Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.
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The Fire Triangle
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd...Part 3)
One Police Plaza, Zoo York City – Sunday Morning.
"But I'm telling you I AM a police detective. Look, see? Here's my badge...hey, give that back!"
"Stop resisting or I will Taze you."
In the background, Nick could hear a hubbub of amused voices...mostly indiscernible, but every now and then a word or two would break through to the surface. "Detective..." "Yeah, right...!" "...believe this guy?" "...a fox!"
That last word was repeated several times over, and by several different cops...but always in the same tone of voice.
Holy foxtrot, Claudia had warned him to expect an unfriendly reception from the ZYPD, but he'd never imagined anything like this!
After checking into a Hare BNB, off Atlambtic Avenue, near the Bearclaw Center, Nick had been too exhausted from his flight to do any business. He had then discovered that he was also too hungry to sleep; airline food—meh!
Fortunately, there'd been a Shake Shack right around the corner from where he was staying. A 'Shroomburger and fries later, and feeling wonderfully revived, he'd returned straight to his pad. It was only then that the feeling he was being followed had come over him—and being a fox, he knew enough to take that sensation very seriously.
Hailing a cab, he had tossed the driver a twenty and told him to drive 'a few blocks anywhere fast'. Two streets later, and right after the cabbie turned a corner, he'd bailed and ducked into an alleyway. After that, there hadn't been long to wait. In the skip of a heartbeat, a coal-black Chevy Vole had glided quietly past his hiding place. Stepping out into the street again, Nick had watched as it zeroed in on the cab like a heat seeking missile—but at the same time keeping its distance.
That got rid of whatever lingering doubts he might have had; the Zoo York City Police Department was aware of his presence in their fair city...and they were not pleased to have him here. He'd suspected it ever since leaving the airport, but now he was sure. Oh yes...it had been Zoo York's Finest on his tail alright. Back in Zootopia, electrically powered vehicles were also becoming the conveyance of choice for shadowing suspects; their silent motors and unobtrusive appearance made them almost ideal for that purpose.
Oh well, it wasn't as if he hadn't been told to expect a cold welcome.
Cold—but not hot...and certainly not this hot.
"This is your final warning, fox," it was the bongo this time, "Cease resisting, or..."
Arising earlier than he'd planned—thank you jet-lag—Nick had elected to hold off on breakfast until later, settling instead on a blueberry cappuccino from the Squarrel Café, just up the street from his rental. After locating the Bearclaw Center subway station, he had given his map a quick study, and been delighted to find that the way to One Police Plaza was a direct, if somewhat circuitous route; no need to switch trains on the way.
His buoyant mood had vanished at once when the first one pulled into the station. Stepping on board, Nick had instantly been filled with an urge to step right back off again. Compared to the Metro trains back in Zootopia...Ahhh, not to put too fine a point on it, this thing was a rolling landfill, food wrappers, drink bottles and discarded whatnot strewn everywhere. Half the seats were occupied by larger animals, laid out under blankets and snoring like ripsaws. It had almost been enough to make him reverse course and call a Zuber—almost, but not quite. Technically, he had already gone that way twice since his arrival; the ride from the airport, and when he'd used that cab to get rid of the cops who'd been following him. Chief Bogo would not be pleased if he made it a three-fer—and besides, he'd already paid his train-fare.
And so, mentally holding his nose, Nick had found an empty seat and hunkered down for what he'd hoped would be a short excursion.
So it had been, although it had hardly been uneventful. Along the way, he'd been witness to a screaming match between a gerenuk and her impala girlfriend—which had ended abruptly when the sleepers they'd awakened had risen up and summarily ejected them at the next station. The two had then proceeded to run alongside the departing train, throwing whatever objects they could lay their hooves on at the windows.
Returning to his makeshift bed, one of the animals they'd disturbed—a sloth bear, missing half his fur—had paused in front of Nick to make a request for spare change. His conduct in this matter had been not unlike that of a drill sergeant, 'requesting' that a new recruit 'drop and give him twenty.' Luckily, a quick flash of a police badge had been all that was needed to send the ursine panhandler shambling on his way...though not without making a few comments under his breath regarding the hygienic habits of foxes in general.
Arriving at his destination, Nick had once again been pleasantly surprised. Talk about familiar surroundings, the foyer in One Police Plaza was almost a carbon copy of the Precinct-1 lobby; wide-open spaces and a circular reception desk.
Presenting his bona-fides to the elephant behind the counter, he had been instructed to take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall. Settling in for what he'd assumed would be a nice, lonnnng wait, he'd instead found himself surrounded on both sides by an elk and a bongo—who had then proceeded to haul him roughly to his feet.
The next thing he'd known, his legs were off the floor and kicking helplessly in the air...as the ZYPD cops marched him in the direction of the front entrance.
At first, he'd been almost amused, "Holy Foxtrot, I expected to be slow-walked, not given the bum's rush!"
But then they'd turned in the direction of the hallway, rather than the exit—and if this place was really that similar to his home precinct, it meant he was on his way to a holding cell.
No, no...that couldn't be right.
"Hey, what's going on," he'd asked, only to be curtly informed that imfursonating a police officer, even an out-of-town cop, was a serious offense in Zoo York City. In other words, he was about to be cuffed and read his rights. Nick's first reaction had been an extreme sense of relief that his mother couldn't see him now; ("I TOLD you so!") The second had been to raise a serious stink, which had resulted in a gathering crowd of ZYPD cops and the business-end of a Taser pointing straight at his ribcage.
That only prompted him to struggle even harder...and at first it seemed to be having the desired effect. The pair of officers released him and set him down again.
But only so that the bongo could get out of the line of fire; and now he heard the elk begin to recite the familiar litany.
"Taze...taze..."
"Hold it; hold it...back off," a new voice intervened. Nick turned to look...slowly, in case the elk was of the nervous trigger-fingered bent, and saw a tapir advancing towards him—although waddling might have been a more accurate description. Benjamin Clawhauser had nothing on this individual—in the belly department, if not in sartorial splendor. The animal coming his way was dressed in a snappy, three-piece suit that must have cost more than the average ZPD officer made in a month. But if he thought he was dressed to impress...sorry, better luck next time. As far as a certain red fox was concerned, that outfit only served to bolster his first impression of the newcomer.
Desk jockey; the closest this individual had ever come to working the street was when he showed up at a crime-scene for a photo-op.
Even so, there was no dismissing his air of authority.
"Put that away, what's the matter with you?" He spoke sternly, aiming his prehensile snout at the elk, who responded by looking properly abashed.
The bongo, on the other paw, was not so easily browbeaten. He pointed at Nick with a rigid finger.
"Chief, that's a..."
"I know he's a fox, but he's who he says he is," the tapir informed him wearily, and then turned to Nick with an outstretched hoof, "Really sorry about this, Detective Wiley. I'm Gil Anta, Chief of Detectives, ZYPD."
"Detective Wilde," The fox replied, putting just the slightest edge on the correction. As they shook, he took note of the tapir's buffed and highly polished hooves. Yep, definitely not a streetwise type, "Pleased to meet you," he added, although privately he was anything but. Who the heck did this stuffed suit think he was fooling with his crude, little charade? They'd never really intended to Taze him; the indicator light on the elk's pistol had stayed dark from the moment he'd drawn it. The whole thing had been an act, aimed at softening him up.
Not likely..."If Finnick and I had ever tried to run a hustle as sloppily as this, we'd have laughed been right off the street."
And he hadn't missed the way Chief Anta had said the word, 'fox' either. He filed that away for later consideration and then gave the tapir a quick demonstration of how an expert presents a faux-convivial façade.
"Since you recognized me Chief, may I assume you know the reason why I'm here?" His smile was all warmth and deference.
"Yes, of course," the tapir nodded. "And I want to assure you..." He stopped abruptly, raising a hoof and reaching into this jacket. Fumbling for a second, he drew out a cell-phone and frowned as he studied the screen. "Sorry, I need to take this," he told the fox, and then placed the phone against his ear and walked away, in the direction of a hallway. "Commissioner...what seems to be the problem? I wasn't expecting you to call me on a..."
There was more, but Nick chose to ignore it, instead concentrating on keeping his eyes from rolling. From this close, his sharp, vulpine ears could easily detect the buzz of a phone—even when it was set on vibrate.
And Chief Anta's cell had remained silent from the moment of his arrival to the moment of his departure, "Sheesh, welcome to amateur hour."
Apparently, he wasn't the only one who thought so. All around the visiting fox, officers were exchanging embarrassed expressions, in particular, the elk and the bongo. If it hadn't been for the way they'd just tried to roust him, Nick might actually have had some sympathy for the pair. Imagine having to put up with Chief of Detectives Gilberto Anta, 24/7 and 365 days a year. That bushytailed tyrant, Albert Tufts might be a jerk in his own right—but at least he wasn't afraid to get his paws dirty.
Even so...as glad as Nick was to have that bloated blowhard out of his face, Chief Anta's departure had left him hanging; who the heck was he supposed to talk to about his assignment now? No use asking the officers who'd pretended to Taze him; they wouldn't have a clue as to where he should go, or who he should talk to...and anyway, they were out of here too. Ditto for cops who'd been watching their exchange; they had also dispersed to the four corners of wherever. The One Police Plaza lobby had become suddenly as empty as a burned out blimp hangar.
Aggggh, grrrr...dangit; and he hadn't even had the chance to deliver his prepared speech, the one he composed on the flight over from Zootopia and then carefully nurtured ever since his arrival at Idlewilde.
With no other option, he turned his attention back to the reception desk. "Um, excuse me?"
Unlike Zootopia's Precinct-1 here, there were two animals on duty, a zebra-mare and the short eared elephant he'd spoken to earlier. And now the pachyderm leaned over the top of the counter, looking half bored and half annoyed.
"Yes, what is it?"
Nick tried to respond, but found that his voice was uncharacteristically failing him; Ju...his former partner would have been amazed if he could see him now.
Although, perhaps, she shouldn't have been; what the heck was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to condense even the gist of his reason for being here into only a few sentences?
As things turned out, he didn't have to; just then, he realized something.
"Can I get my phone and badge back...please?" The elk and bongo had departed without returning them.
As anyone could have predicted, it took many long minutes for the items to be brought back. The only upside was that it gave Nick time to explain his mission in detail to the elephant—although he carefully avoided any reference to Finagles and especially the raid in which it had burned down.
He was just wrapping things up when the bongo returned with his cell-phone and badge, dropping them off without either ceremony or apology...and with the elephant, rather than with him directly. And while he was at least willing to make eye contact with Nick, there was hoarfrost in his gaze as he turned to go.
"Oh-kay-y-y, I get it, I'm not welcome here," the fox sighed inwardly as he watched the ZYPD cop departing for the second time, "But for crying out loud, you don't have to drive it in with a sledgehammer!" He turned his attention back to the reception desk. "All right," he said, reaching up to take back his badge and phone, "who do I need to see?"
In response, the elephant scratched at his forehead with his trunk...while Nick had to struggle yet again to keep his eyes from rolling. Oh, come on...seriously? Benjamin Clawhauser would have known the answer right off the top of his head. If they were going to string him along, fine...but did they have to keep insulting his intelligence with it?
"Ahhh, let's see," the pachyderm told him, "You probably want the Intelligence Bureau's Liaison Office.
"Probably..." Once again, it took some effort on the fox's part to maintain a straight face.
"Okay-y-y, and uh...where would I find that?"
The elephant jerked his trunk in the direction of a bank of elevators, once again looking bored, "Room 763, seventh floor."
Expecting more, Nick waited for a second, but the ZYPD cop was already directing his attention elsewhere. With an inward growl of vexation, he got up on his toes, and rapped with his knuckles on the edge of the counter.
"All right, and, uh...who should I see when I get there?"
The elephant barely glanced at him.
"Whoever's on duty..."
"Okay," Nick turned to go, but was immediately brought up short when the zebra called him back.
"Just a minute, you'll need a visitor's badge first."
It came as no surprise that the reception desk was 'fresh out' of this item, and had to send upstairs for more. Nor was that the end of the fox's ordeal. At the metal detectors fronting the elevators, he was obliged to go through twice and allow himself to be wanded two times more. For once, however, the ZYPD had miscalculated. Compared to what he'd gone through—literally—at the MSA checkpoint back in Zootopia, this was just plain sailing.
However, he strongly suspected that his biggest frustrations were still ahead of him.
Nor were they long in coming. Arriving on the seventh floor, Nick immediately discovered that he'd been sent to the wrong room.
"This is Operations and Analysis," the Officer in Charge, a she-wolf, informed him, "Liaison Division's down the hall, room 768."
Returning to the hallway, Nick had wondered whether sending him to the wrong room had been an accident or intentional. If you only look quickly, a 3 isn't all that different from an 8—and elephants are not noted for having the keenest eyesight.
He finally decided the heck with it.
Intel Division turned out to be housed in a room that could have been transplanted wholesale from the ZPD—or from practically any police department anywhere. Desks, cubicles, workstations, fluorescent lighting, and the obligatory overstuffed bulletin-board, tacked to a wall of an indeterminate color. Here the OIC was a member of Chief Bogo's species, although smaller and much more affable than his Zootopia counterpart.
He was also not particularly helpful. After listening to about half the fox's story, he brusquely raised a hoof.
"Wait, hold it...y'all say you from Zootopia now?"
"Yes, that's right," Nick nodded, hiding his annoyance. What the heck, hadn't he already said that when he'd come in here?
The small Cape buffalo set down his coffee and looked at him oddly, "Whatchoo doing HERE then fox?"
Nick returned the strange look with interest.
"What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is where I was sent; isn't this the Liaison Division?"
"Yeah," the buffalo spread his arms, "International Liaison; you know, Scotland Yard, the Surete, Interpaw...stuff like that. We don't do nothin' here with no domestic law enforcement agencies." He picked up his cup again. "Who was it, sent you here anyway?"
"Ahhh, the elephant down at the reception desk; I forget the name." Nick said this and then added to himself "Keep it together, fox; never let them see that they get to you."
"Yeeeah, shoulda thought so," the buffalo answered with a knowing nod. "That'd be Toby Greyling. He new here; rookie just outta the Academy, doesn't know the ropes yet."
"Oh, I see," Nick answered, smiling, as if that were the most helpful piece of information since the dawn of creation. It wasn't, but he'd just had an idea. You didn't have to be a sly fox to know what was coming next. However, being a sly fox, perhaps he could turn that to his advantage, in at least a small way.
But first...
"All righty...if you're not the animal I need to talk to, do you have any idea who that might be?"
"Hmmmm," the buffalo stroked his chin with a hoof, eyes angling up and to the right, "If dis diamond mule a Company guy, he technically a fugitive; whyn't y'all try F.E.D., down on 5, room 504...I think."
"Okay, thanks," the red fox answered—and then went into his prepared speech. "Before I go, can I just say something?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on to tell the buffalo, "I'm here to try to get information that might help the ZPD identify this diamond smuggler—and that's all I'm here for. I didn't come to Zoo York to stir up trouble or to dig up ancient history. Whatever else went on here between the ZYPD and The Company, it doesn't interest me, and as far as I'm concerned, it's none of my business anyway—or the ZPD's; I just want to be clear on that, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," the Cape buffalo answered, raising his coffee as if making a toast, "But that got nothing to do with me, Detective."
"Like HECK it doesn't," Nick thought but didn't say. What he did say was, "Thanks anyway; I'll see myself out."
FED turned out to be an acronym for Fugitive Enforcement Division, a name with considerable promise. What wasn't so promising was that this unit's OIC—a wild boar—was the quintessential bureaucrat, right down to his oversized, black-rimmed spectacles.
"Well, you must understand Detective Wilder..."
"It's Wilde..."
"We cannot list someone as a fugitive until they've...A. evaded capture or escaped from custody..."
"Which the diamond courier did," Nick pointed out, trying not to sound exasperated. Aggggh, grrrr; even before he'd joined the ZPD; bean-counters like this animal had never failed to ruffle his fur.
"Well, yes," the boar admitted, adjusting his glasses for something like the tenth time in the last minute, "However, as I was ABOUT to say...and B. have been positively identified." He peered over the rim of his spectacles. "HAVE you made a positive ID on this suspect, Detective?" His expression was a smirk of triumph.
"I wouldn't be here if we had," the fox replied, and then launched once more into his prepared speech.
His next stop on the ZYPD merry-go-round was the Detective Bureau's liaison office. By rights he should have felt that this must be the place...but by now, he knew better. Sure enough, he had hardly gotten his foot in the door when he was informed that once again, he'd been sent to the wrong division. "This is where we coordinate with the DA's office, not with the other police agencies," the caracal in charge told him, "Why don't you try Cold Cases, one floor up?"
Oh well, at least this feline seemed to be showing some sympathy. When Nick delivered his prepared speech, he received an appreciative nod.
Cold Cases turned out to be a busted flush, too...since The Company's diamond courier had never actually been part of the ZYPD's caseload. Where they sent him next dispelled any and all remaining doubts that he was being given the runaround.
"Uhm...I don't understand why you were told to come here, Detective Wiles; this is the office of Clergy Liaison."
For once, Nick didn't bother with his prepared speech.
That was where another animal might have thrown in the towel—except the Hartebeest in charge suggested that he try CEIS, the Criminal Enterprise Investigative Section; in plain language the organized crime division, the ZYPD equivalent of the bureau he was working for. When he got there, he found out that yes, this was the right place and no, the detective he needed to speak to wasn't in today.
Well, at least he got to deliver his prepared speech...and after reciting it one more time, he decided to call it a morning.
That is...until he was back on the subway platform and happened to glance at his map again. Grand Central Station, it seemed, was only a short distance away from his current location. Hmmmm, Grand Central....Grand Central; why did that name sound so familiar?
But then he remembered and pulled out his wallet. After a moment or two of rummaging, he found the business-card Claudia Nizhang had given him.
The address was One Grand Central Place.
Waving the card like a Polaroid picture, Nick angled his gaze upwards and sucked on a corner of his mouth, thinking. Most likely the animal he needed to see wouldn't be in on a Sunday. Heck, the place probably wouldn't even be open, a private company after all. On the other paw, there was that all-seeing eye again, together with the words, 'We Never Close.'
All right, Nick decided to chance it; in any case, he hated the idea of giving up this early, or rather...Chief Bogo would hate it if he did.
When his train arrived, this time he DID hop right back off after getting on board...but that was to throw off anyone tailing him rather than from any sensitivity about cleanliness. It probably wouldn't work, but he wanted the ZYPD to know that he knew they were tracking him.
Making his way to the opposite platform Nick jammed his paws in his pockets and rocked on his heels, whistling an off-key tune.
Had he been paying closer attention to what he was doing he might have realized something; the song he had chosen for his impromptu performance was, "I Fought The Law."
St. Bartholomeow's Hospital, Savanna Central, Zootopia –Sunday Morning
Several time zones away, at an earlier hour, Judy Hopps was just then opening her eyes. This time, she woke up quickly...and realized at once that she was in a hospital bed. Looking to her left, she saw her sister Violet, dozing in a chair with an open book in her lap. When she shifted her gaze to her wrist she noted that once again her watch was missing, replaced this time by a hospital band. Adjusting her eyes still further downwards, she saw that she was clad in a patient's gown, but didn't remember putting it on. What she did NOT see was an IV drip...although just above her left shoulder, an EKG monitor was dutifully keeping tabs on her heartbeat, pulse, etc.
Bracing herself, Judy pulled up on her elbows; there was pain, but not as much as the night before—and not nearly as much as she expected.
"Vi...?" The word came out as a froggy croak and she tried again, "Vi, are you awake?"
"Mmmn, I am now," the other bunny yawned, stretching her arms grumpily. And then, realizing where she was, she sat up, fully alert, hastily pushing her granny-glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "Oops, sorry Jude; how're you feeling this morning?"
"Better," the doe bunny answered, slowly. It was beginning to dawn on her that she actually felt a lot better.
But not ALL the way better, she could still only see out of one eye. And when she reached up to check, yep, the bandages were still there; same thing for the ones encircling her midsection, she wasn't quite done with it yet.
And, now that she thought of it, neither was her kid sister.
"I saw Erin, Violet," she said, figuring she'd better get the crucial issue out of the way first.
"I know," her sister answered, nodding. "Ms. Nizhang told us all about your visit with her. You're lucky to have her for a friend, sis. Did you know she comes from a farm family, too?"
"No, I didn't," Judy answered, surprised and also fascinated, never mind that it was a relatively trivial matter.
"Yep," Violet grinned, "bamboo growers, going back something like five generations."
"No kidding, well what do you know?" Judy answered, trying not to yawn. Given the dietary habits of red pandas, that wasn't especially surprising. Even so, she was fascinated and wanted to know more.
But...not right now; at the moment there were more important matters to discuss, "Okay, what's going on with the rest of the family?"
Violet thumped her foot...but not in anger.
"It's all taken care of, Jude. Dad and Stu Jr. are taking the kids and Erin's friends back to the Burrow on the early train, and Mom and I are staying over in Zootopia until we get things squared away with Erin."
Judy wiggled herself up even further on her elbows. That was probably going to take a lot longer than either her mother or her sister realized—AND they were supposed to be out of that Hare BNB rental by sometime, early this evening.
"Have you got a place to...?"
"Hey, I just said, everything's taken care of," Violet interrupted, almost laughing. "Gazelle offered to put us up in her guest suite at the Palm Hotel for the duration. Don't worry Judy, we'll be fine."
"Oh, that's wonderful," the doe bunny clapped her paws. Hmmm, it looked like she had another good friend besides Claudia. Privately, though, she disagreed with her sister. Nobody was going to be fine until Erin walked out of jail...without any charges pending. And for the moment there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do about it.
But...'for the moment,' ah yes, that reminded her...
"What time is it, Vi? How long have I been asleep?"
The other bunny consulted her watch. "Just a little bit after 8:30."
Huh, so she'd actually awakened a little bit earlier than she thought; was that good news or bad?
Someone knocked on the door and a nurse came in, a bandicoot this time.
"Good morning, how are we feeling today?"
She was midway through taking Judy's vitals when Dr. Jarabal followed her into the room.
"Well, you look much better this morning."
"I feel a lot better, too." The doe bunny admitted, rubbing lightly at her side and then looking up with a sheepish expression. "And okay, from now on the doctor's always right. I'm here until you tell me otherwise."
"Hmm, let us see about that," the cuscus replied, plugging the ends of his stethoscope into his ears. After a brief once-over, he surprised her by saying, "Well, all things considered, I believe we can let you go this afternoon."
"After the state I was in when I got here last night?" Judy's nose was twitching and her ears were standing at full attention. When Gazelle and Claudia had brought her back to St. Barts, she'd been unable to walk, even with their assistance; they'd had to call for someone to bring a wheelchair.
"Ah, those were only muscle-cramps," Dr. Jarabal informed her with a dismissive wave and sardonic gleam in his eye, "brought on by stress—which is why I know I can count on you to follow my instructions once you're discharged, yes?"
There was no arguing with that one.
Before making his exit, the cuscus informed Judy that he had made a referral for her with the Serengeti Eye Clinic. "You'll want to call them for an appointment, first thing, tomorrow morning."
"I will," she told him, having every intention of keeping her promise this time.
On her way, out the nurse asked Judy if she wanted some breakfast and, hospital food or not, the doe-bunny all but jumped at it. She hadn't eaten a nibble since lunch yesterday, and that had barely counted as a snack.
When the breakfast tray arrived, it was followed in short order by another visitor.
"Claudia...hello!"
"Hello, yourself," the red panda smiled, "You're looking a lot better this morning, Judy."
"That's what they keep telling me", the doe bunny replied, taking a bite of her cauliflower pancake and indicating the other rabbit in the room with her fork. "You've met my sister Violet?"
"I have," the red panda replied, reaching forward for a paw-shake, "Nice to see you again."
"Likewise," Judy's sister replied, "and thanks again for all your help."
Claudia lifted her paws in a throwaway shrug, "What can I say, I have a soft spot for cops." She patted her crippled knee adding, "Especially cops who get hurt in the line of duty."
"Speaking of the line of duty," Judy waved her fork again, "Any news about our fugitive fox-kid?" She didn't think there would be, but was in no mood for any more talk about her injuries.
"Glad you asked; there's plenty," the red panda informed her, taking a seat in the other chair...and prompting both Hopps sisters to lean in close, not wanting to miss a single word.
"First of all, chalk one up to Detective Hopps," Claudia pantomimed the act of applauding. "You got it exactly right, bunny. After he snuck out of that tunnel, the Lewis kid managed to cadge himself an ambulance ride."
"Not to here I hope," Violet said, giving voice to her sister's thoughts; as far as Judy was concerned, she was getting too much irony in her diet already. Imagine having been that close to Conor without ever knowing it.
"No," the red panda shook her head, "al-Razi Medical, over in Sahara Square." In response, Judy nodded knowingly. Separate district or not, that was the second closest Emergency Room to the Performing Arts Academy.
"And may I assume that he was long gone by the time we tracked him there?"
"You may," Claudia nodded, tight-lipped, "Clever kid; I have to give him that. They wanted to admit him, just about insisted on it...and do you know how he got out of it? He told 'em his family was broke and didn't have medical insurance, and that was that. They patched him up and sent him on his way."
"What?" Violet Hopps might not have been a cop, but she understood how some things worked. "How could they have just turned him out on the street like that? He's a minor."
"Ah yes," the red panda replied, assuming her patented Zen-master's expression, "Directly following his treatment, such as it was, young Master Lewis made a phone call—to his father, or so he said—and a little while later, a car pulled up to the ER entrance. He got in and they drove off and that was the last time anyone saw him. None of the animals in the ER got a look the driver or the license plate; heck, they're not even sure of the make and model of the vehicle that took him away. 'Black, with tinted windows; looked like a muscle car;' that's the only description the ZPD has." She crossed her arms and huffed, "Fursonally, I think it had to be one of his online buddies that picked him up. According to the admitting nurse, while he was waiting to be treated, he spent the whole time working on a laptop he'd brought along."
"Great, another dead end," Judy's voice was bitter with disappointment. While it was practically a given that Conor wouldn't have hung around wherever he'd been treated, she'd at least been hoping that he might have left some clues behind.
As if reading her mind, Claudia smiled.
"The good news is...right again, rabbit; in fact, you actually gave better than you got in that fight. According to the Lewis kid's ER medical report...hmmm, let me see if I can rememberrrrr...he suffered a minor concussion, a badly sprained knee, a dislocated shoulder, a bunch of scrapes and contusions, and possibly a cracked rib. There was also a fair amount of internal bleeding; that was the worst of it, according to the ER Docs. At least one of them wanted to keep him there, insurance or no insurance. In any event, that fox-kid is going to need more medical treatment—and sooner rather than later."
Judy could have forced a positive reaction to the news, a smile and declaration of approval; when Conor tried to go in for that medical treatment, the ZPD would have him. No matter what kind of disguise he adopted, they'd know it was him by his injuries—and it was all thanks to her insight.
Except...he had to know that, too. What if he waited too long to get help or, even worse, what if he'd really meant it when he told her, "I'll die before I go back there?" If that young fox ended his life in a lonely place, it would all be on her shoulders; he was in that precarious state in the first place because she had put him there.
That burden was one that Judy didn't know if she could carry. Yes, yes...Conor had drawn first blood in that fight, but what about before? If it hadn't been for him, they'd be laying flowers on HER grave right about now.
And so she only nodded, somberly. Sensing her discomfort, Claudia quickly moved on to another subject.
"We also have his baton and dart gun."
It was exactly what Judy needed to hear. All at once, her ears were up and her guilt-feelings were flying out the window. At last, here was some pure, unfiltered, gen-u-wine good news. "No kidding? How'd that happen?"
The red panda's mouth went in two different directions.
"Ahhh, much as I hate to admit it, that's one our dear Lieutenant Tufts got right. The Lewis boy dumped them in the theater seats, hoping some other kid would pick them up...just like he said would happen. And someone did; a couple of raccoon brothers." Her face split open in a cynical grin. "But then, whoops... their dad found 'em in one of their backpacks, and he was none too thrilled, according to what I heard; marched his kids right through the front door of Precinct 6 and made 'em turn in those weapons fursonally. Forensics has them now."
"Where's Precinct 6?" It was Violet, speaking from her seat in the corner.
"Old Growth City," Claudia pointed to the north and then turned back to Judy again. "That baton he had though; great gods, I'd love to know where a kid his age got hold of something like that. Talk about cutting edge; the knob on the end wasn't lead, it was tungsten—and the springs were made out of NITINOL!"
"Nitinol?" Judy's nose was twitching so hard it was making her injured eye hurt—and her sister Violet was even more bewildered.
"Nitinol, what the heck is that, some kind of sleep-aid?"
"Nope," Claudia told them, entirely serious, "it's an alloy of Nickel and Titanium; has the highest molecular memory of any metal. You can bend it any which way you want, a zillion times over, and it'll still retain its original shape."
"I see," Judy said, drawing out the last word and remembering what had happened when she'd hit that baton full force with her nightstick—practically no effect. Yeah, where the heck HAD Conor gotten that thing? She put it away for later scrutiny; her visitor was still talking.
"As for that tranq-dart pistol...Nice piece, a Tip-X Defender, shoots a variety of different pellets. The magazine was empty, and those raccoon kids insisted it was that way when they found it. When I left P-1, the lab boys were just starting to check the barrel for residue. Who knows, maybe they'll get lucky."
"I doubt it," Judy huffed inwardly, but kept that to herself. Ah, but she wished Monday would get here and things could start moving again. For now, the Conor Lewis case–along with her sister Erin's–felt like a fly trapped in amber.
La Peigne Estate, Meadowlands District, Zootopia - Sunday Morning
In a whirl of dust and detritus, the helicopter lifted off from the landing pad, rising up and over the ridgeline before turning southbound in the direction of ZTP Airport. Shading his eyes with his ice-bleached paw, Seth Whitepaugh watched until it disappeared, and then turned around. He had told the pilot not to wait; this would probably take a while.
Looking downwards he could see, a hundred feet below, the warren of his employer, set out amongst a sprawling plateau in the foothills of the Meadowlands.
Most of it was invisible to the naked eye, and for a very simple reason. Ever true to his species, Jack La Peigne had chosen to build his home largely under the earth. Not only that, the aboveground sections hearkened unmistakably back to his Bunnyburrow roots—except for certain changes befitting his rank and station. Here, the cupolas weren't rounded into egg-shapes and painted in pastels of pink, yellow, magenta, etc. Instead, they more closely resembled Gothic arches, and were done up in rich earth-tones. Adjusting his gaze a few degrees upward, Whitepaugh took note of the swimming pool and, on the hillside up above, his employer's private mountain-bike course. Narrowing his eyes and shading them again, he noted a few lingering wisps of dust strewn out along the track. The big rabbit was either in the midst of his usual Sunday-morning ride, or else he had only just finished with it.
Tucking the tablet he'd brought beneath his arm, the wolverine stood and waited; there was no point in making his way down to the house. Though he'd given no advance word of his visit, he knew someone would be along to pick him up shortly. It was impossible that his arrival had been missed; after all, he hadn't exactly been discreet about it. And the fact that he'd shown up, unannounced, on a Sunday morning, and by helicopter, could mean only one thing—his reason for being here wasn't merely important, it was borderline urgent.
Whitepaugh's eyes narrowed further as he spotted a vehicle ascending the meandering roadway to the helipad. It looked something like a stretched-out, passenger version of a ZPD meter-maid car...except big enough to accommodate larger mammals.
When it pulled to a halt in front of the big mustelid, he was surprised to see Polly Walters get out and open the door for him. That was curious; Jack La Peigne normally gave his fursonal assistant the weekend off—and he had never before seen the opossum here. Could the big rabbit possibly have anticipated his visit?
Whitepaugh didn't think so; the more likely reason was...biological. Over the past few weeks, he'd begun to notice a number of subtle changes in Jack La Peigne's routine and demeanor—ever since his 'unauthorized' experiment in self-infusion. Simply put, he was becoming more and more of an alpha male at the expense of everything else...and the wolverine didn't like it.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitepaugh," Polly told him as he sidled into the seat behind her. She would not ask why he was here; if she didn't know better by now than to make such inquiries, she never would. The same held true for the bighorn sheep in the driver's seat beside her.
"Morning," he acknowledged with a grunt, taking note of her haggard state. While Polly always looked a bit fatigued, today she seemed downright stressed.
"He's waiting for you in the massage room." she said, pointing as the cart began to roll.
"Not in his private office?" If wolverines had been capable of pricking up their ears, his would have been through the vehicle's roof right now. Didn't that dumb bunny understand something; his senior field operative would never have come here at this time, and in such a manner, unless what he had to discuss was of a highly sensitive nature.
"No sir," Polly explained, trying not to yawn, "'A good rubdown first will keep me alert,' was how he put it to me."
"Mmm, all right," Whitepaugh nodded. Okay, that made sense, but still...
When he walked into the big rabbit's neo-Roman massage room, he was greeted by yet another surprise. There was Jack La Peigne, faced-down on a padded table and being tended to by not one, but three arctic-fox vixens, all of them still in their bluish-gray summer coats. They were also clad in bikinis and fitted with what looked like ear tags...no, wait, those things were all in gold and etched with some kind of ornate design. Not tags, but...ohhhh, never mind, when the heck had his employer hired these girls? And foxes...didn't he loathe foxes?
At the wolverine's approach, the big bunny raised a paw and made a fluttering gesture with his fingers. "That's enough for now...go."
The vixens ceased their ministrations and disappeared through various doorways, giggling all the way—but only the first two. The third fox-girl had to pass by Seth Whitepaugh on her way out, and the look he gave her was enough to send her scurrying out of the room with her tail between her legs. To put it mildly, he was in a towering fury. Those three should never have been brought on board without him being consulted, or at least notified. Good God, did his employer want to be assassinated? It would have been a slam-dunk just now; one of his most hated rivals was an arctic fox. For all that anyone knew those three masseuses could have been Dimitri Oloshenko's sisters. Had hiring three members of that particular species been Jack La Peigne's way of thumbing his nose at his enemy? A month, even a week ago, the wolverine would have dismissed the idea as ludicrous; now, he wasn't so sure.
"I won't insult your intelligence by asking if this is important," the big bunny said, swiveling up and into a sitting position. He was naked, but it wasn't anything his senior field operative hadn't seen before. "However, I'd rather not give that impression to anyone else, which is why I asked you to meet me here instead of my private office."
Whitepaugh nodded, keeping his expression neutral. Here was another explanation that was just a little too neat.
"All right then," the big rabbit hopped off the table, and stretched his arms. "Let me get changed and I'll see you there in five minutes."
When he entered his employer's richly appointed office exactly five minutes later, the wolverine found him sitting at a conference table with a breakfast tray set out before him. This time, he wasn't put off; Jack La Peigne had never worked well on an empty stomach.
On the other paw, his normally preferred Sunday attire was Docker pants and a polo shirt; today he was done up in pre-faded desert-camo khakis...a little aggressive, even for him.
But even that paled in comparison to something that the wolverine might have noticed earlier, but for the presence of those arctic-fox vixens.
All too often Jack La Peigne's opponents tended to underestimate him, largely because of his species—and his size. He was, to put it simply, a big bunny—a description that never failed to conjure up an image of a big, fluffy animal.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. For one thing, it's hard to apply the word 'fluffy' to an animal with fur the color of pig iron, and eyes like blue-black quartz.
And the word 'big' was a wholly inadequate term of description for him; he literally soared over every other rabbit Whitepaugh had ever encountered. He was at least of a size with the wolverine himself; perhaps even a little bit larger.
And it wasn't just his height, Jack La Peigne was also big and brawny, a living statue of a Hellenic demigod; Cellioni's Purrseus brought to life.
Or rather, that was how he'd appeared the last time Whitepaugh had seen him. Today, his physique bore a closer resemblance to that of an overly-endowed comic-book hero—or villain, if you preferred. In any event he seemed to be sporting a wee bit too much muscle for his own good. And, was it only his imagination, or had his employer somehow become an inch or two taller since their last face-to-face encounter?
These thoughts were cut off when the 'big bunny' grunted and set down his glass of V-9 Juice, indicating the chair across the table from his own. "All right, what seems to be the problem?"
Taking his seat, the wolverine leaned forward with his elbows on the table; he knew that would annoy his boss—still a country boy at heart—but it would also get his attention.
"The problem is that an old friend of ours just popped up in Zootopia...although he's actually been around for some time now." He allowed himself a little smirk, "And old friend probably isn't quite the correct term."
La Peigne picked up his fork but instead of taking a bite of his waffle, twirled it in the air in a gesture of 'get on with it.' This, they both knew, was how Seth Whitepaugh always rolled when delivering a report; first a teaser, to pique his listener's interest, then a brief explanation of context, and then finally the nitty-gritty.
Extracting the tablet from his lap, the wolverine set it on the tabletop and slid it across to his chief. It was already booted up; he'd taken care of it before sitting down.
"Are you familiar with what happened at the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts yesterday?"
La Peigne picked up the tablet and looked at it. "Yes-s-s-s, something about a riot I believe." He set it down again, looking across the table with his nose twitching. "How is that any of our business, Whitepaugh?"
The wolverine raised a pointed finger.
"What makes it our business has to do with the reason that it started in the first place. Are you also familiar with the animal known as The Phantom?"
For perhaps a second, La Peigne's iron-blue fur seemed to turn jet black and his face became equally dark. Had it been anyone else on the other side of the table, he would have been on his feet and loudly ordering his visitor not to play games with him.
But Seth Whitepaugh wasn't just anyone else and so, after that second or two, the big rabbit's expression returned to normal. "Let me see," he said, scratching his cheek and thumping a foot as he tried to recall, "He's that loanshark the bankers are all up in arms about. If I recall correctly, the ZPD busted the kid who muled cash for him, but then the kid escaped from custody—probably with his help—and there's been no sign of him since." He stopped and looked directly at the wolverine, his words edged with sarcasm. "Is that about right?"
"Not quite," Whitepaugh raised another finger, this time wagging it from side to side as he spoke. "He turned up at the Performing Arts Academy auditions yesterday, presumably to watch one of the performances. The ZPD was waiting for him, but he got away again."
"Amateurs," La Peigne grumbled in disgust. The wolverine ignored it.
"So, instead they arrested a bunch of other kids for aiding and abetting his escape...and that's what started the riot."
"Fine, but you still haven't answered my question!" the big bunny snapped, "What does that have to do with US?" Now, he was halfway out of his chair—and his visitor wasn't happy. It normally took a little bit more than this to get his boss so badly riled.
"I'm just getting to that," he answered smoothly, "There's a detail I wasn't aware of until just last evening. The Phantom's courier, as I mentioned, is a kid." He leveled his gaze directly at Jack La Peigne and gave him both barrels, "And he's also a fox—specifically a silver fox."
All at once the room became deathly still, and his employer was taking his seat again—very slowly. And then he spoke just three short words.
"Is it him?"
"Yes," the wolverine's nod was equally laborious, "Yes, it's him... and yes, we're sure. The ZPD sent a sample of his cheek swab to the Zootopia Health Sciences University Genetics Lab for a DNA comparison analysis. For some reason, they've been dragging their feet, but they've at least managed to create a template of that fox-kid's genome. On a hunch, I had our cyber-security department obtain a copy and forward it to our own genetics lab. It's him all right; 99.96% certainty."
La Peigne's ears stood up and pointed at the ceiling. "They got a match already?" The process normally took a week, or more.
"Well you have to remember," Whitepaw leaned back in his chair. "We've had that fox-kid's genome in our database for several years now. With a head-start like that, it took practically no time at all."
"Ah, that's right," the big bunny pushed aside his breakfast tray, no longer interested, and picked up the tablet instead. "Tell me more about...sweet cheez n' crackers, you know, I can't even remember his name?"
The wolverine thought for a second, "Alan Murphy...that's not his birth name, of course, it's the one he had while he was in our custody, back in Zoo Jersey. Since then, he's gone through several more aliases, but these days he calls himself by the name of Conor Lewis; that's Conor with one 'N' not two."
"Conor...Lewis?" La Peigne repeated the name slowly, as if searching for a hidden meaning, "Where'd he ever come with that one?"
"No idea," his senior field operative admitted, "We're still gathering intel, but it appears that Kieran McCrodon may have created one of his custom-shop identities for the kid."
"What, now?" the big bunny's ears were flat against his neck and his right foot was thumping, "He didn't say anything about that during his interrogation."
"I've got our Zoo York Office looking into it," the wolverine waved a reassuring paw; for once, he'd been able to anticipate his boss's reaction. "But most likely it's because he just wasn't asked. That's trouble with 'the stuff', it makes you too scared to lie, but then you're also afraid to volunteer anything."
"Mmmm," La Peigne grunted, and the wry expression twisted across his dark grey muzzle. "The whole time...right under our noses; can you believe it?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," the wolverine responded at once. "If I didn't know better, I'D have thought Zootopia would be the last place Conor Lewis would turn up—and for just that reason."
"Conor Lewis?" the big rabbit's nose was twitching. "Why are you referring to him by that particular pseudonym?"
Whitepaugh answered with a simple nod.
"For the sake of avoiding confusion; it's the name his friends and associates here in Zootopia know him by, to say nothing of the ZPD. But you see what I'm getting at with why he ended up here, of all places; it's the old Purloined Letter gambit, hiding in plain sight."
"Yes, riiiight," La Peigne worked a finger against his jawline for a second and then picked up the tablet and scrolled. Two pages later, and then his ears were standing up again.
"I should get that much of a workout," Whitepaugh thought to himself, indulging in a rare bit of humor.
It was an even less common occurrence when his employer looked thoroughly bewildered, but that was the expression on his face right now.
"Great lettuce heads...according to this, not only did the ZPD know the Lewis kid was coming, they had half a division of cops waiting for him. How the heck did he manage to pull off an escape with that much working against him?"
"Are you surprised?" the wolverine asked him. "Remember; he's also the only detainee ever to escape from Granite Point."
"Don't remind me," the big bunny winced, wiping his face with the back of his paw, his voice was like a shovel of dry gravel dropped on a thunder-sheet.
"And I believe I already mentioned his escape from Precinct-1," Whitepaugh pointed with a finger, "but if you scroll to the next page, you'll see that this time, he wasn't able to make a clean getaway."
Following his operative's suggestion La Peigne stroked a finger down the tablet's screen—and then drew back suddenly, as if he'd gotten a static shock. When he looked up again, his face had darkened into a thunderhead, and the air in the office seemed to have chilled by at least twenty degrees.
"He did what?" the big rabbit demanded, in a voice so thick with menace you could have cut it with a knife. And then, seemingly to no one but himself, he added, "If that little thug hurt Judy Hopps seriously...I swear, I'll tear off his tail with my bare paws."
Had it been anyone else sitting opposite, they would have been shocked, perhaps even stunned by the iron-furred bunny's display of venom. Seth Whitepaugh was merely curious. Well now, this was something he hadn't expected.
It was also something he didn't much care for; and so the time had come to change subjects...and also gears.
...But not without engaging the clutch first.
"She's got nothing wrong with her that won't heal completely within a week or two," he said, stretching the truth just a little. La Peigne looked only slightly mollified, and he quickly amended, "And from what I understand, she 'gave as good as she got.' While we still don't have any details on the Lewis boy's injuries, I think I hardly need to remind you that if he's hurting too, it works to our advantage." Now, at last, the big rabbit's ears began to rise up off the back of his neck. "In the meantime, I suggest we notify the ZPD immediately of our own history with Lewis boy, including his real identity."
"No," La Peigne's response to this was flat, and to the point—and also not unexpected, as the wolverine quickly realized; he should have qualified his proposal.
Moving quickly to correct that error, he said, "Well, obviously we don't want to tell them everything."
"We don't want to tell them anything," the iron furred bunny retorted at once, "not yet, anyway. As matter of fact," he went on, tapping the table with a pair of crooked fingers, "I'd rather they didn't learn anything from the ZHSU genetics lab either." It was an order by any other name.
Whitepaugh stared for a second with his head tilted sideways. All right, now he'd been caught off-guard. "I'll...take care of it," he said "but may I ask why?"
La Peigne sat back in his chair, polishing the knuckles of his left paw with the pawlm of the right one; it was something he did frequently when mulling over an issue.
"Several reasons; first of all, I'm not sure the ZPD can be trusted with this information; not right now. They already let that fox-boy get away from them, not once but twice."
"This is true," Whitepaugh was nodding again. However, in this instance his boss's too-neat answer was not going to go unchallenged. "But then, he also got away from us on two separate occasions, once when he escaped from Granite Point, and the second time..." he stopped, grinding his teeth and wincing tightly for a second. When he spoke again, the words came out like a pair of extracted molars, "And the second time was...when he evaded capture during and after the Finagles raid." God, it stung, having to bring that up again. There'd been a LOT of whispering behind his back in the wake of that debacle.
"Also true," the rabbit across the table agreed, this time raising a pair of fingers, "but don't forget...back then he had help; those last two times he was on his own."
"Was he?" the wolverine wondered. He was none too sure about that, especially the breakout from the Precinct-1 jail. However, he was not about to contradict his boss on such a relatively minor point. Besides, the big bunny hadn't finished speaking yet.
"And not only that, have you seen who the ZPD has in charge of that investigation?"
Without waiting for a reply, he spun the tablet in a 180 and pushed it back in Whitepaugh's direction. It was well that he did; somehow the big mustelid had missed that particular detail. Leaning over the tablet, he saw a name and...ohhh-kay, for once he had to admit that his boss had a point.
"Oh yes...that little nonentity," he half snarled, half sneered. However, it didn't mean he was going to concede. "But even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every now and then. Practically nobody else but him thought that fox kid was actually going to show up at those auditions. Honestly, if I'd been informed in advance of his plans, I'd have been the first to suggest he was tilting at windmills." He tapped two fingers of his own against the tabletop. "And if I were in his position right now, I'd do exactly as he's doing, hold the Lewis boy's friends as hostages; either he surrenders or THEY get the book thrown at them."
"You think that'll work?" the big rabbit asked, ears up and nose twitching.
The wolverine half shook his head
"Yes...and no; it won't be enough to make that fox-kid give himself up—I don't think anything could make that happen—but there's a very good chance it'll cause him to make a careless move, especially if he's hurting. And do we really want the ZPD recapturing him without any help from us?" There...he could make a neat argument, too.
And Jack La Peigne could neatly shoot it down. "Who cares, Whitepaugh? The ZPD can take all the credit they want for the Lewis boy's capture. Whoever nails him, don't forget, WE have first dibs."
After several seconds of thought, the wolverine frowned, deeply.
"Mmmm, I don't know...a week ago, I would have agreed with you. But now, after that riot...the ZPD might not be so willing to hand him over."
"Willing or unwilling, it isn't going to matter if they don't have a choice." La Peigne smirked and slapped his paw against the tabletop "And trust me, they won't—I'll see to it."
Whitepaugh nodded, but he was far from placated. While that was probably true, his employer was uncharacteristically failing to see the bigger picture. If the Aker Group intended to realize its ultimate goal in this town, it was vitally important to keep the City of Zootopia on their side or, at the very least, a disinterested party. Once the first phase of their plan was complete, it wouldn't matter. But until then, getting into a turf war with the ZPD over one fugitive fox kid—even this fox-kid—was a luxury they couldn't afford. The only exception would be if it came down to a choice between that and losing Conor Lewis altogether....because nothing, absolutely nothing was more important at this moment than once more getting their paws that fugitive young silver fox.
"I'll tell you this much, Whitepaugh," the bunny sitting opposite said to him, "It's a good thing we suspended Project Fire Triangle. After this, we'd have to do it anyway." Without warning, apparently without thinking, he snatched up a length of rhubarb from the breakfast tray and began to rapidly nibble his way down the stalk. To the wolverine, he looked not unlike a rabbit wood-chipper. Again, it was something he'd seen many times before—and an unmistakable sign of unease in his employer.
Even so, the big mustelid had to agree with him about one thing, if nothing else. It was a very good thing that the Fire Triangle op was offline. And until Conor Lewis was safely back in Aker's custody, it was going to have to stay that way.
And on the subject of GETTING him back in their custody...
"Very well, sir. If we aren't going to pass this information on to the ZPD, what do you want us to do with it?"
La Peigne tossed aside the rhubarb stalk and looked at him sharply, at the same time thumping his foot. As both of them knew quite well, whenever his senior field operative called him 'sir' in that tone of voice, it meant he was seriously peeved.
"Are you getting pouty on me, Whitepaugh?" he demanded.
In response, the wolverine's face showed not even the tiniest hint of emotion. If there was one thing he'd learned over his years with Jack La Peigne, it was when to keep his feelings to himself—and right now was one of those times.
Sure enough; as nearly always occurred in these situations, it was the bunny that broke first.
"All right, I admit it. I do have another reason for keeping the ZPD out of the loop right now. It's what my instincts are telling me to do."
"Then you should have said so in the first place," the wolverine thought, but didn't say. Even now, he wasn't close to feeling satisfied. While that also might have been true, it almost certainly wasn't the whole truth. The actual story was probably something that Jack La Peigne didn't yet know himself; something else that was new and 'not good.'
Meanwhile the big bunny was speaking again. "Before we go any further, Whitepaugh, let me be perfectly clear about something. My decision not to notify the ZPD of what we've learned is only temporary—and it's the only stipulation I have right now. Other than that, you have free reign to act as you see fit."
"Very well," the wolverine answered him, coolly but finally with a measure of satisfaction. He should have been enraged, except...who gets angry at having an assignment dumped on them that they would have demanded anyway? There was absolutely no one else within the Aker Group that Seth Whitepaugh would have trusted to carry out this task. Besides, he had the Finagle's failure to make up for.
And, if nothing else, he had to admire his boss's knack for turning the tables in a debate; a talent that had served him well many times in the past.
But now, he'd been challenged...and he'd better deliver.
"Then what I propose first is to create a 'wanted poster' for young Mister Conor Lewis and have it distributed to our operatives and security officers in the greater Zootopia metro area." A scowl formed on La Peigne's face, and the wolverine quickly amended. "I don't intend to initiate an active search, you understand, but if any of our mammals should happen to cross paths with that fox kid by happenstance...well then, we absolutely wouldn't want them to be unable to take advantage of such an opportunity. With that in mind, I also want to put a couple of our takedown teams on a rotating stand-by. They probably won't be needed, but again, we shouldn't take any chances."
"Very good, I approve," the big bunny told him and then lifted an ear, "Anything else?"
"Yes, I've already got our research and intel departments trying to piece together what that fox-kid got up to in Zootopia, prior to his enrollment in the Performing Arts Academy. So far, they haven't found much, and I don't think they're going to...but again, you never know."
"But of course." La Peigne reached for his glass of mineral water, and lifted it before taking a sip, as if to seal the deal, "All right Whitepaugh, I'll leave you to your work. Let me know at once if there are any new developments, and oh..." he pointed to the tablet, "Leave that; I may have some new ideas later."
"Yes sir," the wolverine replied with a neutral expression, but when he stood up, the hairs on the back of his neck quickly followed suit. He had just been dismissed—without actually being dismissed. It was something his boss did all the time...but only with the lower echelon employees, practically never with the senior mammals, and certainly not with him.
Closing the door behind him as he exited his employer's private sanctum, the big mustelid departed at a brisk walk...one that turned almost immediately into an angry stomp. By the time he reached the front door, his cell phone was out and he was holding it in a near-crushing grip. "...and I want that chopper back here NOW!"
As a rule, Seth Whitepaugh had always detested clichés, but now, as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he couldn't help delivering one to himself. Softly, almost under his breath, he snarled, "That was not the Jack La Peigne I know."
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Author's Note:
Much thanks to O.H. Shoot and E.O. Costello for their valuable advice and suggestions, regarding Nick's adventures in Zoo York City.