《Gruff》 Chapter 1: Hair of the Dog It was half past ten in the morning when Virginia Calhoun tripped down the hall and darkened my doorway. The pebbled window of the half-glass door refracted her form, turning her into a white spatter. She knocked fast and hard, jerking me out of my stupor. I had a few hot ounces of the hair of the dog boiling away in my stomach, and couldn¡¯t work up the strength to answer her frenzy right away. She got the door open on her own and spilled into my cluttered broom-closet office while I was still closing the drawer. The scotch bottle clunked as I sat up. I might not be much for manners these days, but if she saw me indulging, it would have been rude not to offer her some. I didn¡¯t have much to spare, but I thought I might have to get it back out when I saw how bothered she was. She might need something to steady her nerves before she got to talking straight. She stammered, breathless, holding air like a ripped sail in gale winds. What words she found tumbled out with no regard for where they were meant to go. ¡°My son¡­ acting¡­ only thirteen¡­ California¡­ I never should have¡­¡± Her beak clacked as she tried to get a grip. I waited for her, taking her in. Her feathers were rumpled in places and parts of her face drooped, but she was slender in a tight-fitting, dark blue dress with a skirt that just brushed the top of her calf. ¡°Try a breath,¡± I said after catching my own. ¡°The air tastes like ash here, but it¡¯s better than passing out and breaking your beak on the hardwood. At least sit down.¡± The spindly chair opposite my desk was the only part of the room not consumed by the strata of rumpled newspapers, half-full coffee cups, and bits of ephemera my work produced. Sometimes, keeping the client¡¯s chair clear felt like juvenile optimism, but it paid off in this case. Virginia slumped into the seat, then began to compose herself. She looked good doing it. From up close, I saw how age had started catching up with her. It nipped at her heels, but she still clung to the je ne sais quois of a starry-eyed ing¨¦nue. Her neck was a delicate stalk. Her legs were even more fragile, but damned if they didn¡¯t go all the way down. A desire to keep up with current fads had skived away some of her signature curves, but she wore the waifish look well. Her appearance had evolved to suit a more sultry, smoky maturity. In all honesty, neither archetype was quite my preference. Give me a woman with pointy teeth, sharp eyes, and a bushy tail to chase and I¡¯d¡ª Howl, you dog! I had bigger things to worry about than getting laid. Virginia fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. I unearthed a half-filled ash tray and set it on top of the stack of folders in front of her. She got the cigarette stuck into her bill by herself, but her clumsy fingers struggled with the lighter. Frustration bloomed in her eyes. I heard her breath hitch again but got out ahead of a second meltdown with a deftly lit match. She leaned in to the flame, clinging to it like a bad boyfriend. She knew it was no good for her, but she couldn¡¯t help herself. When the tip became a radiant cherry, she floated back and let the smoke slither out through the slits of her nares. Her shoulders trembled as she took another drag, but they stopped when the stimulating compounds in the smoke hit her nervous system. ¡°Start from the beginning,¡± I said when I thought she could handle it. ¡°John¡­¡± Her eyes darted down to the nameplate holding back an avalanche of junk at the edge of my desk. ¡°Er¡­ Detective O¡¯Howell.¡± ¡°Howl¡¯s fine.¡± ¡°Sorry, what was that?¡± The gulp of scotch I took before she walked in sloshed, revealing the needling hangover beneath. I bit back a snarl. She had interrupted my writhing and put me in a sour mood just by being there, but I couldn¡¯t afford to snap at her. I needed the cash as much as she needed answers. ¡°I¡¯m not a detective. Not anymore. Just Howl is fine.¡± ¡°But your assistant said¡­¡± She turned in her chair, looking over her shoulder at the door she had blown in through. The lettering on the window had mostly flaked off, so only a few specks of tarnished gold were still caught in the glass ripples. She had to squint to make out the words Private Investigator under my name. ¡°I don¡¯t have an assistant.¡± Confusion broke through the grip of panic on her face. ¡°Green guy? Pink suit? Black eyes?¡± I said, describing Casey Calypso. ¡°That¡¯s Cal. He rents from me.¡± ¡°But if he¡­¡± She didn¡¯t need to ask. I read the question on her face. I had been asking myself the same ones for years. If I own the place, why does Cal have the bigger office? Why had I been shunted to the back, down a hallway with busted lights and a view of the polluted Gutter? The biggest question, however¡ªthe one that hung over my head like a storm cloud no matter what I did and rang through my mind every time I made the mistake of closing my eyes sober¡ªwas, ¡°What the hell happened to you?¡± ¡°If you trust his sign, Cal might be able to figure out what you¡¯re after without any details, but I¡¯m going to need more,¡± I said. ¡°You mentioned a son?¡± ¡°Ethan!¡± The name honked out of her mouth before she flung up a wing to catch it. While her hand was there, she took another drag and tried to reclaim some of that demure posture a dame like her was meant to have. My molars ground, and I let out a cloud of sour whiskey fumes with a heavy sigh. ¡°Please, Miss Crane.¡± Her eyes lit up and her wrist went limp. ¡°You know me?¡± ¡°Sure. Me and most men my age. And everyone who was a teenage boy about fifteen years ago.¡± I¡¯d never seen a bird blush before. I¡¯m not sure how it even showed through the feather. For one sweltering summer you couldn¡¯t enter a teenager¡¯s bedroom or beer-gutted bachelor¡¯s garage without seeing a pinup of Barnyard¡¯s Miss July, Virginia Crane. She had burned out fast, but by God had she burned bright. ¡°It¡¯s actually Calhoun¡­¡± she said. ¡°For now.¡± It was the first meaningful bit of information I got from the woman. I filed it away in the empty folder in my mind, resisting the urge to reach for my notepad. ¡°Ethan,¡± I said, bringing her back. ¡°Ma¡¯am, I get the impression what you¡¯ve got is urgent, so if you wouldn¡¯t mind¡­¡± Her beak quirked when I said ma¡¯am. A smile? A grimace? Hard to tell with no lips. Either way, I¡¯d guess nobody had said that to her with much enthusiasm in a while. ¡°Yes. Sorry. My son, Ethan¡­ He¡¯s gone.¡± ¡°It pains me to say¡±¡ªa spike in my head made the pain physical, reminded me I was almost out of whiskey and completely out of petty cash with which to replace the bottle¡ª¡°but you might be better off going to the police. They don¡¯t have my charming disposition, but they have more resources¡ª¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°No police!¡± she shouted, surprising herself. ¡°I mean¡­they¡¯d want me to wait. He just¡­ It¡¯s only been¡­ They wouldn¡¯t¡­¡± As much as I appreciated her shared disdain for The Beast, her blubbering grated on me. If she had gone to the police, they would have turned her away until she got her story straight. I didn¡¯t have the luxury. I had to use tact, coax her into giving me something. ¡°How¡¯d you get here today, Mrs. Calhoun?¡± Sensing the moment was right, I pulled out my notepad and flipped it open. As I suspected, starting away from the hot-button of her son¡¯s disappearance allowed some amount of calm to settle over Virginia¡¯s mania. She answered the question without hysterics. ¡°I took the bus.¡± ¡°Long ride?¡± ¡°Not too long.¡± It sounded innocuous, but it gave me a lot. If taking part in Hot Type City¡¯s famously run-down public transit system wasn¡¯t bad enough, a single bus had taken her from her house to Moire Park. It explained the greasy diesel fumes I smelled when she opened the door and meant wherever she was from wasn¡¯t a nice neighborhood. The years hadn¡¯t been too rough on her body, but they had been on her status. I could relate. It might not be the only thing we had in common. My eyes drifted toward the red cap hanging near the door, but I dragged them back to Virginia. ¡°When was the last time you saw Ethan?¡± I prepared for her to get flustered again, but a drag on her cigarette kept her grounded. ¡°This morning. A car came by to pick him up and take him to the airport. I would have gone with him¡ªto the gate at least¡ªbut I had work and¡­ God damn it! If only I would have taken him myself.¡± A police officer might have given her guff about cursing, told her it wasn¡¯t befitting a proper lady, much less a mother, but I didn¡¯t mind. She took another breath, this time for dramatics. She wasn¡¯t in the industry anymore, but she couldn¡¯t help injecting a little flare. I let her put on her show and waited for the next act. ¡°He was supposed to go to California. Had a public service campaign lined up with Natalie Counsel. Something about bicycle helmets. It wasn¡¯t much of a paycheck, but it was going to show across the country. Ethan was going to be a star.¡± ¡°I¡¯m familiar with the kind of job,¡± I said. ¡°Right, of course you are.¡± She folded her hands in her lap and watched the stub of her cigarette smolder. ¡°He was supposed to call when he got to the airport. I thought he might¡¯ve forgotten, but I knew something was wrong when he didn¡¯t call when he should have landed. The airline confirmed the plane took off when it was supposed to and touched down when it was supposed to, but nobody could say whether he was on it.¡± ¡°Someone with him? You trust them?¡± ¡°His agent, Adora Counsel, sent an old wolverine. Looked tough. Seemed professional.¡± ¡°Professional? With Adora? Doubt it.¡± Virginia looked up in shock, but I waved her off. I didn¡¯t want to get into it. ¡°I think I¡¯ve got a handle on the scope of your problem. Your kid¡¯s missing and you want me to find him. I can look, but it¡¯ll cost you seventy-five dollars a day, plus expenses.¡± It looked like Virginia had spontaneously laid an egg. I felt bad about what I needed to charge, but seventy-five dollars a day was poverty wages. With as few jobs as I got, I¡¯d already needed to borrow extra off Cal just to pay my apartment¡¯s rent and the mortgage on this dump. I prepared for her to haggle or snatch up her purse and march out, but she sat still. She took the last pull her cigarette had to give, singeing her feathers on the embers at the tip, then stamped it out against the disk of compacted ash in the ashtray. ¡°You really think you can find him?¡± I tried to nod, but my neck was stiff. Truth is, poor kids like Ethan go missing all the time. Occasionally they¡¯re found unharmed in a day, but happy those reunions are the exception. Usually, the kids aren¡¯t found. Sometimes, it¡¯d be better if they hadn¡¯t been. A hopeful vigil, no matter how delusional, beats a funeral every time. ¡°I can¡¯t guarantee anything other than that I¡¯ll try my damnedest to bring him home.¡± Virginia cocked her head. Instead of turning her off, the frank admission ingratiated her to me. She was canny enough to see the truth in place of an empty promise. ¡°But I¡¯ll need to know more,¡± I said. ¡°Where did he go to school? Who did he talk to? Anyone else know where he was going? That kind of thing.¡± I had my notepad open, ready to jot down enough answers to solve the case like a Monday morning crossword puzzle. Virginia blinked at me. The barrage of questions had overwhelmed her, so I changed tack. ¡°Got any pictures. It¡¯d help to know who I¡¯m looking for.¡± Virginia flapped opened her purse again but she didn¡¯t need to dig around; the prints were right up near the top. She stared at the portrait on top for a second before handing the stack over. Based on what she had said when she first gusted in, I assumed the picture was a few years old. The boy in the picture was a young goat with hair as white as his mother¡¯s feathers and short, nubby horns stuck out through a shaggy mop on top of his head. The photograph was professionally shot, and the blazer and tie the billy wore brought to mind nuns wielding rulers and phallic etchings carved into school desks. He was a scrawny kid, whatever his age, but his smile was bright, charismatic, and just a little devilish. I couldn¡¯t stop myself from thinking of Growl. Last time I saw Growl alive, he was the same age as Ethan was in the picture, but they never would have been friends. Ethan seemed more like the kind to get into trouble than try to stop it. In the next shot, the kid sat behind a lumpy cake with ten candles poking out of it. Virginia was behind him with her arms draped lovingly over his shoulders. He might not have fit the technical definition of a teenager but his scowl could have competed at a high school level. ¡°Dad in the picture?¡± I asked as I flipped to the next glossy print in the stack, a recent head shot. ¡°Don¡¯t see him busting down my door.¡± ¡°Sure, Peter¡¯s in the picture. Doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s got his arm around anyone.¡± I shuffled through the photos and landed on a Polaroid of a fidgety-looking primate kneeling next to a much younger Ethan¡ªmaybe six years old. The man wore a bucket hat and fishing vest, both pierced with an array of lures and bobbers. He held a long rod in one hand and tried to comfort his crying son with the other. The slow loris¡¯s eyes were as big as Cal¡¯s, but his swam with tears. Aside from them both seeming desperately out of place, father and son couldn¡¯t have looked more different. Funny how genetics worked. ¡°You two divorced?¡± Just looking at him, I couldn¡¯t imagine how the relationship had lasted this long¡ªor how it had started. He looked timid, the kind to flinch at the sound of a lighter clicking, but Virginia had been fiercely confident back in her model days. Her looks alone should have put her well out of an average man like Peter¡¯s league. ¡°Not officially. He moved out about a month ago.¡± ¡°The split amicable?¡± ¡°Depends on who you ask.¡± I jotted on my pad, and Virginia¡¯s panic-stricken mind realized the implications of what she had said. ¡°He didn¡¯t do anything to Ethan, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking.¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t hurt to check.¡± ¡°He loves Ethan every bit as much as I do,¡± Virginia said, showing a spark of that buried fierceness. ¡°Besides, he¡¯s been out of town. I called him just before I came here, but he said it would be the better part of a week before he¡¯s back.¡± ¡°Got anyone who will corroborate where he¡¯s been?¡± ¡°Sure. The other members of the band he¡¯s touring with will vouch for him. If that¡¯s not enough, he must¡¯ve played at a dozen venues.¡± ¡°Band?¡± I asked. ¡°He¡¯s a musician?¡± Virginia nodded. ¡°Plays bass for any jazz band that needs one.¡± I pictured the man in the photograph hung over an instrument as tall as he was, plunking away all sad and slow. The image fit nicely, and it explained how Virginia had ended up with him in the first place. The decline of Jazz had already begun by the time my mental math said they got together, but it wouldn¡¯t have mattered. There was something about musicians of any stripe that young, free-spirited women found irresistible. The starving artist shtick can be cute for a couple years, but it¡¯s got to get old when you¡¯re trying to raise a kid without a steady paycheck. ¡°What¡¯d he have to say when you called him?¡± ¡°He said he¡¯s on his way home, but not to worry. He told me to trust the police.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t?¡± Her brow dipped and her fingers twitched, wanting to bring the ghost of her burned cigarette to her lips. ¡°They¡¯d say to wait. They¡¯d think Ethan¡¯s some rebellious youth who ran away on his own and will show up in a day or two.¡± ¡°I know you trust him, but have you considered¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± she snapped, her beak clacking. ¡°I know my son. He acted out like any strong-willed boy his age, but he wouldn¡¯t have run. Ever since he was little, all he wanted to do was act. He couldn¡¯t sleep for two weeks waiting for today. He wouldn¡¯t have risked messing it up for anything.¡± I had a lot more questions, but it wouldn¡¯t do any good to pry. Virginia was getting heated and our interview had taken a turn toward antagonistic. I didn¡¯t expect her to like me much, but I wouldn¡¯t get anywhere if I had to fight her. ¡°I¡¯ll have more to ask later, but why don¡¯t you head home? Try to relax. Wait. Maybe Ethan comes back on his own. Maybe you get a phone call.¡± I stood up, and Virginia stood on reflex. She followed along when I put my hand on her elbow. I had guided her halfway to the door before she started stammering. ¡°But I can¡¯t just¡ª What if he¡ª What are you¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I said, holding the door open for her and gesturing down the tenebrous hallway to the flickering fluorescence of the lobby. ¡°You can take some time to gather your thoughts. I¡¯ll talk to Adora and see what I can get about this guy who was with him.¡± I ducked back inside to grab my hat and coat off the hook. Her beak rattled some more, but she didn¡¯t come up with anything before I returned to lead her down the hallway¡ªa knight in creaky, rusted armor. Chapter 2: Not Over the Hump I waved goodbye on my office¡¯s crumbling stoop and we went our separate ways, her to the bus stop around the corner and me to Dolores, the pile of rust and sagging rubber that had once been a lemon yellow Chevy Vega. The door wasn¡¯t locked, but I had to fight against the bent hinges and a crust of oxidized metal to get inside. I waited behind the wheel, unconsciously leering at Virginia¡¯s subtle sashay as she turned the corner. Watching her go was nice enough, but mostly I didn¡¯t want her to see and hear the sad state Dolores was in. The condition of my office hadn¡¯t given her a good first impression. What faith she might have held onto would be lost if she heard how I cursed and kicked to get Dolores started. If finding Ethan came down to a high-spirited car chase, she could kiss the idea of ever seeing him again goodbye. When she was out of sight and I saw the city bus, runner-up in the Moire Park junker of the year competition, trundle after her, I turned the key. The monster under Dolores¡¯s hood gave a throaty roar. I thought sneaking up on it had worked, but the sound died out in a phlegmy cough. I tried again and got another short-lived sputter. I smacked my hands on the wheel and growled at the dashboard. The dials weren¡¯t intimidated and all stayed pegged at zero. Dolores was a compact ride and the money I got for her metal would hardly cover the cost of towing her to the scrapyard. If I had any other option for getting around, I wouldn¡¯t think twice about ditching her. For now, I had to keep her limping along. I reached menacingly for the door handle, implying I¡¯d chase after the bus if Dolores didn¡¯t shape up. At the same time, I slyly turned the key again, one foot on the clutch, one on the accelerator. The engine sputtered, and I toed the gas pedal. I forced myself to be tender despite my frustration. The engine chunked, turned over, ground like a bolt in a garbage disposal. I expected something to screech and the whole drivetrain to snap loose and drop out onto the street. I levered my foot forward and back, so subtly I couldn¡¯t be sure I had moved at all, finding the groove, and something caught a second before I threw my hands up in defeat. Dolores rumbled like her wheels straddled the San Andreas fault on a bad day. My vision blurred from the shaking, but the violence ended in a snap and the engine purred. No, it wasn¡¯t quite a purr. It was more like a whine, but the kind that came from the chest, not the nose. I slammed down the parking brake, jimmied the gearshift into first, eased off on the clutch, and punched the accelerator. Dolores lurched forward before she knew what I was doing. I barely slowed for the first corner on the way to I-18. The tires squealed and Dolores rocked like an old ironside as I turned the rudder in a wide arc. Keeping Dolores¡¯s blood up was crucial to avoid a stall-out. Light traffic meant I could afford to be brash. Plenty of people were out and about, but they were mostly on the sidewalks. Few could afford cars that ran even as well as Dolores. The ClearLife factory brought as many jobs as it promised, but they hadn¡¯t come all at once. While the waste the fifteen-acre campus pumped out tainted the water and drove out all reasonable businesses from the area, the plant churned through the populace, giving steady¡ªalbeit not gainful¡ªemployment for a few months. No one working on the floor lasted any longer than that. The fumes made them sick, and the general pall of joblessness caused by the shuttering of other nearby factories meant there was always someone new willing to put their body on the line for a paycheck. People shambled around the streets, grumbling and trading curses with their fellow ClearLife burnouts in gruff, barely intelligible grunts. The factory was a campaign promise from Mayor Regis Fellini. A promise kept regardless of the cost. If you ignored the toll it took on the local area¡ªas the higher-ups were wont to do¡ªthe factory made huge profits, keeping the fat-cat investors happy. Fellini¡¯s sycophants heard it was successful and bought the headline, hook, line, and sinker, doubling down on their praise for him. I tried not to concern with things like that. If the election that put Regis in power and elevated the stodgy old Thomas Fosse to police commissioner on his coattails had taught me anything, it was that my vote didn¡¯t mean squat. Idiots had packed the polling places, shattering records for mid-term turnouts, and they¡¯d do it again next Tuesday for the general election. The mayor¡¯s congressional campaign would make sure of it. As I slalomed up the ramp onto I-18, I saw yet another of the billboards shoving his candidacy in my face. With so many people plastering the backs of their cars with his slogans and walking around Hot Type City with hats and shirts bearing his name, it hardly seemed necessary. The billboards were wasted money, but Regis didn¡¯t care. He got half a chub every time his motorcade drove past one. A truck behind me blasted its horn and flashed its lights as it crept up on Dolores¡¯s ass. I was already in fourth gear with my foot to the floor and the pointer on the tach bouncing around the red zone. As soon as the left lane opened up, the truck swerved around me and honked again. The beat-faced driver made a rude gesture, but I didn¡¯t engage. He wasted more time trying to get my attention until a few cars were stacked up behind him. When he finally gave up, he revved his smog-spewing six-cylinder and burned a trail of rubber. From Dolores¡¯s perspective, the pace I set was frantic. She panted and heaved as we cruised, but I had time to think. You needed to go through the heart of the city to get to Adora¡¯s office. Traffic made it a real bitch no matter what time of day you tried. Adora hadn¡¯t bought her place for its location but for its address. It was well below The Fold, five blocks out from the hub of the entertainment district, but her business card still said Masthead Avenue in big, bold letters. If the prospective client didn¡¯t know better, they might think Adora had nestled herself right in next to the production companies and broadcast studios the street was best known for. That scheme and a hundred others, paired with her unapologetic pushiness, had earned her a decent living. When I made the exit onto Headline Boulevard, I saw a line of brake lights, redundant stoplights, and intrepid jaywalkers stretching out for miles ahead. It wasn¡¯t often that I missed being part of The Beast, but I sure as hell could have used my old strobe right then. Nothing cleared the street like slamming one of those red and blue flashers on your roof and laying on the horn. I settled for crossing my arms, grumbling some more, and praying to six different gods I didn¡¯t believe in to keep Dolores from stalling. Dolores wheezed as I spun her into the eight-car lot Adora¡¯s office shared with a liquor store and a suspiciously active carpet retailer. The engine made an ominous clunk as Dolores settled into the last open spot. I cranked the parking brake and waited for something to hiss or burst into flames, but the gas-guzzling enigma that powered the heap only pinged and clinked as it cooled. I got out, careful not to disturb anything, and Dolores sagged with exhaustion. I took a deep breath, getting a taste for the stink. It was foul to be sure, but it was a more active, biological sort of malodor than Moire Park¡¯s stagnation. The carpet store¡¯s flier-papered door opened with a ding, and a young finch in a high-collared coat walked out. He kept his shoulders hunched to his ears and a tight grip on the bag in his feathered fist. I admit I didn¡¯t have a finger on the pulse of textile technology, but even if it followed the same miniaturization trend we saw with personal computers, the kid wouldn¡¯t be able to cover a whole lot of square feet with what was in the brown paper sack. His eyes flicked around, on the lookout for coppers. When he saw me, the kid did a double take, then made it triple. People his age had heard me talk about the importance of staying away from drugs a thousand times during their formative years. When they grew up enough to know the scripted aphorisms I spouted were hogshit, they gained a newfound¡ªif ironic¡ªappreciation for me. Once, my snooping brought me to the mall on Benday Court, and I made the mistake of looking in the window of a store geared toward exploiting the nostalgia of these disaffected youths. I saw my younger self staring back from behind my reflected double, printed on tee-shirts, frisbees, and rolling trays. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! I could only imagine the conversations that spun endlessly around smoke circles the day they unceremoniously ripped my ads from the air, but I¡¯d caught a few of the rumors. Some said I got busted trafficking heroin, others said it was guns, one especially skeevy supposition said I slept with the producer¡¯s husband. They were all preposterous, except the one said in only the hushest whispers and loudest drunken blusters¡ªthat I¡¯d killed someone. The bird¡¯s feathers rustled, and his hollow bones trembled. I shuffled toward the door of Adora¡¯s office, tucking my chin and raising my own shoulders so my coat¡¯s collar and the brim of my hat blocked my face. My ear lifted on its own, listening for the dreaded call of recognition. Instead, I heard a relieved sigh as soon as the kid realized there wasn¡¯t an armada of white vans full of drug enforcement agents waiting for him. I let myself into Adora¡¯s lobby, a small vestibule with only enough room to fit a tiny desk for her assistant and two seats for clients. With my ears still pricked from listening for the kid, the fizz of the fluorescent light squeezed a few ounces of lemon juice onto my brain, which was already soggy with nigh-perpetual hangover. The acid stung as it sloshed and dripped down my back. I prepared for another pummeling when the flighty doe behind the desk jumped in her seat. She stared at me, frozen in shock. Her mouth fell open and a quiet breath meant to be a greeting escaped her lips. She was shocked by my presence, not my persona. She would have reacted the same no matter who I was. ¡°Can I help you?¡± she mewed as I walked across the room to the closed door bearing a brass plate with Adora¡¯s name stamped across it. There was a time when I might have played into the role of brash detective. I might¡¯ve stopped at the girl¡¯s desk, charmed her with my suavity and stricken her with my rugged good looks. But I wasn¡¯t that man anymore. I was more gray around the muzzle these days, and the girl, who could have been as old as twenty-five, looked like a kid to me. I heard a husky voice chuckling inside Adora¡¯s office, but didn¡¯t let that stop me. The door wasn¡¯t locked, but it didn¡¯t open easily. Instead of redecorating to keep things fresh, Adora opted for the easy solution of dousing the office in a new color once a year. The built up layers of paint made the door fit snug in its frame. I leaned into the knob. When it didn¡¯t give, I bumped the door with my shoulder. Adora was in the middle of her sentence when I busted in, jamming myself into a room already packed full with Adora¡¯s large, dromedary body and the even larger personality she effused as strongly as she shed the smell of stale cigarettes. She stared at me, but her flow of smarm never broke. The gravel in her voice said she still smoked half a carton a day. The black grit between her teeth suggested she ate the other half. ¡°That¡¯s right. And I¡¯ve got you scheduled for an audition at Blakely on the twelfth. Remember to wear something tight. That Arnie¡¯s got more eyes than ears, if you know what I¡¯m saying. He¡¯s got a couple hands, too, if you really want the part.¡± Her flat expression didn¡¯t line up with her braying laughter. ¡°Uh-huh. Uh-huh,¡± she said into the handset. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m going to have to let you go. I¡¯ve got a call on the other line. Who knows? Could be a callback for you.¡± She set the phone down as the doe from the front desk came up behind me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Miss Counsel. I tried to stop him, but he just came right in. Do you want me to call somebody?¡± ¡°A bit late for that, don¡¯t you think, Mackenzie?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry. He just¡ª¡± ¡°I know. He¡¯s a mean old bastard. Aren¡¯t you Mr. O¡¯Howell?¡± I shrugged. Adora flipped her fingers like she was shooing a pesky fly. ¡°How about you get back to the desk and try to control the endless flow of talent knocking down my door, okay?¡± ¡°Uh¡ªuh. Of course. Sorry.¡± Mackenzie started away, ducked back to close the door, and accidentally brushed me with it. She apologized again, then once more when the door was shut just to be safe. Adora spread her hands wide. ¡°Well, well, well, if it isn¡¯t the prodigal son. Finally see sense and come crawling back? You lost us both a lot of money, but if you play your cards right, it might not be too late for a comeback tour. Nostalgia is in this season.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t come for that,¡± I said, shuffling around an oversized ficus to sit in the chair across from her. ¡°It¡¯s okay. You can admit you were wrong. But if you want my help, you¡¯ll need to get on your hands and knees.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t beg. And I don¡¯t want back in. I¡¯m here about the kid.¡± ¡°What kid?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb, Adora. I know you¡¯d never lose track of a cash cow.¡± ¡°Cow¡­cow¡­cow¡­¡± Adora said, tapping her shellacked nails on the desk. ¡°He¡¯s a goat. Ethan Calhoun. You represent him and now he¡¯s missing. Don¡¯t give me that surprised shit. If you didn¡¯t hear it firsthand, your sister called you to bitch about it.¡± ¡°So I¡¯ve got an actor running a little late,¡± she said with a shrug that was all in the face. ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡± ¡°His mom¡¯s worried about him. Now that I work for her, I am too. What do you know?¡± Adora gave one more drum roll with her nails. She leaned back, her long neck stretching out to clear up the impression of a double chin and giving her another two inches on me. She gave me a long appraisal. ¡°He¡¯s a good kid,¡± she said at last. ¡°Hell of an actor, too. He¡¯s going to be a star one day, just you wait. Kind of reminds me of you.¡± ¡°Come on, Addie. If I wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass, I could¡¯ve saved some dignity by going to the backrooms at Club Callout and tipping a few extra bucks. Give me something I can use. This kid, anything about him tell you he¡¯s a flight risk?¡± ¡°Hell no.¡± Adora looked offended on his behalf. ¡°He wanted to get away from Hot Type City, but he knew this job was the way to do it.¡± ¡°They always do,¡± I said. ¡°So what about this driver you sent?¡± ¡°What about him?¡± ¡°You trust him? Think he would want to do anything with or to our kid.¡± ¡°Not a chance. I know what you¡¯re getting at, but Al wasn¡¯t like that. He was solid. Ex-military or police or some shit before he went freelance.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like you knew him all too well. He vetted?¡± ¡°He came highly recommended. I¡¯ve been using guys like him for years. I know who I can trust and who I can¡¯t. I could trust him.¡± ¡°Fine, but I want his contact information so I can check him out myself. I bet there¡¯s more there than you want to believe.¡± ¡°You¡¯re incorrigible, Howl,¡± Adora said, shaking her head so her neck wattle swayed back and forth. ¡°You come marching in here, asking¡ªno, demanding¡ªall sorts of shit like you¡¯re still a cop. If the police come, I¡¯ll have to hand over whatever I¡¯ve got, but I bet they¡¯ll at least have the manners to ask nicely. Maybe they¡¯ll even bother to knock.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here for small talk or to relitigate our history. I¡¯m just here for the kid, and I¡¯ll do whatever it takes to make sure he¡¯s safe.¡± Adora¡¯s head bounced from side to side until she made up her mind. When she did, she pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and dipped back down to dig around in her desk. By the sounds of rustling, clunking and sloshing, I guessed her drawers hid an equal amount of junk as what I let pile up on the desktop and at least as much squirreled away hooch. ¡°I get it, Howl, I do. I want to help him, too, it¡¯s just¡ª¡± She stopped talking for a second when she found something. I leaned in to see what it was and heard the chink of a lighter flipping open and the scratch of a flint wheel. She took a drag to get the cigarette started, closed the lighter, and threw it down on her desk. She went on talking with the smoldering cigarette between her lips as she searched deeper. ¡°It¡¯s just I¡¯ve got a responsibility to be discrete, you know. A good agent doesn¡¯t put their clients¡¯ or contractors¡¯ personal business out there for just anyone to have a sniff.¡± She grunted as she reached one drawer lower. A ghostly thin finger of smoke trailed up from below as she puffed and searched. She found a folder like the ones I used for any cases that required more paperwork than an invoice¡¯s carbon copy. I sensed she was about to spill and got my notepad out. ¡°You know, for months after you left your contacts at the ad agency out to dry, I told them you were on sabbatical.¡± She dropped the folder on the table and flipped it open to riffle through the pages. ¡°When they stopped buying that, I told them you left because of creative differences. Figured the truth was none of their business.¡± ¡°Gee. I sure am grateful.¡± ¡°They got most of their advance back in the end, but I always knew that would happen. Now let¡¯s see¡­¡± Her finger tracked down a list of names and numbers, all part of some esoteric indexing system she had cooked up. ¡°Al McCarthy¡­ Al McCarthy¡­ McCarthy¡­ Aha!¡± She flipped over to another sheaf of papers in the same folder and started shuffling. I heard a tinny ringing over the rasp of paper against paper, too muffled for Adora¡¯s dulled camel ears to pick up. Mackenzie gasped and the cup of pens on her desks rattled as she went for the phone. Three seconds after the assistant answered, the phone on Adora¡¯s desk rang. Deftly, without stopping her search, Adora picked up the handset and pinned it to her ear. ¡°Adora Counsel Talent Agency, you¡¯ve got Adora.¡± The chipper shift her voice underwent belied unbridled excitement at the prospect of a new client. That joviality failed, and her face fell when she heard the serious voice on the other end. ¡°This is Senior Detective Morris with the HTPD. Do you have time to answer a few questions?¡± Adora¡¯s fingers stopped crawling through the papers. ¡°What is it, Detective? You find Ethan?¡± She grabbed the phone with her hand and turned away, reaching for some privacy by putting her body between me and the speaker. I leaned in to hear better. ¡°No kid with him, but we did find Al McCarthy. Is it true he was working for you?¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± she said, coaxing out more. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to tell you, ma¡¯am, but you had better start looking for a new driver.¡± ¡°What?¡± Adora coughed, turning further away and lowering her voice. ¡°Some bum stumbled across your guy¡¯s body out in the sticks, toward the airport. He was knocked down near the loading dock of an abandoned paper warehouse on Beckminster Street, if that means anything to you.¡± ¡°How did he¡­¡± ¡°We¡¯re not sure of all the details just yet. But by the looks of it, I¡¯d have to guess he¡¯d been murdered.¡± Chapter 3: A Six Foot Burrow I peeled out into the flow of traffic as soon as I got Dolores kick-started and into gear. I could have wove back to I-18, but I saved time by going the long way around. I had pressed my luck braving the stop-and-go traffic downtown once already. Rain clouds had rolled in while I was talking to Adora, bringing on a premature nightfall and adding another element to my already hazardous commute. Dolores¡¯s tires were bald, three years overdue for a rotation, and her windshield wipers wicked water like a chicken flies. My work as a private investigator¡ªand detective before that, and beat cop before that¡ªgave me a good mental map of the city, especially the rougher parts of it. The brief description the garbled voice of Detective Morris had given Adora was enough to get me to the heart of The Margin. The neighborhood was a dead gulf, a wasteland of abandoned businesses and sunken dreams. Aspirational For Sale signs were hung in boarded-up windows and printed on knocked-over sandwich board signs. The realtors¡¯ names and phone numbers were all chipped off and most were tangled up with thin tentacles of vines and lichenous barnacles of unnameable fungi. Even from that pit of despair, I saw Regis Fellini¡¯s billboards looming over the elevated highway. They were lit from above and below, giving the lion and his idiotically simple slogan an ethereal glow. It would be hard to pin the downfall of most neighborhoods on just one man, but for Moire Park and the forgotten wastes of The Margin, Regis Fellini and his policies were a good place to start. Taking Hot Type City as a microcosm, it wasn¡¯t hard to imagine what would happen if he had his way. Entire counties and states would be left to rot while those who lined his pocket and gilded his road to political domination would prosper, no matter the long-term cost. As I passed under the overpass, putting the garish billboard behind me, my mind returned to Al. The Margin, as the name implies, is far away from I-18 which cuts straight through the city and runs near the airport a few miles south. If Al was from out of town, maybe¡ªmaybe¡ªhe could be excused for taking a few wrong turns. It didn¡¯t track that Al, who had decades of experience in Hot Type City, would mess up this bad. He couldn¡¯t have missed the trail of signs paving the way to the airport, even if he had recently suffered a traumatic brain injury and was driving around the city in a fugue state. Maybe I-18 was closed off. Maybe Al was double-dipping jobs and running deliveries too. Or maybe Al wasn¡¯t acting under his own volition. When I got close to Beckminster Street, I followed the pulsing strobes of red and blue. They piggybacked off raindrops to refract and propagate, making bubbles in the smoggy air. Three police cars blocked the alley behind the warehouse with their noses pointed in. The overlapping cones of the headlights illuminated a fourth car, a black luxury sedan, with all its doors open. A herd of police officers and detectives huddled around and in front of it, crouched down, pointing, scribbling in notepads. I parked behind one of the patrol cars, blocking it in. If they couldn¡¯t get out, someone would have to talk to me eventually. Rain pattered off the brim of my hat as I walked into the crossfire of curious looks, but my trench coat only deflected a few drops before the drizzle broke through the shoddy weatherproofing and the fabric took on water. One of the walking uniforms startled when he saw me. He noticed the straight-backed confidence of my stride as I approached what many would see as a lion¡¯s den and assumed I was meant to be there. Others around were confused, but he took it one step further by reaching out a hand. He was young, a hippopotamus with smooth skin that glistened in the rain. The colored lights of the police cars¡¯ strobing exaggerated the purple tones in the soft rolls of his face and neck. ¡°You¡¯re Detective O¡¯Howell, the Delinquency Dog,¡± he said. ¡°I remember you from TV.¡± I looked at his hand but didn¡¯t shake it. Clearly, he was new on the force and hadn¡¯t heard the stories about me. If he had, he would know I don¡¯t shake. Ever since I left the force, I don¡¯t do tricks¡ªnot for anyone, but especially not for the police. ¡°What do you have?¡± I asked, carrying over the veteran swagger from my walk up. The young officer, already on his back foot, faltered. His hand closed and slid away like a timid spider collapsing on itself and floating away on a gossamer strand. He looked at the sodden mess of cloth and fur on the ground, the hollowed husk of dear old Al McCarthy, then back at me. His trembling lips verged on forming words, but before anything came out, a gruff voice from the Stygian black behind the car said my name. An imposing figure in a gray suit and a fedora like mine came around into the light. His face, a canine scowl, was like mine too. He had a grizzled muzzle, heavy brow, and long flappy ears, but his fur was a lighter color overall, and his snout was shorter. It looked like someone had smashed in his nose with a cartoon frying pan, flattening it out and letting all the excess skin puddle and droop around it. If anyone deserved a hard thump in the sniffer, it was him, but he had been born like that. ¡°Henry,¡± I said. The greeting was curt, but accurately conveyed the amount of respect I had for the man. ¡°See you finally crawled out of the doghouse. Looks like you forgot your collar.¡± ¡°It itches.¡± I idly scratched my neck to illustrate my freedom. ¡°Besides, not a fan of the leash attached to it.¡± ¡°Cute, but you had better find somewhere else to sniff around.¡± Detective Henry stepped up beside the hippo. He put a hand on his arm and guided him to the side¡ªthe noble hero telling the poor newbie to get behind him. ¡°Let the real police do their work.¡± ¡°That what you¡¯re doing here? Looks like you¡¯re standing around smelling each other¡¯s asses.¡± Detective Henry snarled. We had been at each other¡¯s throats since long before I left the force. We¡¯d shared a dorm at the academy, spent time as partners, and competed for the same promotions. He had a much different view of what policing should be. For me, in the idyll of my youth, I thought it should be about helping people. He thought it should be about controlling them. I¡¯d pulled his boot off more than a few necks in my day. Maybe there was someone around now to carry on as his handler, but I doubted it. New recruits, like the fresh-faced hippo making himself small behind Henry¡¯s back, might join up with the same stars in their eyes I had, but when those stars dimmed, they crashed down one of two paths. Either they dropped out when they saw the cruelty and the bullshit, like I did, or they joined ranks with people like Henry and became part of The Beast. If I had known Detective Henry would be there, I might not have been in such a hurry to show up. I could have scraped some details from the police scanner and probed what few inside sources I was still amicable with for the rest. It hardly felt worth the raised hackles and barking-induced tinnitus, but I couldn¡¯t trust the police to manage the scene on their own. ¡°The kid¡¯s mom hired me,¡± I said once Henry¡¯s dander lowed. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving empty-handed.¡± ¡°Right. Detective O¡¯Howell, always keeping kids safe. As I remember, you don¡¯t have the best track record of that.¡± I leaned forward, muscles bunching up, ready to explode. I might have been out of training, but Henry and I had both caught a debilitating case of middle-aged. It had hit him harder. He had kept himself fed well enough to put on a paunch, whereas indigence had whittled the body under my rumpled coat down to hard sinew. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. I could¡¯ve taken him down, gotten a few good hits in before someone pulled me off him, but I unclenched my fist. That was what he wanted¡ªto rile me up, give him an excuse to put me in cuffs and stuff me in the back of a police car. No one would think to say anything if they saw him getting careless with my head and the roof of his cruiser, either. Any other time, the satisfaction of knocking his teeth out might have been worth it, but I wasn¡¯t there for me. If I was going to fulfill my duty to Virginia, I needed to keep my cool. I wouldn¡¯t be able to find out what happened to Ethan from inside a jail cell. Henry smirked, begging for a fight, but I stepped down. I turned away from him to face the body, presenting Henry with my cold, rain-damp shoulder. Rain had washed away the standing pools of blood, but not before they had darkened the ground under Al and dyed his fur. There had been time for the stains to set before the clouds opened up¡ªa couple hours at least. The pointed tips of Al¡¯s shoes stuck straight into the air, but death had sapped the rigidity from Al¡¯s face. His jaw hung open on one side, exposing a massive hooked fang, and his eyelids were parted, revealing slivers of fogged glass. A bullet hole, crusted with dried then rehydrated gore, pierced the center of his forehead, but his brow maintained its shape, frozen in a consternated knit. It looked like he had spent his last moments on this mortal plane trying to solve an intractable puzzle. A pair of officers with rubber gloves knelt beside the body, poking at it with their instruments like they were engaging in some macabre form of social grooming. One picked a speck too small for me to see off Al¡¯s coat with a delicate pair of tweezers, then held the sample in the beam of the headlights to make sure he had it. He put the microscopic clue in a plastic evidence bag and set it down next to the others, lined up by Al¡¯s feet like goldfish at a carnival. It could have been the one bit of evidence needed to crack the case, but it was probably nothing. Generally, it was the big things that brought the bad guy down: something he left behind, something he took with him. ¡°No sign of Ethan?¡± The cops around me stiffened. The hippo started to say something, but Henry cut him off with a sharp huff. ¡°Spangler! Don¡¯t feed the pests.¡± ¡°Should we¡­arrest him?¡± Spangler asked. ¡°I like the way you think. Unfortunately, we don¡¯t have cause. Yet. Just keep an eye on him.¡± Eyes I could handle. As long as the officers kept their muzzles on and let me think. The hole in Al¡¯s forehead didn¡¯t lead to a chunky splatter under him; I saw the mess further back, where bits of what appeared to be brain matter flecked the bumper. He had been standing when the fatal shot hit him. Squinting into the abyss of black clothing, I saw two more wounds on Al¡¯s chest, right in his center of mass. The killer had made goddamn sure he was dead. Looking past the blood, inside Al¡¯s parted jacket, I saw a black strap hanging from his shoulder. I studied it until the investigator flipped the coat fully open and revealed what I suspected: a holster. There was no gun inside, and I didn¡¯t see it or any bullet casings among the evidence bags. Could be he wasn¡¯t a stranger to the gat that punched his body full of holes. ¡°He got a license for that?¡± I asked, pointing at the holster. Henry snorted, his arms crossed. To his chagrin, a boar in a gray suit who had missed his partner¡¯s ¡°no talking¡± edict came up out of the darkness. He interpreted Henry¡¯s dismissal as open dialog and finished the response for him. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. We know for damn sure the kid doesn¡¯t have a permit, and he¡¯s got the gun now.¡± Henry glared at his partner, but the boar didn¡¯t notice. He might have been new to the bureau, but he was no spring chicken. He was old and grizzled, with a chipped tusk and lots of white peppered into his boxy buzz-cut. This wasn¡¯t his first murder scene, but without the historical animosity Henry had toward me, he was less stingy with the details. I had to milk what I could before Henry shut him down. ¡°You think Ethan took the gun? You think he killed Al?¡± Henry dropped his act for a chance to take a dig at me, take back control of the information his partner so freely shared. ¡°Sure he thinks that, but that¡¯s only because Detective Boggs is a top investigator. Got a mind like computer, ain¡¯t that right, Boggs?¡± The boar grunted. ¡°You see,¡± Henry went on, ¡°he did the math himself. One missing gun, one dead body, one missing kid. I know it¡¯s a tough equation, but I checked his work.¡± ¡°Hmm¡­ An interesting theory,¡± I said as I turned my back on the body to check the rest of the scene. It would have been a compelling theory in a world of spherical cows floating through a vacuum. Here, in reality, it was never so simple. If, for some reason, Ethan had Al at gunpoint, it might explain why they were off track to begin with, but it wouldn¡¯t explain why they were deep in The Margin. On top of that, the shots were too clean for a kid with no experience killing. If he already had Al under his barrel and really wanted him put down, it would have been easier¡ªfrom a logistical standpoint and as a way to distance himself mentally from the mortal sin¡ªto put a round or two in the back of Al¡¯s head. One bit of incongruous nonsense in any case was plausible, even likely. When the ill-fitting puzzle pieces started to stack up, one on top of the other like a little piggy¡¯s roughshod house of sticks, it was time to look elsewhere for a theory not so full of holes. I reached into my coat as I walked toward the abandoned car, and several of the officers bristled. My hand found cold metal, but it was only a flashlight. I¡¯d left my snubnosed revolver safely locked up in Dolores¡¯s glove compartment. I flipped the switch, and the light bulbs clicked in the suspicious officers¡¯ heads as the flashlight illuminated Al¡¯s ride. The clear coat was glossy to begin with, recently washed and waxed, but the added rain turned the flat, angular panels into black mirrors. The car looked like the type movie stars and important business men got shuffled around in, but the emblem poking out of the hood said it was on the cheap end of the luxury sedan spectrum. It had a few years on it and more than a few miles, but Al had taken good care of it. One of the officers lurking nearby would have bitten my head off if I touched anything. Fortunately, the doors were already open. I sliced the beam of my flashlight through the gap, peeling back the darkness. There were no blood spatters on the tuck-and-roll leather seats or freshly vacuumed floor mats. The car was in park and there were no scuffs, dents, or cracks anywhere that might indicate a struggle. I stood back and listened to the murmured conversations and drizzling rain beating on the roof of Al¡¯s car in a driving rhythm. Al hadn¡¯t take Ethan against his will, but I still didn¡¯t believe the kid had taken himself. It just didn¡¯t fit. Officers by the trunk talked as they pulled a piece of luggage out of the dark void. The faded leather suitcase was scuffed and one of the four rubber feet on the bottom was missing. A big letter E stamped into the top, near the handle, made damn sure we knew it belonged to Ethan. I swept my light across the alley, keeping away from the places the officers were destroying evidence with their careless tramping. The concrete slab forming the base of the alley was cracked with age and lack of maintenance. Weeds grew up wherever they could break through, forming thorny tiger stripes, but the overgrowth was especially prevalent near the sides. My probing spotlight fell on a dumpster that had once been flat green but was now mottled with rust. It hadn¡¯t been moved in years and nearly melted into the scenery like set dressing. The dumpster hadn¡¯t changed, but the onrush of decrepitude had brought the rest of the alley down, so the powerful symbol of desolation no longer stood out. What did stand out was a spot of bent and broken stalks next to it. In a more trafficked area, it would have passed me by just as it passed by all these officers. A drunk could have stumbled there to piss against the wall, or a wild creature might have scrounged there, but it wasn¡¯t likely. Even the feral beasts seen grazing in the parks downtown wouldn¡¯t dare to tread into The Margin. Here in the ass-end of the city, the noxious fumes of industry and the pollution of sleepless lights were enough to keep them out. I strolled over to the patch of weeds and rain-slurried dust, careful of where I stepped so I didn¡¯t disturb any potential evidence. A line of silver stood out from the green and black of the dumpster where the grimy coating had been scored with a sharp point. The slice of a knife? I leaned in closer and saw a fainter line, a perfect offset of the first, but slightly shorter. It looked like someone had tried to make an arc with a draftsman¡¯s compass, but their hand on the pivot slipped. It could have been a second slash, but the constant distance of about two feet between the lines seemed too perfect. The span was too big to be from the kid¡¯s blunted horns and Al didn¡¯t have any hardware to speak of. I made a mental note, then surveyed the rest of the area. ¡°Anyone got the kid¡¯s shoe size?¡± I called back after a minute of searching. ¡°Uh¡­ His file says 7,¡± some oblivious officer responded without thinking. ¡°What the fuck do you want now, Howl?¡± Henry asked. He packed a pound of frustration in each huff as he waddled over to stand behind me. I pointed at a shoe print the size of my face on the ground by the dumpster. The imprint had a fat, rounded front, ruling out Al¡¯s pointy-toed shoes. It was far too large for Ethan. He could¡¯ve sat in a shoe that size and paddled it like a rowboat. ¡°Looks like there¡¯s a variable Detective Boggs missed when running his calculations. Somebody else was here.¡± Chapter 4: Soft as Crystal, Clear as Mud I trudged into my office, exhausted. The only thing drawing me onward was the thought of the scotch in my desk, but the bottle made a hollow thunk when I pulled the drawer out. I watched it rock, the few remaining drops of liquor sloshing like the fringe of a crashed whitecap spreading over the beach. I found a glass under the rubble of a fallen tower of paper, but the mastic of a long-forgotten spill kept it glued to the desk. There wasn¡¯t more than a mouthful left in the bottle anyway, so I abandoned the search, made sure no one was at the door, and drank it straight from the source. The fire wicked away an instant after I swallowed, leaving my mouth with a profound vacancy. The empty bottle taunted me, so I tossed it aside. It landed on a cluttered couch stuffed in the corner of the room. I wondered if I could sneak the cost of a new bottle into the itemized list of expenses I was working up for Virginia. I would have drank the whiskey with or without her case, but the frustration of chasing after her son had made it medicinal. She might not notice, given how torn up she was, but I had a feeling getting money out of her would already be like squeezing blood from a stone. I had worked hard the last three days, but when I fluttered the pages of my notebook, I saw alternating splotches of white and black. White where I had left space to answer open questions; black where I had scribbled out something I found to be useless or untrue. I hadn¡¯t found a goddamn thing worth mentioning since the footsteps at the crime scene. The few leads I picked up after that had all gone nowhere, and I couldn¡¯t get any of my old sources to talk. A second interview with Adora, a tear-filled session of commiseration with Al¡¯s widow, a vacuous series of visits to Al¡¯s other clients, and a few confrontations with musicians steeped in the heady scent of marijuana, cigarette smoke, and pretentious polyrhythms had all amounted to precisely jack shit. With the few cases I had worked recently, all the culprits tried not to leave a trail. As far as I could tell, whoever took Ethan had actually succeeded. There were a few signs he had been there¡ªthe bullets he left in Al, the singular footprint, the scratches on the dumpster, and a set of tire tracks too common to be any good¡ªbut it was all ethereal. I had only caught those bits by the tips of my finger, and I couldn¡¯t hold them. I never believed in ghosts, but the crime scene gave a compelling case for their existence. The old Howl would have taken this as a challenge. He would have jumped on the chance for a worthy opponent, someone he could butt heads with and compete man-to-man and mind-to-mind. I wasn¡¯t that man anymore. I thought of the prospect of a weeks-long slog of turning over nothing, stymied at every step by the police who insisted their way was the only way. I wanted to crush myself up and stuff myself inside the bottle I had thrown away and let the fumes carry me off. Even if I could stomach the thought of such an arduous battle against a faceless foe, I couldn¡¯t afford to spend months on a single case. Virginia would have a hard time settling the bill for just the hours I¡¯d worked so far, and this dump I called my office had a mortgage attached to it. The invoices from the lender already came stamped with a bevy of colorful past due and final warning messages. They¡¯d foreclose on me in a second if they thought they could move the blighted property and stunted hovel built on it. If I could somehow cinch this case, it might jump-start my career. It would at least get me enough novelty jobs to haul me out of the deep pit of my spiraling mental state. Alas, Al¡¯s body, the only bit of evidence the killer left, would be in the ground shortly, taking my chance of solving his disappearance and earning my paycheck with it. I hadn¡¯t gotten an invitation to the funeral, but from my experience, they didn¡¯t usually check for them at the door. My skills had dulled, but I was still detective enough to scoop the details. A reporter at the Daily Glyph by the name of Marcella Furone had picked up the story and tried to turn it into something more than it was. Like me, the absence of evidence had hindered her. Unlike me, she had a column to fill, so she had spewed as much useless detail as possible to pad the length. The date, time, and location of the funeral and the suggestion of a wake to follow had spilled out in the rambling. So did my name, but I skimmed over those sensationalized parts meant only to sell papers. I didn¡¯t expect to learn anything useful at the funeral, but I figured I might as well stop by for the culture. I was just about as far from a religious man as you could get without renting a sailboat, but judging by Al¡¯s surname and the demographics of the city, I could be near certain he was Irish Catholic. The ceremony would be a mire of turgid homily and mournful lamentations, but the wake would be a free-flowing font of booze. With an empty bottle, a burgeoning headache, and nothing else on my plate, I decided to pay my respects. The ceremonial portion would be starting soon, a damn shame I¡¯d miss it. Factoring in the time it took to get Dolores chugging and whatever hellish Thursday evening traffic stood in the way, I didn¡¯t have time to get home and get cleaned up. I¡¯d need some coffee at least, to shake off the weight of the last three sleepless days. I dragged myself away from the window and let the smell of simmering coffee pull me to the lobby. The heat indicator light on the pot was already glowing behind its amber lens. Cal¡¯s knack for always having a brew ready when I needed one almost made me question if the wild claims he made on his sign were more than hot air. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Like everything I bought, the filters I supplied for the office were as cheap as they made. This one had torn and let some grounds into the pot, but it was hot enough the bitter taste and extra grain didn¡¯t bother me. Chugging hot coffee had kept me running through the academy and the long, stressful hours as a beat cop . My mouth and throat had been forced to adapt to regular doses of scalding liquid. It had exacerbated the natural gravel in my voice, and helped launch my star-crossed career as a spokesman. I polished off the first cup in a few gulps, then poured myself a second. The hot lava of the first hit my empty stomach hard, setting in like lead as it cooled. I gave it a minute to stop boiling before adding the second cup. Voices behind the main office¡¯s door came closer. The venetian blinds blocking the window rattled like a handful of dice as someone worked the handle. I hunched over and hoped I was invisible without my signature hat and coat. When the door opened, the middle-aged cow Cal ushered out was too perplexed to notice anyone was there, much less to recognize him from TV ads that went off the air half a decade ago. She was the wrong age to have been targeted by those ads anyway: too young to be a mother of school-aged children and too old to be one of those children herself. She blinked repeatedly as Cal coaxed her to the door, but her eyes never really cleared. Like most of Cal¡¯s clients, she thought she was satisfied with the service she¡¯d received, but she couldn¡¯t pin down why. ¡°I hope you enjoy your trip to Barbados, Mrs. Dammen,¡± Cal said as he held the lobby¡¯s door open. The cow was stuck in front of the empty portal, not quite ready to go back out into the world. ¡°Do you have all your paperwork? Itinerary, pamphlets, hotel, airline information?¡± ¡°Huh? Wha¡­¡± Mrs. Dammen looked down and saw a bundle of colorful paper crinkled up between her worrying hands. ¡°Yes. I have it all¡­ I think.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much. I¡¯ve got it in my records if you need to call for a refresher before your trip, okay?¡± ¡°Huh?¡± she shook her head, but got lost in the protruding orbs of Cal¡¯s eyes. ¡°Right. Before my trip. I¡¯ll call you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it. Number¡¯s on this card here or you can find me in the phone book. Worst case, just drop by and I¡¯d be happy to walk you through again. I¡¯m always ready to help.¡± The woman¡¯s mooing continued. Cal reassured her he had it all planned out and everything was going to be okay. ¡°Just remember,¡± he said, when she was finally out the door, ¡°stay away from the beach while you¡¯re there. The hotel pool is better anyway.¡± I watched the exchange from the corner, sipping my coffee. Cal leaned out to make sure the slow-witted woman didn¡¯t get trapped in the antechamber like a fly bouncing around inside a car. I peeked in Cal¡¯s office while he was distracted. I never saw him bring anything in or out, but somehow his office looked different every time I shrugged off the hood of indifference long enough to take notice. Now, he had the white brick of a computer terminal clunked down on top of a vibrant red silk with an intricate gold pattern and tassels. In front of the computer, there was a small display of brochures, like the racks strewn about the lobby. A stack of hefty three-ring binders made a short, cyclopean wall at one end of his desk, but there was a gap where Cal had pulled one out and laid it open in front of his client¡¯s seat. Cal¡¯s more mystical knick-knacks¡ªa pure crystal ball, a deck of artificially aged tarot cards, and an ornate box with the lid turned up to reveal a bundle of sticks inside¡ªwere relegated to a counter at the back, shaded by a bonsai tree on one side and a fern on the other. Calendars and charts papered the walls, but a second glance revealed that while some were banal listings of days and corresponding events, others tracked the positions of the stars, the phases of the moon, and other esoterica I didn¡¯t recognize. Cal came back from the door humming to himself, and I looked back at the dregs in the bottom of my cup. I didn¡¯t want to look too interested. If I did, he might try to talk to me about it. He went into his office and I heard the wet tick of his tongue moistening his eyeball after the long consultation. He came back with the binder and brought it straight to the combined photocopier-fax machine. ¡°Big client?¡± I asked, wasting time so I could be sure the woman had vacated the premise. I didn¡¯t have the patience to deal with her, and I needed to save my social energy for the wake. ¡°Every client¡¯s a big one,¡± Cal said. ¡°But not every payday is.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re worried about rent¡ª¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s not that,¡± I said. ¡°Just thinking out loud.¡± ¡°You keeping busy these days?¡± ¡°Not so much.¡± I checked the clock hanging on the wall. I wasn¡¯t sure if it was running slow or fast or even running at all, but my reaction would have been the same regardless. ¡°Shit, I have to be somewhere.¡± Cal pressed a paper onto the glass pane of the copier and hummed as the scanning beam broke around the edges and reflected off his glossy scales. ¡°Watch out for potholes on Veranda if you go that way.¡± ¡°Right. Thanks for the heads up.¡± I crushed my coffee cup and tossed it in the garbage on the way out. Cal was always brimming with spontaneous advice like that. It was hard to trace how his mind made these connections, but I found things went better when I followed them. I had no intention of taking Veranda, so I discarded the information as casually as I threw out my coffee cup on the way out the door. The exterior door creaked and flexed as it opened. I took care in closing it instead of letting it fall shut, just in case it chose that moment to break. When it did finally go, I¡¯d have to spend time and money I didn¡¯t have fixing it. While easing the door closed, I made the mistake of looking at the double-decker sign beside it. The one on top was bigger, recently cleaned, and new enough its colors hadn¡¯t faded. It read, ¡°Casey Calypso¡¯s Insurance, Travel Planning, Tarot, and Palm Reading.¡± The eclectic mishmash provided just enough whimsy to soften the blow of reading my sign beneath it. Seeing my own sun-bleached name wasn¡¯t so bad, but the fringe of bushes I had allowed to run rampant in the thin strip of sere dirt between the sidewalk and the building only partially blocked the line beneath it. I saw the tips of dirt-flecked letters through the haggard peaks of the leaves. That was when I wished it was me, not Al, that the pallbearers were currently lowering into a grave across town. Chapter 5: A Double Wide Coffin Dolores gave me plenty of opportunity to vent my emotions. Her reluctance to start meant that when I finally creaked up to the VFW hall housing the wake, the parking lot was already nearly full. I rode Dolores up onto the grass, making a new spot out of the way. I checked that the glove compartment was locked, tapped into the well of self-loathing at my core to put on an appropriately hangdog expression, and slumped out of the car. As I dragged myself to the door, I listened to the mourners¡¯ reverie. When someone came out and the door swung open, the noise blasted me like a train horn. If any good had come from the article in the Daily Glyph, it was that the funeral was well attended. I¡¯d heard rumblings of the narrative people had constructed for Al. They said he had tried to save the kid, took the bullets that were meant for him. The evidence didn¡¯t support it, but I wasn¡¯t about to correct anyone. They needed the catharsis of a nice, clean folk story with a hero and a villain. Thinking the world made some kind of karmic sense would do your head in eventually, but it helped many cope in the short-term. I squeezed past a few middle-aged ex-frat boys and high school football superstars clogging up the entrance. They talked in loud voices, contributing to the feedback loop of everybody trying to be heard over everybody else. Plastic cups sloshed in their hands as they gestured, spilling beer suds on the floor where they would become an indelible sticky patch to memorialize Al for all time. The men could have been old drinking buddies of Al¡¯s, college roommates, or distant cousins. It was just as likely that, like me, they had read the announcement as an invitation for free hooch. Whatever their relation, they all looked too cheerful to have been close. They wouldn¡¯t know any more about Al¡¯s work than Adora and his wife did. Past them, in the fluttering hive of the main room, I saw a few faces I had expected. Martha, Al¡¯s widow, stood by the hors d¡¯oeuvres, tears glistening behind the veil she lifted to slip a sauced shrimp into her muzzle. Others might have thought it gauche for her to eat at a time like this, but she¡¯d been crying for three days straight and probably hadn¡¯t eaten anything since breakfast. She was hardly eating now. It took her several nibbles to house each shrimp, but I¡¯d seen smaller bears choke down whole salmon in fewer bites. Adora hung nearby. She had eschewed the traditional garb of funerals for one of her signature gingham blazers with bulging shoulder pads. She was far from the only one smoking in the place, but I could smell her ashy breath from across the room. She projected as she vamped with the small crowd she¡¯d wedged herself into. For her, the death of a freelance contractor and disappearance of a client was as good an opportunity to network as any. I homed in on the beer kegs before she caught me staring. We would end up talking before the night was over, and I did not want to be dead sober when that happened. When I had a plastic cup in one hand and the keg¡¯s pump in the other, I dared another peek around the room. There were plenty of eyes on me, but I was used to attention. One intent set of eyes stood out. They were attached to a young, sharp-looking ferret I almost recognized, but not quite. She was tall for a broad and far too narrow to fit the epithet. She had keen eyes, pointy teeth, and a tail you could use as a feather duster. I got stuck staring, matching her intensity with benign perplexity until my cup overflowed. The cold crest of foam lapping over my fingers snapped me out of it. I shook my hand dry and made for the woman. I was almost smitten until I got close enough to see the line of rumpled hair on her crown where a hat had sat until she removed it out of reverence. She wore a dark-colored jacket not dissimilar to mine if you ignored the parts where it had been pulled in to accentuate her figure. I pictured her with a fedora like the rumpled one screwed onto my head and realized where I¡¯d seen her before. I¡¯d only ever seen her face rendered with halftone dots in thumbnails next to the occasional byline. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to get a hold of you.¡± ¡°Marcella,¡± I said in greeting. ¡°It¡¯s just Howl. And I¡¯ve been busy. Looking at the turnout, it seems like your story was a hit.¡± ¡°What can I say? I¡¯ve got a gift for finding scoops people connect with. Who knows how many more readers I would have reeled in with a pull quote from the one and only Detective O¡¯Howell, Delinquency Dog.¡± I tried to damp my expression, but she saw the way I cringed when she repeated my cognomen. She had a keen eye for watching others. I watched her for a smirk and wasn¡¯t disappointed. ¡°Should have guessed I¡¯d find you here. Sniffing around for your next story, no doubt.¡± ¡°Next story?¡± she said. ¡°Why? This one¡¯s hardly started. The stage is set, but what happens next? Where¡¯s the rising action? The gut-wrenching denouement? The handsome hero swinging in to solve the case and bring home the boy.¡± ¡°I suppose you¡¯re looking at me for the role.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°Why not? You¡¯ve got the skills and it¡¯s a thematic fit considering the similarity between you and Virginia vis-¨¤-vis your time in the spotlight.¡± ¡°Hate to break it to you, legs, but I¡¯m not your hero. Don¡¯t think the story you¡¯ll end up with is going to match your fairytale.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Marcella pulled a notepad like mine from her coat and flipped it open. ¡°You want to make a statement?¡± ¡°Not about the case or about Ethan,¡± I said. ¡°But give me a minute and I might come up with a few choice words for someone who would come out to a funeral looking for a hot lead.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t think Al minds much, all things considered. Besides, aren¡¯t you doing the same thing?¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m strictly here to pay respects.¡± I took a sip, but stopped with a mouthful of beer when Marcella laughed. ¡°Funny. Didn¡¯t see you at the funeral.¡± I swallowed, haunted by the grotesque glug my throat made when it went down. I choked out, ¡°Car trouble.¡± A bustle at the door saved me from more scrutiny, but my relief was short-lived. It popped when I heard the grating voice of the man pushing into the quieting room. ¡°All right. Clear some space. Come on, everyone. You¡¯ve seen him before.¡± Detective Henry had swapped his gray suit for a black one, but he wore his usual bulldog smugness as he ushered in a small crowd of officers in uniform and two VIPs. I recognized the smaller of the two, a stout mole with bushy brows too heavy to keep from crushing down over his eyes. I¡¯d seen him in a handful of news reports over the past four years, but I knew him best from the griping I overheard whenever I tucked my tail between my legs and paid The Cut a visit. He was Police Commissioner Thomas Fosse. The man walking with his elbow rubbing against the commissioner¡¯s head needed no introduction. You couldn¡¯t go anywhere in Hot Type City without seeing that golden mane or diamond smile. People, especially those with something to gain from projecting strength, tended to be shorter in real life than they looked in curated photographs and TV appearances. That was not the case for Regis Fellini. He might not line up shoulder-to-shoulder with the tallest in the room, but his bearing compelled everyone to look up at him, even when he was seated. It was as if all the scale and grandiosity of his biggest billboard had been crunched down, folded like an envelope, and shoved through the VFW hall¡¯s front door. Detective Henry made a show of leading the men in, but Regis needed no such protection. Most wanted to be near him, but few could breach the imperious air around him. He spotted Adora among the many faces, turned toward Regis, and pointed her out. Virginia Calhoun, who had been exchanging condolences with Martha, was caught in the crossfire. Her face soured, and she shrunk out of the way before the mayor and his entourage reached her. Regis shook the red-eyed bear¡¯s hand. He leaned in to talk close, but spoke in a stage whisper so people six rows back in the throng could hear him express his grief. I¡¯d smelled bullshit before and felt no need to inhale his empty words the way the others around me did. I was more interested in catching Virginia before she slunk out the back door. ¡°Mrs. Calhoun,¡± I called, starting after her. I shouted again while I elbowed toward her, but she didn¡¯t notice me until I reached out and brushed her elbow. She whirled around and shot her clutched hand to her chest with a frail gasp. ¡°Sorry to scare you, ma¡¯am. I just wanted to ask how you were feeling. Are you holding up all right?¡± Virginia¡¯s ruffled feathers settled as she caught her breath, but she didn¡¯t answer my question directly. ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell¡±¡ªit was an improvement over detective and close enough I didn¡¯t bother correcting her¡ª¡°I¡¯m glad to see you.¡± ¡°Really? Did you find something?¡± She took her startled eyes off me and flipped open her purse, dug through it like a cat trying out a new litter box. ¡°Huh? Find something¡­ No, not that.¡± She unearthed a bulging yellow envelope from the depths of her pleather handbag. ¡°I¡¯m just glad to save a trip to your office. Not to mention the bus fare.¡± ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I knew as soon as the dead weight settled in my hand, but I opened the flap anyway. Inside was a rough stack of small bills with a loose handful of quarters and dimes pooled at the bottom. I hadn¡¯t given her an itemized list of expenses, so she couldn¡¯t have included that. What she threw in didn¡¯t look like it would add up to the two hundred and twenty-five dollars she owed for my daily rate, either. ¡°But I¡¯m not done yet,¡± I said, surprising myself. I had thought I was when I walked in there. I had come intending to hand Virginia her bill and tell her to trust the police, but things changed when I saw the paltry payment. She hadn¡¯t come just to offer condolence for Al; she came to bury her son with him. The money was her way of cashing out, of saying it was over. ¡°Really, no. I can¡¯t keep¡ª¡± Her eyes darted away. With nowhere better to look, they were drawn to the same place everyone else¡¯s were: Mayor Regis Fellini, that baby-kissing cynosure. ¡°I can¡¯t keep¡­¡± ¡°Look at all these people here,¡± I said, gesturing. ¡°They want answers almost as much as you want your son back. I¡¯m sure some of them can help you scrounge up some more money. We¡¯ll work something out.¡± ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell, please. The police are working on the case now. Even so, they told me¡­ They said I shouldn¡¯t spend too much money looking for him.¡± I glared at Detective Henry, who stood back with his arms crossed, nodding subtly. Regis shook hands with Martha again, catching one of her massive paws between both of his. ¡°That¡¯s exactly why I have to keep searching.¡± I stepped away, and Virginia stammered after me. She might have chased me, but as soon as Regis finished putting in his three minutes with the grieving widow, he moved over to the bereft mother. His face shifted like a man pulling on a new mask. After years of refinement, he¡¯d whittled down his collection to a few essential camera-ready expressions. Each was perfectly suited for a broad set of use cases. It looked full of detail and nuance from a distance, but up close, I saw how phony it was. Marcella perked up when she saw the Mayor closing in on Virginia and moved to intervene. I blocked her, resting a hand on her shoulder. She didn¡¯t push, but her ears twitched while she gazed at the lion and his cadre surrounding the lonesome crane. When she looked over at me, her eyes flicked down to the envelope in my hand. I refused to be ashamed for keeping it. I had bills to pay, too. ¡°Maybe we should get out of here,¡± I said. She scoffed and gave me a wry sneer, exposing a row of needle-like teeth. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean together. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Don¡¯t think Virginia or Martha need any scumsuckers floating around just now.¡± ¡°What about them?¡± She pointed at Regis and Thomas behind him. ¡°You want to tell them to fuck off? Be my guest.¡± With that, I made my exit. I didn¡¯t look back to see if Marcella was getting out or if Virginia was watching me leave. If Virginia wanted me to drop it, none of this was my business anymore. Chapter 6: Dog Days I wrestled Dolores into action and got her limping down the road. She made the usual guttural murmurs and disconcerting clunks, but I had learned to tune them out. The resulting silence surrounded me, making it hard to breathe. I risked the knobs on the radio. The engine didn¡¯t stall, and I didn¡¯t get any shocks, but it took a few hard bangs on the dash to get any sound to come out. When the speakers started hissing I spun through the FM band, getting nothing but garbled static until I landed on an almost listenable jazz station. It wasn¡¯t my favorite genre¡ªnot sure if I had one anymore¡ªbut I needed something to distract myself from all the questions floating around in my head. Things didn¡¯t quite work out that way. I had a minute of peace, then my concentration faltered and my focus dissolved into a hypnotic trance. The fuzzy spaces between sultry saxophone licks was a conducive medium for fretting. I went to the wake expecting to shake off the case, but now I couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it. Nothing had changed except Virginia telling me to give up. It didn¡¯t feel right. My mind still begged for answers. Who would want him? He was just some kid. Maybe he¡¯d be a star someday, but for now the only credits he had were a local canned tuna commercial and his recent debut on the back of milk cartons. To be accurate, he didn¡¯t even have the commercial anymore. The company scrapped the campaign after the slop got recalled for containing too much formaldehyde. Maybe someone out there had deluded themselves into thinking Virginia still had money tucked away from her brush with fame in her early twenties, but it didn¡¯t track. Whoever had set up the snatch had done research, made plans. They would have seen Virginia¡¯s crumbling two-bedroom house or caught her riding the bus between her job at a greasy spoon, the scratch-and-dent grocery store she shopped at, or the thrift shop where she bought her kids¡¯ school uniforms. They would have known she was broke. Ethan¡¯s father had verged on mainstream success with his music early in his career, but like Virginia, he was dead broke. For all I knew, the low ba dum dum dum sizzling through Dolores¡¯s speakers had come from his fingers a decade ago. Now he was banging around in a gutted van, playing whatever bar or lounge would let him and his band set up. I drove without direction, questions and theories doing divebombs in my head. The turn for my apartment flew past on the left, then a few blocks later I passed the street my office was on. I didn¡¯t know where I was headed until Dolores¡¯s side panel scraped against a fire hydrant and my hand moved like an automatic carriage return to crank the parking brake. My body knew I needed a drink fast. I had polished off the bottle of scotch in my desk before I left. I could¡¯ve stopped by any corner store in Moire Park and picked up another, but I already felt trapped in a hopeless spiral. The thought of drinking in solitude, with nothing but my own twisted thoughts ringing through my ears, made me shiver. I needed noise, activity. Even if it was just the white noise of televisions tuned to sports news, the voiceless grumble of the crowd, and clatter of glasses as everyone drank in sullen silence. There was only one place for an old alley cat like me at a time like this. The Cut was a bar on the fringe. It existed near the indistinct latitude that divided the city, lounging in the crease, neither above The Fold nor below it. The city changed around it every year, but it had settled where it was, an institution. The building was a square block, with a square sign proclaiming ¡°The Cutline Tavern¡± in bold black letters. The greenish paint on the exterior was cracked and chipped in places, and the shoddy application had left beaded splotches around the mullions of the bay windows at the front. Smog and dust made the light through the panes seem gray, but I saw a teeming mass of bodies inside. The decrepit exterior repelled common passersby, but they weren¡¯t who the bar was trying to cater to. A host of regulars had called The Cut home since the doors first opened before the city was founded. It would keep a steady stream of them until the inevitable heat death of the universe. It was what I liked about the place. I became a regular when I started in the police force by following the old-timers there, trying to make an impression. I had intended to leave the bar behind when I ditched the badge, but I kept coming back. It was the last vestige of that life I couldn¡¯t let go. I got plenty of side-eyed glances and heard a few mumbles calling me a traitor, but nobody tried to start anything. It was a good place to sit and soak up news about what was going on in the police force, maybe try to wheedle information for a case out of a drunken officer. Most importantly, nobody was surprised to see me there. It was one place I didn¡¯t need to worry about getting skewered by any snot-nosed teens pointing and squealing, ¡°Hey! Aren¡¯t you¡­¡± When I opened the door and let the noise pull me in, I saw a sea of heads lowered over glasses, bobbing in what hazy light made it through the baffle of cigarette smoke. I recognized a pod of old bulls from the police department in the corner. One bumped another¡¯s shoulder as I walked to the bar. I didn¡¯t look at them directly, but I felt the others¡¯ eyes turn toward me. The bartender, Ted, was a burly badger. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to show off his bulging forearms and remind any rabble that slipped in why the owner had never hired a dedicated bouncer. He¡¯d been working at the bar as long as I¡¯d been going, but he hadn¡¯t aged a day. His gruff, no nonsense demeanor and imposing physical presence were as timeless as the bar itself. He noticed me walking up and had a glass of whiskey in front of an empty stool before I reached the bar. ¡°Howl,¡± he said, polishing the counter with a rag. ¡°Been a while.¡± ¡°Yep.¡± I pulled a few bills from the envelope Virginia had given me and slid them across the counter. It was enough to cover the cost of a glass and then some¡ªa generous tip to make sure they kept coming. I offered no explanation for why I hadn¡¯t been around, and Ted didn¡¯t ask. He just swept up my cash and served his other customers. Over the years, every person I called a friend had dropped out of my life, but my relationship with Ted was evergreen. I made short work of the first glass. The drink tasted fine, but something didn¡¯t sit right. It might have been the high concentration of congeners in the well whiskey, or it could have been the cold bodega sandwich I had for lunch, but it felt like something deeper. Ted slid another glass in front of me. When I dipped back into Virginia¡¯s envelope to pay for it, the feeling of wrongness piqued. I¡¯d worked my ass off the last three days, but my investigation had amounted to nothing. It didn¡¯t feel like I¡¯d earned the money. I finished the new drink quick, thinking it might help. I slowed down when Ted poured me a third and watched the television hung over the bar with unfocused eyes. When I realized the vague splotches on screen were the shape of newscasters, I got tense. I got more tense when I saw the Sanders News Channel logo in the corner. There was a good chance Ethan¡¯s face or a picture of his mother, ripped out of a two-decade-old magazine spread, would appear on the screen. I relaxed when the commercials started. A big-name detergent brand had gone all out to invoke a lush field in the shadow of the Alps, where crisp, clean white sheets grew wild on clotheslines stretching for miles in all directions. A young hart ran through them, brushing the laundry with outstretched hands as she danced in the pure bliss of the fantastical scene. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. The ad finished with the woman folded up in the sheets and tucked away, waiting until they were unfurled during the next ad break. Next came a chaotic, enthralling series of fast cuts, jolting between the exterior of a muscle car flying through empty streets and the immaculate interior. A gloved hand tightened on the steering wheel. Tires threw up a splatter of rain as they spun over the glittering wet blacktop. The same hand dropped to the shifter and threw the car into a higher gear with an aggressive punch. Harsh angles of the car¡¯s mean design served as a counterpoint to the smooth banks it made as a camera caught it from above, winding back and forth downhill on a street cut through a coniferous forest. Every shot shook with the untamed power of the beast. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice told me it was time to dump Dolores. Stark white text laid over a shot of the car¡¯s shrinking taillights assured me financing options were available. I was losing money by not running out to my local Chevy dealer that second. The next collection of electrons to blast out of the cathode-ray tube formed the garish image of an American flag waving in a high wind. The only thing it made me want to do was get up and rip the TV from its bracket. I knew what was coming next. Regis Fellini appeared, his image superimposed onto the flag to not so subtly imply an association. When people thought of Regis, they should think of America. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he stared straight into the lens. The room got quieter as the men behind me saw their hometown hero on the TV. The sound was off, but my mind filled in the narration. A severe woman¡¯s voice, telling the impressionable patriots out there how much danger this country was in, how much it had strayed from the path our founding fathers envisioned, how only Regis could set it right. She wouldn¡¯t present any solutions or explain why Regis was the only man they could trust to enact change, but it didn¡¯t matter. Regis had fierce charisma and powerful men behind him. He was a shoo-in for congress. I thought my torment was over until the next in the endless deluge of advertisements came on. This one wasn¡¯t a gruesome display of commercialism or the tragedy of political theater. It showed a storm ripping through a small town and knocking down a power line. A young boy rode his bike up to the wire to watch it writhe and spark like a snake vomiting electricity. He moved toward it, but a friendly owl dropped out of the sky and stopped him. They had shot the ad at the same time they shot some of mine and I had met the actor playing the owl. He had treated the PAs like shit, swore like a sailor, and had a cigarette in his beak every second the camera wasn¡¯t on him. I didn¡¯t think he¡¯d cross the street to stop a stuck cat, much less go out of his way to remind some dumb kid to ¡°stay inside and tell an adult.¡± The bird was an asshole, but it wasn¡¯t his sight¡ªor the reminder of my past¡ªthat turned my stomach. It was that dumb kid. His overacting reminded me of Ethan, of what he could have been. The camera cut to a shot of the kid staring through a window, safe in his house while a team of linemen cleaned up the mess. The ad was seconds away from finishing, but I couldn¡¯t take the sight of his face anymore. I waved Ted over. ¡°There a problem?¡± he asked, brandishing his forearms as he dried his hands on a bar towel. I pointed at the TV. ¡°Mind putting the game on?¡± He shrugged and fiddled with the knobs until green grass and a line of bulky men made even bigger by shoulder pads and helmets filled the screen. I didn¡¯t relax until the bodies crashed. The mindless violence acted as a catalyst, helping the alcohol erase my troubles. I lost myself in my drink for a few plays. When the whiskey ran low, I looked down the bar to get Ted¡¯s attention. His back was turned, but my body was too tired and my mind was too addled to look anywhere else, so I stared at him. The liquor had made me light. I floated on short waves of drunkenness, bobbing like a bored seal. A face punched through the wall of hunched bodies around me, also searching for Ted. I was drunk enough that the emotions the man stirred came before my mind picked up on who he was. I felt a murky, deep-seated loathing and thought I was looking into the cracked and tarnished mirror behind the bar. I recognized him when a snide smile lifted the other man¡¯s droopy lips. My loathing ramped, climbing up from my chest and searing the back of my throat like heartburn. ¡°Ay, Spangler!¡± Detective Henry called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off me. ¡°See this piece of shit taking up a perfectly good seat at the bar? Here¡¯s a good example of why you should behave. Keep your nose clean and don¡¯t fuck over your friends.¡± The young officer dipped into view around Henry¡¯s head. His purple skin went gray when he saw me. With his soft face and nervous eyes, he looked too young to be in a bar. Even Ted might have thought twice about serving him if he weren¡¯t in uniform. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I asked. My words were sharp, but not because of the insult. I didn¡¯t have a strong enough sense of moral superiority to feel indignant. Henry, like most officers on the force, was as crooked as a duck¡¯s corkscrew penis, but I lost that battle years ago. I hit the point where I couldn¡¯t stand the corruption anymore and ousted a bushel of bad apples for skimming from the evidence locker and accepting substantial bribes. I put in the legwork, collected proof, bided my time. Then, when I finally dropped the hammer, and¡ª There was hardly a ripple. The worst offenders got a few weeks of paid leave, those lower in the operation got desk duty, and I got a permanent ban from the Old Boys Club along with a lifetime of sidelong glances. Maybe they¡¯d have had it harder if not for Police Commissioner Fosse¡¯s appointment by the people¡¯s hero, Mayor Regis Fellini. As for me, I had been on the outs since I started the whole nationwide public service announcement racket. I had dreamt of leaving and starting my own agency for years and already had one foot out the door. The animosity I faced following that incident helped push me the rest of the way. I had given up on that fight, but Henry¡¯s presence still bothered me. The Cut was meant to be safe, seeing as his proclivities generally led him to more lascivious clubs. ¡°I¡¯m just showing the rookie around,¡± Henry said. ¡°Thought I¡¯d show him where the old bulls hung out.¡± I tried to ignore him and put my focus back on Ted¡¯s back. He went through the rote motions of preparing a brace of Manhattans for a pair of patrons at the end of the bar. ¡°Couldn¡¯t help but notice you leaving the old wheelman¡¯s wake looking awfully pissed off. Guess you¡¯re not making much headway with the kidnapping, eh? Maybe you should stick to finding lost earrings.¡± I wasn¡¯t sober enough to stop myself from nipping at the bait. ¡°I¡¯m not done yet.¡± ¡°Ha. The police have canvased the whole damn city already. If we haven¡¯t dug up that brat yet, what makes you think you¡¯re going to?¡± The glass creaked in my hand as my fingers clenched around it. I was one quick jerk away from a fist full of shards. ¡°That brat has a name.¡± ¡°Eh,¡± Henry said. ¡°What¡¯s one more tacked onto the list?¡± I got up in a hurry, on my feet before I knew what I was doing. The crowd between us squeezed out of the way, making a clear channel so we could stare at each other. Officer Spangler shrunk behind Henry, but the detective had no problem squaring up. I didn¡¯t make fists. I stood there, swaying while my vision filled with red¡ªa baseball cap, blood on my hands. ¡°Gentlemen!¡± Ted said. He barely looked up, but his voice cut through the chatter and put more attention on us. He sounded exhausted. If Henry and I went feral on each other, he was the one who would have to clean it up. I moved first. Henry flinched, his hands coming up near his belt, but I only hobbled. His head and shoulders moved to track me as I walked by him. I felt like a failure backing down from a fight¡ªlike I was failing Growl somehow by not putting Henry on his ass¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t a fight I could win. I might have gotten a few good hits in, but this place was crawling with cops who would take Henry¡¯s side no matter what. Even if I survived the initial retribution, they would have locked me up. Assaulting an officer was no joke, especially when the perpetrator already had a target on his back. Coming to The Cut had been a mistake. I was out of place. I wasn¡¯t ready to leave my drinking for the night. I needed a breather, so I sought the solitude of the bathroom. It was the only place I was fully in control¡ªat least until old age turned my prostate into a basketball and my colon into a loose sock. I sat in a stall and let my mind go back to Ethan. I had my money, and his mother had told me to drop the case. Hell, I wanted to drop the case and go back to the stultifying slump toward oblivion I had been on before that woman came knocking on my door. Why couldn¡¯t I let it go? I had been all confused and turned around before I went into the bar, and had hoped the alcohol would help. I still didn¡¯t know what to do, but the encounter with Detective Henry had lit a fire in my belly, smoldering inside along with the whiskey. I sighed with the last stream of piss, working up the strength to leave my domain for the wilds of the barroom. As I buckled my pants, I locked eyes with some graffiti scratched into the back of the stall¡¯s door. Quoth the writing on the throne room wall: ¡°Here I sit, broken-hearted¡­¡± Chapter 7: Leave It! I woke up with my face smushed against my desk, my flews sopping in a puddle of my own saliva. I didn¡¯t remember much after I left the bathroom, but my nose didn¡¯t feel broken and I wasn¡¯t in cuffs. That was a good start. I wondered if I¡¯d find Dolores crunched up like an aluminum can against a light post outside, a streak of red on her grill and splashed across the windshield. My head was pounding like I¡¯d been in a car crash, but Ted was too good a barman to let me leave under my own power when I was in a state like that. I sat up and looked around through bleary eyes. The sound of the ClearLife factory starting up with a ruckus of bangs, whistles, and chuffs made me jump. It was the brief cessation that had woken me up¡ªthe clangorous absence of noise. The factory only went down for a few minutes between each shift, so the racket gave me some sense of what time it was. Hot Type City barely had time to heave in a singular lungful that wasn¡¯t black with noxious fumes before the smokestacks started belching again and the factory shit another hundred gallons of its fetid waste into the Gutter. My mouth was full of cotton, and my stomach twinged when I moved. The ember from last night still smoldered inside, but there wasn¡¯t much else in there to soak up the heat. I bent myself in half to reach for the lower drawer, but stopped before I had it open. I spotted the empty bottle across the room through the gauzy sheets of dust motes. My hand went one drawer higher, where I found a bottle of Pepto. I unscrewed the cap, but tossed it aside and polished the bottle off with two gulps. The chalky coating exacerbated my mouth¡¯s fuzziness, but the coolness took the edge off the burning in my chest and stomach. I still needed to do something about the stubbed-toe ache in my head, and I smelled just the thing once I put some distance between me and the open Pepto bottle. Cal had demonstrated his impeccable timing by getting a coffee brewing just when I needed it. It wasn¡¯t unusual for me to sleep one off in the office, but when I did, I rarely got off my couch until well after noon. My nose twitched, and the aromatic fumes of hard tap water filtering through off-brand pre-grounds lifted me out of my chair and pulled me through the sty of my office. The full pot came like manna from heaven. I thought again how maybe Cal did have supernatural powers like his sign suggested. Or maybe he had just heard me snoring. A few draughts of scalding coffee tamped down the flame in my head and relieved some of the ache in my shoulders and back, but I could have done without the sharpness it brought to my senses. When the white noise cleared, a gruff voice crawled out of the formless ambiance and reached toward me. If I had any more in my stomach than coffee, Pepto, and rage, I might have vomited. Across the room, through the grainy window of a boxy wall-mounted television, I saw Regis Fellini¡¯s face again. His fondness for himself and his close dealings with Russel Sanders, who owned damned near every station that broadcast out of Hot Type City, meant the man got more screen time than the most prolific soap opera star. I didn¡¯t think it could get worse than his mayoral election, but that had all been local. Now, not even the national networks¡ªof which Sanders officially owned one, and had a heavy hand in many more¡ªwere safe from his mug. ¡°That¡¯s right, Lester,¡± Regis said with a toothy grin. ¡°What we¡¯re struggling with this election is apathy. Indifference has been on the rise for decades, but it¡¯s finally coming to a head. We need people out there to energize young voters and show them how strong their voices are when they¡¯ve got a candidate they know will fight for them.¡± ¡°And you think you¡¯re that candidate?¡± the lemur sitting on the opposite side of the desk said, leading Regis into his next line on the teleprompter. ¡°Absolutely. Year after year, we see sleepy slugs winning elections and filling up congress with more of the same. Some of them have brilliant minds and long resumes, but none of them have the strength and dedication to see their promises realized. I do. Anyone who¡¯s lived in Hot Type City for long will tell you these last five years have been different.¡± ¡°They¡¯ve been different all right,¡± I grumbled as I looked around for the remote. Under Regis, corruption was at an all time high ,and welfare of anyone who found themselves beneath The Fold was at a low. His empty promises and high-minded rhetoric were worse pollutants than the sludge the ClearLife factory pumped into the river. ¡°I did what I could for my city, but I found myself blocked every step of the way, pushed around by the fat cats in Washington who think they know best,¡± Regis continued as I found the clicker between a rack of pamphlets about palm reading and a stack of fliers about palm beaches. ¡°Now it¡¯s time for me to take the fight to them.¡± I crushed the power button with my thumb, but Regis stayed on the screen. He growled and flexed his arms so his claws came out. It was for show, beyond theatrics, into histrionics. I smacked the remote against my open hand, rattling the batteries around, and jammed my thumb into the button at the top again, this time also jabbing the whole thing toward the TV. The straight-laced presenter¡¯s solemn nod disappeared into the ether with a diamond shaped blink of white on black. The bubbled glass screen became a security mirror, reflecting my angry mug. My emotional response was as overwrought as Regis¡¯s performance, and I felt embarrassed about the dramatic posturing. I felt doubly embarrassed when I saw Cal¡¯s face behind me. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°How¡¯s business?¡± I asked, mostly to distract from my misplaced rage. Cal shrugged as he poured himself a coffee. ¡°Could be better. Always seem to get it from both sides. Either people splurge on the big packages despite my warnings, or they get mad at me for suggesting travel insurance. Then they¡¯re even madder when no one steps on a nail and winds up in the hospital with tetanus. They think they wasted money buying insurance they never had to use.¡± ¡°But the only reason it didn¡¯t happen is because of your warning? The knowledge of the possibility changed the outcome.¡± I was humoring him, warming up the logical part of my mind even if it didn¡¯t apply when talking about that side of Cal¡¯s business. ¡°Can¡¯t say.¡± The depth of Cal¡¯s disaffection was mournful. He might not be mystical, but he had a knack for reading people and situations. He could¡¯ve made a decent detective if his record wasn¡¯t smirched with a couple misdemeanors in his youth. Karmically, he was much better off, but karma didn¡¯t keep the lights on. ¡°You know, you could make a lot more money if you tried upselling. Really lean on what makes those whales go all in.¡± Cal cocked his head. ¡°You know, put a little fear in ¡¯em.¡± ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Cal¡¯s tongue stuck out the side of his mouth while he thought. It snaked up to his lidless eye and ran over the lens like a bowler polishing his ball. From my perspective, his eye-wetting was akin to me dropping down and scootching my ass on the carpet to get rid of a stubborn itch. Cal was too proper with his clients to do it in front of them, but apparently he felt we had a different kind of relationship. It was more comfortable than I liked, but I had a strong stomach. ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem right,¡± he said once his tongue was back in his mouth. ¡°I just want to help people.¡± I waved my hand. ¡°People don¡¯t want to be helped, Cal. They want to take advantage of you. They want more than what¡¯s theirs. Maybe you¡¯d move more bloated policies if you led people to think the deal was too good. Imply you¡¯d get in trouble for offering them such a good price so they thought they were pulling one over on you.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think I could do that to someone, Howl.¡± ¡°Then how about you pump the fortuneteller schtick instead? People are turned off thinking your attention¡¯s split. Seems like it¡¯s a hell of a lot easier to tell people they¡¯ve got a ghost hanging around or their Great Uncle Carl says hello than it is to juggle the insurance and travel agent gigs at the same time as your medium scheme. A lot less paperwork, too.¡± ¡°What¡¯s gotten into you?¡± Cal sounded worried, not upset. ¡°I already told you rent wouldn¡¯t be a problem this month.¡± ¡°Sorry. Don¡¯t mean to tell you your business. Just looking for problems I can solve.¡± ¡°Case not going well?¡± ¡°Case isn¡¯t going at all. Kid¡¯s mom cashed out last night. Said she doesn¡¯t need me anymore.¡± ¡°So you are worried about making your mortgage payment.¡± I thought of the late notices piling up on my desk, but shook my head. ¡°No.¡± He turned to look straight into me with one of those big, round eyes. It was skin-crawlingly intimate, but I couldn¡¯t turn away. He saw deeper into me than he should have. ¡°You¡¯re not going to drop it. You can¡¯t.¡± I wished I could. Maybe I would have if I had something else to distract me. I looked around the office, my eye going from racks of literature to the bubbling water cooler to the sizzling coffee pot. There weren¡¯t any long lines of prospective clients in the way to stop me from taking in the whole desolate place in a second. ¡°I could help if you¡¯d like,¡± Cal said. I raised my eyebrow. ¡°Twenty dollars for a tarot reading, forty for scrying, I might be able to knock off a few dollars for¡ª¡± I let a snort slip out, but Cal didn¡¯t look offended. It took a lot to move him. ¡°Thanks for the offer, Cal, but I¡¯m out of pocket now. Even if I had a client on the line, I don¡¯t think she¡¯d sign off on an invoice that included psychic services.¡± Twenty dollars would go a long way in cheap scotch. ¡°I understand,¡± Cal said. ¡°Maybe I could do something quick pro bono.¡± ¡°Yeah, sure. That¡¯d just make my day.¡± Cal didn¡¯t pick up on my sardonic tone. He nodded, then lowered his head with his hand on his chin. Without lids to close, it looked like he was staring at the floor, but when I searched his eyes, I saw a sprawling abyss. I watched my warped reflection, bulged out in the middle and pinched in at the top and bottom, shift back and forth as the minute stretched on. I sipped my cooling coffee louder than was strictly necessary, hoping the sound would snap him out of it. He stayed sunk there. When my cup was dry and still the only movement was the squash and stretch of my body in the funhouse mirror of his eyeball, I considered slipping away. I could tell him when I saw him next that I¡¯d gotten a call or a client had walked in or a nuclear bomb had gone off one block over and I had to dip out to check on Dolores. He wouldn¡¯t have noticed any of those in his supposedly oracular trance. I shuffled back a step, ready to make a break for it, when Cal¡¯s head snapped up. He shook his shoulders like a warm-blooded mammal might shiver with a gust of cold air, then locked his focus on me again. ¡°What did you see?¡± A little genuine curiosity stole into my voice before I caught it. One thing could be said for Cal¡¯s act: he had an air about him that invited awe, and he knew how to wield it. ¡°It was strange.¡± ¡°I would expect nothing less,¡± I said. Cal wasn¡¯t listening. He turned inward again, this time only remembering. ¡°I saw Ethan. He wasn¡¯t moving and there were cockroaches scurrying¡­ He was¡­ He was¡­¡± ¡°Dead? Lying in a ditch? Out in the woods?¡± ¡°That part¡¯s unclear,¡± Cal said, moving on. ¡°I saw a fight. One of them had a gun.¡± For a moment, I opened my mind and let the idea of psychics and mediums being real take a quick tour. I wanted to believe. ¡°The other one had a hammer.¡± ¡°A hammer?¡± Cal nodded seriously. ¡°A rubber mallet. The other guy saw him coming, pulled the trigger and¡­ Bang.¡± My skepticism returned in a rush. ¡°This guy with the hammer? He got shot?¡± Cal shook himself, coming back down to this plane. ¡°No, sorry. That¡¯s what the gun said. A little flag came out of the barrel, said Bang in big red letters.¡± I looked from Cal to the inert television in the corner and back. Clearly, he had fallen asleep one too many times with his set tuned to the channel that ran cartoons early in the morning. ¡°Does that help at all?¡± Cal asked, looking up at me. I grunted as I started back down the hall to my office to get my hat and coat. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll come in handy later.¡± Cal wasn¡¯t bothered by the curt dismissal, but I made a hasty exit regardless. I didn¡¯t know where I was going when I put my hand on the doorknob, but I had all the time in the world to figure it out. Chapter 8: The Other Side of the Fence Cal¡¯s fortunetelling was pure fiction, but it got me thinking a certain kind of way. I had plenty of time to follow through with that train of thought when I walked outside and didn¡¯t see Dolores parked¡ªor crashed¡ªalong the street. I had to take the bus out of Moire Park and walk the rest of the way to The Cut. The cartoonish imagery reminded me Ethan was a kid. Before Al¡¯s funeral, I had concerned myself mostly with his career aspirations. Maybe one day, the drive and the relentless competition would consume him, but at his age, it was only a small part of his life. He spent time schmoozing with talent agents, auditioning, and getting lessons, but most of his day was¡ªby law¡ªspent in school. I had given the administration a call, but the secretary more or less told me to kick rocks. Virginia said there was nothing going on there, and I took her word for it. It allowed me to get lost in the weeds of Al¡¯s world. I doubt any of the kids in Ethan¡¯s eighth grade class put those bullets in Al¡¯s body, but if Ethan suspected someone out there was going to snatch him, chances were he told his friends about it. Kids weren¡¯t known for their tight lips¡ªespecially if spilling the beans would make them look dangerous and earn them social cachet. I was relieved to find Dolores outside The Cut, then annoyed when I saw a piece of paper flapping under the windshield wiper. The parking enforcers weren¡¯t usually sticklers around The Cut, in case they accidentally put a tag on their buddies¡¯s car. It could have been bad luck that they had noticed Dolores parked up next to the fire hydrant, but I imagine a cop inside had noticed my ride and pointed it out to someone with a citation pad. I didn¡¯t even look at the fine printed on the ticket. I couldn¡¯t pay it then, probably wouldn¡¯t be able to pay it later either. The ticket could go on the pile of late bills stacking up in my office. One day my ship might come in and I might deign to put out those small fires, but until then, all that paper would make for nice insulation when the city turned off the gas. I unlocked Dolores¡¯s glove compartment and crammed the ticket in alongside my gun. Dolores gave me less trouble than usual, and the engine turned over after my first nonsensical condemnation of the car¡¯s hypothetical mother¡¯s sexual promiscuity. While the chunky thrum evened out, I grabbed my notepad and gave the pages a riffle. I had the name of the kid¡¯s school and the phone number, but nothing else. I knew it was somewhere in the Fly Sheet neighborhood, but I¡¯d need to drive around a bit to find it. Dolores had plenty of gas in her tank, and I had nothing but time. I tossed her into gear, and my feet worked the pedals to get us chugging along toward the city center. The school was called the Sam Marlowe Academy. Lofty names like that were often misleading¡ªeither aspirational, or a cheap way to attract wealthy parents who thought it would look good on a college application. In this case, the school seemed to be the genuine article. Fly Sheet wasn¡¯t the most affluent neighborhood, but it was no Moire Park. Ethan would have needed to take multiple busses to get there every morning, and he was sure to stand out in his thrift store duds. Sam Marlowe, as an institution, was older than the neighborhood, meaning it had been grandfathered out of the geographic class associations. No one would have signed off on using so much prime real estate for a child¡¯s school campus in the modern era. The structures, a crash of traditional stone and more modern glass, formed a horseshoe around a city block. Several lots of valuable property at the center were filled with grass, woodchips, and metal jungle gyms. There weren¡¯t any basketball hoops, but there was a field marked out in white paint on a flat section of the yard. It could have been a soccer field, but the net was too small¡ªprobably meant for lacrosse. Soccer would have been too pedestrian. I cruised past the school twice. I didn¡¯t expect to see any criminals with eye-masks and striped shirts rubbing their hands greedily from the shadows as they watched the school; I just wanted to get a feel for the place. No other car on the road was as beaten down as Dolores, but there were plenty of average commuters mixed in with the sleek luxury sedans and compensatory SUVs puttering around alongside me. I tried to think of a compelling reason a woman as down on her luck as Virginia would shell out big bucks on a fancy school when she couldn¡¯t even afford a car to take her to work. Was it an investment in her kid¡¯s future? Or was it an attempt to recapture the feeling of being part of high-society? A bell rang inside the school as I pulled up to the curb across from the playground¡¯s frontage. Kids ran out from one of the buildings, tumbling toward the climbing structures and play fields like spilled thumbtacks. I watched the kids do what kids did best and tried to picture Ethan in there among them. To get an acting gig like the one he got, he¡¯d need to be charismatic. Did that make him popular? Or was he one of the obnoxious theater kids no one could stand to be around for more than five minutes at a stretch? Was his parents¡¯ socioeconomic position too much of a barrier to make friends? In most cases, kids didn¡¯t dig too deep into stuff like that, but here the other tykes¡¯ parents might be more diligent about training their young ones to look down on those in hard places. I could have watched all day and not learned a thing. There was only one way to find out how the kids felt about Ethan and that was to ask them. I got out and waited for a break in the slow-moving traffic. I darted across when one lane cleared, but had to squeeze in behind a long black Cadillac with blacked-out windows to get through the other side. When I got close, the taillights lit up the splotches of dirt on my coat. Maybe I should have thought to dress up¡ªat least brushed my teeth and run a comb through my fur. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. A chintzy iron fence blocked the open end of Sam Marlow¡¯s campus, providing the illusion of security as long as nobody tried to squeeze through the bars. The section bent when I leaned a fraction of my weary weight against it. I knew how bad this looked from the other side of the fence. Luckily, these kids were too young to have seen the PSAs. This became even more apparent when a young porcupine peeled away from a group of kids loitering near¡ªbut not too near¡ªthe monkey bars. The kids were too cool to play, and they jumped on the opportunity to prove how tough they were by ignoring all the warnings adults had given them about stranger danger. These kids were on the cusp of adolescence and would do any stupid thing they thought smelled a bit like rebellion. Was that attitude what had gotten Ethan into the situation he was in? ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± The kid¡¯s curse didn¡¯t flow quite right. The way he jittered and rushed to get it out belied the excitement of one testing boundaries. His friends, a pigeon and a salamander, encouraged the porcupine with their eyes while they tried to work up the gall to come over themselves. Their indecision manifested in a slow shuffle back and forth, trending toward the fence. ¡°I¡¯m a friend of Ethan Calhoun,¡± I said. ¡°You know him?¡± The kid grunted, rolled his eyes, and shrugged. Maybe he wasn¡¯t the greatest at swearing yet, but when it came to shows of insouciance, this kid was competing at a high school level. Before I pressed further, the pigeon and salamander caught up. The pigeon let out a little coo when he saw me up close. ¡°Hey, I know you,¡± he said. ¡°I saw you on a videotape my dad recorded.¡± ¡°Oh yeah? What was I doing?¡± The kid thought for a second while the other two looked at each other, excited about the prospect of talking to a TV star. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Telling kids not to do drugs, I guess.¡± ¡°I say anything about talking to strangers?¡± The salamander lost his defiant edge. Flop sweat compounded his skin¡¯s preexisting moisture as he looked around. The other kids deflated, more as a response to finding out I wasn¡¯t a big-shot than as a reaction to the subtle dig at their carelessness. Kids tended to trust me for some reason. I didn¡¯t care much for people, but if I had to deal with them, I preferred kids over adults. There were less pretenses with the youth and far fewer lies. Even when kids mouths tried to mislead, the truth was always painted on their faces. ¡°Ethan,¡± I said to the newcomers. ¡°You know him?¡± The porcupine looked around the schoolyard, making sure no other kids were watching. It wouldn¡¯t be cool for someone like him to admit association with the school¡¯s resident charity case. ¡°Saw him around, I guess,¡± the salamander said. ¡°Was he acting strange before he got¡­¡± Call me a softie, but I couldn¡¯t use the word I was thinking¡ªnot with kids his own age. ¡°¡­before he disappeared?¡± The porcupine picked up on my off-kilter verbiage and squinted at me. ¡°I guess. He was always acting: telling weird jokes, being loud, doing voices.¡± ¡°He liked to make people laugh,¡± the pigeon said. ¡°Teachers hated him.¡± If the teachers really hated him, I might have just expanded my suspect pool. I knew how kids exaggerated, though. ¡°How about you? Were you friends with him?¡± The kids checked again to make sure nobody would overhear. They weren¡¯t eating lunch together every day, but my bet was they talked¡ªjust maybe not in public. ¡°Saw him around,¡± was the porcupine¡¯s final answer. ¡°See him outside of school?¡± ¡°Never.¡± The kid answered fast. Too fast. He tried to cover it up with more details. ¡°Ethan lives across town. Didn¡¯t hang out in the same places we did.¡± ¡°And where was that? The mall? The arcade?¡± I wanted to pull my notepad out, but the kids would have been more reticent if they knew their words were being recorded. Sometimes the pad could work as a prop to get people to talk. Other times, it was as much a deterrent as the physical fence between me and the kids now. ¡°How old are you?¡± the porcupine asked. ¡°Forget it. What about the other kids? Ethan have enemies?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so. He got in a few fights, but¡ª¡± A shrill whistle cut across the playground before the pint-sized pincushion justified Ethan¡¯s brawling. The kids scattered, scared worse by the sound than they were of me, the grizzled old bloodhound leering at them through the fence. I saw why they were spooked when I looked toward the sound and saw an overweight rhinoceros lumbering over. His tee shirt was tucked into a pair of white gym shorts with blue stripes, and he wore matching socks that went almost to his knee. He should have looked ridiculous, but his size and the fervor with which he blew into the small orange whistle canceled out the comedic effect of his wardrobe. If I was a child, I would have been scared too, but in this civilized world, physical superiority wasn¡¯t the be all end all. I got the sense this coach was the type who took umbrage with that assertion, tried to prove the big man always came out on top. ¡°What the hell are you doing?¡± he bellowed as he stomped up to the fence. Flecks of his saliva hit my face from five yards away. The sky was cold and clear, but with the rain of spit and the gust of hot wind escaping from under the aged rhino¡¯s horn, I was on a tropical island with a summer storm bearing down. ¡°I¡¯m Jonathan O¡¯Howell, private investigator. I¡¯m here about Ethan Calhoun.¡± ¡°God damn it. Another one?¡± the coach said under his breath. ¡°What the fuck do you want?¡± I raised an eyebrow at his initial question, but played along with the second. ¡°I want to find out what happened to him. Think there might be more going on here than meets the eye.¡± ¡°As long as these kids are at school, they¡¯re under my protection. Can¡¯t have people harassing them through the fence.¡± He liked playing the hero, but probably didn¡¯t know half the kids¡¯ names. He called them some variety of sport or champ or slugger, all in a flat grumble to convey a deep sarcasm. ¡°Your house, your rules, boss,¡± I said, putting my hands up in surrender. He gave a smug twitch of his mouth, smooshing his lips and crumpling the cracked-clay skin around his nose. ¡°Good thing I¡¯ve got nothing else today,¡± I continued. ¡°I¡¯ll just go back to my car over there and wait until the kids get out. I¡¯m sure some of them won¡¯t mind hopping in and giving me a lesson. And if they need a little coaxing, I¡¯ve got candy.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t¡ª¡± he blustered. ¡°I won¡¯t let¡ª¡± He stared at me and growled. The sound from deep in the barrel of his chest would have scared off most, but I was used to standing up to bullies. It had been years since I¡¯d done it properly, and it gave me a rush. I tried to hide my giddiness and maintain the facade of indifference as I shrugged. ¡°Or you could let me talk to someone who knows something, and I¡¯ll be out of your¡­¡± I stopped before saying ¡°hair¡± and looked at his sweaty bald pate. ¡°¡­ Out of your way.¡± He snarled again as he turned to march down the fence toward the gate. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll take you to Tabitha, but then you¡¯d better get lost.¡± Chapter 9: Teachers Pet After a short series of turns through the drab labyrinth of the school, Coach brought me to an office with the word Administration scrawled in two-foot-tall letters above the windows. I thought him holding the door open was his way of saying goodbye, but when I turned to offer my sarcastic thanks, his oversized belly pushed me into the room. I caught myself on the reception desk and gave a coy smile to the long-lashed otter sitting behind it. She didn¡¯t look up from the papers she was shuffling, but another woman eyed me from across the room. Marcella had crammed into a seat more suitable for a child. Her knees were up to her ribs, and her tail stuck out through the loop of the armrest. To her left was a closed door with a nameplate reading, ¡°Tabitha Garnett, Principal.¡± I scowled down at her. She smiled back without a hint of sheepishness. I didn¡¯t want to give her the satisfaction of greeting her, so I crossed my arms and looked at the door. The awkward silence stretched like warm toffee. When it started to sag in the middle and couldn¡¯t steep in it any longer, I took a step toward the door. I heard Coach shift, glad for the justification to put his hands on me. Before it came to that, the door cracked open and a sniffling, long-faced mule came out, ushered by a slender gazelle. The older woman wore a prim, professional suit. Unlike Adora, her shoulder pads served a purpose. Without them there to square her frame, someone would see the slouch that accompanied her drooping eyelids and the frazzled tufts of hair springing up between her long, black horns. Tabitha patted the kid on the back as he slumped out of the room, then looked up at her secretary. Her eyes landed instead on Coach, whose body took up damn near a third of the waiting room. ¡°Coach Myers?¡± Tabitha said. Her voice was heavy as she switched back from the energetic voice she used with children. Now it was doubly weighted by confusion as she looked from visitor to visitor. ¡°This guy just showed up. Caught him trying to talk to kids through the fence.¡± ¡°Trying?¡± I said. ¡°I was doing a damn good job of it before you showed up.¡± ¡°Are you with Miss Furone?¡± Tabitha asked, pinching herself between the eyes and palpating as if to banish a painful headache. Marcella started to say something while she struggled out of the chair, but I talked over her. ¡°Nope. But if you want to ream me out for sneaking up on your kids, I¡¯ll go first. You can get the unpleasant part over with so you and Marcella can enjoy your girl talk.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what the word is going on here, but I do not have time for this.¡± Her faux curse came with the sharp fluidity the porcupine neophyte¡¯s attempt at swearing had lacked. All the emotion was there, with none of the parental backlash. ¡°Either both of you come in right now, or somebody get out. I don¡¯t care which.¡± I pushed ahead of Marcella and started closing the door behind myself. Marcella caught it and wrenched it out of my hand. It was worth a shot. The principal¡¯s desk was all clean and proper, with neatly filed folders tucked away in cabinets and cubbies. Her desk was clear, with a squared-off inbox and outbox and a few tidy caddies for writing implements. She had pens and pencils and staplers like you¡¯d find in any well-stocked businessman¡¯s desk, but she also had sheets of stickers with moody faces and stars and accolades. For her, they were crucial communication tools. She rounded her desk and sat in the wheeled chair behind it. The window at her back took up most of the wall and provided an unrestricted view of the children enjoying their recess in the playground. Marcella and I each took one of the slightly too-small seats in front of the desk. The door closed, but when the latch clicked, Coach was on the wrong side. He barred the exit with his monstrous gray arms crossed over his overstuffed belly, daring us to try something funny. ¡°So, you¡¯re here about Ethan,¡± Tabitha said. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you expect from me; I already told the police everything.¡± ¡°They¡¯re not in a sharing mood,¡± I said. ¡°Don¡¯t seem too interested in finding him, either.¡± Marcella put her hand on my arm. It was a familiar gesture, but I didn¡¯t mind the intimacy coming from her as much as I did from Cal. ¡°Please, Howl,¡± she said, then turned to Tabitha. ¡°Forgive my¡­associate. The police are doing their job, but mine¡¯s a little different. I¡¯m interested in the personal element. I want to know who Ethan is, let the people know what kind of kid we¡¯re trying to save.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know how much help I can be. With hundreds of kids at Sam Marlowe, it¡¯s hard to get to know all of them. It¡¯s especially challenging because I haven¡¯t seen him in months.¡± ¡°From what I heard, Ethan was a bit of troublemaker. He must have visited your office from time to time. I¡¯m sure you know him better than¡ª¡± ¡°Hold on a minute,¡± I cut in. ¡°You said months. Ethan¡¯s only been missing a couple days.¡± ¡°I know,¡± Tabitha said. Her eyes darted to the door, looking for an out. ¡°I heard about it on the news, same as you.¡± Marcella cocked her head. I pressed harder. I had to know we were on the same page. ¡°He doesn¡¯t go here, does he?¡± ¡°We parted ways,¡± Tabitha said. ¡°This isn¡¯t a summer job at the Bagel Hut in the mall. Kids don¡¯t just¡­part ways. Something happened.¡± Coach let out a rough laugh. ¡°We expelled that asshole.¡± Marcella and I both snapped back to Tabitha. She answered our quizzical stares with a long sigh. ¡°Yes. We had to send him away.¡± ¡°For what?¡± I asked. ¡°Conduct unbecoming of a student at Sam Marlowe Academy.¡± ¡°Punishment seems a bit harsh for acting up in class,¡± Marcella said. Coach laughed again. ¡°He did a hell of a lot of that, but as long as his tuition was paid, we couldn¡¯t kick him out for goofing around. Luckily, he gave us the chance to give him the boot when I caught him selling drugs.¡± Tabitha cringed and looked at the papers on her desk. She shifted in her seat so it swiveled, then pulled herself back to center. ¡°Ha. He said he was just holding the dope for a friend,¡± Coach said, falling into the rabbit-hole of his memory. ¡°I might¡¯ve been born in the morning, but not that morning. Took him by the collar and dragged him right here. Can¡¯t have that shit swirling around this school.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell the police?¡± I asked Tabitha, who was back to kneading the bridge of her nose. ¡°They know.¡± ¡°Funny. They didn¡¯t mention anything.¡± I pulled out my notepad and looked back up once I found a blank page. ¡°What about his mom? Virginia had seemed forthright with me. She should have said something.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe his father didn¡¯t tell Ethan¡¯s mother. As I understand it, they weren¡¯t on the best of terms during that time, but I¡¯d be surprised if she never found out. I¡¯ve never seen a wallaby that stirred up.¡± ¡°A walla¡ª¡± I grabbed Marcella¡¯s arm and steered the conversation. ¡°How stirred up are we talking? You think he might have taken it out on Ethan when he got home? Given him a reason to get out of town?¡± ¡°If you¡¯re asking if I think his father beat him, the answer is no. None of the signs were there, and Peter didn¡¯t seem the type. He spent more time trembling than fuming. He probably gave Ethan an earful, though.¡± ¡°Damn shame,¡± Coach said, shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone would blame him for smacking the brat around a bit.¡± I was glad I wasn¡¯t the only one who turned around and glared at him. ¡°You got something to add, Coach?¡± He put his hands up, but there was no apology in his voice. ¡°Alls I¡¯m saying is that sometimes it¡¯s the only way to get a kid to listen. I¡¯d never touch a student, of course, but it¡¯s the dad¡¯s job to make sure his little shit¡¯s under control. My dad whipped me around whenever I acted up, and I turned out all right.¡± ¡°You sure about that?¡± I said, unable to help myself. ¡°What the hell did you say to me?¡± I was tempted to jump out of my seat and square up myself, but at least I had some self-control. I could have laid into him about pursuing a career for which the uniform was a pair of too-tight shorts and a whistle to make sure he felt like a big man, but I didn¡¯t want to beat around the bush. ¡°You¡¯re a grown man who thinks it¡¯s okay to beat up kids. Wouldn¡¯t say that¡¯s the making of a model citizen, would you?¡± Coach stepped away from the door. I saw a cartoonish ¡°why I oughtta¡± bubbling out of the primordial soup of his anger. I stayed in my seat, unshaken. It gave him pause long enough for Tabitha to get her bearings. ¡°Hey!¡± she shouted, standing up. ¡°Coach! We solve our problems with words, remember? Maybe it¡¯s time for you to go back to the dugout.¡± Coach grunted, but retreated under his boss¡¯s super-heated glare. If this was the intensity with which she handled adults who were acting out, I could understand how she got the gig at such a prestigious school. She knew how to keep things running smoothly. ¡°Sorry, ma¡¯am,¡± he said as he opened the door. ¡°I¡¯d better get back to the yard and make sure no other creeps try to get in.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Tabitha said. She sat down and stared at the door until it was fully closed. ¡°Great. Now that knuckle-dragger¡¯s out, why don¡¯t you fill us in on the details?¡± I flipped the pencil out from my notebook¡¯s coil and put the tip to the page. ¡°When did it happen? Who else was involved? I¡¯m going to need a list of all Ethan¡¯s friends and enemies. If you¡¯re quick about it, we might be able to save him.¡± I didn¡¯t have a lot of hope myself, but a bit of urgency might compel Tabitha to open up. She didn¡¯t spring out of her seat to help like I¡¯d hoped. ¡°That¡¯s right. We¡¯re going to need everything,¡± Marcella said, finding her footing now that the heady cloud of testosterone had settled. ¡°How about we take a look at his record?¡± The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°So you can plaster it all over the front page of your tabloid? I don¡¯t think so. I won¡¯t let my school¡ªmuch less my students¡ªget dragged through the mud.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am, I work for the Daily Glyph, not some second-rate, check-out aisle rag. I just want to tell his story.¡± ¡°And I just want to make sure we don¡¯t find his body in a ditch,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯d be more than happy to show Marcella the door, but you need to tell me what happened so I can help.¡± Marcella huffed and crossed her arms, telling me with her posture that if I wanted to move her, I¡¯d have to take the chair she sat in. ¡°I don¡¯t need to do anything of the sort,¡± Tabitha said. ¡°I gave the police everything they asked for. They¡¯re the ones running the investigation. What they choose to disclose is between you and them.¡± I watched her, hoping she¡¯d crack, but I knew she wouldn¡¯t. I¡¯d seen her type before and respected the hell out of it, but damned if it wasn¡¯t frustrating to butt heads with. Marcella must have felt her reputation as the most hard-headed person in the room under attack and opened her mouth to defend herself. I got up noisily to interrupt her and save us all the embarrassment. ¡°I can tell you¡¯re a busy woman,¡± I said. I put myself between Marcella and Tabitha by going in for a handshake. ¡°Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. I¡¯m sure we can find the door on our own.¡± ¡°You¡¯d better,¡± she said, standing herself. ¡°If I find either of you snooping around my school or pestering my kids, I won¡¯t hesitate to call the police.¡± Marcella stammered, but she got up as Tabitha and I moved toward the door. Tabitha had given me far more information than she knew. I didn¡¯t want to risk anything by pushing too hard. I put my hand on Marcella¡¯s arm again to keep her marching down the hall. When we were around the corner, away from Tabitha¡¯s searing glare, she jerked it back. ¡°What the fuck are you doing here?¡± I asked. My words echoed through the hallway, empty except for one juvenile penguin with tufted gray feathers. He waddled as fast as his spindly legs could carry him toward the bathroom, clutching his hall pass. ¡°Hey, watch your mouth. Wouldn¡¯t want any of these young, impressionable kids to hear.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯ve heard worse,¡± I said. ¡°Now answer the question.¡± ¡°Guess you¡¯d call it a hunch.¡± ¡°Hunches are my thing. You stick to scoops. I¡¯m sure you¡¯d happily spill whatever I find.¡± ¡°Sure.¡± Marcella turned a corner and reached back to drag me toward the exit I had missed. ¡°But it¡¯s not like you¡¯re going to share. Besides, you work too slow.¡± ¡°Faster than the police, at least.¡± ¡°You sure about that? They already knew Ethan had been expelled.¡± ¡°True,¡± I said, ¡°but they didn¡¯t care to do anything with that information.¡± ¡°Maybe they have and just haven¡¯t deigned to tell you. You ever consider that?¡± A whistle blew outside as we approached the glass and steel airlock of the school¡¯s main entrance. A sea of kids charged the doors, and we had to wade through them to get outside. Coach Myers took a break from gruffly encouraging the stragglers to scowl at us from across the playground. ¡°What are you going to do now?¡± Marcella asked as we started down the steps toward the front gate. ¡°Why? So you can wait for me there too?¡± ¡°Or we could work together. Share information. That¡¯d make sure we didn¡¯t get in each other¡¯s way or waste time retreading the same leads.¡± ¡°Weren¡¯t you trying to tell Tabitha you were a respectable journalist? Shouldn¡¯t you be out covering the election?¡± ¡°Right. I am a respectable journalist; that¡¯s why I leave the entertainment news to someone else.¡± The schoolyard gate wasn¡¯t locked. I held it open for Marcella, then made sure it latched behind me. It wasn¡¯t much of a deterrent, but I didn¡¯t want any fingers pointing at me if another kid went missing. ¡°Besides, after the response my initial story got, my boss gave me free range on the follow-up.¡± Dolores was parked across the street like a crusty booger wiped on the underside of a desk. I didn¡¯t look at her but walked beside Marcella as she led me toward her car around the corner. ¡°You didn¡¯t happen to exploit my involvement to boost your story, did you?¡± ¡°Hmm¡­ Let me think. Did I mention the moody detective with a troubled past? A man who was once more famous than the ex-starlet he meant to help? More widely recognized than the fresh-faced boy with dreams of becoming an actor could ever hope to be? Yeah, you might have come up.¡± I growled. Couldn¡¯t help myself. If she was as serious a journalist as she claimed, her story wouldn¡¯t treat me kindly. Her readers wouldn¡¯t either. The relentless jaws of public discourse had only recently finished grinding my bones to dust for my previous failures. Now Marcella was out there, poking the faceless legion with a stick and reminding them I still existed. When I failed to turn up anything on the kid, my name would attract even more disdain. Marcella stopped next to an off-beige Buick, with just the first mold-like spackle of rust creeping up the side panel. ¡°Where¡¯s your ride?¡± she asked, looking down the empty street. I hitched my thumb over my back to indicate the way we had come. ¡°Aw, you walked me to my car. How sweet? Never expected you to be much of a gentleman.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not. Just wanted to make sure you didn¡¯t sneak back inside.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t trust me?¡± ¡°Not in the slightest.¡± ¡°Maybe try giving it a shot. I wasn¡¯t kidding about us working the case together. Imagine what we could accomplish.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have a case,¡± I said. ¡°Hell, you barely have a headline. Just spit out some sappy bullshit like you hacks always do and call it a day. I¡¯ve got work to do.¡± Marcella looked more offended than I expected. I almost felt bad. Almost. I turned around and listened for her door to open, then close. I didn¡¯t want to give her any thoughts by looking back, so I kept walking and let the slow burble of traffic passing down the street drown out the sounds of her car starting. Marcella would be all right on her own. I just hoped she stayed out of my way from here on out. If the suspicions I¡¯d picked up from Tabitha were correct, she might turn over every leaf, rock, and manhole cover in the city and never go down the same path I went down. I crossed the road at an intersection before I needed to. I wasn¡¯t opposed to jaywalking, but the crosswalk light had happened to change as I approached. When a clear path presented itself, I took it. Swimming upstream was great for the poets and divas of the world, but I¡¯d learned to stick to the path of least resistance. Things were finally going my way. I dared to hope the streak would roll into getting Dolores started, but the next bit of luck came even sooner. The new route I took to Dolores passed by a row of payphones under the awning in front of a bank. Maybe I should have waited to call Virginia until I got back to my office, or even hunted her down in person, but I couldn¡¯t help myself when I saw the phones. I felt a new sense of urgency now that I¡¯d caught the first whiff of a lead since finding the footprints at the scene of Al¡¯s murder. I could allow myself to believe Ethan was still alive, but I could also imagine that changing in a hurry. Cal¡¯s planted thoughts about cartoons struck again, and I pictured Ethan bound to a chair, under which was a novelty alarm clock plugged into a bundle of dynamite, the second hand inching toward the red twelve with earth-quakingly weighty ticks. I stopped at the middle of the three cubbies. The one on the right was missing the handset, and the one on the left had an unsettling wet spot underneath it, fed by an occasional drip from inside the pay phone¡¯s housing. The one I chose had been defaced as well¡ªthe expected outcome for any public utility, but a goddamn guarantee for one located across the street from a school full of adolescent boys. Mostly, the preteen angst was expressed in formless scratches, dents, and wads of chewed gum, but I also saw a cluster of weathered stars that looked like they had come from Tabitha¡¯s sticker sheets. The most articulate bit of graffiti was a short poem, saved from the vandalism of other ne¡¯er-do-wells by dint of its cogency: ¡°Coach Myers¡¯s class lasts an hour The whistle he wears gives him power He dreams of Garnett and wants to plow her Until then, he¡¯ll watch you shower.¡± The meter could use some work and the A-A-A-A rhyme scheme was juvenile, but I couldn¡¯t be too harsh since a literal child had written it. I pinned the receiver to my ear with my shoulder, listened for a dial tone to make sure it worked, then wormed a finger into the change return slot just in case. My luck wasn¡¯t quite that good, and I had to dig into my pocket for a quarter. The coin clunked, bounced, and rattled through the mechanism until it passed the switch to turn on the juice. I flipped through my notepad to find Virginia¡¯s number and jabbed it into the keypad with quick pecks like a hen eating dried corn. There was a brief pause when the number was through, then the speaker trilled to let me know some distant phone was ringing. I flipped to my notebook¡¯s next blank page and knocked the pencil out of the coils, but the phone kept ringing. Traffic was light and free, so the slowly rolling tires crunching behind me got my attention. I expected to see Marcella pulling up to the curb, but instead I saw a long black car giving me its broadside. All luxury cars looked just about the same to me, but this one was especially familiar. It dragged ass further down the street and I saw the same Cadillac emblem on its back as I had seen on the car I squeezed behind when I crossed to the school. Its windows had the same irresponsible and almost definitely illegal tint. I leaned away from the booth to get a better look at the car. Before I got a bead on the shaded license plate in its recessed housing, the ringing in my ear ended with a click, changing to a breathless croak. ¡°Hello.¡± ¡°Mrs. Calhoun, it¡¯s Howl.¡± ¡°Howl?¡± she said. She sounded slow, as if she¡¯d just been asleep or crying. ¡°Listen, Virginia, I¡¯ve got good news for you.¡± That woke her up in a hurry. ¡°You found Ethan?¡± ¡°Not quite, but I¡¯ve got a lead. The good news is that when I find him, you might not need to worry about money much, regardless of if his PSA gig works out.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked, her exhaustion returning with a sniff. ¡°Your kid¡¯s an enterprising young man. Seems he¡¯s got himself enough scratch kicking around to hire an actor, at least.¡± ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell, you¡¯re not making nay sense.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am, have you ever heard of a man named Sidewalk Wally?¡± I heard a lighter click on Virginia¡¯s end, a moment of silence, then a low whistle as Virginia blew smoke out her beak. When she spoke again, she sounded less like a puddle of melted wax. ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know, Mr. O¡¯Howell. Is that some cartoon character?¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t around much for Ethan, are you?¡± I asked, hoping the abrasive question would wake her up more than the cigarette. ¡°Don¡¯t know much about what he gets up to?¡± ¡°Hey! He¡¯s an independent kid and I work a lot, so¡­¡± The dig at her neglect got her fired up, but was it really indignation? Or was it vanity? I had noticed the same reflexive defense when I questioned her unwarranted trust of Adora¡¯s driver. That questioning had been vindicated by bloodshed. ¡°Hold on a minute, didn¡¯t I tell you to drop the case? I¡¯m not paying for you to go poking around behind the police.¡± ¡°Call it pro bono, then.¡± ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell¡­¡± Virginia¡¯s voice trailed off, running back down as the exhaustion slipped back in. I sensed eyes on me and looked in the rust marred reflection on the coin return lever. The rounded design gave me a wide field of view and I saw another black car coming my way. Before I could figure out if it was the same one from earlier, I saw a more conspicuous figure standing by the curb. For a second, I wished my snubnose wasn¡¯t locked behind the flimsy door of Dolores¡¯s glove compartment. Then I saw a long, bushy tail swish behind the trench coat. If the image wasn¡¯t so distorted, I would have seen Marcella¡¯s face under the stranger¡¯s fedora. She wasn¡¯t dangerous, just eminently annoying. ¡°Sorry, ma¡¯am, I¡¯ve got to go. But I will find your son.¡± ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell. Don¡¯t¡ª¡± the handset continued to vent a tinny simulacrum of Virginia¡¯s voice until I chopped it back down on the receiver. I turned my back to Marcella and walked toward Dolores without engaging. Marcella sensed I knew she was there just as I had sensed her behind me. ¡°Who¡¯s Sidewalk Wally?¡± she asked, falling into step with me. ¡°No one to you.¡± ¡°Guess I¡¯ll have to ask around,¡± she said with an indifferent shrug. If she asked anyone who¡¯d spent an appreciable amount of time below The Fold, it wouldn¡¯t take her long to find him. I stopped behind Dolores¡¯s rear bumper, causing Marcella to stumble. I jabbed a finger at her and put on my most commanding voice. ¡°You leave him out of this. I know you wouldn¡¯t hesitate to exploit him and his¡­situation for the glory of a few hundred readers¡¯ eyeballs crawling over your name in the byline. I won¡¯t have it.¡± Marcella refused to bend. Her back stayed straight, and she met my eye. ¡°I would never. Not unless he was relevant to the case. If you think he¡¯s a victim too, I promise I will handle him with the same respect I handled Ethan and Al.¡± ¡°Right. You raked them through the coals, sensationalized their story to get your readers hooked. Not ten minutes ago you were inside hoping to dig up more dirt on the kid so you could smear it across another half page column.¡± ¡°Howl! You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± ¡°I met a hundred reporters like you when I was on the force. You¡¯re all the same. Bottom feeders. Lowest of the low. You¡¯d be first in line to take a photograph of your dead mother if you thought it would look good on the front page.¡± Marcella shook her head, defiant. ¡°You don¡¯t know me and clearly you don¡¯t know my reporting.¡± ¡°I¡¯m dead serious, Miss Furone. I¡¯m going to talk to Sidewalk Wally, and I had better not see you sniffing around while I¡¯m there. You got that?¡± She tried to speak up, but I bullied her down, pushing past to get around to Dolores¡¯s driver¡¯s side. It took a bit of awkward wiggling to open the door, but after a weak-sounding creak when it first got moving, it made a satisfying whoosh and crunch to punctuate the end of the conversation. I watched Marcella in the rear-view and flipped open my notepad. Nothing banging around in my head was so important I had to write it down that second, but I had enough trouble getting Dolores to start when I didn¡¯t have an audience. Performance anxiety is a bitch. I filled in a couple details from my snooping¡ªa description of the kids I talked to in the playground, Coach Myers and the allegations of misconduct I¡¯d picked up from the venerable source of pay phone graffiti, speculations about sidewalk Wally¡¯s involvement. I knew I was missing something, but Marcella was gone next time I looked at the mirror. I pushed through the geriatric inertia of Dolores¡¯s coma and shoved off into the ambling traffic. Ahead, I saw the sharp right angle of a black Cadillac¡¯s rear quarter panel turning the corner. If I still had my notepad in hand, I might have written it down, but I made myself let it go. There were a lot of wealthy neighborhoods nearby, made sense there were a few nice cars bumbling about. My mind was just primed for making connections. I needed to stay focused on Wally. Chapter 10: Nose to the Ground Finding Wally was harder than I had expected. I burned a whole day and a full tank of gas searching for him. I should have given up that first afternoon and looked for another lead, but I had gotten myself hitched to the idea of finding him. Wally moved around a lot and the best anyone could tell me was a guess, so I had to drive past all the likely spots. I checked under bridges, down alleys, and wherever I knew criminals to gather. I even checked a few dingy dives just in case Wally had a few coins jangling in his pocket. I kept myself sober despite the temptation, but did pick up a pint of whiskey while I passed through a liquor store Wally was known to shoplift from. It was late Saturday evening when I finally found the bastard near the Gutter, where many smokestacks pumped out a persistent cloud and noxious fumes floated just above the poisoned water. The feathery miasma of mingled pollutants left a sheen of sweat on every surface. I saw Wally beyond a ragged chain-link fence, huffing and puffing at a junction box on the side of a derelict electric relay station. The unrelenting bath of humidity had caused components to corrode, meaning they needed to build a new station further inland. The move had cost millions and left many poor families without power for weeks on end, but the ones calling the shots didn¡¯t think twice. Wally had come to take his revenge by mining its resources. The ripped-up fence said others had tried before him, but Wally was determined. He had a pair of garden shears, a rusty crowbar, and a can-do-spirit. The first two definitely hadn¡¯t been his that morning. After I saw Wally, I circled the block once and pulled up to the curb. It was about as dangerous a neighborhood as you could find in Hot Type City, but I left Dolores running. If someone made off with her, I¡¯d find her stalled out at the next intersection. Getting her to the junkyard without knowing all the tricks to keep her running would be near impossible. Wally was absorbed with the delicate larceny, and he didn¡¯t look up. I reached for the glove box, but thought better of it. Wally was a degenerate coward, but he wasn¡¯t the violent type. He also knew me well enough to know I had nothing worth stealing that didn¡¯t require surgery to take out. I opened the door gently. I would¡¯ve needed to slam it to set the latch, so I left it ajar. Wally wouldn¡¯t hurt me, but it didn¡¯t mean he would stick around to chat if he got spooked. I walked down the length of the fence until I found a tear bigger than a doggy door and ducked through. The yard was strewn with the evidence of punks who had squatted there¡ªbroken bottles, cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, and a thick coat of graffiti over any surface porous enough to hold spray paint. Wally grunted as he wedged the end of his pry bar into the cover of an electrical box and shifted his weight back onto his tail to get leverage. His sleeves were rolled up and fresh sweat spread out from his chest and under his armpits, adding another front to the tides of yellow stains. He had thrown his coat, which was more patch than fabric, and scuffed-up hat onto a loose tangle of copper wire next to him. I pictured him dragging the whole wad down the street, trying to find a buyer between heaves and hops. The rusty panel gave way, and he fell forward as it clattered to the ground. He caught himself by shoving his hand into the mess of cables inside, then stood straight, stretching his back with a firecracker barrage from his spine. He wiped his bared wrist across his forehead as he twisted from side to side, but jumped when he saw me. He scrabbled to find a more casual pose, drawing more attention to his malfeasance. When he was still again, he leaned on the crowbar like a gentleman¡¯s cane and crossed one leaf-spring leg over the other. ¡°Good afternoon, officer.¡± His freehand reached toward his crown, and he looked surprised when there was no hat to tip. ¡°Jesus Christ, man. Your brain really is fried.¡± ¡°Oh shit, hey there, Howl.¡± Wally¡¯s smirk shifted, and he stood straighter now that he didn¡¯t have to pretend he wasn¡¯t up to no good. ¡°I thought you were someone else.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I said. ¡°And you¡¯re exactly who I thought. Come on, we need to talk.¡± ¡°Sorry, Howl. Got my hands full here. Maybe another time¡­ Unless you can make it worth my while.¡± ¡°Or I could turn this into a headache for you,¡± I said, gesturing around. He called my bluff and shrugged, then he traded his crowbar for the garden shears. He jammed them into the panel at random, chopping and rocking. ¡°Sorry, bribing scummy wallabies isn¡¯t in my budget for this case. Lucky for me, you¡¯re already wrapped up in it. Why don¡¯t you tell me what you know? I can make sure the police don¡¯t come knocking.¡± Wally groaned and his arms shook while he squeezed the shears. A few strands of the braided cable caught in the pincer gave way then the rest followed with a metallic snap. Wally lurched forward again, and his tail flicked out to keep him balanced. ¡°I¡¯ll take my chances,¡± he said, inspecting the free end of severed cable while he caught his breath and geared up to cut the other. I hated bargaining with a creep like Wally, but it was the only way to get him to talk. The years of working as a CI had spoiled him, taught him information wasn¡¯t supposed to be cheap. ¡°Fine, then. Why don¡¯t I give you a ride to wherever you were planning on dumping all that shit.¡± I gestured at the pile of wire in the dirt beside him, bunched up like used dental floss. ¡°Maybe we talk a bit on the way.¡± ¡°All right, all right, give me a minute.¡± He dug his ersatz bolt cutter back into the electrical box. Before he started reaming on it again, I cleared my throat. I wasn¡¯t shy about the gravel I put into it so it almost sounded like a bark. Wally jerked his tool back out. ¡°Maybe this will change your mind.¡± He recoiled when I reached into my coat, but his eyes lit up as soon as I pulled out the whiskey. By the way he reacted, you would have thought the swill was vintage Dom P¨¦rignon. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. I was going to let him drag his junk to Dolores by himself, but it took too long. Wally was a little guy with a big appetite for a quick buck. I let him take it a few hops on his own, but I gave him a hand when the uncanny feeling I was being watched returned. I didn¡¯t see Marcella anywhere, nor did I see a black Cadillac. If I saw wheels like that here, where most people drove cans almost as rickety as Dolores, it really would be a reason for concern. I was just anxious, pressed to find the kid as soon as possible. The key to the trunk had broken off in the lock years ago, so I opened it with my thumbnail. Springs were meant to lift the lid as soon as it unlatched, but they were rusted all to shit. I had to fight them to get it open. Together Wally and I wrangled his knot of wires in, but it was sweaty work in the nauseating heat of Dolores¡¯s exhaust. We had to compress the metallic wad into a diamond to get the lid down and latched, but we managed with both our weight combined. I got in the driver¡¯s seat and let Wally figure out the enigma of the passenger side door on his own, taking a second to plot our course. When Wally finally got in, he sawed the door back and forth, trying to close it. I got a waft of his scent with each pump and a blast of it when he slammed the door shut. He was ripe to be sure, but I didn¡¯t have a leg to stand on. I hadn¡¯t bathed in days either, and I¡¯m sure I smelled almost as bad. I put Dolores into drive, but I didn¡¯t take my foot off the brake. Wally looked around the interior like it was a spaceship. He checked out the cluster of dials on the dashboard, the roof lining that sagged like an old crone¡¯s neck wattle, and the busted radio, still crackling with something that would almost be recognizable as jazz if I turned it up. I got his attention before he found the glove compartment. ¡°Seatbelt.¡± He looked at me, then at the strap over his right shoulder, confused. ¡°Come on, Howl,¡± he said. ¡°I don¡¯t think this hunk of junk can reach terminal velocity.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª¡± I shook my head and got Dolores moving. Wally had gone this far in his life not knowing what terminal velocity meant, I wasn¡¯t about to teach him. I didn¡¯t invite him out for an impromptu physics class, and it wasn¡¯t why he had agreed to come. It took him until the first stop sign to remember that. ¡°Hey, where¡¯d that whiskey go?¡± I needed him to think straight and would have preferred we talk fist, but a deal was a deal. Besides, sometimes the only time men like Wally could think straight was when they had a few splashes of the good stuff to stifle the fires in their heads. I handed him the bottle. He cracked the seal practically before it was out of my hand and attacked it with a hearty guzzle. When he realized how quickly he was taking it down, he pulled the bottle away from his lips with a thunk then let out a deep. I let him indulge in a few more sips. They kept him busy while I mounted the ramp to the Loop, a section of H-5 that circled the commercial district with lots of offshoots for trucks to get on and avoid the gridlock of I-18 downtown. At this time of night, freight traffic was low, and I could circle around and around for as long as I liked. Wally wouldn¡¯t be able to weasel out until I let him. ¡°All right, Wally,¡± I said once I¡¯d settled in and got Dolores as close to seventy as her whiny, coughing motor would go. ¡°I think you know why I came looking for you. Now talk.¡± Wally stopped with the quarter-full bottle almost up to his lips. ¡°Shit, Howl. I swear to God I thought she was eighteen. Broad said she was going to be on the cover of Barnyard in April. How was I supposed to know it was a birthday exclusive?¡± ¡°Jesus fuck,¡± I said, a shiver shaking my upper body. ¡°I don¡¯t want to know about that. I¡¯m talking about Ethan Calhoun.¡± ¡°Oh, thank Chr¡ª¡± Wally started to say, then sat up straight again, more nervous than before. ¡°You know him?¡± I asked. ¡°Might¡¯ve seen him around a time or two.¡± ¡°Seems like you¡¯ve been spending a lot of time around kids lately. Something the cops should know about?¡± ¡°No, Howl, come on. It¡¯s not like that. The girl was¡ª¡± I held up my hand to stop him from rambling. He licked his lips, then took another pull from the bottle. ¡°Ethan Calhoun? When did you see him last?¡± ¡°What¡¯s got you so curious?¡± Wally asked. ¡°That old fox of a mother finally find out he got booted from school?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure the police mentioned it to her.¡± Wally stopped admiring his bottle for a second and cocked his head at me like a curious spaniel. ¡°Kid went missing,¡± I said. ¡°For all I know, you were the last person to see him alive. Or at least the only one who didn¡¯t end up taking a dirt nap himself.¡± Wally gulped. It was hard to get down without a shot of liquor, but the bottle squeezed under his white knuckles was the only thing keeping him anchored. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°I suppose you don¡¯t find yourself with two spare bits for the morning paper most days, do you?¡± I said. ¡°Seems someone snatched the kid. Popped his driver while he was at it.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± Wally conspicuously glanced at the door handle, then saw the exit for the 24/7 scrapyard whiz by. I pushed Dolores harder, so he knew it wasn¡¯t a mistake. The engine sputtered, then purred again as the speedometer reached halfway to the optimistic maximum value printed on the gauge. ¡°You gotta believe me,¡± Wally said. ¡°I didn¡¯t touch the kid. That time at the school was the last time I saw him. God¡¯s honest.¡± ¡°It¡¯s pretty clear why he wanted you there, but how¡¯d he get you to do it. I know your spine¡¯s as strong as a wet spaghetti noodle, but Ethan¡¯s small. It¡¯s hard to imagine him bullying you around.¡± ¡°He got me the same way you did. Told me he needed help and offered me a bit of juice¡ªalthough his came rolled up in paper with a few more sticks and stems in it. He promised more work to come once he had things up and running. When he never came a-callin¡¯ I figured that had been a bluff.¡± ¡°What kind of work?¡± ¡°Kid said he was expanding his business. Needed someone who could get into all of Hot Type City¡¯s cracks and crevices. After a bit of not hearing from him, I went to check out his¡­office¡­but he wasn¡¯t there, and none of the other punks would let me in.¡± ¡°Other punks?¡± I asked. ¡°Who was he working with?¡± Wally squirmed in his seat. When I saw him stiffen and look forward, I glanced back up and saw the taillights of an overloaded truck coming on fast. I switched lanes to cut around him, left then right. Dolores rocked like the boat she was. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Howl. It was dark, and I was a bit under the weather. They were just some kids.¡± ¡°Give me something, Wally. What¡¯d they look like? Were they mammals? Birds? Reptiles?¡± ¡°You know I don¡¯t give much credence to those kinds of things.¡± ¡°Right, when I think of Sidewalk Wally, I think of equality.¡± Wally looked out the window. I put Dolores¡¯s wheels on the rumble strip, and the road growled for me, rattling his teeth. ¡°You must remember where his place is at least.¡± ¡°Might know it if I saw it again.¡± ¡°Why are you being so evasive? Got something to hide?¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s just¡­¡± Wally¡¯s speech stumbled, and he hid his cowardice behind a phony off-gassing of emotion. ¡°They¡¯re good kids, you know. Don¡¯t want to get them sent down the wrong path. They get picked up for wanting to make a quick buck off guys like me, then soon enough they got no choice but to turn into guys like me.¡± Ah, Sidewalk Wally, victim of America¡¯s busted justice system. There were plenty of people out there whose bullshit arrests had ruined their lives¡ªI was responsible for more than a couple as a beat cop¡ªbut I wouldn¡¯t count Wally among their number. The only time the system fucked him over was when he tried to exploit it and it sprang back the other way. ¡°Look, Howl, I hope the kid gets found too, but I¡¯m on thin ice as it is¡ªwith Johnny Law and a hundred scarier boogie men. I don¡¯t want to get involved.¡± ¡°Like it or not, the kid and his friends are going to get found. If the police are the ones to do it, I don¡¯t see any reason to expect your name doesn¡¯t come up when they start talking. The only way to make sure they leave you out of it is to help me now.¡± ¡°Geez, Howl, what an offer.¡± I saw conceit in the way Wally slumped and polished off the whiskey. ¡°So. This place? It¡¯s in The Margin?¡± ¡°Wha¡ª I thought you didn¡¯t know anything about what was going on.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got a few hunches.¡± The neighborhood where the cops found Al¡¯s body was as good a place to start as any. An exit that would take us to the heart of The Margin came up, and I put my blinker on. ¡°You¡¯d better remember some directions real quick. I¡¯ve wasted enough gas on you already.¡± Chapter 11: Rats Nest We rolled into The Margin under the cover of night and a fresh batch of rain clouds. Wally¡¯s memory got a lot better once we were away from the safety of the elevated freeway, but he saw boogie-men everywhere his twitchy eyes jumped. His blubbering, vacillating directions brought us to The Margin¡¯s northern border. It was at the opposite side of the district from the abandoned warehouse where Al bought the big one and a lot closer to Moire Park where Virginia lived. It wasn¡¯t quite walking distance, but a bike ride wasn¡¯t out of the question. The spattering rain steadied to a persistent drizzle, and Dolores¡¯s tires splashed in newly formed puddles as we rolled down yet another block lit by dreary yellow streetlights. Half of them flickered like strobes at a disco. Wally bolted up in his seat and pointed at a break between the buildings. ¡°Shit! There it is!¡± I slowed and pulled closer to the curb as I approached. The alley looked the same as every other cut along the street. ¡°How do you know?¡± I asked. I didn¡¯t want to get soaked wandering around unless I knew it was the right place. ¡°There! On the corner of that building!¡± I followed Wally¡¯s finger to a patch of graffiti sprayed across the bricks. There, I saw a finely-rendered and gruesomely veiny three-foot-tall penis standing out amid hasty slashes and bubble-letter tags. If not for the other artwork bleeding over top of it, the phallus would have looked like it was popping out of the wall. ¡°I¡¯d recognize that dong anywhere.¡± ¡°All right,¡± I said as I rolled Dolores down to the mouth of the next alleyway. The engine hissed an appreciative sigh, and the prattle of raindrops on the roof took over for the garrulous sputter. Turning Dolores off might have been a mistake, but I didn¡¯t want the beacon of her headlights or the raspy siren of her motor to give us away. I needed the keyring stuck into the ignition anyway. I leaned over Wally, pushing him into his seat. ¡°Hey now, Howl, you know I¡¯m not that kind of girl.¡± I let him have his jokes and unlocked the glove compartment. I pushed the crumpled parking ticket from yesterday aside and retrieved my revolver. Some men treated their piece like a living thing¡ªa pet, a girlfriend, a part of themselves to make up for inadequacies in other departments¡ªbut not me. Not my gun. My gun was a piece of hard, cold steel. In each chamber, it carried a ten gram piece of lead sitting on nearly a hundred and fifty grains of gunpowder, ready to deliver swift justice to whoever deserved it. That was the story at least. Hardly ever worked out that way. ¡°Woah. Watch where you¡¯re pointing that thing,¡± Wally said as I pulled away and tucked the gun into the holster slung under my shoulder. The barrel hadn¡¯t gone near him. I didn¡¯t keep up to date with things like fashion trends and motor laws, but I took gun safety seriously. The rules were as hard and as old as guns themselves, and they were the only part of the PSA campaign I agreed whole-heartedly on. Then, as now, my advice was to keep your fidgety hands off any gun unless you knew what you were doing and had a damned good reason to be doing it. I got out first, then encouraged Wally to come along with a stern look. He followed at my side, hiding between me and the boarded-up building that gave the block its structure. A gust blew through, and he pulled his coat tight to protect from the spray. ¡°Jesus, Howl, why¡¯d you park so far away? Could have pulled straight in.¡± ¡°Felt like stretching my legs,¡± I said as we rounded the corner and started down the alley. ¡°Besides, if anyone¡¯s in there now, we don¡¯t want them to hear us coming. Ringing the doorbell of places like this doesn¡¯t tend to work out in anyone¡¯s favor.¡± It was a valid reason, but my main concern was getting stuck there if someone snuck up on us. Dolores would have needed to suck in her gut to squeeze down the alley, and I wasn¡¯t confident in her reverse gear to get us out again. It would be especially challenging if someone parked something more sturdy than Dolores in front of the opening¡ªa mid-sized sedan or a soggy cardboard box would do the trick. Wally got even jumpier as we approached the end of the alley. He hissed and gasped whenever he thought he saw something on one of the stoops, shadowed doorways, or busted-out windows, but it was always the wind and the rain playing tricks. We were the only living things around. There was just enough juice running through the neighborhood for a grow operation and not an ounce more. ¡°This the place?¡± I asked when we reached a dented steel door at the end of the chute. Wally was staring behind us, at the mouth of the alley, and I had to jab him with my elbow to get him to answer. ¡°Huh, yeah, this is where I saw them.¡± I tried the door with my left hand on the knob, my left shoulder pressed against the steel, and my right hand hovering in front of my open coat, ready to snatch my gun. The knob didn¡¯t turn, not even a jiggle. I had a lock picking kit in my coat, and a bit of practice using it, but the door wasn¡¯t actually locked. It had gone so long without opening, it might as well have been welded shut. There was no way kids Ethan¡¯s size had been gone through there any time in the last half decade. Wally saw my skeptical look and pointed to the window off to the side. After a short inspection, I realized it was boarded from the inside and the pile of junk in front of it looked suspiciously sturdy. It had been arranged so the pallets and crates formed a set of steps up to the window. I got my flashlight out and moved over, leaving Wally on the stoop. When I leaned on the piece of rotted particle board it held only a fraction of my weight before caving inward. I thought I had punched through the mouldered wood, but I had simply overcome the latch. One of the kids had put the board up on hinges, so while the place looked abandoned, they still had an easy way in and out. Smart kids. Inside, there were a few empty tables, a few light stands, and a lot of withered stems and leaves forming a carpet on the dusty concrete. There had been a grow room there, but it had since moved. It was hard to believe that didn¡¯t have something to do with Ethan¡¯s disappearance. Maybe the police got wise and closed them down. Or maybe a competitor saw a chance to get Ethan alone. I needed answers I couldn¡¯t get from outside and threw my leg over the sill. Had there been a struggle? How many people were involved? Who were they? Where did they move to next? ¡°Howl!¡± Wally croaked, trying to keep his voice low. I brushed it off as cowardly hesitation and pulled myself the rest of the way through, but when I looked back, I was nearly blinded by a set of bright lights sweeping my way. A car had turned down the alley. My hand drifted toward my holster again, but I put it down when the alleyway¡¯s profuse rain-wet mirrors lit up blue with the light from the bulb on top of the car. I figured I had about even odds of getting shot by the cops now. Those odds turned sharply against me if I had a piece in my hand. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Wally did a bit of calculus himself. His cost benefit analysis told him he was better off anywhere else, and he ripped away, scrabbling through junk to reach a gap too narrow to be considered an alley. The car¡¯s passenger side door opened before the car had stopped, and a hulking figure ran out, eclipsing the headlights as he passed. I saw the light glint off boar¡¯s tusks. Knowing my luck, it was Boggs, meaning the person stepping out of the driver¡¯s side was Detective Henry. I thought about hiding, but if they found Dolores parked down the block, they would know I was here anyway. It would be especially easy once they got Wally by the scruff of the neck and asked who he was there with. As long as my car wasn¡¯t there, whatever he said would be hearsay. I tried not to make a racket as I made my way to the only closed door leading out of the room. The door stuck, but my skeleton key shoulder got it open at the cost of a loud thump. There was a bleak hallway beyond, covered top to bottom with graffiti, and smelling of piss. The punks had trashed it so badly, even they didn¡¯t want it anymore. I ran across the maintenance shaft and blew through another door. The shop on the other side reminded me of pictures I¡¯d seen of cities bombed out during the war. A cursory glance at the bent racks and caved-in display cases as I sprinted across the rubble-strewn ground wasn¡¯t enough for me to identify what it had once sold. The alley on the other side of the shop went clear through the block, from the street I had parked Dolores on to another empty street to the west. I saw a smallish man cut across the way to another narrow alley. ¡°Stop right there!¡± Detective Boggs yelled, but Wally didn¡¯t flinch as he pelted into the slot. Boggs cursed and gave chase, but he had to turn his body sideways to sidle through the same gap. I waited a second until he was gone, but I was impatient knowing Detective Henry could already be crossing the maintenance shaft. I sprinted out of the shop and down the street toward Dolores. I was almost to the east end of the street when a spotlight lit me up from behind. Tires swished on the wet pavement, and the car thumped as it crawled over the disused walkway¡¯s tectonic ridges and craterous potholes. The pursuit car lit a fire under my ass, and I beat it out of the alley with time to spare. My hand squeaked on the wet windshield as I slid over Dolores¡¯s hood, then caught the A-pillar to spin my body around. My bones would be hounding me for a week after a stunt like that, but adrenaline kept me going. I ripped the door open, threw myself into the seat, jammed the key into the ignition, gave it a twist, and¡ª Click. The engine didn¡¯t even try to turn over. I cranked again. More clicks, a tap-danced jig of them. They mocked me for ever thinking I could get away clean. I jiggled the gear shifter, futzed with the pedals, and tried again. This time the engine teased me with a sputter, but went cold without developing into anything. The beam of light coming out of the alley ahead of me turned into a wedge, widening as the car came closer. I saw a red glow and pulsing blue in my mirrors. They had me boxed in. As soon as I accepted I was sunk like a paper canoe, the panic ran out of my body with a steady lungful of air. I wasn¡¯t really in danger; there was no use letting my body tell me otherwise. My hope of finding anything out about Ethan might be shot, but the worst I¡¯d get from Boggs and Henry was a bit of a chewing out. The second car stayed where it was at the mouth of the alley, waiting like a tongue-eating louse lurking inside a fish¡¯s gaping maw, biding its time. Henry¡¯s car finished backing out and pulled up behind me. The thought of sitting, helpless, while my old partner sauntered up to my window turned my stomach. If I had to hear his smug, ¡°License and registration,¡± I would have an aneurysm. For once, Dolores didn¡¯t fight me, and I stepped out at the same time as Henry did. Dressed for his role as a detective, he didn¡¯t have gadgets, handcuffs, and keys clipped to his belt, so it didn¡¯t have quite the same jangling weight when he pulled his pants up into his sagging belly. He had to flip open his coat, exposing his holster, to achieve the same imperious effect. We stood face to face for a moment, two yards apart, then he nodded at my side. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ve got a license for that peashooter.¡± I looked down at the butt of my revolver sticking out of my coat. Before I could properly express my annoyance, the light behind me changed, and I looked over my shoulder to see the second car pulling out, turning the other way. The weak glow from the streetlights was barely enough to get through the red embers flanking the rear end, but the rays that did hit the glossy black paint bounced right back. ¡°Looks like your friends are leaving without you,¡± Henry said. ¡°Thought you knew better than to rely on others.¡± ¡°Friends? They aren¡¯t with you?¡± Henry gave the car a second look, but we were both distracted by another figure jogging out from a break in the buildings further down. ¡°Asshole got away!¡± Detective Boggs yelled as he approached. ¡°Wally?¡± Henry asked. It took Boggs five yards of choppy steps to kill the momentum of his jog. He stopped behind me, panting, and nodded. ¡°You¡¯ve got an interesting partner these days. Money must be tight if you¡¯re out scavenging with him. We picked him up half a dozen times last summer for B and E, trespassing, fraud, that kind of shit.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about that,¡± I said. ¡°Didn¡¯t even know he was here.¡± ¡°Oh yeah. You gonna be singing that same song after we search your car? You sure you aren¡¯t maybe holding onto some of his tools for him?¡± ¡°Come on, Henry. I know you¡¯re used to bullying schmucks, but that shit won¡¯t work on me. You can¡¯t just go around searching people¡¯s cars. Not without probable cause.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right. Glad to see you¡¯ve been keeping up with the handbook. Good thing I¡¯ve got cause in spades. Boggs, why don¡¯t you give his old heap a once over?¡± ¡°On it,¡± Boggs said. He nearly tore the door off its hinges getting it open, and I let a snarl slip out as he pawed around. ¡°Look at yourself from a police officer¡¯s perspective,¡± Henry said. ¡°Come up on a guy rooting around a known drug operation. He¡¯s keeping the company of a notorious criminal.¡± He smirked with the sarcastic accolade and I couldn¡¯t help but snort out a laugh. ¡°You pair that with the fact this thug¡¯s carrying around an unregistered firearm, and we¡¯ve got a real easy case on our hands.¡± ¡°You know I didn¡¯t come to rob the place.¡± Henry¡¯s shoulders went up. ¡°Not sure the judge will buy whatever it is you¡¯re selling, but I¡¯ll leave it up to his discretion.¡± I heard rustling inside my car and saw Boggs scooping loose papers out of my glove box, looking them over in the beam of a flashlight held between his teeth. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be fucking kidding me. I know Ethan had something to do with this. I¡¯m trying to find a missing kid here.¡± ¡°So you say. How are we supposed to know you have nothing to do with his disappearance? You could be here trying to destroy evidence. Too bad for you, we swept the place days ago.¡± ¡°And what¡¯d you find?¡± ¡°Just some dumb kids trying to make a buck.¡± ¡°Dumb kids don¡¯t have the startup capital to set up a place like this. There¡¯s got to be more to it.¡± Boggs stood up, unfolding from his crouch on the other side of Dolores. The suspension sighed as he took his prestigious weight off the car¡¯s frame. ¡°Find anything interesting?¡± Boggs waddled over and handed a crumpled wad of paper to Henry. He unfurled it, indifferent to the falling raindrops smudging the ink. ¡°Well, well, well, looks like you¡¯ve got a concealed carry permit after all.¡± ¡°Right. So you can just give that back and quit going through my shit.¡± I reached for the license, but Henry snatched it away. ¡°Hold on. What¡¯s this? My, doesn¡¯t that date look familiar? I remember it like it was yesterday.¡± I groaned. Just my luck. I wouldn¡¯t have had the money to re-up the permit even if I had known, but I could have been more cautious. Henry leaned past me to address Boggs again. ¡°Find anything else?¡± ¡°Not yet. Gonna need the keys for a more thorough search.¡± Henry held his open hand out. When I didn¡¯t hop to, he gestured emphatically. ¡°Come on, Howl. Either you hand ¡¯em over or I take ¡¯em. It¡¯s up to you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a real son of a bitch, you know that?¡± I slapped the damned keys down into his palm, hoping a sharp tooth would dig in just right. He grinned through the minor assault and didn¡¯t look away as he hefted the keys to his partner by Dolores¡¯s trunk. Boggs snatched them and flipped through my collection. ¡°Which one is it?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I said. ¡°Lock¡¯s busted.¡± Henry and I stared at each other while Boggs got the trunk popped. The flashlight in his mouth muffled the surprised sound he made when the coils of stolen of copper caused the lid to spring open. Henry leaned in to see what his partner had found. Boggs took the light out of his mouth and shined it at the glistening horde and the not-so-subtle tools on top. I let out a defeated grunt, and Henry chuckled. ¡°What¡¯d¡¯ya think Boggs? Put that together with the gun, and it looks like we¡¯re treading in felonious waters.¡± ¡°I¡¯d say we¡¯ve got a case.¡± ¡°Come on, Henry,¡± I said. Pleading with him felt worse than a punch to the sternum, but I didn¡¯t see any way out. ¡°I¡¯m trying to save a goddamn kid here. Can¡¯t you put our history aside and¡ª¡± ¡°Jonathan O¡¯Howell, you are under arrest,¡± Henry said, turning me around to face Dolores and stealing my gun out of its holster. He passed the piece to Boggs and put his hands back on me as he continued with the homily drilled into every recruit at the academy. ¡°You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law¡­¡± Chapter 12: In the Bullpen I took Miranda¡¯s advice and kept my mouth sewn shut while Henry tried to provoke me. He gave me a quick but exceedingly rough search, shoved me into his car, and prodded me with barbs and accusations as I jounced around in the back seat. Most cops never grew out of their schoolyard bullying phase. If he was still on the clock, he would have taken great pleasure in bringing me to my cell himself. Thankfully, he had some important drinking to catch up on and handed me and my bundled possessions to the hamster working the intake desk. When he patted me down, his focus had been on giving me bruises, not looking for contraband. If he had found the lock picking kit, I¡¯m sure he would have added it to my dubious charges. I¡¯d been through the booking process more times than I could count, but it was my first time experiencing it from the other side of the law. The booking officer recognized me by appearance, but only let his surprise show in a brief bounce of his eyebrows. He asked all the usual questions¡ªname, date of birth, place of residence, occupation¡ªand didn¡¯t tremble at my growled answers. He was just glad I wasn¡¯t a belligerent asshole, hopped up on something the police didn¡¯t have a name for and trying to bite his ear off. When he was through with the questions, he had me stand against the wall and took my picture, then called me back to the desk so he could take my fingerprints. They hadn¡¯t changed since they were recorded when I joined the department, but I guess the systems didn¡¯t communicate. Considering how many scoundrels were on the force, it seemed like an oversight. The officer told me to wait by a door for someone to come by and bring me to a cell. It was still early in the night, a few hours before the pandemonium that coincided with the bars closing began, so there were plenty of seats, but I opted to stand. I tended to avoid mirrors that weren¡¯t half blocked by stacks of liquor bottles, and catching my mug in the glass of a darkened window reminded me why. I looked exhausted. The imperfect reflection sapped most of the color left after the fluorescent lights had done their work, but I still saw gray around my muzzle and purple bags under my eyes. A buzzer went off and a familiar officer opened the door. I¡¯d seen the hippo twice now, once at the scene of Al¡¯s murder and again at The Cut, where he had followed Henry around like a second tail. I still had to look at the badge on his chest to remember his name. ¡°Detec¡ª I mean, Mr. O¡¯Howell,¡± he said, obviously shaken. The other officers I¡¯d run across that night were used to the grind, but Spangler was frazzled. I guess nobody told him who he was supposed to be escorting. I made the first move and Spangler let me lead him through the door until he remembered he was supposed to be in charge. He put his hand on my shoulder so it at least looked like he had me under control, but he didn¡¯t put much pressure on. I knew the way to the holding cells better than he did. The hall terminated in a T, and I nudged Spangler to the right when he hesitated. We started to make the turn, but stopped when we heard the clack of scrabbling feet coming from the next hall over. A donkey, drunk off his ass, came around the corner. He danced like he had a few gallons of fire ants poured down his pants, but the zebra behind him kept an iron grip on the links binding his wrists. I recognized the officer as one of the newbies when I was on my way out. Then, he had been a timorous, spindly legged kid. Now he was a rock, completely done with the bullshit. He saw me and raised an eyebrow, amused, but not enough to engage. When his quarrelsome charge took notice and stopped squirming to make sure I wasn¡¯t a figment of the booze dumbing his brain, the zebra slowed down to give him a good view. ¡°Hey, I know you!¡± the drunk said. ¡°You were on TV telling kids not to tip over garbage cans.¡± The zebra smirked and gave the man a token push, too light to move him now that his legs had locked. ¡°What was it you were always saying? Something like, ¡®Good boys don¡¯t do crime.¡¯¡± I tried not to react, but the bastardization of my already puerile tagline made me cringe. The grimace I made when the donkey brayed out an earsplitting heehaw in response was purely a physical reaction. ¡°Guess that didn¡¯t work out so hot for you, did it, Delinquency Dog?¡± ¡°Yeah. Doesn¡¯t look like it worked out for you either, bud.¡± I said. The donkey lost himself in a drunken reverie of laughs and honks, throwing his head around and pulling at his cuffs as if he was trying to slap his knee. ¡°All right, let¡¯s get moving,¡± the zebra said. He gave his captive a shove, making him trip forward. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you again, Mr. O¡¯Howell. Glad you¡¯re doing well.¡± He barely got the words out without laughing. He broke a second later with a giggle, then matched the donkey with a few full-bodied chuckles as I dragged Spangler to the holding cells. The zebra¡¯s unabashed joy at my suffering echoed down the hall long after he turned the corner and rang through my tired mind. I was too exhausted to care and was almost glad I was getting locked up. It¡¯d be nice to have an excuse for a full night¡¯s sleep, even if it was on a metal slab. I stopped in front of the door to the block of holding cells, and Spangler stopped behind me. The guard on the other side might have sprung the lock for me, but opening my own cage was one step too far. I gestured at the doorbell-like buzzer with my manacled hands. Officer Spangler jumped and cursed under his breath. His hand slid off me, leaving me unattended so he could line his face up with the window as he pressed the button. The door buzzed in response, and he snatched the handle, wrenching it open. The guard at the desk settled back with a heavy breath. He had his feet up and his chair leaned onto its rear legs. I followed the owl¡¯s big, round eyes down to the magazine in his hands and met a second set of headlights, these attached to the chest of a curvy red fox. ¡°Cell four,¡± the owl said. He turned the copy of Barnyard sideways and let the accordion centerfold fall out like a cartoon wolf¡¯s awooga tongue. Officer Spangler paused. He wanted to tell off the senior officer for ogling girly mags while on the clock. I¡¯d been in his place more than once and had acted on those instincts. It seemed Spangler had already learned his lesson. He pushed me down the aisle without a word, distancing himself from the guard. He waited outside the bars of cell four, where the sprawled shadows of my imminent roommates shifted. Again Officer Spangler paused, this time because he didn¡¯t know what to do. He looked back at the guard¡¯s desk, but the owl wasn¡¯t watching. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Eh, Joel,¡± I said. ¡°Pop four.¡± Joel grunted and rocked his chair a few degrees forward to reach the control panel, glancing up up from the models in his magazine only long enough to spot the right button. When he held it down, a light came on over the bars of cell four and something buzzed like a kicked beehive until Spangler opened the door. I let him guide me in and stood back while he slammed the bars shut with a satisfying clang. ¡°Someone should be with you in the morning to let you know when you¡¯ll see a judge. Hold tight until then.¡± He started walking away, but I didn¡¯t let him get far. ¡°Spangler?¡± He stopped and turned on his heel. ¡°You forgetting something?¡± I dangled my hands through the bars. When he still wasn¡¯t getting it, I gave them a shake to rattle the bracelets he¡¯d left on me. He approached cautiously and looked around the cell to see if the other inmates were still wearing theirs. When he saw they weren¡¯t, he took the key from his belt and unlocked mine. ¡°First day working intake?¡± I asked as the left cuff came open. He tried the right side but fumbled with the key. ¡°What¡¯d you do to end up working the night shift?¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Spangler asked. The second cuff released, and he took it off my wrist. ¡°You were at the scene of Al McCarthy¡¯s murder. Long way to fall from crime scene investigation to mucking out the stables. Must have gotten on somebody¡¯s bad side. Maybe Detective Henry wasn¡¯t too happy with you for answering my questions?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that.¡± ¡°Ohhh¡­ Did you show up to a shift without your gun?¡± Spangler¡¯s clay-colored skin darkened, and he turned away. ¡°Don¡¯t sweat it. Everybody does it at least once. You know what worked for me?¡± He was already walking away, but I wouldn¡¯t let him go without my two cents. ¡°I kept my car keys in the safe with my gun. That way, anytime I needed to drive anywhere I got a chance to ask myself, ¡®Do I need my gun?¡¯¡± Spangler didn¡¯t look back, but when I turned around, my fellow inmates were staring at me. It is generally inadvisable to tell the people you¡¯re locked up with you used to be a cop, but one of them would have recognized me eventually. I ignored the eyes and found myself a nice bit of bench to sit on. An atavistic urge implored me to turn a few circles before settling down, but I didn¡¯t let the impulse control me. I dropped down, crossed my arms, tucked my chin to my chest, and closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep, but kept my ears pricked in case some tough guy decided my unceremonious exit from the force and the subsequent fall from grace that landed me in with them didn¡¯t discount me from the blind cop hate. The holding cell settled when I did, but I heard one person moving. First came a soft creak as he took his weight off the metal shelf, then came the swish of polyester. I balled my right fist and cracked open an eye to see a panther in a pinstripe suit stalking toward me. In a room full of slovenly drunks and brawlers, he stood out. He was suave and a little gritty¡ªregal, yet dangerous in the same way the Cadillac that caught my eye outside the school had been. He was a career criminal, but unlike the boisterous fools who were quick to take a swing at a cop, he had nothing to prove. I let my hand relax and nestled my chin against my chest as he sat down. I acknowledged him by mumbling his name, ¡°Lawrence.¡± His ferocious teeth glinted when he grinned, so sharp the light made a sound as it glanced off. ¡°Howl. It¡¯s been a while.¡± I let my head rock up and finally gave him the dignity of looking him in the eye. ¡°Looks like you¡¯ve done all right for yourself. Big Ed still got you running around?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know what gives you that impression.¡± Lawrence¡¯s grin grew another size. He cupped his left hand over the closed fist of his right, cracking his knuckles in a way that elicited a spine tingling shiver. The fur on his fingers was flat where he had worn stacks of heavy rings now tucked away in a Manila envelope with the rest of the possessions the cops had robbed him of during processing. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you around,¡± he purred, ¡°but I never expected you to try out what life¡¯s like on the other side of the law.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just a misunderstanding,¡± I said. ¡°Should be cleared up in the morning.¡± ¡°Oh yeah, me too. I wouldn¡¯t count on things going quick for you, though. I heard Judge Roberts is going to have some car trouble tomorrow morning right before she realizes I shouldn¡¯t be locked up in here.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were prescient. Remind me when we get out; there¡¯s a guy you should meet. Maybe you two can go into business again.¡± ¡°Sorry. Plate¡¯s full.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure it is,¡± I said. ¡°Hey, I know you¡¯ve usually got blinders on and cotton balls stuffed in your ears, but you didn¡¯t pick up anything about the missing kid, did you? Ethan Calhoun?¡± ¡°That the Barnyard bird¡¯s kid?¡± Lawrence¡¯s tail flicked behind his head. ¡°Don¡¯t know anything about Ethan, but I wouldn¡¯t mind being introduced to his mother if you get a chance.¡± ¡°Hmm¡­ Don¡¯t think you¡¯re her type. She seems to go for something a bit¡­slower.¡± Sadder was more like it. Then again, she and Peter had broken up. Maybe if Virginia got Ethan back safe and sound she¡¯d go out on the prowl for something more exciting. ¡°You sure none of the cars in your boss¡¯s fleet leave tracks like the one we found on the scene? Think any of them could have been cruising around Sam Marlowe yesterday or snooping around The Margin a few hours ago?¡± ¡°My boss?¡± Lawrence asked, committing to the bit with mock ignorance. ¡°Big Ed. I¡¯m trying to whittle down the suspects.¡± Lawrence flexed his hand so his claws came out. He rubbed his thumb and middle finger together, and the keratin daggers clicked. ¡°Don¡¯t know what you think Big Ed gets up to these days, but I can tell you it¡¯s got nothing to do with snatching kids.¡± ¡°But it does have to do with selling contraband. Yes, I know, you don¡¯t know anything about that. Just stick with me. Maybe your boss saw the kid as competition. I didn¡¯t get as close a look as I would have liked, but it seemed he had quite the cannabis operation.¡± ¡°Cannabis? You mean weed? Is that really considered contraband? Can¡¯t go to a jazz club in this city and not leave smelling like you had a roll with an eager skunk.¡± ¡°So cannabis isn¡¯t in Big Ed¡¯s portfolio.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s say, hypothetically, I had some idea about how he ran his business. I¡¯d say he wouldn¡¯t see any profit in it. With most contraband, the best way to make money is to keep a strangle-hold on the market. That shit grows out of the ground. It¡¯s so easy to cultivate, a feral chimp with a double lobotomy could manage it. Big Ed¡¯s got a long arm and a lot of muscle, but even he couldn¡¯t bully every seller down. He wouldn¡¯t have time for any of his other perfectly legitimate businesses.¡± ¡°So you don¡¯t know anyone who might care?¡± Lawrence checked the claws on his other hand, already well past bored with this branch of the conversation. ¡°You could ask him yourself if you want.¡± ¡°Sure. I bet Big Ed would love nothing more than to have the guy who threw half his men in the clink at one time or another walk into his joint with his hands up.¡± ¡°Eh,¡± Lawrence said. ¡°I¡¯m sure you noticed most of the charges didn¡¯t last long. It¡¯s all part of doing business in Ed¡¯s view. Or so I heard. Actually, he¡¯s got a bit of a soft spot for you. Says you¡¯re the only cop who gave enough of a shit to push back. It kept things fresh. Made him get creative.¡± ¡°I¡¯m touched, but I¡¯m not in the mood for taking chances.¡± ¡°Suit yourself, but we can always find a spot for you if you¡¯re interested in a career change. You¡¯re quick and you know the game. Could help Ed stay one step ahead.¡± ¡°Never mind that. I had my fill of being a thug when I had a badge.¡± ¡°No need to go moralizing with me,¡± Lawrence said, holding his hands up defensively. ¡°I¡¯m just the messenger. Like I said, I hardly know the guy.¡± ¡°Right. I¡¯m sure he¡¯d say the same if I asked him.¡± A door buzzed, and I lifted my ear. Joel scrambled. The feet of his chair slammed down, then glossy paper fluttered and crumpled as he shoved his illicit magazine out of view. He pressed the button to unlock the door and tried to hide his labored breathing as he said, ¡°Good evening, Captain Roush.¡± My ears went from buzzing to burning when I heard the name and the voice that answered. ¡°Good evening, Officer Marley. Looks like there¡¯s been a misunderstanding. Did someone drop Jonathan O¡¯Howell off here?¡± ¡°Uh¡­¡± Joel tried to remember. He had only been half there when I passed through. I¡¯m not sure he knew it was me. ¡°Looks like your ride¡¯s here,¡± Lawrence said, sliding down the bench to put some distance between us. It would be bad for his image if the Captain saw him buddying up with me. I couldn¡¯t blame him. I didn¡¯t want Roush to see me like that, either. Chapter 13: Chin Wagging Seeing Captain Roush was a shock. It always was. He was young¡ªthe youngest police captain in Hot Type City¡¯s history¡ªbut he had dark bags under his eyes, doubling the bandit-mask effect of his raccoon markings. His whiskers twitched along with his pointy snout as he showed me his sharp teeth in a wan smile. His nigh-cherubic face looked out of place on his limber, early-thirties body, as if it had been transplanted. He didn¡¯t let his inexperience show and maintained a straight posture that suited his position. ¡°Howl,¡± he said through the bars. ¡°I was starting to think you were avoiding me. You know, if you wanted to say hi, you could have called.¡± I tried to return his smile, but mine was even weaker. I was avoiding him. When I first met him, he told me with that squeaky, prepubescent voice it was his dream to be the youngest detective ever. I thought it was cute. I took pride in watching him fly through the academy and excel as a beat cop. The last time I saw him, he was a newly minted detective, shipping out to help people in Burr City, just across state lines. Now, looking at the bars on his shirt and the permanent divot his constant furrowing had put in his brow, I felt a profound sense of guilt. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was my fault. My greeting came out as a reflex, but the words were slow and sullen. ¡°Hey there, Terry.¡± A spark of childlike glee flashed in Roush¡¯s eyes, but the lit coals dimmed quickly. ¡°Officer Marley,¡± Roush said over his shoulder. ¡°Pop four.¡± The light flashed, the door buzzed, and Roush opened the door. I wanted to sink into the bench, let the cold metal swallow me like a tomb, but I forced myself up and staggered out of the cell. ¡°Flying the coop already?¡± Lawrence said as I passed through the bars. ¡°Remember, Ed¡¯s door is always open for you. Just in case¡­¡± Roush glared as he slammed the door, and Lawrence put his hands up. ¡°Not that I know anything about that. I¡¯m just the messenger. Barely even know the guy.¡± Roush didn¡¯t dignify the playful banter with a response. ¡°What have you got him on?¡± I asked, deflecting so we didn¡¯t have to talk about us. ¡°Just intimidation for now,¡± Roush said. ¡°We were hoping to get him on racketeering, but it doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s going to stick.¡± ¡°His type are slippery.¡± ¡°We thought we had something, but the shop owner he had been harassing clammed up when we went back. Guess Big Ed¡¯s guys got there before we did.¡± Roush led me out of the cell block, but he didn¡¯t take me back through the intake area. He led me to an elevator, which brought us out of the dungeon and up to the top floor. I kept my head down as we crossed through the bullpen. A couple detectives still slouched over their desks, reviewing notes and scribbling reports by the glow of green-shaded lamps, but the only eyes that tracked us all the way across were those of Police Commissioner Fosse¡¯s portrait on the wall. I tried to look away from his heavy-browed scowl, but my eyes didn¡¯t find safe harbor among the desks. It was policy for officers to remain apolitical while in the public eye, but that didn¡¯t stop much of the bullpen from decorating their areas with mugs and bumper stickers and plaques bearing Regis Fellini¡¯s face and trite slogans. I knew the captain¡¯s office well. I¡¯d been chewed out there more times than I could count. The name plates on the door and desk had changed, as had the framed certificates on the wall, but everything else looked the same. It offered the same bird''s-eye view of Hot Type City, sparkling like a diamond with all the fresh puddles and rain-slick glass. Roush sat in his chair, blocking the window, and I sat across from him. I felt like I was back in the principal¡¯s office. I¡¯d been caught pulling pigtails, and Roush was going to tell me he wasn¡¯t mad; he was just disappointed. He let out a sigh, and his shoulders slumped enough to change his posture. The machine had worn him down, same as it had done to me. ¡°Do you want a drink?¡± he asked. I thought it was some kind of test, but he was already reaching in a low drawer. He came back up with a half-full bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He plunked them on the desk, splashed a few fingers into each, then slid one over to me. Some officers and I took him out for a drink at The Cut on his twenty-first birthday. I¡¯d bought him his first whiskey and watched him sputter at the taste before he gave a watery-eyed nod, assuring me that he had liked it. He slid my glass toward me, then scooped up his own and took a gulp. His eyelids fluttered with the ecstasy of the taste and the hot punch of alcohol, but he didn¡¯t grimace. He had been practicing. I took a disorienting slug myself. It was good stuff, rich and sweet. The high proof broke down chunks of calcified impurities built up in my mouth from all the cheap hooch I had guzzled in recent years, liberating my tastebuds. It would be hard going back. ¡°So. You¡¯re still looking at the Calhoun case?¡± Roush said after a second drink. His voice had a token inflection at the end, but it wasn¡¯t really a question. It was obvious what I had been doing poking around the place the police had already connected to Ethan. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Since it wasn¡¯t a question, I didn¡¯t feel a need to answer. I drank more instead. ¡°You don¡¯t need to worry about him. As you saw, we¡¯re still on it. I heard Mrs. Calhoun called off your contract. Why not work on something that pays more than mothballs?¡± ¡°Got to keep busy somehow. Don¡¯t exactly have offers flooding in. Besides, for all we know, the kid¡¯s still out there. If we¡¯re going to save him, we need to be fast.¡± ¡°I assure you, we have as many assets allocated to the case as I can spare. We¡¯re always making headway, but there¡¯s a procedure to follow.¡± ¡°Procedure¡¯s too slow,¡± I said, as close to biting as I¡¯d gotten with Roush. ¡°I thought you¡¯d have learned that by now.¡± Roush was too exhausted to take the bait. He knew I was right anyway. ¡°Sure. But cutting corners can be slower.¡± The door opened and Spangler scuttled in. He dropped a box full of my confiscated possesions onto Roush¡¯s desk. ¡°Thank you, Officer Spangler,¡± Roush said. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± Spangler didn¡¯t immediately scurry back out of the office. ¡°Sorry for the mixup, Mr. O¡¯Howell. I thought you were¡ª I mean we¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s handled,¡± Roush said. ¡°Why don¡¯t you get back downstairs? The midnight rush will be starting soon.¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± Spangler said. ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯m on my way.¡± Roush watched over the top of his glass as Spangler hurried across the bullpen. He took a deliberate sip, then said with a smirk, ¡°Rookies.¡± ¡°Wasn¡¯t so long ago you were one,¡± I said as I retrieved my things. I checked my revolver first. The cylinder was still loaded, and I tucked it into my holster where it was safe before I went back to digging. I gave my notepad a search then tucked it away too. No pages were missing, but I couldn¡¯t be sure nobody had read through it. Whatever, if they found something in there that would crack their case and bring Ethan home, more power to them. I retrieved my wallet, keys, and hat and put them in their proper places, leaving only a few receipts and scraps of crumpled paper at the bottom of the box. I might as well have turned the whole thing up over the trashcan, but I dutifully found pockets for all the junk. It helped me fill the dead air. When I had all my things packed up and set the box aside, Roush slid a pair of folded papers across the desk. ¡°Looking for these?¡± I thought I had everything, but I nodded and gave a gruff thanks when I unfolded the papers. One was an updated private investigator license, and the other was a concealed carry permit. Both had issue dates in line with when the ones from my glove compartment had expired. ¡°Looks like there was a hiccup somewhere down the line. These must¡¯ve fallen through the cracks before, but I got it sorted out.¡± As grateful as I was, it was strange coming from someone who had been lecturing me about cutting corners not three minutes ago. It seemed drinking wasn¡¯t the only unseemly part of the job Roush had gotten used to. He had become part of the corrupt machine, after all. I needed a drink, and I was glad to find one already in my hand. Roush swirled his thoughtfully. The amber reflections off the whiskey looked like firelight flickering on his face. ¡°So what can you tell me about Ethan¡¯s grow op?¡± I asked when I¡¯d found the courage. ¡°You think he might have pissed off the wrong people?¡± ¡°Nothing like that,¡± Roush said. He stayed lost in the gemstone waves of his whiskey a moment longer before he sat up and engaged with the conversation. ¡°It was just a small-time gig. A couple kids who went looking for a bit of trouble and found it.¡± ¡°A couple? Who else was involved?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell y¡ª¡± ¡°Come on, Roush. Just let me talk to them.¡± ¡°Really, I can¡¯t. Even if I thought it would help, everyone other than Wally was a juvenile. If the parents knew I was blabbing about their kids, they would have my bars and send me back down to the booking desk so fast I¡¯d get whiplash.¡± ¡°So these parents are important people? They have sway?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not giving you anything, Howl. I helped you out once tonight; don¡¯t make me regret it.¡± Even when we were almost equals in the hierarchy, there had always been a deep reverence underlying everything Roush said to me. That had been stripped away, and Roush finally showed his teeth. Almost made me proud. ¡°All right, you won¡¯t give me anything on the other kids. I get the message,¡± I said. ¡°But what about Ethan? I know he was involved. Surely you could let me have a peek at his record? I get the sense he¡¯s got a pretty thick one by now.¡± ¡°Not happening.¡± Roush¡¯s annoyance wanted to leak out, and he worked to keep his voice flat. ¡°I can¡¯t just go showing off police records to civilians. Especially not when the case is as public as this one. Hell, I¡¯ve already got the police commissioner calling me twice a day, asking for updates on the investigation. It takes a lot to get that old bastard¡¯s attention.¡± Roush had changed. The kid I knew never would have maligned the commissioner, no matter how much he deserved it. ¡°Fine, fine, no records,¡± I said. ¡°What about¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± Roush slammed his hand down, knocking the bottom of his nearly empty glass hard on the table and rattling the pens in their holder. He took a deep breath before meeting my eye again. ¡°Look, Howl. I invited you up here to catch up as friends and old colleagues. I know you want to help the kid, but there¡¯s nothing more you can do. We have all the information, all the records and leads and names and numbers, and we know what to do with them. If the guy¡¯s out there, we¡¯ll catch him. Don¡¯t you worry.¡± ¡°But¡­¡± I spoke slowly, testing the waters to see if Roush would snap again. ¡°What about time? Ethan¡¯s still¡ª¡± ¡°You know the statistics as well as I do,¡± Roush said. ¡°If Ethan¡¯s alive now, odds are he¡¯ll stay that way. If he¡¯s one of the unlucky eighty-nine percent of kidnap victims murdered in the first twenty-four hours¡­ Well, then it won¡¯t matter when we find him. All that will matter then is that we get the perp clean¡ªfollow procedure, so there¡¯s no risk of the case getting thrown out because some hot-headed detective decided to do things his own way.¡± I watched the city lights refract through my whiskey and warp around the glass as I turned it. The number of lighted windows was low already and more winked out every second I watched. I was losing time, but clearly I wasn¡¯t going to get anywhere with Roush. We drank quietly for a bit, both ruminating. I was the first to break the silence when I decided to try to salvage something of our relationship. ¡°You still with Janice?¡± Things could have gone the other way if the answer was no, but I¡¯d noticed the ring on his finger earlier. His dreary scowl disappeared in an instant and he sat up, grinning from ear to ear. ¡°Things going well? I always thought you two were good for each other.¡± They were empty words¡ªI¡¯d met Janice one time at a department cookout¡ªbut empty words were what the moment called for. Roush turned a picture on his desk around so I could see it. It was one of the few bits of ornamentation in his office, aside from the requisite flags and portraits. In the picture, Roush had his arm around a mousy-looking skunk with thick glasses. Between them was the pudgy nugget of a baby gopher. ¡°Hot shit,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re a dad?¡± Roush¡¯s new demeanor was starting to make a lot more sense. Things changed when you had a wife and kid to take care of. Making sure there was a paycheck took priority over doing the right thing. I can¡¯t say I¡¯d ever risk finding a missing child for that kind of love, but the world had looked a lot different when Growl was in it, and he wasn¡¯t even mine. Chapter 14: Tail Between the Legs I spent the better part of an hour shooting the shit with Roush. We both wore big, friendly smiles when we were through, but I left feeling like ten pounds of shit stuffed into a five-pound bag. I could only talk about wives and kids for so long. On the way out, I considered taking a peek around now that the offices were shut down for the night. I still knew my way to the record rooms and still knew where careless officers were liable to leave keys, but Roush walked me out of the building, so I never had a chance to betray his trust. I wasn¡¯t sure I could go through with it anyway. Roush wouldn¡¯t be able to save me from punishment twice in one night¡ªnor would he want to¡ªand I needed to keep things copacetic between us. He might not help much on this case, but if I found Ethan, there was sure to be more. The wound from the events leading up to my resignation still stung, but it was starting to heal. Roush offered to drive me back to my car, but I told him I¡¯d need someone to come out and kick the carburetor before Delores would move. Even if I could find a guy this late, I wasn¡¯t in the mood for any more headache that night. I demurred again when he offered to drive me home, reminding him he had a wife and kids to get back to. He tried to convince me, but I didn¡¯t want him to see how I lived. Was I embarrassed? Or did I just think it would hurt my credibility by highlighting how far I¡¯d fallen? I suppose it was a little of both. Roush needed to give me something, so I conceded to his offer of calling me a cab. We parted with a wave through the cab¡¯s window, and I let out a long sigh of relief, allowing my mask of humanity to slip. I was a slug, a worthless lump stewing in my shame. It was late, and the bars were still open. I could have called up to the driver and gotten him to take me to the deepest, dankest dive in the city so I could commit to the wallow, but I didn¡¯t say a word. Roush and I had killed the bottle from his desk, so I had enough of a buzz on to sleep. I¡¯d get what rest I could manage, but I needed to get up early tomorrow and start pounding pavement. Seeing how logy the police were, gummed up by upper management and the letter of the law, had incited my need for expediency. The grim statistics Roush referenced were at the forefront of my mind, but there were always exceptions. I had to tell myself there was a chance. If I didn¡¯t believe that, there was nothing stopping me from crawling back into a bottle and setting up camp. Some mental math told me a ride to my office would be cheaper than a ride to my apartment. With my budget stretching out to shoestrings, I had the driver take me there instead. I did a bit of pacing in the waiting room and tried to plot out my next moves, but I was dog-tired and ended the night curled up on the under-stuffed couch in the shared lobby. I might have spooked one of Cal¡¯s clients, but I woke before the gecko got in, lifted from murky dreams by a powerful need to find Ethan and an even more powerful urge to piss. After a quick run to the bathroom, I wasted time waiting for coffee to brew. I peeked in the window of Cal¡¯s office, trying to make sense of his obtuse charts and instruments. There had to be some method to his madness, and he must have gotten some results or he wouldn¡¯t have so many repeat customers. I briefly entertained the idea of asking him for help. I didn¡¯t have enough money to pay him, but I could offer to take it off his rent. The ship had all but sailed on paying my mortgage that month anyway. I tried, but I couldn¡¯t make myself believe his bunk. The lobby¡¯s exterior door opened when I was already leaning back, so I didn¡¯t have to jump far to act casual. Cal wasn¡¯t bothered by my prying. ¡°Rethink my offer to help?¡± ¡°Not this time,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m on my way out as soon as I¡¯ve got some coffee in me.¡± Cal jammed his suitcase under his armpit to unlock his office, then watched me while I filled one of the last paper cups. I tried not to stare when his wet tongue snuck out to probe his lidless eyeball. ¡°You know, you really shouldn¡¯t sleep on the couch. It¡¯s bad for your back.¡± I felt a twinge about a foot up from the base of my tail, but it was hard to be sure it hadn¡¯t been there before. Anyway, no man in his late middle-age needed a psychic to tell him his bones were shot. I put on my coat and hat, raised my cup in a salute to Cal, and left the lobby. A frantic canary hurried into the antechamber, clutching a sheaf of loose papers and chirping dainty little curses packed with frustration. Thinking she might be there for me, I hung back to hold the door open, but she shot straight through and made a beeline to the open door of Cal¡¯s office. He welcomed her and gave me one last nod as he closed the door and his new client settled her feathers. I caught a cab, but didn¡¯t take it straight to my car. If the police weren¡¯t going to help me, I needed to find someone who could. I knew just the person, but if I had tried to drive myself, I would have chickened out before I made it three blocks. With someone else driving, all I needed was one moment of courage to spit out the address. The cabbie, a seal with a bristly mustache and a rumpled flatcap pulled down to shade his eyes, would handle the rest. I watched the numbers on the meter climb as the cab took me out of Moire Park and onto I-18. We got off again after a few exits, bringing us above The Fold and into a quaint subdivision of cookie-cutter houses sprawled out for blocks on end. The trip was only a few miles, but it felt like a hundred. The car pulled up to the curb in front of a house only differentiated from the others by the numbers on the mailbox. I told the cabbie to keep the meter running and threw myself out of the back seat. Just getting out the door exhausted all the energy I¡¯d gotten from the few hours of sleep and the cup of coffee. It took a lot of grit to force myself down the sidewalk. I meant to knock on the door, but I couldn¡¯t hit hard enough to make a sound. If there wasn¡¯t a doorbell, that would have been the end of my journey. I would have slumped back to the cab with my tail between my legs. I pressed the button and the muffled ding-dong resonated in the pit of my stomach. When nobody came to the door immediately, I glanced back to the cab and saw Isabel¡¯s Buick parked in the driveway. It was in good condition and recently washed. Five years wasn¡¯t as long as it had felt. I wanted to give up, to tell myself I had tried, but it would have been a lie. I indulged an unlikely fantasy wherein I went back without talking to anyone and the cabbie asked what had happened. The driver was the gruff sort who wasn¡¯t interested in hearing any more from his riders than where they wanted to go, but the fictionalized version in my head¡ªjudgmental as a nun¡ªgave me the strength to ring the doorbell again. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Footsteps approached the door, and my instincts told me to dive into the hedges. Fortunately, my body had seized up, frozen by fear and locked down by crashing waves of the past. I was relieved for a second when a male marmoset opened the door and gave me a blank, quizzical look. My horror returned when I recognized him¡ªwhich happened about the same time as he recognized me. I had forgotten Mark. I guess I had a hard time imagining he and Isabel stayed together after what happened to Growl. ¡°Jon?¡± he said once he¡¯d picked his jaw up. ¡°Morning, Mark.¡± I scratched myself behind the ear, working out some of my nervous energy. My mouth was mushy as wet moss, and I suspected it smelled just as bad. ¡°Izzy around?¡± The way I mumbled, it sounded like I said, ¡°Is he around?¡± My heart skipped a beat when Mark¡¯s face blanched, but he figured out what I meant. ¡°Honey?¡± Mark called over his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯d better come here.¡± I heard a faucet shut off and a woman¡¯s voice answered. ¡°What is it, dear?¡± When Mark didn¡¯t respond, an aardvark came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. Mark stood back from the doorway so Isabel could see for herself. She stopped dead and stuck there for a second. She looked like she might crack and fall apart like crumbling porcelain. Her long nose quivered as her body trembled. I thought she might snap, replay one of the lectures she used to give whenever I came home late as a kid and she had to cover for me. Something did snap, but it was only the tether keeping her rooted. She floated across the living room and didn¡¯t stop when she reached the door. She ran right into me and I caught her, as soft and gentle as a cloud. ¡°Jon,¡± she said, her voice airy. She pulled herself together as she pushed out of the hug, becoming more solid. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you¡­ You should have called.¡± ¡°I know.¡± I hung my head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to drop by unannounced I just had to¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she said with a bright laugh that burned away the outer layer of my shame like the sunrise melting the fragile rime of a season¡¯s first frost. ¡°I¡¯m glad you came.¡± Mark drifted back into the kitchen. He was a smart man. He had the logical wherewithal to make sure their breakfast didn¡¯t burn and the emotional intelligence to know we could use some space. When I shifted uncomfortably, Isabel stood back and swept her hand inside, pointing at the living room couch. ¡°Shit, sorry, I should have invited you in. I need to go into work today, but fuck it, it¡¯s Sunday¡ªI can spare a few minutes. Why don¡¯t you sit down and¡ª¡± ¡°No, please,¡± I said. ¡°I don¡¯t want to impose. Besides, I¡¯ve got a car waiting.¡± Isabel saw the cab idling on the curb. ¡°I know we have a lot to catch up on, but I¡¯m in a hurry.¡± Isabel blinked at me for a second before her expression hardened. ¡°It¡¯s the kid, isn¡¯t it? Virginia Crane¡¯s son.¡± ¡°You heard?¡± ¡°Who hasn¡¯t? It¡¯s been on the news. The TV¡¯s too busy running campaign ads to get into the details, but I saw you mentioned in the Daily Glyph.¡± ¡°Yeah? I¡¯ve been meaning to check that out.¡± ¡°I think I still have the issue lying around. I could¡­¡± she tipped away from the door, but I shook my head before she committed. ¡°That¡¯s all right. I¡¯ve got a copy. I just haven¡¯t sat down to read it yet.¡± I took a deep breath, gathering what spine I had left. ¡°I¡¯ve been wanting to drop by for a while¡±¡ªit was true in a lot of ways, just not the ones that counted¡ª¡°but the kid gave me the courage to do it. I need your help.¡± ¡°Me? You think I can do something?¡± ¡°Maybe you can, maybe you can¡¯t. I don¡¯t want to force you, but do you still work at the DA¡¯s office?¡± I didn¡¯t think it was a hard question, but she cocked her head like I¡¯d asked it in Latin. ¡°You could say that¡­ You haven¡¯t been keeping tabs on recent elections, have you?¡± ¡°Only the bits I can¡¯t ignore.¡± As far as I knew, the only matter on the ballot this cycle was the congressional seat and the only candidate was Regis Fellini. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Jon, I am the DA.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± My stupefaction gave her a self-satisfied smile. ¡°I mean, congratulations.¡± Isabel laughed again. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you missed the party.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll bring a card next time.¡± ¡°Thanks. But what about this time? What do you need help with?¡± ¡°You know I hate to be a bother¡­¡± ¡°Aw, but you were always so good at it.¡± Isabel¡¯s smile widened as she remembered the way we used to banter back in happier times. I scuffed my feet, unable to make eye contact. ¡°It¡¯s the kid. Like you said, I¡¯m still on the case, but nobody¡¯s talking.¡± Isabel¡¯s face fell as she realized what I was asking. I pressed on despite the violent twisting in my gut. Each word made it exponentially worse, so I kept it brief. If I didn¡¯t, I would have ended up bent over and heaving a slurry of stale bourbon and errant coffee grounds on her welcome mat. ¡°Think you could take a peek at his records?¡± ¡°Jon.¡± Her voice was a pitying, a quiet reprimand. ¡°You know I can¡¯t do that. It would be a breach of ethics, not to mention the law.¡± I gulped down a rush of heartburn blocking my throat and nodded. ¡°You¡¯re right. It¡¯s just¡­ I thought¡­ Maybe it¡¯s better to bend the rules than to find a dead kid. Really, I wouldn¡¯t have asked if I knew you were the DA. I wouldn¡¯t expect you to risk your career like that.¡± Isabel reached out. I shivered at her touch, but relaxed when she rubbed my arm. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I understand how you feel, believe me. I wouldn¡¯t have worked so hard to become DA if I didn¡¯t want to help kids. After Grant¡­¡± She her mind took a walk as she trailed off, so she didn¡¯t hear the sharp breath that hissed through my teeth when she said Growl¡¯s name. Whenever I failed to block the thoughts and memories constantly throwing themselves at my consciousness, I always used his nickname in my head. We were silent for too long. The atmosphere had completed its heel turn from the joyful levity of reunion to the mournful pall of memorial. I might have been stuck there all day if I didn¡¯t feel the meter in the cab running and the ornery seal in the driver¡¯s seat tapping his finger on the wheel. ¡°I have to go.¡± Isabel¡¯s eyes were swimming when she looked up. I wanted to stay and comfort her, but I couldn¡¯t. ¡°Maybe we should get together for dinner sometime.¡± Her words warped around a sizable lump in her throat. ¡°I¡¯d like that.¡± I stepped off the porch and felt a palpable drop in pressure. With the elephant off my chest, I could breathe again. It gave me the strength to turn around before Isabel closed the door. ¡°Izzy?¡± I said, my voice barely audible. If she missed it, I wouldn¡¯t have to keep prying, but her aardvark ears were sharp. The door stopped and creaked back open. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to keep harping on, but I have to try¡ª¡± ¡°Jon. No, I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°I know you can¡¯t get me his files, but maybe you hear something. You know, off the record. All I need is a few names to get me started.¡± Isabel pinched her brow. She was a column about to buckle, stuck between reaming me out and caving in. ¡°Just keep your ears open. One of our kid¡¯s partners in his drug business has to know something.¡± Isabel stopped kneading. ¡°His what?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure everyone at work will be talking about it. Just let me know if you hear anything suspicious or catch any of his collaborators besides Sidewalk Wally. I already talked to him.¡± ¡°Shit. That sounds heavy.¡± ¡°Now you know why it¡¯s so important I know more. I talked to Roush, but he wouldn¡¯t give me anything. I¡¯m all on my own out here.¡± She looked thoughtful. She wouldn¡¯t need breakfast after all I¡¯d given her to chew on. I didn¡¯t think more words would help her digest the situation, and the low rumble of the cab¡¯s engine reminded me of the driver¡¯s ticking clock. My wallet was scraped to the lining as it was. I needed to go. ¡°I haven¡¯t moved shop,¡± I said as I started away. ¡°My fax and phone numbers are in the phone book if you want to Send me anything.¡± I got in the cab and looked back up the driveway. Isabel had closed the doors, but I saw the curtains part¡ªfelt somebody watching me. The cabbie said something, but I couldn¡¯t take my eyes off the house. I imagined the door opening again, a pup in a red baseball cap sprinting down the sidewalk to greet me with a hug. It was more than my shriveled, plaque-clogged heart could take. ¡°Ay, pal!¡± the cabbie barked. ¡°Meter¡¯s still running. Where to next?¡± The shout jarred me from the daydream, but I was glad to be free of it. I shook the clouds from my eyes and looked at the meter, doing some rough calculations on where I could afford to go. ¡°Get us pointed toward The Margin. I¡¯ll let you know when we¡¯re closer.¡± ¡°The Margin, eh?¡± I saw the cabbie¡¯s eyes in the rearview as he yanked the gearshift. He watched me for a minute, then shrugged to himself. ¡°Don¡¯t know why you¡¯d want to go there, but it¡¯s your money. Your funeral, too, most likely.¡± Chapter 15: Picking Up a Scent I gave the cabbie everything I had left from Virginia¡¯s premature payout as soon as we pulled up behind my car. It didn¡¯t make much of a tip considering how far off the beaten path he had to go to get there. He grunted something between thanks and a curse, rolled up his window, and left me stranded. Going out to Dolores without a wrecker to haul her away was a risk, but I was sure I could get her to come around as long as I had a few minutes to coax her. The first thing I did was stuff the papers Detective Boggs had pulled out when he turned the inside of the car into a snow globe back into the glove compartment. I packed them down to make a nest for my gun, which I lay down only after making sure the hammer was fully seated. While I was at it, I dug the new licenses out of my pocket and tucked them in with the rest of my wadded paperwork. I thought about taking another swing at investigating the grow op, but a few passing cars dissuaded me. Roush wouldn¡¯t be able to help if the cops caught me prowling again. Now that I knew the police had been there already, there wasn¡¯t much point in checking anyway. I didn¡¯t trust them to dig up all the evidence, but I was damn sure their bumbling attempts at searching had destroyed anything that wasn¡¯t right on the surface. I waited a few minutes, thinking I might draw out the black Cadillac I saw the night before. It looked like I was alone, so I allowed myself to enjoy the weather. The sky was as clear as it got¡ªa blanket of white-gray smog that let in enough sun to dry the puddles from the overnight drizzle. A few birds who hadn¡¯t accidentally eaten pesticide or strangled themselves with plastic six-pack rings chirped from nearby rooftops. If the place wasn¡¯t such a dump, it might have put me in a good mood. The pervasive smell of rot and the humid heat seeping out of the cracked pavement didn¡¯t take long to get under my skin, and I started to itch all over. It took me a few jittery stabs to get the key into the ignition, but all the mental loin-girding I had done to prepare for the great pankration had beeb for nothing. The engine turned over with the first twist of the key. I let my hands steer Dolores where they wanted to go, and my mind wandered. I didn¡¯t have much to go on after getting shut down by Roush, but my gut said Isabel would come through. Our parents had imprinted us both with a strong urge to pursue justice no matter the cost. They taught us to always defend those who couldn¡¯t defend themselves. They had meant well, but both of our lives would have been a hell of a lot easier if we hadn¡¯t been fed so many fairy tales of knights in shining armor saving townsfolk and princesses emancipating the kingdom¡¯s slaves. I was surprised when I saw my apartment building instead of my office, but only until I turned the wheel to round the corner. A waft traveled up from my underarms and out my collar, and I nearly passed out. My subconscious had known how badly I needed a shower. I slowed as I approached an open parking spot but got cold feet when I saw a pair of headlights in my mirror. The car behind me broke away at the first turn, but I did a full loop around the block to be sure, then another turn specifically looking out for black Cadillacs. It felt sillier every time I thought about it, but I trusted my instincts. If I had a bad feeling, it was for a reason. Ignoring those silly hunches was a good way to get hurt¡ªor worse, to get others hurt. My apartment was on the third floor and a perpetually out-of-service elevator made it a walk-up. An outsider might think my pad looked tidy, but it was an illusion. Really, it was just empty. The space was nothing more than three blank rooms to hold my clothes and give me somewhere to sleep that wasn¡¯t my desk. The walls were decorated only with water stains and a lurid yellow wash from the previous tenant¡¯s smoking habit. I went straight to the bathroom and got the shower running. The pipes clinked and clanked, then vomited a spray that looked like tea but smelled like kerosene. I gave it some time to clear the worst of the rust and plundered the cupboards in the kitchenette for anything edible. I ate a breakfast of stale crackers and a few fistfuls of cereal. A chitinous coating of sugar and preservatives had armored the kibble against the deleterious effects of time and mold, but the pieces were dry and sharp. I opened the fridge on a whim. A lonely carton of milk was on the top shelf, trying to make friends with the ketchup and mustard. I didn¡¯t remember buying the condiments; they were as much a part of the refrigerator as the burned-out bulb and whiny coils. The carton¡¯s sides bulged out, and a green crust had formed around the spout. Whatever was growing inside was one step away from gaining sentience. Opening it even to dump it down the sink might have been punishable as a war crime. Since I didn¡¯t have time for a trip to the Hague, I left it where it was and grit my teeth against the razor shards of undampened cereal. I muscled down enough reconstituted sawdust to mediate the war between liquor, coffee, and the hungry digestive juices inside my stomach, then went back to the bathroom. The spigot that stuck out from the broken tiles of the shower¡¯s wall wasn¡¯t sputtering as much. The stream gushing out alternated between cloudy yellow and black-flecked clear. After watching it a minute, I decided it was more clear than not and hopped into the weak jet of icy needles. It took a few minutes and half a bottle of shampoo before the water running around my legs was the same color as the water hitting my head. I didn¡¯t spend a second longer in the stream. Isabel would need time to collect information, then a bit longer to realize sending it was the right thing to do. I thought I might be able to get a few hours of sleep, but as soon as I laid down on the lumpy, floorbound mattress, my tiredness fluttered away. My thoughts spun the way the world seemed to when I was right in the sweetspot of drunkenness between harsh reality and cool oblivion. In those cases, I put an arm or leg on the ground as an anchor and let the depressant effect of the alcohol drag me under. It wouldn¡¯t work now. My mind kept hitching like a record on a turntable with a busted arm. The cyclic motion turned into ambulation. I paced around the lath and plaster cage of my apartment in my boxers. No idea would stick. I needed something I could dig my teeth into, and I needed to be there the second Isabel called or sent me something. Sleep was as much a pipe dream as finding Ethan, and I could only chase one at a time. I pulled up to the office and saw it with fresh eyes for the first time in years. The squat building seemed to sag, and the various patches of dirt meant for landscaping ran the gamut from barren to overgrown with weeds. The paint was chipped, and a film of dust and caustic chemicals from the ClearLife factory dimmed every window. An archaeologist could have tracked the gradual easing of regulations and oversight by analyzing the concentration of toxins present in the striated precipitate. I was so busy gawking at the partially occluded sign that I didn¡¯t watch where I was putting my feet. My toe caught on the turned-up corner of a concrete slab, punched up by shifting dirt and expanding ice over several winters of neglect. I caught myself on the railing stairs¡¯ railing, nearly ripping the flimsy metal lattice out of the wall. The place was a deathtrap. If I ever had a few bucks to rub together, I¡¯d have to get it fixed up¡ªor at least have Cal find us an insurance policy. For now, lawsuits weren¡¯t a high priority. I was deep underwater on my mortgage, had no assets to speak of, and no wages to garnish. The newly acquired other-sight followed me into the office. The lobby was bleak with its yellowed lights and worn furniture, but Cal made sure it was clean enough to not be an embarrassment. My office was another story. Every time I thought of the cramped space, I imagined it as it had been in the beginning. Now, it was impossible to see it as anything other than a midden of loose paper, discarded fast food wrappers, and cast off scotch bottles. It was a marvel the few clients I had in the last years made it past the door. The only clear spots were a single chair in front of my overflowing desk and a narrow aisle to it. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I tried to ignore the mess, but when I went to look at the documents Virginia had provided at the beginning of my search, I couldn¡¯t find them. Sometime in the last two days, they had been sucked into the churning Charybdis of my office. I turned over reams of crumpled paper in my search, finding places to stuff them as I went. Before I knew it, Virginia¡¯s files were out of my mind, and my focus was on cleaning. My room got bigger as I picked through the trash, and I felt less closed in. I cleaned the floor until I unearthed the couch off to the side, then dug in and around it, picking up spare change. I found enough between the cushions to buy a new bottle of scotch, then dove far under the divan to clear some of the most ancient junk. I found an envelope, pinned against the wall by the couch¡¯s stubby leg, amid a graveyard of used kleenex and the crusty amber husks of dead insects. The envelope fallen off the abutting filing cabinet in some bygone era. Inside were four crisp ten-dollar bills. I found it hard to imagine a time when I could lose forty dollars and not spend the next two weeks tearing the place apart looking for it. Now it felt like a prize, some nameless entity rewarding me for moving in the right direction. The money could bump up the quality of the bottle I bought to somewhere near the top shelf. That, or it could buy me a couple meals and a tank of gas. Every time I heard the lobby door open, I stopped rustling and strained to hear over the settling papers, plastic garbage bags, and clinking bottles. Each time, Cal¡¯s voice answered, and he led the customer back into his office. I picked up the handset on my desk to check the dial tone and made sure the phone company hadn¡¯t shut off my line. The robotic squeal was there, but the ringer kept quiet. The fax machine in the lobby was equally taciturn. When I bought it five years ago, I thought I¡¯d have more than enough cases between me and my lieutenant detectives to keep it fed, but now it languished from disuse. The only work it got was a few forms a week from Cal. Noon came and went. My stomach hurt from emptiness, but I was accustomed to the pain. The crackers and cereal I ate earlier gave me enough strength to pack away nearly all the trash, but there were still a few piles left when the sleep I¡¯d been missing caught up with me. I put a knee down on the couch to reach a bottle I¡¯d spotted around the side. Once I got it and stuffed it in a bag, the couch sucked the rest of my body down. It was the kind of nap a dog can only dream of. My body floated as my mind flipped in and out of this world, trading places with another Howl who existed in a brighter, happier universe near ours¡ªone where the red baseball cap hanging by a hook next to the door was instead screwed down on Growl¡¯s head. He was out on the street, solving petty crimes and disappearances like his favorite uncle. A string of beeps shunted my mind back into my body, and the mechanical whirring that followed pulled me up like a backhoe dredging muck from the bottom of a pond. I made a schlorp sound as I unstuck from the soft cocoon of the cushions and knocked over a bag overflowing with bottles as I ran across the room. Cal held the outer door open, shaking hands with an elderly couple, a muskrat and a llama, as they departed. They startled at the sight of a half-crazed bloodhound with cowlicks all over his body charging out from the dark hallway, but Cal¡¯s lack of a reaction calmed them. I ran to the fax machine and looked at all the flashing lights, praying the damned thing had ink and paper and wasn¡¯t jammed. Something clicked inside the cabinet responsible for all the whirring and grinding sounds, and a piece of paper stuck out of the printer like a tongue. I let it grow for a second but tore it out before it dropped. The last inch became smudge where the grainy artifacts caused by the machine¡¯s inability to mimic the original¡¯s colored stationary had smeared. There was no letterhead and no official seal to indicate it had come from the DA¡¯s office. Isabel wouldn¡¯t want to incriminate herself with a paper trail. Then again, she wouldn¡¯t have used a watermark at all. The formal letter in my hands was typed over a grayed image of a carrot. I didn¡¯t recognize the calling card or the name in the closing line my eye shot to: Lady Demoiselle. It wasn¡¯t like Isabel to use an alias so whimsical. My eyes ran up the block of text to the top, and I read a few lines. ¡°Salutations, Inspector O¡¯Howell. I hope this message finds you well. I don¡¯t wish to be a bother, but I am in most dire need of your assistance.¡± The same stilted style continued through the document. I skimmed it to suck out the information without putting myself back to sleep. The letter was about a case. A woman, apparently a big name in the Parisian fashion industry, had misplaced a whole shipment of rather expensive jewelry. Lady Demoiselle watched the crate get packed onto a cargo ship, and she had records of it arriving safe in New York City. From there it had been loaded onto a freight train to Hot Type City where it was unloaded and held in a warehouse for no more than three days. When her shipping company went to give it a shove on to the next leg of its journey, they noticed the crate was too light and popped it open. They found nothing but straw packing material inside. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of precious metals and gemstones were gone without a trace. That¡¯s where I came in. I was to sniff out this elusive treasure and arrange a reunion with Lady Demoiselle¡¯s agents when they came to town a week from now. She assured me the case would be hard, and I¡¯d need to drop everything to work on it. And why shouldn¡¯t I? The reward she proposed started at five thousand dollars and included a substantial bonus if I got things wrapped up with a nice bow before her people got to town. Not a bad payday, but Lady Demoiselle insisted it was fair. She was paying not only for my experience and know-how, but also my discretion. She had no appetite for a circus. If she called on the police to help her, it would become an international affair¡ªfront page news all over Europe and a real blow to Lady Demoiselle¡¯s good name. When I finished the letter, I flipped it over to check for more information. My fax machine printed only on one side, so the paper was as blank as it had been when Cal loaded it into the tray. ¡°Something not adding up?¡± Cal asked when he saw my scowl. I shook my head, re-reading parts of the letter. ¡°Adding up a bit too nicely. Like a fist grade math test.¡± I handed the page to Cal to get his take on it. He mopped both eyeballs with his tongue as they moved down the page. ¡°I don¡¯t need a crystal ball to see this is a scam,¡± I said as he finished. ¡°Two nights ago, Virginia¡¯s telling me to bail on the kid and drop the case. Now, after I kept prying, this comes along to take my mind off it. It¡¯s too clean. I smell a ruse.¡± ¡°You think she sent this?¡± ¡°No, probably not. But I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if she¡¯s been seeing a couple black Cadillacs of her own. Somebody doesn¡¯t want this kid to get found.¡± ¡°Any clue who it¡¯s from?¡± I took the paper back and looked more closely. Besides the watermark and the bogus name at the bottom, there was nothing to identify the writer. I might have recognized a handwritten letter, but this had been banged out on a typewriter. ¡°Why the time limit?¡± I said, letting Cal¡¯s question drop as I thought out loud. ¡°What¡¯s going to happen this week?¡± Cal filled his lungs to offer a few guesses, but another trill from the fax machine cut him off. The mechanism whirled and clunked, spitting a new sheet. I expected a follow up, another page with a carrot watermark and a few more clues to unravel, but this message came on a piece of lined paper ripped from a legal pad so the frayed edges at the top were seen as shadows in the print-out. I recognized the handwriting from a dozen forged doctor¡¯s notes when I was in school. ¡°Howl. You were wrong about the matter being the talk of the town. I had to go digging before I heard anyone mention the bust, but I found why they were keeping it quiet. Two of the other kids involved were the usual delinquents, but the third was Russel Sanders¡¯s son, Douglas. He and Commissioner Fosse are joined at the hip, so I suspect his friend is paying him back for old favors. I¡¯m taking a risk sending this to you, but you need to know. ¡ªI¡± I read the message twice, then crumpled it up in an ashtray and put a lighter to it. I kept the letter from Lady Demoiselle as pristine as possible. There might be some clues there, but with a more direct lead to follow up on, I had to set it aside for now. Cal wet his eyes again and looked at the smoldering paper in the ashtray, bringing my attention back to it just as a glowing ember drifted up like a balloon out of a child¡¯s weak grip and floated toward a rack of Cal¡¯s pamphlets. Some were dry while others had an unholy chemical coating to make them as glossy as polished glass. I clapped the spark out before it settled in with the papers, then watched the rest of the note burn down, ready to put out any more escaped embers. I¡¯d pushed Isabel out on a limb to send that. The least I owed her was a solid effort to keep it between us. Once all the incriminating text had burned away, I stamped out the rest with a few quick pats. The information was days old by then¡ªI would have had it the night before if the police weren¡¯t so cagey¡ªbut that only heightened the urgency. I wouldn¡¯t go as far as suspecting Fosse or Sanders for being directly involved in Ethan¡¯s disappearance, but Douglas must know something. Interviewing him might put a black smirch on the Sanders¡¯s name, but only a complete sociopath would think that wasn¡¯t a fair cost for finding a missing child. Unfortunately, Russel Sanders¡ªthe executive of a slew of broadcast networks used to disseminate misinformation, influence the public, and incite political dissent for financial gain¡ªticked all the boxes. Cal tracked me scurrying around the lobby as if he was watching a swinging pendulum. I dumped the ashtray into a garbage can, poured myself a cup of coffee, dropped the letter with the carrot watermark off in my office, grabbed my hat and coat, and was out of the building all in the space of thirty seconds. Chapter 16: Smells Like Monkey Business All the powerful people in Hot Type City gathered at the heart of downtown. When they couldn¡¯t pack in any denser, downtown had grown up until massive towers gouged the low-flying clouds like fingers dipped into a stream. The buildings towered over Dolores and I, but I lacked the requisite respect for authority to be intimidated by them. I was just tired and annoyed with the traffic. Dolores squeezed through gaps like a lemon seed pinched between fingertips until I was under the shadow of one of the most imposing towers, the Morales Building. It was home to many influential people, but the absolute pinnacle was Russel Sander¡¯s penthouse. From below, the glass-bounded prism of the top two floors looked like every other level, but it was a palace. Many articles had been written about the architectural stylings of Hot Type City¡¯s most valuable real estate. I saw the Sanders¡¯s residence touted on front covers of magazines in waiting rooms for years, a new one with every season. As far as I could tell, Russel didn¡¯t give a damn how things looked as long as they were better than what everyone else had. He let his wife, Cynthia¡ªthe first lady of Sanders Worldwide News Media Conglomerate¡ªhandle all that business. She was glad for a way to keep her socialite lifestyle going after the golden years had passed. I did a bit of reconnaissance around the building, but gave up on my due diligence the third time I had to swerve to avoid smashing into the flashing lights of a double-parked car or an impatient pedestrian trying to slip across in the middle of the block. When I saw an open parking meter by the curb, I elbowed Dolores over. An oversized black town car filled each adjacent spot. For once, I was glad for the Vega¡¯s compact form factor, even if I did sometimes feel like I was driving around inside a bargain bin toaster oven. I had no intention of paying for parking. I was going to be quick, and I didn¡¯t have much change to throw around. The two dollars it cost for the half hour was completely unreasonable. When I looked back at Dolores, I saw how badly she stuck out. The kinds of people who lived and worked in the area would look for any excuse to dissuade the driver of a shitcan like her from bringing it around their parts again. She would be a prime target for parking enforcement officers. The change I¡¯d dug up from the couch jangled in my pocket, but I refused to be intimidated. I opened the passenger door, unlocked the glove compartment, and moved my gun out of the way so I could dig out the parking ticket I earned outside of The Cut. While I was there, I took the updated private investigator license and put it behind the plastic window in the official-looking badge holder I carried. Most times, a flash was all I needed to get through doors, but they paid the guards at a place like the Morales Building enough to give the appearance of caring. I slipped the parking ticket under the windshield wiper arm and went to the front entrance. Seeing my confident stride, the doorman held the door open and offered a ¡°good afternoon.¡± It would have been against the character of someone living there to thank or even acknowledge him, so I didn¡¯t. The concierge desk looked like the counter at the kind of bank you needed a personal invite and a million dollar deposit to join. It was the focal point of the pristine, polished marble lobby, otherwise filled with pods of low, uncomfortable furniture, cultivated vines, and oblique modern sculptures that screamed, ¡°Do Not Approach.¡± On one side of the room, a sheet of water ran down a jet-black wall like a waterfall on a far-off planet made entirely of obsidian. The sound of chimes and brushed strings lilted around the murmur of running water, but the air still felt cold and heavy. The men and women behind the desk wore red silk vests with black bow ties, a uniform that made them look more like actors. Some of them looked at me, strolling through the sparse herd of people walking to and from the elevators. They knew I was out of place, but their script didn¡¯t include confronting guests. There were others on staff for that. One of them found me in front of the elevators. He was a baboon in a short, cylindrical hat, and a red and gold double-breasted coat like a chef¡¯s jacket, buttoned up to the neck. ¡°Are you visiting?¡± the baboon asked. He didn¡¯t need to say the words to get his real message across: he knew I didn¡¯t belong there. ¡°I¡¯m here on business.¡± I flashed my badge and tried to keep walking, but his hands were fast. They went from clasped behind his back to snatching the leather folder out of my hands in an instant. His lips moved as he studied the newly replaced license, looking back and forth between it and me, even though there was no picture to match up. ¡°Who are you here to see?¡± ¡°No need to worry about giving me directions. I know where I¡¯m going.¡± I tried to take my badge back, but the baboon turned away, walking to a small desk tucked to the side of the elevator area like a ma?tre d''s station at a fancy restaurant. ¡°I¡¯ll just call up and let them know you¡¯re here.¡± He took a phone handset off the prongs of its archaic cradle and stared at me, his finger hung over the rotary dial like the sword of Damocles. I glanced back as an elevator opened. A well-dressed couple walked out, getting an early start on a night on the town. I could make a break for it, but now that the tough-guy had his sights on me, I wouldn¡¯t get far. They¡¯d shut down the elevator, call for more muscle, and throw me out on my ear. I had to play along. ¡°I¡¯m going to the top. Sanders¡¯s residence. I¡¯m here to talk to Cynthia about her stepson.¡± The baboon gave me a deserved scowl, hesitating to even bother such venerable people as the Sanders. ¡°Are they expecting you?¡± ¡°Not exactly. I¡¯m following up on an ongoing investigation. Can¡¯t say too much more, you understand.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The man checked my license again, seeing if maybe he¡¯d missed an HTPD emblem somewhere on it. ¡°I¡¯m working with the police on this case. I believe the Sanders have been dealing with Detective Henry.¡± Saying his name, implying I would ever share a patrol car with him again, was like stabbing myself in the kidneys. I grit my teeth against the pain, and it almost looked like a smile. The baboon stared a moment longer, then stuck his finger in the ring, spun the dial to zero, released it, then spun it to zero again. ¡°Yes. Hello, Margaret,¡± the baboon said in a voice far more cordial than the one he used with me. ¡°Would you let Cynthia know there¡¯s a man to see him? An inspector. Says he works with a Detective Henry.¡± The baboon stared at me as he went back and forth with Margaret, making sure she got all the information. After, he was quiet for a long minute. People passed us by, coming and going from the apartments. He looked surprised when the voice came back. All I heard was a tinny mumble, but he nodded along. ¡°All right, Margaret. I¡¯ll bring him up.¡± He let out a long, reluctant sigh as he set the phone down, then led me to the elevator. The inside of the box was lined with shiny brass, which made a warped mirror out of each wall. The baboon¡¯s hand skimmed across the tall stack of buttons. Instead of pressing any of them, he stuck a key from his pocket into a keyhole next to a plate that said, ¡°Penthouse.¡± The elevator rocked at first, but moved smoothly once it got going. It accelerated slowly, so it wouldn¡¯t put too much strain on the ancient knees of the bluehairs who occupied the upper floors. The door opened on an entryway almost as grand as the lobby itself, but with a few more homely touches to give it the appearance of comfort. Persian rugs lined the path to the living area, each worth more than I had ever paid for a car. The statues flanking the door were made of wood, abstract but with inviting round edges. A mirror on the wall reflected the image of a budgie in a smock walking toward us. ¡°Thanks, Edward,¡± Margaret said once she had a moment to get over the shock of my earthy appearance in her celestial domain. ¡°I¡¯ll take him in to see Madam Sanders.¡± The baboon gave the girl a toothy grin and tapped his coffee-can hat. He pressed a button, and the door closed with a swish. Again, Margaret hesitated, taking in my appearance and wondering if she had made a mistake letting me in to befoul the rarefied air of the apartment. I was glad I had stopped by my place for a shower and a change of clothes. She might have kicked me to the curb anyway, but something stopped her. I saw recognition in her eyes. There was something magical about seeing a person in the domed glass of a TV screen. Cathode ray tubes could shoot photons straight past a person¡¯s natural defenses against nonsense and bullshit, inveigling on the subconscious and allowing the ideas to set up shop. It¡¯s what made television marketing so effective and what allowed people to believe someone like Regis Fellini was going to make our city, state, or country a better place. Margaret shook herself. When her feathers settled, she swept her arm down the hallway with a slight bow and confirmed my suspicions about her knowing who I was. ¡°Right this way, Mr. O¡¯Howell.¡± The short hallway let out into a massive living area strewn with art. If not for all the seating, multiple bars, and conversation pit like a swimming pool, I might have thought it was a museum. There was one portrait of Cynthia, Russel, and a chipmunk too young to be Douglas, but the rest of the pieces were all impersonal. The far wall was all glass and gave an unimpeded view of the gray clouds of smog the city was steeped in. Margaret gestured to a hallway cut into the wall to the left side of the room. ¡°Mrs. Sanders is with friends in the sitting room right this way.¡± I wanted to hang around and get a sense of the place before I talked to Cynthia, but I felt Margaret pushing me along. I didn¡¯t care much for leashes. As soon as one was around my neck, I looked for a way to slip out of it. ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind, may I use your phone before I talk to Cynthia?¡± I asked. ¡°I need to call back into the station to make sure I¡¯m not missing any updates.¡± Margaret stopped, squinted. Her mind was engaged in a heated battle. One half demanded she protect her employers, but the other insisted she could trust me. Her deeply rooted feelings about me won out in the end, and she gave me another imperceptible bow. ¡°If you¡¯d like, Mr. O¡¯Howell.¡± I tried to pick up on anything that might constitute a clue as we passed through the living area. Margaret and the rest of the staff kept the place immaculately clean. There could have been a ritualistic cult suicide there the night before and I would never have known. Margaret led me down an austere hallway into an area reserved for the service staff. The phone was at the end of the hall. To the left, I saw a smaller elevator and to the right, the chrome monstrosity of an industrial kitchen. I made a show of appreciating the portraits on the wall above the table the phone was on, but it stopped being an act when I noticed a familiar face tucked into the corner, past more pictures of the chipmunk from the main room. One out of the eight frames featured a porcupine. His buck teeth were more pronounced in the outdated photograph, but I recognized him from two days ago. He was the kid I had tried to interrogate at Sam Marlowe Academy. Could have saved myself a hell of a trip if that hard-headed rhino hadn¡¯t gotten in the way and I had more time to prod at Douglas back then. Margaret cleared her throat and gestured to a copy of the archaic phone Edward had used below. ¡°Right. Sorry,¡± I said, picking up the handset and putting my finger into the rotary wheel. I spun out the first two numbers, then paused and gave Margaret a serious look. ¡°Actually, would you mind giving me some privacy? There might be some sensitive information.¡± Margaret looked around. I was testing her undue trust as she considered the weight of her position. She gave in, but held on to some reservations. ¡°I¡¯ll be right at the end of the hall when you¡¯re finished.¡± She nodded and walked back the way she had come, looking over her shoulder several times. She stopped short of the portal to the living area and stood to the side with one hand laid demurely on top of the other in front of her. I would have liked more space so I could have a proper look around, but I didn¡¯t press my luck. I finished dialing one of the numbers in my mental Rolodex and caught the tail end of a jazzy riff before the weather report began. There wasn¡¯t much to see in the cubby. The desk was empty except for a small notepad placed next to the phone¡¯s cradle. I inspected the top sheet, gilded with Russel Sanders¡¯s personal letterhead. No one had left any messages out in the open for me to read, but I felt indentations when I brushed my fingers over the top. It was probably the receipt of Edward¡¯s call from the lobby, but I had always been the nosy sort. I held the phone in the crook of my shoulder and knocked the pencil out of my notepad¡¯s spiral binding. I scrubbed the deboss with graphite as the voice on the phone predicted sunny weather for Tuesday¡ªa lie to get in the spirit of Election Day. The pen must have been low on ink or guided by a malignant heart, because the servant who had taken the message did so with a heavy hand. White words showed through the haze of gray I painted with my pencil. ¡°Fosse for Sanders, 8:30 AM. Re: Douglas. Call back ASAP.¡± It wasn¡¯t much to go on, but it was a start. Everyone knew Fosse and Sanders ran in the same circle¡ªall the elite did¡ªbut it was telling that they had talked about Douglas that morning. I had been nosing around the case, stirring up shit he thought he¡¯d settled. Maybe Fosse called Russel to warn him about me. Maybe Sanders called someone else to warn him about me. I thought of the black Cadillac. I hadn¡¯t seen it that day, so it could have been unrelated. What I had seen was a transparent attempt to put me off the case. The Sanders had to be involved. Chapter 17: Snake Pit I ripped off the evidence of my prying and slotted the page into my notepad. Margaret was still looking the other way, so I thought I might take a quick peek around. I started toward the kitchen but didn¡¯t make it far before a noisy rumble stopped me. The small, utilitarian service elevator arrived on the floor with a soft ding, and a pair of chefs in clean white uniforms emerged. When they saw someone waiting for them, their backs straightened and they cut their chatter. They each gave me a polite nod and proceeded into the kitchen in silence. Margaret had heard the subdued commotion, bringing her attention back to me. ¡°All set, Mr. O¡¯Howell?¡± ¡°Everything¡¯s squared away with the home office. You can take me to Cynthia now.¡± My detective¡¯s mind filled in the narrative implied by the evidence of the phone call while I dawdled back to Margaret. Roush had mentioned to Fosse that I had been poking around the crime scene. Fosse had then called Sanders to warn him. Then Fosse had someone drum up the fake bounty to keep me distracted. I seemed like a clown to some thanks to my TV persona. Fosse thought I was when he expected me to fall for the clumsy, heavy-handed scheme. Truth is, I¡¯m a real detective with decades of experience, and I had already sniffed out his little rug rat. Fortunately for him, I wasn¡¯t going to say anything no matter how salacious the prospect of Hot Type City¡¯s top plutocrats breeding a low-life criminal was. I didn¡¯t see that it was anyone¡¯s business but their own. I wasn¡¯t Marcella. Margaret brought me back through the main room and down the hall. The apartment was an offensively big place, but I wouldn¡¯t have had any trouble finding the women on my own. The sound of tinkling glasses and jewelry were almost as piercing as the women¡¯s high-pitched, half-drunk tittering and clucking. Massive windows framed the corner room, capturing what light shone down through the clouds and bounced up from the stratus of smog below. The north wall opened onto a rooftop patio, complete with a full-sized swimming pool, deck chairs, and multiple cabanas. With November coming on strong and a dreary December on the horizon, the weather was far too cold to get any use out of the space. Still, the pool was filled to the brim with water saturated with caustic chemicals and vibrant dyes that gave it an unnatural sapphire hue. Fine crystal drinkware glittered like diamonds in the hands of three of Hot Type City¡¯s most influential women¡ªat least according to the entertainment news that was Russel¡¯s stock-in-trade. I recognized Cynthia and the field mouse, Barb Chapel, from magazine covers, but not the same ones I recognized the apartment itself from. They were the sort you¡¯d only find on high shelves at unscrupulous news stands and hidden inside black cellulose bags to spare children the temptation. The women lounged around a short, wide table loaded with champagne bottles and fresh fruit. The slick glass table might have been called a coffee table in another apartment, but caffeine wasn¡¯t the stimulant it was most acquainted with. Cynthia, the snake at the center of the group, looked up when Margaret entered. She smiled while her friends continued to laugh, but I didn¡¯t miss the way her hood puffed out when she looked at me. Was she scared I might find something? Or just annoyed to have someone as unkempt and unmannered as myself invade her Shangri-La? The laugher died down as the other women took notice of me. All three pressed their lips into camera-ready smiles. It took a second to get over the surprise of seeing her there with the former starlets. When I did, I recognized the third member of the cohort, a cat with luscious waves of white hair. Thick black lines outlined her eyes, bringing out the blue in them, lighter and more precious than the manufactured pool water. She could have been a model by the way she batted her lashes, but she was famous in her own right from all her media appearances at Regis Fellini¡¯s side. ¡°Mrs. Sanders?¡± Margaret¡¯s voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly would cause Cynthia to shatter like delicate glass. ¡°The detective is here to see you.¡± Cynthia¡¯s tongue flickered out with a faint hiss before she spoke. It was fundamentally the same as Cal cleaning his eyeballs, a pink tongue on green scales, but I¡¯d be lying if I said it wasn¡¯t a little enticing when she did it. It felt dangerous, flirty, and intimate all at the same time. She had picked up a few tricks from her Barnyard days. ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell. Why don¡¯t you pull up a seat? Have a mimosa?¡± I wasn¡¯t usually the type to turn down a drink, but I had business to take care of. Besides, their drinks all looked too saccharine by half. I needed something with bite. ¡°I won¡¯t be here long. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard, I¡¯m on a case.¡± ¡°Yes. I heard about that. Just awful what happened to that poor kid.¡± ¡°You¡¯re looking for Ethan Calhoun?¡± Felicity Fellini asked, but she didn¡¯t wait for me to respond. ¡°I¡¯ve been following the news. You should know, my husband is disturbed by what happened and is doing everything he can to help the police solve the case.¡± ¡°Sure. When he isn¡¯t busy with talk shows and rallies,¡± were the words I thought. What I said was: ¡°Virginia is grateful for all the help she can get.¡± I found things went a lot smoother if the people you interviewed thought you were trying to be their friend. When I couldn¡¯t swing that, I at least tried not to be hostile. I used to be a lot better at it when I was on the force. ¡°Awfully sad,¡± Barb squeaked, her head swaying from side to side in a daze. ¡°Must be especially hard for you two because you knew her.¡± ¡°Wha¡ª Huh?¡± Barb said. ¡°Oh, right. I guess we did.¡± ¡°Barnyard was a long time ago¡ªlonger for some than others.¡± Cynthia packed a lot of contempt into her words, defying the affected pleasantness of her tone. ¡°Sure, but I wasn¡¯t talking about Barnyard. I was talking about your kids. They went to school together, didn¡¯t they?¡± ¡°Who me?¡± Cynthia said. She gave Barb an incredulous look. The mild disgust she got back strengthened her, allowing her to slip a healthy dose of disdain into her next words. ¡°Ethan is what, thirteen? My Paisley is barely out of diapers. You see, we waited until we settled down before having kids.¡± ¡°I was talking about Douglas.¡± Cynthia¡¯s tongue darted out with a slithering sound audible in the fresh-fallen-snow silence. She thought about it a moment. I couldn¡¯t be sure it wasn¡¯t just the added splash of vodka in her mimosa clouding her mind. ¡°Hmm¡­ Yes. I suppose Douglas might have mentioned a kid named Ethan. I guess I never made the connection.¡± ¡°Really? You don¡¯t talk much, do you?¡± ¡°You know boys his age. They start caring about girls and looking cool and getting into trouble. Don¡¯t have much time for their stepmothers.¡± ¡°That right?¡± I said. Cynthia¡¯s eyes narrowed as she sipped her drink. I let her stew in the moment. Now that I knew Fosse had called to warn them, I knew she knew what I was there for. I¡¯d let her broach the subject. What can I say? I¡¯m a nice guy. And this way I got to see which questions she wanted to answer and which she wanted to evade¡ªhow she wanted to frame the situation. ¡°He¡¯s a good kid, you know.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Aren¡¯t they all?¡± ¡°Not that Ethan brat.¡± I had given Cynthia all the time in the world to choose how to respond, and she chose venom. The other two women gasped, and Felicity clutched her hand to her chest. I didn¡¯t react at all. I wanted to draw out more. ¡°I think you know what I¡¯m talking about, Mr. O¡¯Howell. Ethan wasn¡¯t the sweet kid they show on TV. Can¡¯t blame him too much, though.¡± Cynthia set her glass down and occupied herself with a cigarette in a foot long holder. She balanced the rod between her slender fingers with barely any pressure holding it down, but her face stayed hard. ¡°His mother was a whore, and his father was a doped-up burn-out. The inevitable has happened¡ªVirginia went fishing in more open water if I had my guess¡ªand now you¡¯ve got a broken family to exacerbate his problems. Kid probably ran off.¡± ¡°Tell that to Al McCarthy¡¯s widow.¡± My voice was sharper than I had intended. The other two women were looking for a way out, fearing the impending fight, but Cynthia didn¡¯t budge. She dragged on her cigarette, let the smoke flow out of the slits of her nostrils, then blew the rest of the cloud out the side of her mouth. ¡°Could be a coincidence. Kid decided to dip. Al was embarrassed the kid got away and went looking for him in a bad part of town.¡± ¡°Nice theory. But the evidence doesn¡¯t match up.¡± If it had been a mugging, the killer would have stripped Al¡¯s body clean, stolen his car. Probably the thug would¡¯ve tossed him in the Gutter just to be sure. ¡°I don¡¯t think it was a coincidence he was found in The Margin a few streets down from where your kids were doing their little horticulture experiment. But you didn¡¯t know anything about that, did you?¡± ¡°Not until recently, no.¡± It wouldn¡¯t do any good to keep harping on about it, so I changed tack. ¡°When was the last time you talked to Virginia?¡± Cynthia settled back in her seat, gave a casual flip of the hand not holding her cigarette. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Ten years? Maybe one of our staff has talked to her waiting outside the school or something. You could ask them.¡± ¡°I will, but I¡¯m not quite done talking to you yet. You must have some insight, given your background together.¡± ¡°It was fifteen years ago,¡± Barb said, giving Cynthia a break. ¡°We¡¯ve all changed a lot since then. Her more than us.¡± I flipped open my notepad, careful to keep the rubbing from slipping out. I wanted to encourage them to talk by implying we were just getting to the part worth writing down. ¡°We went on to have full rewarding careers,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°She fell out of that life early when she decided to start pumping out kids.¡± ¡°She chose to leave Barnyard?¡± ¡°Not sure if chose is the right word. She got pregnant and refused Heifer¡¯s offer to have it taken care of. Couldn¡¯t have her at Barnyard after that. Not good for the brand.¡± ¡°Mothers weren¡¯t in vogue?¡± ¡°Barnyard is a classy magazine¡ªor at least it was in its golden age,¡± Barb said. ¡°Our subscribers wouldn¡¯t have stood for a cover model who had a kid out of wedlock. With a musician, no less.¡± Felicity shivered at the mention of a musician and the image of slovenly, trilby-wearing, poetic types it evoked. ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°If she wanted to keep up modeling, she would have needed to find a home in one of the trashy mags¡ªSpread, Wingspan, Topdown¡ªyou know the sort.¡± ¡°I¡¯m familiar,¡± I said, jotting down an encouraging burst of scribbles. ¡°Just not the same class,¡± Barb mused. ¡°Can you imagine if she had been invited to the reunion? All frumpy and sad, smeared makeup, thrift store dress¡­ What?¡± Barb cut her diatribe short when she noticed Cynthia staring at her. I stopped scribbling. Barb had hit on something Cynthia thought was significant. ¡°There was a reunion?¡± ¡°Just a little thing,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°A girl¡¯s night to commemorate Heifer opening Club Callout. We shot a few promos for him, that¡¯s all. It¡¯s not at all like you¡¯re thinking. Even Felicity was there.¡± Now it was Felicity¡¯s turn to scowl. ¡°Regis thinks it¡¯s important to support local businesses. All the stars were out that night.¡± ¡°Must have made Virginia awfully jealous to see you getting back into it while she was left out in the cold.¡± Cynthia snorted a puff of cigarette smoke out her nostrils, then blew it away. ¡°I¡¯ll say. I heard she went crawling to Heifer after she found out, begging him to involve her in something like that. He knew she wouldn¡¯t fit. She didn¡¯t have the class for events like the reunion, and she didn¡¯t have looks or youth to fit in with his dancers on usual nights. Heifer said she had let herself go, but from what I¡¯ve seen on TV, it looks like she swung back the other way. All skin and bone, trying to slim down so she can be a model again.¡± All three women chuckled, but I didn¡¯t see the joke. Virginia had looked more on the gaunt side when I saw her. The disappearance of her son could account for some of the hollowness, but not all. ¡°When did all this happen?¡± I asked. ¡°With Heifer and the reunion?¡± ¡°Hmm¡­ You¡¯d have to check the newspapers to get the date right, but it¡¯s ancient history. I¡¯m sure it has nothing to do with Ethan, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking.¡± ¡°How ancient? Weeks? Months? Years?¡± ¡°Months,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°Sometime this summer. Must¡¯ve been August.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Felicity said. ¡°It was the week before Heifer formally opened Club Callout. Tell me, Mr. O¡¯Howell, have you been?¡± Her voice was suggestive. She was trying to embarrass me, but it wouldn¡¯t work. ¡°Haven¡¯t had the pleasure. I¡¯ve heard stories, though. Any of you get up on stage? Maybe relive the glory days a bit?¡± My attempt to embarrass them was marginally more successful. Cynthia smiled coyly, but Barb clutched at the pearls on her chest. ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell, please,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°Those days are long behind us. We were there as VIPs.¡± A door opened somewhere in the mountaintop mansion and voices echoed down the hall. Two men laughed. Each sounded smarmy in a different way. One was husky and kind of nasally. The other sounded too clean¡ªlike it was a performance, all charisma with nothing behind it. I smelled the men before I heard their footsteps: cigars and the kind of scotch I¡¯d need to clean under a hundred dirty couches to afford. Regis Fellini came around the corner first, as comfortable navigating the labyrinthine penthouse as Russell Sanders, who followed behind him. Russel stopped smiling when he saw me, hiding his uneven teeth. His nose twitched, compelling his whiskers to do the same, and the dead weight of his great, fleshy tail thumped behind him when he stopped. If Regis was surprised to see me, he didn¡¯t show it. He blinded me with a smile that widened like the slow opening of a crocodile¡¯s jaw. ¡°Hey. Don¡¯t I know you, son?¡± Russel said, waggling a finger at me. His hands were hairless and small compared to his corpulent rat body. ¡°You¡¯re that dog detective from TV, right? Ruff McGruffin, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Close,¡± Regis said, sparing me the indignity. ¡°That¡¯s Jonathan O¡¯Howell, Delinquency Dog. I¡¯d recognize his face anywhere. He¡¯s one of Hot Type City¡¯s most iconic characters¡ªor was for a few years. Too bad it didn¡¯t work out. I was always a fan.¡± I nodded in lieu of thanks. ¡°Doing some last-minute campaigning? Got to scrape up a few more donations?¡± Regis gave me the same laugh I had heard from the other room, allowing me a front-row view of his joyless eyes while he did it. ¡°I¡¯m just visiting an old friend.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Russel said. ¡°The damn regulations won¡¯t let me give any more money.¡± ¡°The election¡¯s all but decided anyway,¡± Regis said. ¡°For better or worse.¡± Which outcome better and worse referred to differed between me and Regis, but his conclusion was dead on. The polls had him winning the election in a landslide. ¡°But I¡¯m sick of talking about the election. What are you doing here, Mr. O¡¯Howell? Seeing you twice in a week seems like quite the coincidence. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d think you were investigating me.¡± ¡°Should I suspect you of something?¡± ¡°Not unless loving the people of Hot Type City is illegal.¡± Regis stayed lifeless, but he pushed a chuckle out with his chest. ¡°Depends on how you do it, I guess.¡± Regis didn¡¯t bother processing what I said. He¡¯d gotten social interaction down to a science and knew this one was over. He smiled and patted my shoulder companionably while he moved past to talk to his wife. ¡°Ready to go Felicity? We wouldn¡¯t want to keep the commissioner waiting.¡± Felicity checked her watch, a small timepiece on a fine loop of chain draped around her dainty wrist. ¡°Well, would you look at the time? Cynthia, it¡¯s been a pleasure, as always.¡± ¡°Likewise. We¡¯ll see you on Tuesday.¡± She leaned forward to exchange ghostly cheek kisses with Felicity, holding her smoldering cigarette out so it stayed clear of the cat¡¯s hair. ¡°Can¡¯t wait,¡± Felicity said as she repeated the same parting gesture with Barb. ¡°Do you need anything else? Chefs? Security?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you dare worry about that,¡± Cynthia said. ¡°You and Regis will be busy and stressed enough. We¡¯ll handle everything.¡± Cynthia smiled at Felicity¡¯s theatrical relief, but her face soured when she saw me lingering in the doorway. She took the last drag her cigarette had to give. ¡°I¡¯m sorry we couldn¡¯t be of more help, Mr. O¡¯Howell. Margaret?¡± It took Cynthia¡¯s slight uplift in volume for me to notice Margaret wasn¡¯t behind me anymore. Regis and Felicity continued the well-orchestrated dance of saying goodbye. Felicity found a clutch as white as her fur and waved with a few more platitudes. Regis did a lot of smiling and nodding, then foisted a meaty handshake on me, complete with another pat on the shoulder. ¡°It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mr. O¡¯Howell. You keep up the good work now.¡± I returned the gesture with a mute nod as he blew past. Marget was on her way in, but stood to the side with her head bowed as the future statesman and his queen made their exit. ¡°Margaret,¡± Cynthia said, ¡°would you be so kind as to show our guest to the service elevator?¡± ¡°Actually, I was hoping to talk to Douglas if he¡¯s¡ª¡± Cynthia wasn¡¯t listening. ¡°It¡¯s nothing personal. I thought I¡¯d save you any More hassling from that gargoyle working the elevators. He does his job, but he can be¡­intense.¡± I knew when I was being kicked out. Neither Cynthia nor I were happy with the outcome of our meeting, but if I stayed, things could get a lot worse for me. The coincidence of Regis¡¯s presence and even the other women Cynthia surrounded herself with reminded me she knew some important people. Chapter 18: Hot Dog! After a forced but polite goodbye, and a less opulent elevator ride to the underbelly of the Morales Building, I was on my own. I could have poked around the tunnels, kitchens, laundry, and maintenance rooms, but it wouldn¡¯t have helped find Ethan. The space was unrefined, with whitewashed walls, garish light fixtures, and lots of exposed ducts, wires, and pipes, but it was far from the sort of dungeon a kidnapper would lock their victim in. The place buzzed like a hive of bees, cooking, cleaning, and doing repairs for the hundreds of white-collar criminals on the floors above them. I found my way to the residents¡¯ parking structure and from there to the street. My heart fluttered when I saw a piece of paper flapping under Dolores¡¯s windshield wiper, but the ticket was the one I had put there. I took a second to jot down a few things between weak attempts to start Dolores. I copied the message to Fosse from the rubbing to my notepad, then scribbled some notes about Virginia wanting to return to the spotlight, the disdain the other women felt toward her, and their upcoming election night soir¨¦e. I had learned almost nothing about Douglas other than confirming his lack of parental oversight. With parents like his, it was no wonder Douglas was rebelling. No matter how aggressively he acted out, Cynthia hardly reacted. Sure, she said she was worried about him, but I¡¯d seen enough smut films to recognize her brand of acting. It had taken her a minute to even register what malfeasance I was talking about, and in the end she had brushed it off with a shrug and an implied mumble of, ¡°Boys will be boys.¡± I filled a whole page with babble. None of it was going to pull me out of the morass of this case on its own, but if I grabbed the right bit, it might keep me floating until something better came along. I could have tried to get Douglas alone and use his parents¡¯ insouciance to get him to open up. With Fosse out to get me, the only thing cornering a kid would help me find was my way back into a jail cell. I focused on what I had learned about Virginia. A less cynical man might not have thought anything of what Cynthia and Barb had said. They were cruel and there was definitely some personal shit clouding their vision, but that bulb of hatred must have grown around a seed of truth. It at least got me to consider things from their perspective. I saw Virginia as a sad, lonely woman. She had been at the peak of her career, but one mistake had sent her tumbling down to the bottom. Maybe she held out hope that jazz would make a comeback and Peter would shoot up the charts and onto every late night talk show in Russel Sanders¡¯s web of stations. Or Maybe she lost herself in the role of being a mother. Now she saw Ethan growing up, getting into big-boy trouble and starting his career, and something had snapped. Her split with Peter could have been the trigger, or it could have been one of the first pins to fall. What if she kidnapped her own son? What if she was after the support, trying to cheat her way back into the limelight after Heifer turned her down? She might have planned for a quick effort to find him, then a few weepy interviews to springboard herself back into the public consciousness, but things hadn¡¯t gone to plan. Al got killed and the act became real. Maybe her accomplice wanted more money. Maybe Ethan fought back and dug himself a hole. Maybe the kidnapper had to bump Ethan off so he wouldn¡¯t squeal about who popped Al. There were lots of maybes, but they were all built on the testimony of a few day-drunk housewives. Virginia would be pissed enough if I showed up after her telling me to drop the case. If I burst in making wild accusations, she might put a bullet in me herself. I needed something else to go on. At the very least, a second opinion. Barb¡¯s loose tongue helped me out there. I knew Virginia had met with Howard Heifer within the last couple months. Heifer thought himself more dangerous than he was, but he also had connections. He could have shared some of those with Virginia, and they could have worked up a plan together. My mind latched onto the theory of Virginia working with Heifer. I couldn¡¯t entertain any other idea. It was a bad place to be when on a case, but damned if it didn¡¯t feel good to have a lead, illusory though it may be. A bit of percussive maintenance inside the cab convinced Dolores to give up her stubborn grip on the parking spot and join the rest of the herd mooing through the city. The traffic had flowed like molasses earlier, but now it was downright glacial. Club Callout was on the east side of town. Heifer chose the location on the same principle Adora had planted her office on Masthead Ave a few blocks over. It squeezed in close to downtown, hoping to become part of it as the sprawl developed. Unfortunately for Adora, the city had grown in every direction but towards her. Club Callout at least had the benefit of other establishments banding together to take a swing at creating a new hub for nightlife culture. The club was a freestanding black box with a roughly square footprint. The windows were tinted and the doors were shut. A sign at the front said the line started at seven and the doors opened at eight. I couldn¡¯t imagine anyone waiting outside in this dreary weather to get in, but next Tuesday would probably be even colder. I knew people would be willing to wait far longer no matter the weather. The thrill they got from going into a booth and punching their ballots next to Regis¡¯s name must have been similar to the high one got from a strip club. You pay the girls; they dance for you, trick you into thinking they¡¯ve got the hots for you. It was the same deal with Regis. He got his donations, made his promises, did the debates and talk shows and TV commercials. Only difference with Regis is the people who slipped their ballots into his proverbial G-string really did get fucked in the end. There were a few upscale pubs open, but I didn¡¯t have the pocket change to pay their egregious hipness upcharge. A greasy burger was the same just about anywhere you got it. I went to a dive a few blocks over for some cheap slop, then killed time sipping rotgut at the bar. When I returned to Club Callout, it had changed considerably. Colorful lights escaped the club through cracked windows and more flashed every time the door opened. There was no line, but there were a few loose groups of men milling about near the entrance. A moose stood in front of the door with his beefy arms over his beefy chest, his massive antlers like crossed halberds. Some of the men finished their cigarettes, stamped them out, and approached the entrance. The bouncer squared his shoulders to them and held out a hand. None of the men quibbled about the cover. The bouncer stuffed the bills in the pocket of his waistcoat and bumped his head toward the door, pointing with his horns. Bottom-of-the-line sports cars had eaten up the street parking. They were the kind of cars where the manufacturer put the engine of a family-friendly minivan into a two-door coupe and slapped a few meaningless letters under the superfluous spoiler. They weren¡¯t practical or fast, but they were flashy and, thanks to tweaks made to the exhaust, they were loud¡ªperfect for the kind of person who would spend their Sunday night at a place like Club Callout. I could have squeezed Dolores in somewhere, but she would have stood out among those twenty-thousand dollar compensators. As per usual, I didn¡¯t know what I was getting into. I wouldn¡¯t let myself be surprised by another visit from the ominous black Cadillac. I pulled around the building. I didn¡¯t have money to throw away on the cover and wanted to limit the time I spent with the lascivious louts who frequented a place like Club Callout. I waited with the lights off, watching Club Callout¡¯s back door until it opened, then got out, stifling Dolores¡¯s squawking as well as I could. I dodged around the idle town cars in the lot and watched the scrawny bear who had opened the door hurl a full garbage bag into a dumpster. When it settled, the kid brushed his hands off on his grease-stained smock and looked both ways. He missed me creeping up between the cars and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. When he got it lit, I smelled marijuana. I let him take and release a full drag before I stepped into the stoop¡¯s wan light. His spine went ramrod straight, and the spliff disappeared behind his back. My trench coat had him spooked, but he relaxed a little when I gave him a nod instead of a violent reprimand. At first he was just relieved I wasn¡¯t police, but his face lit up when he realized who I was. ¡°Didn¡¯t I tell you kids to stay off drugs?¡± I kept my voice gruff to mimic the way I talked in the ads, but my affect was flat. I couldn¡¯t quite pull off jocular. The least I could do was strip my words of malice. The kid sheepishly pulled his joint back out, watching it with growing concern. ¡°It isn¡¯t laced,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m really here, and I don¡¯t give a shit about you smoking weed. Doesn¡¯t seem like anyone does these days.¡± The kid let out a heavy sigh of relief. ¡°Your boss around?¡± ¡°Steve?¡± the kid said. ¡°I guess. I think he¡¯s in his office.¡± ¡°I meant Heifer. He in?¡± ¡°Usually is. He¡¯ll be up top. Likes to hang out there with a couple of girls.¡± ¡°Thanks.¡± I started for the back door. The kid¡¯s mouth came open. A noise escaped his throat, but he cut it off quickly. He should have told me I wasn¡¯t allowed to go in there, but he didn¡¯t have the heart. He took another hit and his eyes bugged out, his head swaying from side to side as he tried to come to terms with what had just happened. The music was a low thump in the shadowy back rooms, a persistent beat on top of which the medley of crashing dishes, sizzling pans, and cursing cooks layered themselves. The walls were painted as black as the exterior and there were only a few small bulbs to light the hallway. It wasn¡¯t up to health and safety codes, but Heifer didn¡¯t seem the type to play by the books. I found a stairwell after poking around a few dark doorways. The hall on the second floor was like a college dormitory, with a row of tightly packed rooms on either side of the aisle, twelve in total. Colored light seeped from under doors and through half-open cracks. The thin single-ply panels did a poor job of muffling the rustling and grunting on the other side. A puma stumbled out of a door in front of me, his coat hooked over his shoulder and a dazed smile on his face. A woman¡¯s painted fingernails brushed his arm as he left and he giggled to himself until he saw me. His face got serious in a hurry, and he tucked his head low to scurry toward the bright lights of the club¡¯s main room ahead. I spooked him, but I wasn¡¯t half as ominous as the other man he had to skirt past, a wildebeest more burly than the moose out front. He was ready to put me on my ass if I so much as hinted I might want a peek at who was inside getting a private dance from one of Heifer¡¯s girls. I kept my head up high and my back straight as I walked past him, but didn¡¯t meet his eye even when he shifted. I felt the heat of his glare on my back, but the flashbulb blaze of the main room overpowered it soon. The hallway lead to a tiered mezzanine with a big hole in the middle, looking down on an open floor. Below, tables and chairs were grouped around a central stage that had a runway leading under the mezzanine. Men in the middle of the ring pushed themselves up against the elevated platform, waving dollar bills at a gazelle dressed in a loose net of strings knotted into the parody of a bikini. She gyrated her hips and raised her hands above her head, her body on full display. She grabbed onto a pole thrust through the heart of the club and pulled herself up on it. Her legs spread wide as she inverted herself, then came together high above her head, her ankles wrapping around the pole. She spun slowly, held only by her feet and the friction of her considerable, but well-oiled ass cheeks gripping the pole. The pole at the center drew the most attention, but when my eyes and sensibilities had some time to adjust, I saw a lot more in the same vein. The club was a veritable garden of earthly delights. Women¡ªand even a few men¡ªin varying states of undress danced in cages disbursed throughout the main floor, but four hung like low chandeliers in the space over the pit so they were on the same plane as the lowest tier of the mezzanine. More attractive young people in skimpy clothing wove through the crowd carrying trays of alcohol to fuel the bacchanal. It was hard for some of the drunken perverts to tell the difference between the servers and the dancers. All were subject to cat-calls and propositions, but some men were too delirious to see the borders of what was acceptable behavior. The dancers had become adept at dodging and deflecting, but not all the servers were so well trained. A fresh-faced rabbit carrying a tray of beer bottles squeezed through an aisle on the mezzanine, making for one of several bars on the upper level. She jumped when a prehensile tail snuck around her and brushed her exposed midriff. The glasses rattled on her tray, and the snickering spider monkey¡¯s friend, a lizard so slimy he looked like he¡¯d taken a dip in the vat of baby oil they have backstage for the dancers, took her reaction as an invitation to put his hands on her. She squirmed, but it only incited him further. Dimples appeared on her arm where the man¡¯s grip tightened and he reeled her in. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. I hadn¡¯t come to make a scene, and I didn¡¯t want to get thrown out before I talked to Heifer. I was as far from a hero as you got in the real world, but nobody else in that pit of hedonism seemed likely to do anything. The pressure to help doubled when the girl got loose and the lizard took another swipe. I started toward her despite myself, but a shadow moved in before I got there. An alligator in a flat black suit and matching turtle-neck appeared beside the man, separating him from the woman he had been groping. She scurried away and the two creeps quivered under the imperious figure of the bouncer. He leaned low and spoke in a voice that sent shockwaves across the two blank faces. The lizard didn¡¯t laugh when the alligator grabbed his upper arm, but neither did he resist as he was dragged to his feet and escorted away. Just as no one else had noticed the server getting assaulted, the alligator¡¯s delicate handling ensured no one noticed the offenders getting kicked out. Maybe they¡¯d have fewer offenders if they did make a show out of it, but of course the staff didn¡¯t want to shatter the illusion. I watched the girl return to the bar and shake the disgust off before she grabbed a new order and ran it out. The shunned men disappeared into the shadows the alligator had emerged from, leaving no evidence other than a few half-empty beer bottles. The rest of the club bled back into my perception. I felt myself mired in its many-colored haze and the pounding beat of the drum machine. A much younger, less jaded man could get lost in the fantasy. Before it carried me away, I heard my name drift in over the music. I looked around, and my attuned ears picked up on its source when it repeated. It had come from Howard Heifer himself. The brown and white bull wore his signature red smoking jacket and was wedged into a booth with four women, each a few years away from some serious back problems. For now, they worked that extra mass to their advantage, becoming liquid and pushing in close to Heifer. I recognized the fox to his left as the woman from the cover of the magazine Officer Joel Marley had been flipping through in front of the holding cells. With so much eye-candy around, I was surprised Heifer spotted me. I guess even his old, cataract-riddled eyes still had 20/20 vision for celebrities. He dismissed his harem once he had my attention, making space for me at his table. Despite his assurances that they could come right back, each went out of their way to say goodbye to him with a peck on the cheek or an adventurous pat under the table. Heifer smiled dumbly as he insisted they give us just a minute. I noticed the way the girls¡¯ grins and moony eyes withered the second their backs were turned. Their shoulders came forward, and their stomachs bulged back out. They were vultures, circling to make sure Heifer remembered to put them in his will for when his horny little heart gave out. ¡°Mr. O¡¯Howell!¡± Heifer said when the girls had all slumped off to wash down the ick with a shot of liquor or maybe something stronger. He tried to meet my eye as I sat down on the recently vacated bench but got distracted by one of the girl¡¯s asses as it bounced away. When she was out of range, he snapped back to himself and flagged down the server the spider monkey and lizard had been pawing at. ¡°Excuse me, Dana, would you be a dear and bring my friend something to drink?¡± ¡°What would you like, sir?¡± The girl held her serving tray against her body in front of her like a shield, and her ears laid flat behind her bowed head. ¡°Scotch,¡± I said when Heifer gestured at me. ¡°Whatever you¡¯ve got.¡± ¡°Nonsense!¡± Heifer said. ¡°Something from the top shelf¡ªonly the best for my guests. And a glass for me, too.¡± Before I could protest, Heifer shooed Dana away. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry about it. It¡¯s on the house.¡± I growled my appreciation. I didn¡¯t like the way it subtly put me in Heifer¡¯s debt. I knew his type and knew a request would follow¡ªa convenient way for me to make things even. ¡°Hope the doorman didn¡¯t give you too much trouble. You should have told me you were coming; I would have gotten you on the list¡ªVIP!¡± ¡°Spur of the moment,¡± I said. ¡°Didn¡¯t know I was coming until I drove past. I¡¯m actually here to talk to you.¡± ¡°Oh, are you now? How fortuitous? Just imagine the kinds of things two icons of Hot Type City¡¯s history can do together. What did you have in mind? Not sure you¡¯re cut out for dancing¡ªno offense¡ªbut we can always use guest emcees. Your voice will prick a few ears.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t come to work with you. I came for answers.¡± Heifer¡¯s head dipped, his chin going down to his collarbone. He gave me a sad stare from the sunken wastes of his eye sockets. He was shooting for a playful, pouty expression, but it looked like he was having some kind of fit. If I was any less keen a detective, I might have called for an ambulance. ¡°Just think of the crowds. I¡¯d pay you twenty percent of the cover take for the night. Should be hundreds of dollars. And for what? A couple hours of oggling fine fazangas and badonkers.¡± ¡°Not my scene. Besides, didn¡¯t know you were just handing out jobs. Seems your attitude¡¯s changed since Mrs. Calhoun paid you a visit.¡± Heifer¡¯s mouth dropped open, and his mouth formed a small o as he wracked the cocaine-shriveled walnut of his brain. ¡°Calhoun? Calhoun?¡± ¡°You knew her as Crane. Virginia Crane.¡± ¡°Ah, right. Tall dish. Gams for days. I guess I do remember her stopping by.¡± ¡°But you didn¡¯t offer her the same job you offered me.¡± ¡°What¡¯d¡¯ya want me to say? Job requirements are different for stage talent. Besides, we have a lot of history and not all of it¡¯s good, you know? Might stir up bad memories, but my audience won¡¯t throw a lot of bills to see a forty-year-old woman who had been out of the game for well over a decade strut her stuff. Just seems a little¡­sad. Especially with the added meat on her bones. A bit more cushion wouldn¡¯t have gone amiss back then, but current fads demand something sleeker.¡± I meant to update Heifer on Virginia¡¯s most recent physical transformation, but something caught his attention. I couldn¡¯t tell if he was drooling or having a heart attack. I looked back to see if I needed to start searching for a defibrillator. The object of his affection was Dana. She had regained some of the confidence stolen by the creeps earlier, and she approached the table with a hip-swaying sashay. I was more hypnotized by the level surface of the whiskey in the two fluted glasses on her tray. She moved deliberately and compensated with her upper body so the liquor didn¡¯t slosh at all. When she bent to set the glasses down, Heifer homed in on the girl¡¯s low neckline. With how tight the shirt was, there wasn¡¯t much more to see, but it got Heifer¡¯s old ticker thrumming, and he slavered openly. Embarrassed to be sitting next to him, I looked over Dana¡¯s back. To my horror, a pair of dark embers met my eye. I reached for my collar, preparing to turn it up before a camera lens blocked out the face, but it wasn¡¯t a paparazzo or unscrupulous reporter trying to scrounge up a scandal. It was the wildebeest who had been guarding one of the back rooms. I was only one stop on his way to survey the space. He was assessing threats for his boss before they made a break for it. Dana stood back up, holding a tip from Heifer that was almost generous enough to make up for his wandering eyes. By the time her puffy tail bounced away, the peeping wildebeest was gone. ¡°Hate to see ¡¯em go,¡± Heifer said. He left dead air, perhaps hoping I would fill in with, ¡°But I love to watch them walk away,¡± but I staunchly refused. I took a sip of the whiskey. It was warm and peaty and sweet and briny all at once. After the couple glasses of swill I tossed back while I waited, a taste of the good stuff was almost enough to knock me out of my seat. Heifer drank his with casual disregard. ¡°Ahh¡­ Where were we? Something about collaborating, wasn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Not quite,¡± I said once my airways had cleared of the peat smoke and alcohol fumes. ¡°We were talking about Virginia. She wasn¡¯t just here about dancing, was she? Word is she was jealous about the reunion.¡± ¡°The reunion? Oh, right, during the soft open.¡± Heifer took another gulp and dabbed at his lip with a silk napkin as he waved me off with the other hand. ¡°That was nothing, just some publicity to get the place going on the right foot. Virginia just wouldn¡¯t have been a good fit. Why are you asking about her, anyway? Did she send you?¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t know I¡¯m here. I¡¯ve been looking for her kid¡ªI¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard about him.¡± Heifer rocked his head noncommittally. ¡°I¡¯ve chased some leads to the ground and got nothing. Now I¡¯m looking into what Virginia had been up to before the disappearance. I found out from Cynthia Sanders that she came here. She had some opinions about why Virginia did that, but I¡¯d like to hear it from the horse¡¯s mouth. Do you think Virginia was desperate to recapture her glory days, or was there something else?¡± ¡°Sure, who wouldn¡¯t want to get back on top?¡± Heifer took a sip, then thoroughly¡ªand grotesquely¡ªlicked his lips. ¡°But I¡¯m not sure it was her primary motivation. Seems like she was in some dire straits. The way she was talking, she was more interested in the money. Said she¡¯d do anything for it: a shoot for the reunion, dancing on stage¡ª¡± Heifer¡¯s eyes shot back to the private rooms. ¡°How much was she asking for? What got her to come crawling to you after all this time?¡± ¡°She never gave me a number. Whatever she wanted was more than I could part with.¡± ¡°But you offered the other girls¡ªBarb and Cynthia¡ªjobs. Even let Felicity Fellini tag along, if I¡¯ve got my story straight.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t offer them jobs, per se,¡± Heifer said. ¡°I traded them a chance to stroke their egos for a bit of free publicity.¡± ¡°You said you couldn¡¯t afford Virginia at any price. I take it the free publicity didn¡¯t work out the way you had hoped.¡± ¡°The issue I put out with Barb and Cynthia on the cover sold out in a heartbeat. Second printing, not so much. I¡¯ve got a warehouse full of great tits on glossy paper and I can¡¯t move a single one. The public was disappointed with what goods Barb and Cynthia were willing to give up for their return issue.¡± ¡°What about here? The club? Looks like you¡¯ve got a crowd.¡± ¡°Maybe, but it¡¯s not enough. I meant to generate buzz so I had lines around the block then jack the prices. As soon as I started tweaking the numbers, attendance dropped like a ram¡¯s balls.¡± He shook his head sadly, looking out on his domain as if the vibrant mirror-ball powered by pure testosterone and alcohol were on its deathbed. ¡°I got a lot of people to pay. Took out a hefty loan, too.¡± ¡°But you didn¡¯t go through the bank, did you?¡± I said. ¡°Big Ed?¡± Heifer bobbled his head. It was about as close as anyone would dare come to admitting a relationship with the mob boss. I sipped my whiskey, taking it all in. I had come to save Ethan, but Heifer might be in just as much danger. At least he had done it to himself. ¡°So you¡¯re broke?¡± ¡°Not to put too fine a point on it¡­¡± Virginia had come to Heifer for money, but he was more desperate than she was. Maybe they got to talking¡ªto scheming. Heifer could have organized for the kid to get picked up. Virginia had the acting chops to play the grieving mother, especially when everyone expected her to be hysterical. By creating a media frenzy, Virginia could lift herself up into the national spotlight. She wouldn¡¯t be coy about putting it all on the table when it came time for her, ¡°As Seen on TV,¡± issue of Barnyard. Probably she¡¯d planned for Heifer to involve himself in catching the bad guy and freeing Ethan¡ªa bit of goodwill for all. I drank more as my thoughts churned. I had to find some way to imply what I was thinking without saying it outright, which would scare Heifer off. If I could downplay his involvement, maybe he¡¯d come clean about what Virginia had planned and how it had gone awry. I caught a whiff of smoke as I put my glass down. I was accustomed to the peated smell of the whiskey; this scent was different, more astringent. I thought Heifer had lit up a cigar with some monstrously behind-the-times lighter or a moldy book of matches, but the old bull was staring at the last dregs of whiskey in his glass. Heifer looked up sharply when I sniffed in earnest. I smelled woodsmoke and oily rags. ¡°Hope you didn¡¯t cheap out on your fire suppressant system,¡± I said. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°Your building¡¯s on fire.¡± I slammed back the last slug of scotch as I got to my feet. I saw an orange glow and puffy cloud too dark to be cigar smoke at the edge of the balcony. The gazelle wrapped around the pole looked toward the source of the fire, screamed, and slid back down. At first, the delirious men she ran to reached out or leaned back, ready to touch and be touched. She didn¡¯t stop at the edge of the stage, and when they saw her hobble down on her five-inch heels, they started to take notice of the spreading fire. ¡°Shit!¡± Heifer said. He knocked over his whiskey glass as he got to his feet. ¡°Go!¡± I yelled in Heifer¡¯s face, grabbing him by the lapels to shake the daze from his eyes. I pointed to the cages suspended over the pit in the center of the mezzanine. ¡°You¡¯ve got to get those girls down.¡± ¡°But I¡­ Someone will put the fire out¡­¡± Heifer said, squinting into the crowd as it started to boil. ¡°Don¡¯t count on it. If you were worried about your brand before, imagine how it will look if one person dies here. Forget about four.¡± Heifer didn¡¯t have much of a conscience as far as I could tell, so I stuck with appealing to his reputation. I gave him a shove toward the stairs and the shouting, and pushed toward the back rooms. The men behind the doors might be too engaged to recognize the screams weren¡¯t those of pleasure coming from their exuberant partners, nor the heat that of blazing passions. I pounded on each door as I ran, yelling, ¡°Fire!¡± at the top of my lungs. Doors started opening when I reached the end of the hall. Bleary heads popped out, looked both directions, then startled when they saw the smoke and orange glow coming from the main room. I was about to throw open the door to the stairs, but smelled a fresh whiff of smoke before I did. I put my hand on the handle, then the panel of the door. Neither felt hot, but I saw a sheet of smoke creeping out from under the door. ¡°What are you waiting for? Let¡¯s get out of here!¡± a man behind me yelled. ¡°No good,¡± I said, picturing the whoosh that could come with the shifting pressure if I opened the door. The fire in the main room seemed to be moving fast, but we had a head start. ¡°Turn around, make for the front.¡± Curious men stumbled, bare-chested, with their shirts held conspicuously in front of their groins to cover rapidly deflating erections. Apart from their naked feet, the girls had gotten back into their skimpy clothes in a hurry¡ªdressing quick was crucial to reducing cycle time. The girls were the first to see sense and started the other way. The men standing nearby needed to see the orange flickering and the oily blanket of smoke now billowing from under the door before they diverted. I followed the crowd as they ran across the mezzanine. Fortunately, Heifer¡ªor someone a bit more with it¡ªhad heeded my warning and lowered the cages, which sat on the ground with their doors open. Above them, the ceiling was a roiling sea of gray-black smoke, fed by a gaseous cascade from the wall of flames that had once been heavy curtains at the other terminal of the runway. We made it out to the fresh air¡ªor as fresh as you could find within the jurisdiction of Hot Type City. My coat was heavy with the smell of the fire. Probably the scent would never wash off. I wandered around the crowd as everyone turned to gawk, basking in the building¡¯s heat¡ªnow almost entirely consumed by flames. Heifer had found his women from earlier. The fire had reminded them of their own mortality. More importantly, it had reminded them of Heifer¡¯s. They had no more clothes on than the girls who came out of the back rooms, but they packed their bodies in close to keep Heifer warm. It took almost ten minutes for the first fire engine to arrive. There wasn¡¯t much for them to save at that point. Heifer hadn¡¯t splurged on fancy things like fire retardant materials. I waited near Heifer while the crowd dissipated along with the first round of lookie-loos and reporters. None of the men wanted to see their face on the front page of tomorrow¡¯s newspaper. By the time the flames were down and the firefighters had transitioned to hunting the smoldering bits, it was mainly me and a few of the dancers left. I stuck close to Heifer, so I was around when the fire marshal came to give him the rundown. ¡°Looks like the fire started backstage,¡± the groundhog with the badge on his shirt said. ¡°Spread quick across the floor. We got to it as it gnawed on the kitchen, but the main room¡¯s all charred up.¡± ¡°That can¡¯t be right,¡± I said. ¡°Whassat?¡± The fire marshal looked over his notes. ¡°No. The open air and lots of flammables let the fire sweep straight through. It was a slower burn the other way. I¡¯m surprised more people didn¡¯t run out the back door. Aside from a smoldering trashcan at the top, the stairwell back there was safe.¡± Heifer looked at me with a raised eyebrow from under his security blanket of breasts and hips. I had more questions than answers. ¡°Any idea what started the fire?¡± I asked. The marshal looked at his notepad again and lifted his cap to scratch his forehead. ¡°Not yet. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll get it figured out when the sun¡¯s up. For all the good it will do.¡± Great. Another mystery. Did it have anything to do with me being there, asking about Ethan? Was Big Ed involved? How much did Heifer know? The marshal snapped his notepad closed after one last glance. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing you were up on your insurance. Should be a tidy payout.¡± Heifer didn¡¯t jump into the air and click his heels together, but he did stop shivering. His lips twitched, but he kept the smile down. Maybe there wasn¡¯t much of a mystery there after all. Chapter 19: Pack Mentality I woke to pounding on my office door. The pervasive smell of smoke yanked me out of my dream by the nose. I sat upright on the recently cleared couch, panting as I got my bearings. The person at the door pounded again. A dark splotch of shadows refracted through the pebbled glass of the window. I had a lot of guesses who it could be¡ªsomeone from Big Ed, someone from the police department, someone from my mortgage lender, or Sidewalk Wally coming back for the stolen salvage he left in Dolores¡¯s trunk. None of them were good news. I tried sitting still, hoping they had as hard a time seeing into the room as I had seeing out. The thrum of the ClearLife factory down the street masked my breathing, but the midmorning light that snuck through the loose blinds painted the room with golden strokes that were visible even through the obfuscating glass and pounds of loose dust floating in the air. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell? I know you¡¯re in there.¡± I cocked my head, lifting an ear to the door. It was a woman¡¯s voice, urgent but not aggressive. Virginia? No, she would be more fired-up if she had found out who I¡¯d been talking to. ¡°Yes you, Howl. I see you moving. Let me in. We need to talk.¡± Marcella Furone. Of course, she¡¯d come nosing around. I didn¡¯t want to see her, but after I got my hackles up, ready to fight some thug, she didn¡¯t seem so bad. ¡°Door¡¯s open,¡± I grunted. My creaky bones needed a minute of stretching before I started moving around. I didn¡¯t subscribe to the old school of thought that required a man stand to greet a lady when she entered. Besides, I had yet to see anything from Marcella to indicate she was a lady. She had a nice face, but so far my impression of her had been all pant suit and coarse language. Not that I minded. At least she didn¡¯t try to be something she wasn¡¯t. Cynthia Sanders had twice as much vinegar inside her, but she tried to mask it behind dainty jewelry, a practiced smile, and an affected high-society accent. Marcella had no problem letting herself in and didn¡¯t mind seeing me lounging back on the couch instead of getting up to greet her. ¡°You¡¯ve been busy,¡± she said, leaning on the edge of my desk to face me. ¡°I heard you were sniffing around Club Callout last night. You dog.¡± ¡°I was talking to Heifer.¡± I rubbed my face, trying to banish the sleep from my eyes. All I did was smudge the soot and grime around and reflect some of my bad breath back toward me. I caught a wisp of that fine whiskey Heifer had tried to ply me with. No lives had been lost, but thinking of all the bottles crushed under the wreckage nearly brought a tear to my eye. ¡°Sure. Just chatting with Heifer. I bet you read Barnyard for the articles too,¡± she said. ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t care what you were doing there. All I want to know is what you saw. What you heard. I have half the story already, but I need something to bring it to life¡ªthat boots-on-the-ground element.¡± I let out a long sigh, summoning strength to push up to my feet. My muscles groaned and my bones cracked, but I covered the sound with a throaty, pre-coffee grumble and hobbled to the seat behind my desk. ¡°What was that?¡± Marcella asked as she slid to the client chair so we could talk face-to-face. ¡°I don¡¯t work for you,¡± I said. ¡°And I couldn¡¯t tell you anything you can¡¯t find from stirring up the ashes.¡± ¡°All I need is a quote. It¡¯ll be good for you, too.¡± She swiped her hand in front of her, tracking a headline only she could see printed in the air. ¡°Delinquency Dog Smells Foul Play at Hot Type City¡¯s Most¡ª Hold on. What¡¯s this?¡± Marcella¡¯s eye was drawn to the fax I¡¯d thrown down in my hurry to visit the Sanders. The lone piece of paper stood out on the unusually clear desk. ¡°Junk mail.¡± I tried to sweep it up, but Marcella was faster. She snatched it and held it close to her eyes, reading it quick. ¡°Oh. This is good. This is real good.¡± Through a great feat of willpower and physical strength, I overcame my lethargy and leaned forward to rip the paper out of her hand. ¡°It¡¯s bullshit,¡± I said as I crumpled it up. ¡°A fake.¡± ¡°No question. I got a tip just like it.¡± I stopped balling the paper and looked straight at her for the first time. ¡°Not exactly like it, of course, but same story. Lady Demoiselle wanted me to expose the shipping company for lying about her precious cargo. Same carrot water mark, too.¡± ¡°How did you know it was fake?¡± ¡°Please, Detective O¡¯Howell. I may look like I¡¯m fresh out of high school, but I¡¯ve been in the game long enough to know the story of the year isn¡¯t just going to fall out of the sky and land in my fax machine¡¯s printer tray. I¡¯d have to work for it.¡± ¡°Or hold on to my shirt tails while I worked?¡± I tried to sound angry, but a lot of the effect was lost with the pique of my curiosity. Did Tabitha, the principal of the Sam Marlowe Academy, tip the Sanders off that Marcella had been digging, too? Or did she find something on her own? Or, more disconcertingly, was I off the mark about the message coming from them? If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Brings me back to us working together. You still think it¡¯s a bad idea?¡± ¡°Maybe it¡¯s what they want,¡± I said. ¡°To get us both tied up, tripping over ourselves trying to figure it out.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯d realize we had been taken for a ride sooner rather than later.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t think it matters. Whoever¡¯s pulling the strings around here doesn¡¯t need long. They¡¯re in such a hurry they built in a definite date for us to find out it¡¯s a sham. Their plot will be tied up by next Saturday.¡± ¡°What happens Saturday?¡± ¡°Nothing. That¡¯s what I¡¯m trying to say. They want us out of the way for something that¡¯ll happen before that.¡± We wracked our brains for half a minute, racing to the answer. ¡°You aren¡¯t covering the election, are you? Could be this letter has nothing to do with Ethan? It might strictly be about Douglas and keeping all the elites out of hot water until after the election.¡± Marcella shook her head without unknitting her brow. ¡°Not my bailiwick. Wait. Douglas? Douglas Sanders? What¡¯s he got to do with it?¡± ¡°Forget I said anything. What were you working on when you got the message?¡± ¡°Same as you, I imagine: banging my head against the Ethan Calhoun case. Sounds like you had better luck than me. You said the Sanders kid was involved?¡± ¡°I said drop it. If you didn¡¯t know already, it¡¯s not relevant. Someone else sent the message.¡± ¡°You think they noticed we didn¡¯t take the bait?¡± Marcella spun up from her chair and paced across the postage stamp of my office¡¯s floor, avoiding the garbage bags, one of which had fallen and upchucked a delta of empty bottles. She tapped her chin, then stopped and turned on her heel. ¡°The fire! You think they started the fire at Club Callout to throw us off the case?¡± ¡°A bit too pat to be part of our¡ª Shit! I mean my case.¡± Marcella gave me a sly smile and shrugged with one shoulder as she tossed her hand. Her body language said, ¡°It was worth a shot.¡± ¡°What specifically were you looking into when you got the message? We must have been close to something.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ After you left me high and dry outside the school, I struck out on my own. Went to check up on Virginia. I thought I might learn something from the way she reacted to the conversation.¡± ¡°And? Did you?¡± ¡°Ha!¡± Marcella said, seeing how I leaned forward to hear every word. ¡°I¡¯ll show you mine, if you show me yours.¡± I had started flipping open my notepad but stopped so I could skewer Marcella with my best glare. ¡°Come on,¡± she said. ¡°Maybe them trying to get us tangled up was a blunder on their part. We can choose to help each other.¡± I didn¡¯t like the idea of working with a partner, but if she had something, I needed it. After a bit more grumbling and beating around the bush, I told her a bit, boiled it down and distilled the facts: Ethan had a pot growing operation, and Douglas Sanders was involved; Virginia¡¯s old contemporaries think she¡¯s a slut and an attention whore; Heifer¡¯s finances were in the shitter so he couldn¡¯t help when Virginia came begging him for money. ¡°What did Virginia need money for?¡± Marcella asked. ¡°She want to reclaim the glory days?¡± ¡°I think it was more than that,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m sure she wouldn¡¯t mind the attention, but from what Heifer implied, she was willing to grossly debase herself if the price was right. Don¡¯t think giving private dances to whoever showed up with a roll of ones would win her any invites to the kinds of parties Cynthia Sanders hosts.¡± ¡°She worried about making ends meet after the divorce?¡± I shook my head again. ¡°As far as I can work out, this all happened before she and Peter split. Her trying could have played into the breakup, though.¡± Marcella stroked her chin with her thumb as she thought it over, then spun around and started pacing again. ¡°So. How¡¯s this all tie back to Ethan? You think the other women set something up when they found Virginia sniffing around their game? Are they cruel enough to hit her when she¡¯s down and make sure she never sees the same success they have?¡± ¡°Cruel enough? Sure. Don¡¯t think they did it, though. Virginia was never going to be a threat to them. It¡¯s more likely Heifer set something up¡ªwith or without Virginia¡¯s help¡ªto get attention, build up Virginia as a public figure so when she stooped to working for him she¡¯d be worth something.¡± ¡°But then things went wrong. Al got shot, and it got too real,¡± Marcella said, filling in the blanks. ¡°Before, they could¡¯ve found the kid safe and sound. No harm done. Everyone wins. Now the face of the story is an old bear, weeping under her veil as they lowered her late husband into the ground. Not a good look. Did Heifer seem evasive when you talked to him?¡± ¡°Sure. But it could have been unrelated.¡± ¡°You think he had something to do with the fire.¡± It wasn¡¯t quite a question. Marcella wanted to think it through herself. She came to the same conclusion I had, unraveling it as she wore a rut in the hardwood floor with her pacing. ¡°When things fell through with Ethan, he needed another way to get money quick. He started the fire himself for the insurance settlement.¡± ¡°Probably. Think he could have been in debt to Big Ed.¡± Images flashed through my mind¡ªLawrence¡¯s claws, slow moving black Cadillacs, an imperious wildebeest making muscles at me from the dark recesses of Heifer¡¯s club¡ªbut I kept them to myself. ¡°Virginia might be able to stretch out Ethan¡¯s kidnapping story until it¡¯s more palpable, but if the mob was expecting a payment, Heifer couldn¡¯t wait to see how things shook out.¡± ¡°If Virginia knows where Ethan is, why wait for the big reveal?¡± Marcella stopped mid-stride with her foot hovering, then answered her own question. ¡°The election! She wants all the coverage to herself. After the election is through, the papers are going to be itching for new stories. A politically agnostic feel-good story would be the perfect thing to get the bad taste of the election out of people¡¯s mouths.¡± ¡°Plenty of time between then and when Lady Demoiselle is supposed to show up. If we were busy chasing our own tails, whoever has Ethan would have space to maneuver things for maximum impact.¡± Marcella stopped in front of my desk again and tapped her chin. ¡°Makes as much sense as anything else.¡± ¡°It¡¯s sick, but it¡¯s the best I¡¯ve got. Now it¡¯s your turn.¡± Marcella cocked her head. ¡°What did you find out?¡± ¡°Oh. Nothing. I watched her most of the day and all I saw was her going to work, then back home.¡± ¡°You¡ª But I thought¡ª¡± She laughed brightly, a devious spark in her eye. ¡°Maybe now you believe I¡¯m not some dumb ambulance-chasing hack. Aw, don¡¯t give me that look; I¡¯m a better journalist than you give me credit for. I know how to get people talking.¡± I let a low growl escape my throat. ¡°You must have learned something. How long was she there? Who did she talk to?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t notice anything off from the parking lot. She worked a full shift, took the bus home. I didn¡¯t have enough reason to go in and risk making a scene.¡± ¡°How about now?¡± I stood up and looked for my coat and hat, which I found on hooks by the door, next to the red baseball cap I tried not to look directly at. ¡°She works at Sal¡¯s diner, right? On Brecker?¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± Marcella said. ¡°Come on. I usually like to get dinner before I get fucked like that, but you can make it up to me by buying breakfa¡ª¡± I looked at the clock. I¡¯d slept the morning away, and it was now almost eleven. ¡°Er¡­ Lunch.¡± Chapter 20: Cock of the Walk ¡°Going out?¡± Cal called from behind a lawn of fanned papers on his desk. He didn¡¯t look up until I slowed down. ¡°Yeah, Sal¡¯s diner on Brecker. In case we go missing.¡± ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Cal kept his tongue in his mouth out of respect for the supposed lady present, but I saw him thinking. His eye flicked to the crystal ball sitting on the corner of his desk. Nothing moved inside the bulged view of his office, but he nodded as if it had spoken to him. ¡°Stay away from I-18.¡± ¡°Thanks. We¡¯ll find another way.¡± Marcella lingered, trying to get a look at Cal¡¯s office. I guided her to the door, but she had her chance to peek around when it got stuck. As I convinced it to open, her eyes went from Cal to the muted TV playing the news in the corner of the room. ¡°What was that about?¡± she asked. I got the door unstuck and turned around to grab Marcella. The image on the TV cut from the white noise of election news to an aerial view of a freeway, I-18. Cars and trucks were piled up with smoke spewing from crumpled hoods, blocking all three lanes of traffic. I shrugged and pulled her through the doorway. She kept looking back over her shoulder, even when we were outside and blinded by the full force of the sunlight lensing through the fog. ¡°I saw the sign, but I thought it was¡­¡± ¡°Bullshit?¡± I asked, leading her to Dolores parked on the curb. Virginia had her hand on the door before I thought to suggest we take her car, instead. I was going to warn her it was rusted shut, but it opened for her. I let it go and got in the driver¡¯s seat. Something about having Marcella around put Dolores on her best behavior. She started on the first try and hardly sputtered when I gave her some gas and got her moving. Marcella made some notes as I drove. Owing to the jam on I-18, I took the side streets trending south, passing closer to The Margin than I would like to go. Sal¡¯s was on a corner lot, but there wasn¡¯t much to look at on the cross streets. Kitty-corner to the diner was an abandoned car dealership with an expansive lot filled with nothing but weeds and empty wrappers tumbling in the wind. A name I recognized from garish, low-budget TV advertisements showed as a palimpsest in the block-letter weathering above the door. Before the sign had been removed, the sun had bleached the wall around the letters and gunk had built up at the edges. Sal¡¯s was a classic American diner, a chrome-plated monstrosity like an oversize Airstream with a bricked-glass vestibule. Freestanding letters shot out from the edge of the roof, projecting Sal¡¯s name so astronauts could read it from orbit. An irregular quadrilateral, underscored by an arrow pointing toward the entrance, alerted prospective patrons that Sal¡¯s three-fruit waffle stacks were not to be missed. Marcella reached for the door as soon as I pulled into a spot facing the diner, but I was hesitant to even put Dolores in park. I looked for black Cadillacs first, but when I saw none, my myopic focus expanded to search out signs of violence, unfurled caution tape and chalk outlines. I finally hit on what set my alarm bells ringing when the diner¡¯s door opened and two pot-bellied cops came rolling out. The squirrel on the left held a pink cardboard box in his left hand and a glazed fritter in his right. The guinea pig next to him bore the sacred responsibility of carrying their coffees. They talked in the low grumble of cops who professed at every opportunity they were, ¡°getting too old for this shit,¡± as they waddled to a cruiser parked in the handicap spot. I had been so tuned to ominous luxury sedans, I had missed the multiple police cars in the lot. I had thought Sal¡¯s was a family-friendly joint, but it looked like it attracted an unsavory clientele after all. I slid down in my seat, making myself small. Marcella gave me a curious look. ¡°Something wrong?¡± I watched the first cop car roll away, waiting for the driver or his partner to look over at me. I breathed a sigh of relief when they made it out of the lot. ¡°Virginia doesn¡¯t have a car, remember?¡± Marcella said. ¡°We won¡¯t know if she¡¯s here unless we go inside.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± I said. ¡°Just getting my bearings.¡± ¡°Well, hurry up. I¡¯m starving.¡± I watched the puff of her tail whip out of the way to avoid the door she slammed behind herself. My eyes went from there to the glove compartment. I was averse to carrying around a gun for no reason, but knowing there were going to be so many guns inside the building made me jumpy. Probably a good idea to leave my revolver tucked away for just that reason. I kept my hat low over my eyes as I followed Marcella inside. The air was thick with the steam of cooked eggs, pervasive grease of sizzling bacon, clicking spoons and coffee cups, and the grainy sound of the jukebox playing whatever was under the spindle. The sensory assault, topped with a tinkle from the bell over the door, overwhelmed my senses. I froze to look for threats and spotted another pair of cops by the window facing the parking lot. Both sipped their coffee and picked at lumpy piles of grits soaking in the pool of fat left by a plate full of sausages. When I noticed Marcella was gone, I spun around to see her taking a seat at a window-side booth in the diner¡¯s other transept. She gave me an imploring look and I joined her. I didn¡¯t have time to get my coat settled or even consider taking my hat off before the waitress, a giraffe with a hunched neck, drooping eyes, and a nametag that said ¡°Darlene¡± came by with a carafe of coffee. She filled our mugs with a rote efficiency that betrayed a life in the greasy spoon industry, then flipped two uncomfortably slick menus out of her apron. They glided across the table, stopping smoothly in front of each of us. ¡°Good morning, dears. I¡¯ll be back to take your order in a minute.¡± I tracked Darlene around the room as she made the round with her pot. Most of the guests, a demographic skewing closer to the grave than the cradle, gave her gruff thanks. The cops played by their own rules, had to make sure they were noticed. I didn¡¯t hear the words they said to Darlene, but I saw their sinister smirks and Darlene¡¯s forced grin in response. The things some people had to put up with to earn tips and make a living wage¡­ It was a damn shame. When Darlene came back around, she took our orders on a notepad with pages so stained and crinkled they looked like strata in a rock cliff. I kept my order simple, bacon, eggs, and toast, but Marcella went all out with the advertised three-fruit waffle stack special. I hoped she remembered she was paying for it. My couch cushion cache could only stretch so far. Darlene shouted our orders through the window behind the counter, into the hissing kitchen. A rooster with a large wattle, glistening with the same sweat that stained the tank top he wore under his spattered apron, poked his head through the curtain of steam to confirm with a grouchy cluck. I guessed that was Sal, and I guessed by his red face and snapping beak there was a reason he was at the grill and not behind the counter. Marcella and I tried out small talk while we waited, but we were both watching the room. Darlene buzzed around from table to table, taking food as it appeared out of the fog at the window, ringing people up at the register, and making the rounds with the carafe. She looked up every time the bell over the door rang and was there to greet the newcomers within a minute. The proper function of the diner was on Darlene¡¯s back. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I was stressed just trying to keep up with her with my eyes. After a few more minutes, another waitress came in through the back door, tying an apron around herself. At first she was just a white blur with a long neck, and I got nervous it was Virginia. I saw fur, not feathers when the llama finally stood still long enough for me to focus on. She was slower than Darlene, and the effort of trying to keep up showed on her face. She handled the coffeepot and a few orders, but Darlene handled all the food. Darlene turned around in a hurry after dropping off our plates, but Marcella caught her attention before she dove back into the fray. ¡°Darlene?¡± ¡°Just a minute, hun.¡± Darlene had only taken a few steps to grab a jug of syrup off the counter. She slid it in front of Marcella to complement the parti-colored stack of waffles on her plate. ¡°That what you were after?¡± Marcella clapped her hands together and rubbed them in a theatrical display of greedy hunger. ¡°Perfect. Thanks so much!¡± Darlene gave an appreciative hum and started away. I wanted to grab her and make her stick around, but I couldn¡¯t think of anything subtle enough. If she saw me as another animal like those cops, she wouldn¡¯t be real receptive to talking. Marcella had the same idea, only she didn¡¯t struggle so much to avoid being creepy. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s a lovely necklace,¡± she said. Darlene had been on the cusp of breaking away, but Marcella¡¯s call pulled her back. She paused as the switch in her mind clunked into a new position. She turned with her hand on the simple sliver at the end of the chain around her neck. The banal bit of silver hadn¡¯t stood out to me at all. ¡°Do you mind if I asked where you got it? Our anniversary is coming up, and I think I¡¯d like something quite like it.¡± Marcella gave me a pointed look, drawing a scowl from me and a laugh from Darlene. ¡°Sorry, hun. As far as I know it¡¯s one of a kind. This one belonged to my grandmother.¡± I mouthed the word ¡°anniversary¡± while Darlene took an introspective moment to fiddle with the necklace, which I now saw was a crescent moon. ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± Marcella said, aiming a shrug at me. ¡°Hey, while I¡¯ve got you here, I wonder if I could ask you a question.¡± The bell at the window rang. Darlene¡¯s weight shifted toward it, but she relaxed when she saw the llama rounding the counter to cover the table. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind, dear?¡± ¡°It¡¯s just last time I was here, I had a different waitress, a tall crane, think her name was Virginia. You know her?¡± Darlene¡¯s lifted mood took a plunge like a diver off the ten meter platform. Her lips became a tight knot and slid to one side of her face while her eyes tracked the parabola of a tossed ball the rest of us couldn¡¯t see. ¡°I was hoping to talk to her again. Do you know when she¡¯s scheduled to work?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know if the schedule will matter much, hun. She¡¯s supposed to work this afternoon, but she already called out.¡± By the flat tone of her voice, I inferred Darlene would be the one covering her shift. ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± Marcella said. ¡°My husband didn¡¯t believe me when I told him I recognized her from somewhere. Maybe you could help settle the argument for us.¡± Her lips betrayed a smile when she referred to me as her husband, but the look I gave her, paired with the whisper she dropped into, helped sell her story. I was supposed to be embarrassed. ¡°Is she Virginia Crane? Like the Virginia Crane, from Barnyard?¡± Darlene looked around the room again, judging if she had enough time for the drawn-out sigh Marcella¡¯s question deserved. ¡°Same girl, different name. Goes by Calhoun for now.¡± ¡°Right, of course. I remember seeing her in the news. Guess it makes sense she¡¯s been missing work considering her son and everything.¡± Darlene checked again, this time focusing on the curtain of steam behind the window. When she decided Sal wasn¡¯t going to pop out and start squawking, she crouched next to our table. She had to get low to be even with us, but it allowed her to lower her voice further and still be heard. ¡°Now, I don¡¯t want to go telling tales outside of school here¡±¡ªthe intense look in her eyes told a different story¡ª¡°but she¡¯s been off for a bit. Last couple months at least. I¡¯ve been trying to cover for her, but I¡¯m exhausted.¡± ¡°She¡¯s been missing work since before Ethan disappeared?¡± My instinct was to pull out my notepad and pose my pencil over the page, but I resisted. Marcella had her roped in, and my questioning was odd enough already. I didn¡¯t want to scare her off by going full-on detective. Fortunately, Darlene had been waiting for an opportunity to vent. ¡°Sometimes she calls in. Sometimes she just doesn¡¯t show up. When she does make it in to work, she¡¯s tired and makes a lot of mistakes.¡± ¡°Did you talk to her about it?¡± Marcella asked. ¡°Sure. We get along fine, and I was worried about her. But she didn¡¯t want to say much. Lord knows I understand how people all have their own problems, but Virginia¡¯s were clearly too much for her to carry herself. As hard as I tried to cover her caboose, Sal was starting to pick up on it. I got the sense he was working up to firing her and getting someone more reliable until the news about Ethan broke. Can¡¯t very well do it now, can he?¡± ¡°I suppose not¡­¡± Marcella said. Sal dinged the bell on the counter. This time, the other server wasn¡¯t right there to get it, so Darlene stood up. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to gossip your ears off. You two enjoy your meal and let me know if you need anything else. All right? I¡¯ll be around.¡± Darlene didn¡¯t wait for thanks. She was next to the table one second and behind the counter scooping up the tray full of dishes the next, leaving only a soft gust to remember her by. Marcella hummed to herself and attacked the waffles on her plate. She cut off a corner, getting all three layers of waffle and the red, blue, and orange jam between them into one bite. She looked content, but drizzled syrup on the stack to make it even sweeter. She caught me staring and waggled her loaded fork at me. ¡°See, sometimes all you need to get to the answers is a woman¡¯s touch.¡± ¡°A woman¡¯s touch¡­¡± I repeated. Unable to resist my own plate any longer, I picked up a piece of bacon, soggy with fat, and took a bite. It was on the rubbery side, but gave my mouth something to do while my mind chewed on the implications of what Darlene had said. ¡°A woman¡¯s touch¡­¡± I swallowed the wad of gristle and things started to coalesce before I took another bite. ¡°You think Virginia went looking elsewhere when Heifer turned her down? Maybe she got a job at a less reputable establishment, the kind that kept the lights down low so it didn¡¯t matter much what the girls looked like.¡± Marcella considered it between bites, twirling her fork in the air as if deciding where to stab it. ¡°Could be. Or maybe she went the other way, toward the spotlight instead of the red light.¡± I kept my mouth busy with a bite of toast so she knew I was listening. ¡°We don¡¯t know what Virginia was after with Heifer. Maybe the money was secondary. Could be she really just missed having people look at her.¡± ¡°You think Ethan wasn¡¯t the only one trying to break into the industry? Maybe Virginia got the bug spending time around agents and auditions.¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t seem to have any actress ambitions any of the times I talked to her.¡± ¡°Maybe she¡¯s better at acting than we¡¯re giving her credit for,¡± I said. ¡°We already know she¡¯s been hiding something.¡± ¡°It¡¯s as good a guess as any,¡± Marcella said after mulling it over. ¡°Whether she wanted fame or money doesn¡¯t change your theory about the scam she tried to run with Heifer. The way you laid it out, seems like the money and attention are intertwined.¡± I considered it some more. ¡°Guess it tracks. If she was really only worried about the money, she wouldn¡¯t put this job at risk chasing after other paychecks. But why keep up the act now that the scheme¡¯s underway? Shouldn¡¯t she be acting as normal as possible to avoid detection?¡± ¡°Sure. She should. In my experience, most criminals aren¡¯t the masterminds they think they are.¡± ¡°Or she might be going somewhere else now,¡± I said. Marcella sipped her coffee expectantly. ¡°Could be she knows where Ethan is. Or at least who has him. Maybe she¡¯s visiting him or working out the kinks in the plan to ¡®find him.¡¯¡± ¡°I¡¯m hearing a lot of coulds and maybes,¡± Marcella said. ¡°As far as I can tell, we¡¯re just spinning our wheels.¡± ¡°What would you suggest? Go to the cops with the scraps we have?¡± Marcella watched the two officers I¡¯d had my eye on. They were getting up from their booth and tossing back the last of their coffee. Darlene rang them up at the counter and gave them her best attempt at a smile as they made lewd comments under the guise of just joking around. When I looked back at Marcella and saw her pinched face, I thought she had bitten into the lemon wedge on the lip of her untouched water glass. ¡°Don¡¯t think that would help anybody. I say we go straight to the source. We know Virginia was supposed to be here today, but she¡¯s going somewhere else instead. We should find out where that is.¡± Marcella shoveled the rest of her waffles into her mouth and got up, hoping to draw me up too. ¡°Forgetting something?¡± I asked. She looked around, checked her pockets, then the seat she had been sitting in. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. Hurry up, we don¡¯t know if¡ª¡± ¡°You said breakfast was on you. Payback for tricking me into giving you everything I had. If you want to keep tagging along, you had better start pulling your weight.¡± She glowered like a moody teenager, but I held my ground, contentedly chopping up the remaining eggs and loading them up on the last corner of my toast. ¡°Fine. But you had better make it worth my time.¡± Chapter 21: Tail Wags Dog Marcella paid at the register, and I dropped a few bills on the table to cover the tip. When she came back, she scoffed at what I had down and doubled it with the change from the bill. ¡°Always keep your sources happy,¡± she said in the tone of an arrogant mentor lecturing a new hire. I had been in the game almost as long as she had been alive, but I kept my offense to myself. Dolores gave me a bit more trouble this time. Marcella offered to grab her car if we swung back by my office, but I didn¡¯t trust her to drive discretely. Reporters like her weren¡¯t shy about pushing to the front and waving their press badges until someone answered their questions. We needed to be invisible if we were going to catch Virginia. When I told Marcella Dolores would fit in better where we were liable to go, the sidelong compliment got Dolores¡¯s motor running. Marcella started to trust me more when she saw how expertly I handled the streets. She looked suspicious when I circled Virginia¡¯s house, but didn¡¯t ask questions. Virginia lived in a neighborhood that had been carefully planned out and built up, but it had been left to rot when the socio-economic topology of the city shifted away from the Gutter and toward the city center. Every lot was the same size. Each cracked foundation was sunk into a yard of mottled dirt and weeds, with a few hunks of shattered pavement strewn about for ambiance. Each house had the same twenty by twenty floor plan, but the paint-and-mold color scheme and gap-tooth pattern of missing shingles differed from address to address. Most of the houses had a square second story plunked down on top, causing the supporting walls to bend imperceptibly outward. Some even had small garages and sheds, but many of the outbuildings¡¯ roofs were swaybacked and not one of them had all the windows intact. Virginia¡¯s house might once have been as white as her feathers, but now it was a pale khaki color and had a spray of lichenous black grime growing up every side and gnawing away at the wooden shutters and accents. A child¡¯s bicycle lay in the yard with one wheel over the sidewalk. Virginia had probably griped about it on her way to work the day Ethan got kidnapped and left it for him to pick up when he got home. But Ethan had never come home. Not yet anyway. If Marcella had asked how I knew Virginia was home, I couldn¡¯t have given her a satisfying answer. It might have been some smell I picked up, or a moving shadow in the window, or the sound of tumbling laundry inside. Some things you sense on a level that defies conscious thought. ¡°You really think she could have done it?¡± Marcella asked. ¡°To set up your own kid like that¡­¡± Where I saw destitution some would do anything to escape, Marcella saw a family with nothing to hold on to but love for each other. It almost warmed my heart to think she wasn¡¯t yet as cynical as I was, but I knew it was coming. I didn¡¯t answer her question. Doing so would have set a tone for the rest of the stakeout. One inane question was manageable, but we might be locked in the car together for hours. We sat in silence for fifteen minutes, burning precious gas and throwing more pollution into the air. I felt a twinge of guilt even though what spewed from Dolores¡¯s noisy four-cylinder was like a raindrop in the ocean compared to the smog output by plants like the ClearLife factory. I kept my eyes fixed on Virginia¡¯s front door, but Marcella got impatient quickly. She fidgeted with Delores¡¯s loose trim, cracked the window open with the hand crank, rolled it back up, and fiddled under the seat to see if she could adjust it. I didn¡¯t step in until her wandering hands moved toward the glove box. ¡°You keep rocking the car like that, someone¡¯s going to think we¡¯re up to no good.¡± Marcella stopped pulling on the glove box lever. She looked up and down the empty streets, then pouted back at me. I pretended not to notice, but I didn¡¯t have to ignore her for long. Virginia¡¯s door opened, and she stepped out. Her face was puffy, especially around the eyes. ¡°Jesus,¡± Marcella said. ¡°She sure doesn¡¯t look like someone who could throw her kid under the bus for a bit of clout.¡± ¡°You think she knows she¡¯s being watched?¡± I leaned over the steering wheel, double checking the streets for any ominous black Cadillacs. ¡°I think she looks like a grieving mother.¡± ¡°Front page material, eh? Don¡¯t see you whipping out your camera. Forget your telephoto lens?¡± ¡°Cut the shit, Howl. All I¡¯m after is the truth, and I think that¡¯s what we¡¯re getting. If she could act that well, she wouldn¡¯t be stuck at the diner. I think we missed something.¡± Virginia locked the door, tested it, then started down the sidewalk, giving the bike a wide berth. When she turned down the street toward the nearest bus stop, she pulled up the collar of her too-thin coat and hugged herself against the chill wind blowing bits of dried leaves down the street like tumbleweeds through an old west ghost town. ¡°I guess we¡¯re about to find out. Virginia¡¯s on the move.¡± I shifted Dolores into drive. Marcella sat up straight, ready to rocket forward, but I kept my foot pressed on the brake. Her anticipation built until Virginia turned the corner and was out of sight. ¡°Well, aren¡¯t you going after her?¡± ¡°Patience,¡± was my only response. I could feel Marcella storming in the seat next to me, and I dragged it out longer than I would usually dare. As Marcella¡¯s fidgeting resumed, I worried she would throw the door open and go running after Virginia herself. I didn¡¯t trust her to be subtle or to come up with a half-decent excuse when Virginia caught her, so I caved. I let off the brake and gave chase at the posted twenty-five miles per hour speed limit. Marcella¡¯s feet tap danced on the rusted floor. Any one of her antsy steps could have been the one to bust out the flaking shale-like metal, but I didn¡¯t let her drumming push me any faster. I wasn¡¯t going to ruin our chance at blending in by caroming off mailboxes and leaving tire marks at every corner. I kept a normal speed as I drove past a bus, which had pulled up to the bent bus stop sign Virginia stood next to. ¡°There she goes!¡± Marcella said. ¡°Turn this lug around. The bus is going the other way.¡± I did turn around, but I took a handful of side streets to do it. Marcella was on the verge of pulling her fur out when we appeared behind bus number 17 again. I passed it as it approached its stop and watched it unload from around the next corner. Virginia wasn¡¯t among the small crowd milling about on the sidewalk after the bus¡¯s door closed, so I drove on. It took two more stops, each of which I watched from afar¡ªonce from behind the bus, the other from across the street¡ªfor Marcella to realize what I was doing. No matter how distraught she was, Virginia would notice if the same piss yellow compact followed the bus for blocks, keeping behind it despite its constant stopping and going. I knew where the bus would stop next and met it there to see if she got off. Knowing the stops wasn¡¯t much of a trick, seeing as the public transit system hadn¡¯t been updated in a quarter of a century. Virginia got off outside a park I recognized not from my rough-and-tumble beat cop days, but from the weekends I spent as the face of national safety initiatives. I had once hosted a drug free block party there, complete with bouncy castle and face paint booths. Now, enterprising local youths had turned the standalone bathroom building into an avant garde art gallery with spray paint and phallic stencils. The guys hanging out alone in the parking lot and under the pavilion weren¡¯t there to play frisbee, but I didn¡¯t look too close for hand-offs. Even if catching drug dealers was in my job description, I had something more important to take care of. A drug habit would have explained Virginia¡¯s sudden need for money, her rapid weight loss, and her loose reins on Ethan, but she didn¡¯t approach any of the hooded strangers. She stayed rooted at the bus stop, until the number 4 came and swept her away. Virginia rode closer to civilization with each hop. After twenty minutes of trailing, she was in a place where the bus stop bench hadn¡¯t been ripped out and sold for scrap. It gave me hope for the auditions theory, but as she passed through the nice patch into the realm of strip malls and office parks, acting classes started to look more likely. Then she kept going, and I had to reconsider the illicit drugs angle. When Virginia got off again, we were in the realm of liquor stores with bars over the window, payday loan lenders, illegal fried food joints that would never pass a legitimate inspection, and of course, a handful of mattress retailers in fierce competition for a share of zero annual customers. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°There she goes,¡± Marcella said, pointing at Virginia as I pulled past the street she had started down. ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± I grumbled. We only had one shot at this, so I wanted to play it safe. I drove up to the next intersection, but when I started my turn, I ran into a throaty honk and the judgmental stare of two circular headlights. I had to swerve to keep straight and avoid getting jammed up in the unexpected one-way street. The area wasn¡¯t ingrained in my mind the same way the south-eastern side of town was. I needed another block to get my footing. When I finally wound back around to the street Virginia had been shuffling down, she was gone. ¡°Great,¡± Marcella said. ¡°We came all this way for nothing.¡± ¡°Relax. She couldn¡¯t have gotten far. If I park up at that intersection, we¡¯ll see her coming out of one of these buildings. Not like she¡¯s going to get lost in the crowd.¡± There were a few people passing in a hurry, but most of the people I saw were laying in the lee of empty concrete planters and under the overhangs of boarded-up buildings. Mayor Regis, Commissioner Fosse, and the rest of his cabal had come down hard on the homeless population in the name of cleaning up the city. Instead of building shelters, funding rehabilitation and job training centers, providing mental health resources, or a hundred other helpful solutions, they turned it into a crusade. They committed significant police resources to roughing up guys like these and made changes to the infrastructure like replacing benches with ones less conducive to sleeping that made life even more unbearable for them. On top of that, Regis¡¯s rhetoric resonated with his supporter¡¯s prejudices, and they became more vocal about their distaste for the homeless. You used to see people turn their nose up and ignore the panhandlers shaking coins at them, but now it wasn¡¯t uncommon for those same people to strike back, spitting in the mendicant¡¯s cups and hurling slurs. I was smart enough to know the only thing separating me from them was a couple of walls. In my case, those walls were growing pretty damn thin, starting to fall down. I got Dolores parked at the head of the street with a clear view in three directions, so I¡¯d see Virginia no matter what. Just by looking, you¡¯d think every store and office had been shut down, but I could tell a few were still running. ¡°You keep an eye out that way,¡± I said, pointing to the east. ¡°Especially watch out for that laundromat and the radio equipment store. I¡¯ve got eyes on this pet hospital and whatever the hell that is with the red door.¡± ¡°Uh¡­ Howl?¡± Marcella said, looking around. ¡°I don¡¯t want to rain on your parade, but I don¡¯t think Virginia would use any of those. We passed a bunch of laundromats on the way here, and I can¡¯t imagine Virginia decided to pick up ham radio as a hobby right now.¡± ¡°Just watch,¡± I said. ¡°And the pet hospital doesn¡¯t sound likely either. You think Virginia¡¯s got a little cocker spaniel running around?¡± ¡°I couldn¡¯t imagine why anyone would want to own another animal. Seems goddamn perverse to me.¡± ¡°Right. So we can rule that out.¡± ¡°Taken at face value, we can rule out all these places, but then we¡¯d have to assume Virginia disappeared into thin air.¡± ¡°You think these are all fronts for something else?¡± ¡°Probably not all of them, but some definitely are. One thing¡¯s for sure, if she¡¯s out here for an acting gig, it isn¡¯t going to play at the downtown Cineplex.¡± ¡°Pornography¡­¡± Marcella said, solving the puzzle. ¡°Maybe. But they¡¯ll probably eschew the camera altogether.¡± ¡°You implied it earlier. I just thought you had something a bit more¡­glamorous in mind.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t look like it does in the magazines, does it?¡± I said. ¡°Not sure there¡¯s a path up to the top from here.¡± ¡°She could be meeting someone. Or maybe Ethan¡¯s in one of these buildings. Howl, we could be close to busting this case wide open!¡± ¡°Or we could be staring down the barrel of more unanswered questions. Why don¡¯t you pipe down and put on your peepers, all right?¡± ¡°Oh, Detective O¡¯Howell,¡± Marcella said, her voice sweet with mock awe. ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m on a real stakeout with a real private eye.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a treat for me too. Now, for the most genuine experience, see how long you can keep your trap shut.¡± To her credit, she lasted almost half an hour before she let out a long, creaky yawn. The stretch of silence had me more anxious than I had expected, and I jumped when she moved. In that second of surprise, I regretted not popping open the glove compartment earlier and arming myself. ¡°Maybe I should hop out,¡± Marcella said. ¡°Start knocking on doors. Ask around. I believe it¡¯s what you¡¯d call legwork.¡± ¡°No. It¡¯s what I¡¯d call suicide.¡± ¡°I¡¯d be smart about it. I wouldn¡¯t just go in shouting Virginia¡¯s name.¡± ¡°We¡¯re both tied to this case already. Someone knows we¡¯re looking into it. You keep poking your nose where it doesn¡¯t belong, it¡¯s going to get cut off.¡± ¡°You¡¯re calling me nosy?¡± Marcella fanned her fingers out on her chest. ¡°You and I do the exact same thing.¡± ¡°The difference is nobody asked you to. I¡¯m trying to help. You¡¯re trying to leach.¡± ¡°Fuck off. Nobody asked you to help either. In fact, I believe Virginia explicitly told you to step back.¡± I tried to get a word in, but she raised her voice. Anyone on the street would think we were embroiled in an intense, relationship-ending spat. ¡°I¡¯m looking for the truth, same as you. I¡¯m just using it different. I want to affect change. In this climate, sometimes the only way to make sure anyone is held accountable is to shout the truth from the rooftops.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think blasting a single mother, grieving and down on her luck, for pursuing sex work to pay the bills is speaking truth to power.¡± ¡°I keep telling you I have no appetite for hit pieces. I¡¯m not a pap, and the Glyph isn¡¯t a tabloid. I¡¯m an honest journalist.¡± ¡°So if we find nothing here, you¡¯ll be glad to run back to your office empty-handed. You¡¯re going to tell your boss you¡¯ve got nothing to print?¡± ¡°You underestimate me,¡± Marcella said with a laugh. ¡°I wasn¡¯t always on staff as a journalist. I wanted to be one from the get-go, was even promised a shot when I took a job as a copy editor. I tried my damnedest to work my way up, out of the late nights and soul-crushing tedium, but no doors would open. It was a boys¡¯ club like any other.¡± I took a deep breath, knew she had to vent. ¡°So how¡¯d you do it?¡± ¡°I dug up dirt. Just like you suggest. Only it wasn¡¯t on a broke single mother; it was on my lecherous slug of a boss. Once I had the editor-in-chief by his whiskers, a lot more opportunities opened up. Now I¡¯ve proved myself to the rest of the staff ten times over, but whatever happens, Devon will never fire me. If I¡¯ve got no story, then I¡¯ve got no story. They can run a puff piece to fill the space, but it won¡¯t have my name on the byline.¡± ¡°How¡­ethical of you.¡± ¡°Might not be pretty, but it¡¯s the way things are. You can¡¯t always¡ª Shit! There¡¯s Virginia!¡± Marcella¡¯s eyes darted past me, then she ducked her head. Her reaction was conspicuous, but Virginia had her own head down as she walked away from the pet hospital. ¡°She look like she¡¯s walking funny to you?¡± I asked. ¡°Sure. A bit, what¡¯s it matter?¡± ¡°Not sure, just making notes.¡± She also had a white paper bag the size of a kid¡¯s sack lunch in her hand. ¡°What do you think she¡¯s buying in there?¡± ¡°Drugs? What else could it be?¡± I nodded, trying to consider other possibilities but always winding up at the same conclusion. ¡°We know she¡¯s been losing weight. If she¡¯s counting on getting herself in ship shape for her triumphant return to the spotlight, she¡¯s almost there. Might be weight loss cheats, but it could be narcotics, too. Or she could be prepping for cosmetic surgery.¡± ¡°You think they do that there?¡± ¡°Sure. They¡¯ve got the tools. Once you find a doc disreputable enough to hand out drugs, you¡¯d be hard pressed to find something they won¡¯t do.¡± ¡°Are places like this common?¡± I looked up and down the street. All the businesses were struggling to get by. Most of them had failed already. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m sure Virginia had options to choose from.¡± Marcella¡¯s eyes flashed with hunger. She saw the opportunity for an expos¨¦. ¡°Don¡¯t go blaming people like Virginia or the people running clinics like this one. Blame the system that makes it necessary.¡± Marcella tracked Virginia as she turned the corner toward the bus stop, her jaw slack so I saw the points of her teeth. ¡°It would be one thing if they did stitches and fixed broken legs. If they¡¯re dealing out painkillers and performing irresponsible and unnecessary surgeries, people could get hurt. That¡¯s exactly what I was talking about when I said it was important to get the truth out.¡± ¡°Just¡­ Don¡¯t rush a story, okay? There could be a legitimate reason she was there.¡± ¡°Fine. We¡¯ve already got one case. I¡¯ll keep that investigation tucked under my hat for later,¡± Marcella said. ¡°Should we go after Virginia now?¡± I shook my head. ¡°I¡¯ll go after her. Have a little chat.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so Detective O¡¯Howell. You shook me off once already; I won¡¯t let you do it again. I¡¯m coming with you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll ruin my chance of getting anything out of her.¡± Marcella gaped. ¡°I¡¯m as good at getting people to talk as you are. Remember how I played you this morning?¡± ¡°How could I forget?¡± I grumbled. ¡°But it isn¡¯t like that with her. Regardless of the promises you make and the spiels about ethics you have locked and loaded, she knows anything she says to you could wind up in the newspaper.¡± ¡°I would never¡ª¡± I held up my hand to stop her whinging. ¡°She¡¯s got confidential privilege with me. I¡¯m not with the police, and I don¡¯t blab. You can try to convince her all you want, but she¡¯ll never go for it.¡± Marcella let out a huff and crossed her arms. ¡°Fine. Then I¡¯ll get out here and see what I can find out about the clinic.¡± She started tugging on the door handle, but it wouldn¡¯t give. ¡°Unlock the damn¡ª¡± she jiggled the post by the window that controlled the lock mechanism. It went down with a clunk, and she jerked the handle again. When the door still didn¡¯t budge, she lifted it back up and kept trying. I let her struggle until the rusted door gave way and she spilled half out of the car. ¡°Could be dangerous,¡± I reminded her. ¡°You don¡¯t know who¡¯s running the place.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of some nerds in white coats and glasses.¡± ¡°Sure, but they might not be the only ones inside. We don¡¯t know that the place isn¡¯t a full-blown drug running op under the control of Big Ed and his guys. Maybe you could sweet talk Virginia, but how do you think they¡¯d feel if a reporter came snooping around? You think they¡¯d just clam up. No, they don¡¯t take risks and they don¡¯t play games.¡± Marcella paused, still half in and half out. She thought about it, and I used the time to scope out the area for black Cadillacs. There weren¡¯t any. I was being paranoid. After a minute of thinking, Marcella reeled herself back in and slammed the door. ¡°Look, if it will keep you from screwing things up, I¡¯ll let you know when I have a solid lead again. You can be on the front lines when I find Ethan. Just let me work and keep your ear to the ground for whatever comes next.¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to hold you to that, Mr. O¡¯Howell. You break your word and I can make life rough for you.¡± ¡°Blackmail?¡± I said. Marcella¡¯s first story had me looking better than I deserve, but she could flip the script, summon a mob of torches and pitchforks to break down the door to my office. ¡°Sounds familiar. Maybe you¡¯d want to reconsider the height of your horse when it comes to ethics.¡± Marcella scowled. ¡°Means to an end. If fucking you over is what it takes to get the truth out about whatever¡¯s going on with Ethan, I won¡¯t lose sleep over it.¡± I nodded, but let Dolores speak for me. She growled as I put her in gear and pulled away from the curb. Chapter 22: Not Just Bark After brining Marcella to her car, I thought about taking the night to cool off. Wished I could. If I laid down and closed my eyes, it would have been nothing but feverish rolling and flashes of Ethan¡¯s face, trapped and screaming to be set free. I drove straight to Virginia¡¯s house. The lights were on, so I knew she was home, but I didn¡¯t want to park right outside. There was still a bit of daylight left, and I wanted the option to sit back and watch her for a bit. Dolores rumbled around the next corner, but when I started for the place Marcella and I had camped during our stakeout, her headlights bounced back red off the lenses of another car in the spot. The glossy black finish suggested the car was too new and too well cared to belong to anyone in that neighborhood, but it wasn¡¯t until I saw a laurel-encircled shield slapped onto the center of the hood that I knew how insidious it was. Just when I was beginning to believe the black Cadillac was a figment, here it was in front of me. I pulled in behind it with Delores¡¯s front bumper sticking over the curb and her rear end jutting into the right lane. I made it three steps toward the Cadillac before I dove back in. The keys jangled like alarm bells in my fingers and the seconds stretched out as I found the right one and jabbed it into the glove compartment¡¯s lock. The mechanism flipped after a few turns of the key, and the hatch shot open from the spring load of compressed papers it held back. I punched through the flurry of receipts, parking tickets, and expired licenses, and grabbed my gun. The instant my hand felt the grip, I shot up in my seat and leveled the barrel at the Cadillac. I waited for a door to open or for someone to creep around the side and aim back at me, but it remained still. Without taking my eyes off the car, I swung out the revolver¡¯s cylinder and checked the load. I tested the hammer by rocking it back half a degree, then adjusted my grip. I waited a long fifteen seconds for something to happen. When nothing did, I pushed myself out of Dolores and, leaving the door open, crept up on the twenty-foot yacht of a car. I walked in a hunched-over crouch to stay below the tinted rear windows, then sprang up in front of the driver¡¯s side, gun out. My sights fell on an empty headrest. I leaned from side to side, looking at the front passenger seat, then the rear compartment. Both were eerily empty. The absence of crumpled fast foot wrappers and cigarette butts in the ashtrays could be excused by a penchant for cleanliness, but the lack of dust or even a grain of dirt on the floor mats set my teeth on edge. It was uncanny, as if the car had been airlifted from the showroom and dropped on the street. I reached for my flashlight and looked at the tire treads, trying to match them to the partial imprint the cops pulled from the scene of Al¡¯s murder. I forgot about it in a hurry when I thought about where the driver had gone. The fastest my body had moved in the last half decade was the occasional drunken tumble out of a barstool. Now I challenged land speed records as I sprinted down the street and around the corner to Virginia¡¯s house, my eyes open for any hulking figures hiding in the bushes. I hurtled over the downed bike in Virginia¡¯s yard and bypassed the steps with a single bound. My hand was already on the door when I heard a woman shriek. The fear in the yell blanked my mind. An instant later, I was standing in a dark foyer with child-sized boots spilled across the floor and coats draped over the railing of a stairway going up. My gun was raised and my shoulder was sore. The splinters of wood falling around me and the ringing in my ears suggested I had burst the door open. Virginia whimpered, and I heard a harsh shush as the shadows projected into the end of the hall by the light in the kitchen shifted. A monstrous form press against the door frame, and I diverted, slipping into the living room that opened off the foyer. It connected to the kitchen with another doorway at a right angle to the one I entered through. ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± the man said. Floorboards creaked as his prestigious bulk eased around the corner. I moved in turn, rotating toward the kitchen and Virginia. Leaning against the doorway with my gun up in both hands, I saw Virginia pushed up against the sink, quivering as she watched the dark portal to the hallway where the other man had disappeared. She hissed when she noticed me, but cut herself off when she recognized who I was. Virginia mouthed something, but her beak was chattering too much for me to make any sense of it. I got the meaning from her hand signal¡ªa finger and thumb extended from a fist. Another creak came from the hallway before the man who made it exploded back into the room. I saw the scene as if looking at a flash photograph. The gun he raised was a full-sized revolver, but it looked smaller in his boxing-glove hands than my snubnose looked in my mitts. He wore a tailored black suit, white shirt, and black tie, all sized to fit his massive frame. The hooked horns growing out of the top of his long head scraped dust off the ceiling with each step¡ªtwo lines at the same offset as the matched lines on the dumpster where we found Al¡¯s body. His gun went from Virginia to me, tracking the path of her eyes. I saw his finger flex on the trigger before he was lined up with me, but I was a hair faster. I didn¡¯t think. I just put my sights on his center of mass and squeezed. The first round caught him on the right side of the chest. His gun went off, but I was already blind from my own muzzle flare and deaf from the concussive report ricocheting around the ventricle of Virginia¡¯s living room. Virginia hadn¡¯t been hit, but she fell back into the counter while the wildebeest stayed on his feet. His gun arm started swinging back, so I fired again. And again. And again. I pumped bullets into his chest until my gun was empty, then pulled the trigger a few more times for good measure. The wildebeest staggered forward and I changed my grip, ready to grapple if I had to. Two shot would have been overkill for most men, but even with six leaky faucets, this guy was still moving. His throat made a wet sound just loud enough for me to hear over the persistent¡ªand probably permanent¡ªringing in my ears. A seventh trickle started at the corner of his lips, and he teetered forward. The sound of his body hitting the floor was louder and more final than any gunshot. It shook the house like a crash of thunder, rattling the foundation and loosening flakes of paint from the ceiling. I stayed coiled like a spring, ready to pounce, but the intruder didn¡¯t move. His back was still and black like moorland on a moonless night. Spatters of blood on the counters and backsplash behind him shone like red stars. I eased forward, my footsteps silent through the muffs of my shattered eardrums. His gun was on the floor, inches away from his limp fingers. I kicked it away just to be safe before prodding the man himself. I saw something move in the hallway out of the corner of my eye. My gun was raised just past my belt buckle when I saw the shadow was too short to be a man. An emergency brake slammed on inside my shoulder, arresting the movement at the cost of shredding some muscle already weakened from the door and the hammering recoil. The shadow trembled as it came into the room. I had just enough time to see a lamb¡¯s terrified face before Virginia snapped out of her shock and swept the kid up. She cooed as she carried him away. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Tommy. Just firecrackers. I know I shouldn¡¯t play with fireworks. It won¡¯t happen again, all right?¡± ¡°Tommy?¡± the name pinged around my head as it tumbled off my lips. Who the hell was Tommy? It took me a second to get my bearings and remember. Virginia hadn¡¯t hidden Tommy from me. I¡¯m sure I had heard people talking about him, but I had been so focused on Virginia¡¯s older son, none of it had stuck. When I was sure the wildebeest would never move again, I dared turn away from him to pick up his gun and holster my own. His didn¡¯t feel as familiar, but in close quarters it wouldn¡¯t matter how well I could aim. The compact space worked doubly to my advantage when I went to clear the first floor. There wasn¡¯t anywhere for a second intruder to hide from my flashlight, and I swept the place in under a minute. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The wildebeest was where I left him, but the kitchen wasn¡¯t perfectly still. A tide of blood moved out from under the thug¡¯s chest, washing over the tiles and flooding into the grout lines like irrigation canals. The spatters on the wall had dripped, making long thermometer streaks, forming bulbs wherever the drops were heavy enough for gravity to grab them. I turned away from the gore and went to the phone on the wall. The ashtray next to it on the counter was a cemetery of ash with crumpled butts sticking up like crooked tombstones. Virginia had spent many hours camped out there in the last several days. My fingers worked the rotary dial by themselves, inputting the numbers to connect me to the local precinct¡¯s dispatch directly. The phone rang twice before some kid answered. I fed him the address and the important information¡ªhome invasion, shots fired, unidentified suspect dead, no other injuries. The kid asked some questions for clarity, but I wasn¡¯t in the mood to chat. I hung up as soon as I had confirmation that police were on the way. I returned to the body and tried to roll him over. The corpse was too heavy to manage with just my foot. I had to squat down and lift with my legs to get him on his back. The police would give me hell for tampering with the evidence, but if I wanted to get any answers out of this, I had to take them before the cops showed up. The man¡¯s Swiss-cheese shirt was no longer white, but a tie-dyed red, deep and glistening where it was soaked on the front and faint pink where the blood seeped up through capillary action toward his shoulders and collar. The face, like a cow¡¯s but stretched and widened at the bottom, was frozen in a mean rictus. In the cold light of the aftermath, I recognized the face. I had seen it the night before, guarding a back room at Club Callout. Heifer might have been able to tell me more about him, but I¡¯m not sure he would. For all I knew, the two were in cahoots on the fire, but I couldn¡¯t think of a good reason why Heifer would send someone to wave a gun at Virginia. I used the barrel of the man¡¯s own gun to poke open his jacket and feel out the pockets. When I found a wallet, I risked getting my fingers messy to pull it out and flip it open. There were a few crisp bills and a license with the man¡¯s mean mug on it. The name listed was Guy N. Urban; the birthdate said he was pushing forty. His card was a bit different than mine, so I looked closer. Instead of ¡°Driver¡¯s License¡± the line at the top said ¡°Chauffeur¡¯s License.¡± The immaculately maintained car made more sense give that context and gave me a lead, provided I could find his employer. With Virginia clomping back down the stairs, I hoped I wouldn¡¯t need to do any more digging myself. Now that she¡¯d had a gun pointed in her face, she might be more forthcoming with the facts. Especially since the guy the gun had come with had begun his transition to worm food. Virginia came back in, but drifted past me and the body, toward the phone. She was shaking. ¡°I already called them.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± she said, still deaf and dazed. She didn¡¯t reach for the handset, but the cupboard above it. She grabbed a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Her hands shook and the lighter wouldn¡¯t stay lit long enough to start the cigarette clamped in her bill, but she kept trying. The sparks highlighted flecks of blood marring her white feathers. No way the kid hadn¡¯t noticed. I took the lighter out of her unresisting fingers and got a solid flame going. She sucked until the tip glowed red and a trickle of smoke slipped out of her nostrils. Her shaking steadied after the first long drag. She looked at me as if she had only then realized I was there and held out the pack. ¡°I don¡¯t smoke,¡± I said, tossing the lighter down on the counter. ¡°Right. You¡¯re one of those people.¡± ¡°Lady, I got nothing against busting up my body. I just can¡¯t stand the smell following me everywhere.¡± She smirked as she took another pull. With the blood on her face and the body behind me, it was a gruesome expression. ¡°Lady? Whatever happened to ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am is reserved for women who don¡¯t kidnap their own kids.¡± ¡°Kidnap their own¡­¡± Virginia repeated. Her head popped back down from the clouds. ¡°What the hell are you talking about? You think I kidnapped Ethan? How dare you? I was almost killed.¡± ¡°Yeah. What¡¯s that about? Bad business? He decide to change the terms of your contract?¡± ¡°I had nothing to do with Ethan¡¯s disappearance, except that I wasn¡¯t there.¡± ¡°Is that so? You have to know something. Why else would this asshole drop by? He¡¯s been following me, too, you know. Come on Virginia, shoot the works.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Virginia looked on the precipice of saying something insightful, lifting up on her toes to take the dive. Her eyes darted to the body, then the stairs through the hallway, and she balked. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen that man in my life.¡± ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡± I hoped saying it outright would shock her into responding, but it only hardened her resolve. The end of her cigarette flared as she took another puff. ¡°I know you went to Heifer asking for money. He said you were willing to do anything to get it.¡± Virginia¡¯s hand pulled away from her mouth and fell to her side. She stared at me through the curtain of smoke escaping her half-opened beak. ¡°That¡¯s right. I talked to your old friends from the Barnyard days, too. They seemed to think you wanted to get back in the spotlight. Everyone¡¯s got their own take on what you¡¯re after, but they all agree you were desperate.¡± I waited for her to speak up for herself, but not even her eyes betrayed her this time. The muscles in her face twitched with the strain of holding them on me. ¡°Desperate as you were, I¡¯d have thought you would be trying to work doubles at Sal¡¯s, not playing hooky. Poor, sweet, Darlene had some choice words for you, but not even she knew where you went.¡± The guilt-trip was starting to work, but Virginia was strong and I had to keep pushing. ¡°So where have you been? Acting classes? Visiting wherever Ethan¡¯s stashed away? Whoring?¡± Virginia flinched, but still didn¡¯t talk. I hadn¡¯t taken a single step toward her, but still she had backed up until her tail feathers were flat against the cabinets. Given the gravity of the situation, the police would be there soon. I needed to get something out of her before they came. ¡°I followed you today,¡± I said. She choked and her beak clacked. ¡°I don¡¯t see any feral animals around here, so I¡¯m guessing the pet hospital¡¯s services were for you. Well? What did you go in for? Beak surgery? Breast augmentation? Or were you just preening your feathers before the lights and cameras sure to follow Ethan¡¯s miraculous rescue?¡± Virginia¡¯s statuary face finally broke. She didn¡¯t speak, but she didn¡¯t need to. Her eyes pointed me to a drawer near my hip. I ripped it open and found the bag I had seen her walking out of the pet hospital with. I tore open the top, where it was sealed with a few staples along the folded edge. Pill bottles spilled into the open drawer and I snatched one up. I searched The label, but nothing about opiates or benzodiazepines splashed up from the choppy seas of tiny letters on the bottle. Unfortunately, I left my novelty magnifying glass with the rest of the Delinquency Dog persona. When I held the bottle real close and squinted, my sight unfocused and the word ¡°antiemetic¡± appeared like the subject of a magic eye picture. I fumbled for another bottle, this one filled with tablets as big as my fingertip. The label was almost black with script enumerating all the health hazards and liability deferrals. This time, the word that stood out to me was ¡°cytotoxic.¡± I looked at Virginia with the bottle held loosely in my hands. She snatched it back and shoved all the bottles back in the drawer. ¡°Cancer?¡± I said, working it out as I spoke the word. The kitchen¡¯s sickly pale fluorescent light cast heavy shadows across her face, and I noticed the hollow pits of her cheeks. From up close, I saw missing patches of feathers and the deep tiredness in her eyes. She wasn¡¯t scraping together money for attention or to reclaim the glory days; she was just trying to hold on to what she had. She was trying to live. Virginia tried to stand her ground against my pitying stare, but her legs were weak. She lost her noble fight against gravity and slumped into the nearest chair. The short drop forced the air from her lungs with a fwump, and she replaced it with a breath filtered through her cigarette. I was ashamed. The revelation solved the mystery of her odd behavior, but it did nothing to address the elephant¡ªor wildebeest corpse¡ªin the room. ¡°This guy? You¡¯ve seen him before.¡± I didn¡¯t put the right inflection on my words to make them a question, but I spoke as gently as I could. We didn¡¯t need to be adversaries. ¡°You needed help paying for your medications¡ªeven on the gray market they were expensive. You took out a loan with someone dangerous, couldn¡¯t pay it back after you split with Peter. Is that right?¡± Virginia shook her head, looking past me at the blood spattered cupboard. ¡°That isn¡¯t it. There was no loan. I thought things were going to be okay when Ethan got the acting gig. I was going to scrape a few bucks off the top to pay for my treatment and figure out how to make it up to him later. Even if I¡­¡± She stopped to suck on her cigarette, but it was down to the filter. She stamped it out against the table, swallowed hard, and tried again. ¡°Even if I didn¡¯t make it, I knew Ethan was going to be okay. He¡¯d take care of Tommy if Peter never stepped up. I thought everything was finally going to work out.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t too late.¡± I leaned down and put a hand on Virginia¡¯s shoulder, making her look me in the eye. ¡°We can get Ethan back. But now that this guy¡¯s bumped off, we need to move quick. What else do you know?¡± Virginia¡¯s eyes brimmed with tears as she stared at me. Her mouth moved, but before she said anything, blue and red lights flashed across her face. Colored fireflies danced in her corneas as she turned to see the police cruisers approaching. ¡°Shit,¡± I said. Virginia got up, and I helped her out of her chair. ¡°You go see to Tommy. Make sure he isn¡¯t scared. I¡¯ll handle these assholes.¡± Chapter 23: Pig Shit The first officers on the scene were beat cops in uniform. None of them gave me more than a glance as they secured the area. In accordance with protocol, their sweep required them to barge into every room in the house with no regard for the innocent children they might startle. Virginia squawked at the pair who burst into Tommy¡¯s room, but Tommy didn¡¯t have the indignation reflex down yet. He defaulted to loud, blubbery crying that rose and fell like an ambulance siren. When they had thrown around enough chairs and overturned enough tables to be sure there were no more thugs lurking in the corners or behind the spice rack, their backup had yet to arrive. One brave officer started in on me. He wasn¡¯t much interested in my version of events, but he was adamant I needed to turn my gun over for evidence. I told him that wouldn¡¯t be necessary. At no point was I anything but forthright about it being the gun that put the thug down. The police department already had all the information they needed for it, from the serial number to ballistic characteristics, from when I worked for them. They tried to bully me, but gave up after the third refusal, grumbling that I could be someone else¡¯s problem. I thought I might finally get somewhere when a new flashing blue light trundled down the street, but the detectives who stepped out of the car disabused me of that notion. I recognized the way Detective Henry opened his door and adjusted his belt before I even saw his smashed-in face. Henry sneered at me as he came through the door, but after a quick debrief with the ornery lynx who had tried pushing me around, he went upstairs to talk to Virginia. That left Boggs to deal with me. ¡°All right. Let¡¯s get this over with.¡± He gestured into the living room so we could stand out of the main thoroughfare. We had a front-row seat of the forensics unit crawling over the body, smearing the blood puddle as their effete paper booties slipped on the gruesomely lubricated tiles. Boggs shared Henry¡¯s disdain for me, but it wasn¡¯t personal. A general distaste for ¡°that damned O¡¯Howell¡± had proliferated as generational knowledge through the police department. Sometime in the course of every recruit¡¯s training, they found their mentor saying something like, ¡°You remember Detective O¡¯Howell, Delinquency Dog? Yeah, from TV. He used to work here, might¡¯ve had that same locker. What was he like? Oh, he was a real piece of shit, let me tell you.¡± The sentiment wasn¡¯t novel; they¡¯d all taken to giving me the stink eye even before my messy divorce from the department. It was better that than to be the kind of person they worshiped, but it made interactions like this one tense. Boggs flipped open his notebook, took a pen out, and held it above the paper. I knew the drill; I could talk, and he¡¯d do the bare minimum by writing down the highlights. He assumed the police already knew everything I did. His eyes glassed over when I started the story with how I came to know Virginia, but he perked up when I mentioned Douglas Calhoun¡¯s involvement in Ethan¡¯s agricultural side business. He wrote with more urgency as I unfurled the whole tale, from the black Cadillac to the fire at Club Callout. As much as I wanted to be the one to solve the case, my ego wasn¡¯t so puffed-up that I¡¯d risk the kid not getting found just to stoke it. If what I¡¯d uncovered already helped bring Ethan home in the end, that was enough for me. The only key detail I left out was that the black Cadillac I¡¯d seen cruising around was, at that moment, parked one block over. They¡¯d find it eventually, but I wanted to check it out before they messed everything up. I also downplayed my suspicions about Virginia¡¯s involvement. I knew she was still hiding something, but she had done well to convince me she wasn¡¯t behind Ethan¡¯s disappearance. When things settled down, I¡¯d get to the bottom of that rabbit hole. As with Guy¡¯s car, I didn¡¯t want the police to go scrounging around inside Virginia¡¯s head before I had my chance. Boggs put his pen away when I started explaining the cold, hard facts about what had happened in the house. It didn¡¯t take a mastermind to figure out how things had gone down. I kicked in the door, found the man threatening Virginia, and put him down. ¡°This Guy character¡­ You know why he was here? What¡¯d he want from Virginia?¡± ¡°No clue. Virginia was about to tell me before you busted in and ruined the whole thing. Maybe when you find out, you could let me know.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t count on it, Mr. O¡¯Howell. Don¡¯t usually give details of active investigations out to civilians. Especially not ones as chummy with the press as you seem to be with this Miss¡­¡± He flipped back in his notepad and tapped the page. ¡°Miss Furone.¡± ¡°Come on, Boggs. You know I¡¯m not going to blab. All I want is for Ethan to get home safe. Don¡¯t make this any harder than it has to be.¡± Boggs grunted and thrust out his jaw so his tusks stood out. ¡°Ha. I thought you were supposed to be all about sticking to the books. Looks like that was for show, huh?¡± ¡°If you can¡¯t see the difference between looking the other way when officers are caught stealing from victims and bending the rules to save lives, you¡¯re a goddamn psychopath.¡± Boggs put his hands up as if he were under arrest. ¡°Woah, there. Looks like I touched a nerve.¡± This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. I didn¡¯t mind being mocked¡ªI even expected it¡ªbut Bogg¡¯s attitude got under my skin. ¡°We¡¯ve got a dead body and a missing kid on our hands, you son of a bitch. Now isn¡¯t the time to be joking around.¡± I raised my voice louder than I had planned and my shirt got tight in the back where my hair stood up. The officers in the kitchen stopped prodding the body, opening cabinets, and scribbling in notepads to look at me. Boggs¡¯s smile broadened when he saw my hands balled into fists. He was younger and bigger and in better shape than me, but if I wasn¡¯t sure I¡¯d end up in jail for it, I would have tried to wipe the grin off his face. Someone had to do something to keep pieces of shit like him in line, and it sure as hell wasn¡¯t going to be Henry. ¡°Are we done here?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Bogg¡¯s said. ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if you got the hell out.¡± I pushed through a clot of officers to get outside. My blood ran too hot for me to feel the chill as I stomped across the yard. Faces peeped over windowsills and through pushed-back curtains on all sides. The neighbor¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t concern me as much as the ones boring into my back from inside Virginia¡¯s house. I wanted some privacy when I checked out Guy¡¯s car, so I didn¡¯t head straight for it. I took a right instead and circled the block. The walk calmed me down, but when I got to the street I had parked on, I saw a pair of fireflies floating toward the Cadillac. The police had found Guy¡¯s ride and sent some rookies out to start the search while the forensics team took care of the time-sensitive matters inside the house. ¡°I¡¯m just shocked she wasn¡¯t calling wolf this time,¡± one of the officers said as he approached the Cadillac. They hadn¡¯t spotted me yet, so I took cover behind a fence to eavesdrop. ¡°That bitch is over the top. A real drama queen.¡± The other officer returned a forced chuckle. I didn¡¯t see any sign of amusement in the hippo¡¯s eyes. ¡°Now that I met her, it isn¡¯t hard to see why someone might want to smack her around a bit. Maybe it¡¯s a good thing she didn¡¯t squeal last time. We would have had to drag an innocent man in for a totally justified attitude adjustment.¡± Officer Spangler got to the car first and shined his light through the window. He shifted from side to side, careful not to engage with the cackling jackal he¡¯d been paired with. ¡°It¡¯s a real drag the way things are heading in this country. Used to be a man didn¡¯t even need a reason. He could just haul off and¡ª¡± ¡°Did someone give you the key?¡± Officer Spangler asked. The jackal paused with his mouth open and his flat hand raised by his ear, winding up to mime a backhanded slap. ¡°The key?¡± Spangler tried the handle, demonstrating its locked nature. ¡°Oh. I thought you¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll go back and get it. No, that¡¯s all right, you stay here and have a look around.¡± Spangler had joined the force with good intentions, and he had made the crucial error of expecting his fellow officers to share his morality. He reminded me of myself at his age, but it seemed he had learned not to stand out a lot quicker than I had. It was only a matter of time before he either burned out, got ousted, or became just like them. The jackal hummed to himself and kicked the tires. I snuck toward him while he lit a cigarette and swept the pavement under the car with the beam of his flashlight. ¡°This time?¡± I growled from a foot behind him. The jackal¡¯s cigarette fell out of his mouth when he startled and turned around. He hesitated a second before remembering his gun, giving me plenty of time before he reached for it. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand and clamped my right around his throat. My untrimmed nails bit into the soft flesh of his neck and his esophagus pushed out against my palm as he tried to shout. I stared him down until his eyes stopped rattling inside his head. My hand relaxed enough for him to swallow and squeeze a word out. ¡°Howl.¡± I eased off but kept my hand on his shoulder. ¡°What the fuck is this all about? You can¡¯t just¡ª¡± ¡°This time?¡± I repeated. He stopped panting, but rubbed his throat as he raised an eyebrow at me. ¡°You said she didn¡¯t cry wolf this time. What happened last time?¡± The jackal didn¡¯t want to talk, so I twitched toward him to loosen his tongue. ¡°Shit, someone called us out a month ago when they heard shouting. Found Virginia home alone with a black eye.¡± ¡°You think it was Guy?¡± The name didn¡¯t register in the jackal¡¯s mind. ¡°That wildebeest taking a nap on the linoleum in Virginia¡¯s kitchen.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. She said it wasn¡¯t Peter, but we didn¡¯t believe her. They¡¯d just split, and we figured he got mad and tried to get back at her. When we got the call, we thought it was him again. Pissed off about what she let happen to Ethan.¡± ¡°It couldn¡¯t be Peter. He¡¯s out of town.¡± The jackal smiled and shook his head. ¡°He¡¯s back. Came to the station to give his statement, but wouldn¡¯t you know it? He doesn¡¯t know anything. His alibi¡¯s rock solid.¡± ¡°He seem broken up about it at least? Seem like he cares his son¡¯s missing?¡± ¡°You ever seen the guy?¡± The jackal blanked his face, opened his eyes wide and fluttered his eyelids, mimicking the slow loris¡¯s mournful expression. ¡°Man would look depressed swimming in a sea of champagne with a raft made of tits to keep him dry.¡± I wanted to be mad¡ªto tell him to take this seriously¡ªbut I knew he was right. The police¡¯s heavy-handed interrogation and emotionally stunted interviewers couldn¡¯t see past the most obvious front he wore. If Peter was hiding something, they wouldn¡¯t be able to pick up on it. ¡°What else can you tell me about Peter?¡± The jackal snickered again, and I pushed him back into the Cadillac. ¡°I¡¯m not saying shit. Official police business and all.¡± ¡°Damn it, I work for Mrs. Calhoun. Just tell me what I need to know to help her.¡± ¡°Ha. Don¡¯t think you¡¯re going to be prowling around much longer. How do you think the judge will feel when they hear you assaulted a police officer?¡± ¡°I assaulted a¡ª?¡± I saw the tendons standing out on the back of my hand as it crushed the jackal¡¯s shoulder. A flashlight bounced our way, and I let my hand drop. The jackal turned his beam on Officer Spangler, who stood stock still, confused by all the attention, then doubly confused when he saw me. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell?¡± the hippo asked. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± ¡°Just checking to see if you boys needed any help. Your friend here doesn¡¯t seem to think so.¡± The jackal rubbed his shoulder and side-eyed me, then slid his gaze over to Officer Spangler. I could have stuck around and tried to get information out of him, but it wasn¡¯t worth the risk. I was a good enough detective to find Peter on my own. I got in my car and watched the two officers talk in hushed tones, with Spangler looking over at me between each sentence. The jackal would be too embarrassed to admit an aging PSA mascot got the jump on him. Even if he did, it would take a while for the lethargic police department to send someone out to round me up. By then, I hoped to have the case handled. Chapter 24: Lounge Lizard I left to track Peter down before the jackal called for backup. If Peter was the one who had smacked Virginia around the first time, he was a more violent, treacherous person than he appeared. He could have sent someone to kidnap Ethan to hurt Virginia. It was unlikely, but I had time to kill, and I suspected he must know something about the first incident. I put a handful of blocks between myself and the cops before I found a phone on a vacant stretch of road feeding into the freeway. A drum roll of raindrops fell on my windshield as soon as I stopped, and it turned into a respectable drizzle by the time I made it into the booth. The glass coffin kept the rain off me, but I was exposed inside it, illuminated by a wan streetlight on the side of the road. A few cars buzzed past, but none slowed for me. I jumped a few times, but I didn¡¯t need to look out for black Cadillacs anymore. At least, not that one. First, I tried the direct number I had written down for Peter. The phone rang and rang, so I tried the front desk of Shady Eaves Motel, where he had been staying after Virginia gave him the boot. A cheery young woman answered and identified herself as Rebeca. Her tone clashed with my dour surroundings. ¡°Peter Calhoun in?¡± I asked once we¡¯d gotten through the standard greetings. ¡°Uh¡­ I¡¯m not sure if I can¡­¡± Rebeca said. ¡°I can transfer your call to his room.¡± ¡°I already called up to 304, but he didn¡¯t answer.¡± ¡°Uh¡­¡± Rebeca said, expressing a great depth of doubt in the single stretched-out syllable. ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to share any information about our guests. We have a very strict privacy policy.¡± ¡°That¡¯s great.¡± I put some extra gravel in my voice to set the tone. ¡°But there¡¯s a kid¡¯s life on the line here.¡± ¡°A kid¡¯s¡­¡± Rebeca almost had her mind around the idea, but her grip broke with the shattering sound of a gasp. ¡°Oh my God! Are you Detective O¡¯Howell?¡± I took a deep breath, but Rebeca didn¡¯t wait for me to respond. ¡°You are, aren¡¯t you? I¡¯d recognize that voice anywhere.¡± ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s me.¡± I cleared my throat. ¡°Jonathan O¡¯Howell. Delinquency Dog.¡± ¡°No way! My friends used to love your commercials. Jason even has a grinder with your¡­ Oops. Never mind.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I said. ¡°Mr. Calhoun. You know where he is?¡± ¡°Geez, Detective O¡¯Howell. I wish I could tell you, but my manager would throw a fit if he knew I was blabbing about our guests.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am, listen. This is bigger than policy. I¡¯m looking for Peter¡¯s missing kid, and I think he might know something.¡± Rebeca hummed deep down in her throat, a subconscious sound that meant she was thinking about it. I scuffed my feet, hoping she¡¯d come around on her own. When she didn¡¯t, I steeled myself against the debasement, then let slip one of the canned phrases the public safety board drummed up for my character. ¡°Remember kids. If you see something suspicious, tell an adult.¡± I didn¡¯t like the advice. Sometimes it¡¯s better to keep your head down and your eyes on your own work. Sometimes I wondered if those words were the last words running through Growl¡¯s mind before¡ª The girl in the motel five miles away laughed. I gritted my teeth against the high-pitched noise mutilated by a cheap microphone, speaker, and countless coils of copper wiring between us. She finished her laugh with a deep sigh that came up from the soul. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Detective, but there isn¡¯t much I could say if I wanted to.¡± ¡°Have you seen him since he came back to town?¡± ¡°Um¡­¡± I could practically hear the girl twirling her hair as she decided what to do. In the end, she did the right thing. ¡°Yeah. I saw him. He passed through the lobby a few hours ago.¡± ¡°Coming or going?¡± ¡°Going I think. He had this huge case with him. Looked like the right size for one of those big violins.¡± ¡°Big violin?¡± My eyes went down to my notes and I remembered he played in a jazz band. ¡°You mean a bass?¡± ¡°Yeah! That¡¯s what it¡¯s called. He was lugging one of those.¡± I pictured the primate dragging the case across a parking lot, heaving and sweating under a heavy and unbalanced load. Dead weight. ¡°Where was he heading?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Rebeca said, taken aback by my forceful demand. ¡°He put it in his van and drove away. I guess he had a show.¡± ¡°The same night he got back from tour? While his son is missing?¡± ¡°Yeah. I guess.¡± Rebeca sounded distant. Her mind had moved on. ¡°Hey, if you wouldn¡¯t mind¡­ Could you call back and leave a message on the answering machine?¡± The request derailed my thinking, and I stuttered. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°So I can prove I talked to you. My friends won¡¯t believe me if I just tell them. If you could call and say one of your catchphrases, my friends would. Freak. Out.¡± I grunted into the receiver, then put it down on the hook. A pair of coins rattled down the coin return, their jangling hardly audible over the rush of rain against the glass walls. Peter could be anywhere, and there could be any number of things in that case. My mind jumped to a child-sized body, destined for a drainage ditch, but my mind wasn¡¯t always reliable. Especially not when it was stressed out. The most obvious answer was the truth¡ªthat Peter had packed up his instrument and headed out to play in some shitty dive. I started there; it was easier than driving along the Gutter and investigating every van stopped by the river. I didn¡¯t know any jazz clubs, so I consulted the booth¡¯s phone book. When the shoulder I¡¯d tweaked putting Guy down twinged, I gave up trying to bend over to read and ripped the book off its chain. With the flashlight clamped in my teeth, I used both my hands to flip through the pages. I found entertainment venues and kept on flipping until I saw jazz clubs. There were a few marquee style ads on the page, but I skimmed past those as well as any with an address above The Fold. If it was in a fancy part of town, it was too high class for Peter. Jazz was a dying art, with barely enough interest from niche groups for him to pay the bills. I started making calls with the small fistful of coins I had. I could tell most weren¡¯t right just by the tone of the person who answered the phone. I had neither the time nor the energy to be polite and slammed the handset down as soon as the host or bartender who answered confirmed Peter wasn¡¯t there. My pocket was almost empty, and I got more frantic with each dial, but I got lucky. I knew as soon as the ringing stopped and I heard a strain of smooth jazz. The snippet was slow and sultry and sad. I smelled the cigarette smoke and felt the morose tingle of gin making my head light. ¡°Velours Noir,¡± a gruff voice said. He made no concessions for the French origin of the club¡¯s name and let it spew out in his thick east coast accent. ¡°What¡¯re you after?¡± ¡°You got live music?¡± ¡°Whadda you think?¡± The music got louder as the bartender held the phone toward it. I focused on the steady plunk of the low notes, giving a strong backbone for the saxophone to riff over. ¡°The guy playing the bass. Is he a slow loris?¡± ¡°Eh¡­ He ain¡¯t particularly fast.¡± ¡°He have a kid with him?¡± Another voice rumbled through the phone lines. Someone far from the receiver was talking. The sounds muffled as the bartender covered the mouthpiece. I heard a short back and forth before he came back. ¡°Huh? Whassat? A kid? You better not bring kids around.¡± I hung up the phone, started copying down the address of Velours Noir into my notepad, but gave up and tore the page out of the phone book instead. I kept my head low to keep the sudden deluge out of my face as I sprinted back to Delores. There was nothing I could do about the water soaking into my socks through the holes in my shoes. Dolores¡¯s bald tires spun on the wet concrete as I pulled out and got on the freeway. I lost control of the rear end on a few of the turns and fishtailed around like a drunk in a snowstorm, but I didn¡¯t slow down any more than I absolutely had to. Just because Peter was working didn¡¯t mean he hadn¡¯t done something to Ethan. The jackal at the crime scene had planted a simple yet dubious seed in my mind, but I had let it flourish. The only thing that kept me pushing on was thinking the worst. I was exhausted and in shock. I needed the motivation to stop myself from rolling up and shutting down. I made the turn into the Velours Noir¡¯s parking lot at close to forty miles an hour. Dolores turned ninety degrees and slid into a row of empty spots, stopping with her rear tire an inch from the concrete plinth of a light pole¡¯s base. Most of the cars in the lot were parked near the rear entrance of a brick building, the only one in the row with a neon ¡°Open¡± sign glowing in the window. I got a hold of myself and drove with a modicum of caution toward the light that had drawn the other cars like moths to a flame. There were a couple beaters like Dolores and some newer, sleeker cars, but they were all dinged up and scratched. The van was a beige box with wheels, but its size made it stick out. I pulled up behind it, straddling the lines of the open spaces across the aisle, and threw open the door. A gust blew cold rain drops in my face and shocked me into a moment of clarity. Either I was being crazy or I was walking into an immense amount of danger. I felt the gun weighing down my shoulder holster and pulled it out. When I swung out the cylinder, I saw six dimpled primers. I turned the gun over and shook it, letting the casings fall on my floor mat. One shell tinked off the lip under the open door, but I couldn¡¯t hear over the sound of rain and muted music if it landed on the pavement or inside the car. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. I reloaded the chambers from a box of cartridges at the back of the glove compartment. I put the rest of the box in my pocket just in case and kept the gun out as I crossed the lot. All I heard from the van was the concussive prattle of pelting raindrops on its roof, and when I tried to look in the back window, I couldn¡¯t make anything out. I pointed my flashlight inside, braced for the worst. The stripped interior wasn¡¯t painted red with blood, or brown with mud. It wasn¡¯t loaded up with shovels and garbage bags. I jumped when I saw a long lumpy shape opposite the sliding door, but when I looked closer, I saw it was a nest of shipping blankets, dusty and threadbare where mice had nibbled at them. I wasn¡¯t satisfied yet, and I crept along the side of the van, looking into the cab through the wing mirrors as I approached. Before I got to the passenger window, I saw a flash from near the building. I turned toward it, but the lack of a report was enough to keep my gun down, so the only thing I blasted the ram by the door with was my flashlight¡¯s beam. He was dressed in a gray suit with a matching fedora, an anachronism that placed him as one of the club¡¯s patrons. He blinked as he turned, putting up his hands to show he was unarmed. In one hand, he held the lighter that had made the spark that got my attention and there was a lit cigarette between his lips. He cursed as he smoked, but didn¡¯t bother me about what I was doing snooping around the van. I withdrew my light and watched him walk to his car. I darted up and flashed the inside of the cab. The seats were at least as tattered as the shipping blankets in the back, but they were empty. The door opened when I tried the handle, but I left it cracked. Getting the jump on Peter was more valuable. I don¡¯t think catching me in the act of ransacking his van would put him much in the mood for talking. The sound of rain on sheet metal faded as I approached the door, and the squawk of a saxophone, swish of brushed cymbals, and hiss of the neon sign got louder. I opened the door to a waft of smoke and music I had to swim through. Each dangling bulb created a bubble of diffuse light in the heavy fog and gave the sullen drinkers masks of shadow to hide behind as they wallowed in their ennui. I walked past the bathrooms and into the main room of the architectural shotgun style establishment. The band was pressed up against the back wall to my left, lit by a row of powerful incandescent spotlights, which were turned low so the filament burned orange. The band was in the groove. The saxophone sang softly as the drummer gave him a beat and Peter filled out the sound and tossed in the occasional short runs to bridge the gaps in the saxophonist¡¯s solo. The opossum wielding the burnished brass sax squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back to open his lungs. His cheeks puffed and pulled taut with his breathing, and a gleam of sweat rolled down his temple. The iguana on the drums leaned forward, hunching his shoulders and keeping low, his eyes locked on the top spire of the cymbal stand, intensely focused and in the moment. Peter went the other way. He looked into the void of the floor, but his vacant eyes didn''t blink. His left hand moved up and down the neck of his bass like a scuttling crab and his right plucked at the strings like an experienced bank teller counting money. His mind was elsewhere, but his heart was in the oversized violin. Peter¡¯s case lay open behind him. An oiled cloth was draped over the side and a bow poked out of a compartment filled with loose sheet music and crumpled song books. There wasn¡¯t enough room in there for the bass and a corpse¡ªeven a child-sized one. The polished brass and half-full bottles at the bar grabbed me like a shepherd¡¯s crook and dragged me over. Now that I had Peter in my sight, he wouldn¡¯t get out without talking to me first. I paid the bartender a substantial portion of my remaining pocket money for a scotch. It arrived just as the opossum on the saxophone reached an understated crescendo that brought Peter¡¯s bleary eyes off the floor. I raised my glass at him and took a sip. His fingers didn¡¯t stutter, but he held my gaze. He knew what I wanted and knew I wasn¡¯t leaving without it. He got his band mates¡¯ attention, and the three communicated in facial expressions and what pantomime was possible using only shoulders. They pulled things together into a dreamy finish that hung in the air just under the blanket of smoke. The ethereal echo covered the transition as the iguana took a drink from a beer bottle that lived beside his bass drum and the opossum moved over to the obsidian black baby grand at the side of the stage. Peter laid his instrument down in its case. I tensed up, ready to chase after him, but he waded toward me, through the small tables packed in the pit in front of the stage. Compliments drifted up over the lips of raised glasses and around the stems of long cigarette holders, and Peter accepted them mutely. Once he was through, he signaled the bartender, then looked at me and hooked his thumb toward an open booth. I joined him there, and the bartender was right behind me with a Manhattan cocktail for Peter. Peter picked the orange twist off the rim and took a drink. His eyes closed as it went down and when they opened again, he focused on the glass. He rolled it back and forth on the table, watching it slosh. ¡°Virginia told me you¡¯d come looking,¡± he said at last. ¡°Guess I thought I¡¯d have a minute to myself first.¡± ¡°Sorry to disappoint, but I¡¯m working against the clock here. You two amicable?¡± He looked at me curiously. ¡°You and Virginia. You on good terms.¡± ¡°Where Ethan¡¯s concerned, we are.¡± ¡°You talk to her tonight?¡± Peter shook his head. ¡°I tried to call before I left my room, but she didn¡¯t answer. I thought about going over, but I didn¡¯t want to bother her. I wasn¡¯t going to get any sleep anyway; that didn¡¯t mean I had any right to keep her and Tommy up. Besides¡­¡± He had needed to vent his emotions. They didn¡¯t show on his face, but they had poured out through his instrument and his music. Coming here tonight hadn¡¯t been about the money, the booze, or fucking around with his friends; it was therapy. ¡°Wait. Why are you asking? Did something happen to her?¡± ¡°Something happened near her. She¡¯ll be all right. Not sure how much Tommy saw though.¡± His mouth gaped open until he washed his horror down with a splash of whiskey. ¡°You see her about a month ago?¡± ¡°Not sure what you¡¯re after. We broke up around then, and I spent some time away.¡± ¡°Why did you break up?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Incompatible, I guess.¡± He was dodging the question, had to take his eyes off me so I didn¡¯t see the truth. ¡°You sure there¡¯s nothing more to it? Maybe you had a hard time keeping it in your pants?¡± Some men would get riled up at an accusation like that. Not Peter. He only snorted into his glass and took another drink. ¡°What¡¯s so funny about that?¡± I asked, watching him carefully. ¡°Maybe she was the one stepping out.¡± He downed his drink in one gulp. ¡°This game of twenty questions would be a lot easier on your liver if you used your words.¡± Peter signaled the bartender and peeked over at the opossum tickling the keys on stage before turning back to me. ¡°Who¡¯s the other guy?¡± ¡°As far as I know, there is no other guy.¡± He blushed and turned his face down toward his empty glass. ¡°Might be a girl, though.¡± ¡°She¡¯s gay?¡± I said as flatly as I could. I wanted my words to be a canvas for Peter to paint with his response. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Something like it, at least. Our sex life had been rocky for a while.¡± The candor coming from such a timid creature surprised me. Must¡¯ve been the liquid courage. The bartender swept in and replaced his empty glass with a full one. I leaned in while Peter was distracted, closing the distance between us so I could pounce as soon as he looked back. ¡°You catch her with someone else? Maybe someone with a more vengeful husband?¡± ¡°No. I don¡¯t think she actually did anything with anyone. We were adventurous in the early days. Sometimes we¡¯d invite others in, if you know what I mean.¡± I nodded. I didn¡¯t need the Rosetta Stone to decrypt his words. ¡°She always seemed a bit more interested in the other participants than she was with me. Maybe I should have known back then, but who was I to question a good thing like that?¡± Peter¡¯s fingers drummed on the glass. ¡°You think this wouldn¡¯t have happened to Ethan if I had just kept my mouth shut and stayed with Virginia?¡± I shrugged. I¡¯d only know that once we found out what happened to Ethan. For now, all I had was speculation, but Peter could help refine it. ¡°What was the inciting incident?¡± I asked. ¡°What finally tipped you over the edge and made you decide living in a motel beat shacking up with Virginia?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Peter said, shifting in his seat. ¡°Guess with Ethan getting work and Tommy starting school, I figured it was an okay time to make a change.¡± ¡°So it wasn¡¯t the cancer?¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t the what?¡± Peter said, jerking upright. His glass dropped to the table so fast rye whiskey sloshed over the sides and rained back down on the already sticky wood. ¡°I followed her to a clinic today. She¡¯s got meds. Sounds like she started on ¡¯em a little before you two broke up. Maybe you noticed her losing weight and getting frail. Maybe you thought she was just getting ready to put herself on the market.¡± ¡°I noticed she was distant¡­ I thought she was just¡ª Oh God, that¡¯s where she was going?¡± ¡°I take it you two weren¡¯t the best at communication.¡± Peter¡¯s eyes flew around the room, trying to find firm footing. His hand tightened around the glass. ¡°I was always on the road¡­ I could have been a better father.¡± I let him sit with the revelation a moment, but I didn¡¯t wait too long. I wasn¡¯t his therapist, and I still had a lot of questions that needed answering. ¡°You know someone by the name of Guy Urban? A fuck-off big wildebeest? He wears a suit and drives a fancy car, probably professionally.¡± Peter¡¯s head was still rattling. He converted the directionless lolling into lateral motion by shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s fine. Don¡¯t think you¡¯ll have the pleasure now. He¡¯s on the way to the morgue. He was at your wife¡¯s home tonight, giving her the strong arm.¡± ¡°Tommy!¡± Peter yelled. He stumbled halfway up to his feet before I caught his swinging arm and pulled him back down. ¡°Tommy¡¯s fine. Virginia too. I already told you that.¡± ¡°Jesus. How the hell am I supposed to keep anything straight when you keep throwing more and more at me?¡± ¡°Calm down, Peter,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m just trying to find your son. There are still a lot of unknowns. I¡¯m hoping you can help with one or two of them.¡± Peter rubbed his face, took a drink to settle his trembling, then nodded at me. ¡°Last time someone busted into your house and roughed Virginia up¡­¡± I said. ¡°Police think you had something to do with it. Now that I met you, I¡¯m thinking they¡¯re probably off the mark.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t even know about it until they called me on the road and started questioning me.¡± ¡°Clearly she was hiding something from you. Let¡¯s go back to why you broke it off. You¡¯ve given me some of it, but I need the whole truth. It wasn¡¯t just because you were drifting apart. I get the feeling you¡¯re a man highly subject to the laws of inertia. You¡¯d need a strong push to get you to make a change like that.¡± Peter¡¯s fingers beat against his glass again. He looked back at the band. ¡°I thought it came out of nowhere. Now I guess I know she was coming clean in case the cancer¡­¡± ¡°Come on Peter. You¡¯ve got to tell me. It could be the difference between finding Ethan alive and finding him floating face down in the river. Help me find your son.¡± Peter¡¯s face turned green and tears brimmed in his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s the thing. He isn¡¯t¡ª¡± His voice broke, and he had to collect himself before he tried again. ¡°He isn¡¯t my son.¡± I had meant to keep my response neutral so I could keep milking him for information, but that took me by surprise. I needed to steady myself with a drink. Now that the leak had sprung, it would take more than a gasp from me to plug it back up. ¡°I always thought the timing of his birth was tight. Didn¡¯t stop me from raising him like he was my own. I love him every bit as much as Tommy. It¡¯s just hard¡­¡± ¡°The other man?¡± Peter looked at me, abjectly confused. ¡°If you¡¯re not the father, who is?¡± Peter rubbed the back of his head and sucked air through his teeth. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Someone important, I guess.¡± ¡°Anyone stand out from the time you and Virginia got together?¡± ¡°We started seeing each other when she was still working for Barnyard, still going to Heifer¡¯s parties. Don¡¯t think you could narrow it down to just one man. I couldn¡¯t really hold it against her, seeing as I started out as one of those men. I just wish I would have known.¡± ¡°Must have been some big shot. Important enough to send someone around to bully Virginia thirteen years after the fact. Important enough to take Ethan out of the picture.¡± Peter turned a paler shade of green. His second cocktail was gone, but alcohol wasn¡¯t the only thing he had had too much of. He disassociated as things clicked in my mind. Virginia didn¡¯t have any interest in reclaiming her fame at all. It was about money for treatment and coming clean in case it didn¡¯t work. She couldn¡¯t die without telling Peter the truth. She had been desperate enough to go to Heifer and beg. What if she was desperate enough to go to Ethan¡¯s father? She might have offered any number of things in exchange for some cash, but I couldn¡¯t imagine the father seeing it as anything but black mail. The father had sent Guy¡ªor someone like him¡ªthat first time a month ago to make sure she shut up. Maybe Virginia didn¡¯t listen and he had to ramp up the stakes by taking Ethan. She didn¡¯t know who had him when she came to me, but had figured it out by Al¡¯s funeral. That¡¯s why she was so resistant to me helping with the case, even pro bono. Someone had keyed the father into the fact that I was still on the hunt and assumed Virginia had asked me to keep digging. It was my fault Guy had gone over to intimidate her. I had barely finished the one drink, but my head spun like I had drunk five shots back to back. My stomach lurched, ramming my liver into my heart. If the father did something to Ethan in retribution it would be my fault, too. ¡°What do you know about him?¡± The way my voice squeezed through the steel trap of my throat made it hard to hear over the light music and conversations around us. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Peter said. ¡°I really don¡¯t. All Virginia said was that I wasn¡¯t Ethan¡¯s father. I couldn¡¯t stand to hear more.¡± ¡°God damn it, man!¡± I slapped my hands on the table and stood up. Aside from a little neglect, Peter had done nothing wrong, but I couldn¡¯t look at him anymore. I wanted to throw him against the wall and wring him out for answers, but I knew it wouldn¡¯t solve anything. Instead, I left him wallowing and stormed out. I¡¯m sure he made some real mournful music after I left. Chapter 25: Cry ‘Havok!’ I started driving before I knew where I was going. I had everything except the one crucial piece of the puzzle: Who was Ethan¡¯s real father? After what happened with Guy, it wouldn¡¯t take much to convince Virginia she needed to start talking. The father was clearly dangerous, and it was only a matter of time before he decided it wasn¡¯t worth the trouble of keeping the kid alive. I was halfway through retracing my route back to Virginia¡¯s house when a passing truck splashed thirty gallons of rainwater onto Dolores like a crashing wave. Some ice-cold sprinkles slipped through the rust-eaten roof, and the spritz woke me up. The police would still be crawling around her house. Virginia definitely wouldn¡¯t talk if I aired out her dirty laundry in front of the cops. Besides, another man banging on her door in the middle of the night was sure to collapse her fragile constitution and give her a heart attack. She needed some time to cool off before she could think logically. So did I. If we met before we both got some sleep, it would be a screaming match. Nothing would get solved, and Virginia would waste what energy she had left on shedding tears. I turned off I-18 and headed for home¡ªmy apartment, not my office. As soon as I stepped through the door, I felt a powerful tug toward the bedroom. I wanted to strip down and curl up on the mattress with a few ice packs pressed against my sore body. I checked the freezer, but didn¡¯t find so much as a bag of frozen peas. A red light pulsed, lighting up the cupboard doors beside me. I whipped around with my hand on the butt of my gun. The streetlights next to my building were in extremis, but one was close enough to my window to fill the apartment with bands of yellow-orange between the blocky shadows of the blind¡¯s slats. It was more than enough light to see my kitchen was empty. The red glow wasn¡¯t the end of a cigarette or the spark of a lighter, but a pulse from the answering machine I had hooked up in a more optimistic era. I let go of my gun. As tired as I was, it was a marvel I hadn¡¯t put two rounds through the desk lamp next to the phone. Having the gun on me made me more jumpy. I limped over with my tail between my legs and pressed the playback button. The tape rewound to the beginning and a beep sounded. Marcella¡¯s voice came on after a few beats of static. ¡°Howl, it¡¯s your favorite Daily Glyph reporter. Don¡¯t ask how I got this number, but I already tried your office.¡± I stepped away from the machine while she talked and went to the bathroom to get the shower running. ¡°I know you told me to back off, but I thought you would like to know I checked in on the clinic. They don¡¯t seem amenable to doing cosmetic surgery at all. I tried to get information on Virginia, but they iced me out. You have any luck talking to her in person? Call me back.¡± The machine beeped again as I fished out the box of stale cereal I had dipped my paw into the day before. Marcella¡¯s voice came back. ¡°What the fuck, Howl? I just got wind of the callout to Virginia¡¯s place. Tell me you didn¡¯t do anything crazy.¡± Another beep, another call from Marcella. ¡°Jesus Christ, I¡¯m getting more information from the scene now. Thank God you showed up when you did. Let me know when you know more about the guy you sent downtown. I can help you figure out who he was working for.¡± The machine beeped again, and I sidled up to it. I couldn¡¯t take any more nagging. My finger hovered over the stop button, but I paused when a different voice broke through the static. ¡°Hi Howl, sorry to call so late,¡± Isabel said. ¡°Just thinking about you and wanted to see if your old number worked. You find out anything regarding what I sent your way yesterday? Wouldn¡¯t mind talking about it if you¡¯ve got some time. Maybe we can meet up for dinner¡­ Anyway, call me back.¡± She fed me her phone number in case I had forgotten it, then hung up. I was stupefied by the message, but when another beep came, followed by Marcella¡¯s indignant griping, I shut the machine up. I downed the rest of the bag of cereal, then went to take my shower. With the lights off, I couldn¡¯t tell if the water had cleared up, but it was lukewarm at least. I would have preferred scalding, but I took what I could get. When I got out of the shower, I dried off as well as I could with the thin towel on the back of the door and carried my balled-up clothes into the bedroom. I fell down onto the mattress and crawled back to get my notepad out of my jacket. I meant to write down some of what I¡¯d uncovered, but it was too dark. The desk lamp I had on the floor next to the wood-grain alarm clock burnt out over a year ago. I closed my eyes, getting up the strength to stand up and hit the light switch. Thoughts weren¡¯t pinging around inside my skull anymore. I had a path forward, and I was too exhausted to spin my tires anymore. The notes could wait. I woke to a fever and a blinding pain behind my eyes. I thought I was hungover or had been drugged. My mind reeled, trying to remember what I had done the night before, but when I opened my eyelids to a searing white lance, I realized I was just baking in the sunlight. I jolted up and groaned as pain bloomed throughout my body. My sleep-addled mind thought I must have been shot. The pain started as one giant bruise over my entire body, but it became more refined as I patted around looking for holes. I felt the pulled muscles in my shoulder, the soreness of my legs, and the twisting of my empty stomach. When the sharpest pain settled on my bladder, I threw back the scratchy sheets I¡¯d burrowed under and ran to the bathroom. As soon as I was empty, I got busy refilling by starting a pot of coffee. My urgency built as more concrete memories filtered back in. I almost ran out the door, but made myself slow down. It was embarrassingly late in the morning, but Virginia wasn¡¯t going anywhere. I threw back the first cup, let the burns wake me up before the caffeine even hit my bloodstream, then poured a second and brought it with me. Dolores took only a few vulgar pleas to get going, and I was on my way. The smooth sailing lasted only a few blocks before I hit a wad of traffic, accompanied by a ragged mob of pedestrians clumping like bacteria cultures. Their nucleus was a school I thought had been condemned months ago. Rumor had it, the proximity to the ClearLife factory caused development problems¡ªas in, problems with kids developing extra fingers and radioactive urine. I wanted to turn back and drive around the block, but there was already a stack of cars behind me. There were too many pedestrians on the sidewalk for me to cut out and skip past all the law-abiding citizens waiting in line. I risked electrocution by turning on the radio so I could figure out what the hell was going on. When I found a channel with more signal than noise, there were no klaxons, Morse code beeps, or governmental officials breaking in to tell everyone to duck and cover. The show¡¯s host keyed me in himself when he blustered about how only un-American sexual deviants voted for anyone but Regis. It was election day, and I found myself jammed up outside a polling place. You¡¯d think in an area so destroyed by Regis¡¯s policies, there would be fewer people turning out in support, but I saw an endless sea of bumper stickers and tee-shirts bearing his inane slogans. I cursed the whole system as the pulsing traffic pushed me along and floored it as soon as I was on the other side. Dolores¡¯s engine sputtered, but I coaxed her through it and hopped onto I-18. With the billboard featuring Regis looming over the overpass, I couldn¡¯t quite avoid thinking about him. I met eyes with the sign and was surprised to see someone had vandalized it. Some enterprising youths had climbed up the posts with cans of pink spray paint and drawn a crown over Regis¡¯s head. They had also splattered the words ¡°All Hail the King¡± over the call to action beside him. It was a messy job with long drips of wet paint streaking down from the marks, but the kids¡¯ hearts were in the right place. When I got off I-18 two exits south, I watched out for the signs of other polling places and avoided them. Closer to Virginia¡¯s house, the demographic was less destitute-out-of-work and more working-class. As much as they wanted to support their local hero, they couldn¡¯t afford to take off work in the middle of the day to go to the polls. They¡¯d try to squeeze in before their shifts and during their lunch breaks, but a majority would be waiting in line long into the night. Their votes would be counted as long as they got in the queue before the polls closed, but by then the election would be all but decided. The futility of the exercise still wouldn¡¯t stop them. Thanks to voices like that of the DJ blabbering on through Delores¡¯s stereo, they felt it was their patriotic duty to punch a hole next to Regis¡¯s name. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. I snuck up on Virginia¡¯s house again, making sure the cops had blown off before I stormed in. My search didn¡¯t turn up any patrol cars staking the place out. It did reveal a vacancy where Guy¡¯s Cadillac had been, so I pulled Dolores in. The house was still, sleeping in after the harrowing night it had. I waffled back and forth about bringing my gun, and ultimately decided to take it. I didn¡¯t want to get spooked and turn Tommy into Swiss cheese by accident, but I wanted to make sure I wasn¡¯t left standing around with my dick in my hand if the person who had sent Guy could have sent someone else to take revenge. A cop had moved Ethan¡¯s bike away from the sidewalk to clear the way for the massive body bag Guy took his last ride in. I looked around for any sign I was being watched before approaching Virginia¡¯s door, then knocked gently. I didn¡¯t want to get started on the wrong foot, and I knew she would be high-strung after last night. It wouldn¡¯t take much to set her off. Virginia didn¡¯t show up, and I didn¡¯t hear anyone moving around inside. I pounded harder, testing the limits of the hasty repair the officers had done to keep the door stuck after I had broken it. I rubbed my shoulder as I waited, one ear raised and pointed toward the house, but I didn¡¯t hear anything. Either Virginia had fallen comatose with exhaustion, or she wasn¡¯t home. I couldn''t imagine her stepping out for work after what happened, but maybe she felt she didn¡¯t have a choice. I looked in the window visible from the stoop. The investigators had made a mess of the place. They left trails of muddy footprints all over the floor, and hadn¡¯t set right any of the overturned shelves, tables, or lamps. The only mess the actual intruder had left was a sloppy red patch on the kitchen tile. It looked like someone had made a half-hearted attempt to mop it up with a sponge but gave up halfway through. Something didn¡¯t sit right with me. I thought maybe Virginia was inside, but had decided she just wasn¡¯t dealing with any more shit right now. It was a smart choice, and maybe the one I would have made in her place if my child wasn¡¯t missing. I went around the house to the patch of dirt a realtor would call a rustic back yard. My shoes crunched on something as I approached the back door. I lifted my foot and saw a diamond spray of glass fragments, then followed their trajectory to a broken window next to the door. I jerked for my gun, and it was already in my hand by the time the conscious signal to grab it traveled down my arm. The glass had been intact when I swept the house after killing Guy. There was no reason for the investigators to break it out, either. The door was unlocked, so I didn¡¯t make much noise getting in. It was a moot point considering the racket I¡¯d made at the front door, but I didn¡¯t want to rush. I kept my gun hand ready but pointed at the floorboards, cognizant that around any corner could be either a murderous thug or an innocent child. The risk of being too slow on the draw was worth making sure I wasn¡¯t too quick. I paced heel-to-toe down the hall, dipping my head into the kitchen and living room before heading upstairs. All the doors were open, and I could see into each from the top of the stairs. I didn¡¯t see Virginia, Tommy, or any intruders, but my dander stayed up as I went around and checked behind doors and inside closets. Someone had ransacked Virginia¡¯s room. The drawers were jerked out, their contents scattered across the floor. A jewelry box had been left open on a vanity with nothing left inside but the errant back of an earring and a few dust bunnies. The mattress had been pulled off its frame and lay tilted to one side so someone could reach the space underneath the bed. My search ended in the boys¡¯ shared bedroom. Tommy¡¯s side, bedecked with crayon drawings and posters of cartoons, had been plundered, except for a shelf of stuffed animals above the bed. There, only a single blank space in the middle gave any sign something was amiss. I checked the closet and found a similar empty spot in the back corner. Shining my flashlight in the void revealed seven dimples in the stiff carpet: one group of four next to another set that would have been identical except one dot was missing. My mind latched onto the shape. I¡¯d seen it before¡ªon the night Al¡¯s ticket got punched. The spacing was the same as the rubber feet on Ethan¡¯s suitcase. The police had his, the one with a missing foot, locked up in evidence, but there had been another one in the closet. Where was Tommy¡¯s luggage now? I didn¡¯t need to stretch my detective muscles far to figure it out. The adrenaline faded, and I sat down on Tommy¡¯s bed, putting my gun and my flashlight away. Virginia had taken Tommy and ran. She tried to cover her tracks by making it look like she had gotten snatched too, but she was no good at it. She had broken the window by the back door the wrong way, so the glass sprayed away from the house. Virginia¡¯s room looked trashed enough, but the carefully removed toy from the shelf behind me betrayed a degree of control and deliberation. At first glance, I thought Ethan¡¯s side of the room had been trashed worse than the others. As I stared into it, I realized it had been like that before. Clothes were piled up on the floor and models and magazines were strewn about, but the drawers were all still in place. Virginia had tried to make the break-in look real, but she couldn¡¯t bare to mess up Ethan¡¯s things. She cared enough to leave them the way he had in case he ever came back, but she didn¡¯t care enough to stick around and try to find him. The thought of her abandoning her son like that made me angry, but more than that, it made me despondent. What was the point of trying to find Ethan if Virginia had already given up? No, that wasn¡¯t quite fair. If she stayed, she would also be putting Tommy in harm¡¯s way, risking the same fate for him as had befallen Ethan. I looked at the wall behind Ethan¡¯s bed, at his posters. They weren¡¯t cartoons like Tommy¡¯s, nor the scantily clad women many boys his age were transitioning toward, nor were they the marijuana culture references one might expect given his predilections. They were all movie posters. Some of them were newer blockbusters, but just as many were older films most kids Ethan¡¯s age had never heard of¡ªthe flicks film school professors across the country lost their minds for. Becoming an actor wasn¡¯t a passing fancy to Ethan; it was his passion. From my brief foray into the scene, I knew it was a dismal life, but I couldn¡¯t make the decision whether he should pursue it for him. The most I could hope for was that he was still alive to choose a life for himself. Virginia might have given up on him, but I couldn¡¯t. I heard a car creep down the street in front of the house. My hand rested inside my coat, with my fingers inches from my holster, as I peeked through the gauzy curtains. Wandering around Virginia¡¯s house had caused me to contract the fears that had pushed her out the door. I expected a black land yacht like the one Guy had driven up in. I saw a thug behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat, but these mobsters were in uniform. The car was black and white, with tumorous sirens and strobes growing out of its roof, hood, and bumpers. The mean-looking chimp in the driver¡¯s seat had been at the scene the night before. I hadn¡¯t heard much compassion from him, and I knew the jackal he towed along didn¡¯t give half a damn about Virginia. The wellness check wasn¡¯t their idea, and they laughed as the chimp turned dials on his radio and looked over the case file. I was glad I couldn¡¯t hear what they were saying or else I might have finished what I had started with the jackal outside Guy¡¯s car. I stole down the stairs while they loafed and escaped out the back door. As I eased it shut the last inch and gave it a yank so the latch engaged, I heard poorly suppressed laughter and footsteps tromping up the stairs at the front of the house. The cops knocked, waited, and knocked again. I edged around the side, pressing up against the corner five feet from them. ¡°I bet the bitch is sleeping in,¡± the jackal said. ¡°Probably expected to be up all night with that John, anyway.¡± ¡°Hey now, Officer Wilhelm, we don¡¯t know she was going to doink him.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, we don¡¯t know she wasn¡¯t either. Got to assume something though, since she wouldn¡¯t talk.¡± The chimp knocked again. ¡°You know, I¡¯ll bet the scream the neighbors heard before Howl blasted up the place had nothing to do with the big guy¡¯s gun. She probably just got a peek at his John Thomas and freaked.¡± The chimp chuffed, but followed it with a disconcerted hum. ¡°Look like a bit of a mess in there to you?¡± There was a pause as Officer Wilhelm checked for himself. ¡°I guess. Hard to say when the house was a sty to begin with. On top of that, our guys had to tear up the floorboards looking for clues.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± the senior officer said. ¡°But I don¡¯t remember busting out any windows. Maybe we weren¡¯t the only visitors Mrs. Calhoun had last night.¡± ¡°Think we should call for backup?¡± ¡°Nah. Not worth bothering dispatch. Would be better if we checked it out ourselves.¡± The jackal let out a wheezy cackle, and I heard the snap of a holster lashings coming undone, the chunk of metal pulled out of hard leather. I leaned around the corner and saw both men focused on the door. The chimp¡¯s lips counted up to three, then Officer Wilhelm threw himself into the door, shoulder first. He was a shrimpy guy, much bigger in his mind than the space his body took up, and his ego grew when the weakened door flew open with the first hit. ¡°HTPD!¡± the chimp yelled as he rushed inside. ¡°Drop your weapons and put your hands up.¡± I ran across the yard as soon as the two blundered into the house. The burst of movement shredded my tight groin muscles, and I fell against the trunk of the police car. The purring exhaust pipe spewed noxious fumes into my face, spoiling the sense of smell I was only now recovering after steeping in the heady mephitis of the Velours Noir. Virginia¡¯s house didn¡¯t take long to clear. Digging around in the cop car was a risky prospect, but I couldn¡¯t help myself. I popped open the driver¡¯s side door and found two notepads laying on the dashboard. I riffled through each like a card cheat might riffle a deck, looking for aces. If both pads went missing, it would have raised too many red flags, but nobody would think twice about a cocksure rookie losing track of his. His would have what I was after anyway: information about Guy and his car. Someone inside the house shouted, ¡°Clear!¡± and the other echoed him. I pushed myself out the door and closed it as near silently as I could manage, then hobbled across the street to Dolores. Chapter 26: Chasing Cars I didn¡¯t wait around for the knuckle-headed chimp and jackal to finish their search. They might not notice anything was missing from their car right away, but it wouldn¡¯t take them long to find me if they went looking for anything suspicious. Dolores was parked in the first place they¡¯d check. I hot-footed it out of the neighborhood and toward my office, but when I hit another chunk of election-day traffic, I used the time between curses to peruse the notepad. I opened to a random page near the back and immediately regretted my decision to take it. The entire sheet was filled with doodles of genitals and breasts with a few stick figures in the mix to provide context for the prestigious scale of the more finely rendered bits. I thought I had put myself at risk for nothing until I turned to the back and saw a few meaningful scribbles on the last page. At first glance, they had looked like more doodles, but when I held the pad up to my snout, I could decipher the script. I saw Guy¡¯s name, the model of his Cadillac, its registration and VIN number, then next to that, ¡°Steel Polaris Associates.¡± A car honked behind me and I jammed my foot onto the accelerator before the person in the next lane squeezed into the gap I¡¯d left. I tossed the notepad into the passenger seat and wracked my mind, trying to remember if I had ever heard the name before. It hardly sounded like a real place, but the company Guy worked for didn¡¯t post openings in the classifieds. They headhunted employees like him and built their client base off the guest lists of the city¡¯s most exclusive parties and most influential board meetings. As enmeshed in the city as I had been, I was fairly certain I¡¯d never heard the name before, but I thought I might know someone who had. I drove two blocks past the election-day jam and stopped at the side of the road to use a freestanding payphone. I dialed the number from memory, hating that it was still taking up soace in there. As soon as I found Ethan, I was going to drink enough scotch to smudge over the numbers in my internal Rolodex and replace them with something more meaningful, like the number to the Chinese place around the corner. ¡°Adora Counsel¡¯s office, Mackenzie speaking,¡± the pleasant, but airy voice of Adora¡¯s receptionist said. ¡°Adora¡¯s very busy at the moment. Would you like to set up an appointment? Or you can leave a message and I¡¯ll¡ª¡± ¡°No time,¡± I said. A pencil dropped and a chair squeaked as Mackenzie jumped in her seat. She took a tremulous breath. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell?¡± I tried not to snap. In order to restrain myself, I had to talk through my teeth. ¡°That¡¯s right. Now get Adora on the horn. It¡¯s important.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Detective O¡¯Howell, but she is terribly busy. Maybe if you¡ª¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have time for her games. Whatever she¡¯s tied up with, she needs to drop it. You remember the Ethan Calhoun case? The one where someone Adora hired got knocked down?¡± ¡°Yuh¡ªyeah¡­¡± ¡°There have been some developments. If Adora doesn¡¯t cooperate, I¡¯m afraid she might be¡­implicated.¡± Mackenzie gasped after taking a second to wrestle meaning out of what I¡¯d said. ¡°But she didn¡¯t have anything to do with Al.¡± ¡°Maybe. But the police don¡¯t know that. Don¡¯t think they¡¯ll care either. They¡¯ll bust down the door to her office and start digging through files for dirt. They¡¯ll spend as long it takes to validate whatever narrative they¡¯re spinning up.¡± ¡°They wouldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine if you don¡¯t want to take my word for it, but if I were you I¡¯d start poking around about finding a new job. You¡¯re going to need one. That is, if you don¡¯t get wrapped up in the investigation yourself.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± she started to protest. ¡°Yeah, yeah. I¡¯ve heard it. So have the police. The only way to avoid it now is if Adora gives me what she¡¯s got.¡± ¡°Oh my god. I¡¯ll see if she can talk.¡± The handset¡¯s speaker filled with the sound of fumbling, a door opening, then low and frantic conversation. Mackenzie came back to her desk breathless, and said, ¡°I¡¯m putting you through now.¡± She made the switch and Adora¡¯s husky breathing took over. ¡°Howl, this had better be important. I¡¯m leaving a big-shot producer dangling so I can talk to you.¡± Sure, like this one was going to be her big break. I didn¡¯t want to waste time with acidic banter, so I cut to the chase. ¡°Your guy, Al. He used to work for a place called Steel Polaris. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± ¡°Maybe he did. Sounds like you¡¯ve got all the answers already. Why don¡¯t you tell me?¡± ¡°Adora, try to take this seriously, would you? Your whole career might depend on it.¡± ¡°You sure spooked Mackenzie into thinking it did, at least.¡± ¡°Lots of people have their eyes on the Calhoun case. Like it or not, you¡¯re caught in the middle. This case hinges on you piping down and giving me what I want to know.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think I like your attitude,¡± Adora said. Her voice was all gravel. ¡°I¡¯ve worked with enough actors to know when someone¡¯s trying to pull one over on me. Your chops are rusty, Howl.¡± ¡°Maybe they are, but Ethan¡¯s aren¡¯t. You lose him, you lose one of the most valuable clients you¡¯ve ever had. You help find him, you get your name in the newspaper.¡± ¡°Jesus, Howl. You make it sound like I¡¯m murdering the kid myself. I¡¯m just looking through my papers now.¡± The shuffling started midway through her talking. I heard static and rubbing and thumping as Adora moved the phone from shoulder to shoulder. A heavy metal drawer clunked on crooked rollers. Papers fluttered. The phone dropped and knocked against the desk, Adora¡¯s chair and the ground. Adora grunted, cursed, pulled out a folder, then picked up the phone. Her breath was a tornado in a grain silo, all whooshing and crackling as flecks of tar broke off her alveoli and pinged around inside her chest. She coughed, packing some of that debris into a wet hack, then gasped and talked into the mouthpiece again. ¡°All right, Howl, I got Al¡¯s file here. Give me a second.¡± Pages flipped and Adora mumbled as she searched. ¡°Ah, here it is. Previous employer: Steel Polaris Associates. I told you he worked there.¡± ¡°You got an address? A phone number?¡± I asked, pencil poised over my notepad. Adora clicked her tongue as she searched. ¡°Yeah. I got it here. Before I give it to you¡ª¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°You don¡¯t have time or the leverage to put the squeeze on me right now, Adora. Think of Ethan. Think of your name in the paper.¡± ¡°I know, I know. The address is 4878 Benday. But now that you¡¯ve got that¡ª¡± I hung up, hopped back into Dolores, and peeled out as quick as the terminally ill engine allowed. I could thank Adora later. Delores rumbled down the freeway to Headline Boulevard, then puttered through traffic to Benday. I searched all around to catch building numbers. I found 4876 and 4880, two massive, expressionless office buildings with steel and glass facades. They were so generic, they could have been cut out of Hot Type City and dumped in any other metropolis in the world and they wouldn¡¯t have stuck out. I lurched around the block but didn¡¯t find the address on any of the other four sides. When I came back around to where I had started, I pulled into a corner lot across from 4876. The lot was littered with cars belonging to the people who walked back from city hall on the other corner with proud ¡°I Voted¡± stickers on their chests, but I found a spot. Before I got out and started wandering around like a tourist, I scanned the buildings again. A long black town car with a mirror finish drove right in front of Dolores¡¯s nose. I sunk down in my seat, but the window didn¡¯t roll down to show me the barrel of a Tommy Gun as I feared. Soon after it was past me, it put on its brake lights, then its blinker, and cut across traffic like it was going to mount the curb and drive straight into the office buildings. Instead of clunking and scraping, the car glided through a subtle cut in the concrete I hadn¡¯t noticed the first time, then down into the recessed entrance to a garage occupying the space I had assumed was simple connective tissue between the two buildings. Not only did Steel Polaris not have a sign, they had made themselves invisible. It was a selling point for the clients they courted. I watched a while longer and another car came out, this one leading with the spearhead of a Mercedes caltrop poking out of its hood. It rocked onto the street and disappeared into traffic. A few more cars came and went while I watched, but all of their windows were tinted so I couldn¡¯t make out the drivers. A mongoose in a suit walked up the ramp and glanced around. His eyes didn¡¯t linger, but I felt them pierce my windshield as he scanned the lot. He talked into his cuff, and the sloshing coffee in my empty stomach turned to a block of ice. With his arm lifted to his mouth, I saw the butt of a gun poking out of a shoulder holster inside his tailored suit. I felt for my gun, reaching out toward it like an addict. Before I touched it, a sharp crack next to my head made me jump. I thought I was dead, then thought I was dreaming when I saw the same suit and tie from across the street standing next to my car. The tamarin wearing it lowered himself down and made the window cranking gesture. It was only one man, but with cars all around me, I felt trapped. I rolled the window down until there was enough gap to speak through. ¡°You need to move along,¡± the tamarin said in the flattest deadpan I¡¯d heard since the geriatric Mr. Crumbley¡¯s eighth grade history class. ¡°This lot is for city hall parking only.¡± ¡°Funny. You don¡¯t look like a traffic cop.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t make this hard. Just get the fuck out of here.¡± Every aching bone in my body told me to nod my head, apologize, and back Dolores out, thanking my lucky stars the guy felt like talking instead of jumping straight to shooting. But I refused to be intimidated. ¡°You work for Steel Polaris?¡± The tamarin¡¯s face didn¡¯t change. ¡°I heard about your coworker, Guy Urban. Maybe you knew him. Real shame what happened to him, but when you play with fire¡­¡± I was dipping my toe in, testing the water. Turns out it was as tepid as the last shower I¡¯d taken. Either this man didn¡¯t know Urban, didn¡¯t care for him much, or was an excellent actor. I suspected some superposition of the three. ¡°Sir, please move your vehicle. Others need to use the lot.¡± I looked behind the unlikely attendant at a bevy of open spots like missing teeth in a boxer¡¯s mouth. More cars were going out than coming in. Nobody was waiting on me. ¡°You talk to the police yet?¡± That garnered a slight shift behind the eyes. I couldn¡¯t tell if it was rage at my obstinance or some hint of recognition. ¡°Maybe an asshole bulldog named Henry? Or a tubby boar named Boggs?¡± The tamarin raised his cuff to his lips, and I snuck in one last jab. ¡°Or maybe you talked to Fosse?¡± The man¡¯s jaw jittered, halfway to opening. He squinted at me for a pensive moment, then shook his head. ¡°We have a situation in the south lot. Subject is refusing to relocate. Please advise.¡± I heard a break of static and the tamarin tilted his head as if it would bring the pigtail plugged into his left ear canal any closer. ¡°All right, you got me!¡± I said, putting my hands up. When the tamarin lowered his arm from his face, I dropped mine to grab the steering wheel and gearshift. The tamarin watched me as I rolled out of the space, circled the parking lot for an exit, then pulled out into traffic. I saw him talk into his wrist again through my rear-view mirror. When I passed the entrance to the subterranean garage, I slowed down and locked eyes with the mongoose I¡¯d seen earlier. He was on his way out, with one hand on the steel security door and the other jammed into his ear. The cold stare sent a shiver down my spine, but I got a better look at the gun in his holster. It was the same model Guy had shown off to Virginia, but it looked a lot bigger strapped to the more moderately proportioned body. The Steel Polaris thugs might not have had any authority or jurisdiction by law, but they did in a de facto sense. They were the hands and wheels of Hot Type City¡¯s untouchables. Sure, they drove people around, but they provided so much more. Even while I was pulling out of the parking lot I had hoped to find some way inside the garage or compound itself¡ªif they were willing to help steal a kid, it wasn¡¯t too much more of an ask to hold him for them¡ªbut seeing the second guard on high alert dissuaded me. If I tried to get in, the only thing I would find myself inside of was a fifty-five gallon drum, cozied up with hundreds of pounds of quick-dry concrete as I sank to the bottom of the Gutter. I should have backed off, regrouped, maybe condescended to asking Marcella for help, but I couldn¡¯t leave empty-handed. I orbited the building again, this time at an offset of several blocks, but never reached escape velocity. I didn¡¯t know what I was looking for until I saw it: a boxy black car with a watery clearcoat and windows tinted black. I followed it with a few cars between us until it turned onto Benday, heading back to headquarters. Fortunately, I picked up another car going the other way a minute later. I kept my distance, and never took my eye off my rear-view to make sure I didn¡¯t pick up a tail of my own. The car only drove a few blocks before it peeled off the main street and turned into the valet circle of a palatial apartment building. It didn¡¯t reach quite the same heights¡ªeither in feet or class¡ªas the Morales Building the Sanders family ruled from, but it was a close rival. The building¡¯s security would have converged on me like a pack of lions if I tried to sneak Dolores into the turnaround. I would have lost the scent if I had to stop and explain myself at gunpoint, so I kept driving. I circled the building twice, and just as I started the third loop, the car I was tracking poked its nose out of the drive. It emerged into the flow of traffic behind me, and I nearly rear-ended a taxi trying to tail it from ahead. After it turned off, I had to do some creative driving to catch up. I pissed off a few drivers and traded paint with an erratic delivery van, but I found the car again in front of the Morales Building. I was going the other way, and caused the Volvo behind me to slam on its brakes when I darted into a dubious parking spot to watch through the stream of traffic. The Volvo¡¯s driver, a middle-aged hare, cursed me out and flipped me off, but the attempt at an insult slid off me. I watched the black car¡¯s driver, a seal wearing the standard issue suit given to all Steel Polaris associates, step around the car to open the passenger door. He stepped back and stood at attention, making room for Felicity Felini and her broad sun hat to squeeze out the door. She wore a camera-friendly, but not especially elegant, off-white floral-print dress with short, strappy heels. A beaver wearing a black and white frock to identify her as the help followed her out of the car, loaded up with a garment bag, a shoe box, and a piece of wheeled luggage big enough to contain a portable makeup trailer. I flashed back to the conversation from the last time I came to the Morales Building and flipped through my notepad to jog my memory. I had written that Cynthia was hosting a party on behalf of Regis, planned for the night of the election¡ªtoday. The seal closed the door behind Felicity¡¯s girl, but stopped to scan the area for threats before following them. His eyes flicked from car to car and building to building, then I felt the sting of his eyes on mine. One hand moved ominously toward the inside of his jacket while the other raised up to his mouth. There was no doubt he had spotted me, so I didn¡¯t waste any time trying to hide. I put my trust in the attentiveness of the drivers passing by and backed up. Brakes squealed and horns blared, but I got out and was around the corner before the bodyguard finished sending his report in to HQ. I had a powerful hunch the person who had hired Steel Polaris to kidnap Ethan would be at that party, but I wouldn¡¯t be able to get past the score of guards who would supplement the building¡¯s already substantial security. Not alone, at least. I had come as far as I could on my own. It was time to ask for backup. Chapter 27: Muzzle The security at the police department was worryingly lax. Thanks to the refresher I got with my guided tour through intake three days ago, I had no problem getting straight to Roush¡¯s floor. Plenty of people recognized me, but when they saw my confident posture and my surly expression, they figured I was supposed to be there. They also figured they were better off keeping out of my way. How right they were. Some of the more experienced detectives in the bullpen outside Roush¡¯s office got shifty when they saw me cutting through to the Captain¡¯s office. Detective Boggs had been making jokes between glugs of his afternoon coffee. He saw me mid-sip, and his mouth fell open, dribbling some back into his cup. He got out of his chair, but with his size it was a whole poorly choreographed dance. By the time he got his cheeks squeezed through the spindles of his chair¡¯s back and shook the seat off, I was already at the threshold of Roush¡¯s office. I entered without knocking and closed the door behind me. The click of the handle catching spooked Roush, who was on the phone. He looked up but caught his gasp so he didn¡¯t pass the alarm off to the person on the other end. His scowl spoke for him as I sauntered across the room and sat in the chair across from him. ¡°Yes, Commissioner,¡± Roush said into the phone. ¡°I got the paperwork this morning, but I¡¯m still waiting on a few more signatures. No, Sergeant Diaz isn¡¯t in until eight. I¡¯ll have her sign it then. I can¡¯t. It will be on your desk tomorrow morning, I promise.¡± Roush leaned away when the Commissioner¡¯s voice came blasting out of the speaker. He scrunched up his face, guarding against the spittle he expected to come out of the handset. I scanned the room while the Commissioner gave Roush an earful. It wasn¡¯t as sparsely decorated as I had thought before. The walls were festooned with awards and personal commendations that blended in with all the department¡¯s plaques and portraits. Roush¡¯s parents would have been proud if they were still around. ¡°Yes, I know about the election,¡± Roush said when he finally got a word in edgewise. ¡°Yes. Well, try to enjoy yourself. Say congratulations to Regis for me. Right. I won¡¯t leave tonight without getting those forms sent over, even if I have to work the fax machine myself.¡± The commissioner¡¯s distorted voice trumpeted out again. Roush¡¯s ears switched back, but he bared the tempest with a determined clench of his jaw. ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯m taking care of it. Good night.¡± Roush put a little muscle into hanging up the phone, making damned sure it got all the way down in case gravity was on a smoke break. He rubbed his face and let out a long, tired breath as the bell inside the assaulted device rattled. ¡°Paperwork¡­¡± My wistful musing zapped Roush to attention. He had forgotten I was there. ¡°If the corruption and graft hadn¡¯t pushed me out, the paperwork would have eventually.¡± ¡°Right. Very droll,¡± Roush said. ¡°Look, Howl, I was hoping I¡¯d have a chance to talk to you, but I wish you would have called first.¡± ¡°Saved us both the trouble.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t the time for jokes. You¡¯re making us look bad.¡± ¡°Damn, you¡¯ll have to forgive my tears.¡± ¡°You¡¯re making me look bad, Howl.¡± Roush showed a flash of the inner strength that had made him Captain in the way his voice raised. ¡°First there was the arrest¡ªthe illegal salvage, the expired license, the trespassing. Now I¡¯m hearing rumors you assaulted an officer. Please tell me Wilhelm is exaggerating.¡± ¡°He the jackal? The one with a soft windpipe?¡± Roush buried his head in his hands. ¡°Jesus Christ, Howl.¡± ¡°It needed to be done, and I didn¡¯t see anyone else stepping up to do it. Now, we might not have much time. I need your¡ª¡± ¡°I can¡¯t keep doing this?¡± ¡°Doing what?¡± ¡°Defending you,¡± Roush said. ¡°You played a part in making me who I am today and I¡¯m grateful, but the person you made me into is the type who stands up and says, ¡®Enough is enough.¡¯¡± ¡°But I¡¯m close. I talked to Peter¡ª¡± ¡°We already talked to Peter. He had nothing to do with Ethan¡¯s disappearance.¡± ¡°I know, he didn¡¯t. But he told me¡ª¡± ¡°Howl! Stop. You have to grow up and quit playing police. We¡¯re doing everything we can to find Ethan already. Now, with Virginia missing¡­¡± ¡°She isn¡¯t missing!¡± I said, grateful for something to cling to so I didn¡¯t have to unpack his comment about me growing up. ¡°She ran away.¡± Roush shook his head sadly. ¡°Why would she do that? Just abandon her son and leave. I don¡¯t think she¡¯s that weak.¡± ¡°Someone wants her out of the picture, and she has another kid to look out for. She¡¯s got good reason to think Ethan is safe. If I¡¯m right, Ethan is still alive, but that could change in a hurry if the person who took him decides it¡¯s too much trouble to keep him that way.¡± ¡°Who do you think has him?¡± ¡°The kid¡¯s biological father.¡± I let it hang in the air for a minute. Roush picked up his jaw from the desk and blinked away the daze. I waited until it looked like he was going to talk, then jumped out ahead of him. ¡°I know what you¡¯re going to ask, and I don¡¯t know who the father is yet. I just know there is one. Peter confessed to as much last night.¡± ¡°Please, dear God, tell me you didn¡¯t do to him what you did to Officer Wilhelm?¡± ¡°Nah. Your man needed a dash of vinegar, but a few drops of honey in Peter¡¯s rye loosened his tongue.¡± ¡°But he didn¡¯t tell you who Ethan¡¯s alleged father is?¡± ¡°Peter doesn¡¯t know. I¡¯ve got almost enough clues to start making guesses, but I need the police force¡¯s help.¡± I went on before Roush could remind me I wasn¡¯t entitled to their support. ¡°There¡¯s a party at the Sanders¡¯s penthouse in the Morales Building to celebrate the election. I need some officers to give me an escort, make sure nobody leaves.¡± Roush was speechless. ¡°You think Ethan is at Regis¡¯s victory party?¡± ¡°No. But I know his biological father is. Just get me up there and give me a few minutes with them, and I¡¯m damned sure I can get it figured out.¡± ¡°Listen to yourself, Howl,¡± Roush said, exasperated past the point of trying to soften his words. ¡°Our resources will be swamped quelling the riots and domestic violence sure to spawn when the election results are announced. You want us to mobilize all units to harass the city¡¯s¡ªnay, the country¡¯s¡ªmost important people. All on a hunch given to you by a drunk and desperate father.¡± ¡°I know he¡¯s going to be there.¡± My voice was quiet, but it sounded petulant ringing inside my head. ¡°You think he¡¯s going to be there. Besides, according to your own theory, the father will release the kid as long as he doesn¡¯t feel threatened. You said it¡¯s why Virginia took flight. Why risk Ethan¡¯s safety if he¡¯s going to be let out anyway?¡± ¡°Because if we don¡¯t find out who the father is before Ethan¡¯s free, we may never know. He might get away with everything. Not just the kidnapping, but Al McCarthy¡¯s murder, and Virginia¡¯s stalking, too.¡± This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°We have no reason to think the person responsible for all three wasn¡¯t the wildebeest stuffed in a drawer down at the city morgue with six of your bullets in him.¡± ¡°Right. But we need to know who he¡¯s working for. We can do more than just get Ethan back. We can get justice.¡± Roush thought about it. His eyes flicked to where he hid his bourbon, and he worked his jaw, loosening his tongue. He wanted to help¡ªto get justice and save the kid¡ªbut he didn¡¯t have the backbone. As the youngest captain in the department¡¯s history, all eyes were on him. People scrutinized everything he did. ¡°You don¡¯t want to risk helping me? Fine. Let me talk to the Commissioner.¡± I leaned over the desk and slid Roush¡¯s phone toward me, picking up the handset. ¡°I¡¯m sure if I¡ª¡± Roush¡¯s hand snapped out and slapped mine back down. The bell inside the device made a ding, quiet, but slow to fade as Roush stared at me. ¡°No. Leave the Commissioner alone. Get out of my office and get some goddamn sleep. You look terrible.¡± ¡°But I¡ª¡± ¡°But you aren¡¯t on the payroll. You aren¡¯t even supposed to be up here. Unless you can give me a name and some fucking good evidence to support your claim, I can¡¯t do anything.¡± I glowered, and he glowered back, unrelenting. I was almost proud I couldn¡¯t push him around. My mind churned through the same facts it had been gnawing on all day. Steel Polaris¡¯s upscale clientele, the timeline of Ethan¡¯s conception, the father whose life would be ruined if the public knew he had sired a kid with a porn star, the seemingly arbitrary date in the letter I¡¯d received with the fake story about missing jewelery, the kinds of people who were invited to a party thrown by the Sanders family. In one clarifying moment, I knew who the father was with absolute certainty. Roush saw the dawning realization on my face as I stood up. ¡°Shit, Howl. What are you thinking? Don¡¯t do anything stupid now, okay?¡± I couldn¡¯t tell Roush what I was thinking. He¡¯d never believe me, no matter how I cut it. No one would. It was hopeless. ¡°I have to go,¡± I mumbled. ¡°It¡¯s been nice catching up.¡± ¡°Howl?¡± Roush called. I opened the door without looking back. He stood up behind his desk and yelled after me, ¡°Howl!¡± Every head in the bullpen turned my direction. I waded through their stares to the elevator. I went down to the main lobby where the average citizen came to interface with the police department, make reports, and drop off found objects. As soon as the elevator door opened, the shrill squawking of one such citizen echoed down the tiled hall and rung in my ear. When I recognized the voice as Marcella¡¯s, I wanted to turn back, but the small crowd of officers and clerical staff pushed me out. Another flock flowed in behind me, filling the elevator. I stood my collar up, tilted my head down to cover my face with my hat, and shuffled toward the door. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, he¡¯s gone missing. He isn¡¯t at his apartment and hasn¡¯t been by his office all day,¡± Marcella said. The officer working the desk said something cold and dry, in a voice too constrained by boredom to rise out of the murmur of the lobby. ¡°What does he look like?¡± Marcella echoed. ¡°What does Jonathan O¡¯Howell, Delinquency Dog, look like? Maybe you haven¡¯t been reading the paper, but you must have at least walked past a TV some time in the last decade.¡± The officer droned some half-hearted placation, but it riled Marcella up more. ¡°No, he¡¯s not my boyfriend! He¡¯s just up shit creek, and I¡¯m worried someone got hold of his paddle. If you don¡¯t have Howl, the only way you¡¯ll find Ethan Calhoun is if he walks in through that door¡ª¡± She had more air in her lungs, built up to keep her shout going, but when she swung around to gesture at the door, it all hissed out at once. I winced and kept my head down, but I stuck out like a sore thumb among the officers and smartly attired staff. My coat and hat were the same ones I had worn for all the television and print ads. They had weathered and picked up a dark patina of grime over the years, but it only made them stand out more. ¡°Thanks for all your help,¡± Marcella yelled back to the officer as she stomped after me in a huff. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell! Hey, I saw you. Wait up!¡± Half of Hot Type City had business at the police department that day, and they all had waited until the last minute to get it done, clogging up the entrance. I squeezed through the horde like pasta dough through a form, slowing me down. By the time I made it to the sidewalk, Marcella was next to me. She grabbed my arm and twirled me around in a brusque ballroom swing. ¡°What the hell, Howl? You said you¡¯d call.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I¡­¡± ¡°I thought they got you, God damn it.¡± I shrugged out of Marcella¡¯s grip and walked on, but she stayed glued to my hip. ¡°What the fuck was that at Virginia¡¯s house? Is she really missing?¡± ¡°Sure. That¡¯s the story. Just like Ethan.¡± ¡°Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?¡± ¡°Everything will work itself out in a few days. Ethan will be back, and Virginia will show up to welcome him home. A real fairytale ending.¡± ¡°Jesus, Howl, you¡¯re freaking me out. Shouldn¡¯t you be happy?¡± ¡°The person who sent Guy will be free, living it up while the rest of us try to pick up the pieces. We¡¯ll get our resolution, but we¡¯ll never get justice. It will all be pinned on Guy and everything will blow over.¡± Marcella grabbed me again, this time squeezing hard enough to bruise my modest bicep. I stopped and faced her. Her eyes were black searchlights, her ears tufted radio dishes pointed right at me. ¡°You¡¯ve been busy. What did you learn? Come on, you owe me after ditching me to go to Virginia¡¯s¡ªalthough after what happened there, I¡¯ll admit I¡¯m not too broken up about it.¡± ¡°All I learned was gossip and smut. At least, that¡¯s what Roush would say. Can¡¯t blame him if I¡¯m honest.¡± ¡°So let me get this right,¡± Marcella said, taking off her reporter¡¯s hat and putting on the stiff collar and conservative skirt of a strict schoolteacher, ¡°you think you¡¯ve got a solve on the case¡ªa scandalous one¡ªand you brought it to the police.¡± I rocked my head. She was on the right track. ¡°And they wouldn¡¯t bite? They¡¯re too embarrassed to pursue it.¡± ¡°Or too lazy. Hard to say.¡± ¡°Right, so now you¡¯re going to take matters into your own hand.¡± A smile crept across Marcella¡¯s face, putting the tiny daggers of her pearly whites out front and center. I rocked my head again, and the burgeoning grin faltered. ¡°You¡¯re not going after the bad guy yourself?¡± ¡°Figured I¡¯d take what dignity and pocket change I had left and flush them down the drain with a bottle of scotch. If the police don¡¯t care, I don¡¯t see why I should.¡± I started walking again, leaving Marcella stunned behind me. She yelped and ran to catch up. ¡°Hold on. You¡¯re angry the police won¡¯t investigate? Aren¡¯t your type usually mad about them getting in the way and gumming up the works? Sounds to me like they¡¯re giving you carte blanche.¡± ¡°Yeah, we don¡¯t get along much, but sometimes I need a partner.¡± We reached where I¡¯d crash-landed Dolores into a parking spot. Instead of shutting up and walking around to the driver¡¯s seat, I leaned against the back wheel-well, adding a bit of rust from the rear quarter panel to the cast-iron seasoning of my coat. ¡°Now, after all our bickering, the prom¡¯s here, I¡¯m dressed up, and I¡¯ve got no one to dance with.¡± ¡°That¡¯s downright silly and you know it,¡± Marcella said. ¡°There are plenty of girls who¡¯d love to go with you.¡± I let my eyes linger on her coy smile and fluttering eyes. Her tail swished behind her like a cat preparing to pounce. If I were twenty years younger, she was just the kind of girl I¡¯d go crazy chasing around. Her personality got on my nerves, but only because she was so determined, so fiery. She spoke her mind and didn¡¯t give a damn what others thought. ¡°So? What do you say? Want me to pin a boutonniere on you, or what?¡± ¡°Pin a¡ª¡± I said, startled until my mind caught up with the metaphor. ¡°You think you have what it takes? Don¡¯t exactly have the firepower I was going to the police for.¡± Marcella flapped her hand at me dismissively. ¡°I hear The Beast stuff¡¯s its bra. I¡¯ve been in more than a few scrapes over the years, and I¡¯ve always wriggled out of them. Just try me.¡± The fact that I considered it for a whole second spoke volumes for Marcella¡¯s charisma, and for her ability to wheedle in under my skin. ¡°No. It¡¯s bullshit,¡± I said after shaking the idea from my mind. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t have to fight the system just to get justice.¡± ¡°Well, somebody¡¯s got to do it,¡± Marcella said, gaining energy. ¡°It might as well be us. Besides, whatever happens will make a hell of a story.¡± ¡°If there¡¯s anyone around to tell it.¡± I had to be extra mopey to make up for her delirious high spirits. ¡°What¡¯re you mumbling about now?¡± she asked, leaning in. ¡°Where are you parked?¡± ¡°Around the corner. Why?¡± ¡°They already know to look out for my car.¡± I gestured at Dolores as if pointing to a body with a knife jabbed in its chest. Even if I hadn¡¯t been snooping around where I shouldn¡¯t have been, Dolores would have stuck out among the expensive luxury cars the guys at Steel Polaris drove. ¡°You¡¯ll let me come with you?¡± Marcella said. Her arms fluttered toward her chest. She wanted to hop up and down like an excited schoolgirl. ¡°I¡¯ll let you drive.¡± I opened Dolores¡¯s trunk with my thumbnail. It didn¡¯t spring up the way it had when Boggs opened it. Wally had come by and stolen his ill-gotten wad of copper back. Luckily, his hands had been too full to take away what I was really after: the lopping shears he¡¯d used as bolt cutters. ¡°Something happen to your gun?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to use these on anyone. Not unless I have to.¡± I looked at myself in the muddled, warped, reflection of Dolores¡¯s rear bumper as I slammed the trunk lid. Anyone who saw me wandering around in my filthy trench coat with a pair of gardening shears would think I was a mental patient. I needed to get changed, work out the kinks in my plan. It would be better if I waited until later in the night anyway. Things would be easier after dark, once the party-goers had got a few drinks in them. ¡°You think you could scrounge up a hard hat and reflective vest? The kind workmen wear?¡± Marcella¡¯s eyes narrowed, but she nodded slowly. ¡°Good. Go get those and meet me at my office. We¡¯ll take your car from there.¡± ¡°Where are you going?¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t I tell you I rented a tux? Damn shame I hadn¡¯t thought to order a limousine. Seems they¡¯re all booked up now.¡± I smirked, but Marcella¡¯s eyes narrowed further. ¡°Never mind. You¡¯ll think it¡¯s funny once I tell you the full story.¡± ¡°Somehow I doubt that.¡± Chapter 28: Birds of a Feather ¡°I looked like a goddamn clown out there,¡± I said, throwing the door open. ¡°Someone would have noticed me if they weren¡¯t all busy with their own work.¡± I tossed the shears and hardhat into the back seat, then stripped off the bright orange hunting vest, crumpled it up, and threw it on top. I unhooked the garment bag from the passenger seat¡¯s headrest, hurrying to get my next disguise on before someone saw the gun in my shoulder holster. ¡°God, I¡¯m sorry, Secret Agent O¡¯Howell. Didn¡¯t know this was going to be a high budget production. It was all I could find on short notice.¡± I took the suit jacket out of the bag and shrugged it over the pressed white dress shirt I had been wearing under the goofy vest. The suit smelled of mothballs, but the worst thing it off-gassed were bad memories of the last time I¡¯d worn it. I thought of child-sized caskets and red baseball caps as I fished my hand deeper into the bag for the black necktie wadded up at the bottom like a lump of coal in a sock. ¡°Look, are you sure you want to do this? Your plan sounds kind of¡­¡± ¡°You got a better one?¡± I asked, working on my tie. ¡°No, but I mean¡­ Your evidence seems¡­circumstantial. At best.¡± ¡°I know I¡¯m right.¡± The knot I¡¯d made came out looking like a ball of dough a pigeon would turn its nose up at. I cursed, untangled it, and tried again. ¡°At least let me come up with you.¡± ¡°Yeah, what are you going to do up there.¡± ¡°I could have your back. You know, help you prod the truth out of them. Watch their faces while you do the song and dance.¡± ¡°Sorry, but I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll meet the dress code.¡± I got the tie right on the third try and smoothed it down before buttoning my jacket. ¡°I need you watching down here, anyway.¡± ¡°And if I see anyone?¡± ¡°Give me a few minutes to get up there. If anyone comes out of there in a hurry, tail them, but keep your distance. See where they go, then call Cal and tell him to hold the message until I can get to a phone myself.¡± I flicked through the short stack of business cards in my wallet until I found the one with the crystal ball circumscribing an accordioned map. I passed it through the window and pointed at Cal¡¯s home phone number. ¡°He¡¯ll be expecting your call.¡± ¡°You told him what¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Not yet. Don¡¯t worry about him. Just worry about what comes out of there.¡± I jabbed my finger at the entrance to the underground lot the elevator had dumped me into after getting the boot from the Sanders¡¯s penthouse. Marcella tapped her temple in a lazy salute. ¡°You got it, Howl.¡± My back cracked when I stood up, and I stretched out the rest of my sore body. My right shoulder still ached from ramming Virginia¡¯s door, but it was strong enough to lift a pound of steel if things got hairy. I dove back into the steaming, clattering bowels of the Morales Building. A cart loaded up with cloche-covered dishes brushed my side, and the ornery blue bird pushing it hissed, clacking his beak and spouting off a melodic string of invectives. Men with earwigs and ominous bulges under their black coats were scattered throughout the tunnels, but my disguise was effective enough to get me past them with no more than a nod. I pushed the button for the service elevator and waited for it to come. When I felt eyes on me, I stuck my finger under the flap of my ear and pretended to receive a call. My warbly reflection in the mirror-like doors made me painfully aware of how silly I looked, but no one questioned me. I dropped inside as soon as the doors opened, pressed the button for the penthouse, and turned around to stand with my back straight and my hands folded in front of me. The doors started to close with only me inside, but someone shouted to hold the elevator. I didn¡¯t move, but after a quick sprint, the harried woman got the tip of her wing into the crack before it closed. The woman, a budgie in a black and white maid¡¯s costume, pushed the door open and panted out a few subdued complaints about ¡°you security types.¡± When she reached for the penthouse button and saw it was already lit, she turned back to me and gave me a sidelong look. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell?¡± she said, now too mystified to be angry. ¡°What are you¡ª I thought¡­¡± I nodded, said, ¡°Margaret,¡± then went back to staring at the doors. Margaret checked out the buttons with a particular interest for the emergency stop. With no other stops to make and no consideration for passenger comfort, the elevator rocketed to the top floor. The brakes squealed when they first came on, but the elevator only groaned as it finished its stop at the penthouse. Margaret found her voice when the elevator was at the top of the shaft, but she was too late. I was out the doors as soon as they opened. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell. I don¡¯t think¡­¡± she said, meshing and unmeshing her fingers. Her words were lost on me. I marched down the corridor from the kitchen into the main room, which now teemed with activity, and became a different person. I dropped the stern act and adopted the casual demeanor of an invited guest. I stopped at the end of the hall to take in the lights and sounds, and search for my target. It wouldn¡¯t be fair to say the room was filled with all manner of people. They may have come in different shapes and sizes, but I knew by their elegant dress and the delicate way they held their champagne flutes that every one of them was from society¡¯s upper echelon. The men and women milled about the open space, chatting and laughing under the cover of soulless elevator music. A projector threw a live video broadcast up on the wall above the fireplace, highlighting the reason for the celebration. Poll numbers had been flooding in all night, and according to all available data, Regis Fellini had won his congressional race in a landslide. These people had made Regis. Now they would reap the rewards. ¡°Excuse me!¡± an exasperated voice barked behind me. The radiant disdain pushed me out of the way and a gazelle with a tray of mini-quiches elbowed past. She wore a skintight dress that went only as far as her upper thigh, but even that scant amount of clothes made her nigh unrecognizable until my eyes glanced over her more notable curves. She¡¯d been working the pole at Club Callout the night it burned down. I looked around and saw similarly attired servers. One or two of them had been dancing in the suspended cages, and the rabbit who had served Heifer and me now served a fat toad and his pinch-faced lemming wife glasses of champagne with a price tag that would make the top shelf scotch from Club Callout seem like jug wine. It was good to see Heifer¡¯s workers had landed on their feet, at least. My suit, although clean, was rumpled, dated in design, and tailored to fit a younger man with less slouched shoulders and a narrower waist. The cheap polyester blend stood out in the sea of fine Italian wool and silky evening gowns. I drew a few looks, more as people noticed who I was and elbowed their fellow revelers to point me out. Stolen story; please report. I wasn¡¯t there to schmooze with them; I was there to catch a monster. I didn¡¯t see him in the main room or hear his roaring laughter, so I ducked down the hall where the party extended into the sun room Cynthia used for cocktail hour, and onto the pool deck. Rippling cerulean light from underwater bulbs lit a cluster of familiar faces at the far end of the pool. They stood by the glass railing that separated the Morales building from the starry sea of Hot Type City¡¯s endless sprawl. Regis laughed gregariously, his fiery mane waving and his eyes sparkling with the help of an added sheen from the whiskey in his hand. Russel sanders stood next to him, puffing on a cigar. The deputy mayor, Charles Laurie had come out to celebrate too, although his head stayed half inside his shell. He didn¡¯t spend much time in the spotlight, but he¡¯d have to get used to it now that Regis was moving up. He¡¯d fill in as mayor until the next election in two years. Even Commissioner Fosse was around. His face was as scrunched as ever, his eyes hidden under the tremendous cliffs of his brows, but I could tell by the way he swayed with the jostling crowd around him he¡¯d drunk as much as any of them. The media¡ªmost of which Russel controlled¡ªwould herald Regis¡¯s victory as a victory for all of Hot Type City. In actuality, it was only a win for these people. They had stepped on a lot of heads to get Regis up to the top, and the new position gave them leverage to put their boots on even more throats. Fosse saw me first¡ªguess he still had some of the police instincts he built up decades ago. He bumped into Deputy Mayor Laurie, who startled, pulling his head further into his shell and alerting the others to my presence. I snagged a champagne flute off a passing server¡¯s tray to give my hands something to do. Russel chomped down on the end of his cigar and scowled at me when I sidled up next to them, but Regis¡¯s face lit up. ¡°Detective O¡¯Howell! I didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡± Russel grumbled something about invites, but Regis went on beaming. ¡°Funny how we keep bumping into each other. Always a pleasure of course.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± I echoed. Laurie''s head inched out of his hole to peer over the breastplate of his shell. He glanced behind me, and his head dipped back a degree. ¡°Here he is,¡± Margaret said, leading a yak with a soldier¡¯s stiff posture. Behind them, almost lost in the yak¡¯s bulky shadow, was an even less friendly face, Detective Henry¡¯s mean underbite. He wore a suit and his swagger had a sea-legged sway, but he meant business. With all the people shuffling around in appointed positions, it seemed he was getting called up to the big league. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry, Mr. Sanders, sir,¡± Margaret said. She lowered her head in contrition. The show of submission tickled Russel and his lip smushed around his cigar in something too mean to be a smile. ¡°I know you said to be¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s quite alright!¡± Regis laughed. He smacked Russel on the shoulder, jostling the smirk off his face. ¡°He might not be on the guest list, but who can blame him for wanting to celebrate with us.¡± Russel said something about security, but Regis waved him off. ¡°Nonsense. No one would dare suggest the Delinquency Dog was up to no good. Say,¡± he said, turning to me. ¡°You didn¡¯t sneak in to heist any paintings or steal any state secrets, did you?¡± ¡°Maybe if I have time later,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m here on business.¡± ¡°There you go.¡± Regis gestured at me, then looked at the yak making fists behind Margaret. ¡°Thanks for keeping a lookout, Margaret, but you and Boris can get back to work. I cordially invite Howl to stick around if he¡¯d like.¡± Boris bowed and turned back to retake his post. Margaret stuck where she was for a second, kneading her hands, teetering on the edge of offering a dissenting opinion. She snapped out of it when Henry pushed past, and she scurried back inside as soon as the spell was broken. ¡°The fuck business you here on?¡± Henry asked. ¡°Out selling magazine subscriptions? Clearly the whole detective thing wasn¡¯t working out for you.¡± ¡°Now, now, Adam, try to play nice,¡± Regis said. He tucked his chin and gave Henry a reproachful look before turning back to me. ¡°What can we do for you, Mr. O¡¯Howell?¡± ¡°Actually, Captain Roush sent me.¡± Commissioner Fosse¡¯s brow scrunched down even further, and his nose twitched, bringing his whiskers along for the ride. If he had eyes under there, they were squinting at me. ¡°You see¡ª Oh, sorry, how rude of me. I¡¯ve been here yapping and I still haven¡¯t congratulated you,¡± I said. I raised my glass to Regis, who accepted the salute with a well-practiced bow. The other men swelled with pride. It was a gross display on its own, but especially sickening knowing they were all complicit in Ethan¡¯s disappearance. Even if they only knew about it, their failure to speak out made them just as culpable as the one who gave Guy the order. ¡°Right. Now that¡¯s out of the way, I¡¯ve got a message for Fosse from Roush.¡± Russel took his cigar out of his mouth and waggled it at me. ¡°And he sent you all the way over here to deliver it personally?¡± ¡°We tried to call, but it wouldn¡¯t go through. Guess the phone lines are down or something.¡± That elicited some raised eyebrows. They hadn¡¯t noticed it, but none of them had seen any staff answering calls in the last ten minutes¡ªnot since I used Wally¡¯s garden shears to lop through the central line into the building. ¡°Should have someone out to look at it¡­ But then you¡¯ve got yourself a paradox on how to go about contacting them¡­¡± ¡°Howl!¡± Fosse barked. ¡°The message. What is it?¡± ¡°Oh. Right. Don¡¯t worry, there¡¯s nothing you need to do. Just thought you¡¯d want to know as soon as possible.¡± Fosse growled, his chest vibrating enough for me to hear over the sound of the party, the lapping of the water, and the dull roar of the wind. It was an impressive feat for such a small body. ¡°It¡¯s good news!¡± I spoke brightly, making sure everyone was listening close. ¡°The police found Ethan Calhoun. Roush already dispatched officers to pick him up.¡± A beat. A telling delay while gears turned and scripts were re-written. Fosse¡¯s face faltered and morphed as he adjusted his mask, but my eyes were on Regis. His lips didn¡¯t quirk, but his eyes gave away his surprise with a moment of dullness before they sharpened again. ¡°You¡¯re sure?¡± Russel asked. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to spread rumors around here if it wasn¡¯t true.¡± ¡°Yessir. Well, sure enough. They¡¯ve got it down to a few locations so it might take a bit for the officers to find them¡ªespecially with so many resources tied up with the celebratory riots. At any rate, Ethan will be safe and sound by morning.¡± Henry chuffed. ¡°Bullshit.¡± The other men all turned to look at him. ¡°I don¡¯t have all the details,¡± I admitted, ¡°but I assure you it comes from a reliable source.¡± ¡°Sure it does,¡± Henry said. ¡°I see what you¡¯re doing here.¡± ¡°Spreading the good news?¡± ¡°And making sure your face is attached to it. You want us to think it was your sleuthing that brought the kid home, not the hard work me and mine put in.¡± I put up my hands defensively. ¡°I¡¯m just passing the message along. We can start handing out medals and promotions when Ethan¡¯s sleeping in his own bed. On that note, I¡¯d better get back to the police station before Virginia gets there. She came to me at the beginning, and I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll want to talk to me when its all over.¡± ¡°Virginia?¡± Henry said. ¡°Oh, right, you thought she was missing. No, she ran off and hid out until she was sure it was safe. Now that we¡¯ve got Ethan, she¡¯s coming back. There¡¯s still a lot of questions floating around; I¡¯m sure she can help answer those now that everything¡¯s settled. She¡¯ll know who took Ethan.¡± I let the culpable parties squirm as I tipped back my champagne and guzzled the whole glass. I saw a lot of worried eyes when I wiped off my lips, but Henry¡¯s only showed confusion. It seemed the cabal didn¡¯t trust him enough to let him in on their dirty dealings just yet. ¡°Well, just thought you all would want to know. Like I said, you don¡¯t need to do anything. The police on duty will handle it from here.¡± I raised my empty glass and tipped my head at Regis. ¡°And congratulations again. I see big things in your future. Russel, you better make sure your news stations are ready. Regis is about to make history.¡± Regis might have been skeptical before, but now he knew for sure. He knew I knew. All he could do was bare his teeth as I turned and waded through the crowd, back to the door into the penthouse. I fixed my eyes on the windows and watched behind my approaching reflection. Regis leaned down so Fosse could speak into his ear, and he allowed a fretful frown onto his face. He and Fosse exchanged a few covert words, then Regis straightened up and adjusted his tie. Fosse curled his finger at Henry, who had been watching me leave, and spoke into his ear next. I walked slowly though the crowd in the sunroom, accepting a few drunken shouts of recognition. The unwanted attention was a fair trade-off for keeping an eye on Detective Henry as he weaved through the path I had blazed. When he was inside he went straight to Boris. Henry looked confused, but he¡¯d never admit it. He got the yak¡¯s attention and pointed across the pool, where Fosse, Regis, Laurie, and Sanders had huddled. They had their heads together and spoke with lots of aggressive hand movements and suspicious glances to make sure no one was listening in. Henry led Boris out, and I made a break for it. I was almost running when I dodged into the corridor to the kitchens and the service elevator. Margaret stood in front of the desk at the end of the hall with a notepad in her hand. She put the handset to her ear, gave it a quizzical look, and put it back down, then she picked it up again. I stabbed at the button to call the elevator. The first hit was solid, but I kept tapping, as if I could encourage it to move faster. Margaret heard me and looked over, the phone dangling in her limp hand. She started to work her mind and mouth around the question, ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± but couldn¡¯t get it out before the elevator arrived. I gave the garage level button the same furious assault I had given the call button until the door closed. There was no time to chat. The race was on. Chapter 29: Hackles Marcella had spent the whole time thinking of questions to ask. She unleashed a barrage as soon as I got in the car. I kept quiet and slouched in my seat, peeking through the corner of the window trim and the B-pillar. When she had exhausted her fusillade, I gave her the highlights: Regis had bought the story and the phones were still down. The only way for him to warn his guys watching Ethan was to send one of his Steel Polaris thugs. Marcella hounded me some more, but I was focused on the parking garage. Boris would be out any second. Headlights flashed as a car came up the ramp, and I tapped Marcella¡¯s arm. ¡°Here he comes. Get ready.¡± Marcella twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine roared without a single sputter. Even if bringing Marcella turned out to be a mistake, bringing her car had been the right call. This was the kind of situation Dolores would shit out on me. Now, the only thing I had to worry about giving out was my heart. I hadn¡¯t had a thrill like this in years, and those years had been filled with shitty fast food and even worse exercise habits. My breath was too shallow to gasp when I saw the bumper come up the incline, but I caught it in time to shout as the vehicle leveled out. A street light shined on the garage¡¯s outlet, allowing me to see through the tinted windshield to the yak hunched over the steering wheel. ¡°That¡¯s him!¡± Marcella cranked the gear selector, but I grabbed her arm. ¡°Hold on. Don¡¯t want to spook him.¡± I watched him turn out of the garage and head up the street toward the I-18 ramp. He flicked on his left turn indicator and I stared at it, memorizing the shape of the taillights. The stoplight at the corner turned green, and he eased into the intersection. Marcella¡¯s muscles twitched, but I clamped down harder. I was holding myself back as much as I was holding her. Every instinct I had told me to hop out and run after the car, barking and growling. The black car turned, and my stomach lurched. Marcella flinched again, and I felt her eyes boring into the side of my head. The prongs of the taillights disappeared behind a building as Boris accelerated out of the curve, and I went from squeezing to lightly slapping at Marcella¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Drive! Drive! Drive!¡± Marcella drove. Her car¡¯s tires kicked up loose gravel as she peeled out of the spot. The light ahead switched to yellow when Marcella was thirty yards from the stop line, but she put her foot down. I didn¡¯t need to tell her how important it was that we made the light. The car¡¯s body rocked like a pontoon hit on its broadside by a speedboat¡¯s wake, but Marcella stayed in her lane all the way through the turn. I searched for Boris and found his taillights trundling along with the flow of traffic three cars ahead of us. Boris made predictable turns, cruising toward the ramp to the freeway. I tried to catch my breath, but had to keep telling Marcella to stay in her lane and keep her distance. She wasted an equal amount of oxygen sighing and huffing about it. We were only one car behind Boris when we hit the ramp, but he pulled ahead as traffic cleared. He drove fast but steady, smoothly piloting around cars that were driving close to the speed limit as if they were standing still. Marcella drove more erratically to keep up. I can¡¯t say I would have done much better¡ªespecially if I was stuck driving Dolores¡ªbut it didn¡¯t stop me from groaning every time she slammed on the brakes or brought her engine up to the redline. He must have seen us. I expected him to keep on driving straight on ¡®til sunlight, leading us out of the city while he radioed back to base to send someone else to check on Ethan. I looked over, expecting to see the steering wheel bent out of shape in Marcella¡¯s white-knuckle grip, but the only deformation I saw was her face. The mad ferret¡¯s needle-toothed grin stretched from ear to ear. She leaned forward, her eyes flashed, then she flipped on her turn signal. ¡°What the fuck are you¡ª¡± I started to say, but when I looked at the road, the taillights I had been tracking had shifted off the axis of the street, diverging down the path of an off-ramp. ¡°Shit. Okay, take it easy. We¡¯ve come too far to get careless now.¡± Boris had led us past the most pitted parts of The Margin, toward the southern end, which survived on the airport¡¯s life support system. The corridor leading to the airport was wide and well-lit, with frequent branches leading to clusters of hotels, warehouses, and lots for trucks that hauled freight to and from the airport. This late at night, not many people were commuting, so we shared the road mostly with loaded trailers. It would have been risky to keep up with Regis¡¯s man, so I told Marcella to park herself behind a boxy semi truck while I watched out the window. I saw him pull off a few blocks in and steered Marcella after him like a marine navigator interpreting the stars and maps. Marcella didn¡¯t understand the exact reasoning behind my directions, which took us away from the hotel at the end the of the cul-de-sac, but she followed them. After seeing my stalking prowess when we tracked Virginia, she trusted my experience. We waited in the parking lot of an Elmwood Inn, but kept an eye on the Haverford Hotel at the end. It wasn¡¯t a five-star place, but compared to the fleabag motels the city was rife with, Regis could have thought of a worse place to stash his bastard. Maybe the sociopath had a heart after all. Boris slowed and did a full circuit around the hotel¡¯s lot. He was careful with his turns, so he lit up every car parked on the fringes with the beams of his headlights. These Steel Polaris guys weren¡¯t amateurs. If he saw one police car or something that looked like one, he would have turned around and driven back downtown to deliver the bad news. He wasn¡¯t a coward¡ªafraid to go out in a firefight like his late colleague, Guy¡ªbut was doing what was best for his client. The more people the police had in custody, the more evidence they would have, and the more likely they would be to trace the whole thing back to Regis. The car hid itself behind the c-shaped building. I waited half a minute to be sure he wasn¡¯t doing another round, then nudged Marcella. ¡°Okay. Drive. Just do it slowly, real casual like.¡± Marcella nodded and eased off the brake. The car rolled forward at a snail¡¯s pace. ¡°A little faster than that.¡± She worked the accelerator and cruised down the last stretch up to the hotel. The first rows of parking in front of the door were full, but the rest of the lot was open. There were even fewer cars around back and no lights to see them by. I saw a few dark shapes with their noses pointed into the grass verge at the far end of the lot, but I made sure Marcella kept her distance. The cars all looked the same with their lights off, and any of them could be the one we were tracking. I pointed Marcella to a spot at the far side and held up a finger when she tried to ask what my plan was. I lifted my ear to listen to the sounds of the lot while I looked out for movement. My ears were still sore from shooting Guy, and my eyes weren¡¯t what they used to be. I didn¡¯t need a hawk¡¯s vision to see a curtain switch on the third floor. A black shadow blocked out the slit of light between the sheets. It lingered for a few seconds, then pulled away, dropping the curtains closed again. I heard Marcella swallow hard and saw her staring at the same spot. ¡°You think they saw us?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know. Too late now.¡± ¡°What are you going to do? Should we go in and call the police?¡± ¡°Too risky,¡± I said. ¡°We don¡¯t know how long the police will take to get here¡ªif they even bother to send anyone. In the time we take waiting around to find out, Regis¡¯s guy could move Ethan somewhere else or¡­ Well, whatever he has planned, we can¡¯t let him get away with it. I¡¯m going in.¡± I grabbed my coat and hat from the back seat. The time for blending in was over. Boris knew I was coming and I wanted to be sure Ethan would recognize me. When I came back up, Marcella had her hat on and her hand on the door. ¡°Where the hell do you think you¡¯re going?¡± I asked. ¡°I¡¯m coming with you. Did you expect me to wait out here while you had all the fun?¡± ¡°Fun? This is life and death, Marcella. Your story will be the same if you stay out of harm¡¯s way.¡± ¡°Not so,¡± Marcella said. ¡°All the events might be there¡ªcould probably get ¡¯em in the right place, too¡ªbut it will be missing a certain joie de vivre.¡± ¡°The story won¡¯t get written at all if you get your vivre knocked out by a .38 Special. You¡¯re staying here.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°But what if you need backup?¡± ¡°Backup? What are you going to do? Wave your press badge at them?¡± I chuckled. ¡°Maybe if you weren¡¯t so giddy about the whole, ¡®The only weapon I need is the Truth,¡¯ rhetoric, you might have thought to pack a heater. The war of words will come later. Save your energy for that.¡± Before Marcella could bite back, I let myself out and put my coat on. I had shrugged off my mourning suit, but I still felt like I was dressed for a funeral. I felt my gun in my holster. It was the only hope I had of making sure it wasn¡¯t me laying in the casket when the preacher took the podium. I double- and triple-checked the window to make sure Boris wasn¡¯t watching, then tip-toed across the parking lot. I counted the rooms from the safety of a wood-paneled station wagon¡¯s rear bumper. There were a few other lights on in the hotel, but I knew the one I was eying was Boris¡¯s. It would have been an incredible coincidence for anyone else to spontaneously look out at the dead parking lot and the blasted waste left clear around the runways right as we showed up. I got a bad feeling someone was watching me, but the window was empty¡ªjust a vertical slit of light where the curtains failed to mesh. My hand found the butt of my gun, and I looked back at the parking lot. I saw the burning ember of Marcella¡¯s glare in her rear-view mirror, watching my every move. I wondered what florid prose she¡¯d use to describe my final moments should this be the last time she saw me. Whatever she printed, Detective Henry and the rest of my enemies would get a kick out of reading it. They¡¯d hang the obit up in their lockers next to the vintage Barnyard pin-ups. I refused to balk on their account, and pushed forward to the rear door. The hallway was quiet, and antiseptic-clean. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and the smell of caustic pool chemicals stung my sensitive nose. A sign stuck on a door to my right showed a stick man with a round head high-kneeing it up a sawtooth incline. I followed his lead into a stairwell of echoey concrete steps and whitewashed brick walls. The door sealed behind me and I waited in the quiet, gawking up the chute of switchbacks between me and the fourth floor and listening for movement. I pulled my gun out and kept my finger on the trigger as I jabbed it at the corners each time I turned. It was poor gun safety, but this was one of those cases where guns weren¡¯t meant to be safe. My eyes dried out in the cold, still air, but I couldn¡¯t afford to blink. When I reached the fourth floor, I let out a premature sigh of relief and adjusted my grip before opening the door. The sweat on my hand squelched against the knurled and textured metal. The fourth floor hallway was like the first, except the latent stink left by hundreds of travelers had replaced the smell of the pool. Boris¡¯s room was eight doors down from the stairs, but the hallway appeared to stretch as I took my first step. The distance between each set of doors was exponentially larger than the last. Blood pounded in my ears, so I couldn¡¯t tell if my footsteps were the soft pads I was aiming for or the loud work-boots-on-wood-decks clomping I felt. A metallic click broke through the stuffing in my head, and I dodged to the side, pushing my back against the wall to get both hands on my gun. I aimed at the center of the refrigerator-sized mass from which the noise had escaped and almost blew a hole through a larger-than-life cherry bursting out of a glistening wet orgy of fruit. The vending machine¡¯s compressor switched on with a hiss, and the floor shook when a fan with loose bearings came up to speed. I rested against the wall only long enough to be sure my heart was still beating, then rolled around and stalked down to Boris¡¯s room. A line of light cut out from the gap beneath the door, highlighting the loose strands and tufts sticking out of the carpet in front of it. I leaned against the frame and watched the projection on the floor for crossing shadows. When I forced my ears to hear past my heartbeat, I heard a voice. I hadn¡¯t heard Boris speak at the party, but any noise his massive chest produced would have been much lower and louder than the small, energetic whistle on the other side of the door. It had the tone of a shout, but its volume was far too low, making it sound far away. A high-pitched tweeting answered the first voice, and the two traded verbal blows before things got physical. The ensuing crash, smash, and rumble, had the same distant, shrunken quality as the voices¡ªthe sound of a diorama destroying itself. Or of a TV tuned to classic cartoons. My heart and the clock ticked out of sync. It didn¡¯t sound like Boris was in any hurry to get out. He must have thought he was safe and was waiting for word about what to do with Ethan. I could still catch him off guard. My shoulder hadn¡¯t recovered from busting Virginia¡¯s door down, and the metal plate around the doorknob looked sturdy. I didn¡¯t have time to go down to the front desk for the key, nor did I have the mental energy to concoct a reasonable lie when I got there. It was just me, my wits, and the basic lock-picking kit in my coat¡¯s hidden pocket. My hands shook until the second I had the tension wrench and the pick in the lock, then I was all business. The lock was simple, and I got most of the tumblers up with a few slow rakes. I wiggled the last one like a child poking at a loose tooth until it caught, too. I dropped the pick and grabbed my gun when the lock cylinder started to turn. The door opened a crack, and I held my breath. The TV¡¯s sound got clearer, but no one shouted. No hammers cocked and no safety switches clicked to the off position. I pushed until the door stopped, caught on a thin metal chain that bridged the door and the frame. I used the hooked arm of my tension wrench to flip the chain out of its channel and tried to lower it gently, but it slipped and clattered against the jamb. ¡°Ethan¡­¡± a reproachful voice said from behind another wall. It still sounded small for the yak. ¡°What are you doing?¡± ¡°Nothing. God!¡± a child answered. My heart stopped again, this time from sheer disbelief. All logic said I would find Ethan here, but I¡¯d run down so many dead ends it was still hard to believe I actually had. ¡°Can¡¯t I watch some fucking TV without you¡ª¡± Ethan looked over, and his voice hit a glottal stop. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re not the pizza guy.¡± ¡°What the hell was that?¡± the man inside the bathroom yelled back. I pressed my finger to my lip, then motioned for Ethan to come to me. He looked hesitant and shifted toward the edge of the bed, but stopped when he saw the gun in my hand. ¡°Ethan?¡± the man in the bathroom said. Ethan and I stared at each other, silent until the man grunted and the toilet flushed. The rushing water covered my whisper. ¡°God damn it, Ethan. I¡¯m here to save you.¡± Ethan cocked his head, more confused than before. I started to say, ¡°Your mom sent me,¡± but the bathroom door flew open before I had the first word out. I was looking at the end of a short-barreled shotgun, stabbed like a spear toward my belly. My gun¡¯s sights were lined up with the chest of the pig holding it. ¡°Who are¡ª¡± I said. ¡°I thought you were¡ª¡± ¡°Looking for me?¡± a sonorous voice said behind me. I knew better than to make any sudden movements, so I didn¡¯t turn to look, but the voice fit Boris. ¡°Boris,¡± the pig said, his pink cheeks red with the blood rushing through them. ¡°What the hell¡¯s going on here?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t answer your radio. Seems the Delinquency Dog couldn¡¯t wait one more day for Ethan to show up.¡± ¡°Fuck!¡± The pig was happy to jump past the accusation of his carelessness. ¡°We have to go.¡± ¡°The Delinquency Dog?¡± Ethan drifted up from the bed to get a better look at me. ¡°Woah, you are the Delinquency Dog. Why are you working for them? Did you do something to my mom?¡± ¡°Your mom¡¯s fine, kid. She sent me.¡± Boris took a step forward so the cold barrel of his gun pressed against the back of my head, just under the band of my hat. ¡°Linus, get the kid packed up. We need to move.¡± ¡°You¡¯re too late,¡± I said. ¡°The police are on their way. Might be enough time for you two to make a break for it. They won¡¯t look too hard once Ethan¡¯s safe.¡± Linus looked past me to Boris. ¡°How long do we have?¡± ¡°Minutes,¡± I said, cooler than I felt. Boris bumped me with his gun. ¡°I don¡¯t think they¡¯re coming, but we can¡¯t be too safe. Let¡¯s get the kid moved just in case. It¡¯s almost over, but we still need to be cautious.¡± Linus pulled two black duffel bags out from under one of the beds and stuffed clothes into them, dropping his shotgun onto the duvet so he could use both hands. ¡°Help him, Ethan.¡± Boris nodded to the mess spilling across the floor near Ethan¡¯s bed. Ethan had been relaxed when I opened the door, then spooked when he saw my gun. Now that he saw a glimpse of his captive¡¯s true colors, he was terrified. ¡°Still got to take care of you,¡± Boris said to me. ¡°You want to make it easy for everyone and do it in the bathroom?¡± I tested my luck by trying to duck out of the way, but the pressure of Boris¡¯s gun didn¡¯t leave my head. I made it half a foot before his meaty fist slammed down on my shoulder and locked me in place. He hauled me back in front of the door, then noticed the gun still dangling in my hand. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go ahead and hand over that bean shooter?¡± ¡°Think that¡¯s my line,¡± a new voice said behind me. It was a snarky, feminine voice. Marcella¡¯s. ¡°Shit.¡± I looked over my shoulder at the same time Boris looked over his. I expected to find Marcella showing her hubris with an unfolded pocketknife or a finger stuffed in her coat pocket to suggest a gun. Instead, I saw two inches of steel sticking out of her fist. With its short barrel and smaller cartridges, her J-Frame didn¡¯t come close to the accuracy or stopping power of the .44 in Boris¡¯s hand, but at that distance it didn¡¯t matter. If she pulled her trigger, Boris would be as dead as I would be if he pulled his. ¡°Fuck me,¡± Linus said, dropping the crumpled white shirt he had been packing. He dove for the shotgun on the bed and a lot of things happened at once: I stepped forward and to the side, out of the way of Boris¡¯s gun; Marcella threw herself into Boris and jammed her gun into his jaw¡ªas high as she could reach; Boris¡¯s gun went off next to my ear, bursting the already battered eardrum, but sending the bullet into the ceiling near the wall; Ethan dropped onto the floor behind the bed; and I fired one deliberate shot at Linus. My shot landed just before his fingers touched the shotgun¡¯s grip, punching his shoulder back. If he were armed, I would have kept pumping, but I used the time taken up by his recoil to whip around and help Marcella. She had Boris pinned against the door, but his gun was still waving. I snatched it and fanned my arms out, straddling the doorway to put one gun on each of the Steel Polaris thugs. Linus had fallen onto the second bed, where he sat, cradling his arm and staring vacantly like a tired man waiting for the bus. He would have looked peaceful if not for the blood welling up between his fingers. Ethan¡¯s knobby horns poked up from behind the bed, then the rest of his head came out as he pushed himself up for a peek. His slit-pupiled eyes went from the man on the bed to me, to Marcella and the other thug in the hallway. ¡°All right everyone, just keep calm. It¡¯s over. No reason to make yourself dead now, eh?¡± Neither of the Steel Polaris guys said anything. ¡°Now, Ethan, if you wouldn¡¯t mind¡­ Please phone the police. Someone would have called about the gunshots, but they¡¯ll drive faster if they know you¡¯re here.¡± I moved into the room, leading Marcella with the yak, then switched my pistol with the shotgun Linus had left on the bed. Ethan got moving after a delay and I gestured for Marcella to put Boris next to Linus so I could keep my gun on him. By not blowing Boris¡¯s brains out before he shot at me, Marcella had proved her trigger finger wasn¡¯t as strong as mine. ¡°Now,¡± I said as Ethan dialed. ¡°Let¡¯s all just sit here quietly and think about what we¡¯ve done.¡± Chapter 30: A Bite Out of Crime The coffee at the precinct was far from good, but it was miles better than the sludge the machine at my office spat out. When I sipped it, looking through the two-way mirror at Ethan, who sat at a steel table under a solitary bulb in the shoe box room on the other side, I was transported back to my first interrogation as a police officer. I felt the rush of adrenaline, the insatiable need for answers, the tension. One misstep could be the difference between a confession and the perp clamming up for good. It was exhilarating, but there were no perps on the other side of the glass now. Just the victim. The door unlocked with a weighty clunk, and Ethan sat up straight. An officer tried to hold the door open, but Virginia exploded past him. Ethan rose from his seat and the two collided in a loving embrace. Virginia¡¯s beak knocked against Ethan¡¯s horns as she nuzzled her chin into the top of his head. ¡°I¡¯m so, so sorry,¡± she said. ¡°I thought I was¡ª I didn¡¯t know¡ª If Howl hadn¡¯t¡ª¡± I heard a rush of air pulled through teeth beside me. Roush pinched his lower lip as a pained cringe warped his face. He had apologized to me, but I didn¡¯t hold any ill will. I knew the pressure someone in his position was under. I just hoped he was still malleable enough to make the changes he needed to make. Fixing the system was almost impossible, but finding Ethan had put me in an optimistic mood. I had presented my evidence against Regis while they processed the Steel Polaris thugs and got Ethan checked out. Roush had done about as much as he could by sending a group of officers around to his apartment to ask him to participate in the investigation. Regis claimed he was too busy, but would help where he ccould, then slammed the door on the officers. Now Roush was preparing for the onslaught of lawsuits, countersuits, and attacks¡ªboth legal and extra-legal¡ªthat were sure to follow. Regis would try to gum up the works so badly he never saw trial. A testimony from Virginia could make a difference, but getting her to talk had proved tough. She just got Ethan back. She wouldn¡¯t jeopardize that in pursuit of the abstract concept of justice. I felt like a voyeur watching the mother and son from behind the mirrored glass. Their hug didn¡¯t break until Officer Spangler entered and took a seat opposite them. With all its rolls and folds, Spangler¡¯s purple face remained soft even in the hard, focused light of the lone bulb overhead. Maybe the rookie had found his calling in victim advocacy. He opened a folder on the table and pushed aside some already filled forms to get to a blank notepad. When Ethan was done sniffling, and Virginia had her skirt smoothed back out, Spangler looked up and addressed them with a gentle voice. ¡°Good morning, and thank you for talking to me. I know this last week has been hard. Are you both comfortable?¡± They nodded as Spangler got out his pen. ¡°Do you need anything? Snacks? Coffee?¡± They shook their heads. ¡°All right, you¡¯ve both talked separately, but now the department wants to hear from you together, just to see if anything else comes up. Is that okay?¡± Virginia squeezed Ethan¡¯s arm, as much to comfort him as to prove to herself that he was there¡ªthat he was real. Ethan nodded. ¡°Excellent. So why don¡¯t you two walk me through what happened last week? On the day Ethan was supposed to fly out to California.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Virginia needed a moment to compose herself before she could talk. Spangler scooted a box of tissues across the table, but she pulled through without. ¡°I should have been there, but I¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mrs. Calhoun. Take your time.¡± Virginia grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. She stared at the table as she took a stuttering breath, but she was solid again as soon as the convulsion was over. ¡°Now, why couldn¡¯t you or Peter go with Ethan? Work?¡± ¡°Peter was on tour.¡± Scorn gave Virginia a bit of strength. ¡°I was supposed to be at work, but I had an appointment. I had to go to the doctor.¡± ¡°Your cancer treatment?¡± It was only half a question; the police already knew the answer. Ethan¡¯s mouth fell open, and he stared at his mother. Apparently, she hadn¡¯t said anything to him. ¡°I was sick when I got back and fell asleep. Ethan should have landed by the time I woke up, but there were no messages on the machine. I panicked. Ethan was missing, and I didn¡¯t know what to do.¡± ¡°So you went to Detective O¡¯Howell?¡± I groaned at the inaccurate title, but Roush smirked. Virginia swallowed hard and nodded. ¡°Why not go to the police first? It wouldn¡¯t have cost you a thing. Were you worried someone in particular would find out?¡± Virginia shook her head. Thought for a second, on the verge of saying something revelatory. The words were on her tongue, but she let the air meant to voice them come out as a sigh. ¡°No. I just¡­ I didn¡¯t know he was missing for sure. I was embarrassed already for letting him go on his own.¡± ¡°Damn,¡± I said, quietly enough so my words didn¡¯t bounce off the glass. ¡°So close.¡± ¡°There¡¯s still time,¡± Roush said. Virginia got misty-eyed again. This time, it felt forced. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mrs. Calhoun,¡± Spangler said. ¡°Ethan¡¯s back now, that¡¯s all that matters. Ethan, why don¡¯t you give us your version of what happened that day?¡± Ethan scooted in his chair. He looked nervous, but his natural aptitude for the stage shone through. ¡°Al came by the house with that big town car and picked me up. He was quiet, but I thought that was part of the schtick¡ªyou know, make it seem all serious. Everything was going all right until he turned off the highway early.¡± ¡°Did you ask him where he was going?¡± ¡°Sure. He said he needed gas, but I know my way around The Margin.¡± Virginia¡¯s feathers ruffled and she looked down at Ethan. ¡°There were no gas stations around there. He pulled into that alley by the warehouse and went even quieter, got fidgety.¡± ¡°He didn¡¯t say anything to you?¡± ¡°Nope, just sat there, staring at the street until another black car pulled in. We got out and Guy got out of the other car.¡± Virginia¡¯s face went whiter. ¡°I tried to ask what was going on, but he grabbed me before I could say anything.¡± ¡°Guy grabbed you?¡± Spangler asked, looking up from the waves of scribbles on his notepad. ¡°Al did. He stuck a gun up to my head¡ª¡± Virginia gasped and her hand jumped like a spider to grab Ethan¡¯s hand. ¡°He said if they didn¡¯t pay him another ten thousand dollars, he¡¯d kill me. Only he used a lot more cusses.¡± Spangler¡¯s head bobbed as he wrote. ¡°Another ten grand?¡± I said. ¡°Jesus. They were really cheaping out when they offered me five.¡± Roush side-eyed me. I had told him about the phony offer, but he wasn¡¯t amused by the implication I might have taken it if the reward was higher. ¡°Then what happened?¡± Spangler asked. ¡°Guy shot him.¡± Ethan¡¯s words were flat, matter-of-fact. Virginia¡¯s grip tightened, squeezing Ethan¡¯s hand in hers. ¡°Got Al right in the head. When he staggered back, Guy pegged him twice in the chest to be sure. I tried to leg it, but didn¡¯t get far. Guy¡¯s a lot faster than he looks. He dragged me back to his car and explained it all to me.¡± ¡°What did Guy say was happening?¡± ¡°He said some dangerous people caught on to what me and Douglas were up to.¡± Virginia¡¯s brow furrowed, and she cocked her head at Ethan. ¡°He said there were people after mom and dad and Tommy, too, but they were safe as long as I stayed away. He told me I had to lie low for a few days, then I could go back and everything would be roses again.¡± This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Ethan was quiet for a few seconds before he felt the need to clarify. ¡°I was suspicious, but I didn¡¯t know what to think. After seeing Al bite it, I knew something heavy was going on.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Spangler said. ¡°You were scared. We understand.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Ethan said. ¡°It didn¡¯t hurt that he brought me pizza and let me watch cartoons all day.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you had any luck digging anything up on the Steel Polaris guys,¡± I said to Roush. He thought about it, but no amount of meditation was going to bend reality enough to make things that tidy. It was all such a mess. ¡°No. Their records are squeaky, and they won¡¯t talk until their thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyer gets here.¡± ¡°They¡¯re bought up,¡± I said. ¡°Got a whole cabal behind them: congressmen, deputy mayors, media magnates¡­police commissioners.¡± Roush glared at me in the ghostly reflection of the window. So far, it was all unsubstantiated. ¡°Shit, even Howard Heifer is better off keeping Ethan¡¯s parentage under wraps. The longer the controversy lives, the longer Barnyard will be at the front of people¡¯s minds.¡± The interview went a few more rounds, but Ethan didn¡¯t have much more to give. He had hidden out in blissful ignorance the whole time. ¡°What happens now?¡± Virginia asked as things were wrapping up. Spangler took a deep breath. His chest puffed out, then flattened when he let the air escape in a rush. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. We can offer protective services for a while, but I don¡¯t think the people after you will try anything now that it¡¯s such a high-profile case. If we don¡¯t get any new information, they might get away with it as long as they don¡¯t make any sudden movements.¡± It was a subtle trick, casually highlighting how crucial Virginia¡¯s testimony would be, but she didn¡¯t bite. ¡°No. I don¡¯t think we need protection. I just want to live a normal life again.¡± ¡°Yeah, lady,¡± I said to myself. ¡°You and me both.¡± ¡°Thank you for calling Shady Eaves Motel,¡± a pleasant woman¡¯s voice said through the telephone wires. ¡°Our staff are unable to answer the phone at this time. Please leave a message at the tone with your name and number, and we¡¯ll get back to you. Thank you.¡± I cleared my throat as the phone beeped, then dialed my voice to the proper gruffness. When I started the mascot circuit, I had turned up my natural gravel, now I had to turn it down to get the same level. ¡°This is Detective O¡¯Howell, Delinquency Dog. I¡¯m calling to remind Rebeca and all her friends to stay in school. If anyone offers you drugs, remember: say no, tell an adult, then punch the degenerate cocksucker in the jaw.¡± I thought she might appreciate a more mature update to the slogan, but it sounded juvenile in my ears. It was too late to take it back; the message was already inscribed on the magnetic tape at the other end, so I let it go and flipped my notepad closed. I smiled at the thought of Rebeca squealing when she came into work and heard the message. I took another sip of my scotch. It wasn¡¯t quite as good as the stuff from Club Callout¡¯s top shelf, but it was better than the swill I usually drank. Virginia had brought it around with a bulging wad of bills to pay off her perceived debt. She had been embarrassed when Marcella spilled all the sordid details of the case, but she had been overwhelmed with support since the story came out. Admirers of Virginia¡ªand detractors of Regis who had come out of the woodwork¡ªhad showered her in encouragement and financial assistance. They had fully funded a course of chemotherapy at a place that didn¡¯t spay and neuter pets in the other room, and there had been plenty of money left over. I wasn¡¯t going to take any of it¡ªmortgage be damned!¡ªbut she had insisted. I negotiated her down to only what I was owed for the seven days I had worked the case and a bit more tacked onto the back end for the time my aged body took to recover. I should have turned the scotch down on principal, but I didn¡¯t want to be rude. We had shared a glass and griped about the many Fellini fanatics calling us liars and slinging mud at us. She was happy to talk about it with me, but was still afraid to say anything in public for fear of what retribution it might draw if she confirmed any of the rumors. Marcella took the brunt of the abuse. I don¡¯t know what blackmail she had on her boss, but it must have been something big. On its face, the story was too sensational to print in a tabloid, much less a respectable press like the Daily Glyph. I glanced at the stack of clippings on my desk. When she started following the case, I worried I¡¯d fail and come off looking bad, closing the casket on my career. Reality had taken things the other way, and Marcella had nudged it one step further by portraying me as a goddamn hero. My phone had been ringing off the hook and those who weren¡¯t calling to curse me out or beg for an interview came bearing jobs: missing belongings, cheating spouses, background checks, even a few cold cases the police had given up years ago. They were the kind of jobs I had started this business to pursue, but the mass influx was bittersweet. I could only accept so many, and my over-stuffed schedule was already starting to tear at the seams. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized I had been staring at the red baseball cap next to the door. The pebbled glass window darkened for a moment before the door opened without a knock. Marcella paraded in. All the abuse she¡¯d gotten over the last two weeks hadn¡¯t broken her down. It had given her strength. ¡°Howdy, Front Page,¡± she said. ¡°Miss Fursone. Come to bathe in my gratitude?¡± ¡°Just passing by. Thought I¡¯d stop in for a quick gloat. But you really should be thanking me. I bet all sorts of dames are breaking down your door now.¡± ¡°Mostly damsels in need of saving.¡± Marcella beamed, and the sunlight through the blinds glinted off her sharp teeth. Without the frustration of having her underfoot, I had started seeing her differently, more objectively. She was tall, slender, fierce, and had a great bushy tail. What wasn¡¯t to like? ¡°But if it¡¯s thanks you want, I wouldn¡¯t be opposed to buying you dinner.¡± The words slipped out of my mouth, prepackaged with a suggestive eyebrow lift. ¡°I¡¯m going to stop you right there,¡± Marcella said with a light-hearted laugh. ¡°I¡¯ve seen that look enough times to know just what you¡¯re thinking. I¡¯ve gotten used to telling you slavering dogs you¡¯re barking up the wrong tree.¡± My face scrunched, more at the slavering dogs comment than the rejection. ¡°Come on, now, don¡¯t give me that look. You just aren¡¯t my type. Actually, I was just on my way to talk to Virginia. If some of the dirt I dug up on her is true, she might be more my speed.¡± ¡°Hmph. Just my luck.¡± ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°I said, ¡®Best of luck.¡¯¡± I should have known Marcella wasn¡¯t keen on men. ¡°I have dinner plans tonight anyway.¡± ¡°So, you are back on the prowl?¡± ¡°Reconnecting with my past.¡± ¡°Ooo, exes. You had better be careful.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no story here,¡± I said. ¡°No need to worry about me, but you can sit down for a drink if you¡¯d like.¡± I gestured with my whiskey, but she didn¡¯t take the seat. ¡°Thanks, but I¡¯d best be getting on. I just stopped by to make sure you weren¡¯t crushed under the riot of adoring fans.¡± ¡°Or skewered by the mob¡­¡± ¡°Or that.¡± Marcella marched back to the door and leaned in the frame. ¡°Try to keep your head above water, Detective O¡¯Howell. I¡¯ve got a feeling this is the beginning of a very fruitful relationship.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not so sure I¡­¡± I wanted to convey that this was a one-time thing, but Marcella was already gone. With my good ear, I heard her say goodbye to Cal and head outside. I shook my head and murmured to myself as I threw back another slug of whiskey. I gathered up the newspaper clippings and slid them into a folder already stuffed with police reports and scanned copies of my handwritten notes. It wasn¡¯t the most organized pile, but it told Ethan¡¯s story well enough. I closed the folder, then straightened the picture paper-clipped to the front flap. It was one of the snapshots Virginia had given me on the day we met. Ethan was younger, with only nubs for horns, but he and Virginia were both smiling. I dropped the folder into my desk¡¯s bottom drawer, slotting it into the short, dusty row of cases I¡¯d resolved with a happy ending since starting this agency. After Growl, I had tried to use the record to keep my spirits up, but it just deepened my self-loathing. Maybe if I got enough files in it¡ª That line of thinking was a deep, dark hole, one I was on the cusp of climbing out of. I couldn¡¯t let myself sink back down. I slammed the drawer shut, then polished off the rest of my scotch in one shot. It warmed me up from inside, girding me against what I saw when I stared out the window at the turgid Gutter. Nothing I had done had scratched at the decrepit state of the world or even the city. The Gutter wasn¡¯t going to get cleaned up any time soon. The ClearLife factory and all those like it weren¡¯t going to stop pumping smog into the air. Thousands of unfortunate and mentally ill people would go on sleeping in the streets, brushed under the rug by those in charge. The police were going to go on bullying the little guy to protect the big fish they sucked on like remoras. Regis still walked free, and his throne awaited him at the Capitol Building in Washington. His resilience was a testament to how obdurate corruption was. Not even a nationally publicized scandal involving a porn star, an illegitimate child, kidnapping, and murder could take down someone like Regis with all the charisma, connections, and blackmail he had on his side. The alcohol buzz helped me entertain things I would have scoffed at a month ago. Maybe things could get better. Little by little, small changes, tiny sparks of light, stacked up like bricks, might build to a better future. It might not end up bright, but it would at least be less bleak. As long as there were people looking out for kids like Ethan, there was hope. The outpouring of support Virginia had gotten was proof. If Ethan¡¯s generation saw something that wasn¡¯t all doom and gloom, they might push for something better¡ªto undo the damage my generation had done. Sure, acting in a public service announcement promoting the use of bicycle helmets wouldn¡¯t fix up the ozone layer or refreeze the icecaps, but it was a start. Ethan would have a voice, and I hoped to God he used it. The long, contented sigh of liquor in my veins dulled my senses. I didn¡¯t hear the lobby door open. I only heard the sound of tapping heels when they were right outside my office. I had just enough time to spin back around and sit up straight before the knock came. ¡°Door¡¯s open,¡± I said, putting on a show of finishing up some paperwork. A pangolin in a rose pink dress and matching sun hat opened the door tentatively. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Is this Jonathan O¡¯Howell¡¯s detective agency?¡± She tapped her fingers together as she looked from me to the chipped paint of my name on the door¡¯s glass. ¡°I thought it was, but the sign outside¡­¡± ¡°You¡¯re in the right place,¡± I said, gesturing to the chair in front of my desk. She scurried over and I checked the clock on the wall. There was almost an hour before I needed to be at Isabel¡¯s. When the woman finished flattening out her skirt, I smiled at her. ¡°Hello, miss. What can I help you with today?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my husband,¡± she said. I leaned in to show I was listening. ¡°He¡¯s gone missing.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that. When did you last see him? This morning? Yesterday?¡± ¡°Twenty-five years ago.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, making a note on a fresh page of my notebook. ¡°Go on.¡±