This chapter proofread by AngloFalcon. Thanks a million!
"Suspicion often creates what it suspects."
C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
Judy faxed the highlights of Ramses' file to the city court, hoping to get a warrant on Olivia's factories and farms.
"Ah, the glamorous life of a cop," Nick quipped when she returned to the meeting room. He was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head and his ears at a lazy half-cocked sort of angle. "Traffic stops, paperwork..."
Judy huffed, dropping her ears back. "Nick, let's take this seriously, okay? Remember, this case could make or break your chances with the ZPD – and you already have a history that's got you at odds with Bogo."
"Funny you should mention that," he replied, tilting forward until his weight rested on his arms, which he crossed casually on the table. "You missed something; something big."
"What?" Judy looked around, pricking her ears up alertly as she tried to figure out what he meant. "Where?"
He studied his claws. "You're slipping, bunny," he teased, thoroughly enjoying the moment. "Got a guy right in front of you with networking skills that would put the internet to shame, and you need this explained to you?"
Judy's face lit up. "Let's go!" she exclaimed. She reached into her pocket for her cruiser keys, only to find them inexplicably gone.
Nick smirked and held up one paw, swinging the keys on a finger.
"Hey!" Judy snapped.
"Ha ha," he laughed. "Got-"
Suddenly the keys were in Judy's paw, and she had him by the tie. "You blinked. Come on, rookie – and stay out of my pockets."
"…cha."
Their first stop was a shopping plaza in Sahara Square, not far from the Palm Tree Hotel. According to Nick, the area was one of Finnick's favorite hangouts.
Sure enough, they found the van parked between a beverage shop (one of many in the area) and a thrift store. The former looked almost as if it had been carved out of a single piece of stone, with wavy walls in thin lines of strata in varied hues of red, yellow, and brown. Even the sign was carved from a slab of stone, with the letters carved down into a layer lighter in hue than that of the surface. About the only thing about it that looked like it hadn't come out of Baaadrock was a little sign with changeable letters reading, "Special of the Day: Coconut Water." The thrift store was of more modern build with clean-cut cement walls, a neon sign, and a notice in the window that they were having a special on male clothing. Its effort to look new was somewhat spoiled, as the paint had suffered from wind-blown sand.
Judy glanced at Nick. "You must come here a lot too," she quipped, jerking a thumb at the sign in the thrift store.
The fox folded his arms. "I thought you ladies appreciated a good sale. Come on, let's go see Finnick before-"
A gust of wind peppered them both with sand.
"... the wind picks up?" asked Judy when it had died, leaving both of them looking a good deal more beige.
"Let the record show you slowed us down with the crack about how I dress," Nick pointed out as he strode to the back of the van and knocked. "By the way, duck."
"Why-YEE!?" yelped Judy, heeding Nick's advice just in time. The opening door was followed almost instantly by a swinging baseball bat.
"Easy, Finnick," Nick laughed, standing up straight again and catching the weapon before Finnick could do the back swing. "It's just me and Carrots saying hi."
"Nick? What the heck, fox! Give the password next time. I coulda took you out!"
Nick smirked. "Just giving Carrots her daily reflex check."
"Nick!" Judy cried, smacking him on the arm. "You didn't tell me he'd be so jumpy this time." She'd met Finnick and his bat before when she was trying to find Nick, but the last time he'd asked questions first and swung later – or rather, not at all.
"Oh, he's always a little grumpy this time of day." Nick raised a fist to bump with his old pal. "How you doing, buddy?"
Finnick put aside the bat, and the two foxes bumped knuckles. "So what you doin' here this time?" he wanted to know.
Nick shrugged. "Business," he replied casually. "Mind if we discuss it inside?"
The fennec fox threw a skeptical glance at Judy, then stepped back and waved them in.
Nick climbed in first, then extended Judy a paw which she passed up for dignity's sake. "Thanks. By the way, proper introductions; Finnick, my little friend here's Judy Hopps, and Carrots, my very little friend here is Finnick."
Finnick glowered at Nick. "You're never gonna let that joke die, are you?" He apparently didn't think it worth pointing out that he and Judy had already met.
Judy surveyed the van's interior as she chuckled at their banter. The seats had been pulled out, and most of the floor had been covered with shag carpet. The windows were tinted, making the whole interior feel cool and shaded – an effect which, combined with a few posters on the ceiling, conjured images of a night club or a college dorm room. A little electric cooler hummed in one corner, and a flat area with some loops in the wall alongside it, she guessed, showed where the foxes had once hitched the wagons for their popsicle sticks.
It occurred to Judy that she might have to re-think some of her habits. She might be working for the greater good, but could she really consider herself an honest cop if she consulted with known criminals? Then there was that business with Mr. Big; she'd have to figure her way through that too. On the other hand, this might not be the best time for it.
Finnick reached into the cooler. "What flavor pop you want?" he asked.
"Usual," Nick replied.
Judy wasn't even sure what brand of 'pop' Finnick meant, but decided to just follow Nick since he at least knew what they were doing. "Whatever he's having."
Finnick pulled out two bottles of blueberry soda and passed them to Nick before he pulled out a cherry one for himself. Popping the cap with his teeth, he extracted it by paw from his mouth and flicked it aside. "So," he asked, "Whatcha want?"
Nick used a small protrusion on the interior of the van to pop both caps, then handed one bottle to Judy. "Following leads on the fuss with ex-mayor Bellwether," he replied. "You know anything?"
"Who doesn't?" asked the miniature fox, still glancing warily at Judy. They hadn't talked much even when she came to ask him where Nick was less than a week before, and he was still cautious around her in light of her chosen occupation. "What kinda leads we talkin' here?"
Nick gestured to Judy, who took that as her cue to start talking. "Well, when Nick and I found the operation, we managed to apprehend Bellwether and two accomplices. At least three are unaccounted for, and we have reason to believe she had other suppliers besides the guy we also nabbed."
"Duke Weaselton," Finnick concluded.
"You know about that?"
Finnick smirked. "Fox-boy here's not the only one who keeps his ear to the ground." Catching the look on Nick's face, he added, "And I don't have to bend down so low to do it."
Nick pretended to be annoyed. "Darn it, you stole my joke."
"It's not stealing if it's worthless," Finnick quipped. "So you came here lookin' for information. Well, I got nothin' – not even for Nick."
Judy had a sneaking suspicion that the fennec wouldn't be so tight-lipped if she weren't around, but decided not to say anything.
"Well, would you mind keeping your ears open? Maybe getting into a few places we can't?" asked Nick.
From the look on Finnick's face, Judy was beginning to wonder if laughing at Nick's predicament when she forced him to help her was the only time the little fox ever smiled.
"I've been pretty busy just trying to keep gas in the van since you split the popsicle business," Finnick replied with a shrug. Then, seeming to lighten just a fraction, he added, "But I guess I could do you a favor for old times' sake."
Nick smiled. "Thanks, buddy – and talking of gas money, there's a reward out for any info leading to these guys' arrest." He handed Finnick a collection of photos of the known suspects, with a bill slipped in for good measure.
Finnick noticed the money, and he did smile a little. "Hey, copper," he asked Judy, "would you mind giving us a minute to ourselves? We've got catching up to do."
Judy got up and showed herself out. Finnick checked the window to see if she might be listening, then looked at Nick.
"So you've really thrown in with the fuzz, huh?"
Nick had been afraid it would come to this. The truth was, he still wasn't entirely sure about the career change – and between Bogo's remarks earlier and what he expected his old friend was about to say, his limited confidence was slipping. "I'm helping her out," he said evasively. "Being an informant has its benefits."
"To the tune of $200 a day?" asked Finnick, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Nick. Only fools go into that for the cash, and they usually don't last long, if you get my drift."
Thank you for summing that up, thought Nick. He already knew all too well that there were several crime bosses who'd gladly give him the same kind of 'cold shoulder' Mr. Big nearly did. Still, he wasn't about to let his guard down. "Hey, Carrots thinks I can make it."
"You mean she thinks you can change," Finnick argued, "or that she can change you." He spoke with absolute confidence that this was what Judy had planned. There was no question in his mind that the bunny was trying to make some kind of convert out of Nick. "The question is, do you want that?"
Martial artists sometimes practiced the trick of wearing their opponent down with a series of small, well-placed blows to throw off their balance before toppling the foe. Finnick, intentionally or not, was applying much the same approach to their conversation.
Nick, however, was no slouch when it came to verbal MMA either. "Are you worried about me changing," he asked pointedly, "or are you worried about us changing?"
That gave Finnick pause. Of course there was the fact that, if he did become a cop, Nick might be required one day to arrest Finnick. Another aspect of their dilemma, however, went deeper. There was a certain truth among those involved in unscrupulous business, which nearly all of them knew but few ever admitted, even to themselves. No criminal had anything against those who engaged in honest professions – provided that the profession in question didn't get in the way of the crook's line of work. At best, the criminal could laugh at the honest folks behind their backs, fancying himself to be of a higher class who did not let themselves be confined by society's concepts of right and wrong. He might convince himself that if the lowbrows working nine to five had the imagination, the guts, or the intelligence to hack it outside the law, they'd do it in a heartbeat, or tell himself that they simply didn't know what they were missing. At worst, they could be shrugged off. 'Nice that they can live without breaking the rules,' the crook might say, 'but it's not for me.'
Finnick had never been especially good at such defense mechanisms. Mammals like Nick – mammals who had lived in the dark and then embraced the light – made it harder still. They presented an uncomfortable reality: honest living was possible for anyone, if they were willing to do it. When it was someone talented and sly like Nick, the old lie that crooks were in any regard superior to everyday Joe Schmoes fell apart. A crook who went straight was like one of those guys in advertisements who said, 'If I can do it, you can do it,' and they inexorably begged the question: 'So why don't you?'
Deep down, Finnick was not as comfortable with his life as some crooks as many others in society's underbelly. His conscience was burned somewhat, but not 'seared with a hot iron' as his old mother would have said. Maybe that was what stopped him from considering this a personal blow; an attack not just on his career, but on his identity. Still, the pragmatic question remained. "And what if the big cheese tells you to bring me in, huh?" he asked.
Nick shook his head. "I can figure that out when I get to it," he argued. "The police haven't thrown me a mess yet that I couldn't slip out of."
Finnick folded his arms. "Until now, you didn't play their way."
The conversation didn't really go much of anywhere beyond that, and finally Nick just let his shoulders slump. "Look, buddy, this doesn't have to change things between us. Even if we're not in business anymore, we can still be friends, right?" He stuck out his paw to shake.
Finnick hesitated, then shook Nick's paw. "Alright," he conceded. "But you come here with pawcuffs..."
Nick's smile suddenly fell into a dead serious expression. "That's not gonna happen," he promised.
Each of them knew full well that they were making promises they might not be able to keep.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Olivia Poisson's house, a cell phone rang. The owner picked up. "What is it?"
"Judge just got a warrant request on Pwasson's Passions," answered a shaky voice.
"Is that so? Has the judge seen it yet?"
"No. The fax came while she was out of the office."
A grim sigh – possibly weary or possibly content – came through the phone line. "Very good. I'm sure you can file it... appropriately."
"Consider it done." Just before the call ended, there was the sound of a paper shredder.
Well, now who do you suppose that was?
Special thanks for this chapter go to my friend ArmedKevin117 (I dont know if he has a profile on here, but he uses that name elsewhere) and AngloFalcon for proofreading, and to Roboboogie for his interest and information on chemistry and police work.