FSE

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Chapter 27

Getting him out of the car isn't the hard part. The hard part is getting him up several stories and through an apartment building filled with nothing but prey animals. And at first, it goes well, even though Jackie can't keep his paws beneath him and he's beginning to bleed through his shirt and into mine. After I press the elevator button and watch the lights descend, the silver doors part to reveal two very startled and very nervous gazelle. Shit.

I just smile and chuckle awkwardly before flashing the gold badge hung from a brown holster on my belt. This at least gets them to ignore the profusely bleeding predator and wordlessly hustle out the foyer door. Thankfully, on the way up the elevator doesn't stop at any other floors. Jackie goes limp a few times and I nudge him into the corner to keep him upright. He keeps breathing into my face, hot and musky which is both endearing and disgusting.

My apartment is only a few flights up, but the narrow hallway feels like a mile long when the elevator deposits us. As we're stumbling down the hallway, Jackie's eyes flicker open and he mumbles something about the neighbors making odd noises, or perhaps about the smell of heavy cigarette fumes combined with a dozen different culture's cooking. I know his nose is sensitive, but I doubt he's very conscious.

He drank an impossible amount of liquor. And of the things I am thankful for today, it's that he can hold it. Not once did he make any indications that he would vomit inside my bobbing, weaving car, or onto my best clothes. I can forgive his anger. I can forgive the resentment. But the thing I cannot, and will not, forgive is sullying the best clothes I have on my first day as a detective. Not that I don't already have to send this jacket out to the cleaners anyways.

The door to my apartment heaves open into the dimly lit vestibule and I half-walk, half-drag Jackie inside. Then I nudge it shut with the back of my hoof. I pitch my keys onto the kitchen counter, and then guide Jackie down the main hallway. I quickly decide that I don't want him on my couch because I won't have enough room to fix the stitches. So I determine that my bed would be the best place.

Jackie moans as I lay him carefully onto his back on my bed, placing his head onto the pillows I quickly stack to support him. Next, I remove the collar from around his neck and tuck it into my pocket as it blinks off. Then I lift his legs up and try to make his arms comfortable while I undo the buttons on his shirt. Getting this one off is the easy part, as all I have to do is slip it around his back. Getting the undershirt beneath off is another beast entirely.

But I manage it without causing him any anguish, revealing that his bandages have held and are only soaked through. I remove a small gold necklace and then unravel the gauze wraps until it reveals the thick, wide bite marks below. It's actually the first time that I've examined the extent of his injuries and at first my mind is unable to process it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I run the tips of my fingers over them.

Jackie gasps and lets out a half-cry, half-whine that prompts me to withdraw my fingers. The stitches actually don't look torn, but he's exerted himself too early and has yanked them hard. The muscle is swollen almost to bursting, blood welling up around the crests and the valleys of the puncture wounds. It just needs to be disinfected, cleaned, rewrapped, and Jackie administered a painkiller and anti-inflammatory or possibly an antibiotic or two. Yeah, easy.

Sighing, I mentally send a thank you to my mother. Not that we didn't receive first aid treatment at the academy, but it was all very general and wouldn't be applicable to this situation. No, it was my physician mother that imbued in me some of her vast knowledge in the hopes that it would spark a lifelong love and a prosperous career in her field. Well, at least it's being used now, huh, Mother?

Jackie sleeps soundly through the treatments, although he flinches several times when I dab the cuts with cotton balls soaked in hydrogen peroxide. He whines in a manner that I find cute. After finishing wrapping up his shoulder, I snatch the clothes up off of the floor and decide it would be a decent thing to have them washed. The collar is unceremoniously tossed onto the kitchen counter to be retrieved at Jackie's convenience. Or compulsion. I guess, in this situation, they're the same thing.

I'm not sure what comes over me, but I conclude that it's a good idea to strip his pants off as well before covering him with my blankets. I at least have enough sense not to take his underwear as well, though my mind wanders. Then I throw them in my already overflowing hamper, add in my jacket to be dabbed to get any sticky blood out before it goes to be dry-cleaned, and descend into the basement to start a load of wash.

Over the next few hours, I sit at a stool in my kitchen and complete not only the paperwork due for the fraudulent break in, but what is due for the Nip Bust. As I hold my pen over the blank paperwork, I wonder what I should fill it in with. A part of me says that I should agree with the version that the captain offered up. That's what a good officer would do. That's what I would have done just a few days ago.

But the other side's argument is not only more persuasive, it's more morally grounded. If I write my own version and the truth comes out, I can't be held liable for whatever the captain has said. I'm sure it won't earn me any extra points with him, but, I think he should be very pleased with me. After all, with Catwright hauled in for murdering Savannah, and the bust of an unconscionable amount of drugs, he's now the talk of the town. He's the mayor's darling. He's arriving as much as I am.

I sigh. This is just how the game is. Maybe in a couple of years things will change and I won't be struggling to just get the scraps. I thought things would be different with the golden badge. So far, it's been just more of the same. I fill out the paperwork honestly. Nobody would be surprised, not from the Boy Scout that everyone accuses me of being. After finishing up, I shut the folders and wander out into the hallway.

Crossing my arms, I stare into the bedroom and watch Jackie sleep. He's rolled onto his side and has wrapped the covers around his form. He's quiet, which is comforting. Actually, the whole apartment is quiet. But, unlike yesterday, unlike today even, it doesn't feel as empty. It's not as oppressive. Content, I step away and turn to retrieve my keys from the kitchen and then the clothes from down in the basement.

But as I'm passing the answering machine, I stop, shocked. The number blinks '14' repeatedly in red digital numbers. No way. Tossing my keys around in my hand, I weigh my options, wondering who called. It could just be work, looking for something or another. It could be that IA agent trying another pass, to see if I've softened to his argument any. But a little of me hopes. And it is that hope that wins out in the end.

I gently press the play button and lower the volume so it won't disturb my patient. The first messages are all expected and very old. I delete them after hearing my lieutenant's voice asking about overtime pay or route changes, or my mother's saccharine sweet voice asking me when I'm going to swing by the house. Or if I'd like to come to dinner sometime, your brother misses you. Or, worse, your father misses you.

I'm sure my brother does miss me. But the only reason that he would miss me is so he doesn't have to suffer our parents' bullshit alone. He wants somebody, anybody, to commiserate with. That isn't enough to draw me all the way back uptown to manicured lawns, hundred year old houses, and ten foot high security walls. Plus, my brother has terrible taste in music, dress, and girlfriends. When I reach the final message, I relax my hand and stand in silence as I hear only quiet muttering and then somebody clearing their voice.

"Oh. Jane," his voice comes through crystal clear after an awkward pause, "it's your father. I--ah--I saw you on the television last night and I must say that I'm surprised. Your mother is so excited that she can hardly contain herself. Hmm. I, well, I just called to remind you that anytime you're ready to come home, we'll be here. Remember we love you. Goodbye."

He softly exhales and then comes the sound of the phone being hung up. And afterwards, silence. Not only in my apartment, but in my head. Because I can't process what I've just heard. Two and half years and he doesn't call. Not once. Not to ask how I am, not to make sure I'm well, not even to invite me back home for dinner like my mother has been pestering about for ages. But he calls now when I've accomplished something worth his attention.

And he doesn't say he's proud. No, he says he's 'surprised.' He can't even temper his pride for long enough to tell me that I've done something incredible and that he's proud of me, his only daughter. And, of course, he ends it with the age old phrase: when you're done playing cops and robbers, Mommy and Daddy will always be here. When you're ready to grow up, he means. Groaning, my heart sinking, I quietly leave to retrieve the laundry. I'm not sure what I expected, honestly, but I didn't get it.

"Fucking asshole," I whisper to myself.

As I'm heading downstairs, I wonder if what I did was worth doing. Like poor Catwright's arrest, nothing feels right. Not the fact that my captain lied to the whole world, but what I experienced. How did those cleaners know to track me back to the Neon Circus? How did they arrive at the florists before we did, even though it appeared that we were a dozen steps in front of them? And finally, why did Ashe do this? Why would he want predators and prey dead or crazy? He's clever, but, this seems like it would require skill and intelligence far above his station. He's not ambitious, nor greedy. Ashe is a very simple animal with very simple needs. So why do it?

No, Jane, it's just your father. Just the doubt that he wants to sow in your mind, to make you think that even in success you're a failure and that you need to come home. Come home and follow the path he's prescribed for you. Even with those reassurances, I can't balance the columns. I just don't understand why, or even how. Maybe I'm not supposed to. I'm just a detective, after all.

After I return, my mind still swimming with disappointment in myself and a gradually subsiding resentment for my folks, I enter the living room and place the little wooden basket onto the couch by hefting it up and over the back. Then I sift through them, looking at my clean clothes, feeling how warm they are from the communal dryer. I never have time to actually do this kind of stuff. I'm always at work. So, this is one of life's simple pleasures.

Glancing over, I flinch as I see a figure standing in the doorway. Then I remember who I brought home with me and watch as Jackie groggily leans against the doorframe, inspecting me. His eyes are cool, tempered now after at least four or five hours of sleep. And they glimmer with shame for what he's done, though I'm not sure how much he remembers. Part of me thinks all of it.

He lifts up his arm and reveals the little stuffed animal I bought, which makes my cheeks flush hot and my chin to turn to hide an embarrassed smile. When I look back, he's holding it protectively against his chest. His shoulder has healed somewhat, or at least the swelling has gone down. If he just doesn't strain himself, he should be alright. But, I know him. Jackie's eyes explore my apartment and then he sighs.

"H-how did you find me?" he asks me, his voice unsure.

"Well, to be honest, I should've just gone to the theater first," I tell him and shrug. "But, after what happened yesterday, I thought maybe you would have holed up at home. So that's where I went instead."

I pause and lick my lips while searching for the right words. Not that I'm trying to be delicate, I just don't want to open my mouth and insert my hoof. We're both in a fragile place and there's a tension in the air that I could cut with a knife. I know what I want to say, but, I don't know how.

"I, uhm, got a good look at your place," I tell him, "some things I didn't see before. And I ran into Sam, who told me where you were. As well as some other things."

I look to him expectantly and know that he understands what I mean. Jackie's ears fold back gently momentarily before lazing atop his head as he inhales and exhales deeply.

"I think I owe you some explanations," he says and looks down to the floor. "And maybe some apologies for whatever happened that I can't remember."

He turns around and disappears back into my bedroom. Following quietly, I linger in the doorway as he sits down on the side of the bed. He puts the little stuffed coyote beside the pillows and wipes his paws over his muzzle. I can tell he's scouring his mind for the right words, for the right thing to say. I know the feeling. Then he frowns.

"I don't," he says before swallowing hard, "I don't know where to start."

"Why not from the beginning?" I ask him calmly. "Fill in what you didn't already tell me."

He glances up at me and parts his lips before his eyes dart away once more.

"I found her things," I say, trying to be helpful.

His head jerks in my direction and he peers at me with fear. Like he's had the worst part of him torn back and revealed for the entire world to see. I smile a little, to reassure him that I'm not here to harm him, that I'm a friend.

"Jackie, if I had a problem with it, I wouldn't have went to find you. I wouldn't have brought you here or rewrapped your bandages. I'm not like that," I console him. "I just want to know the whole story. What you and Sam didn't tell me."

His eyes study me with surprise before they glide away, looking for refuge in the darkness of my small bedroom. Leaning forward, he props his head up onto his knees with outstretched arms and sighs harshly. He hides his eyes beneath his hands, as if he can't bear to look at me, regardless of how kind I've been.

"Her name was Anne Barnes," he begins without hesitation. "I met her in a club off Park Row where I was working a small weekend gig as a lounge singer. Not great money, but it wasn't in Happy Town and that was good enough."

He reveals his eyes and angles his towards me, so he can blink up at me every so often to read my reactions.

He continues, "I remember being instantly smitten with her. I had known for a long time, how I was. I was always smart about hiding it inside, but this was different. I thought it was love. And maybe, just maybe the world had changed enough that nobody would care anymore. She was thin, had perfect curves and eyes like bottomless pools. She wore a red dress that night, so seductive. A pony like her could have anyone she wanted. And when she introduced herself to me, I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world, that I was special. She told me she could get me a residency at a good theater that could seat five hundred a night. The pay was phenomenal and, if I played my cards right, I could have more than just a good job and good income. I could have her. Because I was special.

"The club was the Aries Theater. I didn't know how she got me the job, but I didn't care. Maybe she was a talent scout, maybe for one of the big record companies. A guy can hope. And over the next few weeks, she and I went out on the town when we weren't working. She was all mine, and for a while, it was everything I had hoped for. Of course, we had to be very careful about how we arrived and left and where we went. This was maybe three, three and a half years ago. It might have well been forty. But it didn't matter, because I sang her my song and she loved me. When I let it slip to my parents that I had found somebody, they told me to bring her around. Stupid. Fucking stupid."

He buries his face in his hands again and it seems like he doesn't have the resolve to continue. My ears fold back and I drift across the room and gently place myself next to him. He feels my weight on the bed and then glances sideways at me, scared. I try to smile and reach out to take his hand, to squeeze it like at the diner, because I'm not letting go. He swallows back a sob, strengthened.

"The dinner was awful," he finally chokes out. "As soon as my dad saw who she was, I knew it was a lost cause. But I had to save face for Mom. It was over an hour of four animals staring awkwardly at each other over pasta, good bread, and tossed salad. My dad was already pretty sick by this time, and he didn't have any reason for tact anymore. The old war dog, he didn't care. Insulted the both of us at the dinner table. Told me that, mark his words, she would be the undoing of me. I couldn't believe it. And my mother, the progressive she was, said nothing at all.

"And when Anne left, not hurriedly, but definitely earlier than I had wanted, I had the biggest blowout I ever experienced with my folks. My dad accused me of fucking one of them. The beasts that sent our kind off to die on the beaches and in the forests of a far-off land to fight back a xenophobic, genocidal regime only to be welcomed back into the waiting arms of a walled-off society. A pat on the back and a boot in the ass. He accused me of kicking him while he was down, wanted me to know why I was chasing him into the ground.

"I told him about the gig, how much money I had. I told him I almost had enough to buy the theater, to realize our dreams. I asked him if he wanted that for his son."

His lips tremble and he bows his head.

"He told me he didn't-that he didn't have o-one . . ."

His voice begins to trail off and silent tears roll down his cheek and drip from the edges of his fur. A low, choking sob emanates from between clenched lips as he desperately tries, and spectacularly fails, to hide his anguish, to save face. Leaning over, I wrap my arm around his back and hold him, squeezing his hand and feeling the hot warmth from his neck beneath my chin.

I only lean away when I hear him sniffle and take in a soft, cleansing breath. He wipes his nose and face with his other arm and looks up to me shamefully. I just try to smile, let him know that I'm not judging him and that I'm trying my best to understand, to be comforting. To help. He licks his lips and then sits up a little straighter.

"That was the last time I spoke to my dad," he continues. "He died about three months later. My mom said nothing to me that night, even when I stopped and waited for her to, and she said nothing to me at the funeral. I stood away from the family and left flowers once they left because I'm sure she told everyone. I got the feeling that I no longer deserved to be one of them and wasn't welcome."

He pauses and sighs, wiping his nose a few more times.

"I thought you said that you were on good terms with your mom," I ask him.

He glances up at me and shrugs.

"I am now," he explains. "But that's only because my father turned out to be right. It wasn't long after the dinner that I realized who she was and how she got me the gig that she did. Her father is Frank Barnes, the head of one of the Five Families. And it's true; he runs his empire with an iron fist out of that theater like a king. He's the biggest, meanest, blackest charger I've ever seen in my existence. And I was fucking his daughter. I was so stupid. But I had to double down, because I was in love. She was the one. Anne was a singer too and wanted to be an actress. She resented her father, who wanted to keep her under his thumb, raise her to run the family business. She was always talking about escaping one day and was begging me to come with her, to make it real. To Tanglewood, to Chicago, anywhere her father wasn't. And stupid me, I agreed.

"She had it all planned out. We would meet after work at a phone booth outside City Park, near the Broad Channel Bridge, to go to Grand Central and hop a silver bullet out of here. When the night came, the crowd was sparse and there seemed to be a lot more suited males, thick-necked ones. But I played it off as a Friday. Maybe the old Don was having himself a meeting. I didn't even think it was weird when Zan said nothing to me after the set was finished. I left in a taxi with three suitcases filled with everything I thought I needed to take with me to a new life. But when I arrived, she wasn't there."

After a long pause, I lean in and ask, "You don't have to continue if you don't--"

"No, no," he interjects, "I have to tell someone. I want to tell you."

That makes me smile and I shoulder up to him and feel his chest expand and contract. Then he places his free hand atop the one I'm holding and I feel his tail brush against my back. Even though what he's telling me is extremely private, and soul-crushingly depressing, I get the feeling that he's happy. That's he's unloading and grateful that I'm here to be the one to help.

"But there were others there," he continues, "others who were waiting. I walked right into a horrible trap. Frank knew. I don't know for how long, but he knew, watching from that soundproof room above the stage. And this was him sending a message. But he was smart; he wasn't going to send his own boys to do the job. If I saw that, I would've bolted. No, he called in a favor. He got some uniforms to do it."

"He--he got cops?" I ask, surprised.

"Yeah," he confirms nonchalantly, "For beasts like Frank, there's always a cop ready to be on the take. I don't remember the two big ones, except that one was a bull and was massive. But the leader is one that I remember very, very clearly. He was just a regular detective back then. But he never got any nicer, he only got meaner, and he never forgot who I was. The guy doing the talking was your old buddy, Detective Ashe."

What? I stare at him blankly, only my eyebrows rising in surprise. He senses my disbelief and simply exhales. It would explain a lot of things, actually. Ashe was always a resentful misanthrope. Not just towards me, but towards most of his fellow officers, and to anybody on the street who got in his way. But he clearly hated Jackie. Made it his duty to try and destroy him the night I met him. I guess this might be the reason why.

"Back, uhm, back right after we met," I awkwardly say to him, "Ashe said if you didn't, you know, kill Savannah, than we were just arresting you for something you had already gotten away with. Or something you were yet to do. Did he mean--?"

"Yeah," Jackie replies promptly, "yeah, he meant that. Frank wanted to know what I had done with his daughter. He wanted me to bring her back and then disappear if I knew what was good for me. Ashe isn't a smart one, but he's loyal, and he's efficient. In the end, I told them nothing. Not where Anne was going, not one detail about our relationship, nothing. I thought I could survive this and maybe catch her at the train station, or catch up on a plane, or something. I didn't realize how far they would go.

"The big ones beat me onto the pavement almost immediately, but it was Ashe who really enjoyed it. Once I was already beyond struggling, he beat me with his club until I had all but stopped moving. Don't know how I stayed conscious. Smiled the whole time, too, like he enjoyed pounding a defenseless predator into the ground. Broke most of my ribs, no doubt bruised me up inside. I was coughing blood. But he wasn't done. Before they left, he picked my head up and told me I'd never sing again. And then he broke my jaw against the sidewalk."

Jackie reaches up and feels his chin, rolls his mouth around as if he may still be able to feel the injury, three and a half years later. Injuries like that never go away and they ache the rest of your life.

"Sam said you didn't say anything for months."

"I couldn't," he says, deflated, "my jaw had been wired shut. I don't know how I made it to a hospital. Maybe one of the cops called an ambulance out of pity. Maybe somebody drove by and saw me. I don't know. But I woke up in a hospital and I knew Anne was gone. I called our usual places and was told she wasn't there and that I can never come back. Frank left me alive, but he burned me. Told every club in town I was a preyo and what he would do if they hosted me.

"About a month later I got a postcard in the mail. From Tanglewood. No message, but I recognized the handwriting. It was her way of saying goodbye, or maybe just taunting me. It was only then that I realized what had happened. A six month relationship just so I could be the fall guy when she fled from her mobster father's clutches. I was an unwitting whipping boy. And it cost me everything. I couldn't sing anymore, I could hardly walk, I couldn't find any work, I had to pay off so much debt that it all but bankrupted me. I had no one."

He lifts his head and looks at me, brow curled upwards at the center, and then says, "But do you know what the worst part was? It was calling my mom and telling her that I was sorry and that Dad was right and begging to come home. She didn't say no, but a part of me thinks that it was the hardest thing she's ever had to do. I came home, healed up, and founded the detective's agency. Because it's the only business a pred can do where they don't question who you are or what you've done, as long as you pay them the same courtesy."

"I'm sorry," I whisper after Jackie doesn't continue.

He doesn't immediately reply. Instead, he stares off wistfully into empty space. But from the look on his face, I can tell he feels better inside. I can't explain how I know; it just seems like a very familiar feeling. It's grief fading away. Because we all handle it differently. For some of us, we get stronger. For others, we become angry and bitter. And, for others still, we simply collapse. Jackie sighs and lowers his nose. From the way his shoulders droop and the exhausted appearance on his face, I think that a load has been thrown from his back. Baggage that I'm not sure he ever expected to unload. I'm glad he did.

And I'm glad that I got to be the one to listen. Because I think that's all he wanted, someone to listen, someone to give a shit. Someone not to judge us just because we're a way that society doesn't want us to be. He's not looking for approval, just a bit of normal, beast sympathy. And that makes me grin, but not because I'm happy. Because, I guess, I feel lucky and proud of myself. Because I didn't screw this up.

Jackie sniffs and lifts his head.

"Jane, when I saw you up there on stage," he turns and looks directly at me, "I thought I had built the same house of cards again. In record time, too. You were building your career off of the work I helped you complete. And when I saw what your boss was saying and you not contradicting him, I thought you were tossing me away because I wasn't of value any longer. I couldn't stand to go through that again. So I ran. Because it was the only thing that felt right at the moment. But you came back. Why did you come back?"

His eyes turn towards me and he waits.

Because I can't live without you.

Mentally, I scowl at that thought and then reevaluate it. No, that's the truth. I have no one too. Not to talk to, not to come home to, not to provide a shoulder to cry on, or to hold and share. And for a couple of days, I didn't feel alone. For the first time in almost a decade, I want somebody else, and I want it to be him. I know the words, but I almost feel like I can't utter them.

"Jackie, I--"

A loud knock shocks me out of the trance I had just entered and I jerk my head around to stare through the open door into the living room. My ears spring upright and I gasp, my heart beating heavily in my chest. For a long moment, I wonder if it was even real. But after checking with Jackie, he seems just as started as I am.

"Are you expecting company?" he asks, confused.

"No, I never have anybody around," I reply, shaking my head.

Not that I've ever really had the chance to bring anybody home. Standing up, I let my hand slip from the warm embrace of Jackie's palm and quickly pad through the door into the living room. I peek up the hallway and see shadow hovering beneath the door. Skeptical, I cross my arms and approach the door silently. Finally, I step up onto the tips of my hooves and peer through the peephole.

It's a courier.

Backing up, I undo the deadbolt and then slowly open the door. Looking through the crack in the door, I eye the rabbit in the blue shirt and khakis with distrust and surprise. He seems to do the same, as if he wasn't expecting anyone to answer. Then he smiles and places a small giftwrapped box onto the hallway floor.

"Uh, Miss Brooks?" he asks, unsure.

"Umm, yeah, how can I help you?" I reply and open the door wide enough for me to slip through.

"You have a message and a gift," he explains cheerily and pushes an extremely fancy envelope into my hands. "I was informed that you might not be home and was instructed to leave this outside if necessary. Everything has been prepaid and pre-signed. Have a nice night!"

He lifts the gift box and presents it to me. The moment that I take it from his hands, he turns and casually walks towards the elevator doors at the end of the hallway. I watch him go, stunned silent. I swear he has the same logo on the back of his shirt of the front company I just brought down. I have to be imagining it. After the elevator clunks shut and the needle begins to glide to the left, I step back and close the door. The box is actually pretty heavy.

"Is everything alright?" Jackie asks.

I glance back and find him standing just inside the living room at the end of the little hall, arms crossed over his bandaged torso. I nod, unsure, and then mosey towards him. Gripping the gift under my arm, I open the ornate white envelope with purple edges and silver highlights that features my name written in professional calligraphy on the obverse. It's held shut by only a wax seal. From inside, I retrieve and unfold a letter written on heavy stock paper in flowing script.

Detective Brooks,

_ I hope that you will accept this gift as a welcome to the bureau. I'm sure that you will find it up to your standards and that both your career and the department will flourish with your addition. Your name has been floated by numerous and very influential individuals inside the NHPD and without. I think it would be beneficial for both you and I to capitalize on your recent successes and the good that has been accomplished in an otherwise underperforming precinct. I have been invited by the mayor's office to a political fundraiser and gala hosted by the Fraternal Order of Police. Many of the department's top officers will be there, possibly including the commissioner. As members of the media shall be present, I would very much like it if you would accompany me as my guest. It would do wonders for your future. It will be held at the Oak Grove and will commence promptly at seven o'clock sharp this coming Tuesday. I hope you'll find time to attend. And, please, while many officers will be in their dress best, it is highly suggested you wear the finest evening gown you own._

_ _

_ Yours truly,_

_ Captain Malcolm Whitebuck_

_ _

_ P.S. I couldn't help but notice you took an interest to a potted plant on my desk. I've taken the liberty to include it._

"Jane, is everything alright?"

Lowering the letter, I stare to the gift beneath my shoulder. The paper hits the floor and I tear the bow atop the box. Then I haphazardly tear the top free and produce a potted plant from within. The box unceremoniously tumbles to the floor, spilling loose potting soil and seeds everywhere. The plant is the same that I saw on his desk alright: tall, thick leaves, with wide pedals that transition from milky white on the edges to a red bullseye in the center.

I retrieve the tag that hangs around the pot and read: Mountain Rangeweed. Prized for its bright colors, which vary from pure white to pure red, and its hardiness in any environment, it is known for its alluring scent to prey animals, specifically grazing and foraging species, that today is used as a base to produce perfume and aphrodisiacs. As I let the tag flutter, my hands rattle. It's identical to the rows of bouquets stored in the greenhouse right down to the packaging.

The ceramic pot clatters as I turn it over to inspect it, eliciting a sharp gasp. Reaching towards the top, I hold the plant and rock its body. The pot shifts around loosely. With barely restrained haste, I twist the pot. My heartbeat grows ever louder as the pot splits neatly at the neck. Inside is a hidden compartment beneath a false bottom. A fine, bluish-white dusting of something immediately recognizable is on every surface. My entire body turns icy.

Oh my God.

"Jane, are you ok?"

Snapping upwards, I see Jackie has taken a few more steps closer, and that he looks down at me with genuine worry. I button my lips and then look to the plant and the letter. Things begin to roll around in my mind, clicking into place. The Nip, the distribution, the couriers, the dead predators, the random murders, the police, everything. It's all insane, but it at least makes sense now. My fingers start searching my pocket for that mountain goat's card.

"Yeah," I tell Jackie after he opens his lips to ask again, "I just need to make a few phone calls. I think we've been played. We got the wrong guys."