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Chapter 15:

When I was thirteen years old, my parents took me to a party. It was for Father's work, so it was in the Downtown district at a hotel called The Oak Grove. The owner was a red deer who had a son my age and I think my father wanted me and him to be a thing. At first, that was a really easy thought to entertain. He was handsome, he was already beginning to grow his first set of antlers, he lived an impressively plush life, and his dad was one of the most influential political donors in the city. It showed because it wasn't uncommon for political fundraisers to be held there, and inductions, and events of all sizes. My father was going to take a shot at District Attorney that year, and, at that age, I still loved him. So much so that I was pretty much a daddy's girl.

My mother had dressed me in a fine white gown that she had ordered for me from some specialty shop out on Serengeti Street, so it was expensive. It probably cost as much as I make in a month working the beat now. For my parents, though, that was almost nothing. And for the majority of the night, I spent it sitting at the table near the front of the hall, half-listening to the old mammals bleating on about order and justice and all the stuff a thirteen year old couldn't comprehend.

In reality, I had my eyes and ears set on the buck sitting across the table. It's been almost twelve years now since that night and I don't really remember his name, but I do remember how handsome he was. To call it love was an overstatement, as I really didn't know what love was when I was that age. I'd call it infatuation, with maybe even a taste of lust thrown in. He towered over me by six or seven inches, and the velvet buds on his head made my heart skip a beat or two.

And how charming he was! Oh, he was so charming! Over the course of the dinner, he moved closer and closer to me until he was sitting in the adjacent seat. He said everything right, paying me compliments, asking about my family, telling me everything I wanted to hear, and everything a little part of me needed to hear. Soon he was holding my hand, those deep green eyes leaning in any moment to kiss me. It was going to be perfect.

But that's when things changed. The waiter, a thin black jaguar, placed a fresh glass of sparkling wine for the young buck on the table and as he was stepping away, he bumped the table and knocked some of the drink onto the buck's suit. The buck abandoned his kiss and began to berate the waiter. Though I can't remember his words, I do remember how charmless and ugly he became. I think if that was it, I would have forgiven and forgotten, but, it didn't end well.

The jaguar, who was apologizing profusely, refused to clean up the mess using his rough tongue, an odd demand from the young master. And when his collar began to blink yellow, the buck took it into his own hands to push the jaguar over the edge. He took up the glass of wine and tossed it towards the predator, soaking his collar and shocking him near to death. My father, who was speaking at the time, only paused his speech because of the commotion. I was horrified, looking around for somebody to do something.

What followed next was not concern, or appalled and scathing rebuke, or even silence. What followed was laughter. Deep, hawing laughter. From every corner of the room, from the smallest mouse, to the largest elephant, poured out the most guttural and visceral laughter I have ever experienced. No one wanted to help this poor animal, who was simply doing his job and made a minor mistake. They just wanted to see him suffer. They enjoyed it.

So I did the dumbest thing I ever did in my life: I leapt to his defense. I took my cloth napkin and tried desperately to mop up the liquid completing the circuit on his collar, so maybe it would stop before he had a seizure. The collar shocked me badly, made my hands numb. The young buck wasn't impressed, and immediately grabbed my arm to stop me, ripping the dress in the process. He demanded to know what I was doing, why I was deigning to touch the help, to touch those beneath me. When I yanked my arm away he accosted me. Every insult imaginable came out, but only one sticks in my mind.

"You're a fucking predophile!" He accused.

The rest of the night was a haze, but, I started to see the world a lot differently. The only thing definite is that buck tossed me aside. My father, infuriated by my humiliating display, tried to explain to me my place in the world as we rode in the back of our town car. I argued with him, for the first time in my life, that nobody should be treated like that, that it wasn't fair. Father claimed that it didn't matter, that if we do not assert our dominance, then civilization as we have built it over the years would crumble at its base. Mother offered me only a minimal amount of support, though she still sided with all of my father's arguments in the end.

I never felt that way about anybody since, not in over twelve years. It was easier to turn my full attention towards my work, towards spiting my parents, towards trying to undo some of the damage that they did and I unwittingly supported and benefited from. The good news is that my father didn't win DA that year. The bad news is, it didn't really matter. The animal they did pick was more of the same.

But it's scary. I'm starting to feel something that I haven't in the years since that day, and every time I look to Jackie, whether it's across the seat where he's humming away happily to the tunes playing through the radio, or in the rearview mirror, I get this pang in my stomach. In my heart. A bit of me can't help but wonder, trying to understand, while another one desperately tries to throw the dead mammal's switch. At least Jackie seems happy. Bitched up, with a shoulder that's obviously in a lot of pain, but happy. So I keep quiet, and maybe try not to think so hard.

At least we don't have to drive far. The address Jackie gives me is only a dozen blocks away. Crossing over a canal and past Fence Street, I lead the car down through the winding, twisting streets that delve down into the darkness of a neighborhood we call DUSSBO, or Down Under the Sahara-Savanna Bridge Overpass.

The sun is now crossing the horizon in the distance, and lights in living rooms and kitchens are beginning to blink on. But figures still stalk the street, some wandering home from work, some going out for a little Saturday night fun. A couple look already inebriated, even though it's hardly nine o'clock by the digital clock on my car's dash.

We glide through a neighborhood that I've only gotten a cursory look at over the last two years. Most of the streets are lined with town homes, low rise apartments, and taller tenement buildings. Windows glow warmly in the darkness, projecting a comforting, if but dreary, picture of predator living conditions in Zootopia.

As I turn onto Brush Avenue, I'm able to get a glance of the resorts and hotels of Sahara Square in the distance in an almost mocking display of extravagance. Precinct 6, which patrols there, is one of the best to be assigned to, and officers often fight to be stationed there. Not only is it a dry heat all year round, but most of the officers are able to work in the high rises, malls, resorts, and hotels that comprise the majority of the businesses.

Very few are stuck patrolling the wide avenues, lined with punk bars and other niche entertainment venues, and even they don't complain. A little bit of me can't help but be jealous, to not be being sent there. But, then I think of all that I've accomplished in just the past twenty-four hours and give a little smirk. It's enough, at least for now. Focus on being a good detective, and you'll be commissioner one day.

I pull the car into an on-street spot directly in front of the address we were given. It's high on a hill, giving a good overview of the riverfront itself, a cracking townhome made of faded brick, old concrete and rusting steel. Blinds cover the windows, patterned in a red-and-white plaid that is obviously not new. The stoop is pockmarked and the metal railing is missing several rungs.

As I put the car into park, I kill the engine and allow the lights to remain on so that I can survey the neighborhood. While I know for sure that Jackie would never draw me into a dangerous situation, or one in which I couldn't handle myself, I guess old habits die hard. The deep, seething fear of the unknown and danger of the darkness can't be shaken. Even though we're not that deep into old Happy Town, I'm still unsettled. I think it's a feeling every prey species has, no matter what, even though we haven't had to rely on those instincts in thousands of years.

Older cars line the street on both sides, mostly domestic brands of Coyotes, Loboses, and Prowlers in every shape, size, and age. Most of the homes are in poor condition, but aren't dilapidated and definitely aren't the burnt out shells I saw surrounding Joffer's apartment farther south. DUSSBO is a neighborhood that was once middle class, but has fallen steadily behind the times until now only the elderly, the poor, and the nostalgic are left behind.

"Well, here we are. Honestly, I've never had to work a case that didn't involve following someone around, or knocking on someone's door and sucker punching them. So, I don't know what to expect. Let me do the talking until I know what we're dealing with, ok? You ready?" Jackie asks, partially playfully.

"Yeah, of course," I tell him, thankful to have something else to think about than the hurricane in my head. "This is your investigation. I'll just follow your lead and give you support. Good cop, bad cop, right?"

"Right," he says with an amused chuckle and then opens the door.

When the door opens, the dome light flickers on and then fades as the door is slammed shut. In the darkness, I sit and sigh. Good cop, bad cop? Really, Jane, is that the best shit you can come up with? Really smooth. Jesus Capybara. At least Jackie's being an abnormally good sport about everything. None of the sarcasm and misery I was used to before. The street fades into darkness after I flick the headlights off. Finally, I push open my own door and lock it behind me, not knowing how long we'll be inside.

Jackie is already standing at the bottom of the cracked concrete stairs painted a faded gray. I go to hurry around the nose of my car, but slow when something catches my eye. In the alleyway off to the left of the townhome, the nose of a car sticks out. It's a brand new Longhorn National, painted night black with matte silver accents.

I know it sounds kind of judgmental to me, but, it's really odd to see something like that here. A brand new, top-of-the-line luxury car, surrounded by such forgotten poverty and slow decay? My mind begins to process, going through everything I know like a filing cabinet, my heart and stomach finally calming down. I'm thankful to finally get my head back onto something familiar and friendly: work.

I turn to tell Jackie about it, but he's already moved away, climbing the porch steps. And by the time that I reach him, the storm door inside has been opened and a face appears, one that seems to be expecting us. Well, expecting him. A timber wolf, who stands roughly a foot taller than Jackie, looks to Jackie with anticipation, and then looks to me with shock and dismay.

As she stands in the door way, studying at us through the screen, I round the bannister and step up beside Jackie. Mrs. Fangmeyer appears to be an older wolf, with gray hairs in the black and silver fur around her muzzle, although she does her best to appear youthful. She wears makeup around her eyes and on her cheeks in varying shades of black and pink. A lot of it looks smudged, with streaks running down and off of her muzzle, as if she's been crying.

With the way her black and white dress sits off kilter, the strap over her left shoulder hanging precariously, it's plain to see she's spent the time since Jackie returned her call sobbing. Sympathy rises up in my stomach, even if her eyes look to me distrustfully. She sniffles a couple of times and rubs at her eyes before looking up to Jackie, her ears turning upwards.

"Are--are you?" She begins to question, but her fingers cover up the end of her muzzle in an attempt to mask a sob.

"Yes, ma'am, J. Quartz, at your service," he says with a slight bow of his head.

"And wh--who is your, hmm, friend?" She questions, turning towards me, her hand waving dismissively.

While her words sound relatively friendly, her tone is starkly distrustful and displeased. I don't think she was expecting a second mammal to be arriving with Jackie, let alone a deer like me. Glancing up the street in both directions, I suddenly get the distinct feeling that my species, or any prey, doesn't make appearances on this street very often, if ever. Then I look to Jackie, who calms me with a smile and then returns his gaze to her with confidence.

"This is Detective Jane Brooks," he says kindly, holding out a hand to introduce me. "She will be assisting me with this investigation. As you can tell, I've been very seriously injured, and she's here to make sure I don't hurt myself further. Is that alright with you, ma'am?"

Good save on his part. Mrs. Fangmeyer silently considers his words, sniffling. She looks over to me, her face softening as she accepts his explanation. I watch as she dabs at the streaks under her eyes with the heel of her hand, a gold and jewel-encrusted bracelet jingling about with the motion. Then she nods her head and unlocks the deadbolt holding shut the screen door. It swings outwards with a loud squeak when it is pushed. Jackie takes the door and watches as she gives us a conflicted smile.

"I'm sorry for being so distrustful," she says, her voice more metered now than it was before. "There have been a lot of bad things happening. Predators going mad, disappearing, shadows moving around. I just didn't expect to see prey like you here. But, if Mr. Quartz trusts you, that's good enough."

"I understand, ma'am," I tell her as I step forward. "We can't be too careful."

She offers up an uneasy smile, as I find it likely she still doesn't exactly trust me, but does so enough to let me in her home. With a wave of her hand, she offers to bring us inside. Being a gentleman, Jackie allows me to enter first and only follows once I'm inside. My hooves make contact with a runner that is spread along the length of the wooden hallway that leads directly back to a kitchen from the front door. Mrs. Fangmeyer looks to me, her eyebrows still sitting low when she appraises me, and then pads out onto the porch past Jackie.

The foyer is small, most of it occupied by the staircase leading upstairs. It's painted an off blue and the air around me feels cold. It's common for some species to run their air condition year round to keep cool or hot, depending on their bodily needs. Obviously timber wolves need it to be a little chillier to be comfortable. Mrs. Fangmeyer looks up the street in both directions, as I can see from out of the corner of my eyes. But I also see a glow from the dark front room. A television in the far corner flickers, the news playing softly. The curtains are all drawn and the bright glow of the screen stands in stark contrast.

"Similar protests have spread out across the city, with citizens demanding an explanation to the murders of prey and the disappearance of predators citywide," a voice says from the figure onscreen. "Demands of both the mayor and other high ranking public officials have been met with silence since the conference this morning left a majority of the city unsatisfied. Fears of personal safety and economic stability abound. Protests like these have become increasingly familiar, as industry shifts away from the city, and questions over equal rights emerge. The police are standing by to keep things from getting out of hand, as assaults on predators are beginning to rise, but as so far, things have been peaceful."

I step into the opening and watch the figures bounce about on the bright television screen. Prey species of every shape and size line the streets Downtown, near Central Precinct and City Hall. Some hold hand painted signs, some just chant. A majority of the protesters are either very angry, fists pumping into the air, or confused and sad with frightened faces, but mostly I see anger. A few predators that stand nearby seem both terrified and dumbfounded by the outpouring of fear. The reporter attempts to get a comment from one of them, but they just ignore him, actively blocking their faces from the camera or pushing the microphone away.

"Hell no, preds can't stay! How many prey will they kill today!?" The protesters scream, again and again.

Then I watch as the news camera focuses on someone in the background and a metal pail appears. Moments later, it's tossed from a sheep's hand and sends clear water raining down on some poor hyena in a corduroy suit. The water makes contact and the collar begins to shock him and he drops to the ground. The reporter on the scene seems to say something, but whatever he says is drowned out as the crowd of colorful characters that was protesting has devolved into a lynch mob, laughing and throwing items at the poor predator. My fellow police officers stand by doing nothing.

Mrs. Fangmeyer pushes by me and scoops up the television remote from the unbalanced coffee table at the center of the room. She clicks the button until the thing turns off and then turns towards me nervously. I try not to meet her eyes, feeling as if I'm somehow to blame for the actions of those who merely share my eating habits. But the ghost of the last image remains on the screen: prey looming over that hyena as he convulses.

"Oh, it's just the news. Just keeping up to date with some current affairs," she tries to explain away.

I feel a hand touch my shoulder and look up to Jackie. He seems very uncomfortable, but tries to tell me something with his eyes. I think he wants me to stay calm, not say anything wrong. He can't expect me to agree with them, but, I think he just wants to make sure nothing is interpreted incorrectly and she's frightened off.

"Thank you, both of you, for coming so quickly," she says as she steps forward. "Why don't we go into the kitchen? I can pour some coffee while we talk. Shall I take your coat, miss?"

I feel the weight of my gun and badge in my pockets and suddenly remember that I'm supposed to be here of my own capacity. Self-consciously, I pull my brown jacket tighter around my frame and try to smile.

"Oh, ugh, no, that's ok," I say to her, trying to sound kind and grateful and glance up to Jackie. "We'll only be here a few minutes, right, Jack-err-Mr. Quartz?"

He smiles and then lowers his hand from my shoulder and I feel I've made a good save.

"We'll only be here long enough to get started, ma'am. We don't wish to take up too much of your time," Jackie says suavely. "But, some coffee would be nice if it isn't too much to ask."

Mrs. Fangmeyer smiles and then walks forward. When she passes by us, Jackie steps forward and follows, with me tailing only just after. The last image is still burned into the screen for a few moments still, glowing. And I'm horrified to see the world through the eyes of someone else, wondering how it's come to this. I hope Jackie knows, truly knows, that I'm not like that, that I'm better than that.

"Color me surprised to see you, Miss Brooks," Mrs. Fangmeyer says as I enter the kitchen behind Jackie. "We don't see too many prey species down here on Brush Street. Have you worked with Mr. Quartz long?"

"Not at all, ma'am," I reply cordially. "We only just started our working relationship. And I try not to focus on who we're working for, just how we can help them."

There comes no reply, but, glancing over to Jackie, I see him smile and nod as he takes a seat at an old metal kitchen table. I know it's not a lot, but, I want to make a good impression with Mrs. Fangmeyer. Because if I can get her to trust me, that goes a long way to making this whole thing a lot easier. It also doesn't hurt to show Jackie I can be that pleasant, kind officer he met and sees in me. Crossing the room, my hooves clacking on the dirty linoleum, I take a seat across the table from Jackie.

When I worked the beat, I never really had a lot of opportunities to do any community outreach, as my job comprised of simple patrols, responses to radio calls, and the occasional traffic work. Sure, what I said was for partly for Jackie, but I also did it because I did get into this job to help animals in need. I think most people that become police officers do it to try to give back, to help those in need. But we get so caught up, lost in the labyrinth of procedure and the politics of everyday life of wearing the blue. In two years, I think I've sort of forgotten that I'm doing this job to make a real difference, and one that I can make on my own and without somebody else's help or approval.

It's hard, though, when animals don't want your help. Part of me wonders why she didn't wish to go to the police, but then I realize that the answer should be obvious. Hell, she was watching it on television when we arrived: prey accosting predator, with the police standing by doing nothing. I can tell that, while not outright bigoted, Mrs. Fangmeyer looks at me with a wary eye. I can't say I blame her. She places the percolator onto the stovetop and then turns around.

"Excuse me, I have to tidy up a little bit," she tells us and then crosses the room to the hallway. "The coffee should be done soon."

"Take your time, ma'am, we don't wish to rush you," Jackie replies kindly.

A few moments later, I hear her paws climbing up the stairs and then it's quiet. My eyes only find momentary relief to it by taking in my surroundings. The kitchen is definitely older, colored a very fifties blue. The linoleum is black and white, and dirty at the edges where it's beginning to peel. The cabinetry is discolored, but in good repair, and most of the appliances are older, even dented. The only new one appears to be a dishwasher, installed professionally. That must have been expensive. Just like the car and that bracelet she's wearing.

"What do you think he does?" I ask Jackie, my mind working. "The husband, I mean."

Jackie shakes his head.

"Tough to tell. Timber wolves are common sights in warehouses, transportation, even private security," Jackie replies, quietly looking around the kitchen himself, his claws clicking on the table. "It's sort of an old stereotype, but, wolves often work well where they do repetitive tasks or work in large groups, as it harkens back to our primitive days when they lived in packs. Kind of like how everyone assumes deer are noble and wise guardians, and coyotes are tricky bottom feeders . . ."

His voice seems to trail off when he realizes what he's said. His eyes look over to me, and I try to grin, to let him know that I don't believe that. He just clears his throat.

"Why do you ask?"

I look away, shaking my head.

"Did you notice the car outside?" I ask and then continue when he shakes his head. "It's a brand new National with one of the personal luxury trims. That car is probably worth more than this house."

The percolator begins to bubble and boil.

"Ok, it's nice, so what?" Jackie asks, though not defensively. "Some animals value their ride as much as their house, if not more. Especially in a place like this."

"No, it's not just that. She's wearing a bracelet that looks like it was bought at Yaks on Serengeti Street. Do you think he does a job where he can earn enough money to buy those types of things, while simultaneously living in a place like this?"

Jackie seems to hum over my observations, looking across the table from where he sits, cattycorner to me. While I'm sure my words could be misconstrued as bigoted, Jackie seems to find some value in them. He doesn't get the chance to reply. The wooden floor in the hallway creaks and Mrs. Fangmeyer returns just as the coffee percolator pops one last time, letting us know it's finished brewing.

Both I and Jackie watch as our host crosses the room and begins to pour out two cups of thick, black coffee from inside. She places it onto a small, white serving tray, where she also puts a stout cup of sugar and a small pitcher of cream she retrieves from the large, dented refrigerator. The liquid wobbles in the clear cups as she walks it gently over to the table where we sit.

Her fur is cleaner now, the streaks have been blotted out and the makeup reapplied. The dress, black and white stripes with a matching belt, doesn't seem as crumpled as before. Finally, her breathing is more uniform. She delicately places the tray onto the small, blue-and-white metal table between us and then takes a seat in a third chair across from the both of us, crossing her legs properly and clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Thank you kindly for coming as quickly as you did," Mrs. Fangmeyer begins, visibly shaken. "I didn't expect to see such a pretty investigator in my neighborhood, but, I'm not complaining. I've been calling investigators all day, but, you're the only one that seemed interested after I finished my story. They all say that Howie just skipped town, they don't care that he's gone."

Jackie groans as he produces a small notepad from one of his pants pockets, his soft pack of cigarettes crinkling in his shirt. A small golf pencil slides from the binding and Jackie flips it open to the first open page that isn't just filled with notes or absentmindedly doodled pictures. His shoulder looks very sore, though he isn't complaining.

"I don't think your husband skipped town, ma'am, but I'm sure you can understand that a case like this is unusual at best. I'm used to following cheating spouses or tracking down debtors," Jackie replies kindly. "I need as much information as possible. Could you start with a description?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs. Fangmeyer replies.

Quickly, she stands up and walks to the refrigerator where various pictures are tacked up with magnets. She selects one and slips it out from under its restraint. Returning to us, looking over the picture lovingly, she hands it to Jackie, who gives it not much more than a cursory glance.

"This will be great," Jackie replies. "Can we keep this?"

"Oh, sure, we have a lot of photos," she replies with a nod of her head. "Howie looks just like that, but maybe a little bit thinner around the center these days. He's been working hard, you know?"

Jackie hands me the photograph and I look it over, turning it towards the light. The photo appears recent, judging by their dress and the season. My best guess would be sometime in May. Her husband, Howie, is taller than she is, with darker fur and rougher lines about the face. He's wearing torn, threadbare clothing, and generally looks a mess. But he's happy, extremely so. His eyes are golden brown, and bright as lightbulbs.

His wife Diana stands with him on what looks to be a back porch or deck. They both face the camera, embracing each other about the waist. She's wearing a sundress in a pattern that reminds me vaguely of curtains, unlike the stylish black and white one she wears currently. Her free hand is wrapped around her stomach, which is noticeably larger than it is now. That's odd. I place the photo back onto the table and scoot it back towards Jackie, who places it inside his notebook.

"Could you start from the beginning, Mrs. Fangmeyer?" Jackie calmly asks.

"Oh, please, call me Diana, or Diane," she interjects, trying to smile a little.

Jackie responds awkwardly, but ultimately nods in agreement, "Uhm, sure, Diana. Your husband, he went missing this past Thursday, correct?"

"Yes, yes he did," Mrs. Fangmeyer begins, wrapping her arms around her abdomen once more and leaning back into her seat. "Howie has worked up at Tundratown Private Security for years now, not unlike a lot of other wolves from the neighborhood. He usually works the dayshift, but does take some swing shifts sometimes if the money's good. Well, he took the car to go to work Thursday morning and at five o'clock, he never came back."

Jackie scribbles down into his notepad.

"Is there any place else he might have went, ma'am?" I continue his line of questioning as he writes. "You know, maybe we went to a bar, or a friend's house. Does he have any coworkers he's friendly with?"

She looks to me with only cursory concern, but then she sniffles, as if her mind has moved onto something more pressing.

"I don't know," she replies, looking to me and shaking her head. "We still talk to some of the families we grew up with, and he liked to hang down at the Watering Trough on Fence Street since it's on the way home, but that's not like Howie. He always comes home before going out--always! We've eaten dinner together every night for years."

"So you're telling me this is strange?" Jackie prods further. "Has Howie ever done anything strange like this before? Or maybe he's done some other strange things lately. Anything you can think of, anything at all. Maybe making phone calls he didn't use to, going places he hasn't before, maybe a change in habits?"

Mrs. Fangmeyer bites down on her lip and sniffles, looking off towards the floor, towards empty space. I get where Jackie is going, trying to rule out cheating, or any of the usual suspects. I'd do the same thing. Jackie waits patiently, his arms resting on his legs. I look to him and keep quiet. Honestly, this is going very much like an interview with a police officer. I've said it before, but, he continues to make me think he's just a cop by another name. That thought kind of makes me hum to myself.

"Well, he has been taking all these new shifts at work," she then begins to explain. "Sometimes he'll come home to eat and then go back into work, which I didn't question. We were saving up money, to get out of the neighborhood, you know? We want to have puppies, raise a family, and we can't do that here."

"Has his demeanor changed at all?" I ask her as Jackie's jotting down some notes.

"Well, he's become much quieter," she replies to me. "I thought that work was stressing him out, or that he had had a fight with somebody at work. But he doesn't talk to me anymore. He just doesn't seem as happy as he used to be."

She lifts her left hand up from her lap and covers the black nose at the end of her muzzle. That bracelet jangles about as she sniffles and looks away, her eyes misting up as if she'll start to cry any moment. But she takes a deep, cleansing breath and simply looks away. Jackie scribbles down some notes and then takes a sip from his coffee. The shimmer from the bracelet goes away when her hand dips back below the tabletop.

"Mrs. Fangmeyer, I hate to pry, but, I couldn't help but notice the bracelet that you're wearing," I pipe up.

"Oh, this?" She asks, holding her arm up again for us to examine. "Howie gave it to me a couple of weeks ago."

"It looks familiar, is it from Mousey's?" I gently question, hoping to lead her in the right direction.

I glance to Jackie to make sure I'm not stepping on his toes or jeopardizing his work. But I find him smiling, looking at me with confidence before he returns to his notes. It feels nice, not having to bargain with him just to do what I know I can excel at.

"Oh, no," she replies, her fingers twisting the band, "it doesn't look like something I could buy at Mousey's. Howie just said he got it Downtown when he gave it to me. I was so stunned when he opened the box and this was inside. It's one of the nicest things I own!"

She smiles, her eyes glistening, and then she holds it close to her form, as if cradling it. Maybe because it reminds her of her missing husband.

"When we arrived, we parked out in front. There was a car parked in the alleyway. Is that yours or your husband's as well?" I ask her.

Mrs. Fangmeyer nods and then looks away. Jackie waits patiently for an answer alongside me, his pencil poised to write anything Mrs. Fangmeyer offers. It's obvious that he's made the connection as well, finally.

"Yes, yes it is," she finally replies, sighing. "Howie came home with it about three months ago. I was so shocked when he parked it in the alleyway and said it was ours, because we could never, ever afford anything like it. But, he insisted it wasn't a big deal, and that we should treat ourselves. He said things were going to be better from then on, that we were going to escape. He's come home with a lot of nice things lately. I know what you're thinking. But, we've never had things like this before, so, I tried not to worry about it."

"Did you ever ask him where the money was coming from?" Jackie asks, much more directly.

That must have been one step too far. Mrs. Fangmeyer looks to us with a pained expression, her ears folding back immediately. Her eyes water up and then she buries her muzzle into her hands, propped up on the table. The collar around her neck begins to beep, changing from a bright green to a warning yellow. Tears begin to patter down onto the table as they wick off of her fur, muddled with black and pink makeup.

Looking to Jackie, I see his collar turn yellow as well, as he looks away, visibly uncomfortable. I can't blame him, the question needed to be asked. But, still, it hurts seeing her cry like this. The collar beeps louder, blinking now, telling us that it's about to shock. Without thinking, I reach forward and touch her arm. When I do so, she tenses up, surprised. Then her face appears from behind her fingers and she looks to me, confused and filled with pent up sorrow.

I smile, trying to tell her that it'll be ok, that we'll try to fix this. She seems to understand and she begins to regain a grip on herself. I tentatively touch her hand and then hold it for a second, giving it a weak squeeze, in the same way Jackie did to me earlier tonight. Though her tears stop flowing, her ears still lay back and her lips and nose wiggles.

"We're here to help," I assure her confidently. "We're not here to judge or harm you. We just want to help. Okay?"

This one small act may seem small, but it must be just what she wanted to hear. Mrs. Fangmeyer sniffs loudly several times and she tries to wipe away her tears. Her collar returning to blinking green as her emotions are pushed back down inside once more, her heartrate returning to normal. She takes in a deep, cleansing breath and recomposes herself in her seat. Jackie grins to me as I lean back, giving a curt nod of approval.

"He never told me, even though I asked a bunch of times," she begins, not looking to either of us. "He just kept telling me that it didn't matter, that we're finally getting what we deserve. I told him that if he was messing around with one of the Five Families--but he insisted he wasn't! We all know better than to mess with Koslov's gang up in Tundratown, or Mr. Big's operation in Little Rodentia. He said this was different, that he got a new, good assignment at his job. But when he disappeared, I called up his work. They said he didn't work there anymore! They told me he got a new job somewhere else months ago!"

She pauses and looks painfully down at the table, as if she's only just now truly admitting it to herself. Because we don't only lie to everyone else, we lie to ourselves just as much.

Then she continues, looking up to us with a sense of resolve, "I called you because I think Howie got himself involved with somebody, somebody bad. I think Howie did something illegal, but I don't know what. I don't even know where he was going every day, working a job like normal, even going in the evening to do overtime. I just--just don't know what to do."

Jackie scribbles down everything furiously, desperately trying to keep up. So while he's focused on his notes, I lean forward in my seat to satisfy my own curiosity.

"Why not go to the police?" I ask her, innocently. "This sounds like a job for them."

The pencil scratches on pad, then paper flips over and the scratching resumes.

"I think they're involved," she suddenly says.

Jackie's hand stops. We both look to her dumbfounded. While neither of us stare at her accusingly, I do get the feeling she thinks we think she just said her husband was taken by UFOs or something. I've heard about the police doing some bad things. I mean, I was in college when the Frank Sherpa case happened, but they never made animals disappear. That's just ridiculous. My face seems to tell her I think as much, but she isn't deterred.

"Thursday night, after I called around to his work, and to his friends, and the bar, I was sitting here in the living room when I saw it go by," she begins to explain, her muzzle turning towards the front door. "It was a black sedan, with the plain wheels. I knew it was a cop car because it had one of those spotlights on the hood like one. It just slowed down in front of the house, and these two mammals were inside, big figures watching. Just watching. Later that night, I started getting hang-up calls. You saw it on the news, about those predators going crazy? What if that's how it begins? I don't want him to end up like them, like the others."

That definitely sounds like a patrol car. And not one of the marked ones. No, it sounds like a detective's issued cruiser, or possibly an official car used by an administrator or other higher up. I guess seeing a car like that here is as equally out of place as that Longhorn, and seeing it slow down in front of my house would raise an eyebrow from me as well. The way Mrs. Fangmeyer looks at me now tells me she's sure she's gotten her point across.

I believe she thinks we're going to call her crazy, to pack up our things and leave. But, glancing over, Jackie doesn't move. His face doesn't even make me think he's considered leaving. In fact, he seems determined, resolute. I feel the same way, since I would never be able to investigate anything like this otherwise, especially since this lady is actually speaking to us openly and freely. All without my badge.

"I just have a few more questions," Jackie says, "and then we'll begin."

The look on Mrs. Fangmeyer's face is one of ecstasy. Her ears stand skywards, surprised, and her tail wags behind her. Her eyes mist up, as if she's going to cry again, this time from joy. She clasps her hands around her muzzle and sniffles two or three times before taking a deep breath to control herself. I don't think she was expecting Jackie to accept, especially after that tale.

"I'll get my checkbook," she says enthusiastically. "You'll take you first week up front, right? That's what the others said, before they heard my story."

"Uh, yes, ma'am," Jackie says enthusiastically as Mrs. Fangmeyer rises from her chair.

"Ma'am, if it's not too much trouble, would it be possible if I see anything that your husband took to this new job?" I ask, feeling a bit awkward for having worded it that way. "I just want to get a feel for what he may have been doing, maybe find a clue as to where he was going."

"Oh, of course, dearie, Howie left a duffle bag upstairs in our room that he usually takes to work," she replies cheerily as she walks across the kitchen. "It's the last room at the end of the hall upstairs, past the bathroom."

Jackie doesn't look to me, he simply watches Mrs. Fangmeyer fetch her checkbook from her purse with a smile. So I leave the two, wanting to do a little more digging before we leave. Plus, I don't really need to know how much money Jackie is making. That feels like none of my business. So I return to the foyer, quickly making the turn around the bannister and mounting the stairs as quietly as hooves on wood will allow.

Upstairs I find more of the same: ruined carpeting, peeling wallpaper, old fixtures. But at least everything works. I walk to the bedroom at the end of the hallway and hope to find a goldmine when I see an open duffle bag thrown at the end of the bed. But as I'm going through it, I find next to nothing. Some old underclothes, a few cans of deodorant, a mirror and pair of scissors, and some other toiletries. I throw the bag back onto the floor and begin back up the hallway. As I near the end of the hallway, where a dark door leads into a dark room, I pause.

"Here you are, Mr. Quartz," I hear Mrs. Fangmeyer say.

"Oh, thank . . ." Jackie's voice trails off.

"Is that not correct? I was just going off of what the other investigators wanted. "

"No, ma'am, this is . . . this is fantastic," Jackie replies enthusiastically, though as if he's trying to damper his excitement. "We'll do our best to bring your husband home."

Those words are exceedingly familiar. And Jackie says them in a way I would, talking to the captain, or to my mother, or to anyone else who I want to get in good with. The wolf doesn't say anything for quite some time, though I do hear the chair creak as she takes her seat. I don't feel the need to immediately return to my seat, instead I just want to listen.

"You know, I was surprised when I saw her," Mrs. Fangmeyer admits, her voice sounding a bit guilty. "I didn't know what to think, especially with those protests. Things have been hard since the puppy. It's been hard to trust one of them. But, I think she's a good one."

"Yeah, I do too," Jackie replies, his voice sounding warm, friendly.

Since the puppy? I step back out into the hallway, but before I begin to descend the steps, I glance up. The room beside me, with the open door, is dark. But inside I can make out a few shapes, a few figures. The walls are covered in brand new paint, with little stars and moons painted onto them. There seems to be a bed, but, it isn't a bed-bed, it looks like something else. Also, there seem to be little objects strewn about on the floor, soft, hard, brightly colored.

I push the door open slightly and take a tentative step inwards. When the light from the hall reaches inwards, I realize what the room is and feel a punch to the gut. In the far corner is a crib, painted white with a mobile above it decorated with cartoon bones and crescent moons. Stuffed animals, brand new toys, and games are strewn about on the floor, completely untouched. A changing table and supplies are just inside the door. Mrs. Fangmeyer was pregnant.

And what's worse, she lost the puppy. That's why she lost so much weight so quickly. My mind screams out as sorrow flows through me and I back out slowly, hoping not to get caught looking in on this, on something so private. I try to regain a straight face and descend the stairs. But when I reach the bottom, my hooves making contact with the rug, I pause and look to the door, not sure how I can hide such information.

"Well, I think we have what we need," I hear Jackie say and the chair creak as he rises.

When I look up, that's when I notice a vase sitting just inside the door, probably hidden behind the door when we entered. It's crystal, very fancy, with cut, white roses placed delicately inside. A sticker is on the very bottom: a bright, blue paw print. My mind suddenly crashes, having not only witnessed this logo before, but recently as well. It looks like the exact same log on Joffer's work clothes at his apartment. Where did they come from?!

Jackie approaches behind me, shaking Mrs. Fangmeyer's hand. As I turn to him, his smile fades a little bit after seeing the look on my face. I don't know how I didn't notice them on the way in.

"Ma'am, where did these roses come from?" I ask our host.

"Oh, those?" Mrs. Fangmeyer replies, standing beside Jackie. "Howie brought them home this past week. I put them there so I can see them when I close the door. Aren't they pretty?"

"They are, ma'am," I hastily tell Mrs. Fangmeyer.

I then turn to Jackie, barely containing my enthusiasm, and say, "Jackie, we need to go."