Claudia brought a Moscow Mule to her lips and took a sip.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I said, folding my arms behind my head. “Can't say I've had an experience like that before.”

She put her glass down and leaned in. “Hmm, yes I'd imagine many can't. Still, pretty exciting, though! You're going to have a lot of stories to tell!”

“Probably,” I said.

“You don't think so?”

I shrugged. “I mean, right now it just feels like a whole bunch of unknowns.”

She took another sip and nodded. “Sure, and that adds to the excitement, yeah?”

I shrugged again.

“Oh, come on, babe! How many unknowns did you have back in computer land, besides when the heck you'd be able to get out of there?”

“I guess you're right.”

“Um, no, you know I'm right.”

I pretended to look around the bar, trying to hide the fact that I didn't know how to respond. It was rather calm for eight o clock; clearest the music on the jukebox had ever sounded.

I’ve known Claudia for a little over two years, well before I moved to Whiskershire. Still wild to think we’d met in a little airport terminal over one of my business trips; one of the few things from that job I can say I’m truly grateful for. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to anyone in transit before then, but it was just so… natural. We’d gotten so lost in conversation, we both almost missed our flights. We exchanged numbers and, month after month, we’d talk on the phone. Month after month she’d visit me in New York, I’d visit her here, or we’d find some new little town to meet up in and explore for a weekend. When I’d made the decision to start anew, Whiskershire had quickly made its way to the top of my list of places to relocate to. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a major reason for the decision. I might be lying if I said she wasn’t the main one.

“Look at you! Spence Robson, Assistant to the Private Detective! Solving cases, catching bad guys... gosh, it all sounds so... sexy!”

“Oh?” I said, nearly choking on my drink.

“Um, yeah. Very!”

Claudia’s hair has been dyed my favorite shade of blue the entire time I’ve known her and the lights above the bar had been giving it an incredible glow. All of her, really, like someone out of a dream. Over two years in and my heart still skips a beat every time our eyes meet.

“You know what? I've got a surprise for you. Consider it a congratulatory gift.”

I tried to not choke on my drink this time. “Really?” I swallowed. “Here?”

She giggled. “Just shut up and close your eyes!”

I obeyed, and within moments, I could feel Claudia's breath hitting my nose. A wave of electricity rushed up my body as I felt her getting closer.

Then, a whisper.

“Wake up Robson…”

“… huh?”

SMACK!

My whole body shot back, causing me to bang my head against my headboard. Before my eyes could gain focus on the figure in front of them, I felt it again.

SMACK!

“Wake UP, Robson!” a familiar voice yelled.

SMACK!

I placed both hands in front of my face to block any upcoming attacks. My blurry assailant slowly came into focus between my wrists.

“Ka... D... Detective? H... how did you get...”

“You didn't answer your door, so I shimmied in via the fire escape.”

“You... shimmied...” I glanced over to the glowing digits of my alarm clock. “It's 4 AM...”

“Crime doesn't sleep in, Robson! We have a case!”

“What? Where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“No time, lad. Kindly gather your things and get decent. I believe you'll be making a few first impressions. Beauregard and I will be waiting downstairs.”

“Wait, Beauregard, your cousin? The doorman?”

“Indeed. He is a cat of many trades, Robson... Master of some, I'm sure. There will be plenty of time for questions and answers on the way. Do not dilly dally.” She started back towards the window.

“I’m going to have to request you use the front door this time, detective, if that’s okay,” I groaned, rubbing my eyes.

“Fair enough.” She turned and dashed out into the hallway.

“Oh, and Robson…” she said, popping her head back into my room.

“Hmm?”

“Who’s Claudia?”

She smirked, before disappearing.

I threw off my sheets to realize that I had fallen asleep in my clothes again.

“Off to a great start,” I grumbled.

I changed into something fresh from my closet, some brown slacks and a white button-up, and grabbed my coat from behind the door. Before heading out into the hallway myself, I walked over to the window and locked it.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

The voice made me jump as I turned the key on my front door. Beauregard Moon, dressed similarly to our last encounter with the addition of some caramel-colored driving gloves, was rubbing down the mirror of a pristine-looking, what must have been vintage, dark blue automobile with a beige cloth. The detective was pacing back and forth behind it, a cellphone pressed up against her ear.

“That sure is a lovely car,” I said.

“You could say I'm a bit of a car cat, Robson; fortunate enough to have a profession that allows me many toys.”

“Your job with the detective?”

He laughed, “Oh, no, dear boy, my real job. My participation in this little outing is more of a family favor. Lucky for all of us, my employer has also taken special interest in this case, given its nature.”

“Its… nature?” I said, confused.

“Beauregard is what you might call a professional wheelcat,” Katya's voice interrupted. She'd finished her call and was walking around the car towards the passenger-side.

He laughed, and winked in my direction. “Something like that.”

“Everyone ready?” she asked.

Beauregard nodded and opened the driver-side backseat door, motioning for me to enter. He then got behind the wheel, Katya up front beside him. I slid in and closed the door.

“Just spoke with Harper,” she said. “The scene's still fresh, but we're going to need to pick up the pace. Beauregard, I believe you know what to do.”

“Indeed, dear cousin.” He tugged on each driving glove, then turned the key. The engine began to roar like a lion.

Katya turned around. “You're going to want to buckle up, Robson.”

No more than a second after following her instructions, I was pulled back by the force of the car taking off. Beauregard shot down 2nd Street, sliding onto Main. For someone of little grace he sure could handle an automobile.

“You’re way over the speed limit!” I yelled, gripping my armrest. “We’re going to get pulled over!”

I could see him smirk in the rear view. “I’m fairly certain most of this town’s law enforcement officers are currently occupied,” he yelled back. “Dear cousin, where exactly am I going?”

“Stay put on Main until Ellison,” Katya said calmly, clearly used to her cousin’s driving, “then make a right.”

She turned to face me. “We’ve been tipped off on another instance of what now appears to be a string of art thefts, Robson. I’ve been following this one closely. This morning’s hit was the Whiskershire Museum of Modern Art. Detective Harper will have more details for us when we get there.”

The car slowed to a halt outside of the museum’s entrance. Beauregard wasn’t wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Whiskershire police force had shown up.

“Well, if it isn’t Katya Kat, Private Detective,” a voice broke through the sea of blue uniforms as we were exiting the vehicle.

“Detective Harper,” Katya shouted back, a slight smile between her whiskers. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I quickly spotted the voice’s origin, a tall, lean fellow donning a light brown trench coat over a beige khaki and white button-up combo. Somehow already sporting a five-o-clock shadow, he smiled back.

For some reason, he walked up to me first, extending an arm. “Detective Harry Harper. Very nice to meet you.”

“Spence Robson,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“You look troubled, Mister Spence Robson, is everything okay?” It felt like his blue eyes were piercing right through me… though, perhaps it was the morning chill.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like…”

He cut in. “All the time. And… Beauregard, correct? Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You are correct sir,” Beauregard responded reaching out his paw, “and the pleasure is all mine.”

“I’ve heard so many wonderful things,” Harper said, moving his hand over to Beauregard’s paw and giving it a firm shake. He looked over towards Katya. “Hey, you all want to watch a video?”

“Thought you'd never ask,” Katya said with an even bigger smile.

Harper led us under the police tape and through the crowd of under-caffeinated police officers. It was my first time seeing the Whiskershire MOMA in person. Giant white pillars lined either side of the front entrance at the end of a massive row of steps. The building clearly had history, looking more like an old courthouse than an art museum.

“As I’d been telling Katya, WPD received the call around 2 in the AM, after onsite security noticed a statue had gone missing while making their rounds. Perp appears to have made their escape through the back loading dock.” Harper opened one of the entrance doors and waved us in. “Upon closer inspection, they found this.” He produced a small tear of paper and handed it to Beauregard.

Beauregard briefly stopped in his tracks. “This is… cheese?” He passed the paper back to Harper.

“Their calling card, it seems,” Katya said.

“Correct. Ah, here we are.” Harper stopped us in front of a faded black door. “Security” had been written on an index card and taped, slightly crooked, around eye-level. Noticing it was locked, soon after jiggling the knob, he gave a rhythmic knock.

“It’s Harper,” he yelled. “I’m baaaaaack!”

The door opened to reveal a short stocky man, mustached, with an untucked black polo shirt. His eyes seemed to shoot past Harper and towards Katya, Beauregard, and myself.

“Don’t worry, Donovan, they’re with me,” Harper said as he started in through the doorway.

“It’s Vincent,” the man grumbled back.

“Oh crud, I’m sorry pal. Case of the early mornings.”

“That wasn’t even close, though,” the man said under his breath.

The room was small, dark, and lit only by the glow of a number of small black and white CRT television screens stacked on top of each other, each displaying a different location in the museum. Empty energy drink cans, paper coffee cups, and takeout boxes littered the floor around an overflowing trash can underneath a small black plastic work desk with two rolling chairs pushed up against it.

Harper sat down in one of the chairs and crossed his legs. “Don… Vincent, would you kindly show my friends here the footage you showed us earlier?”

Vincent rolled his chair over to a small console covered in knobs and buttons.

“Can do. Keep an eye on monitor number 7,” he said as he fiddled away.

Each monitor was labeled with small pieces of masking tape scribbled over in black Sharpie. We watched silently as the screen labeled “7” began playing time lapse footage of one of the museum’s many hallways.

About thirty seconds in, Katya broke the silence. “Hold on a second!”

“You noticed it too, eh,” Harper said. “Vincent, can I get a little rewind, please?”

The video whirred back with an audible hiss, then resumed.

“That statue,” Harper said, his finger pointing at what appeared to be a mouse constructed of gears and exposed pipes. “Now you see it.” The video continued until suddenly the statue vanished. “Now you don’t.”

“Vincent, lad, why pray tell was no one alerted about the presence of that contraption?” Katya asked.

“Things come in and out of this place all the time,” he answered. “I guess we all thought it was part of the new exhibit.”

“Oh come now, Modern Art is hideous, but it’s not THAT hideous,” she said. “Can you rewind the tape again?”

Vincent brought the display back to a point where the figure was still present. Katya leaned in closer.

“Well, aren’t you familiar” she said under her breath.

“Pardon?” Vincent responded.

“No time to explain, dear, there’s much to be done! Harper, I believe we’ve seen enough. Usual time, usual place?”

Harper smiled again. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We bid farewell to Harper and Vincent and made our way back out to the car. Surprisingly, even without Harper as our escort, all officers we passed just waved us on. I began to wonder how often this kind of thing happened.

“How long do you suppose they’re going to be out here?” I asked as I closed the backseat door and began buckling my seatbelt.

“Long enough to waste plenty of time and tax dollars, I’m sure,” Katya answered from up front. “We have all we need, Robson. It’s time to get to work.”

Beauregard started the car. “What the devil was that thing?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Katya responded. “Not yet anyway, but I’ve got a hunch. Back to the office, dear cousin!”

Katya brushed a mess of papers off the top of her desk and began digging through one of its drawers.

“No… no… not you… not you… aha!” She stood up, unrolling a small poster-sized paper onto her desk. It appeared to be some kind of advertisement. “Look familiar?”

Beauregard gasped. “The statue!”

“Not statue, Beauregard!” she said. “Automaton… well… a giant toy. Manufactured in limited numbers by PawsPlay Corporation in the mid-nineties.” Taking notice of our looks of bewilderment, she continued. “I may or may not have considered procuring one in my younger years.”

“… Right,” Beauregard said.

“… Interesting,” I followed.

“For research,” she then added. “Only… something is very off with this one.” She stroked her chin. “These things were never built to operate independently.”

“Or to independently take up art theft,” I chimed in, attempting to contribute something clever to the conversation. Both turned and stared at me blankly. “Sorry, please continue.”

“Not a bad career choice for the fellow, though, is it?” Beauregard said, turning to give me a small smile. “I presume someone of his stature would be able to carry quite the load.”

“Indeed,” Katya said. “But something tells me this thing hasn’t been working alone.” She rolled the paper back up and stuffed it into a pocket beneath her cape. “I’ll have a better idea when Harper fills us in further. Speaking of which, it’s time we head out, team.”

I was a bit surprised to see the meeting place in question. Beauregard’s car had stopped right outside the Wilson, the same pub where I had happened upon the ad for this job. Its etched metal signage reflected the other cars passing on the street, illuminating the mostly empty outdoor seating as we exited the vehicle and made our way towards the entrance. The place was rather empty for a Monday evening, with only a couple patrons scattered among the tables and bar. That, of course, included Harper, who had already sat himself down at a table near the corner.

“Lovely to see you all again so soon,” Harper said, raising a glass and motioning for us to join him.

“Someone started early,” Beauregard chuckled, pulling out a chair.

“With this fellow’s hours, at a time like this, you’d be too,” Katya said, as we all took our seats. “Another long one, friend?”

“You make it sound like there are short ones,” Harper laughed.

“A robo mouse art thief, huh,” Harper said, looking down at the unrolled advertisement. “Makes sense, y’know, with the cheese. That is certainly… new.”

Katya swirled her drink. “Give it time, lad. Eventually nothing shocks you.”

“Video to prove it as well,” Harper said. “Which I’ve already ensured will be readily available without hassle. I suppose you were also thinking more to come?”

“Why quit while you’re ahead?” Katya responded. Harper raised his glass again.

“Well, we’ve still got quite a few exhibitions left for this season,” he said. “Our mouse friend has options.”

“Which means so do we,” Katya said. “What can you tell us about the hits that have been confirmed so far?”

“Counting this most recent at the Whiskershire Moma, there have been three. We found calling cards at each,” Harper said, pulling a small leather-bound notepad from his pants pocket. “First, the Heathcliff, then the Bol d’eau Gallery. They seem to have a thing for sad statues and paintings.” He pushed the notepad forward. “That’s everything we’ve kept out of the papers. Yours to keep.”

“Katya put her glass down and grabbed the notebook from the table. “Hmm… and you believe that’s the link?” she asked. “Sad things?”

“Lorenzo is certain,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.

“Is he now?” Katya’s eyes remained locked on the notebook. Something appeared to be bothering her. The rest of the table appeared to be picking up on that as well.

“Everything okay, detective?” I asked.

“Pardon? Oh. Yes, Robson, all good.” She slid the notebook into her cape pocket. “My, it’s getting late, Harper. We should let you get some rest. I’d say you’ve earned it.”

Harper laughed and downed the remainder of his beer. “If only I could be so lucky.”

“At least try, yeah?” Katya stood up, pushing her chair back. “I think some rest could do us all a bit of good. Good night, Harper. Pleasure as always. Robson, Beauregard can drive you home.”

I almost told them I’d rather walk, but I decided it would be rude to not accept the offer.

The sound of creaking gears silenced as the last figure fell into place with the rest; bright red eyes dimming to a dull gray.

“Well well, old friend,” a slightly muffled voice spoke through the rustling of newspaper pages. “It appears I finally have your attention.” A single exposed bulb, flickering and dangling from the ceiling, illuminated the front page headline.

ART THEFTS CONTINUE: PRIVATE DETECTIVE JOINS CASE

“Only a matter of time.”

#katyakat #serialized #fiction

“You're kidding!”

“Not in the slightest, dear. A little sketch of a piece of cheese.”

“Good gracious me, what is the world coming to?”

Case 01: The City Stands Alone

I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the two women, presumably old friends, behind me. I doubt they noticed. My forehead had been pressed up against the bus window since I'd sat down, watching all the shops and restaurants I had yet to visit fly by in a colorful blur.

I'd say it was raining cats and dogs, but I've recently been informed that's offensive. It was pouring, though, making me dread the next step in my day's journey.

It had been a month to the day since I'd first arrived in Whiskershire. After cuts at my old job, I realized it was time for a change. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what I'd be doing when I got here. I thought the unknown would be part of the adventure. Turns out it just makes me anxious and nervous.

I was thus incredibly fortunate to have happened upon an ad in the Whiskershire Gazette at a local pub, being used as a make-shift coaster for my whiskey sour. Encircled by a wet ring, it read:

WANTED: POSITION TO START IMMEDIATELY Personal Assistant to Renowned Detective Must be Organized, Well-Groomed, and Not Allergic to Cats. Non-Negotiable.

Seemed like a welcome change from “computer repairman,” to say the least. Safe to say, any detective work I’d be seeing would be nothing like the movies, but it seemed bound to have its exciting moments nonetheless.

And hell, it was a job. Extra appealing when you don't currently have one.

The bus came to a stop about a block from the destination specified in the ad.

“This is you, champ,” the driver, an older gentleman with a rather wild mustache, called out in a gravelly voice. With the weather being as it was, there were only a few passengers on the bus, which I’m sure made it much easier to remember who was stopping where without anyone having to yank one of the cables hanging by each window.

I thanked the driver and exited out the back.

I followed the ascending house numbers until I reached the address I’d been reciting in my head since stepping off the bus.

Doubting my memory in another wave of nervousness, I pulled the torn newspaper page from my messenger bag to double-check.

522 F Friskies St.

I took a deep breath. “I guess this is it,” I whispered to myself, and began to ascend the short staircase to the front door of the three-story brownstone-esque building.

Beneath the buzzer, a metal plate with raised lettering read:

KATYA KAT: PRIVATE DETECTIVE APPOINTMENT ONLY

I could hear the buzzer echo through the building after I pressed it.

No answer.

In an attempt to avoid being rude, I opted to give it a minute or so before buzzing again.

That minute or so soon became five. I pressed down on the button once more, but before I could even hear the sound this time, the door cracked open.

“Can I help you?” a rather perturbed-sounding voice boomed through the opening.

There didn't appear to be any lights on inside the entranceway and, combined with the gloominess outside, I couldn't make out more than a tall outline of the voice's owner.

“I'm here about the Personal Assistant posting?”

“The what?”

“You posted an ad in the paper about a Personal Assistant.”

“Who did?”

”... You... did?”

“It's fine, Beauregard, they may enter,” a new voice called out from what sounded like another room. “Wipe your feet!”

The door creaked open further, fully revealing the figure behind; a Feline, covered head-to-toe in a mix of brown, black, and white fur, donning an unbuttoned navy comfort jacket over a slightly wrinkled white oxford shirt and matching navy slacks.

“You heard the lady,” he said, motioning inside and giving me room to enter. “The Detective you seek is in her study. Last door on the right.”

I walked into the dimly-lit entranceway, and down a narrow hallway towards the only open door. The walls were lined with portraits and statuettes, most of which I was pretty sure I recognized... just not as cats.

They were all cats.

The study looked like something right out of a Sherlock Holmes television special. A massive fireplace flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves faced the doorway, a small table and ornate blue velvet chairs sitting in front. The lighting situation matched the rest of the building, though everything appeared much brighter thanks to a large window in the back of the space. In front of the window, behind a cluttered walnut mid-sized writing desk, sat a tall leather office chair, back facing me and the rest of the room.

From the space between the chair and the window, a voice I’d recognized from earlier broke the silence.

“I hear you’ve discovered our little posting.”

“Yes, hello my na…”

“Hush now, just a moment!” An arm emerged from the right side of the chair, holding out a light-orange paw.

I complied, and paused for a length of time that, in another wave of nervousness, felt much longer than it actually had been. From where I stood, I could faintly make out two little squirrels darting around a tree outside the window. Our conversation resumed at almost the exact moment the two critters had scampered out of view.

“Brilliant! Where were we?”

“Whe… we haven’t started.”

“Precisely!”

“I… what?”

The chair spun around, and its occupant stood up. Another Feline, fur almost entirely covered by a full brown tweed suit and cap that allowed their ears to poke out the sides.

“You found our posting, yes?” They pushed the chair against the desk and began to walk towards me.

“Bravo! Wasn’t sure if anyone would, but I wasn’t about to pay the ghastly amount the Gazette demands for quote unquote extra visibility these days. Your name?”

“My…” I was still struggling to recover my train of thought.

“Your name, lad. Surely you have one?”

“Robson,” I replied in an almost stabilized voice. “Spence Robson.”

“Oh, you poor thing… Nevertheless, pleasure to meet you, Robson.” She extended her paw.

“Katya Kat. Renowned Private Detective. You may call me Detective Katya, and that, dear boy, is also non-negotiable.”

The gentlecat from the front door poked his head into the study.

“All is well, Beauregard,” Detective Katya shouted across the room. “Robson and I are just getting acquainted.”

He nodded, and continued down the hall.

“I see you've already met my cousin.”

“I...”

“Beauregard Moon. You'll have to forgive him. Still not used to playing doorman.”

Shortly after she spoke, a loud thump, followed by a crash, echoed throughout the hallway.

She winced. “Still not very graceful either, I'm afraid.”

“I... see.”

“So,” Detective Katya said. “Here you are. Here we are. Tell me about yourself, Robson. Where are you from? Any prior experience with detective work?”

“Well, I was born in Miami, Florida. I lived there through college and...”

“Ah, Miami, yes! Lovely.”

“Oh, you've been?”

“Goodness, no. Your major?”

“Religion and...”

“Fascinating. That's not detective work.”

”...Can that… be a major? To be completely up front with you, I don't have much detective work experience, at all, really. Your posting was the first opportunity I'd ever discovered.”

“Well,” she said, walking closer to me, narrowed pupils locked on mine. “Lucky you.”

“Pardon?”

“That's perfectly fine. You don't need detective work experience to do as you're told... unless you're a nitwit. Are you nitwit, Robson?”

”... no?”

“Marvelous. Kindly keep it that way. Now, I presume you're curious about hours. This is a role that demands you keep your schedule flexible and open. Not a nine to five in any way, shape, or form, understood?”

“Understood. I'm still fairly new to town. Not much going on.”

The Detective smirked. “Oh, there will be Robson, there will be.” She extended her paw. “Well then. welcome to the team.”

“Wait, that's it?”

“What, would you like a cup to pee in?”

“I... think I'm good.” I reached out for the pawshake.

“Spectacular! Beauregard will get you some necessary paperwork and show you the way out. We'll be in touch very soon.”

“Th... thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Yes yes, good day now.”

I turned around, rather startled to see Beauregard Moon in the doorway, large yellow envelope under his arm, motioning for me to follow.

“Oh, and Robson.”

“Yes, detective...”

“Don't disappoint me.”

I paused, then answered with the first thing that came to mind.

“You have my word.”

Chief Constable Lorenzo Black stared down at an empty coffee mug as the line to the machine inched forward. The station had grown five heads in the last year and still just one coffee machine for the lot of them. It sat about fifteen feet away from his office door, though. One of the few perks of his recent promotion.

“Things should be moving faster now, sir,” an officer holding a bear-shaped mug, filled to the brim with coffee, said as they passed. “Just put on a fresh pot.”

“Bout damn time,” Lorenzo grumbled.

The line moved up another. Two more to go. He looked to his right, noticing that he was now standing in front of the office's only copy machine. Turning the yellow tint many electronics from the late twentieth century turned, it must have been as old as the station itself. He doubted that in its entire lifespan it had ever seen the same lines as its coffee-dispensing officemate.

The morning had been off to a busy start, per usual. Only a few high-ranking officials had private offices, with everyone else occupying dark brown wooden desks scattered about an open green carpeted main area, already buzzing with chatter about ongoings and open cases of the day. Adding to the buzz, shortly after he'd turned his head away from the copier, a familiar ring echoed from nearby.

“Oh for goodness sake, is that my phone,” Lorenzo yelled out, knowing full well it was. Nobody else in the station would have chosen to set Queen's “Don't Stop Me Now” as their office ringer, and if they did, how dare they!

No response.

Not about to abandon his place in line after making it so far, he yelled out again. “Could somebody please answer that!?”

No response.

“You have my permission!”

An officer at a nearby desk sprung up and darted into Lorenzo's office, just before Freddie Mercury could inform everyone that he was having a ball.

Lorenzo couldn't hear the conversation over the chatter, though it didn't last long. The officer soon poked his head out from the doorway.

“Sir, I've got Detective Harper on the line. He says it's important.”

“Coffee is important,” Lorenzo yelled back. “Officer...”

“Hewitt, sir. Evan Hewitt.”

“I know your name, Hewitt!” (he didn't)

“He says there's been another one. Last night.”

Lorenzo's grip around the handle of his mug tightened. “Seriously!? The same...”

“Yes sir. Same MO. Same calling card.”

Lorenzo took a deep breath, then let out a frustrated sigh while running his free hand through what remained of his dusty gray hair. “You tell Harper we're sending more heads over there immediately.” He turned back around to face the coffee machine.

“Um, also sir,” Hewitt shouted back.

Lorenzo let out a another long sigh. “What!?”

“Detective Harper also wants to know if we should loop in...”

“Absolutely not! I will not have her sticking her meddlesome paws into this one.”

“But sir, don't you think she's going to find out about it any...”

“Of course I think that! Let's... just not advertise, okay!?”

“Roger, sir.” Hewitt, disappeared back into Lorenzo's office just as Lorenzo finally reached the front of the line. He looked down at the machine to see the carafe empty.

“Fucking cheese!” he yelled.

#katyakat #serialized #fiction