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 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 2...Cont'd)
Bay Ridge, Barklyn, Zoo York City, 15:35, EST
They drove in silence down 3rd avenue, with neither one offering the other so much as even the briefest glance. Nick spent most of his time gazing out the window while Pepe Guerrero's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. The whole time his expression remained as cool as a Limber Ice Pop-offering no hint whatsoever as to what lay ahead at the end of their journey. Not to say that it would have been all that easy to fathom what was on their minds anyway. It was a bright afternoon in Zoo York City and both of them had on their sunglasses; aviators for the fox, wraparounds for the kinkajou.
At the intersection of Shore and 4th they were supposed to double back North again. That they did...except instead of taking the Belt Parkway-which would have led them to the Hugh L Catty tunnel and Mammalhattan-they swung a U-turn directly onto 4th avenue, heading back in the direction from which they'd come.
At 97th Street, Guerrero turned right, and then swung a hard left into the parking lot of St. Patrick's Academy. Being as it was the middle of summer, the lot was largely empty-completely empty, as a matter of fact, except for a dirty-white high-cube van, marked only by a swirl of graffiti. The sight of it reminded Nick of all the 'unsanctioned artwork' currently adorning much of Zootopia.
It was nearly enough to provoke a shudder. The great Zootopia Graffiti Plague had been bad enough before he'd left for Zoo York; who knew what his city looked like now, in the wake of that pair of riots?
He shook it off and pointed towards the panel truck, "There it is," he said, the first words he'd spoken since they left the Wicked Mink.
At the back of the van, he rapped twice on the roll-up door with the flat of his paw. Pausing for a second, he rapped twice more, paused again, and then knocked three more times.
At once, the door rose upwards, revealing a smiling Martin Pennanti.
Smiling that is...until he happened to glance over the red fox's shoulder, at which point his expression became almost apoplectic.
"Pepe, what the heck do you think you're doing? You were supposed to drop Nick off in front of the CHURCH, not back here for crying out loud!"
"Eh, sorry Jefe," the kinkajou shrugged, looking not at all repentant for his actions, "But after alla that back there at The Mink, I just hadda see if it worked out or not, ju know what I mean?"
Penannti jumped down from the van, looking even more vexed
"Yeah, yeah, it's working great. Now beat it before someone sees us. I need you...not another ex-cop that nobody wants to talk to."
Guerrero only fanned a palm. "Ahhh, don' worry 'bout it, Jefe, I got it covered."
The fisher was not impressed.
"Yeah, yeah...the last time you said that, you nearly got your head blown off." He thrust a finger in the direction of Pepe's ride. "Take-a-hike!"
"Hokay, hokayyy, I'm outta here," Guerrero waved his paws in surrender, "But ju know, Martino; you really gotta start laying off the espresso..."
"GO!"
It was at that moment Nick Wilde decided he liked this kinkajou. He would really like to get Pepe's story sometime, but business before pleasure.
After the kinkajou was gone, of course; "I heard what you said, Marty. So...we're getting some good intel?"
At once the grin returned to the fisher's face.
"C'mon in and hear for yourself," he said, gesturing towards the interior of the van.
Inside, they found a tree kangaroo seated before a console table occupied by a laptop, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a small mixing board, and several pieces of electronic gear that Nick could not identify. As they entered, the marsupial made no acknowledgement of their presence, not even so much as angling his head in their direction. Instead, he continued to concentrate on whatever he was hearing over the headset affixed to his ears.
"And the guy on the surveillance setup here is Art Borrea," Pennanti informed Nick cheerfully, adding in a dead-on Chico Marx, "He-a good listener, but he no speak."
That got the tree kangaroo's attention; he regarded the fisher sourly for a moment, and then went back to his listening.
Nick too was in a serious mood.
"Can we hear?" he asked, trying not to sound anxious.
Art Borrea said nothing, only moved the cursor on his laptop screen and clicked. At once they heard the lilting voice of Estvan, coming from a pair of speakers mounted high up in the right and left corner of the cargo-bay.
"...that may be Rosemary, but it still don't explain why the divvil that boy'd come back here, of all places."
"Maybe he figured with The Company outta the way, everything'd be hunky dory." The waitress replied. She was answered by a voice that Nick didn't recognize.
"She's got a point there, bub; it's been what, three years now?"
"And these days, the cops don't want t' know about The Mister no more." It was a deep, guttural voice, probably the bouncer.
The mention of that name sent the Wicked Mink crew into a reminiscence of the raid that had taken out Finagles-and The Company-once and for all. It was a discussion in which Martin Pennanti's name featured prominently...and not in an admiring fashion; references to the fisher's low character and unsavory habits abounded. Nick counted at least three times that the word 'traitor' came up in context with his name; as if by his dogged pursuit of the McCrodons-a family of sea-mink and therefore his fellow mustelids-he had committed an abject betrayal.
For his part, Pennanti remained unmoved; he'd probably been called a lot worse in his day...although he did choose that moment to opt for a change of topic.
"So...where'd you plant the bugs, Nick?"
The fox was only too happy to inform him
"Hid the first one in a wad of gum that I spit into the trash. The second one was in a 'penny' I put in the tip jar.
"Nice work," Pennanti nodded approvingly. By that method Nick had planted a listening device at either end of the bar, able to cover the entire length of the room
And not only that...
"And not only that, Nicky...wouldja believe, one of the bugs we planted, back when the Mister used to hold court in The Mink, is still working?"
"Wha...? No way!" the fox replied, equally delighted and flabbergasted.
The fisher immediately raised three fingers.
"Yep, swear to God. Blew me away too, when I heard it; four years later and it's still picking up conversations."
Right then, as if on cue, the discussion shifted back to the reason Nick had planted those devices in the first place.
"You sure it was the McLeod kid in that picture the red fox showed you?" It was another voice he didn't know...although he sure as heck recognized the one that answered it.
"Aye, boyo...it was him all roight; know them burnin' eyes anywheres. 'Twas him I says; not the sloighest bit o' doubt in me mind. An' I'll tell ye something else. S' not the first time Oi've seen that face inside The Mink. Saw it in the flesh an' fur Oi did, 'bout five months before the Finagles raid."
"What, really?"
"Yep...remember it loike it was yesterday."
In the back of the van, Nick and Pennanti were exchanging grins; Estvan was clearly warming to his subject.
"Well...? I told ya he likes to talk," the fisher winked.
"Didn't make the connection back then, moind ye," The platinum fox was saying; Nick could almost picture him, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "Came in wearin' sunglasses, so's Oi couldn't see is eyes. But..."
"Ah, gimme a BREAK awready!" It was that same big voice again, the honey-badger/bouncer. "If that kid was really in here, how come nobody but YOU remembers it, huh? You blowin' smoke up our tails or somethin', fox?"
Nick winced; grateful it wasn't him the hulking mustelid was addressing...but the other fox's response was as calm as a windless morning.
"Aye, Crusher...'twas one o' them closed-door, back-room meetin's- ye know the ones; where even the wait-staff's not allowed inside without knockin' first. That's why no one else from outside the Comp'ny saw the boy...an' Oi must admit, Oi'm right surprised they didn't send me out 'o the room before 'e came in."
"Yeah, all right, so what happened?" It was another speaker Nick didn't know-although he certainly knew that tone of voice; get ON with it, already!
"They brought 'im in through the back." Estvan told them lowering his voice a little. His earlier jollity had long since departed, replaced by a tone of tense forbidding. "Lad didn't look too good Oi must say; really thin, loike he'd just got out of hospital. They brought 'im up to the Mister-The old boy could still get out of 'is chair then, if just barely-an' he spent a minute or two lookin' the kid over. His brother Gerry was there with 'im, and the two of them spoke for minute. Oi couldn't make out what they was sayin' to each other,'cept for one thing, The Mister tellin' Gerry. 'Wow, look at this! If Oi didn't know better meself, Oi'd swear this kid wasn't...' An' that was all Oi heard. Roight then Danny Tipperin gave me the look an' Oi backed off, fast as I could."
A hubbub of conversation followed, all of it frustratingly unintelligible. It lasted for nearly a minute, before the waitress's voice broke through the din.
"What'd that other fox...uh, Wilde? What'd he say the kid's name was again?"
"Uhmmm...ah, Lewis, Conor Lewis."
"Yeah right...You think that's true, or did he just make up that name?"
"Ahhh, it was probably the real deal," an unknown voice conjectured. "I mean...why change the kid's face, if you're not gonna change his name too?"
"Yeah, really," someone else agreed, "and coming up with a new moniker would have a piece of cake for Kieran McC."
"Oi, shame about that bloke...he din't belong with that lot."
"No kidding...but Betty's right...giving a kid a new identity would have been a snap for that guy."
"Maybe...except that's not the name he gave the kid."
Both Nick and Martin Pennanti started. It was a new voice, and clearly not that of a mustelid. It belonged to some kind of rodent, a very large rodent.
"Can you make out what part of the room that's coming from?" the fisher asked, speaking to Art Borrea, who typed a quick set of instructions into his laptop.
"Mostly from the device closest to the entrance," the tree kangaroo replied, speaking up for the first time since Nick's arrival.
'Close to the entrance'...that meant whoever was talking had just walked into the pub-or had been lurking near the doorway, listening in, up until now.
For the moment, the only reaction to the news was silence. Predictably, it was Estvan who broke it.
"An' just how would YOUSE know that, Bucky?" Nick hastily pulled out a pad and wrote down the name.
"Hey-y-y, you're not the only one who sees and hears things, Estvan. I spotted that kid you're describing once myself. Only I heard him being called by a different name."
"And where was this, then?" Again, it was easy to picture the platinum fox folding his arms; only this time beneath an indignant expression.
"In Finagles, on the morning of the raid," the newcomer replied...and again there was silence.
...A pin drop, deathly silence; not only in the pub, but inside the van as well. On his pad, Nick had written down a quartet of exclamation points without even realizing what he was doing.
"Y-You were in...Finagles...on the day of...?" someone finally asked.
"I was," the animal named Bucky replied simply. At the same time, they heard footsteps and the sound began to fade from one speaker to the other, as if the newcomer was taking a walk across the room. A squeak of wood against wood followed as he seated himself on a stool.
"Me and my guys was brought in to make a table and chairs for the big meet they were planning; we were s'posed to chew it out of this big huge log...right in the middle of the dance floor, would'ja believe?"
On his pad, Nick wrote down a single word, underlining it twice. 'BEAVER'
"What?" It was the waitress again. "Come on, Bucky; who the heck would be stupid enough to try a stunt like that?"
"I'll give ya one guess," the big rodent shot back smartly, and was answered by a chorus of groans.
"Junior!"
"That's what I said," the beaver answered them, "Anyway, while we were working, Danny T. showed up and got into an argument with little Jimmy about who was gonna clean up all the shavings and whatnot after we were done. None of us wanted to be asked later on which one of 'em started that, uh, 'discussion', and so we all kinda looked away, pretending like we couldn't hear."
"And then what...?" an exasperated voice prompted, another one that Nick hadn't heard before.
"I'm gettin' to that, I'm gettin' to that." Bucky groused at him, equally annoyed, "Cool yer jets, willya? So...I happened to look over by one of the service doors and saw this fox-kid watching us; silver fox."
"Was it him...the McLeod boy?" It was Estvan again.
"Nope...looked nothin' like him; his nose was almost perfectly straight and his fur was darker. Looked taller and a lot fitter, too; I never thought for a minute that it might be that kid." He let out a small cough. "Mindya though, I couldn't see his eyes; too far away and he was looking at Danny and Junior, not me."
"All right, but..."
"But then," Bucky rolled right over the interruption, "Then I heard Junior say, 'No problem, I'll have Dylan clean it up.' And when the fox-kid heard it, he looked like he was about ready to bite that sea-punk's face off. I knew right then that HE was the guy Tipperin and Jimmy Junior was talking about; had to be."
"Did you happen to get a last name?" Nick heard the waitress asking. He crossed his fingers and hoped.
"Nah, first name, Dylan was all I..."
"Aggggg, grrrr!" Nick growled and gnashed his teeth.
"...But then I heard Danny telling Junior that the Mister had more important things for Dylan to do...that he wasn't just their go-fer anymore. And that sealed it; how many other kids did the Mister have, runnin' errands for him, huh?" He paused for a second, and then went on, in a more cautious tone, "Anyway, Tipperin offered us an extra hundred apiece to clean up the excess after we finished, and I forgot about the kid for a minute. When I looked again, he was gone-and what them 'other things' he was supposed to do were, I got no idea."
"Hmmm," Estvan mused aloud. "Mebbe that Wilde fox was roight after all, eh? Mebbe Dylan...or Conor, or Sean McLeod or whoever; mebbe he was smugglin' diamonds fer the Mister. An' wouldn't it'd 'ave been just loike that filthy sod to press a KID into that sort o' job?"
He was answered by several unhappy growls; he might not have cared much for James 'The Mister' McCrodon, but the rest of the Wicked Mink's patrons clearly felt otherwise...even now, three years after his passing.
Luckily for the platinum fox, his statement had caught at least one of them by surprise.
"Wait, what? Other fox...what other fox?" It was Bucky speaking.
"Oi, that's roight; ye missed him didn't ye?" Estvan was clearly pleased...and completely unaware of how close he'd come to stepping in it. From there, he and the others proceeded to give the beaver a play-by-play recap of the red fox's visit to The Wicked Mink-during which he was described in terms at least as derisive as the ones reserved for Martin Pennanti.
Nick wasn't bothered; he hadn't gone into that pub to make friends. And if his little fishing expedition hadn't produced any lunkers, he still had plenty for the stringer...more than enough to justify...
Hold on, what was Estvan saying?
"Aye, but that other fox, Wilde; he's from Zootopia, in' he? So...probably that's where they sent the kid with the diamonds-and that brings up another question, dun' it? How the divvil was the Mister s'posed keep the boy from just takin' the money and runnin' after makin' the trade? A few thousand miles sounds loike a safe enough distance, t' me."
The answer came from the barkeep, short, terse and grim.
"Granite Point."
"Oi, what now?" Nick could easily picture Estvan's ears, reaching for the ceiling. And why not? So were his. "Granite Point," the platinum fox was asking, "what's that?"
"Juvie facility, over in Jersey," the grison informed him in that same harsh voice. "Real hell-hole...or it was back then anyway. But whatever; the Mister was always threatening to send the Mcleod kid 'back to The Point' if he messed up on an assignment or started talking to the cops. And it worked, too. That was all he needed to tell that boy to get him to fall in line; he was scared to death of that place."
"Granite Poinnnnt," another voice pondered. "Y'know...I could swear I know that name from somewhere..." Nick heard the sound of fingers snapping. "Oh yeah, wasn't that the joint where they had The Mister's nephew locked up-the one he was always trying to get sprung, but could never pull it off?"
"That's him," the barkeep replied, "Wesley McCrodon...also known as Crazy Wez."
"Also known as th' Bearfoot Bandit," Estvan put in, eager to recover lost ground, "before they pinched 'im, that is. Oi didn't know where they had 'im locked up, but Oi know that much at least."
The reaction the platinum fox received must have pleased him to no end.
"Whoa...that was the Mister's nephew? No wonder he tried so hard to get Jersey to let him go."
"He did?" Someone else asked aloud, "Then how come the kid didn't walk?" Nobody seemed to know.
"Whatever happened to him anyway?" it was the waitress...answered by another unknown voice.
"Ahhh, the word on the street is that Wez finally lived up to his prison handle; went flying off the deep end and never came back. Last I heard, he was stuck in a loony-bin, somewhere down around Trenton."
On his notepad, Nick had written, 'Crazy Wez...find out more, and where is he?'
"Anyway, the Mister basically washed his paws of the kid after he went bonkers; never mentioned his name again...and didn't want anyone else bringing him up either."
"No kiddin' Sherlock!" Martin Pennanti cat-called from beside Nick. He did not elaborate, nor was it necessary. The fox had already heard, from several other animals, that James 'The Mister' McCrodon never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. He had likely planned to make use of his nephew after freeing him from jail. But when the kid had turned into a basket case, that usefulness-and all of his uncle's efforts-had gone sailing out the window.
Still...Nick had to wonder how a mammal as powerful as The Mister could have failed at such a simple task as getting a kid out of Juvie? Mr. Big could have pulled it off between bites of his Grand-mamma's cannoli...so why had McCrodon been unable to do the same?
Well, he could think about that later. Right now, Estvan was speaking again.
"D'yer think maybe him an' the McCleod kid was hooked up on the inside? Explain a lot if they were, wouldn't it?"
"Ahhh, could be," the barkeep ventured, "That silver fox kid would have hadda be half-crazy himself, or else really desperate, to get involved with a cowboy like Crazy Wez-but I suppose it's possible."
"More than possible, if you ask me," someone else interjected, "Right after that fox kid showed up was when the Mister started ghosting his nephew."
"Aye, s' true." Estvan concurred. "An' Oi don't know 'bout the rest of ye, that's a moite too much of a coincidence fer my blood."
He was answered by a general murmur of agreement.
"Do you really think he'd come back to Zoo York?" Bucky, the beaver queried, bringing the conversation full circle. "The McLeod kid I mean...if I was him, this is the last place I'd want to be."
"Which makes it the last place the cops would come looking for him," the waitress repeated-except this time, someone begged to differ.
"Only it wasn't, was it?" Estvan reminded her pointedly, "That Nick Wilde bloke may be a jerk, but 'e isn't stupid, Oi'll give 'im that much at least."
"Hey, that reminds me," someone else asked, "what'd he put in the tip jar anyway. Didn't look like a coin,"
"Dunno, probably a button." The barkeep replied, "Lemme look."
Inside the van, Nick and Pennanti exchanged an uneasy glance; uh-ohhhh.
Meanwhile the grison was saying, in a voice much louder than a second ago, "Yeah...thought so...one lousy penny. And I don't think it's even a real one. Lessee..."
Nick realized at once what was happening.
"He's going to bite it; quick, kill the...!"
Too late; a screech like a thousand claws on a thousand blackboards filled the van, causing Art Borrea to rip away his headset and slamming Nick and Pennanti's paws against their respective ears. It lasted for perhaps five seconds before the tree-kangaroo found the switch and stopped it.
"That's going to cost you extra," he griped, speaking to Martin Pennanti-who promptly gave a look to the fox standing next to him; a silent reminder that HE was the one footing the bill.
Well, Nick reasoned, given what they'd learned, even Bogo couldn't find too much fault with the extra expense.
"Yeah, riiight," his inner voice rejoined sardonically, "And if you believe THAT, I know this bridge, right nearby, that you can pick up real cheap." What Martin Pennanti didn't know-or, at least, what the fox hadn't bothered to tell him-was that his little bugging operation had been completely unauthorized. In that regard, he had been working under the convenient theory that sometimes it's easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.
That...and if the operation backfired, it couldn't be laid at the feet of the ZPD. It had seemed like a piece of sound reasoning at the time, but now...
"You did WHAT, Wilde?!"
Nick pushed the thought aside and came back to the present.
"Anyway Marty," he asked the fisher, hurriedly changing the subject, "what'd you pick up on the bugs before I got here?"
As it turned out, the conversation had opened with several animals reminding each other of what Pepe Guerrero had said to Nick...that the McLeod boy was supposed to be dead. While no one had disputed the notion that The Mister could easily have arranged for his nephew Kieran to gin up a fake death certificate, there had apparently been an actual body to go with it-a trick that even the best hacker in the world couldn't pull off.
"If that wasn't the McLeod kid they took away from Bulleview, who was it?"
It was the platinum fox that started the conversation who supplied a possible answer.
"Betch'ye anythin' it was one o' them Stanley Folk wolves," he said, "After all, they wasn't long fer this world anyway after what they done, were they?"
"I think you mean the Stalniy Volki," the waitress had corrected him, "But yeah, I think it's very possible; and that'd be just The Mister's style, wouldn't it?"
The way she said it sent a chill down Nick Wilde's spine; her tone wasn't just admiring; it was almost reverent.
"For sure," Another voice replied with a laugh, "he'd call it poetic justice."
"And in that case, it almost was," Pennanti observed, smirking.
All right, this was too much; Nick waved a paw for Borrea to stop the tape.
"Okay Martin, I give up. I know the McCleod kid is supposed to be dead, but that's all I know. Just what the heck happened, and who the foxtrot are the Stalniy Volki?"
"Oh, right," the fisher replied, a little contritely; he had forgotten that as an out-of-towner, his guest would not be aware. "Roughly translated, the name means 'The Steel Wolves.' They were a street gang, made up of Russian kids out of Brighton Beach, all of them wolves, like the name says-and also a pack of complete head-cases. They used to wear pictures of Josef Stalin on the back of their jackets-that's the other place where they got their name-and get this, their favorite street-weapon was a hammer and sickle."
"Holy foxtrot," Nick gasped, staring wide eyed and then shaking his head. "What the heck could have prompted the Lewis kid to tangle with THAT bunch?"
"Probably didn't have much choice," Pennanti shrugged, "When he ran into them, they were beating up on Junior. And I don't think I need to tell you what his old mink would have done, if he'd found out the Lewis kid had been there and hadn't jumped in to help. Long story short, Junior managed to escape the fight and for once, he did the right thing, he ran to The Mink and got help. Danny Tipperin took out the Steel Wolves' leader and the rest of 'em all scattered," He slapped at his thigh and looked away for a second, "Stupid punks, they might as well have stayed put and got it over with quick, right then and there. From the moment they showed up on The Mister's turf, and laid a paw on his kid, they were dead mammals walking. By the time we heard about what had happened, they were gone-vanished like they'd disappeared off the face of the earth. We never found so much a strand of fur, from any of those wolf-kids."
"What about Danny Tipperin?" Nick asked, unable to catch it in time, and wanting to kick himself.
Luckily for him, Pennanti seemed to think it was a relevant question.
"Got off on a plea of self-defense...and for once, I think it was legit. The wolf punk in charge was going for him with a sickle when he pulled the trigger."
For a long moment, Nick said nothing. Nobody would ever accuse him of being a sentimental fox, and God only knew, the Stain...the Steel Wolves had brought their fate upon themselves; he didn't want to think about what would have happened to anyone pulling a similar stunt on Mr. Big's daughter, Fru-Fru.
For all that, Martin Pennanti's careless dismissal of them ran just a mite too cold for his blood. It was a side to the fisher he hadn't seen before-and he wasn't sure he liked it.
There was a lot more that Nick wanted to know...but not in front of that tree kangaroo, and so he asked, "Ahhh, is there somewhere around where we can talk privately?"
Pennanti seemed to have been expecting such an inquiry from the get-go.
"Yeah, follow me."
He led Nick into the church-pausing before the altar to kneel and cross himself-and then out through a side door, and into a cloistered garden.
"A-Are you sure this is okay?" the fox inquired, glancing nervously at the religious statuary all around him. He was answered once again by the flippant wave of a paw.
"No worries; it's all good. The prior and me go way back...we was altar boys together."
"What, you...an altar boy?" Nick was barely able to suppress a snigger. Trying to picture this animal in a lace-trimmed frock was like trying to picture a hippo in a tutu.
"Yeah, me," Pennanti replied, unfazed by the fox's amusement, "and wouldja believe that's how I came to carry a badge? Father Kohlmann, the priest we served with, was a former police chaplain...and also one heck of a role-model. It was thanks to him that Donnie Callahan ended up as Father Callahan... and I ended up as Detective Lieutenant Pennanti."
"Ah, I see," Nick answered, nodding.
And he did; there was nothing more that needed to be said-not on that subject anyway.
But on another topic, "What about Pepe Guerrero; what's his story?"
Oops, wrong question. Pennanti folded his arms, and his face hardened into a flint mask.
"That's...a story I'm not gonna tell you, Nicky; and please don't ask again."
"Well yes, okay...but that's not what I meant," the fox replied, hastily correcting his course. (In fact, that had been exactly what he'd meant.) "But...he's not going to get in any trouble for helping us, is he?"
"No...." the fisher sighed, looking slightly deflated, "As long as word doesn't get back to One Police Plaza that he was seen talking to me." he kicked the ground in frustration, "the reckless idiot," but then he smiled and perked up again. "Other than that, Pepe'll probably get an attaboy for rousting you in The Mink like that. How-w-w-everrrr..." He raised cautioning finger, "Fair warning, Nicky; you might get some heat from Commissioner Wagfinger when he finds out what went down in there."
"Let him," the fox replied, also folding his arms, "As far as I'm concerned it was worth it. But what I really want to know is, what did YOU get out of that tape when you heard it?"
"Ahhh, that's a very good question," Pennanti replied, motioning towards a nearby stone bench, "Let's sit down, and I'll tell you what I think." They did...and then the fisher's first observation turned out to be a question...one that harked back to the tape's beginning.
"Tell me the truth paisan; you thinking about having the McLeod kid exhumed, to make sure it wasn't him they buried?"
"Mmmmm, the thought did cross my mind," the fox admitted-although it had actually done a lot more than that.
"Ahhh, thought so," Pennanti replied with a knowing bob of his head, "And sorry, but it's not happening. First of all, I'm not a cop anymore, much less a lieutenant; I don't have the authority to order an exhumation."
"But I'M a cop," Nick reminded him...an impulsive rejoinder that he immediately wished he could take back.
"An out-town-cop," the fisher reminded HIM, "Which means you'd need to go through One Police Plaza to get the order...and even if you could, you know where they buried that kid? In Potter's Field, out on Hart Island, with something like a zillion other unclaimed corpses. And if The Mister really did fake the Mcleod kid's death-and after what I just heard, I think he did-the next thing he'd have done was have his cyberpunk nephew, Kieran, go in and alter the burial records-just to make sure we'd never find him. Like I told you before, that guy was nothing if not thorough."
"All right, all right," Nick raised his paws in irritated surrender. He'd been ready to drop the idea from the first objection. But, on the other paw, Pennanti was now fully on board with the notion that the McLeod boy hadn't been killed in that fight. That was good; very good.
Meanwhile, his host was picking up the thread again.
"As far as the kid coming back to Zoo York goes...well, it's not that likely, but yeah...it could happen. It's a place he knows, and like Estvan said...by rights, it's the last place he should want to come back to."
"...Unless he ran out of other options," Nick cocked a finger, and Pennanti responded with an approving nod.
"This is true...and there's one other thing." He leaned towards the fox and lowered his voice. "The Mister was rumored to have a hideout set up somewhere in the Five Burrows, his headquarters when he was in that gang war with those other two crime families. We never found it, and as far as I know, he never made use of it after that fight was over. Even so, I think it's for real, and still around somewhere. And if your Lewis kid has any idea about where it is...well, in that case, he'd have a BIG reason for coming back to Zoo York."
Nick thought for a second, and shook his head. "Maybe so, but I doubt very seriously that McCrodon would have let a kid know how to find that place."
"Maybe not intentionally," Pennanti conceded, "but your boy might have overheard something...and right now, he's gotta be feeling at least a little desperate." He offered Nick a small shrug. "Like I said, I think it's unlikely that he'll try to make for Zoo York, but you can't completely rule it out either."
"Right," Nick nodded, making a mental note. The fisher was only doing what any good cop would have done; making certain to cover all the bases.
That was when he threw the fox a curveball...from straight out of left field.
"But I gotta admit, the one thing that caught me off guard was that other name they gave the Lewis kid. Dylan...I never heard him called THAT before."
"No kidding?" Nick asked him, inwardly groaning. He had hoped Pennanti might be able to supply a last name to go with the first one; so much for that lead.
But still...
"Strange that they'd change his name again, when the one he already had wasn't known to the law."
"I know, right?" the fisher replied, making a frustrated gesture with his paw...and then a dismissive one. "Even so...he might go back to using it at some point. You should let the ZPD know, Nicky."
"I will."
It was then that they finally got to the meat of the matter.
"If your silver-fox kid was locked up with Crazy Wez, Nicky...it explains a lot about how he's been able to stay one jump ahead of the law. That sea-mink punk was the king of the artful dodgers. By the time the Zoo Jersey State Cops finally caught up with him, he'd made chumps out of every police department from Bunnykenport to Molebile Bay...and he was always more than happy to give out advice to whoever he was hanging with."
"Seriously?" Nick's ears stood up and pointed at each other. He had heard the Bearfoot Bandit knew a thing or two about evading capture...but he'd been that good at it?
"Yeah, seriously," the fisher replied, fanning a paw. "Lemme give you an example. One time, down in Ocean City Mareland, he broke into this vacation home, planning to hole up there for a few days before moving on. It was the off season and the place was empty; but what the kid didn't know was that the owner had just put it up for sale. Long story short, the realtor showed up right when he was getting out of the shower; he had nothing on but a towel and he'd just put his clothes in the washer...AND all the closets were empty."
"Wow!" Holy foxtrot, how the heck had that crazy sea-mink kid gotten out of that one? And he must have, because he hadn't finally been busted until much later than that.
What Pennanti told the red fox next left him completely awestruck.
"Oh it gets worse Nicky. The Ocean City cops knew the Bearfoot Bandit was around-he'd burglarized a Food Lion up the coast in Delahare, just a couple of nights earlier-and they were waiting for him. In something like fifteen minutes, they had the house where he was hiding completely surrounded." He shook his head for a second, lips compressing into a tight, flat line, "But by then, Wez had already am-scrayed. There was one thing about him that the local law had forgotten; he was sea-mink, a semi-aquatic species. He ran out the back, jumped into the water, and swam all the way across Bluefish Cove to another house, where he ripped off a sailboat and headed south." Another head-shake; "He'd never sailed in his life, but he made it all the way down to Furginia Beach, where he stole a car, drove it to Wilmington North Caroliona, dumped it and stole a cabin cruiser. They found it tied up to a dock at a yacht club, down near Charleston...but by then the kid was long gone...and that was the last time anyone heard from him until three months later, down near Boarlando Furrida...where he'd been holding house parties in this vacation home he'd burgled."
"All, right, fine," Nick was raising his paws, as if in surrender. "All right, I get it; that Crazy Wez kid was Houndini Junior when it came to escaping from the law. Only how the heck is that supposed to help catch the Lewis kid?"
"Ah yes," the fisher replied, speaking in the patient voice of a Zen master addressing a novice. "If your Conor Lewis got tight with Crazy Wez while they were locked-up together-and given his history, I think he did-then QED; that sea-mink kid is likely where he picked up a few of HIS evading skills. Ergo, if you study the McCrodon kid's MO, you'll have some insight into what the Lewis boy's next move is likely to be...capisce?"
"Ohhh, right, right, right," Nick felt as if a pair of scales had just dropped from his eyes. Yes, of course...and why hadn't he seen it for himself?
To his surprise, the answer came to him almost immediately.
"I hear what you're saying, Martin, I really do...but there's some big differences between those two kids. First of all, Conor Lewis may have some PTSD issues, but-take it from someone who knows-he's anything but crazy. He's smart, calculating, and steady as a rock under pressure. I mean it, you should have seen him the first time we interviewed him. He answered every question with a demand for a lawyer, and only raised his voice once...and that was only to make sure he'd have witnesses to his demand."
"Well, THAT'S something he got from hanging with the Company," the fisher pointed out, interrupting.
Maybe so, Nick reasoned, but it wasn't pertinent, and so he answered with only a cursory nod.
"And then there's that fake release order he used to get out of jail; he didn't come up with THAT on the spur of the moment. And then, when he snuck into the ZAPA auditions...."
"The...WHAT?" Pennanti was staring bewildered.
"The Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts," the fox explained, "ZAPA...but the point is, he had that planned right down to the second...or that's what my former partner says. It's really just blind luck that she caught up with him in that theater-although don't ever tell her I said so. But that brings up something else, Marty; did that Crazy Wez kid ever attack a police officer?"
"Well, no, not as far as I know anyway," the fisher admitted, but then waved a dismissive paw, "but Wez never found himself facing down a lone cop, who couldn't call for back-up either...so it's not really a valid question."
"All right," Nick was willing to give ground on that point, but not on the argument as a whole, "but what I'm trying to say is, however much Conor might have learned from Crazy Wez, he's anything but a carbon-copy of him. And, as you just pointed out, that wasn't the end of his 'education,' either. He couldn't have worked as The Company's go-fer for as long as he did without picking up a thing or two; in fact, the more I learn about his life with that gang, the more convinced I am that he probably got his hacking skills from...from...uhhh, who was the Mister's other nephew again?"
"Kieran," Pennanti answered, cocking a helpful finger, "But yeah, I have to agree with you there. And that's actually a good thing, coz it just so happens you got someone back in Zootopia who knows more about that sea-mink's M.O. than just about anyone else on the planet."
"You mean Claudia Nizhang?" Nick asked him. He already knew but wanted to keep the fisher talking.
"The one and only," Pennanti smiled, "If there's anybody that can give you the lowdown on what the Lewis kid might have picked up from that guy, it's her-and I don't think I need to tell you that she'll be more than willing to help."
"I wouldn't doubt it," the fox replied, but then his face creased downwards in a quick frown. He was about to steer into some touchy waters...at least for him. "I don't know the full details Martin...but from what I've been told, the Lewis Boy was able to use the web to summon a whole platoon of kids to cover for him at the Academy Auditions."
"Only it backfired, and they rioted," Pennanti pointed out, raising another finger.
Nick nearly raised a rebuttal, but then stopped himself. No, he realized; the fisher was right. Conor wouldn't have wanted those kids to riot. "You know that kid better than you realize," he thought to himself, regarding his host pensively. That was when something else occurred to him, something he had yet to mention; potentially the biggest difference of all between Conor Lewis and Wes McCrodon.
"There's one other thing you may not know, Martin. Conor Lewis has a serious issue with anyone else taking the fall for something HE did. Was Crazy Wez anything like that?" Nick was more than willing to bet that he hadn't been.
He would have won big if he'd booked that wager...
"Are you kiddin' Nicky?" Pennanti replied, regarding him with a cocked eyebrow. "One time, up around Saragoata, him and this bear kid-I think his name was Toby something-broke into this summer cottage and were spotted by a neighbor, who called the cops. But first, he locked the kids inside the place; all the doors on that house were equipped with outside padlocks. Anyway, Wez found a way out through a furnace vent, but it was too narrow for his buddy to use. He promised to come and unlock the back door as soon as he made it outside, but he never did. He just ran off and left that other kid...and that's one of several examples I could give you."
Nick immediately raised a paw.
"Say no more, I get it Marty...and that's exactly the opposite of what the Lewis kid would have done. Here, let me give you an example for once." He went on to relate the gist of the fox-kid's threatening phone call to Lieutenant Tufts. Pennanti was suitably impressed, but not entirely for the reasons that the fox might have expected.
"Yea-ahhh, I see what you mean; Crazy Wez would never have gone to the mat for a friend like that." He aimed another finger, "But that's another thing your silver fox got from The Company. Those goombahs lived, ate, and slept blackmail."
"I know," Nick answered, immensely glad that he and the fisher were finally starting to operate on the same wavelength. "But let me explain what I was getting at a minute ago. What really has the ZPD worried is, thanks to all his escapades, the Lewis boy is rapidly becoming a cult figure with the other kids in Zootopia.."
"Ahhh no big deal, Nicky," Pennati fanned a dismissive paw. "Same thing happened to Crazy Wez; heck, he even had his own Furbook page. But when he finally went away, they forgot about him real fast."
"Furbook?" Now Nick was the one waving paw. "Who the heck uses Furbook anymore?"
"Well yeah, not anymore," the fisher shrugged, "but this was years ago, pal."
"Okay yeah," Nick agreed, "But tell me this. Did Wez create that page; did he ever log onto it-or was it somebody else's idea?"
"Ahhh, it was set up by some rodent kids out of Wildwood Zoo Jersey I think; Wez never posted on that page himself as far as I know." Pennanti was eyeing him curiously, "Why?"
"Because Conor Lewis sure as heck would have," Nick tapped the edge of the bench with a finger. "He's a junior cyberwarrior, that kid; even made some podcasts...and that last one...."
He went on to relate the story of the city-wide sing-a-long the young silver fox had initiated; "We're Not Gonna Take It." And, for the first time since they'd taken their seats-heck; for the first time, ever-Pennanti seemed genuinely stunned.
"Oh my GOD...and all the saints, too. Your silver fox kid has that much influence? Sheesh, no wonder you guys want his tail so bad. I had no idea, Nicky; wish you'd told me earlier."
"If I had, would you have believed me?" the red fox asked, assuming his most innocent expression.
The corners of the fisher's mouth turned downwards, "Hard to say, if you want the truth...and to be honest, even if I had believed you, I don't know where I would have gone with it." He leaned forward, clasping his fingers. "Speaking of which, I think that's about all I got to say about that tape. I'll probably think of something else later, but that's pretty much it for now."
"Uh-huh," Nick looked away for a second, tapping his index fingers together. Another awkward moment was coming, and there was no way to avoid it.
And sooo...damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.
"Martin, I don't think this is going to surprise you-and I know you're not going to like it-but I think I need to pay a visit to the Granite Point Reformatory."
"Urrrrgh," Martin Pennanti grimaced, making a noise like a stubborn lawn-mower engine. "Yeah, I kinda figured that was coming...but what you need to know Nick is that it's not gonna be so easy to arrange. Granite Point's a privately run institution, an AKER Correctional facility. And believe me; those guys don't take kindly to being scrutinized-especially by animals from an outside jurisdiction."
"Wha...?" Nick's ears went up and pointed at each other. "Private jail or not, aren't they answerable to the state of Zoo Jersey?"
Pennanti raised a cynical finger.
"Yeah...except you're not from Jersey, Nick; you're not even from the state next door. And even if you were, the honchos down there make it a point of not asking the AKER guys about how they do their business...not as long as the kids coming out of their facilities aren't going out and committing more crimes."
"Oh, right." Nick had forgotten all about AKER Correctional Management's rather enviable recidivism rates. Small wonder that the state of Zoo Jersey preferred to keep its nose out of their business. 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' as the old saying goes.
But then the fisher threw him yet another curve
"That being said Nick, I know a guy. I can't promise anything, you understand, but I'll see what I can do. In the meantime...uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't AKER run some of the correctional facilities back in Zootopia?"
"Yes, that's right," Nick answered, with his head tilting sideways, "In fact, they run most of them; why?"
"Uh-huh," Pennanti nodded knowingly, but also a little bit uneasily. "Coz if that's the case, you can have your Chief put in a formal request for access through their office in Zootopia. Between the two we just might get lucky...although I wouldn't count on it."
Ouch, ouch, and double ouch; it was all the fox could do to keep from grimacing; his companion sounded about as confident as a condemned mammal, hoping for a last-minute reprieve.
Still, to quote another old saw, nothing ventured...and all that sort of thing...
"All right Martin, I'll mention it to Chief Bogo, when I make my report," he said, and then added silently, to himself, "If he doesn't jump through the phone and strangle me first."