looked at Dio and almost gritted his teeth as he said:

"The on-site investigation... can be concluded."

"Please... evacuate the guests, Mr. Dior."

"?!"

"Gordon!"

Harvey Dent almost growled as he grabbed Gordon's arm, his handsome face flushed with disappointment:
"Are you crazy?! You didn't even conduct a basic autopsy! The toxicology report and pathological analysis are all blank! And you call this a closed case?!"

He glanced around at the upper-class people being led away by waiters, whispering amongst themselves as they prepared to leave, his voice filled with barely suppressed resentment:
"It's always like this! Every time these intricate networks of interests are involved, every time these so-called 'big families' and their 'respectability' are involved, the truth can be so easily buried! Laws and procedures become worthless pieces of paper that can be trampled on at will!"

"Harvey."

"The pressure from above...you and I both understand!"

Shaking off Harvey's hand, Gordon practically forced the words out: "This matter ends here!"

“A wise decision, Sheriff Gordon.”

Dior commented casually, as if praising something that had nothing to do with him.

He waved his hand, and Roccoman immediately understood, speeding up the evacuation of the guests.

Seeing Gordon's dejected expression and then looking at Dio's indifferent and all-encompassing demeanor, Harvey Dent felt a surge of heat rush to his head, yet he had nowhere to vent it.

In the end, he could only slam his fist hard against the decorative pillar next to him, making a dull thud.

He knew that in Gotham, so-called justice often faltered when it reached some unseen ceiling. Howard Black's death, like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, would forever remain unknown.

This already officially declared 'natural death' will, from now on, bring an ironic end to this Christmas luncheon and to the man's death.

No one paid attention until it was forgotten by history.

Ignoring the two law enforcement officers embroiled in their internal dispute, Dior calmly returned to the podium, despite the chaos and panic in the audience.

He tapped the microphone lightly, drawing the attention of all the guests leaving the main hall.

"ladies and gentlemen."

The sound, amplified by the loudspeaker, echoed in the much more spacious hall:
"To show respect for the deceased, today's charity luncheon will be adjourned early."

Dior paused briefly before announcing his next decision: "At the same time, in order to put true philanthropy into practice, all the funds raised today will be donated in double to the Gotham Medical Foundation, in the hope of bringing hope to more people in need."

This move did earn a few scattered ovations.

But most people felt as if they had been granted a pardon, and hurriedly left with their heads down, wanting only to escape the place where death had just occurred as quickly as possible.

Only when the last guest disappeared behind the door, guided by a waiter, leaving only Dior in the banquet hall, did the formulaic gentleness on his face quickly fade.

“Sheriff Gordon, come out. The show’s over, there’s no need to hide anymore.”

His voice wasn't loud, but it traveled precisely in a specific direction.

Emerging from the shadows behind the pillar, Gordon had clearly not truly left.

“I heard you’re Gotham’s most stubborn sheriff, so I don’t think you’ll give up easily.” Dio turned around. “The official report will be natural death, which neither you nor I can change.”

“But under the table… I can give you some clues that are ‘inconvenient’ to appear in the report. On the condition that your investigation cannot publicly involve the Iceberg Club.”

"For specifics, you can contact my housekeeper, Mr. Rocman."

“Alright.” Gordon agreed without hesitation, but then took the opportunity to ask his last question, which was also his biggest obsession, “So, Mr. Dior?”

"Putting aside all official statements, what is your personal opinion on his death?"

"Sheriff." Upon hearing this, Dio took a step closer and whispered in his ear, in a voice only the two of them could hear:
"As I said before, death itself... is the best evidence."

Without waiting for Gordon's reaction, he strode confidently toward the club's doors, letting the heavy doors close behind him, leaving Gordon standing alone in the dark center of the banquet hall.

A few dim emergency lights remained, casting the weathered old man in shadow.

Stepping onto the gleaming silver Harley, Dio twisted the throttle, unleashing a powerful roar that ripped through the false tranquility of Gotham's afternoon.

The speed was not fast, enough for Dior to scan the street scenes along the way.

Luxury and decay are separated by only one street.
These are all absurdities unique to this city.

One second they were laughing and chatting at a banquet, the next they were a cold corpse.

This is Gotham.

At least officially, Howard Black must have died a 'natural death'.

Any scandals related to murder or conspiracy must never be associated with his Iceberg Club or the kingdom of order he is building.

This is to maintain superficial stability, to save face for the club, and for long-term planning.

In private...

A hint of malice still flickered deep within Dior's red eyes.

We must know who it is.

Who dared to deliver this 'Christmas gift' tinged with the aura of death in such a provocative manner on his turf?

Copport? Theonis? Elliott?
still is……

Other rats hiding in the shadows?

He needs to find this hand and then cut it off completely.

This has nothing to do with justice, but only with authority and control, with the laws governing Gotham's shadow.

This is also why he was willing to cooperate with a stubborn, upright person like Gordon.

That sheriff, with his keen sense of smell and unwavering conviction, was a good pawn.

That young prosecutor, Harvey Dent, also has considerable potential.

If only we could control them as well.
Lost in thought, Dio unknowingly drove his Harley into Gotham's East Side.

The streets here are even narrower and more dilapidated, and the air is thick with an atmosphere of poverty and despair, making them even more run-down than the streets we had just crossed.

The walls were covered in mottled graffiti, the windows were broken, and the pedestrians were dressed in rags with numb eyes, showing no reaction even to the sound of engines.

However, as he walked through a particularly dirty street, Dior's gaze was inexplicably drawn to a somewhat jarring sight ahead.

It was an old building that looked dilapidated, with a simple wooden sign hanging at the entrance.

It says 'St. Oliver Orphanage' on it.

Although the atmosphere was filled with despair and numbness, a lively figure was busy in front of that dilapidated door.

It's Selena Kyle.

At that moment, she was half-squatting on the ground, carefully unloading several cardboard boxes filled with food and old clothes from an equally dilapidated trolley, her movements light and skillful.
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PS: There will be one more update today.

(End of this chapter)