Latroma

The steps up to the apartment landing echoed softly. Boots on tile left damp imprints for someone to mop up later while she shook her coat and got the worst of the water out of her hood. The air here was warmer, more of a tepid and neutral temperature. The walls and decorations were tasteful, if extremely dated and the whole place had the feel of somewhere almost forgotten by time. The apartments were probably even rent-controlled, she imagined. At the landing, she stopped to look at the door. 909 Park Row. Her hand pulled out the hand-scrawled note and looked at it once again before grunting. It hadn't been hard to check the internet for who lived at this place. They'd put a little bit of effort into concealing their identity, but Sam had been forced to grow more and more net savvy over the years, and while her hacking was sub-par, she could usually find information that wasn't concealed by well-trained methods. However, a name had been all that she had managed to

First Bank of Gotham was … not what its name indicated. It was one of the less affluent establishments in the city. If you wanted the well protected bank in town, you went to Gotham National. If you wanted the backing of more whispered elements, you hit up Gotham Merchant Bank. First Bank of Gotham was the third or fourth choice when it came to major banks, little more than a small set of branches that serviced the city and the surrounding communities. It was hardly a big name, but that was kind of the point. The more important banks in town were likely to experience trouble, and attempted heists were, according to the folks in town and the local Gazette, quite the common occurrence. If you wanted a quiet existence, a small, secure little bank that didn't have the money to justify a big name causing trouble was kind of nice. That, at least, was Sam's line of thought when she'd gotten an account here. It had been easy enough to convince the representatives of the Foundation

Sam was seated in a lotus position on top of a heavy table in what looked to her like a conference room. There was a table, a small plate with refreshments that she hadn't bothered to touch, along with a now half-filled glass of water. It looked very much like this was a planning room of some sort, but one without the guts of the technology the space station had to offer at her disposal. When John had left, she'd been politely escorted here with an apology. His word had been enough to return her property, but she'd been asked to remain and wait until someone could come and speak to her. One test of the door had verified that it had been locked. Trust only went so far, when it came to John Constantine, or so it would appear. She didn't especially care right now. There was very little that she could do to return to her world, not at the moment anyway. She'd looked through the small notebook in her pouch, but nothing she'd written had been much use and she'd secured it