The hum of the basement dehumidifier echoed through the empty space.
Yang Ming looked at the dozen or so enormous wooden crates and pressed his fingers to his brow, nursing a headache. Falcone's efficiency deserved credit, but piling precision instruments in a dark, damp basement was practically sacrilege against medical equipment.
"Thanks for all your hard work these past few days." Yang Ming turned to Selene.
"Don't unpack this equipment yet. I need to find a reliable construction crew to renovate the second basement level. As for Cobblepot, let him wait. I've just stocked up, and I need time to work through it."
Selene toyed with the mop handle in her hands and pointed upstairs. "What about young Mr. Wayne? When he called this morning, he sounded like he wanted to tear this clinic down. Just how much trouble did you get into?"
"A minor breakdown in doctor-patient communication," Yang Ming said, making up an excuse on the spot.
In truth, he knew perfectly well that standing Bruce Wayne up ranked among the most suicidal things anyone could do in Gotham.
That rich young master might only be pretending to be a playboy, but deep down, his controlling nature and obsessive tendencies were hardly better than those of an asylum patient.
Besides, Yang Ming knew exactly why Bruce wanted him to make a house call. It had nothing to do with treating his butler's rheumatism. He simply wanted to get Yang Ming onto his home turf at Wayne Manor and interrogate him about what he had done in Falcone's study.
The unexpected incident in Afghanistan had thrown off his schedule. That part really was his fault.
Yang Ming took the platinum-embossed business card from his white coat pocket, walked to the triage desk, and picked up the old landline phone