Kate has been massaging her throbbing temples when a knock startles her. She runs her fingers through her fringe (which could use some trimming), flattens her bob and, snatching the flask of bourbon (courtesy of Canadian relations), she dumps it into her desk drawer.
She couldn't do much about the rest of her mess. So be it.
"Come in," she calls, crushes a half-smoked cigarette into her overflowing ashtray, and flaps her hands to disperse the fumes.
Turns out, she needn't have bothered. The woman who glides into her office is nursing a thin, black cigarette holder. Apart from the clinging red dress, everything else she wears is black, from the beret adorning her golden curls, over the rows of long beaded necklaces and gloves that reach above her elbows to the belt slung low around her hip.
"My husband..." she begins as she sits down and plucks a photograph from her purse. Stacks of paperwork and bills litter Kate's desk so the woman holds it out.
"Let me guess, he's cheating on you." Leaning forward, Kate accepts the mugshot. And scowls. Depicted is one of the most notorious crime bosses Gotham has to offer, supplying the entire Eastern seaboard with imported liquor and other contraband.
A full-throated laugh answers her. "No, I care more about this money. He keeps in somewhere in the city and I'd like you to find it for me."
"Are you filing for a divorce?"
Sharp teeth flash from between scarlet lips. "Something like that."