"They sent the note last week," the redhead mutters briskly, brushing her fringe from her forehead. "'Course our director's not giving up the pocket watch. Too late to send for a replica anyhow. I said the real deal was too risky right from the start. Anyone listen to me, you think?"

He'd narrowly avoided an accident at the entrance when a fat camera wheeled past, creaking something awful as it tilted on its thin poles.

Despite the hustle and bustle, the production secretary seemed to notice him immediately, doping him as the only one out of place. Could be a choreography to this disjointed chaos, he wouldn't know. Richard Grayson made no habit of visiting film sets.

She introduced herself as Talulah, then jerked her head toward the focal spot.

The set itself is bathed in soft lighting and vibrant. Not that the cameras would pick the colors up.

Talulah moves quick, expression set something fierce, discouraging most from bending her ear.

"Best give him a shave, if you want 'im passin' for a leadin' man," a man with an unconcerned grin calls, walking up from the side and keeping pace.

Talulah's mouth pinches.

"He's a detective, Reg."

"Hell." 'Reg' eyes him curiously. "Real life like? This about that cat burglar, then? Your feller's got a name, Gams?"

Grayson watches Talulah's face pull tight, spine taut, heels clacking as she ankles past the man onto the set.

Actors and starlets in make-up, powdered skirts and puffy pants, lighting director and assistant squabbling with producers. Mostly, they're setting up.

"This here's where the damned thing'll be, chiefly. I'll introduce you to— well, you know. Not my circus."

She guides him toward someone on set, cushioned on a faded davenport. Grayson's eyes snag on the pocket watch in their hand.

1800s gold filigree, jeweled, originally from some royal on the other side of the pond. Blüdhaven's hot piece of loot for the light-fingered among its criminal underbelly. Prime target for the cat burglar he's been trying to nail for months.

It rankles him some more that the thief's been sending out riddled notes for his targets in advance—and getting away with it. Up until this point.

Being discharged from the force and turned private eye at least prevents his old department head breathing down his neck.

During the film shoot, he won't take his eyes off the timepiece—or its current keeper—for long.

Talulah's chin lifts, and she nods toward it.

"Good luck."

"Thanks," Grayson says, watching the slight bounce of her hair as she leaves before fixing his gaze on the person in front of him.

"You got dibs on the pretty thing, hm?"

Why they'd use the original for the movie, he can't tell. He assumes the director's got a fair bit of drag with the museum it's loaned from. He'll need to look into that.

"Won't shadow you everywhere. But we'll get well-acquainted, I think." Grayson rubs his stubbled chin. So sleep-deprived from camping out watching Gambrelli that lifting his lips into a smile feels Sisyphean. His fingers itch for his deck of Lucky Strikes. "Best not go anywhere alone for long, bright eyes. Call me Grayson. Or Diсk."

The irony of a gumshoe called Diсk isn't lost on him. Half of him waits for the joke.