Rev had come through. They had a name for their remaining suspect-Sada Basu-and a location.
For decades, one of the most remarkable features of the city of Zootopia had been its massive climate wall, allowing the desert and arctic climates of Sahara Square and Tundra Town to coexist adjacently. Long an irritant the the environmental lobby, the massive wall, fitted with the largest air conditioners ever constructed, was nonetheless considered an engineering miracle, and a tourist destination in and of itself. Mammals arriving in the city by train were treated up close to a display that rivaled the most elaborate pyrotechnics or air shows-snow blowers hundreds of feet high, coupled with red-hot exhaust that caused the air to ripple like water. The base of the wall was a no-mammal's-land, an undeveloped expanse of icy forests on one side and searing dunes on the other. Slightly further out were the extreme weather precincts-nearly-but-not-quite-inhospitable, and home to some of the roughest neighborhoods in Zootopia.
Glacier Heights was one such neighborhood-perpetually snowed-in and nearly frozen, perched at the top of a three hundred foot snowbank (and surrounded by a chain-link fence at the behest of the city after the fifth fatal fall in as many years). The tiny outpost had little to offer besides a decent pancake diner and a cathouse with central heating. If nothing else, residents could say, the rents were low. And it was a place mammals could go to disappear-provided they could make it through the nights.
The neighborhood was also virtually inaccessible. The only road access was a single two-lane blacktop that snaked and zig-zagged precariously up the side of the snowbank. The road was steep, littered with eroded snow piles and patches of ice. Merely reaching Glacier Heights by car was a challenge. Doing so in large numbers-say, a fleet of police cruisers-without giving ten minutes' advance notice to the town's inhabitants was downright impossible.
In short, a perfect place for their wayward tiger to go to ground.
Nick Wilde shivered and hugged his arms around himself, never more grateful for the faded green windbreaker and knit cap that was tugged over his head and ignominiously forcing his ears down to the sides. He was riding shotgun-literally, as it happened-as Wolford guided their twenty-year-old confiscated van up the side of the embankment. Nick risked a peek out the window, down the cavalcade of treacherous switchbacks, and tried not to imagine what might happen if they spun out on a corner, or part of the embankment gave way (something Lionheart's transportation commissioner had assured the city would never happen. Again). Bogo would have to fish their frozen bodies out of a van marked "Mammal Movers" at the bottom of the river. It wasn't the way Nick had hoped to go, although what with the various van-adjacent misadventures in his past life, it wouldn't have been out of the question.
Fortunately, Wolford was a better driver than Finnick, taking the switchbacks in low gear, with enough speed to carry them through the steep turns without losing control. The wolf was quiet, too, his normal abrasiveness much diminished, and his eyes fixedly on the road.
It would have been a welcome change if not for those subtle canine hints-ears ticked back a few degrees, a harsher scent-that Wolford was not all good underneath. His posture was tense, too, paws gripping the wheel too tightly. Nick wasn't sure if it was the circumstances-the looming possibility of catching up to the real guilty party-or Wolford's whispered-of meeting with Bogo, from which he'd reportedly emerged looking like a kicked puppy. Maybe both. Even Nick, who could run his mouth better than anyone, knew better than to press. Still, though...
"Hey, Fenrir."
"What?"
"What do you call an elephant in a phone booth?"
"What."
"Stuck."
Wolford didn't laugh.
"That's a good joke, Wilde."
"Sorry, buddy. Usually has 'em howling."
Nick allowed a pregnant pause, gazing at Wolford with a shit-eating grin on his muzzle.
"Howling," he repeated, "because-"
"I get it."
"Okay."
They were silent again as the van juddered its way around the final switchback and past the chain fence into the town proper. Wolford located a parking space and deftly eased them into it, while Nick thumbed on the radio.
"One-Zebra-Three is 10-97, central. Just about ready to begin that sweep."
"All good, Zebra-Three. Air One is standing by."
Air One was one of the half dozen helicopters maintained by the ZPD. They'd gotten authorization to fly it here, expensive as it was. But the thudding roar of a police helicopter over a tiny enclave would be a bit too conspicuous, so Air One sat warming its engines on a pad a few minutes away. Like the rest of Nick and Wolford's backup, just a little too far for comfort. But they had orders, and they'd make do with what help they had.
"Copy, central. Zebra-Three going wireless."
He clicked off the radio entirely, stuffing it into the glovebox where it'd be out of sight, then put a paw to the ruff of fur around his throat. There was a tiny wireless lavalier mic clipped there, carefully hidden under layers of fur. A receiver was nestled deep at the base of his ear, tuned to their operational channel.
Nick clicked on his lavalier mic and watched Wolford to the same. They were now broadcasting every word back to Central, so colorful bickering was discouraged.
It was starting to snow
"You look like a cop, Fenrir," Nick said, unable to resist, as they unbuckled and shoulder-checked their doors open.
Wolford ignored him.
"I'm serious, bud. You're too old to wear a baseball cap backward. You look like a cop."
The radio crackled. "This is Mobile One," came a coolly measured voice. "Turn your hat around, Wolford."
Wolford snorted, blasting a cloud of vapor, and yanked the hat around. Lieutenant Azzaby was the field commander on this operation, sitting in an operations trailer at the foot of the hill, and Nick's new partner knew better than to back-talk him.
"We hear you, Mobile One," Nick returned, since Wolford was sulking.
The main thoroughfare, Tioga Street, calved off from the access road and ran parallel for a single block before rejoining it. There were few buildings to speak of in Glacier Heights-a number of small houses, a gas and general goods store, a suspicious-looking motel, and a dive bar. At the far end of the street was chain fence about ten feet high, with a padlocked gate. On the other side of the gate was a shack marked "Ken's Snowmobile Rental," which appeared to have only one snowmobile. Any mammal suicidal enough to ride out into the frozen forest beneath the climate wall was welcome to it, Nick decided.
The dive bar was simultaneously their best and worst option, in Nick's estimation-somewhere the tiger might indeed be, but also the most likely to send wagging tongues throughout the town if two canids showed up asking nosy questions. The inn, which was almost certainly a cathouse, seemed a better place to start. Attempted murderers had to sleep somewhere.
"Let's check out that bar over there," Wolford decided. Nick rolled his eyes, but the other officer was many years his senior on the force. The fox nodded and followed down the sidewalk, adopting the slinking gait he'd used so much as a street hustler, that Judy had spent months trying to train him out of. He'd learned to affect the straight-backed swagger of the bigger cops, but it was easy enough for the fox to slip out of. Wolford couldn't seem to avoid walking like a beat cop.
They passed a few mammals on the street, so bundled-up as to be barely recognizable by species. Not tigers. Hats, scarves and fur were beginning to collect a layer of snow. Nick brushed at his jacket, prompting a choked curse from the radio as one of his paws swatted too near the hidden microphone.
"Sorry," he whispered.
The dive bar-"The Bear's Cave," according to the sign-looked old and impossibly sturdy, built from massive cuts of lumber. It was well insulated, too-something Nick noticed as they hustled through the large door and out of the snow.
The second thing he noticed was that it was well-frequented-maybe two dozen rough-looking mammals were seated at the bar and at tables. A surly-looking she-wolf stood behind the bar, wiping glasses with a thoroughly dirty apron. She gave the two an appraising glance as they approached the bar, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
"Give me a Cloven," muttered Wolford. The bartender nodded and raised her eyebrows at Nick. He scanned the menu.
"Just give me...can I get the salted crickets?"
"No."
Nick forced down a laugh at the refusal. "No?"
"We're out," she said. "We have drinks."
"Maybe in a bit." He flashed her his most ingratiating smile.
Wolford got his drink and they found a table by the window, with a good view of the door and the other customers. They carried on some light conversation-mainly Nick needling the wolf about his taste for prey-branded beers-while surreptitiously scanning the room.
The clientele skewed heavily predator-a mix of bears, wolves, raccoons, and a couple of scarred old foxes. The two officers weren't as conspicuous here as they would have been in some neighborhoods.
"It's in the name, Cloven, Fen-"
"It's got *cloves* in it," Wolford grumbled.
"Okay, first of all, that's disgusting. Second of all-do you have a piece of paper?"
Wolford rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap, sliding it to Nick's beckoning paw.
"Second of all," Nick continued, searching his own jacket for a pen, "it's a pun. On, you know, hooves-how can you not get that."
"Not every name in this goddamn city is a pun on something, Wilde. What are you writing?"
Nick was, in fact, writing "what times your shift end," and drawing a little winking fox face. He spun the paper toward his partner.
"That's not nice," Wolford said, face twisting.
"Maybe I think she's charming," Nick argued. "Or is it the miscegenation you're worried about?"
"You're a slimeball."
"I know." Nick winked as he folded the note inside a pair of twenties. "I'm gonna go get a White Fang. You know, a drink for predators."