Fixed (25 page)

Also, turn them loose
where
? He didn't think giraffes or rhinos would fare well in downtown Seattle, although the thought of a lion pride roaming the Market had a certain sick appeal, especially on high-tourist days.

Shaking his head slightly, he tried to make himself comfortable on the folding chair and turned his attention to the crowd. He didn't think any of them would be holding up signs saying, “I broke into the shelter and stole money and/or knocked the bookkeeper over the head,” but you never knew what people would admit to if they didn't know you were watching.

*  *  *

The woman on the business end of the desk glanced at the papers in front of her, and then looked sternly at Ginny. “You have permission to show me these?”

Ginny had learned not to squirm under direct interrogation by the time she was eleven. “We were asked to look into some financial irregularities. How was left to my discretion.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. Technically, nothing she had said was a lie. But it wasn't exactly truthful, either. Tonica would probably disapprove, but Tonica wasn't there.

Wendy made a noncommittal hrmm noise and went back to studying the ledgers Ginny had printed out for her. There was a plate shoved to the side of her desk, with the remains of dinner long since cooled. Ginny knew that the other woman had done her a favor, meeting with her tonight, but she still had this urge to push for a response. She sat on it for another ten minutes, then asked, “Well?”

“Mallard, this isn't like doing a crossword puzzle. It's going to take me some time. Chill. Better yet, go home and I'll call you when I have something.” Wendy had been her CPA for almost a decade; they'd long ago given up on any pretense of business politeness. They were sitting in her office downtown, the quiet hum of other late workers barely audible on the other side of the door.

“How long do you
think
?” Ginny asked.

Wendy scowled at the papers, and then looked up over the rims of her glasses at Ginny. “If there's anything obviously fishy, I'll know soon enough. Tomorrow, probably. Or Wednesday, if something else more urgent comes up. Or is there a time frame you need them by? Is the IRS waiting to swoop down on someone?”

“No.” Ginny shook her head. She wanted an answer, she wanted to get this job moving again, but unlike the investigation into the bookkeeper's death, this wasn't a life-or-death matter.

Except for the animals who might not have a home for much longer, if the shelter lost funding. Ginny thought of Georgie, looking at her with those big brown eyes, just a
half-grown puppy being held in someone else's arms, and set her jaw. Nobody else might care, the founders might want to sweep it under the table, but she
would
solve this.

*  *  *

Penny would rather have been curled up in the Busy Place, watching her humans, staying dry and warm. But there were still things that needed to be done. The old hound let her in through the hole in the gate again, touching her briefly with his nose in greeting. It was last walks of the night for the shelter dogs—most of them were taking advantage, chasing an old tennis ball around the court, while one of the humans watched, occasionally throwing a new ball in to even the score a little.

“Been a little crazy around here,” the hound said. “One of the night-humans died.”

“I know,” Penny said, settling down next to the dog and watching the activity in the courtyard. “You hear or smell anything that night?”

“Not like the bad smell,” he said. “Nothing smelled wrong. But someone was here, yeah. Sometimes humans come in, do things.”

“Who? And do what?”

The hound shrugged. “Humans. Two voices, thumping, sometimes. Sometimes one voice, talking. That's all we could tell. Humans do odd things. Maybe the cats know more; you should go talk to them.”

She could, and she would, but it wouldn't do much good. Cats didn't pay as much attention to unclaimed humans as dogs did, and if they'd heard something they would have sent word. Still, leave no corner unmarked.

Leaving the dogs to their play, she slipped into the building proper, following her nose to where the cats were kept. There were only seven cats in the shelter: several had been adopted over the weekend, and no new ones had been brought in. Three of the cats were kittens; they were curious about this stranger walking freely, but their brains were more focused on food and play than remembering anything useful, and they were sleepy-tired this late, ready to curl up in a pile while the elders spoke.

The other four cats came to the front of their cages when Penny called to them, paws sliding underneath the wire rims, ears forward-alert.

“Took your time getting here,” the silver tabby said.

“Dogs take more coaxing, to get something useful out of them,” Penny replied. “And none of you were coming forward, either.” They had less chance, less freedom to roam, true, but she knew that wouldn't stop a cat determined to leave. “What do you have?”

“You know about the night-human dying.”

“Yes.”

“The dark smell was back, a couple days ago.” The little black and white female crouched low and kept her voice down. “All over the big man and his things.”

“But not the other man,” an orange male added. “He didn't come here, but the dogs said he smelled like cat, and okay things.”

“That was my human,” Penny said. “He came here to investigate.”

There was a rattling noise, like someone coming in through the door. Penny pressed against the wall, ready to flee if needed, but whoever it was passed on by without walking down the hallway.

“That's the only new scent,” the silver tabby said. “There was yelling last night, but there's always yelling.”

“Always?” Penny had found that humans didn't yell more often than they did, and when they did there was something to pay attention to.

The silver tabby hit the back of her cage with her tail, causing a hollow thump. “They're just on the other side,” she said. “When they talk it's a rumble. When they yell, we hear. And they thump, too. Two of them, but last time it was three. But they weren't the dark smell.”

Penny's own tail twitched, and she groomed her whiskers to give her time to think. The shelter inmates were so focused on the dark smell, and how unhappy it made them, they didn't think about anything else. If it didn't smell wrong, it didn't connect. Penny, though, was making connections.

After a year of the Busy Place, she knew how humans worked. When a place was open, there were people. Noises, and voices and smells and activity. Then they turned out the lights and everyone went away. No noises. No voices.

Why were humans coming back, yelling and thumping, when the lights were out?

The shelter cats couldn't give her anything more, so she found a place in the main area, the faint reassuring smell of Georgie still lingering in the carpet, and curled in an alcove behind a plant, watching through half-slitted eyes as the humans did their things, and then turned out the lights and left. She waited a little longer, and then slid out from her hiding place, stretching and scenting the air.

You had to look for it, faded and not-fresh, but the dark scent lingered. Unpleasant, and unnerving. Like the others, her hackles rose instinctively. She padded over to the door where the dark scent came from, and pushed at it. The door didn't move. She had
already tried to find other ways in, from the outside, but it was better built than the other wing; there was no access. Even the humans had lingered outside, unable to go in, even when they poked at the wall and considered the door.

Penny considered the scent, and decided that she didn't really want to go in there anyway. Instead she crossed the space again and put her paw to the groove in the wall, shoving the door aside and sliding into the office behind, where the cats had heard thumping, and the night-human had died. Humans thought they hid things, but the scents gave them away. If Theodore had a better nose, he wouldn't waste so much time
looking.

Inside, her whiskers twitched almost immediately. Not a dark scent, but something like it. Heavy and musky and not-usual. Anything not-usual needed to be investigated, to make sure it wasn't connected to the dark scent.

Not in the larger space: that smelled of normal human sweat and skin, food, dust, metal. Usual things. Farther inside. Somewhere else. She moved under the desks, ears alert to the hint of anyone else nearby, whiskers twitching almost unconsciously, the tip of her tail crooked over and quivering.

Not the first office, smelling of dust and blood: she backed out of that one hastily. The night-human had died there. Not even the faint traces of Theodore and Georgie's human in that space recently could erase the death-smell.

The second office was larger. No blood. Less dust, more green things, the faint tinge of alcohol, perfume, and there, the musky scent. Faded but definite . . .

She went inside and breathed in deeply, letting the smells hit her, and categorizing them one by one. Hunger and anger, boredom,
excitement . . . all the things humans smelled like, but something else, too. Something different.

Then a memory kicked in; she had smelled this before. On Theodore, and on Georgie's Ginny, although never at the same time. And the smaller female at the Busy Place, too, more often. It smelled like their own scent then, too, which was why she hadn't recognized it at first.

Sex.

Someone had gone into heat here.

*  *  *

An hour into the talk, Teddy's knees ached from sitting in the wooden folding chair, his butt was numb from the same cause, and he was just about ready to gnaw his own arm off to escape.

Scanning the crowd had been even more boring than listening to the crazy talk about “innate better nature of animals” or the “gross evil of curtailing the natural desire to procreate.” They were all either intent on the speaker, or head-down, playing with their phones or tablets, sending off emails or texting or posting to Facebook, who knew. None of them seemed particularly guilty, or suspicious, or even interesting.

And then there was a shuffling behind and to his left, as though someone had come in late. Teddy tried to look without being conspicuous, then said the hell with it and craned his neck to check out what was going on. From the glares, the guy in the third row, at the far end, had just arrived. Teddy frowned. The guy looked vaguely familiar,
but . . . It took a minute, then his bartender's memory caught up with his eyesight. From the shelter . . . what was his name? Williams. Scott Williams.

Teddy's frown deepened. The shelter's volunteer vet was a right-to-breeder?

A round of applause caught Teddy by surprise, and he joined in automatically, twisting back around in his seat and trying to look as though he'd been paying attention all along. People started to get up and move around, starting conversations, so he assumed that the crazy-speaking part was done. Time for Kool-Aid and cookies, he supposed.

He stood up and stretched, using the movement as an excuse to look around. Williams had stood up as well, moving to the front of the room as though he was going to congratulate the speaker. That took cojones, after showing up at the very end of the speech, but Teddy supposed that in the crowd of people already doing the same thing, it would be easy enough to fake knowledge—and for all he knew, the same guy said the same thing every meeting.

He'd been right: the back table he'd noted before now had cookies and what looked like a coffee urn set out on it, and people were slowly beginning to drift toward it. He could probably get more useful gossip out of them then . . . but the risk of Williams recognizing him was too high. Teddy might be able to explain away his being there, but it could get dicey, and too many people would be paying attention.

Coincidences happened: Williams's being here might
have nothing to do with the graffiti, nothing to do with the missing money. Teddy wasn't willing to take that chance. Not before he ran this new information past Ginny, anyway.

He reclaimed his jacket, nodded at the woman at the door, who wished him a good evening, and texted Ginny as he walked up the stairs and out into the street, telling her to meet him back at Mary's.

*  *  *

Back in the basement, Williams was intercepted before he could reach the speaker by two other attendees, a man and a woman. The greetings were not friendly, their body language aggressive, as though they were trying to keep him away from someone—or something.

“Why are you here, Scott?”

He tried to make an end-run around them, and, when blocked, gave in less than gracefully. “Look, I just need to—”

“You don't need to do anything,” the man said, cutting him off.

He let out an exasperated sigh. “I'm not your enemy. I'm not their enemy. If I were, you'd all be in jail by now.”

“We haven't done anything illegal.”

Williams gave the woman an incredulous glare. “Seriously?”

“Whatever you need to ask, you can ask me,” the man said, not letting the two of them get into an actual argument.

Williams set his expression and shook his head. “No.”

“It's me, or nobody. We're not going to let you harass anyone.”

“Since when is asking questions harassment? I thought that was reserved for, oh, I don't know, yelling slogans and stopping people from entering or leaving their cars. Or painting slogans on private property?”