FEARSOME FIVE STRIKES SHUSH
The newspaper dissolved into a crinkled mass between my hands, and I threw it angrily in the trash bin beside my desk.
Damn headlines.
The boy was growing more and more bold, I had to give him that. But it was becoming necessary to put him in his place. The past few months he and his gang had been steadily chipping away at my empire. Well, this time they were biting off more than they could chew. Something had to be done to ensure that the Fearsome Five and the citizens of Saint Canard remembered who was in charge of this city. And to do that, I would need some inside information, the kind that couldn't be bought or beaten out of worthless civil servants. It was time to call in a favor.
I double and triple checked the address in my hand, then squinted across the street to make sure for the thousandth time that I was on the right corner. I was in the correct place all right, but what exactly I was looking for escaped me. What the hell did a pastry shop have to do with anything? Was it one of the places on a shakedown list? Was it the favorite pit stop of an undercover cop? I'd already interviewed the owner with absolutely nothing to show for it. At least I knew he wasn't being harassed for "insurance" payments like a few other places in town had been.
I tucked the little piece of paper in my pocket, turned up my collar, and headed home. I had so hoped that this would lead me to a case. If nothing came up soon, I'd be sleeping in a cardboard box. So much for the great Jacob Mallard.
The portal gave off a ghostly green glow as it opened a gateway to the Negaverse. I grinned as it bathed my malevolent face in the sickly, pale color. It had been a long time since I'd seen anyone from my hometown, and I was anxiously anticipating the arrival of the person traveling through. A devious plan was formulating in my mind, and she would be a crucial part of it. I knew that despite everything that had happened between us in the past, I could count on her. She was the best the Negaverse had to offer – aside from myself.
A cold wind blasted through the small backroom, chilling my feathers like a sigh of Death, but it didn't faze me. All of my attention was on the ghoulish dimensional hole.
It wasn't long before I could make out the top of an ebony head rising out of the frothy green swirls. My grin broadened as my eyes traveled over her sleek, feminine figure as she emerged bit by bit. It had been some time since my green eyes had pierced her irises.
"I have a job for you, my dear," I crooned darkly.
She returned my stare balefully. "It had better be worth my time."
A twisted smile crossed my beak. "It will be worth more than your time, I assure you…"
"…and in other news, Chief Agent Gryzlikoff of SHUSH was murdered last night in his single-bedroom apartment in the Northern Shoveller Complex, just hours after he returned home from work."
Though normally the voice of Tom Lockjaw grated on my nerves, there were a few times when he actually caught my attention rather than repelled it. This was such a time.
I'd known Agent Gryzlikoff. Not very well, but I'd still known him. Always did things by the book, extremely wrapped up in his work, no personal life of which to speak. I had always had a sneaking, underlying suspicion that it was for those reasons that my longtime friend J. Gander Hooter had made old Gryz the Chief Agent in the first place. They could identify with one another.
"Police have no suspects thus far in the killing, but rumors have been flying around the city linking the SHUSH agent to public enemy and malcontent Jake Mallard. The investigation is still pending. We will bring you more, as the news develops."
Immediately ideas began to swim through my muddled mind, but the jarring voice of the reporter kept intruding. He was blathering something about the unveiling of some exotic whatchamacallit at the museum in a week or so. I turned the set off to let my mind calculate in piece. I missed Bionca Beakley. Now she had a voice.
An hour later I was infiltrating the crime scene, slyly making my way through the yards of yellow police tape and past officers with better things on their minds like how far away the nearest doughnut shop was. I applauded myself for my ability to slip into places without detection.
"Mallard!"
Oh, great.
I turned around coolly to gaze at my old friend.
"Hello, John. I didn't expect the director to be pulled out of his office for a murder. Usually it's something much worse like anthrax or terrorism."
The gander stared at me with a pursed bill. Apparently he didn't see the humor in the situation.
"Agent Gryzlikoff was one of our finest," he began in a huff, but I decided that was a boring subject.
"And how was our, ahem, rotund friend bumped off?"
"Shot through the head – twice. Pointblank."
I winced. "That's gotta hurt."
"We've retrieved the bullets. We should have results soon." Then he turned toward me, his back stiffening. "Now I'll thank you to leave this crime scene. You're trespassing on SHUSH business."
He never let me have any fun where SHUSH was involved. Still, a mallard's gotta try.
I sneered as Steelbeak was escorted into my office.
"Search him," I said smoothly, leaning back in my overlarge leather chair while Bushroot and Megavolt patted Jake's lackey down.
Steelbeak worked for F.O.W.L., but I knew he was on Jake Mallard's payroll as well. Most everyone had a duel check coming in these days.
"He's clean, boss," Bushroot reported tentatively. The knob was always terrified of me. In fact, they all were. I liked that in a gang.
"Leave us," I ordered darkly as I sat up. The two henchmen scrambled out the door.
Steelbeak regarded me coolly, but I could tell I intimidated him. I could practically smell fear underneath that cloud of cheap cologne he wore. A slow, venomous grin curled across my bill.
"I'm here wit' a message from Jake Mallard," he announced in that irritatingly pinched voice of his.
"No kidding," I drawled carelessly. Unlike his, my voice had the distinct quality of sending shivers through spines like nails on a chalkboard. "Let me guess. 'This town's not big enough for the two of us,' heh."
"He wants ya ta stay offa his toif, or else. Capishe?"
"Or else what? What's the old man gonna do, cane me to death?" I chuckled.
Steelbeak was growing visibly frustrated with my glaringly superior wit. I grinned, satisfied.
"He's gonna start pickin' youse guys off, one by one. I'd watch my back if I was you."
"And I'd watch your front!" I pulled a large Uzi from behind my desk. Steelbeak stiffened. I had deadly aim and he knew it. I could have shot him right then as a message to my sorry excuse for a father, but I decided it would be much more fun to watch the metal-mouth scurry out of my office with his tail feathers between his legs.
The blast rocked the building, sending mortar and plaster raining down from the ceiling. Quackerjack burst through the door to see whether or not I'd been assassinated. The hopeful glint in his eyes died when he saw that I was the triggerman.
Steelbeak stood before the gaping hole in front of him, and had he had a normal beak, his nostrils would have been filled with the stink of gunpowder. I loved that smell. In fact, I thrived on it. It sent a wild rush of madness through me.
"Tell your boss," I said evenly, "that he should enjoy the view from his throne while he can. There's going to be a new King of Crime in St. Canard very soon."
By then the F.O.W.L. agent had regained his composure, and he glowered at me as he dusted off his Armani suit.
"Ya shoulda stayed away from SHUSH, Negs. You're gonna pay big time."
He disappeared from my view (and my aim), and I started cackling. His petty threats didn't scare me, and neither did my second-rate crime boss of a father. It was time to put my old man in his place – six feet under.
The thought reminded me of something, and I pushed the button just under my desktop. The wall behind me slid open to reveal my hostage.
I came toward her, ignoring her muffled snarls, and ran my fingers gruffly through her black hair before I grabbed a fistful and yanked her head back.
As I stared into her fearful eyes, I grinned in triumph. It wouldn't be long now.
I jiggled the doorknob fiercely as the lock pick squirmed inside the miniscule hole. My ear pressed firmly against the door, I waited in anticipation for the soft "click." It seemed like I had been jimmying the lock for ages before at last I heard the sound I'd been waiting for.
With a self-congratulatory smile, I let myself inside of Gryzlikoff's apartment, set on completing my own search of the crime scene. Naturally the police had searched the immediate areas around the body, but my years on the force told me the more extensive searches were usually less-than-thorough, not to mention that half of the police force had their pockets filled with illegal bribes. Hypocrites. It was the main thing that had driven me to strike out on my own. That and all the damn paperwork.
My scrutiny led me from one end of the apartment to the other. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the bath – even Gryzlikoff's home office offered up no clues for the motive behind his murder. Perhaps it was simply vengeance for someone he'd put away. Such things were common in St. Canard. That was why it was so dangerous to be one of the few honest men left – and even I had my moments. But the ends always justified the means.
I had just about given up hope of finding anything that might lead me to a paycheck when my foot caught the edge of the rug and my body was pitched forward awkwardly. Grumbling, I sat up to inspect my twisted ankle when I caught a glimpse of something that brought an excited spark to my black eyes. In an instant I was on my hands and knees, shoving back the disgustingly spotless rug to reveal a small trap door, no wider than two boards and three hand lengths in the hardwood flooring.
"Well, well," I crooned to myself. "What have we here?"
My wizened fingers removed the precisely cut boards with a deft swiftness that only came from years of experience, and eagerly I removed the contents of the compartment.
It was a folder, jammed up with so many papers that its edges were beginning to tear and its middle bulged like the Chief of Police's gut. The first handful of pages I removed all had the SHUSH logo printed at the top. My gaze scanned down for more, and below those I discovered bank statements. Each page held a puzzle piece, and it wasn't long before they all fell into place. I lifted my eyes, staring across the room at nothing at all.
"Son of a gun…"