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—name, date of birth, place of residence, occupation—and 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— 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.

“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—regal, 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.