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Avenue, my cell buzzes.
    “This is Karl Richards,” a man says, “of Richards Heating & Air-Conditioning.” He informs me that Timothy from Home Post Office called him to say I swung by and invites me to compare notes on my sister’s whereabouts.
    The connection is sketchy. I can’t make out every fourth word.
    “Meet me at this address,” Richards concludes, rattling it off. “It’s a warehouse. Say, half an hour?” He ends the call.
    I slow to a stop at Live Oak Street. Ruby is missing, apparently suspected of murder. Perfect strangers want to chase me with werebears, turn me in to the local cops, and lure me to remote buildings.
    This country boy’s no idiot. It’s past time I figured out what’s going on.

AT SANGUINI’S BACK EXIT, Aimee says, “We lost him.”
    I should’ve never left the chair behind. I would’ve been faster on wheels. “We’ll call the Dillos, Zaleski, patrol the neighborhood. If Yoshi’s looking for Ruby, he won’t stray far. She was last seen on Academy —”
    Just then Sergio bursts through the crimson drapes into the hall. He checks the manager’s office, sees that it’s empty, and begins, “What happened to —?”
    “He got away,” I explain. “Aimee and I are going after —”
    “No,” Sergio says. “Whatever it is, no, you’re not. At least not right now.”
    I gape. “But —”
    He pats my shoulder. “You have jobs to do here.”
    Sergio tightens his ponytail and heads into the kitchen. I’m not sure how much he knows about Travis’s murder and Ruby’s part in it. But Sergio’s a smart guy, a “people” person, and humans have instincts, too.
    “Can you cover for me at the sink?” I ask.
    “One sec.” Aimee ducks into the office and returns with a pen. “Yoshi has Kansas license plates,” she informs me, writing the number on my hand.
    “You memorized his license plate?” I exclaim. I didn’t even think of that.
    “I’m not a car person, but it’s a long body style from the sixties or seventies,” she goes on. “Turquoise. The paint looks new. Coming out of the lot, he turned south at the alley.”
    “Got it,” I say. “This will help a lot.” I grin. “Aimee, I could just kiss you.”
    “Really?” she replies, preening. “What are you waiting for?”
    I wish she wouldn’t joke around like that, but I guess I started it. “Tell Sergio I’ll just be a minute.” Gesturing toward the john, I add, “I’m going to call Zaleski.”
    On her way through the swinging kitchen door, Aimee warns, “Three minutes.”
    Detective Zaleski is a werebear, somehow related to the restaurant’s MIA bouncers. They’re his nephews or cousins or something.
    Given that human cops don’t tend to pursue shifter-on-shifter crimes, he and his partner make such cases an unofficial priority. They’re our system within the system.
    I wait until the guy in the ass-less black leather pants washes up and leaves, double-check to make sure the stalls are empty, and make the call.
    Once I’ve filled him in, Zaleski asks, “How about the kid himself? Height? Weight? Coloring?”
    I close my eyes, conjuring up a mental picture. “Not quite six foot. He’s in good shape — like he’s worked construction . . . or on a farm. You can tell he’s Ruby’s brother, but his eyes are brown, not green. Oh, and he has a serious affection for product.”
    “Product?” the detective asked.
    “Hair gel,” I clarified. “He’s one smug, country-fried SOB. He has on a blue Western shirt and faded jeans, torn at the knee. In shift, his fur darkens to almost black.”
    “You saw him in Cat form?” Zaleski exclaims. “In the restaurant?”
    “Only partly, and not in a public area,” I reply. “Face, teeth, and claws. He retracted it before anyone except Aimee and I got a good look at him.”
    The detective beeps off without saying thank you, but I know he’s grateful to finally have something solid to gnaw on.
    Werepeople avoid hospitals. Our birth