Chapter Text
The Valdez Speed Repair. For first impressions, it really doesn’t look like much- grimy, a little dirty, and reeking of oil and wood. It’s not on the bad side of Gotham, but the building had been abandoned for years, and it showed.
But on closer inspection, Tim sees more. The door, while incredibly old and rusty, has pristine, shining hinges, and there’s an impressive security lock built into the handle that he only feels once his hand is on the thing, fingers ghosting briefly over two wires that lead back in through the metal.
And the indoor area doesn’t look too bad either. Clean at least, with a curtain separating it from the actual garage (it’s also fairly noisy in here. Had the owner invested in sound proofing?). There are seats and a water fountain with those little paper cone cups stacked beside it- there’s one exactly like that in the lobby of the main Wayne building. The floor is dusted lightly with a layer of sawdust, and the receptionist desk is empty, a Windows 11 computer bouncing its icon around.
It looked. Really normal, and as Tim took a seat, with his laptop on his lap, he used his phone to hack into whatever cameras there were in the area.
There was a single camera outside trained onto the door, and he noticed, with interest, that the camera seemed to have heat-signature abilities, highlighting the security lock red. He takes a screenshot and places it in it a Bat-Folder.
The singular camera in the waiting room is entirely normal, scanning the room in 5 second interval sweeps.
There’s two cameras in the garage area though, and Tim sees who he presumes is Valdez for the first time in startlingly clear definition.
A Spaniard with curly, wild hair sticking up in all kinds of places, face and arms stained with grease and oil. His suspenders had fake little gold sequins attached to them, like the ones from a craft store, and underneath was a dirty white collared shirt rolled up past his elbows.
Valdez is knee-deep in the guts of an engine Tim thinks belongs to some kind of Camero car, a soldering pen next to him and a screwdriver in his teeth. A stereotypical mechanic if he’s ever seen one.
Camera two is pointed at the currently-closed garage door, and the side door beside it opens up briefly to admit a burly Asian man the size of Jason, with take-out bags he recognized from the East Asian place at the corner. When he called out, Tim could hear his voice through the curtain.
“Leo! Lunch time! And there’s someone in the waiting room,”