by Watts Martin
“She means I’m suspended.”
Sinvy sat down between them. “Just now?”
“Yesterday. No, two days ago, I think.” Gibson smiled apologetically. “The last few days have been a bit of a blur.”
“What?” The mouse’s voice rose to a near shriek. “Then you haven’t had any authority to offer me any help at all!”
“That’s not true.” The cat looked hurt. “I had every authority to come to you as a private citizen and offer help, and to put you up in a hotel at my own expense.”
“And you!” Sinvy turned on Annie. “You’re helping him—helping him commit—commit fraud. Or whatever this is. You’re putting my life in danger because you want to go around playing detective and—”
Annie dropped an arm heavily around his shoulders, cupping her hand under his chin and tilting his head back so he had to look straight up at her face. “Mr. Sinvy,” she said quietly, readjusting her glasses with her free hand. “I’m having a very bad day and it’s not even noon yet. Would you kindly refrain from making it any worse?”
His pupils dilated. “Yes, ma’am.”
She dropped her arm. “Thank you.”
He hunched over, looking sullen, but remained quiet.
After several minutes of blessed silence, Rowell hurried back out from behind the counter, addressing Annie and Sinvy. “Sir, ma’am, let’s get you both to a safehouse.”
Gibson lifted his brows. “Whatever for? They’re not in any danger now.”
Annie glanced at Gibson, then back at Rowell. “Officer Scava is right. We don’t—”
Sinvy leapt to his feet. “Let’s go!”
Rowell nodded toward the mouse, then leaned toward Gibson and Annie, speaking sotto voce. “I know it’ll likely only be for a few hours, but it’ll make Mr. Sinvy very happy.”
Annie sighed and stood up. “Fine.”
NINE
~
THE SAFEHOUSE WASN’T QUITE adjacent to the Guard house but it stood as close as it could get while still being in a residential area, a mere five minutes’ walk from the station. It was small, well-kept, and entirely nondescript.
Rowell unlocked the door, the tumblers turning so quietly Annie couldn’t even hear them, and held the door open for them. “Jirge?” he called as he walked in. “Hmm. Not here yet but he must be on his way. You’ll both stay out of trouble for the next few minutes, right?”
“I think we can manage.”
He smiled. “Thank you for all your help, ma’am.” He gave her a casual salute and headed back out.
Sinvy looked after him suspiciously. “Why’s he leaving us alone?”
“Someone else is coming on duty instead, he said.” She looked around the house’s living room. Well-stocked bookshelves, several couches and overstuffed chairs, a table with an inlaid karimi game board. It all looked…preserved, the way a house that might only be used a few weeks out of the year might be.
“Great. Just great.” Sinvy threw himself down into one of the chairs and covered his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”
“Try and relax.”
“I don’t mean right now, I mean with the rest of my life. My job’s over. My career in the field’s probably ruined.”
“They’ll see you as having helped uncover a horrible smuggling ring. You’ll be a hero.”
“Where are you working now?”
She flicked her ears, not appreciating the mouse’s redirect. “I’m unemployed.”
“That’s what I thought. You know why you’re unemployed? Because nobody wants a heroic accountant.”
Grinding her teeth, she crossed over to a bookshelf and pulled a volume down at random. “No, I suppose they don’t.” The book turned out to be the autobiography of an Orinthean poet and political leader. She found the combination charming, but as she flipped through it, she hoped the man’s leadership had proved better than his poetry. ”Fortunately, you’re not really one, are you? You went along with their twisted, horrible plot for a few extra vars and you’ve only turned on them to save your own skin.” She shoved the book back on the shelf.
He sank down in his seat, glaring at her. “Well, aren’t you Miss Morality. It wasn’t a few extra vars. It was a lot. More than I’m going to make being an honest accountant.”
“And did that help you sleep better at night?”
“Yes, in fact it did, because I could afford a top of the line mattress. Where’s that other Guard?”
She frowned. “That’s a good question.” She looked over at the door and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Then her eyes widened as things suddenly fell into place. “Divine Mother,” she swore, sprinting back to the sitting area and pushing one of the overstuffed chairs toward the door.
Sinvy rose to his feet. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You were right. There is at least one more.”
“What—what are you saying?”
Annie ran back to the couch and grabbed the mouse’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Go where? Wait! This is the safehouse! Stop dragging me!” He dug in his heels.
Someone tried to push the door open from outside, then started pounding on it. Annie pulled harder. “Come on! I should have seen this—”
Two loud bangs! sounded from the front door and the wall to their right almost simultaneously. The back of the stuffed chair blocking the door exploded in a cloud of stuffing and a crossbow bolt buried itself in the wall about at Annie’s head level. Sinvy screamed.
The wolf dashed out of the living room, looking around frantically, then sprinted into the laundry room, still holding the mouse’s hand.
“We need to run!” he hissed. “There’s got to be a back door—”
“We have a better chance against someone with a crossbow if we keep him close.” She looked around the room, eyes settling on the shelf of cleaners. “Do you see any buckets?”
He looked baffled, but pointed under the sink. Another bang! came from the living room, followed by splintering noises. Sinvy stifled his shriek.
“Okay.” She put it in the sink and turned the water on full, then started throwing the powdered laundry soap across the floor between herself and the entrance.
Rowell’s voice came from the living room, sounding winded and irritated. “The back entrance is padlocked, Miss Swift. There’s only so many places you can go in here.”
As his footsteps slowly approached, she emptied the bucket on the floor. She motioned for Sinvy to stand against the inside wall, in a position where Rowell wouldn’t see him until he entered the laundry room. Then she picked up a washing board and moved to stand within arm’s length of the room’s entrance, against the wall.
“We’re going to suds him to death?” the mouse hissed urgently. She just made a shhh motion in response.
“I’d ask what gave it away, but it doesn’t matter,” the fox’s voice came. “I do want to thank Mr. Sinvy for giving me the last remaining evidence to destroy, though. At this point it’s just his testimony that would do in the operation, and we won’t have to worry about that much longer, will we?” She could hear a bolt sliding into place.
Rowell walked in slowly, crossbow held in front of him. Just before he turned Annie spun and swung the washing board at his head.
He reacted in time to avoid it, jerking his whole body backward—but that tipped him off-balance just as he stepped into the soapy puddle. Just as she’d hoped, his sprawl became an out of control slide, his body careening along the floor until he collided with the sink basin.
Annie raised the washboard again and stepped forward quickly—too quickly. She didn’t lose her balance but she skated past him on the slippery floor, legs akimbo, the washing board slamming into the crossbow rather than his head. The weapon went off, firing into the metal sink. All three of them yelled—Sinvy the loudest—and water rushed out of the sink over Rowell. He cursed and spluttered, putting a hand up in front of his face. His other hand darted toward his belt and the knife hanging there
.
The wolf dropped the washing board and reached down to grab him. She moved too fast for her own trap again, though, slipping and falling on top of him and the now-unloaded crossbow.
“Get off me!” Rowell kicked underneath her, pushing back from the sink and clawing at her shoulders. She got her hands around his wrists, keeping him from being able to go for the blade. “Why couldn’t you just leave things alone, or at least just stay put and die?”
“Because I’m a really good detective,” she gasped, kneeing him in the stomach.
He wheezed, twisting his arm free.
She slapped her hand over the knife hilt, and he grappled with her. “Let go, dammit!”
“And sometimes?” She bared her teeth, grabbing his throat with her other hand. His eyes widened and he moved both hands to her arm, pulling futilely at it. “I’m a big. Scary. Wolf.” She lifted his head and banged it hard against the floor. Rowell whined, his eyes rolling back in his head, and went limp.
She threw the crossbow off to the side and rolled the fox over onto his back, still straddling him. “Mr. Sinvy, get some rope.”
“Rope? Where am I going to get—”
“Just find something I can fucking tie him up with!”
The mouse pinned his ears back, but looked around quickly, then walked over—gingerly—through the puddle to bring her a ball of laundry line cord.
“Thank you.” She got the fox’s arms behind him and started binding his wrists together.
By this time Rowell had recovered enough to struggle, but he had no leverage. “Look. Look. We’ll cut you in on it,” he groaned. “It’s a lot of money. Ask Sinvy. He knows.”
“It is a lot of money.” Sinvy sounded wistful.
She tied an ugly but sturdy knot, then another loop and knot just to be sure. “You’ll understand if I don’t find you very trustworthy,” she grunted, then got to her feet, using the sink to steady herself. “And I don’t need the money.”
“What are you talking about?” Sinvy crossed his arms. “You’re unemployed.”
“I don’t want their money.” She gave him a stern look. “And neither do you.”
The mouse sighed. “Of course I want their money.”
Rowell’s ears perked up. “Sinvy! You can still help us! And if you trust her, you’re just going to end up—”
“In jail?” The mouse leaned over toward the captive fox. “Yeah, I know that, but I wouldn’t trust you to tell me the color of the sky at this point, and Miss Swift might be the most honest person I’ve ever met. I may like money, but I’m not an idiot.”
Her ears lifted. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Your honesty is why you’re always going to be broke. So do we carry him back to the Guard station?”
~
As the three walked in—Annie and Rowell both soaked, the fox bound and bedraggled—Captain Snow dropped the clipboard she held with a clatter. Annie felt a momentary burst of smugness at making the human genuinely surprised, even though she knew it was far from an expression of joy. Officer Ayalin hurried over to them as well.
Scava stood up. “Good lords,” he started, but Snow held up a hand.
“Officer Rowell—Miss Swift—what in all the worlds is happening?”
Sinvy answered. “This guy took us somewhere he said was a safehouse and then circled back to get a weapon to kill us. After destroying all the evidence I’d risked my neck getting earlier today.” The mouse kicked Rowell in the shin.
“C-Captain,” Rowell interjected, ears back. “This isn’t—it isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”
She stared. “Oh? It looks like you took these two out of the station, which you had no authorization to do, and between the time you left and now you gave Miss Swift cause to tie you up and bring you back here as a prisoner.”
“Then it’s exactly what it looks like.” Annie straightened up, trying to look dignified, a difficult task with dripping hair and about half her fur—and blouse—plastered to her body. “You’ll find the crossbow still there. Did you get Walbin and Runford?”
Snow continued to stare without speaking.
“Ma’am,” Annie added after a moment.
“I’m not your superior officer, Miss Swift, so that’s not necessary. Furthermore, the details of an investigation…” She trailed off, then put her hands to her temples. “Yes, we have both of them. They’re being questioned separately now.” She looked around with a pained expression. “Where did Officer Scava just go?”
“I—” Annie looked around as well. “He was just here, wasn’t he?”
Snow rubbed her temples. “Officer Ayalin, please take Mr. Rowell to a holding cell.”
The wolf grabbed the fox by the shoulder and led him away.
“Miss Swift, are you aware of anyone else being involved with this conspiracy that we don’t know of?”
“No. Other than Mr. Barash.”
Snow sighed. “Who we still haven’t located.” She waved toward the bench with both hands. “Sit. Please.”
“I’d really like to be able to change out of my clothes—”
“Captain!”
They all turned to see Gibson as he ran toward them, although they smelled him at nearly the same time. Sinvy made a rudely exaggerated gagging noise. “What did you just do, dive into a garbage pile?”
“Yes. But for a good cause.” Gibson held up the ledger that Sinvy had brought in earlier.
Snow waved a hand in front of her face. “Excellent work. Take that to—somewhere we can’t smell it, please. Then both you and Miss Swift go shower.”
“She looks like she’s already had hers.” Gibson looked up and down at the wolf. “And it looks excellent on you, Miss Swift.”
Annie narrowed her eyes.
Snow’s voice was a low warning. “Officer Scava.”
He cleared his throat, straightening up quickly. “Right. Shower, then come back here?”
The human sighed heavily. “Yes.”
“Excellent.”
Ayalin strode up to the human’s side, wrinkling his nose at Scava as he approached. “We’ve got a problem, Captain.”
She lifted her brows.
“Walbin and Runford—I think they’ve rehearsed their stories. They’re very similar, and they both paint Mr. Sinvy as the mastermind.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sinvy spluttered.
“They say you were the one working with Mr. Barash. They’re going to try and deflect it all on both of you.”
“I’m sure the evidence I dug out of the trash will show otherwise,” Gibson said reassuringly.
Sinvy gritted his teeth. “It’d better. They’ll be able to afford very good lawyers.”
Annie patted the mouse’s shoulder and headed off with the cat.
~
They both went back to the hotel room; both of them had their clothes there already, and truthfully only Gibson needed to shower. Annie dried herself off and put on a new set of clothes, then waited for the cat to emerge before they caught a carriage back to the station.
“Well,” he said.
“Well.”
“You know, we make a good team.”
“Sometimes. Maybe.” She sighed. “But we’re just lucky that Rowell just threw the evidence out rather than destroying it.”
“You can’t very well set a fire in a Guard station without being noticed, and the trash is hauled away daily. It wasn’t that unreasonable of him to do.” He shook his head. “I’d never have suspected him.”
She snorted. “I should have seen Rowell was in on it from the start. Sinvy’s right—I’m too trusting.”
“I disagree. You’ve been smart enough to barely trust me from the day we met.”
Annie laughed.
“But we still have a loose end, and one that would help to sew up the case.”
“Mr. Barash.” She brooded, rubbing her chin. Then her eyes widened. “I know where he might be. At least if we’re not too late.”
“What?�
�
Annie sat up and rapped on the front of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “Do you know where the Tropical Dreams Stagecoach Agency is?”
The young human man driving turned toward her. “Yes’m.”
“Go there, please.”
“Yes’m.”
Gibson looked at her curiously. “A hunch?”
“A matchbook.”
They hopped out of the carriage a few minutes later in a part of the capital city Annie hadn’t been to before; with few buildings taller than a single story, most of them painted in once-bright but now faded pastels, it looked like some kind of tropical dream itself, possibly one involving parasites. The agency’s office couldn’t have been more than half the size of Annie’s flat, with a wide glass window papered almost completely over with unfolded brochures. The glass door remained free of anything but the business’s painted name, and they could see Barash inside, sitting disconsolately alone in a chair against one wall rather than talking to the single agent inside, staring at a huge suitcase he’d presumably brought with him.
He looked up as the two entered, but didn’t run. He didn’t even move. He just looked even more sad, and sighed deeply.
“Can I help you?” The agent, a perky-looking vixen with blonde hair threaded through colorful beads, smiled at them.
“No,” the badger said. “I believe they’re here for me.”
“Oh.” She looked puzzled. “Your coach is only eighty minutes away, sir.”
“I’m afraid he’ll have to catch a later run. Five to twenty years, I imagine.” Gibson picked up the suitcase, and motioned to Annie. “If you’d be so kind as to keep our friend here from running again?”
The badger shuffled out between them, looking down at the ground.
Gibson turned around, walking backwards as he spoke. “It sounds like your friends Runford and Walbin are trying to pin this operation all on you. Well, you and George, our informant.”
“Friends?” Barash drew himself up. “They’re hardly friends. Walbin supposedly did me a favor of auditing the firm after my partner retired and said he found all sorts of irregularities. He said he didn’t think the home would survive. ‘Doubts about your ability to continue as a going concern,’ he said.” He looked down at the ground again. “And once I said yes, I couldn’t back out.”
