Anne Bishop - Written in Red

“A couple of calls about Wolf sightings yesterday,” Burke said. “You can hear them howling for miles, so people are used to that, but having Wolves gather in the Courtyard parking lot during the day is unusual.”

“I’ll check it out,” Monty said.

Burke nodded, then turned the paper he’d been studying so Monty could see it. “Your priority is the Courtyard, but keep your eyes open for this individual while you’re on patrol. Somebody wants this thief caught and the stolen items returned in a hurry, and has the clout to pull strings with the Northeast Region governor. And the governor pulled our mayor’s strings, and you know how it tumbles down from there.”

Monty stared at the Most Wanted poster and felt the blood drain from his head.

May all the gods above and below have mercy on us.

“I’m going to get copies of this made and distributed, and—”

“You can’t.”

Burke folded his hands and gave Monty a smile that was full of friendly menace. “You’re telling your captain what he can or can’t do?”

Monty pointed to the face on the poster, noting the way his hand trembled. He was sure Burke noticed that too. “That’s the new Liaison at the Lakeside Courtyard. I met her the other day.” Being wanted for the theft of something that would have somebody leaning on the governor for its return could explain why Meg Corbyn had been so nervous when he’d met her. She hadn’t been worried about working with the Wolves; she’d been worried about being recognized by him.

“Are you sure, Lieutenant?” Burke asked quietly.

Monty nodded. “The hair looks darker here . . .” A bad dye job would explain the weird orange color. “But that’s her.”

“You’ve met Simon Wolfgard. Do you think he’d hand her over to you?”

Human law didn’t apply in the Courtyards—or anywhere beyond the land the humans had been allowed to lease from the terra indigene in order to have farms and cities—and it never applied to the Others. But Simon Wolfgard ran a business and had no tolerance for thieves. Would that make a difference?

“I can stall putting out copies of this poster,” Burke said, “but I’m sure every police station received it and every other captain is going to be handing out copies to his men. So if I’m going to be the only captain defying a direct order from the mayor to apprehend this woman, you’d better give me a reason I can take to His Honor.”

“I’d like to make a copy of this and take it to Mr. Wolfgard,” Monty said. “I’ll show it to him and let him decide.”

“Just remember, that woman is the only one who knows where the stolen property is hidden. We need a live person, not a DLU. Make sure he understands that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your copy made and keep me informed.”

Monty took the poster, made his copy, and returned the original to Burke. When he finished, he found Kowalski leaning a hip against his desk.

“We’re going to the bookstore,” Monty said.

“Going to ask about the Wolf sightings?” Kowalski asked.

Monty carefully folded the Most Wanted poster into quarters and tucked it in the pocket of his sports jacket. “Something like that.”

As they drove to Howling Good Reads, Monty considered various ways to approach Simon Wolfgard with this information. He didn’t know if there was a way to get the result the mayor and governor wanted, but he did know one thing: if the Others chose not to cooperate, that Most Wanted poster could be as dangerous to the humans in Lakeside as barrels of poison were to another city a couple generations ago.

Simon pulled all the slips of paper out of the envelope and arranged them on the counter according to gard . Most were book orders from the terra indigene settlements that were serviced by the Lakeside Courtyard. A few were orders that he’d pass along to other stores in the Market Square.

Like telephones, electronic mail through the computers was a useful way to communicate when information had to travel from one Courtyard to another quickly or when dealing with humans. But terra indigene who didn’t have to deal with the monkeys had only a passing interest in electrical things, so a territory that covered three times the area of the city of Lakeside might have a dozen buildings that had phone lines and the electricity for computers. Except in emergencies, most Others still used paper when sending an order or request to a Courtyard.

A Little Bite always did a brisk business on Moonsday mornings, but HGR was usually quiet until lunchtime, which was why he set aside this time for filling orders. Retrieving a cart from the back room—and taking a moment to make sure Heather was actually working and not curled up somewhere in an effort to hide from him—Simon returned to the front of the store. After a quick scan of titles, he rolled the cart to the new-books display and filled the top shelf with a handful of each book. Then he rolled the cart back to the counter, picked up the first slip of paper, and began filling the order.

“Rubber bands,” he muttered. Rubber bands were small, useful items and were a perk that came with placing an order. Even if only one book was ordered, he sent it out with a rubber band around it.

Before he could vault back over the counter to get the bag of rubber bands, the door opened and Lieutenant Montgomery walked in.

The lieutenant and his men had been very much in sight since that first meeting last Thaisday. Not a dominance challenge or anything foolish like that. More like a quiet version of a Wolf howl—a way to say we are here. Kowalski had come in and bought a couple of the horror books the day after the arguments had closed HGR and A Little Bite.

Simon wasn’t sure Kowalski or his female was interested in those kinds of books or if it had been an excuse to look around. He had a feeling the police officer had been as relieved not to see any fresh bloodstains as the other customers were disappointed by that lack of excitement.

The lieutenant approached the counter. “Mr. Wolfgard.”

“Lieutenant Montgomery.” Simon absorbed the look on the face, the expression in the dark eyes, and the smell of nerves that wasn’t quite fear. “You aren’t here to buy a book.”

“No, sir, I’m not.” Montgomery pulled a piece of paper out of his sports coat pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the counter between them. “I came to show you this.”

His mind took in the words most wanted and grand theft , but what he saw was the picture of Meg.

He didn’t realize he was snarling until Montgomery eased away from him, a hand brushing the overcoat and sports jacket out of the way in order to reach the gun. Knowing what he would do if the hand touched the gun, he stared hard into Montgomery’s eyes. The man instinctively froze, not even daring to breathe.

Satisfied that Montgomery wouldn’t do anything foolish—at least not right now—Simon looked at the poster again.

“It’s not a fuzzy picture,” he said after a moment. “So why is there no name?”

Montgomery shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I watch your news shows sometimes. When you catch a picture of someone stealing in a store or bank and don’t know them, the picture is fuzzy. When you have a picture like that”—he pointed at the poster—“the police always know the name of their prey.”

He’d known she was running from someone. He’d known Meg Corbyn wasn’t her name. He should have let her freeze in the snow instead of taking her in. But now that she was in, what happened to her was his decision.