Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once More, With Feeling

“You won’t shrink back?”

“A friend does not shrink back.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Let’s go.”

-Oretes and Pylades, Euripedes

The Prologue, In Which Promises Are Kept

“Gone,” said Inspector Koichi Zenigata.

The single word rang throughout the empty cell. It hit the steel walls and reverberated back tenfold, washing over the group of men present. Goro Yatagarasu winced. He stood at Zenigata’s back, out of the way both the ugly echo and Zenigata’s withering glare.

The prison warden, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He coughed and shifted, clearly working to maintain composure against Zenigata’s stoic fury. The small crowd of prison guards present shuffled in place, looking anywhere save Zenigata and their superior.

Zenigata stared past them all, eyes burning a hole in the empty gray cell. Yata followed his gaze. It was a sad little space, bereft of anything but the most basic amenities. It was easy to picture a long-legged thief pacing in circles along those plain gray walls. Easier still to picture the same long-legged thief plotting his way out of it. No cell like this could hold a bored thief for long.

“How long has he been gone?” Zenigata was saying. He spoke slowly, as though talking to a particularly dense fellow…or as though trying to keep a furious rush of words behind a dam of courtesy.

Or both.

The warden took off his hat and wiped his brow. “No more than twelve hours, Inspector Zenigata. We swear. Once we realized he was missing—”

“Twelve hours,” Zenigata said, tone clipped. He glanced down, finally making full eye contact with the cringing warden. “A criminal thief charged with multiple international accounts of grand larceny, and he was gone for twelve hours before anyone noticed.”

“I—”

“Do you know how far a man like that can go in twelve hours?”

Yata furrowed his brow. He stared at Zenigata, but did not dare question his superior in front of strangers. Instead Yata folded both arms over his narrow chest, emulating Zenigata’s cold expression as the warden listed excuse after excuse. Zenigata waited for the man to run out of justifications and breath. Only then did he speak, in his own brisk, businesslike tone:

“Agent Yatagarasu and I will take it from here. Though Interpol will doubtless have questions about the security of this prison.” He turned away from the warden once more, frowning at the empty cell. “We’ll be borrowing your office, Warden.”

“Yes, of course,” said the warden, plainly relieved to have Zenigata’s attention elsewhere. “Whatever you require, Inspector.”

Yata had the good sense to wait until the warden and his prison guards had left to voice his doubts. Only when they were alone did he step out from behind Zenigata. He copied his superior’s stance: arms folded over his thin chest and eyes set on the sad little cell. “Sir…with all due respect…”

“Which means you’re about to say something disrespectful,” Zenigata said. Nevertheless, a smile—the first in hours—cracked his otherwise stern expression. He crooked a finger towards Yata when the younger man hesitated. “Out with it.”

“Is all of this necessary?” Yata asked in a low voice. “I mean—this isn’t Lupin the Third we’re talking about—”

Zenigata arched an eyebrow.

“—it’s Oliver Renard.”

“And?”

“And…well…he’s not exactly a threat, is he?”

Four months. For four months, Oliver Renard had been languishing in a French prison while legal proceedings began against him. Four months of relative peace and quiet. Four months of assuming Renard was too weak and too wounded to be worth their time…or Lupin’s.

The last Yata had seen of the nascent thief who was Lupin’s biggest fan, he was being loaded into the back of an ambulance on his way to prison. Handcuffed to the gurney, Yata recalled, although he’d been unable to stand upright without assistance. Renard had managed one little smirk in Yata’s direction, but he’d otherwise been quiet and withdrawn.

He’d been defeated, they had all assumed, by his own hubris and a bullet to the back.

So much for that, Yata thought as he cast his eyes around the empty cell. But that didn’t make Renard a threat. Four months was not nearly enough time to recover fully from his injuries, and Renard did not have the years of experience Lupin did went it came to breaking out of prisons. It was quite likely he was crumpled in an alley a few blocks over.

Zenigata did not respond to Yata’s observation immediately. Instead, he walked away from the empty private cell and down the long corridor that made up this wing of the Parisian prison. Yata followed on his heels. Together they walked, through the prison and up to the warden’s sensibly-decorated office.

Weak sunlight peeked through the blinds over a window. It was just after dawn: Paris stirred to life slowly, almost lazily, completely ignorant to the eternal chase of thieves and inspectors. Zenigata strode to the window, opened the blinds, and pointed out at the sprawling city below.

“Where is he?”

“Sir?” Yata asked, baffled.

“Where is Renard?” Zenigata asked.

“I—ah. I don’t know.”

Where was Renard, assuming he hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion just outside? He’d been cut off from whatever resources he’d inherited. He had no friends to speak of. His family was dead. His lover was the one who’d put him in the hospital. And Lupin had made it clear that he had no plans to go back for Renard until he was healed.

Where did a wounded, penniless, friendless thief go? Where did he go that could possibly be safe?

“It’s not about being a threat,” Zenigata said. Exhaustion was writ plain across his face. “It’s about how Renard attracts trouble everywhere he goes.”

“Do you think he’ll go looking for Lupin?” Yata asked. He stepped away from the window to lean against the warden’s desk.

“Renard will go looking for Lupin. And in the meanwhile, the Vandewaters will go looking for Renard.”

Yata winced. There was that as well. Domas Vandewater remained in an American prison (for the moment, anyway), awaiting trial and nursing an impressive scar from Lupin himself. But as for his family…

You don’t leave contracts with Vandewater.

“Renard will go looking for Lupin,” Yata said slowly. “And the Vandewaters will go looking for Renard. What do you think will happen when all three collide?”

Zenigata continued to stare out the window, although his gaze was far, far away from the Paris skyline. “Nothing good. Mark my words, Yata—”

Zenigata’s shoulders sank with the force of his sigh.

“—that boy is trouble.”

…

It didn’t matter how old you were. It was never easy to listen to your parents argue.

Jessica Vandewater sat on the veranda of her family’s massive home, looking out over the expansive lawn and gardens. It was a mild October night; stars winked overhead, while a slight breeze rustled orange-tinged leaves. Jessica cursed before drawing her cardigan closer. She plucked her cup of coffee from the table beside her. Warmth seeped through her stiff fingers and hands. Better the bitter wind, though, than enduring the bitter tones inside.

She could still hear the low mutters and sniped comments that turned her stomach to ice. Her mother and father never argued. In all her twenty-six years of living, Jessica could count on one hand the number of times her parents argued in front of their children.

Of course, that was before Domas went and got himself arrested. Jessica pursed her lips even as she raised her coffee to her lips. Her brother had always been better at thinking with his dick than his brain. Their father had been willing to overlook Domas’ piss-poor choice in boyfriends as long as they didn’t get in the way.

And they hadn’t. Not until Oliver Renard.

Idiot, she thought darkly. Forget his spine—when Domas raised that gun, he should have aimed for Renard’s skull.

But Domas was weak. Domas had hesitated. And now Domas was holed up in a high-security prison, awaiting trial. Their father could have sprung Domas, Jessica was sure. He could have thrown caution to the wind and blasted the whole prison to kingdom come. But Nikolas Vandewater was a cautious man. Nikolas Vandewater kept his hands clean. Their father wasn’t getting Domas out of prison until he had found a way to do it without exposing their family business. 

The front door opened and shut abruptly. Jessica twisted to see Mattias standing there. His thumb flicked against the latch of the lighter in his hand. 

“They’re arguing again,” her younger brother said in a resigned fashion.

“Same shit, different day,” Jessica muttered. She gestured for Mattias to take the seat beside her.

He sank down, eyes still fixed on the weak orange flame in his hand. “Mom says Dom is on his own. That he fucked up, he got caught, and he’s got to pay the consequences. And Dad says—”

“Family first. Always,” Jessica said. It was the family creed they’d been taught since they could walk and talk: Vandewaters always took precedent over other people. Vandewaters were different from other people. To be a Vandewater was a position of both privilege and responsibility. Domas had neglected that second bit, more’s the pity.

She sat back in her wicker seat. “I agree with Mom. Be pissed all you want, Matty.” She scowled when her brother flashed her a look. “But Dom wasted a lot of time and a lot of money following that asshat around. Mom and Dad can’t baby him forever.”

“They can’t even go see him. They’ve got frickin’ government agents and shit watching them. Watching us. Waiting for a wrong move so they can arrest Dad too. God.” Mattias rested his head back against his seat, eyes fixed on the fairy lights strung around the porch. “Those pigs are just mad they can’t pin a damn thing on Dad or Mom.”

“Because there’s nothing to pin,” Jessica said sternly.

“Right, right,” Mattias said. His shoulders sank. “I just wish…there was something we could do. Anything we could do.”

Jessica couldn’t disagree. Domas was gone. And all their wealth and power were suddenly useless in trying to get him back. And that, somehow, rankled more than anything else. They were Vandewaters. Anyone who dared to raise a hand against their family should have been struck down where they stood.

Oliver Renard had screwed Domas over in his wild pursuit of dreams. Lupin the Third had given him a thorough thrashing and a scar to match. And Inspector Zenigata had arrested him like some sort of common criminal. Each man deserved to pay for the part they’d played. Each man deserved to pay tenfold for the humiliation heaped on their brother.

How, though? Renard was out of reach in Europe, and trying to pin down Lupin the Third was like trying to pin down the wind. That left Zenigata, but there was no way to draw Zenigata’s attention away from his eternal hunt. 

Unless.

Unless.

Inspiration struck like lightning. Jessica sat up sharply, making Mattias arch his eyebrows at her. “What?”

“I know what we can do.”

“What can we do?”

It would take time. It would be risky. But if they were careful, if they were thorough…there was no way her parents could refuse, not when they were the ones who told them, again and again, what a Vandewater was worth. Her heart thundered like a drum in her chest. Her grip on her coffee mug was oddly sweaty.

Nevertheless, Jessica Vandewater was all smiles as she turned to her brother. “We can make them pay.”

Chapter Text

Chapter One, In Which There Are Lions and Lambs

Five Months Later…

March, so the saying went, came in like a lion and went out like a lamb.

March in Boston, on the other hand, came in like an ill-tempered cat, hissing and swatting at everything in its way before hunkering down in a corner, ears flat and tail twitching.

The source of March’s ire was February’s parting shot: a massive snowstorm that had piled up drifts of dirty snow and slush over street signs and sidewalks. Frost stained the pavement and cars, forcing passersby to bundle up in heavy coats and hats despite the calendar announcing the turn towards spring. Misery hung thick as fog in the cold, damp air; thick gray clouds overhead only added to the sense of malaise. A few brazen souls had decorated for Saint Patrick’s Day, which only resulted in green décor fluttering sadly in a cold, persistent wind.

In Yata’s learned opinion, only the truly mad would have braved New England in March.

Lupin, unfortunately, was just mad enough to chance it.

Yata shivered. He was grateful for the BMW’s heated seats and for the Styrofoam cup of coffee warming his numbed fingers. He glanced out the car’s window with a pang of sympathy for anyone walking the ice-slicked streets.

Inspector Zenigata sat beside him. Like Yata, he held a to-go cup of coffee. Unlike Yata, his eyes never went to the window. His attention was wholly fixed on the calling card he flipped through his fingers. A frown deepened the creases on his long face.

Traffic moved at a snail’s pace. The BMW rumbled, inches at a time, through the South End of Boston. As they moved, sleek hotels and businesses were slowly replaced by art galleries and restaurants. Signs advertised the opening days of open markets and festivals. The former bemused Yata: there was nothing open about this city, at least as far as he had seen. Boston was a jungle of gravel and concrete, towering buildings and narrow streets. It was a study in steel misery.

Speaking of misery…

The man sitting across from Yata sniffed suddenly. Henry Doyle was his name, and Yata had never met a man who looked more like a contemptuous poodle. A small man in his mid-forties, Doyle possessed rounded shoulders and a pointed nose, which he was very good at aiming whoever he spoke to. Doyle aimed for Zenigata now with eyes narrowed.

“I appreciate your discretion in this matter, inspector,” said Doyle.

Zenigata’s eyes flickered up to Doyle and then back down to the calling card between his fingers. “Don’t sit easy on discretion. Wherever Lupin goes, a circus follows.”

Doyle’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Media?”

“Among others,” Zenigata said.

Yata took a quick sip of coffee to hide his grin.

“I just don’t see why the Wareham Art Gallery is of any interest to that thief,” Doyle replied. His voice was thick with disgust.

Yata was inclined to agree. Boston had art museums—quite a few of them, actually—which hosted everything from rare jewels to priceless works of art. But no one would include Wareham Art Gallery in a ‘best of the best’ list. It was a small gallery designed for local artists and exhibitions. This was small-time for Lupin—but who could say when and where the thief’s fancy took him? A Lupin investigator always had to keep an open mind. Anything was possible where Lupin was involved.

Zenigata did not reply immediately to Doyle. Instead he took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and held the light to the card. After a moment he shut the flashlight off and handed it off to Yata. Yata inspected it closely as the BMW trundled to a stop.

On Saturday, March 7^th, I, Lupin the Third, will be attending the Lady Liberty exhibition hosted by the Wareham Art Gallery. After all, who loves ladies and liberty more than I?

The lettering matched Lupin’s. It even had his signature and his dumb little caricature at the bottom. Yata flipped the calling card back and forth, wondering what it was Zenigata wanted him to see.

The Wareham Art Gallery looked like every other art gallery Yata had ever seen. It was three stories of wide windows and steel beams, lit by naked hanging lights designers claimed added a sense of sophistication to the floor plans. Framed art pieces and sculptures dominated the walls and floor. The wall work was paintings, mostly, although a few pieces were made of recycled items: one particularly large canvas was made of stitched-together doll clothes. Most pressing to Yata, however, was the smell of fresh coffee from the complementary service counter.

Zenigata caught Yata’s eye as he took a quick step forward. Yata didn’t need the reminder not to run off. He nodded and flipped the collar of his jacket up, attempting to look cool and unaffected as Doyle joined them in the lobby.

The curator flicked a bit of lint off his lapel. “Where would you like to start, Inspector? Perhaps a tour…?”

“My partner can tour the facility, preferably with one of your staff,” Zenigata said.

Doyle blinked. He glanced at Yata, as though aware of his presence for the first time.

Yata allowed himself a small smirk. He could never shake the burst of pride that followed whenever Zenigata introduced him as his partner. Even if it wasn’t true—technically, yet—saying it made it more real. When Zenigata said it, he meant it.

“I’m looking forward to it, Mister Doyle,” Yata said.

Zenigata nodded. “And in the meantime, I would like to take some time to speak with you privately.”

“Very well,” Doyle replied. He sniffed, perhaps in an attempt to retrieve some dignity, and hurried off to find an assistant.

Yata waited for Doyle to disappear before turning to Zenigata. “What do you want me to look for, sir?”

“Anything. Everything. Something to tell us why this art gallery would appeal to Lupin…or anyone else.” As Zenigata spoke, his eyes sailed around the art gallery in thought. Once more, he flipped the calling card through his fingers.

“You think it could be someone else?” A sudden thrill of certainty ran up and down Yata’s spine. There were only a handful of people who could copy Lupin so effortlessly. And of that handful, only one was unaccounted for. “Do you think it could be Renard?”

Another five months of silence had come and gone following Renard’s escape from prison. In the first few weeks, Yata had expected him to pop up beside with the Lupin gang, wielding his rapier and grinning that damnable grin of his. When he hadn’t, Yata took to scanning international news outlets, searching for some sign of a fox at work. Except he hadn’t shown up there either. Oliver Renard had wholly vanished from the world of crime. Maybe he’d retired to some quiet countryside as a farmer. Maybe he’d joined an order of silent monks.

Or maybe he was dead in a ditch somewhere. Yata didn’t mind that option either.

Zenigata frowned down at Yata, who clearly hadn’t worked hard enough to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “There’s no point in speculating. Not until we have more evidence one way or another.”

The rebuke was there, just beneath Zenigata’s matter-of-fact tone. Yata winced. “Ah…yes, sir.”

Zenigata looked as though he wanted to say more, but at that moment Doyle came hurrying back into the lobby. The click-click-click of smart heels followed him. Yata straightened and smoothed out his travel-rumpled jacket as a dark-haired woman came striding around the corner. She was both younger and taller than Doyle, with a narrow face and dark eyes. If Doyle was a poodle, then she was a Doberman: thin, sharp, and suspicious. Said suspicion sharpened as she neared the ICPO agents.

“Gentlemen. My assistant curator, Jessica Jansen.” Doyle indicated Jessica before turning to Yata. “She’ll be showing you around the gallery.”

“How do you do, gentlemen?” Jessica said. Her tone was polite, if somewhat aloof. Her heels made her just that much taller than Yata, forcing him to look up at her. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Responding to Lupin’s threats is what we do, miss,” Yata replied.

Doyle sniffed. “Perhaps our communities would be better served if you spent more time apprehending Lupin rather than scrambling to respond.”

Yata scowled. Zenigata simply arched his eyebrows.

“Doyle,” Jessica said, in a placating tone, “I’ll take things from here.”

“We will take things from here,” Zenigata said. He indicated Doyle, who led him towards the private office with a deepening frown. Zenigata paused long enough to give Yata a nod before leaving him along with Jessica.

The two assistants stood in complete silence. They stared at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. Yata did his best to look cool and calm and competent. He glanced around the gallery with same disaffected air Zenigata had. He did this every day, after all.

Fortunately, Jessica relented first. A slight smile cracked the edges of her suspicion. “Sorry about him,” she said, nodding in Doyle’s direction. “He’s not exactly the warmest personality to begin with, and all this Lupin nonsense has him on edge. C’mon, this way.”

Jessica started off at a quick pace on her smart heels. Yata hurried to walk beside her. “Nonsense?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you say Lupin is nonsense?”

Jessica shrugged. “Well, it sort of beggars belief, doesn’t it? Lupin the Third, coming to our little hole-in-the-wall to steal…what, exactly?” She paused, long enough to indicate the canvas made of baby clothing.

Yata studied it. Then his eyes were drawn to the opposite wall, towards a painting of colored squares. He didn’t have much of an eye for art—beyond what Lupin could possibly lift—but her tone seemed surprisingly dismissive for her own gallery. “You have some very lovely pieces.”

“Thank you.” Jessica’s tone was neutral. “The vast majority are local artists.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they are respected, but by no means Rembrandts or van Goghs. The art we showcase can sell somewhere into the upper thousands, but that’s small change to Lupin, as I understand it.”

Ah. Someone had done her own homework. Independent of Doyle, it seemed.

“It is a mystery,” Yata agreed. He didn’t trust himself to elaborate further.

They slowed to a stop on the third floor. One of the side rooms off the gallery had been renovated into some sort of ballroom: round tables and folding chairs had been set up around the large, open space. Art—mainly of women in various states of historical dress—was propped up on easels along the walls. Wires spilled out of a podium by the northernmost wall.

Yata stepped into the room with a whistle. The noise bounced around the massive room. “What’s happening in here?”

“This is our showroom,” Jessica said. She stepped into the room and off to the side, picking up something off of one of the tables. “We’re prepping for tomorrow night. We’re hosting a series of lectures to tie-in with Women’s History Month.”

Yata gave her a blank look.

“That’s March.”

“Oh. Erm…congratulations?”

Jessica laughed under her breath and handed Yata the pamphlet she’d plucked from the table.

Liberty, bare-breasted and waving the French flag, stormed the pamphlet’s cover. The words Lady Liberty: Images of Femininity in Nationalistic Propaganda framed her. Yata flipped the pamphlet open to scan the list of featured artists, original and replica artworks, and guest lecturers from Boston University. Yata didn’t know much about graphic design, but the layout of the pamphlet struck him as sophisticated.

“This is my first lecture series that I’ve spearheaded,” Jessica said once Yata closed the pamphlet. A small huff of annoyance escaped her. “Naturally, it’s also the one Lupin has decided to crash.”

Well. He did have a weakness for pretty women.

Yata pocketed the pamphlet. “How long have you worked here?”

“Four months, more or less? Since early November.”

“How does Doyle strike you as a boss?”

“Uptight. He’s one of those men who thinks he should be living in Paris, because that’s where all high culture originates from.” Jessica didn’t bother trying to hide her eye roll. “But I’ve never had a personal problem with him, if that’s what you’re asking. He pays well, I get healthcare and vacation and sick days. No dental, though.”

Not that she needed it, Yata thought. Jessica had a nice, bright smile. He pulled his gaze away from her and took a step forward, gauging the ballroom’s space. One entrance, but the wide windows could pose a problem. “What’s your take on the security in this place?”

Jessica spread her hands out in a gesture of acceptance. “We’re an art gallery. Our security might not be top-of-the-line, but we don’t let just anyone wander in. Our security team is small but tight. And all employees and independent contractors must be vetted through our own system.”

Yata glanced back at her. “Independent contractors?”

“Repairmen, lighting guys, flower people, caterers.” Now she lifted a finger, twirling it around to indicate the myriad professionals she worked with on a daily basis. “Art isn’t a lonely business.”

Contractors. That was something. No one looked twice at someone just doing their job.

“I’d like to see a list of contractors, if you please,” Yata said. He could already envision the list, and its length made him wince inwardly. Combing through hired help would take hours that they may not have.

“Absolutely.” Now Jessica’s bright smile came out in full force. “Coffee while you wait?”

“Yes—” He started, and then remembered Zenigata’s exasperated look in the lobby. “Erm—that is, no. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Jessica repeated with clear amusement.

 Any attempt at a cool, dispassionate persona was officially ruined. Once more Yata tugged at his jacket in a futile attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. “Sorry. Long flight.”

“Long day,” Jessica agreed. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear before exiting.

Yata waited for the click-click of her heels to fade before exhaling. It didn’t matter, he tried to tell himself. This was just one more day in one more city. By tomorrow night he and Zenigata would be on another plane to another city. First impressions only mattered if you managed to make an impression.

Yata shook off the resignation and turned back to the artwork. He had a job to do, after all.

…

Zenigata waited for Doyle to close the door of his small, cramped office.

“What would you like to discuss, Inspector?”

“Your finances,” was the immediate reply.

A vein jumped in Doyle’s thin neck. He cleared his throat as he moved to stand behind his desk. It was a power move, or an attempt at one, and thus Zenigata didn’t mind standing. It made it all the more satisfying that Doyle was forced to look up at him. The curator steepled his fingers and sniffed his poodle nose once more.

“Professional or personal?”

They were all the same, these men. Little, self-important men leading little, self-important lives. Zenigata had seen enough of them come and go over the years to know what to expect. But expectation never made these little song-and-dances any less irksome. There were days—more than he cared to count—where Zenigata wanted nothing more than for Lupin to teach these little self-important men a lesson in humility. There were times—more than he dared count—that he would have gladly stepped aside as Lupin made off with a small fortune.

But if he did that, then he would no longer be Zenigata. And without a Zenigata, who would Lupin be?

“Professional,’” Zenigata replied. Although Doyle’s personal finance might be of relevant interest later. Zenigata filed that away as a note-to-self.

“I don’t see what use my finances are to this investigation. I’m the victim here!”

Zenigata listened to the practiced outrage, saw the way Doyle’s nostrils flared. He allowed himself a moment of eye contact with Doyle. Then he turned to look at a framed oil painting hanging on the wall. Painted flowers in vibrant shades spilled out of a blue vase. A fat, fuzzy bumblebee trundled along one of the stems.

“Once, I was tracking Lupin while he attempted to lift one of Monet’s water lily paintings from the Museum of Modern Art.” A small, amused snort escaped him at the memory. “Those water lilies are worth millions, you know.”

“I’m well aware,” said Doyle, quite peevish.

“Lupin succeeded in stealing the water lilies painting…but after a week, he got bored and put it back. But do you know what had happened over the course of that week?”

“All sorts of chaos, I’m sure.”

“The MoMA filed an insurance claim for fifty million American dollars. You see, Lupin stole the painting…and then returned it when he realized he could seize a more useful prize. Anyone with a little talent can draw a water lily. But checks for fifty million dollars don’t turn up just anywhere.”

“What are you getting at?”

Zenigata turned back to Doyle with hands folded behind his back. “You own a nice, mid-sized gallery, Mister Doyle. A nice, mid-sized gallery with nice, mid-sized replicas. A nice, mid-sized gallery that hosts nice, mid-sized events. Which leaves me wondering what, exactly, Lupin would find of such value in this nice, mid-sized gallery.”

A moment of silence followed.

“Your financial records, Mister Doyle,” Zenigata said again.

Doyle’s shoulders slumped. He stood once more and turned to the filing cabinet directly behind his desk. The drawer rattled as he opened a row of organized files. It didn’t take long to find the file he wanted. Doyle closed the drawer and turned back to Zenigata. He extended a thin, black book out. “This quarter’s finances. I can send you the year’s in short order.”

Zenigata accepted the ledger. “You keep your finances on physical books?” he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.

“Art is an ugly business, Inspector Zenigata. It pays to be careful. Literally, in some spaces,” Doyle said. He pointed his poodle nose into the air and sniffed again. “You’ll find I have nothing to hide.”

He wasn’t Lupin. That much was obvious to Zenigata as he tucked the ledger away. Lupin would have been enjoying himself despite playing the role of the sourpuss curator. Lupin would have tipped his hand just enough. Just enough to let Zenigata see the thrill. Just enough to let Zenigata feel like he had a good bet going. But there was no thrill to be found here. Doyle just seemed annoyed to been caught in some petty insurance scheme.

Suspected, Zenigata corrected himself. No one had been caught doing anything wrong yet.

With that mind Zenigata nodded. “Then you’ll have nothing to fear, Mister Doyle.”

…

“You should eat something, sir.”

Even as he spoke Yata bit into a veggie quiche. The best thing about art districts, in Yata’s opinion, was the inevitable trendy cafes and coffeehouses that popped up around them. He and Zenigata sat in one such coffeehouse now. Although both nursed cups of coffee, only Yata seemed to retain the appetite developed after thirteen hours of air travel.

Zenigata didn’t reply. Zenigata didn’t even look at him. His superior stared out the window at the gray city street, all the while flipping the calling card through his fingers. A slight drizzle had begun, making the coffeehouse feel all that much cozier and warmer.

Yata leaned forward to gently prod Zenigata. He gestured to the older man’s untouched quiche. “Sir. You need to eat. You can’t chase Lupin on an empty stomach.”

“It’s not Lupin,” Zenigata said suddenly.

Yata blinked. “Sir?”

“Someone sent this card. But it wasn’t Lupin. Someone wants me to think Lupin is here.”

There was more to the statement. Yata could see it in the way Zenigata leaned forward slightly, as though physically trying to keep his observations in his throat. “But?” He prompted slowly.

“But it’s not Doyle either.” The moment Zenigata spoke, he sat back against his seat.

“What makes you say that?”

“He doesn’t have the guts, for one. Doyle doesn’t want anything to do with this investigation. He doesn’t want anyone looking in the corners, just in case they spot spiderwebs. He’s not…enjoying this. Lupin would enjoy it. And he would let me see him enjoying it, just enough.”

Yata listened closely. Maybe someday, he would understand the certainty with which Zenigata spoke. Maybe someday, he would be able to speak with such conviction about a criminal; he would know someone so intimately that reading their next move seemed almost psychic. Someday, Yata told himself. This was one part of the job that wasn’t teachable.

He took another small bite of his quiche. “So…if it’s not Lupin, and it’s not Doyle, who’s left?”

The question finally brought Zenigata’s eyes to Yata. “What do you think?”

Yata copied his superior’s stance: chin in hand, eyes out the window. A few pedestrians made their slow, steady way across the icy, rainy streets. Hoods and hats made it almost impossible to work out individual features. One hooded man walked with a significant limp, almost dragging his left leg behind him. His ungainly gait did him no favors when he hit a patch of black ice. Yata winced as he went down hard on the concrete sidewalk.

Yata turned back to the expectant Zenigata as the hooded man got back to his feet. “I think I hate this city.”

Zenigata’s laugh was a low rumble in his chest. He nodded, pulled the other quiche towards himself, and finally began to eat.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two, In Which Hors d'œuvre Are Served Cold

As night fell, so did the temperature.

It was cold: one of those frigid nights that made a man grit his teeth and curl his toes. The bracing wind was a knife that slid through layers of fabric. On a night like this, everyone deserved to be at home, under a blanket with a mug of something warm. But here Yata was, doing rounds outside the Wareham Art Gallery with shoulders hunched. He kept his hands curled in his pockets. Every once in a while he flexed his stiffened fingers to keep the blood circulating.

The Wareham Art Gallery was sandwiched between a gay bar (closed for renovations) and a medical marijuana dispensary (closed on Saturdays). There was nothing of interest around the back of the building either, save for two dumpsters and a pile of dirty blankets. Yata slowed his search as he approached the blankets. They didn’t look to be part of some discarded art display. They must have belonged to someone living on the streets, judging by the fast-food wrappers nestled in the blankets…and the smell.

Yata paused, long enough to allow a moment of pity for anyone on the streets tonight.

The knife of cold slid between his ribs again. Yata took a sharp breath between his teeth. Oh, he was making a beeline for that complementary coffee after this.

“Hey! Keep moving, man! We don’t do handouts here!”

Yata jerked his head up at the shout. He made his way back around the building, just in time to see two members of Doyle’s security shooing a third man away from the front entrance. Yata knew the security on sight: he’d reviewed their files, after all, and the jackets emblazoned with SECURITY certainly helped. But the third man…

Had the hood of a weathered green windbreaker up over his head. He had his back to the art gallery, shoulders hunched as the security bellowed insults and jeers. He moved down the icy street at a quick pace, despite the limp on his left side.

Yata couldn’t help but to wonder if it was this man’s blankets left to stiffen in the cold. A sharp stab of concern had him hurrying over to the laughing pair of security guards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the leader of the security team slip out the front entrance. They reached the laughing pair together, speaking at the same moment:

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

“The fuck’s goin’ on here, guys?”

They were a pair of dark-haired, muscular men, almost identical in their averageness. The taller of the two shrugged.

“Just some bum looking for change. We sent him packin’.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Yata said automatically.

The leader turned to him with eyebrows arched. “Why not? Doyle doesn’t need bums hanging around.”

He’d been thinking of that sad little pile of blankets and the biting cold. But the derision was writ plain on their faces, and Yata had the sinking feeling these men weren’t interested in charity cases. So he rolled his shoulders back to make himself taller. “Any and all people are relevant to a Lupin investigation. If he comes back, send him to me.”

“Geez.” The leader rested a hand on his holstered gun. His thumb flicked against the Velcro latch. “Paranoid, huh?”

“It pays to be, in our line of work,” Yata replied. He ignored the other man’s casual hold on his gun, opting instead to stick a hand out to shake. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Agent Goro Yatagarasu, ICPO.”

“Yata-gah-ras-su?” He said it just like that, dropping the ‘r’ for an ‘h’. He accepted the hand and shook it firmly. “Marcus Mahoney.”

Marcus Mahoney, according to the files Jessica provided, was a college dropout who’d been hired around the same time she had. What he lacked in academic credentials he made up for in looks: he was tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and a dusting of a beard. The smell of smoke clung to him, but the smile he flashed for Yata was pearly white.

“Nice to meet you,” Yata said as he dropped his hand. He kept his smile polite but distant. Zenigata had taught him to always be aware of his surroundings. He was aware, now, of the looks the other two were giving him. He was also aware of how Marcus’ thumb had stopped flicking against that Velcro strap on his holster. Thugs, he told himself. They were just thugs with security clearance. That’s all.

“Yeah, you too,” Marcus said. He glanced down the city street and then back at Yata. “You really think Lupin the Third is gonna show up? Here?”

Yata couldn’t be sure. The most he could do was shrug. “He might. Dismissing the possibilities doesn’t do us any good. And even if he doesn’t appear, we’ll have learned something valuable.”

“Like what?” the shorter of the security pair asked.

“Like there’s a copycat interested in Lupin. Who could he be? And why? All possibilities need to be prepped for.”

Marcus clucked his tongue. “You think Zenigata can catch a copycat? He can’t even snag the real thing!”

This time, Yata was completely confident in his answer: “Imitators don’t stand a chance against Inspector Zenigata.”

He turned back to the entrance, fully intending to head back inside and get himself that cup of coffee he’d earned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marcus roll his eyes, jerk his wrist back and forth in a lewd gesture that set his men to laughing. Sudden heat crept up the back of Yata’s neck. They weren’t laughing at him, he tried to assure himself. The laughter wasn’t aimed at him. Coincidence. Unrelated. Never mind how his ears suddenly rang. It was urgency and the cold that quickened his step, not the need to escape the sneers of his peers.

He found Jessica by the complementary coffee, although she’d elected for a paper cup of water instead. She smiled as Yata approached, rubbing his frozen hands together to bring some semblance of sensation back. “All well?”

“I just had a word with the security team,” Yata muttered. He jammed a paper cup under the dispenser and pressed ‘brew’.

Jessica took a small sip of water. “Oh?”  

“They were harassing the homeless instead of patrolling the perimeter.” Yata finally allowed himself an ounce of disgust. “Or taking any of this seriously.”

She sighed in sympathy before handing Yata the tub of powered creamer for his coffee. “If it’s any consolation, they don’t take anything seriously.”

Yata accepted the creamer. And then helped himself to a criminal amount of sugar packets for good measure. “Then why did Doyle hire them?”

“They’re cheap,” Jessica admitted. She knocked back the rest of her water like a shot of whiskey and crushed the paper cup in her hand. “So’s he.”

Yata stirred his sweetened coffee slowly as he turned to Jessica. She was nervous, that much was obvious from the way she shifted her weight. She kept turning to the water cooler, using her dim reflection to muss with her hair. Yata couldn’t fathom why: her loose dark hair was a perfect complement to the little black dress she wore for the event.

Heat from the paper cup seeped through Yata’s palms. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Focus on running the event itself. Leave Lupin to Inspector Zenigata and I.”

Jessica studied Yata for a long moment. Something in her dark eyes flickered. And then she smiled. “Thank you. It’s appreciated.”

“It’s my job.”

A moment of silence followed. Yata sipped his piping-hot coffee slowly. Jessica fiddled with the bracelets on her wrists.

Then— 

“Can I have your phone number?”

Jessica neatly sidestepped the sudden spray of hot coffee. Yata doubled over, wiping at his mouth in a futile attempt to relieve his burning lips. “S-sorry?” he managed, between hacking coughs. 

“In case something goes wrong, or I spot something out of place,” Jessica explained. She didn’t bother trying to hide her amusement as Yata straightened. “Can I text you?”

“Uh—yes! Yes, of course!”

Yata rattled off his phone number quickly. Jessica tapped the number into her phone before sliding it into the little clutch purse around her wrist. Her smile never faded.

He should say something, Yata thought. Something nice. That’s what a gentlemen would do, wasn’t it? And Zenigata would have offered her greater assurance than ‘it’s going to be fine’. 

“You, uh. You look nice, by the way,” was all he could think to say.

Jessica laughed and rolled her eyes. “You already have my number, champ.”

She turned and walked away. Yata looked down at his coffee, feeling foolish without knowing why.  

“Smooth.”

The single word from Zenigata had Yata yelping. More coffee sloshed onto the floor as he pivoted towards Zenigata. “Sir!”

Zenigata grinned down at his blushing subordinate, more amused than annoyed. “You’re here to get Lupin. Not phone numbers.”

“She asked,” Yata muttered.

“It’s about time someone did,” Zenigata replied. He looked over Yata’s shoulder, watching Jessica ascend the staircase to the third level. He shook his sleeve back to check his watch. They still had half an hour before guests arrived. “Perimeter secure?”

“As secure as it can be, for a gallery this size,” Yata replied.

“And?” Zenigata prompted, not ungently.

Yata blew out an exasperated breath. Cruel laughter rang faintly in his ears. “And the security team is next to useless.”

“They usually are,” Zenigata said. He reached forward to give Yata’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Keep your eyes open, Yata.”

“Always, sir.”

…

Anticipation was a funny thing. It had a way of slowing time to a standstill, even as your mind begged for it—whatever it was—to be over. Yata kept one eye on the ticking clock all night. The other was on the ballroom floor as esteemed guests took turns at the lecture podium. One by one they displayed pieces of artwork around femininity, and outlined how it all connected back to this nationalistic ideal or another.

One hour passed in blissful uneventfulness. Two. Somewhere around the two-and-a-half-hour mark, Yata allowed himself to relax, just a little. He leaned against the doorframe of the ballroom to watch Jessica coordinate the event. Marcus, looking bored, joined him at some point.

She’s good at this, he thought, as he watched Jessica introduce and praise each guest, so that no one’s achievements felt less important than the others. She asked pointed questions after each thesis, no matter the contents or quality of art. She was gracious and flattering without pause.

Someone had taught her the ins and outs of social graces. Certainly not Doyle—Doyle, who spent the whole three hours of the event in the back row, arms folded over his chest.

Three hours came and went. Zenigata alone never stopped prowling, peering between portraits and behind plants like a bloodhound after a scent.

Finally, Jessica leaned into the mic with a broad smile: “Thank you so much for joining us tonight, ladies and gentlemen! Cocktails will be served in the lounge on the second floor! I hope to see you there!”

Marcus snorted as chattering, laughing guests filed out. “So much for your thief.” He shoved himself off the wall and joined the throng of people without so much as a glance in Yata’s direction.

Yata exhaled. Three hours, plenty of art and women, and no sign of Lupin. If someone was going to fake a Lupin invitation, the least they could do was give some merry sport. He followed Marcus’ lead into the crowd, falling into step beside Zenigata.

Zenigata didn’t look at him. His eyes flitted over each guest with a furrowed brow. “Thoughts?”

“Lupin would never send a card if he didn’t plan on having an audience,” Yata said.

A wicked, almost feral smile spread the length of Zenigata’s craggy face. “He’s here somewhere, Yata. Don’t drink any of the wine.”

A shiver of excitement ran down the length of Yata’s spine. Zenigata knew something…or otherwise suspected something. And if Zenigata was grinning like that at the thought of Lupin’s presence, then there was a show in store for sure. Yata rolled to the balls of his feet.

The lounge area was large enough to accommodate the crowd of guests, with plush chairs and low couches besides. The waitstaff was already prepped with trays of wine and hors d'œuvre. Jessica stood by the entrance, shaking hands and congratulating people on a job well done.

She smiled as Zenigata and Yata passed the threshold. “That went well, don’t you think?”

“You were excellent,” Yata assured her.

“And not a single sign of Lupin.”

Jessica rolled her eyes as Doyle stepped up behind her. The curator sniffed and smoothed out his lapels. He gave the gathered crowd one dismissive glance before turning to Yata. “Either your thief is a no-show, or someone has a poor sense of humor.”

Zenigata’s only reply was a noncommittal grunt. His eyes scanned the lounge: the tables, the chairs, the gleaming chandelier. Yata was the one who cleared his throat and shook his head. “Don’t congratulate yourself until the last guests have left. And everything is still in its original place come morning.”

Doyle fixed Yata with that same withering glare. “And then you and your superior will be leaving our fair city, I trust.”

With any luck.

Yata swallowed the retort, if only just. “Inspector Zenigata and I will go wherever we are needed, in the pursuit of justice.”

A young, pimply-faced waiter breezed by with a tray of wine glasses. Jessica and Doyle each took one. Yata and Zenigata both refused, leaving Jessica to glance between them. “You two must be fun at parties.”

“I’m not.” Zenigata jerked a thumb at Yata. “He is.”

“The point,” Doyle said, over Yata’s sudden stammering and Jessica’s soft laughter, “is that ICPO presence is no longer necessary here.”

That earned Doyle a sour look from Zenigata. “Already wanting to be rid of us, Mister Doyle?”

“Interpol is hardly good for business,” Doyle replied. He took a noisy sip of wine.

“Speak for yourself,” Jessica said. She craned her neck to get a good look at the crowd, many of whom were looking in Zenigata’s direction. “I couldn’t tempt you to sign a few autographs while you’re here, could I, Inspector?”

“No.”

“Canapé?” The pimply waiter was back again, this time with a tray of pastries. Yata started to accept one, but then thought better of it.

Doyle did take one, though, and nibbled at the edge of it. “I want this ridiculous Lupin business finished, Inspector.”

Without ever taking his eyes off Doyle, Zenigata snapped an arm out and caught the waiter by the collar. The waiter jerked backwards with a small ‘hurk!’ of surprise. His tray tipped forward, sending glass plates and pastries crashing to the floor. The resounding CRASH! earned the attention of all partygoers, who collectively stared as Zenigata reached for the waiter’s face.

The pimply mask came away with a soft fwip!

Arsène Lupin the Third might have been compared to a wolf. But at this particular moment, his smile was decidedly sheepish. A thundering sort of silence followed his unmasking, broken only by the rattle of the tray as it rolled away. The sound of Lupin clearing his throat echoed throughout the lounge.

“I, uh,” Lupin said, “I came for the caviar.”

“Lupin,” Zenigata snarled.

Like a kitten caught by the scuff, Lupin twisted to grin at Zenigata. “Ah. I will be taking mine to go, then. Bye!”

With that, Lupin twisted hard enough to break Zenigata’s grip. He slammed his elbow into the inspector’s stomach and side-stepped Yata as he dove forward. Lupin leapt upwards, over Yata as he hit the floor, and darted for the back of the room.

Jessica shrieked as Yata went sprawling at her feet. “Are you all right?!”

“NOT NOW!” Yata bellowed. Instantly he was on his feet again, behind Zenigata as the inspector charged forward through the stunned crowd. Lupin darted this way and that, under the arms of women and over the shoulders of men, but always getting towards the solid wall at the back.

But why was he going that way? Yata thought. There was no escape that way. They had been standing by the doorway…

The same seemed to have occurred to Zenigata. He whipped around long enough to point Yata towards the entrance. “YATA! COVER THE DOOR!”

“Yes, sir!”

Easier said than done, though—now that the show had really started, people were pressing in tight, shouting over each other to catch a glimpse of the world-famous thief. Yata cursed as he squeezed his way past the thickened crowd. Just what the thief wanted—trapping them in the crowd, away from the only exit—

Sure enough, there was a collective gasp as Lupin leapt up onto a piece of furniture. A wire shot from his wrist and wrapped around the chandelier. Lupin gave it one testing tug, nodded, and swung over the crowd effortlessly. Lupin reached the door before Yata did; he paused long enough to wink at the stunned Jessica before sprinting out the door.

“LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPIN!”

Funny, Yata thought as he pushed his way free. Zenigata almost sounded delighted as he screamed the name.

It was a merry chase that ensued: Lupin didn’t seem to have any particular direction in mind as he darted left and right, up and down, circling back and forward again, only slowing down to ensure he stayed in Yata’s sights. His high, obnoxious laughter bounced off the artwork and hallways. Yata stayed just on his heels, always aware of Zenigata and Marcus following his lead.

Finally, though, Lupin sprinted for the third floor and didn’t stop. He was running up, up and up—scrambling up a ladder to a rooftop hatch Yata hadn’t even known existed—until he was out. Yata didn’t hesitate to follow suit. He swung up onto the ladder and out after the laughing thief.

The cold sliced through him the moment Yata was on the rooftop. He staggered, momentarily stunned by cold and exhaustion.

Lupin didn’t seem to feel the cold at all. He stood with his back to Yata, looking out over the city. “Sprightly tonight, aren’t we, Pops? Hey, what are you doing—” He glanced over his shoulder, more surprised than annoyed to see who was actually behind him. “Oh, hey! Baby Pops!”

“Lupin—” There was more to the sentence, but Yata was completely out of breath. He doubled over, hands on his knees and sucking in air. “One sec.”

“Sure, sure. You’re doing great.” Lupin leaned against the roof’s low wall. He waited for Yata to take a few gulping breaths, and only straightened when Yata did. “Ready?”

Oh, yeah.

“LUPIN THE THIRD!” Yata shouted. He swung an accusatory finger in Lupin’s direction and balled his free hand into a fist. “YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!”

Lupin beamed. Someone had been practicing! He flashed Yata a discreet thumbs up before hopping onto the low wall. “Gotta catch me first, though!”

With that, he took a flying leap off the rooftop to land on the next. Yata stared after him.

He didn’t even consider his next move. He didn’t hesitate. Yata broke into a run, leaping the wall to land on the next roof beside Lupin. He hit the rooftop with considerably less grace, staggering as Lupin whooped with delight.

Zenigata and Marcus were next on the rooftop. Zenigata sprinted to the edge, cursing under his breath when he saw Lupin and Yata racing each other over the next building.

“YATA! BE CAREFUL!”

“I’VE GOT HIM, SIR!”

Click.

The soft noise brought Zenigata’s attention to the security beside him. Marcus had drawn his pistol from its holster, and was rolling his shoulders back to aim.

“Mahoney!” Zenigata barked. “Hold your fire!”

“I’ve got the shot!” Marcus snapped. His sight followed Lupin with a trained eye.

Zenigata looked back across the way: at Lupin dancing backwards, at Yata getting to his feet—Yata, taking a step into Marcus’ field of vision—

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

The crack! of a misfired shot brought Yata and Lupin to their stomachs. For an instant, both men laid completely still, waiting for more bullets to follow. When none did, Lupin glanced at Yata and grinned. “Geez, these guys aren’t messing around. You okay, kid?”

“Yeah,” Yata breathed out. His heart thundered painfully in his chest. “Y-yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good,” Lupin jumped back to his feet and tapped a finger to his forehead. “Ta!”

And then he was gone, leaving Yata to shakily climb to his feet. This wasn’t his first firefight—hell, this wasn’t his second or his third—but this was the first time he’d almost been collateral damage. If he’d taken another step forward…if he hadn’t lost his footing…he’d been standing right there…

Yata turned back to the Wareham Art Gallery, more unnerved than he cared to admit. The sight that greeted him didn’t help: Zenigata and Marcus nose-to-nose, shouting obscenities at each other:

“I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE, GODDAMN IT! I am the authority on the scene, you follow MY lead—”

“Authority? Bullshit! This is my fucking building! You can’t just show up here and expect to throw your weight around—fucking Christ, you couldn’t even keep up with Lupin—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“What the hell is wrong with YOU, old man? I had him! I had him!”

“We never use lethal force—”

“Yeah, well, maybe you ought to! Maybe you’d have caught Lupin by now!”

Yata landed back on the roof with a “HEY!” of disgust. He straightened and moved to stand beside Zenigata, so that they would be united in their indignation. Zenigata looked down at him with obvious relief.

Yata’s eyes never left Marcus’ furious expression, even as he spoke: “Lupin escaped, sir.”

“SEE!” Marcus snapped. He jammed his gun skyward, a careless move that Yata was too-aware of. “Your lapdog couldn’t catch him, and somehow that’s MY fault?”

Yata bristled. So did Zenigata. When he spoke again, his voice was tight: “Watch your tone, Mahoney.”

“You don’t sign my paychecks, old man. I don’t answer to you.”

More ugly words would have followed, surely, if Doyle hadn’t popped his head up the ladder. He glanced around before ascending completely. Jessica followed suit, wincing in the night air.

“What happened?” Doyle demanded. “Where is he?”

“Lupin got away,” Marcus said flatly.

“He got away,” Doyle repeated. A vein in his throat visibly jumped as he turned to Zenigata.

Zenigata’s scowl deepened. “Oh, don’t you start.”

“I have every right to start!” Doyle snapped. “You spent all day and all night breathing down my neck, as if I were the common criminal, and when Lupin finally deigns to appear—you lose him!”

“Because your man couldn’t keep to his training!” Zenigata said, jabbing an accusatory finger towards the scoffing Marcus.

Doyle mimicked the gesture in Yata’s direction. “And your man couldn’t catch Lupin! Remind me what we’re paying you for again?!”

“Calm down, Doyle,” said Jessica. She looked between the four men present with clear exasperation. “He didn’t even steal anything.”

“That we know of.” Doyle pinned Zenigata with a suspicious look. “Believe you me, Inspector. I will be searching my gallery with a fine-tooth comb. If so much as a speck is out of place, there will be hell to pay.”

Yata stared at him, aghast. Lupin hadn’t made off with so much as a crumb! “You can’t—”

“I will,” Doyle snapped. He stared up at Zenigata with no small amount of loathing. “And believe me, I’ve already started my formal complaint against you, Inspector Zenigata. Your superiors will be hearing from me about the appalling way you’ve led this farce of an investigation.”

Zenigata did not reply. Either he didn’t have the words, or he didn’t trust himself to voice them. He stared down at Doyle with sudden impassiveness. A vein throbbing in his temple was the only outward sign of his disgust.

Doyle stalked back down the ladder, muttering all the while. Jessica watched him go before turning to Marcus. “Marcus, put the gun away. You’re not playing GTA, Jesus Christ.”

She waited for him to holster the gun again before they left together. Neither made eye contact with Yata.

Senior and junior were left alone on the roof. And the sudden chill in the air had nothing to do with the temperature.

Yata shivered. He was sweaty and freezing at the same time, out-of-breath and coming down the high adrenaline high. All he wanted was a hot shower and the hotel mattress. Everything else he could deal with in the morning. He glanced up at Zenigata, who was staring off into the distance with muted frustration.

“Start the paperwork, Yata,” Zenigata said in a low voice.

“But—”

“Now.”

Yata winced at the tone. He nodded, forcing his eyes to his rooftop as Zenigata turned and descended the ladder. If he’d just been a little faster, he told himself. If he’d just been a little faster…if he’d just been a little more alert….

If, if, if. If was the most useless word in any language. Zenigata had taught him that.

It was a cold consolation. But then, with this weather, Yata wasn’t sure any other sort was possible.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three, In Which the Wicked Get No Rest

The digital clock on the hotel nightstand read 11:59 pm in bold red letters.

And that was when Yata’s phone dinged.

Yata and Zenigata both looked up from their individual paperwork. The lecture at the Wareham Art Gallery had ended abruptly, with as much chill in the audience as there was in the night air. Jessica spent the rest of her night making a thousand apologies, while accepting condolences and pity with good grace. Marcus sulked and stalked through corridors, always with one hand on his holstered gun. Doyle and Zenigata avoided each other with almost graceful indifference.

Yata, under orders, had retired back to the hotel room. He’d been writing and rewriting a summary of the night’s events for Interpol’s benefit, but no matter what he typed the words never seemed quite right. He wanted nothing more than to write how Lupin getting away wasn’t Zenigata’s fault, but Interpol clerks wouldn’t accept that as an explanation. They were picky, in that way.

Yata rubbed the sleep from his eyes and leaned over to pick up his phone. For a moment the words on the screen did not process. But when they did, any trace of exhaustion vanished. “It’s Jessica Jansen!”

Zenigata frowned. He rose from his spot by the hotel’s desk to join Yata. “What does she want?”

Yata didn’t reply. He stared down at the screen as though trying to unmake the words he saw.  

Hey. Are you around?

“What does she want?” This time, it was a demand from Zenigata.

“Nothing,” Yata replied, in a strangled tone.

Zenigata’s eyes narrowed. Yata had sense enough to scramble up before Zenigata lunged at him. He was fast, but not fast enough as Zenigata’s arm shot out, catching him by the collar. Yata bent and twisted, breaking free of Zenigata’s grip—until he tripped over the wingtip shoe Zenigata planted in front of him. Zenigata plucked Yata’s phone out of his hand as the youth went sprawling onto the carpet.

Yata shot back to his feet as Zenigata read the message. There was no use in hiding the flush creeping up his neck; all he could do was stand there, trying to keep his face neutral as Zenigata’s eyebrows shot up.

Then the inspector tossed Yata’s phone back at him with a snort. “Well,” he said, “are you going to answer?”

“No!” Yata replied, aghast at the mere suggestion. He shoved his phone into his pocket. “It’s past midnight. If she has anything pertaining to the investigation, it can wait.”

“Yata,” Zenigata said.

“Sir,” Yata said.

“A gorgeous woman is asking you if you’re around. What do you say?”

“No, sorry! See you in the morning!”

Zenigata pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. And then it was Yata’s turn to narrow his eyes. Zenigata didn’t bother side-stepping when Yata leapt at him. He held one arm out, smushing his palm into Yata’s face while Yata flailed forward, poking and prodding his superior’s face. It wasn’t the most effective interrogation technique—or the most dignified, really—but sure enough, that was flesh he felt, not Latex.

Yata eased back onto his heels with a frown. Zenigata was still Zenigata. Which meant…he meant it? Zenigata wanted him gone?

Zenigata took advantage of Yata’s bafflement to scruff him by the collar. He started towards the hotel door, Yata spluttering uselessly in his grip. “You did exceptional work tonight. Go take a breather for a few hours. Ask Jansen what she wants.” Zenigata allowed himself one slight smirk. “There could be trouble afoot.”

It was the sense of betrayal that had Yata stumbling as he was shown the door, moreso than the gentle force Zenigata pushed him out with. He wheeled around to gape at Zenigata. “You’re kicking me out?!”

“No,” Zenigata shook his head. He leaned against the doorframe, subtly blocking Yata from re-entry. “I’m telling you to get out. That’s different.”

“How?!”

“Yata.”

Something about Zenigata’s tone killed any and all arguments rising in Yata’s throat. He swallowed hard, staring up at his superior. He looked…tired. But amused, too. As if there was something in this scene he’d seen before.

“Take it from me,” Zenigata said as he stepped backwards into the hotel room. “You don’t want to wake up at the age of forty never having lived your life. Now shoo. Come back around three—”

“In the morning?!”

His only reply was a door slamming in his face.

…

Hey. Are you around?

Hello! Yes, I’m available. Anything on your mind?

Tonight sucked. Can we talk? Face to face? I hate texting. And phone calls, lol.

Sure. Just tell me where.

Even at this late hour, Foley’s Irish pub was fully lit and completely crowded. Music—mostly Irish rock—poured out the windows and underneath the red oaken door. Those who came stumbling out where red-faced and cheerful, a mark of a successful Saturday night in downtown Boston.

Yata watched each pass with eyes narrowed. The SoWa district was dark and quiet at this hour of the morning; industrial buildings towered like sentinels over the pitch-black city streets. Every breath Yata took crystallized in the air.

Unbidden, that sorry mass of blankets sprang into his mind. Whoever he was—wherever he was—Yata hoped he was warm.

“Yata!”

Jessica had changed out of her formal evening wear, into a sensible pair of jeans and boots. A red Boston University sweatshirt kept the worst of the cold at bay. She’d swept her dark hair back into a ponytail. Curiously, the change made her look older rather than younger: with her hair back, Yata could see the more severe angles of her face.

“Sorry,” she said as she neared Yata. “Traffic’s hell, even at this hour.”

“It’s all right,” Yata said, in his most assuring tone. “I wasn’t waiting long.” He turned to the front entrance, pushing that heavy red door open for her.

The interior design was just as aggressively Irish as the exterior. Dark woods and red pleather gave the pub a warm, comforting atmosphere. A long bar dominated most of the northern wall, while booths and tables offered space for more intimate conversations. Football matches, both European and American, blared from the televisions mounted on each wall. Someone had hung a massive Irish flag behind the stocked bar. Otherwise, local sports teams dominated the brick walls: Yata spotted red socks and a smirking leprechaun, a severe-looking gray head with streaks of blue and red for hair, and a massive red R with a slash through it.

We support two teams! A sign declared. The Red Sox and whoever beats the Yankees!

“Hey! Jess!” One of the bartenders leaned over the crowd of people at the bar, waving to her. “Take a seat, I’ll send someone over!”

Jessica raised a hand in greeting. “Thanks!”

A few more people waved or nodded as Jessica led him over to a corner booth. Yata approved of the spot. Here, it was easy to watch the whole of the pub. Just in case.

“You’re pretty popular,” Yata remarked as he took a seat.

Jessica shrugged. “Marcus and I come here a lot. It’s a nice place to get a drink and unwind after work.”

Her people, Yata thought as he looked back out over the crowd. Her eyes. And she had chosen a corner booth, which was a perfect vantage point. They could watch the crowd from here. The crowd could see them too. If Lupin or his gang were to show up here, then perhaps—

No. No thinking about Lupin. He was off-hours. Zenigata had said so. He deserved a break, too.

Jessica was watching him with a slight smirk. By the time Yata finished looking around, she had signaled a passing server and picked up a drink menu. She handed it off to Yata. “Pick your poison, champ.”

After a moment of consideration, Yata ordered a Downeast cider. Jessica opted for a Guinness without so much as a glance at the menu.

“So,” Yata said as the server stepped away, “what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Well,” Jessica blew out a breath and shifted in her seat, the first sign of discomfort she’d shown. “First, I wanted to apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I was the one who—”

A sharp wave of her hand cut Yata short. Jessica frowned and sat forward. “Doyle and Marcus didn’t take you seriously. They didn’t take the threat of Lupin seriously. You nearly got shot for it.”

Yata had been assigned to the Lupin case long enough that nearly getting shot was almost passe. Disappointing Zenigata had stung more. Now, though, bile stuck to the back of his throat. “You heard about that?”

“Marcus runs his mouth,” Jessica said flatly. She flicked a hand to the side, as though swatting an errant fly out of her ear.  

“Still,” Yata swallowed the node in his throat. “That’s not your fault. I imagine Zenigata would prefer an apology from Doyle himself.”

“That would require Doyle to think about anyone besides himself for half a minute,” Jessica said. She traced an idle finger around the edge of the drink menu. Her nails were bright red, Yata noted. They matched the color of her sweatshirt. He kept his eyes on her hands, even when he felt her eyes on him again. “Anyway. Point is, I could have been more gracious showing you the door.”

“Oh, no. It’s all right. Inspector Zenigata and I are used to it.”

“I don’t think being treated like crap is something you should get used to.”

“No, no—no. I, ah, should’ve been clearer. We’re used to losing Lupin. I earn half my salary dealing with angry art collectors,” he trusted himself enough to look up again, this time with a wry smile.

She met his smile with one of her own. “You’ve got a good attitude about losing.”

“You’ve got to, in our line of business.”

Conversation lapsed. An awkward silence filled the space between them. Chatter from the bar ebbed and flowed around them, most of it harmless complaining about jobs and weather and losing sports teams. Jessica turned slightly to watch one of the American football matches on a mounted television. Yata read and reread the menu, trying to decide if loaded nachos were worth the price. The server set their drinks down with a smile and retreated.

Yata took a polite sip of his Downeast. The too-sweet taste of apple cider spiked on his tongue. Alcohol, sharper and sour, followed an instant later. Yata couldn’t hide his grimace; he preferred sake, if truth be told, but there hadn’t been any on the menu.

“Do you know why he was here?” Jessica asked suddenly. She hadn’t touched her Guinness yet.

Yata blinked. “Who?”

“Lupin.”

“Oh. No. He didn’t steal anything. At least, nothing we’ve found yet…”

“No,” Jessica echoed. She tilted her head to the side in sudden thought. “So why…?”

“Maybe he saw something else of interest?”

“A pretty girl?”

Jessica’s sly smile set Yata to spluttering. He set his drink aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well—I, uh…not that you’re not—but I’m not sure he would—not for—um…hm.” He could feel the hot flush creeping up the back of his neck and around his ears. Almost getting shot was less mortifying than this.

“Tell me more about your line of work,” Jessica said suddenly, saving Yata from his mortification.

Yata cleared his burning throat, grateful for the rescue. Zenigata had forbidden him from working, but he hadn’t forbidden him from talking about work. Those were two different things entirely. He scooted forward and picked up his Downeast once more. “Where would you like to start?”

Jessica leaned in towards him. Her eyes were brown, but in the dim pub light they were deeper and darker. Black, Yata thought with sudden dizziness, as black as her untouched Guinness. “How about with Lupin?”

…

Zenigata had the good sense to wait until he saw Yata step into a waiting Uber in the hotel parking lot. Only then did he slip on his jacket and hat (and gloves, inwardly cursing the cold as he did). Only then did he himself step out the hotel room. He moved at a casual, easy pace down the hall, and then the stairs.

A dull ache bloomed in his left leg as he descended. Some of the pain was the logical consequence of age. Most, though, could be blamed on the bullet Oliver Renard had fired into his thigh. Zenigata resigned himself to the sensation; every day he grew more and more aware of his body and its various aches. A part of him had been glad to let Yata take the lead in tonight’s chase. With his junior present, it was easier to hide how much he had actually slowed over the past year. Not that he would ever say as much to Yata, of course. Yata tended to fret, always to the cost of his own well-being.

The stairs were the harder choice. But safer than the elevator. There were fewer people on the quiet, dark stairwell, which meant fewer eyes to watch Inspector Zenigata slip out a side door and into the frigid night air.

The cold was a slap in the face. Zenigata hissed between his teeth. A night like this was best spent in bed, under a heavy blanket with a cup of something hot. He ought to turn around and march right back inside. Let Lupin come to him, damn it. Lord knew Zenigata did enough chasing in a day.

But that wasn’t how it worked. It never was.

SoWa was quiet save for the occasional siren’s scream in the distance. Come summer, the area would come alive with music and festivals and people. Summer was a long way off, though. Winter had a vice grip on Boston’s throat, suffocating all the potential charm of the city.

A part of him twinged with guilt. Yata was out here somewhere, trying to make a decent go at a worthwhile night with a pretty girl. Zenigata didn’t have to be present to know it. Yata was under orders to have a good time. And Yata, for better or for worse, had never failed to follow an order. Even if he’d looked utterly miserable when Zenigata slammed the door in his face.

Cruel to be kind, Zenigata assured himself. Yata couldn’t spend his time buried in paperwork or standing around waiting for Lupin to show up. Zenigata refused to let Yata waste his youth being like—well, Zenigata.

Cruel to be kind. And never mind how much of a justification that sounded like.

Zenigata’s breath iced in the air as he walked. At the same time, he was starting to sweat under the layers. He’d left the businesses and art galleries of South of Washington and passed into a residential area. Brownstones jutted up from the concrete around him: squat parallel lines of identical buildings made of brick stones and iron gates. Every flowerbed in every window was empty, and the gated trees hung limp and bare. Everything was dark and still, as though the world was a theater waiting for the stage lights to rise.

And if all the world was a stage, then Lupin the Third had made himself the star of the show. He was waiting in the wings now: sitting outside one of the nondescript brownstones, smoking a cigarette and bundled against the cold.

Zenigata stopped short when he caught sight of Lupin. Lupin, sensing the eyes, glanced up from the dog end of his cigarette. For a moment they stared at each other.

Then Zenigata grunted and stomped forward to stand by Lupin on the step. “I ought to kill you for that stunt you pulled.”

“But you won’t,” Lupin replied in a sing-song tone. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his wingtip. He grinned when Zenigata snorted. “I know you’re not going to arrest me either.”

“That’s a lot of confidence for a man in melee range,” Zenigata shot back. Even as he said it, he held out a hand for Lupin to take.

Lupin accepted it, allowing Zenigata to haul him to his feet. “Hey now, I didn’t steal anything! I didn’t even break into the party. I was there as a hardworking employee. Non-union, I might add. So, y’know, on the most technical level…I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He spread his hands in a ‘ta-da!’ sort of gesture. Zenigata gave him a look of deepest irritation before nodding towards the brownstone’s front door. Lupin took the hint. He hopped up the steps to the front door and held it open. Zenigata followed. A small shiver of relief escaped him as he stepped into the heated house.

The interior looked as though it had been prepped for renting or a showcase. There wasn’t much in the way of personal touches, and all the furniture seemed classically secondhand. The only piece with anything in the way of personality was an impressive grandfather clock ticking away in the sitting room. Zenigata spotted Lupin’s costume trunk in front of the couch. The trunk was doubling as a coffee table, if the six-pack of Narragansett beer sitting on top of it was anything to go by.

“Owning or renting or borrowing?” Zenigata asked. He moved in a slow circle around the living room, inspecting every inch for tricks and traps.

“Owning!” Lupin replied. He flopped down on the sagging couch and splayed his long legs out. “Paying rent on anything these days? Hard pass.”

Zenigata turned to pin Lupin with a hard look. “What the hell are you doing here, Lupin?”

Lupin flicked a lazy hand towards the hoar-frosted window. “Oh, I came for the scenery.”

“You’re supposed to be in Malta.”

“I was, until the chief inspector on my case boarded a plane for the United States!” Lupin said. He sniffed in mock hurt. “Without so much as a by-your-leave.”

Zenigata relaxed, enough to come sit beside Lupin on the couch. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the calling card from the Wareham Art Gallery. “I knew this wasn’t yours.”

Lupin took it, inspecting the calling card with as much care as Zenigata had. He even sniffed it to be sure. “How?”

“Cardstock quality is too cheap.”

The reply widened Lupin’s grin. Inspector Zenigata certainly knew how to shower attention on a thief. “Ah. Yeah, that’ll do it. Y’know, some people just don’t appreciate the effort that goes into good theatrics.” He handed the calling card back to Zenigata.

Zenigata pocketed it once more. “Where are Jigen and Goemon?”

“Goe’s off training in some remote mountain. Jigen wanted to stay in Malta. Can’t imagine why, Boston is just lovely this time of year…”

Lupin began to ramble about the heist they’d been planning in Malta, how they were going to break into one of the country’s ancient temples and help themselves to a treasure hidden deep within, and wasn’t it just a shame that he’d had to stop that heist short?

Zenigata said nothing. He just leaned back against the couch cushions and folded his arms over his chest. Lupin would talk in circles if you let him. The only way to win the game was not to play it.

After about five minutes of chatter, Lupin sighed and rested his head back against the couch. “Can’t believe I left Malta for some mid-level insurance fraudster.”

Zenigata allowed himself a small, grim smile of triumph. “I knew it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty smart,” Lupin said. He flopped his head over to look at Zenigata. “How’d you know?”

“Couldn’t figure out what you’d want from that art gallery. Nothing in there seemed your style.”

“Except that assistant he’s got,” Lupin winked, and grinned when Zenigata just gave him another dour look. “So…Doyle. What’ve you got on him so far?”

“That’s confidential,” Zenigata said.

Lupin’s response was a small sigh. His eyes went wide as saucers. He flopped down to the side, head landing on Zenigata’s lap. His lower lip jutted out in a pout.

“Confidential,” Zenigata said again.

“Ugh, fine.” Instantly the pleading expression vanished. Lupin shoved himself upright and folded his arms over his chest. “I guess I’ll do my own digging while I’m in town.”

Zenigata chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead he helped himself to one of the beers from the six-pack. The tab snapped with a hiss. Lupin followed his example. For a few minutes they sat in comfortable silence, sipping their beers and watching the hands tick around the grandfather clock’s ornate face. 

“S’not half-bad, for a fake,” Lupin said suddenly. When Zenigata gave him a baffled look, he elaborated: “The calling card. It’s not half-bad. Would’ve fooled anyone not named Inspector Zenigata. Whoever made it had done their homework.”

“Yata thought the copycat might be Renard,” Zenigata said, speaking into the lip of the beer can.

“Oliver?” Lupin said. Zenigata pretended not to see the flash of concern across his narrow face. Lupin shifted in his seat: even months later, the mention of his would-be rival and sometimes imitator made him uneasy. “That’s not a bad guess. But I don’t know if he’d copy me so completely. That wasn’t his style the first time round.”

Renard had been missing for five months. Five months was a long time for anyone to be missing, never mind a hot-tempered thief who’d demanded the spotlight without earning it. His thigh ached as a phantom bullet pierced through it. Look at me, I’m a thief, Zenigata thought as he rubbed his leg. Look at me, Lupin, aren’t you proud?

There was no doubt in his mind that impressing the older thief was what had driven Renard’s jailbreak. As to why he had not resurfaced…

“You still don’t know where he is?”

“No,” Lupin sighed. “The kid’s gone AWOL.”

“Any idea why?”

“A few educated guesses.” Lupin chose not to elaborate on those educated guesses, but whatever they were had him pursing his lips. He leaned forward, plucked up the remaining beers from the costume trunk, and set them aside. “I wish he’d hurry up and show his freckled ass. I’ve got something to give him.”

“Is it a boot up his freckled ass?”

“Among other surprises,” Lupin said as he undid the latches on the trunk.

He knelt, rummaging through clothes and gadgets and gizmos until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a long, thin object from the trunk and showed it to Zenigata. A package, Zenigata assumed…until he saw the hilt. He was looking at the ornate steel hilt of a rapier, sheathed in black leather. Renard had been a championship fencer before a criminal career had called to him. He’d lost his rapier in the huge fire that had led to his arrest.

Lupin was waiting for some comment. Zenigata could see it in the way he shifted his feet slightly. So he set his half-finished beer aside and leaned forward. “You replaced his sword?”

Lupin drew the rapier from its scabbard. Zenigata, who knew nothing of blades that weren’t Zantetsuken, whistled. The blade was light, and almost a meter long. Lupin held it a little more awkwardly than Renard might have, but there was no denying the quality of the blade itself. It was the perfect weapon for an energetic young sabreur.

Perfect, Zenigata mused. As long as he didn’t have a bullet in his back. Even if Renard could be found, his fencing days may very well be done.

He knew that wasn’t the response Lupin wanted, though, so instead he cleared his throat. “You already have a swordsman.”

“One can never have too many swordsmen,” Lupin retorted. He sheathed the blade and set it back in the trunk. “Now I have one for stabbing and one for slicing!”

His boundless enthusiasm made Zenigata sigh. Lupin saw much of himself in Renard. A little too much, truth be told. Lupin always had a fascination with mirrors, and that fascination left him blind to things that weren’t his reflection. “Are you sure recruiting him is a good idea?”

“Maybe not,” Lupin said. He set the sword back into the trunk and turned back to Zenigata. “But I don’t have many others.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Lupin.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so sentimental if someone hadn’t talked me out of killing him in the first place.”

“Now why would I do a thing like that?”

“Because you’re a better man than I am.”

The beer had left them both with a comfortable buzz. As such, Lupin felt confident enough to slip forward, straddling Zenigata’s lap. And Zenigata was relaxed enough to reach up and run his hands through Lupin’s salt-and-pepper hair. The touch made Lupin purr as he leaned in towards Zenigata.

“Some days,” Zenigata murmured, “you almost make me believe that.”

And then they were kissing, and the cold, dark world beyond the brownstone was forgotten.

…

Once, while watching his father comb through accounts, Mattias Vandewater had asked why he bothered keeping track of who owed what.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to hand everyone lots of money?” he’d asked, standing on tip-toe to look at the handwritten numbers on the ledger’s page. He couldn’t have been older than eight, but that was old enough to know that numbers with so many commas were large numbers indeed.

His father had chuckled and gestured for Mattias to sit up on his knee. “Sometimes I do. But you’re right, not always. Although many of the people who work for me would like to have a lot of money.”

“So why don’t you give them money?”

“Because,” his father had said, in the patient tone of a parent explaining how the world worked, “money will only get you so many results. Some people won’t do what you ask them to do. Not even for all the money in the world. So you have to figure out the right way to motivate them.” He tapped the page with one ringed finger.

Mattias had looked down at the page. There were a lot of names on that page. A lot of big numbers, all in red.

“It’s not always polite to do things for a cash payment. But when you offer to pay what they owe other people…well. A man might refuse a dollar out of principle, but take up his cause and he’s yours. Do you understand, Mattias?”

“I think so.”

He hadn’t, though. Not until he was grown and Domas had been taken from them. Only then had he started to understand: a man will do anything to free himself from debt. For better or for worse.

Doyle’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his neck like some grotesque elevator. His eyes never left Mattias as he slipped on a pair of leather gloves. “You’re certain this is the only way to do this?”

“C’mon, Henry, it needs to look convincing.”

Still Doyle hesitated. He glanced down at the updated contract on his desk. Nikolas Vandewater had signed it himself. Fifty-thousand American dollars to be paid to various collection agencies and lenders on Doyle’s behalf. Fifty-thousand dollars in exchange for his time and cooperation. Simple, no? Once the debts were paid he could do whatever he wanted. Go to Paris, finally…

Doyle eased up from his desk to stand in front of Mattias. “All right. Do what you will.”

Mattias rolled his shoulders back before cracking his neck. “Don’t relax your shoulders,” he ordered Doyle. He rather liked giving orders, he found. And he especially liked when those orders were followed. This was how it felt to be Dad. “This has to look like a fight, remember? Otherwise they’ll never buy it.”

“It’s going to hurt!”

“Well, yeah,” Mattias said as he balled his hand into a fist. “That’s kinda the idea.”

And then he swung.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four, In Which Zenigata Receives Marching Orders

The pain began before Yata even opened his eyes.

He whined and rolled over, burying his face into the soft surface beneath him. That didn’t help. His brain pounded, pressing against his skull as though his brain expanded and contracted with every beat of his heart. The back of his throat burned with a sticky heat. Another high whine of agony escaped him.

“Oh, man. You okay?”

Jessica’s voice was an arrow through his ear. The arrowhead pierced his eardrum and buried into his swelling brain. Yata only managed a moan in response.

Soft hands pressed against his burning forehead. After a moment they withdrew. Yata stayed completely still, breathing slowly and carefully through his nose. The measured breathing helped; the swelling in his brain decreased, if only a little.

After five years—or, at least, what felt like five years—he heard the soft cluck of glass on hardwood and the rattle of pills in a bottle. Yata forced his eyes open to stare at the glass of orange juice, the glass of water, the bottle of aspirin, and the granola bar, all lined up in a row on a low coffee table.

Jessica’s voice was somewhere above his head. Yata didn’t trust himself to look in Jessica’s direction. Instead he focused on pulling himself upright. The world swam, colors and lights running together as tears rose in his eyes. Jessica’s hands were back, guiding the glass of water into his hands.

Cool, clean water washed away the slimy, burning node. Yata drank deeply, pausing only to pop one of the aspirin in his mouth. Hydration helped, enough that Yata could study his surroundings without fear of vomiting.

He was lying on a couch in a foreign apartment. Jessica’s, he had to surmise, small but clean. Yata, who didn’t know the first thing about interior design and even less about feminine tastes, could only describe it as crisply feminine. Lots of bright colors and potted plants, all perfectly organized alongside shelved books and artistic bric-à-brac. Something was missing, though. If his mind hadn’t currently been swimming in a sea of pain Yata might have been more interested in what was absent. As it was, his eyes fell to Jessica herself. She crouched in front of him with eyebrows arched.

Yata peeled back the wrapper on the granola bar and took the first bite. “What happened?”

“You had a little too much to drink,” Jessica’s wry smile was back in place now that Yata was upright. “I couldn’t get into your phone to call Inspector Zenigata, so I brought you back to my place. Hope you don’t mind.”

Yata chewed the oat-and-yogurt granola bar slowly. Last night—why couldn’t he remember anything about last night? He remembered Zenigata shooing him out, he remembered sitting down in Foley’s, but after that everything became fuzzy and indistinct. His gut twisted in a mix of panic and shame. Anything could have happened last night. Anything—

He paused in the middle of chewing as something occurred to him. “Did we—?”

“No,” Jessica assured him. “You were a consummate gentleman. If somewhat uncoordinated.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

Jessica laughed and stood. The noise made Yata wince, but fortunately she didn’t seem to notice. Jessica stepped off into another room, leaving Yata to polish off the granola bar and orange juice in peace. By then he was feeling himself enough to swing his legs off the couch. The room still wavered, but the pounding behind his eyes had reduced to a dull throbbing. Yata groaned and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. What the hell had been in that cider? He’d never, ever drank to excess before. The fact that he was capable of it was more than a little frightening.

Zenigata would understand, though, surely. Yata had had to peel Zenigata off enough barstools in the past not to be owed at least one pass.

He lowered his hands away from his eyes, blinked until his vision came back to him, and looked around for his jacket. He spotted it hanging on a hook by the front door, beside a white coat that could have only belonged to Jessica. Yata took a deep breath, summoned up his courage, and stood.

He didn’t stagger, but it was a damn near thing. Yata shuffled over to his coat, and only exhaled when he found his phone, keys, and wallet undisturbed inside the pockets. He needed a proper breakfast, he thought as he tugged out his phone. He needed a shower and a change of clothes.

Priorities first, though. He needed to call Zenigata.

And just like that, his phone started ringing. The shrill brrrrring! made him wince, even as he tried to focus on the unfamiliar number onscreen. Out of the corner of his eye Yata spotted Jessica, stepping back into the room as she pulled her dark hair up into that severe ponytail.

He turned away as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Agent Goro Yatagarasu?” It was a woman on the other end, her voice crisp and impersonal.

“Speaking.”

“This is Inspector Ellen MacMillan, representing the United States branch of Interpol.”

Yata’s heart slammed into his chest, so hard it might have cracked a rib. Interpol only called when there was trouble. Trouble-with-a-capital-T sort of Trouble. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak calmly: “A pleasure to speak with you, Inspector MacMillan.”

MacMillan didn’t return the sentiment. “Where are you currently?”

“Um…”

Yata put a hand over the receiver and turned to Jessica. “What’s your address?” he hissed. Jessica hissed it back. Yata nodded before relaying the information to MacMillan.

“How soon can you be at the Wareham Art Gallery?” MacMillan asked.

Once more, Yata repeated the question to Jessica. Once more, he relayed her answer to MacMillan:

“It’s within walking distance, Inspector. I can be there in fifteen minutes. But with all due respect, you should be speaking with Inspector Zenigata…”

“He’s here already.”

Something about her tone made Yata’s gut twist. The pounding was back behind his eyes. “Is he all right? Can I speak with him?”

“Wareham Art Gallery, Agent Yatagarasu. Fifteen minutes.”

“Is Inspector Zenigata all right?”

A soft click served as MacMillan’s answer.

…

Walking was faster than taking an Uber, Jessica had said, and that was true enough given Boston traffic. They walked together at a brisk pace; it took all of Yata’s resolve (and the lingering headache) not to sprint the whole way. Even so, he was out of breath by the time he and Jessica turned the street corner to the art gallery.

Jessica stopped short when they did. “What the fuck!”

What the fuck indeed. What should have been a sleepy Sunday morning in a sleepy art district was a full-blown crime scene. A slew of cars had parked in front of the Wareham Art Gallery: most were marked with the emblem of the Boston Police Department, but a few were unmarked cars that any criminal would have made for Interpol property. The flashing red-and-blue lights drew curious onlookers, even as barricades kept them at bay.

No, Yata thought. No, no, no—this was just some bad dream he’d yet to wake up from—

Yata sprinted for the barricade. One hand was in his jacket, fishing for his badge as he squeezed between the barricades. “Let me through!” he demanded of the cops who stopped him. “LET ME THROUGH!”

“Let him through,” a crisp, businesslike voice agreed.

Ellen MacMillan was a full head shorter than Yata, but she was unmistakably in command of the scene as she strode forward. Mid-forties, Yata judged at first glance, with a graying tangle of red hair framing her sharp features. She wore a tailored suit and sensible work shoes. No weapon, as far as Yata could tell, but then he didn’t think she needed one. The look she pierced Yata with was more than sufficient.

“Agent Yatagarasu.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Present, ma’am,” Yata replied as he squeezed through the throng of cops. He was painfully aware of just how inadequate he must have seemed to all those present: he was dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, he hadn’t showered, he’d barely stopped to chew a mint to clear his breath. Under MacMillan’s searching gaze, he felt young and completely unprofessional.

MacMillan sniffed. “Come with me. Baxter, you take her.” She flicked a dismissive hand towards Jessica.

Jessica and Yata shared a look. Jessica arched her eyebrows and shrugged before following a lean cop in the opposite direction. MacMillan crooked a finger towards Yata, forcing him to follow her inside.

The Wareham Art Gallery hadn’t changed, but suddenly the space seemed wider, colder, threatening to swallow him like some huge mouth. Even those potted plants seemed less friendly than they had yesterday. Cops milled in doorways and by paintings. Some were taking notes or snapping photographs; most were just standing around in barely-concealed boredom. MacMillan’s presence snapped them to full (or fuller) attention, and as they passed Yata could feel the weight of eyes.

A rustle of brown trenchcoat caught Yata’s eye. Almost instantly he relaxed. Inspector Zenigata stood by Doyle’s office, speaking in low tones to a plainclothes cop. The inspector’s craggy face was lined with exhaustion and fury, but otherwise he seemed whole. Yata started towards him, but Zenigata caught his eye and shook his head.

“With me, Agent.” MacMillan’s voice was a whip cracking against Yata’s psyche. He winced and hurried to keep pace with her. She led him into a side corridor, gestured for him to sit on a backless cube of a chair.

Yata sank down onto the cube. As far as modern furniture went, it wasn’t very comfortable. “What’s happened here?”

“I will be asking the questions here, thank you.”

“And you are?” Yata asked, unable to keep the disdain from his tone.

“I see Zenigata hasn’t taught you an ounce of respect,” MacMillan said. She pulled out her own badge, allowing Yata to study it. His eyes flicked past the badge to the inspector herself. Lupin? his trained mind asked. No, she was too short to be Lupin, or any other member of the Lupin gang. Lupin could doll himself up in just about anything, but it was always harder to go shorter in a disguise. She wasn’t Renard either, even if she shared his hair color and his freckles. MacMillan’s eyes were the wrong shape for Renard.

Something of his mistrust must have shown, for MacMillan scowled as she snapped her badge wallet shut. “Wipe that look off your face, or I’ll bar you from Boston so fast your head will spin.”

His head already was spinning, thanks to the lingering hangover…but Yata rearranged his expression anyway.

It must have sufficed, because MacMillan took the seat across from him and pulled out a personal recorder. A handheld notebook and pen followed. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Record on.”

At least she hadn’t read him any rights, Yata mused. He wasn’t under arrest for anything. Yet.

“Where were you between the hours of zero one hundred and zero five hundred?” MacMillan asked. No prelude, no softening the blow.

“Foley’s Irish pub,” Yata answered immediately. He’d been on the receiving end of questioning before, turning his training at Interpol. He and the other trainees had taken turns as interviewer and interviewee to familiarize themselves with the process. He forced to himself to pretend this was just another training session. 

“What was your purpose there?”

“I met Jessica Jansen there to discuss particulars of the Lupin case taking place here, as well as the incident that occurred last night.”

“You never made it back to your hotel.” Another statement, not a question. The answer was obvious just by looking at him.

“No. I drank a little too much.” It was a hard thing to admit, never mind to a superior he didn’t know, but it was the honest answer. Zenigata would want him to be honest. “Miss Jansen allowed me to spend the night at her apartment.”

That had MacMillan arching an eyebrow. “I hope no lines of duty were crossed in the middle of the night, Agent.”

“N-no! No, Inspector. No.”

“Good.” MacMillan’s eyebrow lowered again. “Miss Jansen can verify your whereabouts for that time?”

“Yes. What is this—?”

“Tell me about the altercation between Inspector Zenigata and Henry Doyle that occurred last night.”

“Altercation?” Yata had to take a moment to think. “I’m not sure if I would call it that. One of the security team fired his gun recklessly, and the inspector was upset about that. He and Doyle had words…”

“Words about what?”

“Doyle didn’t like how Zenigata was conducting the investigation.”

“And what did Inspector Zenigata say to that?”

“Nothing.” Something pricked at the back of Yata’s mind. It was a lot like fear…and also a lot like suspicious certainty. He knew where this line of questioning was going. “Why?”

MacMillan ignored the question. “Does Inspector Zenigata often come into conflict with the people he’s charged with protecting?”

No, he wanted to say. Never. But Zenigata’s voice was in his head, demanding honesty. They would know if he lied. “Sometimes,” Yata said, “depending on the course of the investigation.”

“And, because you were with Jessica Jansen at her home address, you are unable to verify Zenigata’s whereabouts this morning?”

“Inspector MacMillan,” Yata said, exasperated, “what is this about?”

MacMillan’s expression was impassive as she set her notebook aside. “At zero five hundred, Henry Doyle was attacked at his place of employment—here—and brutally assaulted. The head of security found him at zero six hundred. He’s currently at the Boston Medical Center seeking treatment. Doyle was barely coherent when security found him, but he did manage one statement. He claims Inspector Zenigata was his attacker.”

The whole world came crashing down around Yata.

His hands found the edge of the cube chair. His grip on it went white-knuckled as shock and outrage swept in, threatening to pull him under. He gaped at MacMillan. No—that was impossible—anyone who’d ever met Zenigata knew that he would never, ever hurt anyone—hell, he wouldn’t even use lethal force on the Lupin gang!—no, no, Doyle was wrong, Doyle was lying, lying right through his stupid smug teeth—

MacMillan was still studying him. Expecting an answer, no doubt.

“That’s impossible,” Yata said through gritted teeth.

“Is it? The security footage from this morning is missing. Doyle’s office door was unlocked, and he had no defensive wounds. Nothing was taken, suggesting that this wasn’t a robbery. And he has no reason to lie.”

“Find one, then!” Yata snapped. “Zenigata would never, ever—”

“Zenigata is refusing to give us his whereabouts last night.”

MacMillan’s reply was a douse of cold water on his ire. “What?”

“Zenigata is refusing to offer us an alibi,” MacMillan said again. She spoke slowly, as though he were a child. “And since you are unable to provide him one as well…”

That sour, sticky node was back in his throat. Zenigata had been in their hotel room all night, of course. Why hadn’t he told them that? That was a simple enough alibi. Unless—unless—it wasn’t true. Unless Zenigata refused to lie to fellow members of Interpol. But if he hadn’t been in the hotel room, where had he been?

He wanted you out last night, some treacherous little voice whispered in his ear. He wanted you gone. Why would he want you gone?

“Inspector MacMillan,” Yata said, with sudden desperation, “Inspector Zenigata would never do something like that. He’s a good cop. He’s a good man. Look at his past service, his records—”

“His records,” MacMillan repeated the word, slowly. “How much do you know of his records, young man?”

The question stung. But Yata had no good answer. Not with that traitorous little voice in his ear.

When he didn’t answer, MacMillan shrugged. “Be that as it may. Currently, we only have Doyle’s word and circumstantial evidence to support it. That is enough to detain Inspector Zenigata. Not arrest or charge him with misconduct. Given the situation, however, Interpol has decided to recall Zenigata to Japan until the investigation is complete—”

“But—!”

“—and you will serve as acting inspector on the Lupin case in his place.”

The shattered world grew very loud. Yata could hear everything: the roar of blood in his ears, the whoop of police sirens, the low murmur of conversation from across the way. And then, just as quickly, everything went quiet.

“What?” Yata asked.

“You are Inspector Zenigata’s second-in-command, are you not? Training to become his partner?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Lupin the Third is still in Boston. On that much, we can all agree. I have neither the time nor resources to set aside my own men on the Lupin hunt. And neither can I allow him to remain in my city. Furthermore, you are not a part of Doyle’s accusation. Although you will be reporting to me at every stage of your investigation.”

This was all too much, all too fast. Yata’s stomach churned, bile rushed into his throat, and he sprang to his feet. “Excuse me.”

He made it to the men’s bathroom, staggered to a stall, and retched into the bowl. Hot, sour bile seared his throat and tongue. Every inch of him was burning. His whole body convulsed as wave after wave of sickness hit him, and it was all Yata could do keep his face to the bowl.

He was gasping and shaky by the time the convulsions ended. Yata gripped the seat of the toilet as he forced himself upright. The headache was back tenfold, and this time he didn’t know if it was the hangover or the outrage behind it. He closed his eyes to steady himself. This was just some bad dream, he told himself. Some alcohol-fueled nightmare that was sure to end soon.

It didn’t, though. When Yata opened his eyes, he was still in the bathroom, staring down at a vomit-splattered toilet bowl.

He wiped his mouth with toilet paper and flushed. When he crept out of the stall, his own reflection stared back at him ruefully. His dark hair hung limp and sweaty against too-pale skin. Dark circles cut under his eyes, and somehow he’d missed a smear of bile against his lip. Yata rubbed it away with his jacket’s sleeve.

He didn’t look like the lead inspector on the Lupin case.

He looked like shit.

When Yata reemerged from the bathroom, it was to find Zenigata himself waiting at the door with an amused expression. MacMillan stood at the edge of the corridor, watching them both with arms folded over her chest.

“Amazing,” Zenigata said. His tone was light, as though this were just another day. As though he hadn’t been accused of something heinous. “Thirty seconds on the job and you’re already throwing up.”

“Sir…” Yata started, and then trailed off.

“Yata,” Zenigata said.

“Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know,” Zenigata admitted. “But I intend to find out.”

“I’m sorry,” Yata said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Because you’re off the Lupin case.”

That knocked the calm, collected mask askew. Dark fury flashed through Zenigata’s eyes, followed closely by indignation. He was trying not to let it show, Yata realized. He was trying to put on a brave face. Whether it was for Yata’s benefit or his own, though, Yata couldn’t say.

“They’re promoting you to the Lupin case,” Zenigata said, after he choked back more choice words. He managed to fix that calm mask back in place.

“But I’m not…”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been lead on the case before.”

Never like this, though. Yata had been designated lead when Zenigata had been injured. He’d been designated lead when Zenigata had been kidnapped by the Lupin gang. Yata had never been designated lead because Zenigata had been accused of assault and battery. That put Zenigata far away—further than he had been even when Lupin had absconded with him from a hospital. Even then, Zenigata had found a way to be with him: he’d sicced Jigen and Goemon on Yata to keep him safe. This time, there weren’t any good-natured thieves to help even the odds. This time, he was alone.

I’m not ready, Yata wanted to scream. I’m not ready, please don’t leave me!

 Zenigata cocked his head to the side. Something of Yata’s internal panic must have shown, for he managed a wan smile. “Two final orders, Yata.”

“Yes, sir?” Yata said, trying not to sound completely miserable.

“Starting in sixty seconds, you aren’t allowed to doubt yourself.”

Yata blinked. He rolled his shoulders back and stood a little straighter. “And the other?”

“Remember who you can trust.”

Zenigata stuck his hand out to shake.

“Yes, sir.”

Yata accepted the hand. A slightly-damp cardstock creased between their palms as they met. MacMillan was watching, Yata knew, so he kept his expression neutral as they shook on it. He folded his fingers down when they broke contract, pressing Lupin’s calling card to his palm as he slid his hands into his pocket.

Zenigata gave him an appraising look, nodded, and walked back to join MacMillan.

“Inspector,” MacMillan said as he approached.

“Inspector,” Zenigata said in return.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“So am I.” Zenigata paused to study MacMillan. He didn’t know her well, he realized. He made a mental note to look up her credentials upon his return to Japan. “Keep an eye on Agent Yatagarasu, will you?”

“Both eyes,” MacMillan said. She glanced around Zenigata to the miserable Yata. She harrumphed before turning and walking away. “You think he’s capable?”

“More than,” Zenigata said as he stomped after her.

“Hm. I hope he proves more reliable than your prior assistant.”

Zenigata stopped short. His eyes narrowed sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Only that your reputation proceeds you, Inspector.” MacMillan kept her eyes forward. She was still walking, her tone mild as though they were making light conversation. “As do the reputations of those who work with you.”

Yata, meanwhile, remained by the bathroom. He glanced around to ensure he was alone before pulling Lupin’s calling card out of his pocket. Remember who you can trust. Lupin, Yata thought. He needed to find Lupin. Lupin would help him uncover the truth of what happened. Lupin would never stand for this slander against the good inspector. It was strange to feel so confident in that knowledge…but for the moment, it was all he had.

With that in mind, Yata stepped up to a nearby window. He watched MacMillan escort Zenigata into one of the unmarked cars. Zenigata went without fight or complaint. He also wasn’t going handcuffed, for whatever assurance that was. Yata watched as the unmarked car pulled away from the curb. It went down the road, out of sight…and out of Yata’s reach.

It all happened very quickly after that.

There was a whirlwind of paperwork to sign, Is to dot and Ts to cross. He canvassed the Wareham Art Gallery top-to-bottom, checking and crosschecking a list of inventory to ensure nothing had been stolen or was out-of-place. Occasionally he spotted Jessica, always giving statements to police, but he never got the chance to talk (what would he say anyway? Sorry that my boss beat up yours?). MacMillan may have escorted Zenigata to Logan airport, but every time he turned around there was someone else watching him from a new corner. Let them watch, Yata told himself. Let them all see what a good job Zenigata did choosing his successor.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Yata found himself alone again.

He stood outside the coffeehouse he and Zenigata had visited yesterday—only yesterday, twenty-four hours could be a hell of a thing—contemplating the lunch crowd. He needed something to eat and a coffee. Desperately. His headache padded at the back of his mind like a restless, ill-tempered cat. But he couldn’t drag himself into the throng of people into the café. So he remained on the street, taking slow, deep breathes as he tried to plan his next move. He could be strong, he could be capable. He would do this, because Zenigata ordered him to do it.

First things first, he needed to find Lupin. How, though? It was entirely more likely that Lupin would find him first, and by then it might be too late…

Thick gray clouds bunched overhead. The temperature was beginning to drop. A few of the passerby muttered under their breath about inbound snow. Yata ignored them. Instead he pulled out the calling card once more.

Remember who you can trust.

Something hard and bony collided against his shoulder. The sudden force sent Yata staggering, nearly losing grip on the card as someone shoved past him. He caught sight of a scowl and a weathered green windbreaker as the man stalked past. The man snarled something low and indistinct and no-doubt insulting.

“Sorry!” Yata called. Although he didn’t quite know why he was apologizing. He’d been standing completely still, it was easy enough to go around him…

Yata turned to watch the man limp away. His brow furrowed. Instinct tickled his exhausted, anxiety-riddled brain. Boston was a city like any other, and with any city came pickpockets. Yata’s hands flew to his pockets for a quick inventory check. Phone, present. Badge, check. Keys, accounted for. Wallet—

Wallet.

His wallet.

“HEY!” Yata bellowed. “HEY! STOP!”

His shout drew curious looks from others, but the limping man kept moving. Was it Yata’s imagination, or was he getting faster?

“THIEF!”

That got a glance backwards. And then the thief broke into a sprint.

Yata hissed between his teeth. Today was really not his day.

And then they were off: cop and thief sprinted down the bright Boston streets. The thief shoved people aside, forcing Yata to apologize as he squeezed past their shock and indignation. Either the thief’s limp wasn’t as bad as Yata thought, or desperation made him swifter. Either way, he stayed just out of Yata’s reach as they ran.

Yata was fit, though, and full of fury. He never once flagged, not even when the thief darted out into the choked Boston traffic. Several cars came to a screeching halt as he sprinted through a green light. Yata slid over the hood of a taxi, ignoring the blare of a car horn that followed. He only had eyes for the green jacket just a few steps ahead. “STOP! HEY! STOP!”

The thief ignored him, preferring instead to turn down a narrow alley. Yata started to follow—but then thought better of it. It would be too easy to get lost in those narrow side streets, especially against a thief on his home turf. After a moment of consideration, he spotted a fire escape. He flung himself up, hand over hand on the iron rods until he reached the metal platform. From there it was a quick scramble up to the rooftops.

Yata could see the thief, moving still at that quick, lopsided pace down the alleys. He kept pace with the thief from on height, watching him clamber over fencing and slide between gaps in wooden posts. Somewhere, somewhere there would have to be a break—somewhere he would have to catch his breath. Yata forced his eyes off the thief long enough to scan the route ahead. There was a brick wall of a dead-end up ahead. The thief would be forced to turn left.

Yata picked up his speed, overtaking the thief as he jumped the narrow gaps between buildings. Time to end this.

The thief had never once bothered to look back. Neither had he slowed down. So when the thief rounded the corner, Yata was able to clothesline him at full force. The thief went down on his stomach with a yelp of pain.

Yata planted a foot between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the filthy pavement as he pulled the handcuffs from his waistline. Yata’s lungs were burning for air. His sweat mixed uncomfortably with the chill in the air. He took a moment, standing on top of his conquered prey and breathing hard. 

Fat, white snowflakes began to fill the air around them. He straddled the cursing thief, who had managed to keep his hood up through the chase.

“You’re under arrest,” Yata gasped.

The thief shifted, just enough for Yata to see his baffled expression. “Eh?”

Yata snapped out his badge and held it where the thief could see it. “You just tried to rob a cop, asshole.”

The thief burst out laughing.

This, of all reactions, was not one Yata had been expecting. He tucked his badge away with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, just my bloody luck, that’s all—”

Yata stopped short. His voice. His accent. That was not a Boston accent. That was a posh accent he might expect from an upper-class gentleman thief, not a grubby pickpocket. He almost sounded like—

No. No, it couldn’t be him. Looking down at the thief now, Yata could see his red beard, but that didn’t mean a thing. Lots of people had red beards. No. No, this was coincidence. No. This wasn’t happening, this was not happening. Not today of all fucking days—

When Yata yanked the thief’s hood back, it was to reveal a shock of tangled, overlong red hair. The color matched the matted red beard. That didn’t matter. That was nothing. What mattered most was the thief’s stupid, shit-eating grin as he twisted to look at Yata.

Lots of people in the world had red hair. Lots of people in the world had posh accents. But there was only one man capable of such a shitty crooked grin while facedown on the pavement.

The thief bucked suddenly, breaking free enough to elbow the stunned Yata in the face. Yata’s head snapped back. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Everything was blurry, suddenly, and he couldn’t dodge the fist swinging his way.

Pain exploded in his jaw. The pavement came rushing to meet him.

And then everything went black.

…

“Well. That was easy.”

Snow was falling hard and fast outside the window. Jessica’s apartment, though, was warm and cushy and full of snacks. Mattias flung himself down on her couch, popped open a bag of chips, and crossed his boots at the ankle.

Jessica gave him a flat look as she rounded the corner from the kitchen. “Get your shit off my couch.”

Mattias sneered. “S’not your couch.”

“It’s not yours either, asshole. And those are my chips.”

In response, Mattias took a huge fistful and shoved them into his grinning mouth.

“Ugh, you’re such a pig—”

“Children.”

Nikolas Vandewater’s voice never rose above a mild tone. But nevertheless both his children stopped short. Mattias sat up off the couch and dusted his hands off. Jessica turned to face her father, smiling. “Dad!”

He stood on the threshold of Jessica’s apartment, coated in snow like some sugary confection. He dusted himself off before stepping into the living room. He gave Jessica one quick hug, and then did the same for Mattias. “I’m only stopping through. I have to be back in New York in the morning.”

“Is there news on Dom?” Mattias asked at once.

Nikolas gave his younger son a small smile. “Nothing yet. Avenues to be pursued and all that.”

Mattias sighed and flopped backwards onto the cushions. Jessica, meanwhile, sank down onto the couch beside her brother. “Have you heard? About what happened?” For all her flushed cheeks and eager tone, she might have been ten again, discussing her dance recital with her father.

“What’s the point of having informants if they don’t keep you informed?” Nikolas shrugged. He took the bag of chips from Mattias and helped himself to a handful. “So, yes. I heard. Inspector Zenigata has been shipped off to Japan. Expertly done.”

Jessica beamed under the praise. “He made it too easy! He wouldn’t even give MacMillan an alibi!”

Mattias just snorted. “I don’t see why we couldn’t just kill him.”

Nikolas crunched another chip between his teeth. He chewed slowly, studying Mattias as he did so. “Not everything should be solved with brute force, Matty. I thought we taught you better than that.”

“I thought you taught us that nobody fucks with Vandewaters.”

“Language. Zenigata was just following orders when he arrested Domas. I respect a man who can follow orders. Save it for the two who really matter.”

Mattias shrugged and turned to look out at the falling snow. Jessica gave him a critical look before turning back to Nikolas. Nikolas glanced between his children with eyebrows arched. “So, Zenigata has his hands full for the moment. What of his replacement?”

“Yatagarasu,” Jessica snorted. “The only thing we have to worry about is him boring me to death. He’s an idiot. We’ll be fine.”

“So. Doyle’s part is done. Or will be, shortly. Zenigata is out of the picture. What of Lupin? How do you know he won’t get bored and leave the city tomorrow?”

“He won’t,” Jessica said. Her smile grew. “Not with his pride at stake.”

Nikolas’ gray eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Jess. Be very, very careful. Lupin is not the sort of man you want to underestimate.”

“We won’t, Dad. That was Dom’s mistake.”

“No killing,” their father said again. “I want your hands clean.”

“No killing,” Jessica echoed solemnly.

Mattias flicked a lazy wrist in the air. He waited for his father to step into the bathroom to sigh and scowl at the ceiling. “I don’t get it. He wanted Dom to kill that shithead the first time round. But now he tells us no killing? He thinks we can’t handle it?”

Jessica inspected her painted nails. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Explain it to me, O Wise One.”

“Dad doesn’t want them dead because he wants them alive.”

“Well, yeah, no shit.”

“That’s worse, Matty.” Jessica gave her brother a sidelong look, and there was enough of her father in her that Mattias swallowed his retort. “That’s a hundred times worse.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five, In Which There is an Unhappy Reunion

It was second time in twenty-four hours he’d woken up in a strange place, and Yata could safely say he wasn’t a fan of the sensation.

Consciousness came back in one rush, but Yata didn’t open his eyes yet. His teeth and tongue felt fuzzy, grimy almost, and his lower jaw ached. So did the back of his head. He could move freely, though, and all limbs were accounted for when he wiggled them.

He lay against something solid, as comfortable as a slab of concrete. Something heavy covered him, so Yata had the wonderful experience of being too warm and too cold all at once. Sharp pain stabbed deep into his gut. It took Yata entirely too long to realize the pain was hunger.

Nothing to be done for it, then. Time to open his eyes and accept whatever fresh hell he’d fallen into.

It was a moment before his eyes could adjust to the darkness. Concrete had been a good guess. He was surrounded by drab gray walls, unbroken save for a window-sized hole in the northern wall. A tarp shuddered around the hole. Just beyond it Yata could hear the wail of high winds. Then the wail became a roar, and bursts of snow came skittering around the snapping tarp.  

The tarp kept the worst of the cold and snow at bay, though, and as he listened the roar died down to a long moan. The room must have faced away from the wind, sheltering anyone inside from the worst of the storm. It also helped that the too-warm, too-heavy thing covering him was his own wool coat. Yata smoothed it out and slipped it back on, grateful for the extra layer of protection.

Other objects formed from the gloom as his eyes adjusted: an empty desk shoved against one wall, a stack of office chairs, a half-rusted filing cabinet with doors hanging on the hinges. Empty cartons of Cup Noodle littered the desk, along with a bottle top stove. The hard floor behind him was covered by a thin layer of carpet. Here and there he could see uneven patches of color on the walls where plaques and posters had hung. Some sort of office, in Yata’s best guess. But how the hell had he ended up here?

A sharp clang! snapped Yata’s gaze to the door. Footsteps echoed from just outside, a heavy tread against iron.

Shit.

Instantly Yata was on his feet. His head swam as he sidled up against the rusted cabinet. Meager cover, he knew, but better than nothing. Better than lying there waiting for whatever—or whoever—came next.

Snow and moonlight spilled into the office as the door opened and shut. The green-jacket thief (hooded again) cursed as he stomped into the room. He unslung a backpack from his shoulders and set it down on the desk. He reached for the bottle top stove already on the desk. A small hiss followed. Weak, flickering light filled the small office.

He hadn’t so much as glanced in Yata’s direction. Yata curled his hands into his fists. His blood roared in his ears as he shifted his weight. He had the advantage of a surprise attack, but the window of opportunity was closing quickly. He could take him from behind. Quickly and quietly, that was the way…

The floorboards groaned as Yata stepped forward.

The green-jacket thief wheeled around, yanking his hood down as he did.

And this time, there was no mistaking him.

Lord Oliver Renard the Second was—had been—a scion of the wealthy and powerful. Heir to a lordship on his mother’s side and considerable wealth on his father’s, he’d been afforded every privilege imaginable and then some. He was a champion fencer, a college graduate with full honors, the subject of more than one gossip column—

And a thief. A thief who’d spent his whole life looking up to Lupin. A thief who’d tried to beat Lupin at his own game, with disastrous results.

Once, Oliver Renard the Second had hobbed with the nobs. Now, though…

“You look like shit,” Yata said aloud.

Dark circles cut under Renard’s brown eyes. Wind and cold had ruddied his freckly face and chapped his lips. Renard’s red hair had grown overlong, falling in an inelegant tangle to his shoulders. His facial hair was no better: what had once been a stylish goatee was now a wild, matted beard. The goatee had made him look older; the beard had just aged him. Renard was twenty-two, but he looked closer to thirty-five.

He'd lost weight too. Beneath the beard his face was gaunt, and a belt cinched tightly around the waist of his stained blue jeans.

One thing hadn’t changed, though. When Renard smiled, it was with that same smug, shit-eating grin he’d always had.

“Come now,” Renard said, “is that really the way to speak to the man who saved your life?”

Yata scowled. Stealth abandoned, he stomped forward to stand next to Renard. “How the hell did you save my life?!”

Renard didn’t reply immediately. He turned back to his backpack and began to unload more packs of dried ramen and Cup Noodles. He yanked one of the desk drawers open, snatched a bottle of water from within, and snapped it open. “I could have left you sprawled out in the snow. Instead I took the time and effort to drag your skinny arse back here.”

He gave Yata one withering glance as he dumped the water into a small camping kettle. He set the kettle over the bottle top stove as Yata retorted:

“You’re the one who knocked me unconscious!”

“I,” Renard said, drawing out the word with mighty indignation, “was defending myself against an unlawful arrest.” He dumped the water bottle into a pile of its brethren on the carpeted floor.

“YOU STOLE MY WALLET!”

“You have no proof of that.”

“I don’t need proof!” Yata snapped. He stabbed at Renard with an accusatory finger. “YOU’RE A THIEF!”

Renard’s eyes widened. If he wore pearls he might have clutched them. As it was, the hand he pressed to his chest was a good imitation of outrage. “Oh? We’re profiling now?”

Yata opened his mouth to retort, but no words followed. After a moment he lowered the finger in favor of a daggered glare. Renard was clearly enjoying this little tête-à-tête; his mustache twitched from the effort to hold back a laugh. But Yata wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. Not that easily, anyway.

“You’re an asshole,” Yata said flatly.

Now Renard did laugh as he peeled back the lid of a Cup Noodle. He lifted the heated kettle off the flame and dumped the water into one of the Cup Noodles. “Point one, Oliver.”

Yata’s scowl deepened. It didn’t ease, not even when Renard pushed the prepped noodle container and a plastic fork in his direction. This was prelude to some trick. It had to be. Zenigata would never, ever forgive him if he found out Yata had been bested by some rookie thief—

A rookie thief who had broken into the Vatican and the Museum of Natural History. A rookie thief who had broken Lupin’s fingers, shot Zenigata, and sicced a bunch of assassins on him to finish the job. A rookie thief who had murdered his own father and joined up with a clan of criminal brokers.

Renard was dangerous. And Yata would be an idiot to accept any sort of peace offering.

Except…

Except that the heat from the Styrofoam container brought feeling back into his stiffened fingers. Except he hadn’t eaten in over a day, and the smell of sodium-soaked shrimp twisted his stomach in eager knots. His mouth watered as steam wafted up from the cup in lazy spirals.

Zenigata would want him to keep up his strength, Yata assured himself as he picked up the fork.

An awkward silence ensued. Yata ate standing. Despite the gnawing pit in his stomach, he took small, careful bites. The last thing he needed was to get sick again. Renard had no such compulsion: he hopped up onto the desk to eat his Cup Noodles with quick, noisy slurps.

Yata wound a stubborn string of noodles around the plastic fork. “So. Where is here anyway?”

Renard looked up from his noodles. He gestured to the gloomy interior. Behind him, the tarp snapped with each bite of the wind. “Welcome to Château de Renard. We’re all out of strawberry crepes at the moment, but I could offer you a delightful Romanée-Conti from the wine cellar—”

“Stop enjoying this,” Yata snapped.

Renard’s smile grew thin. “What makes you think I’m enjoying this?”

“Where,” Yata said again, insistent this time, “is here?”

“Oh. Some abandoned office building. You know the type, always the victim of trendy start-ups. I think they sold smoothies.”

Yata paused as he slurped up shrimp-flavored noodles. He took a moment to study Renard’s ragged appearance and their sorry surroundings again. Look, he heard Zenigata saying in his ear. Look with every sense you’ve got. Don’t trust your first instincts. Or your second ones.

So Yata looked. And looked hard.

Empty water bottles and crushed Styroform cartons littered the desk and floor. A bundle of blankets had been shoved into a far corner of the office, away from the broken window. The tarp covering said window was torn and tattered in places, hammered into place haphazardly with bent nails and a chipped brick. Renard’s backpack sat by the window: like his clothes, it was stained and discolored, the teeth of one zipper broken.

The wind persisted in its dull roar. Even out of its wrath, even bundled in his wool coat, Yata could feel the cold biting his ears and the tip of his nose. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to stay in this freezing, miserable place.

Unless, of course, they had no choice.  

“How long have you been here?” Yata asked, with genuine curiosity.

“Five months.” Renard stirred his noodles with a morose expression. “Or near enough that it doesn’t matter.”

Yata arched his eyebrows. So much for the order of silent monks he’d been hoping for. “You’ve been in Boston all this time?”

“Would you prefer I was somewhere else?”

“In prison.”

Renard’s laugh was a fox’s bark. “Ah, yes. It’s coming back to me. You really are a chip off Zenigata’s block.”

“Don’t you say his name,” Yata said with sudden fierceness. “Don’t you dare put his name in your mouth!”

“Why not? What else am I supposed to call him by? And you’re…Yata, was it?”

Yata bristled. He didn’t need Renard speaking of Zenigata like he knew him, and he didn’t need Renard speaking his own nickname so causally. Lupin may have had that right, but not Renard. Never Renard. “That’s Agent Yatagarasu to you, Renard.”

 “Yatagarasu, then,” Renard sneered.

That would have to do for now. Yata set his emptied noodle carton aside. “How did you escape from prison?”

“Ah,” Renard said. He waved a vague hand in the hair. “That’s a delightfully hair-raising tale that I’ll have to regale you with at some other point in time.”

Yata waited. When it was clear Renard wasn’t going to offer him more, he fought the urge to grit his teeth. “Fine. What are you doing in Boston?”

This time Renard sighed, the heavy sigh of the long-suffering. “If we’re going to play twenty questions, I’d prefer to make it a drinking game.”

With that, he shimmied off the desk and stood. Yata’s eyes narrowed as Renard walked across the small space to that rusted filing cabinet. The thief’s gait was uneven, favoring his right side as he moved. He hadn’t been faking the limp, although he’d exaggerated the severity of it while walking on the streets. Pity points, Yata supposed, or otherwise meant to throw off unsuspecting victims. But the hitch was there all the same.

From within the filing cabinet Renard produced a six-pack of beer. He limped back over to Yata, set the pack down between them, and settled back onto the desk. He pulled one of the beer cans free, snapped the tab, and toasted in Yata’s general direction. “Santé, Yatagarasu.”

Renard knocked his head back and began to drink.

Yata watched him. Something twisted in his gut as he did. Whatever it was, it felt a lot like despair and a little like pity. A long moment followed before he helped himself to one of the beers. “What happened to you?”

The sharp sound of lips disengaging from aluminum served as Renard’s initial reply. He glanced at Yata and shrugged. “Oh, well. You know how it goes. One minute, you’re challenging the world’s greatest thief to a contest of wits. The next, your boyfriend has unsuccessfully tried to kill you and you’re under arrest for grand larceny. You spend the next four months with a federally-appointed attorney who hems and haws about your paper-thin defense, and when you’re not sitting around twiddling your thumbs, you’re sitting around because you need to relearn how to walk. You know, because of the attempted murder.

“Fortunately, that great thief you thought you had the balls to challenge gave you a task before you were shipped back to France. Come find me, he said.” Renard’s voice twisted with sudden bitterness. His eyes fixed on the opposite wall, and for moment Yata didn’t seem to be there at all. “When you’re healed, come find me. So you bide your time until being on your feet isn’t pure agony, and you make good on that escape. It’s only afterwards that you remember you’ve got no idea where to go and no money to get there with. But you know you have to get out of France, so you stow away on the first freighter that seems promising, only to end up…”

Yeasty foam speckled Renard’s pants as he flung his arms out in a ‘ta-da’ gesture.

“Here.”

“And then?”

“And then you spend the next five months trying to figure out how you’re going to find Lupin when you’ve got no resources, no idea where to start, and it’s a bloody cold winter.”

That strange something twisted in his gut once more. Yata forced himself to pretend it was the noodles. Renard did not deserve sympathy. Not after everything he’d done. “Sounds like you got exactly what you deserve,” he said.

Renard stared at him for a long moment. As he did, the temperature in the room dropped to freezing. “If only we were all so lucky.” He crumbled his empty beer can in his hand and flung it across the room. It did the opposite wall with a clatter.

Yata watched it fall to the floor. “So, all this time, you’ve been trying to find Lupin?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Then…you’re the one that’s responsible for…”

He reached into his pocket for the calling card—and froze when he couldn’t find it. His phone was there, and his wallet had somehow made it back. But the card—evidence, Zenigata had trusted him with it as evidence, he couldn’t have lost it—

Renard flicked Lupin’s calling card between his fingers. “This?”

Yata started. “Give that back!”

“Ask nicely.”

“That is an important piece of evidence in an ongoing investigation!”

“Yes, I rather thought it was,” Renard drawled. The card danced between his dexterous fingers, doing acrobatic flips and tumbles as Yata gaped. Yata started forward, a protest rising in his throat—then Renard rolled his eyes and flicked the card back at him. “Oh, take it. It’s worthless anyway.”

The point of the card hit Yata in the chest. He snatched it before it fell. “What?”

“It’s not a real card,” Renard said.

Zenigata had said the same thing, with the same amount of confidence. Whoever had sent the card wanted Zenigata to think Lupin would be at the art gallery. But then Lupin had shown, rending the whole point moot.

Yata looked down at the calling card again, frustrated that he couldn’t see what was so painfully obvious to Zenigata and Renard. “I know that!”

“Do you? Or did Zenigata tell you that?”

Renard’s grin grew when Yata didn’t reply.

“It’s yours,” Yata said, trying to sound as sure as Zenigata would.

“Excellent guess. But wrong.”

“You’re trying to find Lupin!” Yata countered. “And you’re his greatest imitator—”

“Pupil!” Renard said, momentarily startled out of his smugness.

“Either way. It stands to reason you made this card.”

Renard blew a raspberry, flicked his hand around, and sat back. “I spent your last twenty dollars buying food to get through tonight’s snowstorm—”

“You spent my last twenty?!”

Renard raised his voice, all the better to drown out Yata’s indignation: “THE POINT IS, where am I going to get a professionally-done card like that while not raising any eyebrows? The biddies at the library are sweet old dears, but even they’d have something to say if I tried to print a Lupin calling card off the public computers—”

His last twenty dollars gone, how was he going to explain that in the expense report—

“Besides,” Renard continued, either oblivious or uncaring to how Yata fumed, “whoever made it doesn’t know Lupin well.”

Renard’s words cut through the haze of outrage. Yata blinked. “What?”

“You have a pair of perfectly good ears, don’t make me repeat that all over again.” As he spoke Renard snagged another beer from the six-pack and snapped it open.

Yata shook his head as Renard chugged more beer. “What do you mean, it was made by someone who doesn’t know Lupin very well? It’s a perfect replica!”

“Perfect,” Renard ran the back of his hand over his mouth, forcing Yata to wait for him to continue: “But not specific. Here, look, I’ll show you.”

Yata hesitated when Renard gestured for him to approach. He was suddenly too-aware of his proximity to the ragged thief. But if he meant Yata harm (true harm, not just financial), surely he would have done something while Yata was unconscious. He wouldn’t have bothered to return the wallet or share his noodles.

Yata eased up onto the desk beside Renard. Renard snatched the calling card out of his hand and held it to the weak light:

On Saturday, March 7th, I, Lupin the Third, will be attending the Lady Liberty exhibition hosted by the Wareham Art Gallery. After all, who loves ladies and liberty more than I?

Renard read the message out loud before glancing at Yata. “What’s missing?”

What was missing? Yata asked himself. The date and location were there. Lupin’s dual motivations—ladies and liberties—were present. The stupid little caricature was present. But now that Renard had pointed it out, Yata could see there was something missing from the message. Something had been missing from Lupin’s interruption…

His own voice came back to him: he didn’t steal anything. At least, nothing we’ve found yet.

“A target,” Yata said.

“Bingo.” Renard fired a finger gun. “Not as stupid as he looks, our Yatagarasu.”

“Ass,” Yata muttered. “All right. Why doesn’t the calling card have a target?”

“Because the author doesn’t know Lupin well enough to fully imitate him. What would Lupin like? What would Lupin take? Can’t chance getting wrong, because otherwise a certain inspector might smell a rat. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Yata gave Renard a sidelong look, eyebrows arched. “You’ve had a lot of time to think about this.”

“You were unconscious for several hours. I had to distract myself from your snoring somehow.”

“I don’t snore!”

“You’re lucky there’s no mountains around here,” Renard settled his face into a hard, grim expression. He stared off into the middle distance. “You could have called down an avalanche on our heads.”

His expression was so ridiculous that Yata had to swallow a sudden laugh.

Then Renard relaxed. “Anyway. There’s a lot you can imitate. Lupin’s tastes are not among them.”

Strange. How could someone imitate the look of Lupin so completely while neglecting the soul? If you were going to get his attention, wouldn’t you want everything to be perfectly in place? Anyone who was going to copy Lupin’s calling cards would need access to other calling cards. Most lived in evidence lockers back in Japan, but a few had made it into the hands of private fans, or the victims themselves. Some art collectors displayed their calling cards in their own frames. Some people seemed to think being Lupin’s target was its own bizarre point of pride.

Art collectors and Lupin fans. The world had no shortage of either.

“You were hanging around the Wareham Art Gallery last night,” Yata said.

“Was I?”

“It’s hard to hide the limp.”

Fury flashed through Renard’s brown eyes. He grasped at his blue jeans, bunching the snow-stiffened fabric between his fingers. “It’s harder living with it. Go on.”

“Did you know Lupin was going to be there?”

“Even we petty pickpockets hear the buzz when Inspector Zenigata arrives on the scene. And where you find Zenigata, you find Lupin.” Renard shrugged. For all that his mild tone betrayed, Lupin might have been a second-rate has-been rocker breezing through town. “So yes, if you must have a straightforward answer. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Lupin.”

And what would you say to him, ragged and filthy? Yata wanted to ask. What sort of grand entrance did you hope to make?

“Alas, my less-than-stellar efforts were thwarted by those new gits—”

“New gits?”

“You’ve met them. Big men, enjoy waving their toy guns around? I dated a fellow just like them,” Renard said.

Yata rubbed a finger against his throbbing temple. “They’re new?”

Renard nodded. “Fresh off the assembly line. Used to be that art gallery only had one nightly security guard. Barney. Good man, somewhat sleepy. Bought me a cup of coffee once, just for nothing.”

“And what did you take in return?”

“Nothing he would miss,” Renard said. He flashed a grin at the annoyed Yata. “But two weeks ago, Barney got swapped out for the gits.”

“Two weeks?”

“Do I need to make you a timetable?”

“No. It’s just—your account contradicts information I was provided with about the Wareham Art Gallery.”

Renard gasped and pressed a hand to his chest. “You don’t think someone lied? To the police?”

Someone lied. Yata swallowed the sour taste in his mouth and got to his feet. He began to pace the length of the desk. If the security was new, why did the records say they had been employed there since November? Why hadn’t Jessica told him? Furthermore, not only was the security new—it was beefy. Yata had a hard time picturing a sleepy man named Barney firing his gun at an erratic target. And—this was what had Yata stopping short—it was the security team that had found Doyle this morning. The security team that had called in the police, taken Doyle’s statement about who was responsible for the assault.

Someone had lied. Someone, somewhere, had lied. Yata looked down at the calling card in his hand. Zenigata had sniffed it out that lie, he was sure of it. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t given an alibi for last night. He’d been doing his own research, discovered something he shouldn’t have, and been forced to beat a retreat by Doyle’s accusations.

Yes. Yes, that was it. Except…

But it’s not Doyle either, Zenigata had said as he flipped the calling card through his fingers. Doyle was a coward who didn’t want people looking over his shoulder.

So if Doyle hadn’t called Lupin to the scene, who had?

“I need to look at his financials,” Yata said out loud.

Renard glanced up from his can of beer. “Have fun with that, then.”

Yata had been speaking to himself, but the reply from Renard had him turning around. Renard sat slumped against the wall, his Cup Noodle sandwiched between his thighs and a vice grip on his beer can. He was a far cry from the lordling who’d sought to challenge Lupin. But all the misfortune in the world couldn’t rob Renard of his intricate knowledge of the way thieves thought.

Yata took a deep breath. He was regretting the words before he’d even had a chance to speak them.

“Renard,” said Yatagarasu.

“Yatagarasu,” said Renard.

“You know more about Lupin and the way he thinks than anyone. Except Inspector Zenigata.”

“Oui. And?”

“Inspector Zenigata…is currently indisposed,” Yata watched curiosity dart across Renard’s expression. “I’ve been placed as lead on the Lupin case in the meantime. And I…could use a…” he grimaced “…civilian consultant on this case.”

Instantly Renard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a cop.”

“Civilian consultant,” Yata insisted.

“I’m not going to help you arrest Lupin,” Renard said. He looked Yata up and down before scoffing. “Not that you could anyway.”

“I’m not asking you to do that either! I’m asking for your help. Someone wanted Zenigata to think Lupin was here. Someone is using Lupin’s name to their own ends. I need to figure out who. And you—” Yata pointed that accusatory finger at Renard “—need to do something besides sit in this cube and drink.”

“I will not—”

Yata cut Renard’s protests short with a sharp wave of his hand. “You wanted to find Lupin, didn’t you? How’s that worked out for you so far?”

Renard, for once, had no ready reply. He stared at Yata with brow furrowed. One finger twitched against the aluminum of the beer can, but that was the only outward sign of his nerves.

“How do I know you’re not just going to arrest me the minute we step out of here?” he asked at last.

“You don’t,” Yata admitted. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Renard twitched. Too late Yata remembered that it had been the boyfriend who shot him in the back. Blind faith, he supposed, was not something Renard put much stock in these days. But it was too late to rescind the offer, so he cleared his throat and added:

“I’ve also got a hotel room with a real bed. And a shower for you to drown those fleas in.”

“I don’t have fleas!” Renard snapped. He didn’t realize he was scratching at the back of his head until Yata smirked. He scowled, lowered his hand, and considered Yata.

The wind moaned again. The tarp behind Renard shivered as snow came swirling through the gaps. The bottle top’s weak flame sputtered, and the flickering shadows played over both men. For a moment, the soft hiss of the little flame was all that could be heard.

Then Renard slid off the desk to stand in front of Yata. He sighed again, as though he were the one doing Yata the good deed. “I don’t suppose I have anything left to lose.”

No, Yata replied silently. You really don’t.

Still, they shook on it.

Conversation lapsed after that. They weren’t going anywhere in the storm, and Yata’s phone was on its last gasp of battery. Renard tossed him a candy bar (bought with that last twenty), but otherwise was content to ignore Yata in favor of staring at the patchwork wall. Either he’d managed to find something of interest there or he was rehearsing what he’d say if they tracked Lupin down.

Yata didn’t mind either way. He could make an alliance for the sake of justice. He’d done it enough times in the past with Lupin’s gang, and the bitter pill got easier to swallow each time. But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy the company of his new partner. Instead he settled down beside the filing cabinet. He huddled into the thick wool lining of his jacket, cursing March under his breath. Ice curled around every muttered curse.

After some time, Renard slid off the desk to huddle in the space beneath it. He’d pulled his hood up over his face again and tucked his arms close to his thin frame. If he was as cold as Yata—colder, maybe, given the lack of heavy layers—he didn’t complain.

Yata fought sleep to watch Renard. He would not fall asleep with the thief present. He would keep watch through the night. He’d done enough sleeping over the last two days. He would not sleep.

He would not sleep.

He wouldn’t…

A sharp yip! of pain jolted Yata out of his deep, uneasy sleep. He inhaled sharply as he sat up, rubbing gunky sleep out of his eyes. He didn’t know what time it was, but the wind had finally died, and gray light spilled through the tears in the tarp. Yata forced himself upright, rubbing at his aching neck. The ache only increased as he looked for the source of the odd sound.

Renard remained curled up under the desk, gasping and twitching in his sleep. Yata stayed still, listening to the thief whimper. Should he get up? Should he see what was wrong? Renard sounded nothing like his cocky, devil-may-care self. He sounded small and scared and in pain.

Don’t you dare pity him, a part of Yata’s mind chided. Renard was a thief and a killer. Renard had tried to kill Inspector Zenigata. Twice. If he had bad dreams, it was because he had earned them.

Thus resolved, Yata slipped back down against the wall. He rested his head back and steeled his heart against the noises across the room. The whimpers and yips eventually faded…but not fast enough.

It never happened, Yata told himself as he closed his eyes. And it wouldn’t matter if it had.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six, In Which the Devil is in the Details

Renard was up and moving by the time Yata stirred again. The thief shambled from spot to spot, collecting meager belongings scattered around the room and shoving them into his backpack. He moved slowly, stiffly, pausing to massage his left leg through his blue jeans. Occasionally he did the same for the small of his back.

Yata didn’t have to ask why. Hot pain sliced up his spine as he made to stand, and for a moment the world went white. An expletive must have escaped him, for Renard turned with eyebrows arched. “My my! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Fuck you,” Yata hissed as he straightened.

“Fuck you,” Renard said lightly.

Morning pleasantries thus exchanged, the two young men stood in awkward silence. For a moment neither seemed to know what to do with this threadbare alliance they’d found themselves in.

Then Renard ran his hands up and down the straps of his backpack. “Ready?”

Yata sighed. There was no turning back now. “As I’ll ever be.”

Renard grinned before unlatching the door. It opened with a hoarse groan of rusted iron. Yata braced himself for a blast of cold air—but it didn’t come. Instead sunlight spilled into the dingy little office space, accompanied by a gentle breeze. The air was warm, daresay even balmy compared to the last few days.

The steady drip-drip of running water greeted them as they stepped out onto the landing. Water trickled down the beige outer walls off the office complex. The snow piled around the door had half-melted into dirty slush and chunky ice. Beyond them, Boston thawed in the gray sunlight. The rumble of a typical city morning surrounded them on all sides: emergencies sirens, blaring car horns, the distant ding-ding of a freight train as it neared the station. Across the street, two men were deep in a heated argument in a gas station’s parking lot.

Yata held up a hand to catch a drop of water. It stung his palm where it hit, a single point of icy not-pain against his skin. “Looks like the weather finally broke.”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Renard. His tone was one of grim acceptance. “It’ll freeze and turn to ice by tonight.”

Yata closed his palm into a fist. “I hate this city.”

Renard laughed under his breath. The laugh was smaller and softer than that harsh fox’s bark from the night before. He jerked his head toward the bottom of the staircase before setting off across the parking lot. He kept one hand wrapped firmly around the strap of backpack.

Yata followed a slow pace. He was stiff and sore all over, as anyone might be after a night spent on an office floor. The base of his neck and the small of his back both burned, throbbing with each uneven step he took. His headache had yet to completely vanish, and he didn’t even want to think about how he smelled after two days without a shower. A crack in the pavement sent him stumbling across the empty parking lot.

Renard glanced over his shoulder, amused. Amused seemed to be his default state, although Yata couldn’t fathom why. His gait was slow, almost shambling across the parking lot. He led with his right foot, each step a small skip-hop, as though he was testing the solid ground before deciding it was safe enough to move.

Yata had never seen Renard in the middle of a heist, but he’d read the reports and heard it from Zenigata himself. Renard hadn’t been much of a gunman, but he was—had been—fast. He’d been able to keep pace with Lupin himself. At his current pace, though, he’d be lucky to win a footrace against a geriatric.

Yata found himself wondering if Renard would ever be so fleet of foot again.

“So. Breakfast?”

The question jolted Yata out of his reverie. He looked up at Renard, suddenly annoyed that Renard had several inches on him. “What?”

The height difference seemed to have occurred to Renard too, for his grin widened. “You promised me breakfast.”

“No, I didn’t,” Yata said, brow furrowed.

“Yes, you did. A hotel room, a hot shower, and breakfast.” Renard ticked off fingers as he spoke. “That’s what was promised.”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Did we put it in writing?”

Yata’s only reply was a daggered glare.

Renard turned away with a shrug, “Then you owe me breakfast.”

“I don’t owe you anything—”

Yata’s heart and mind were in accord. His stomach, however, had not received the memo. It rumbled in protest, loud enough for both men to hear. Renard’s damnable grin grew. Yata rolled his eyes. “Fine. Breakfast. Where?”

“There’s a nice little patisserie within walking distance,” Renard said, in the oh-so-innocent tone of someone who definitely hadn’t had a specific place in mind.

Yata winced. Patisseries were nice if you had the time and the budget. “Can’t we settle for something cheaper?” There was a Dunkin Donuts on every street corner in this city, and Yata was fairly certain they wouldn’t overcharge him for a bagel.

Renard shook his head, much to Yata’s dismay. “The moment you begin to settle, you’ve already lost.”

“And how’s that worked out for you so far?”

“Given the circumstances?” Renard gestured to the whole of himself and then the miserable city block around them. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Yata had to concede the point. Despite the circumstances, Renard had survived.

But then, one could say the same thing about a cockroach.

Renard’s neighborhood haunt was poorer and less impressive than the cultural touchpoint that was South of Washington. Buildings pressed in tight together like soldiers in a march. Convenience stores with iron bars dominated street corners. Dented and salt-stained cars dominated the side streets, although only one had a boot on it. The few people risking the half-melted streets kept their eyes forward, adamantly minding their own business.

Renard broke the silence: “So, what’s the plan for today? What crimes are we going to solve?”

That, admittedly, was an excellent question. What did he do, now that he had control of the Lupin investigation and a civilian consultant on all things Lupin?

He needed to look for Lupin and the mystery copycat. He needed to figure out why Doyle and his employees had lied about the security’s employment, and he needed evidence beyond Renard’s witness statement. He needed the ledgers Doyle had reluctantly surrendered to Zenigata. A follow-up with Jessica Jansen and Marcus Mahoney would be prudent. Another interview with Doyle too, provided he was in decent condition and hadn’t lawyered up.

The calling card too. That was another dangling thread he would tug loose. He could cross-check the style against those in ICPO evidence logs.

Yata began to fill in Renard as they walked: the fake calling card, Lupin crashing the party, Doyle accusation against Zenigata. Renard arched his eyebrows at the last, but mercifully kept his comments to himself. He didn’t say anything, in fact, as Yata outlined the different avenues of approach. He absorbed everything in silence, for which Yata was very grateful. Saying it out loud helped to organize the order of operations in his head.

The scenery changed as they walked: the buildings spaced out, the décor more uniform and tidier. A few parks, full of mud and ice, popped up between office buildings. More expensive-looking boutiques and coffee ships replaced the convenience stores and auto repair shops. Yata fell back a little, allowing Renard to take the lead to the patisserie.

“What are we paying with?” He asked.

Renard flashed a crisp twenty-dollar bill between his fingers in response.

Yata narrowed his eyes. “I thought you spent my last twenty.”

“I did. This is someone else’s last twenty.”

Yata scowled, but fortunately for Renard they had rounded the street corner to the patisserie. Yata smelled it before he saw it, and whatever resolve he had melted like the snow underfoot. The scent of fresh-baked bread and churning coffee wafted on the spring breeze, setting his mouth to watering. His traitorous stomach twisted in anticipation. Beside him, Renard picked up his uneven pace.

It was late enough in the morning that the rush of people had passed. Those lingering by the display cases were either students or businesspeople who could afford to be late to work. A manager and two employees hurried back and forth behind the counter.

Yata scanned the crowd before focusing on the pastries. His stomach gave a little jolt as he did, for the options were as overwhelming as they were delicious. There were cinnamon rolls as big as his head, dripping with thick cream, raspberry and apricot danishes dusted with sugar, almond and chocolate croissants, glistening pain aux raisins, and muffins bursting with blueberries. The comforting smell of fresh-brewed coffee permeated the air.   

“I’m thinking crullers,” Renard said cheerfully. “How about you?”

The sound of his voice stopped the manager in her tracks. She whipped around to the doorway, pointing an accusatory finger at Renard. “Ah-ah-ah! OUT!”

Both men stopped short as the morning crowd glanced their way. Yata brushed his stringy dark hair out of his eyes, suddenly aware of his bedraggled appearance. No one was paying him much mind, though—when the manager’s eyes narrowed, they fixed wholly on Renard.

“We don’t do handouts here!” she snapped. She swung her finger towards the door they’d just come through. “OUT!”

Renard went rigid. “No handouts?” he spat. “Tell that to the rats in the kitchen!”

The morning crowd looked alarmed. A few looked away, or otherwise took enormous interest in their phones. Yata could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck—but before a scene could be made, Renard swung around and stalked out. The glass door slammed shut behind him.

The manager turned those burning eyes on Yata. Yata hesitated before reaching into his jacket and pulling out his wallet. The manager relaxed a little when he held up his Interpol-issued credit card. He’d have to justify this on the expense report somehow. But…

Renard was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk when Yata reemerged from the patisserie. He had yanked his hood up over his head, but Yata could tell he was staring down at the pavement.

Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting sprung into Yata’s mind. Renard had opened the door to a Roman penthouse, invited Yata out onto a sunlit terrace for cappuccinos over an interview. He’d possessed the breezy confidence of rich men everywhere.

Renard glanced at him as Yata sank down onto the sidewalk beside him. “There are rats,” he insisted. “I’ve seen them. Big ones. As big as your shoe.”

“I take it you’ve been here before?”

“I got a slap on a wrist for loitering,” Renard admitted with a scowl. “Loitering! I hope whoever outlawed standing around minding your own business is standing around in hell.”

Yata gave him a moment to stew in the indignity. Then he cleared his throat and extended out the brown to-go bag he held. “Got you a cruller.”

Renard didn’t reply for a long moment. He didn’t even look at Yata. He kept his eyes fixed on his dingy sneakers. Yata’s arm had just begun to ache when Renard snatched the bag from his hand. “…merci.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I still owe you that hotel room.”

Renard blew out a breath, a low noise that might have been a laugh. “Well then. I’ve heard worse pickup lines.”

…

The hotel was one of those mid-level chains that kept the budget low but still offered complementary breakfast and clean linens. The lobby was empty save for the clerk who offered Yata a slight smile. Her eyes sailed over Renard, and when they did her expression flickered. Her smile tightened, but whatever comments she had she kept to herself.

For that, Renard was very grateful. His skin and scalp already crawled after a night on crap carpet. His whole body felt too-tight, stretched taut over aching muscle and bone. The cold weather had stiffened his leg and back, sending a thrill of pain up his body with each step he took. The constant jolts of electric pain made his head swim.

He didn’t complain, though. He would not complain. Renard had been subject to enough contempt and pity these past few months to know he preferred contempt. At least with contempt they thought you capable of something.

The thought of contempt made Renard glance down. Yata stared straight ahead, not acknowledging Renard as he jammed a finger against the elevator button. What a strange little man, this Yatagarasu. But at least his contempt had been honestly earned. Renard didn’t have hide who he was—who he had been—with Interpol’s finest.

All in all, he’d shambled into worse hotels with worse-looking men.

The hotel room was unchanged from the two days prior: Zenigata’s belongings had been cleared out, but Yata’s were right where he left them. The air was crisp and cool; dark curtains had been pulled over narrow windows. Room service had changed the sheets on both beds.

Yata waved a hand towards the closed bathroom door. “You can go first.”

Renard opened his mouth, some quip about generosity ready on his tongue—but by the time he turned around, Yata had crossed over to one of the beds and collapsed face-first into the mattress. He didn’t stir when Renard nudged a foot against his leg.

Strange little man, Renard thought again.

But he could handle Yatagarasu’s sneering disdain if it meant he was one step closer to Lupin. That was the whole reason he’d dragged Yata out of that godforsaken alley in the first place. He hadn’t recognized Yata until he’d seen his badge—if he had, he never would have chosen him for a mark. But the damage had been done, and he’d allied himself with this prickly cop out of a drunk, desperate hope for something different.

Yata wasn’t in the same league as Lupin. Hell, Yata wasn’t in the same league as Inspector Zenigata. But he would have to do, in the meantime.

Renard lingered for a moment, studying the room. He could clean it out, snatch that watch off Yata’s skinny wrist, and scurry to a pawn shop within walking distance. He could. Too bad Interpol cops were only one rung up the ladder of wealth from panhandlers; he saw nothing of value save the watch, and that wasn’t worth the effort of wiggling off Yata’s wrist.

Thus resigned, Renard set his backpack down on the table. He rummaged through to find his backup set of clothes (cleaner than what he wore now) and limped into the bathroom.

The first thing he saw when he flicked the light on was his own reflection. Renard forced his gaze away from the massive mirror mounted over the sink. Don’t look, he told himself. Don’t look, don’t think, don’t feel. Don’t do a damn thing except what you need to do. He stared at the wall as he peeled ragged layers off his stick-thin figure.

Don’t look, he told himself, even as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Don’t look, don’t think. Don’t mourn. What’s done is done.

It’s done, Renard said to himself as he staggered into the shower. It’s done.

Hot water seared his skin when he yanked the shower on. Trickles of dirty water ran down his collarbone and his legs, pooled around his calloused feet. Renard turned to let the hot water thrum against his aching back. The relief was instantaneous: the twisting pain in his back seemed to burst open, seeping out of his muscles and out onto the linoleum. An involuntarily huff escaped him.

The puddle around his feet was almost black with grime. Renard eased his head back, running his hands through his tangle of red hair. He couldn’t remember the last hot shower he’d taken; these days, he resigned himself to the shit trickle of water from gym showers. It was easy enough to sneak into locker rooms during peak gym hours, and he’d been very careful not to frequent the same places too often.

This was better than that, though. He didn’t have to worry about whether the water would be warm. He didn’t have to worry about anyone stealing his belongings. He didn’t have to worry about who was coming in behind him. He could relax a little. He could take his time—he could take his time—

Hot water sluiced over Renard as he pressed his face into the linoleum. It was hot water streaking down his face, he told himself, even as his aching shoulders jerked, even as his breath hitched. Hot water, and nothing more.

…

Yata jolted awake, seized by the skin-crawling notion that he wasn’t alone.

Then the hotel room came into focus. Yata flopped back down on his stomach in relief. He turned his head to the side to see Renard sitting cross-legged on the bed that had been Inspector Zenigata’s. The thief was in the middle of some strange ritual: he was pulling the cruller apart piece by piece, and then setting half of those torn pieces down on a napkin. The other half he popped into his mouth, chewing each little piece slowly.

Yata squinted. There was something different about Renard, although between his sleep-addled mind and the room’s gloom it was hard to tell exactly what. It took another ten seconds of study before it clicked.

Renard had shaved. The wild, matted beard was gone, replaced by a decent facsimile of a goatee. His hair was shorter too, although cut choppy and uneven. Now that he was shaved, it was all-too-obvious how thin Renard was: his cheekbones jutted out at sharp angles, while his actual cheeks sank into his face.

“If you’re going to stare,” Renard said, never once looking up from his pastry, “buy me a drink.”

“You shaved,” Yata said, completely aware of how stupid he sounded.

Renard snorted. “Your observational skills are on-par with Inspector Zenigata’s.” He scratched at his goatee before adding: “I borrowed your shaving kit.”

Hope you don’t mind, is what anyone else might have added. Renard just popped another piece of cruller into his mouth. Yata rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright. His watch, miraculously, was still on his wrist. Yata watched the longer hand tick towards eleven am.

Good, he thought as he slid off the bed. He had time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and eat before settling into the day’s leg of investigative work. Hopefully Lupin hadn’t gotten bored and left town in the meantime, because he wasn’t about to drop the inconsistencies in the Doyle case—and, what’s more, he had no idea how he would get his so-called civilian consultant across international lines…

Yata stopped short as he stepped into the bathroom.

Someone had murdered a red fox in the sink. That was the only explanation for the explosion of red hair in the sink and scattered on the floor. The shower was even worse: gobs of wet red hair had plastered to the linoleum and clogged up the drain.

“RENARD!”

“What?”

Yata swung back around, jabbing a finger at the mess. 

Renard just stared at him blankly. “What?”

“Clean it up, you slob!”

Renard arched his eyebrows. He gave Yata a long look, one that seemed to suggest that cleaning was what other people were for. Yata stepped forward, readying to slap Renard silly, when Renard sighed and stood. He was all mumbles and grumbles, but somehow he managed to clean his hair out of the sink and shower while Yata brushed his teeth.

The wastebasket overflowed with clumps of red hair and tissues by the time Yata kicked Renard out of the bathroom again. He locked the door before stripping out of his clothes with quick, efficient motions. Yata kicked his clothes into a small pile before stepping into the shower.

The complementary bottles of shampoo and conditioner were still on the shelf, albeit half-used. Yata squirted the shampoo into his palm, got a good lather, and began to rake his fingers through his hair. The steady beat of hot water against his skin was almost enough to soothe his irritation.

Petty, stuck-up bastard! Would it kill Renard to think outside of himself, just for thirty seconds?

He saved your life, some charitable part of his heart said. And fed you Cup Noodle.

He only saved my life because I’m useful to him, Yata countered. And I paid for that Cup Noodle.

He tried not to think of Renard’s stricken expression in the bakery, or how his skin seemed to stretch over too-sharp bones. He forced himself to think of Zenigata, pale and bleeding on a museum floor. Renard had more than earned whatever misfortune had found him. And hell, it hadn’t humbled him any.

Shampoo suds trickled down his neck and shoulders. Yata reached up to rub the suds into his skin.

Renard was only here, with him, because he was useful. He was the next-best thing Yata had to Lupin. The moment they found Lupin, he could cut Renard loose and not feel guilty for arresting him. Until then, though…

Yata sighed and pressed his forehead into the linoleum. He closed his eyes, letting the steam settle over his skin like a gossamer blanket. Until then, he would do what Zenigata would do. He would make do.

…

By the time he stepped out of the shower and changed into a fresh set of clothes, Yata felt mostly human again. He felt alert enough to grab Doyle’s ledger from the safe inside the hotel’s closet. He grabbed his notepad, settled onto his bed, and opened the ledger to the first page.

The ledger contained page after page of Doyle’s handwritten notes. Names of buyers and sellers, titles of art pieces, selling prices and buying prices; bills, paid and past due, due dates, loans, profits, losses, paystubs and donations…

Yata prided himself on his paperwork. He liked the organization of it, in truth. And he was good at paperwork. Inspector Zenigata’s files had never been so neat as when Yata had come on as his aide. Some of the ins and outs of business he understood.  

The numbers, not so much.

Yata glanced over at Renard, who had stretched himself out on the other bed. “What was your degree in?”

“Economics,” Renard tucked his hands under his head as he spoke.

“Good.” Yata stood, crossed to Renard, and dropped the ledger on his head. “Make yourself useful.”

Renard’s yelp was more indignation than pain. He snatched the ledger off his face and scowled up at Yata. “I didn’t hear a please in there.”

“Please, for the love of God, make yourself useful,” Yata snapped. He moved to the safe, pulling out another hefty book from the pile. He caught the eye roll and the bras d'honneur Renard flipped his way, and elected to ignore both.

“What, exactly, am I looking for?” Renard asked as he sat up.

“Inconsistencies.”

“Oh, that’s very specific, thank you for that.”

“We need something that correlates with your witness statement. Something that proves Marcus and his security team haven’t been employed there for as long as they claim.” Yata studied the interior of the safe before snatching up the personnel files he’d acquired from Jessica Jansen. If they were doctored, he needed to find a way to prove it.

“You know, it’s not going to be that easy. No one has books with columns labeled ‘Money I Embezzled’ and ‘Fraud I Committed’. No one is that stupid.”

“Then you’d best get started,” Yata replied.

A blissful sort of silence fell at last. Yata combed through the personnel files, looking long and hard at Marcus Mahoney in particular. He’d fired a gun without hesitation or much provocation, and nearly hit a friendly in the process. Yata had to wonder at it. More importantly, he had to wonder at the way Marcus got in Zenigata’s face. Make it look enough like a fight, and people wouldn’t be surprised when you pointed a finger at Inspector Zenigata for violence. The inspector had a temper, that much was true, and it flared whenever Lupin was involved. Had someone known that? Had someone taken advantage of that?

But why? Why did you want Inspector Zenigata gone?

He didn’t realize he was staring at the wall until Renard cleared his throat. He glanced over at the thief, who was flipping back and forth between two pages. “What was the name of that event on Saturday?”

“Ah…Lady Liberty, something like that.” Yata had to dig out the pamphlet Jessica had handed him. He passed it over to Renard, who immediately flipped it open.

“That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“There’s no sponsor,” Renard said. He flipped the pamphlet over to scan the back page. “An event like this doesn’t come cheap. You need to have a budget for it. And whenever you have a budget, you’re looking to cut corners. Hire a cheaper caterer, find a sponsor, things like that. Most companies are willing to shell out some money in exchange for getting their name plastered all over programs like this. Helping out the art community makes them look good, you know? But there’s no sponsor here.”

Yata blinked. “How do you know all that?”

“Degree in economics,” Renard said dryly. He closed the pamphlet and passed it back to Yata. “And I’ve had to help organize more than one social outing in my time.”

He would have missed that, Yata thought with sudden annoyance. He would have missed that entirely had he looked alone. “So, what does it mean?”

“It means no sponsor…and no budget.” Renard tapped a finger against the ledger’s page. “There’s no budget for the event. Not on the books, anyway. Which means Doyle didn’t pay for it.”

“So where did Doyle get the money for this event?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

Yata got to his feet, all the better to pace back and forth. “The calling card says Lupin is going to be in this specific location, at this specific date, but it doesn’t offer a specific item to steal. After Lupin shows up, there’s a confrontation that ends with Doyle in the hospital and Zenigata blamed for it. Someone wanted Lupin’s attention. And that same someone wanted Lupin gone. I bet they paid Doyle for the time and effort. How did they think they were going to hide this? Do they think we’re stupid?”

“Maybe whoever it was didn’t expect you to stick around?” Renard suggested. “Or they didn’t expect you to look in this direction. Doyle’s the victim, remember? You’re not supposed to keep looking at the poor, abused art collector.”

Yata stopped long enough to rub his hands over his face. “We need more proof. Proof that Doyle was in on something dirty.”

Why, though? The question beat in his head like a drum. Why would someone take the time and the effort to target not only Lupin, but Zenigata? Lupin, sure. The thief had made more than enough enemies throughout the years that the odds of someone plotting revenge was quite likely. But Zenigata? What had he ever done, besides his job?

The soft ding! of his phone cut Yata’s musing short. He yanked his phone out of his pocket, furrowing his brow when he saw the text from an unlisted number:

Look alive, kid. Head honcho is on her way.

Yata’s heart leaped into his throat. He scrambled to the window, yanking back the curtain to look down at the parking lot. Sure enough, Ellen MacMillan’s fiery mane of hair could be seen from the parking lot.

Panic seized Yata by the chest and squeezed. Instantly he whipped around, grabbing Renard by the arm and yanking him off the bed. He ignored Renard’s shout of complaint, eyes whipping around the small room in search of a hiding spot. Bathroom, no—under the bed, no—he couldn’t shove Renard out into the hallway, who knew who she might bring with her?

Yata shoved Renard towards the closet door. “Get in the closet now!”

“You sound like my father,” Renard snorted. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be push into the narrow space.

“Get in the closet and shut up!” Yata hissed.

“Now you really sound like my father.”

Yata slammed the closet door on Renard’s smug expression. He wheeled around, grabbing up the ledger and tossing it back onto his bed. The bag with bits of cruller, that was okay, that could stay—but the backpack! He scooped up Renard’s backpack and dumped it beside his suitcase, praying MacMillan wouldn’t have a reason to look twice.

A sharp knock at the door brought him up short. Yata winced, smoothed out his hair, and went to open the door.

Calm and collected, he told himself. He didn’t have an internationally-wanted thief shoved into the closet, no sir.

He opened the door with a fixed smile. “Inspector MacMillan! I wasn’t expecting you…”

“I was in the area.”

Even with her slight stature, MacMillan cut an imposing figure. She strode into the room without so much as waiting for an invitation. A lanky uniform followed at her heels. “Agent Yatagarasu, Officer Baxter.”

“How do you do,” Yata said. He studied the smiling Officer Baxter before turning to MacMillan. “Feel free to take a seat, sir.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She moved in slow circles around the room, taking it all in. Every once in a while her eyes went to the ledger on the hotel bed. Once, she paused in front of the dingy backpack that held all of Renard’s worldly possessions.

Panic had an iron grip on his heart. It squeezed again, threatening to mash his heart into little pulpy bits. Yata smiled, and hoped the vacancy in his expression could be passed off as exhaustion. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I wanted to stop in to see how your investigation is coming along,” MacMillan said. She pivoted to study Yata now. “I know all of this was thrown at you quite suddenly.”

“Yes, sir.” Yata moved to pick up the ledger. “I’ve been looking at Doyle’s ledgers, and I’ve discovered some inconsistencies—”

MacMillan tilted her head to the side. “Doyle?”

“Yes, sir. Here, if you look at his money flow—”

She cut him short with a wave of her hand. “Agent Yatagarasu, is your area of expertise criminal finance?”

Yata stopped short. “No, sir.”

“Is your area of expertise accounting law?”

“No, sir.”

“What is your area of expertise, young man?”

“Grand larceny.” Yata paused. “Sir.”

“Grand larceny,” MacMillan repeated. Her lips thinned as she looked Yata over. “Especially as it relates to the Lupin case. That is where I want your time and energy devoted, Agent Yatagarasu. I will not tolerate having that thief loose in my city.”

“But Doyle—”

“Is still hospitalized. If you’re so determined to chase numbers, I can have you transferred over to Finance unit, and appoint someone else to head of the Lupin case. Is that what you want?”

“N-no,” Yata said. He closed the ledger.

“No?” MacMillan repeated, with eyebrows arched.

“No,” Yata said. “Sir.”

MacMillan nodded, satisfied. Behind her, lanky Officer Baxter offered Yata a sympathetic smile. Yata glanced at him once before MacMillan held a hand out. “I will take any evidence you have against Doyle in the meantime, Agent.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that Yata’s trained mind automatically started to hand it over. Then Zenigata was in his ear, demanding to know why MacMillan was confiscating evidence pertinent to his case. Yata swallowed hard as he tightened his grip on the ledger.

“With all due respect, sir, these files are still important to my investigation. I may find what Lupin was looking for, or a reason why he’d target the Wareham Art Gallery. I’d like to hang onto them…at least until tomorrow. I can make digital copies for myself before putting the physical evidence in lockers.”

MacMillan didn’t reply as she studied him. Then she nodded, cold and curt. “Is there anything else you need in the meantime?”

“Um…it would be nice if someone could approve a larger budget for me, since I wasn’t planning on an extended stay in Boston…”

“That can be done. Reach out to me if you find anything useful in the meantime. Regarding Lupin.” MacMillan fixed him with a glare, one that would have withered Yata on the spot if he hadn’t had Zenigata’s voice in his ear.

“Yes, sir,” Yata said softly.

“Good. Baxter,” she signaled the uniform towards the door.

Baxter winced and stepped towards the bathroom. “One sec, boss. Gotta use the john—”

“You can’t!”

MacMillan and Baxter both turned at Yata’s outburst. Yata paled. He’d been thinking of those clumps of red hair in the wastebasket—damn him, damn him, damn him—but now he had two Interpol cops staring at him blankly. Yata flushed and shuffled in place.

“It’s, um. Broken. The toilet. It’s broken.”

“I see. Well,” MacMillan shrugged, “we can work on getting you a new room as well. Good day, Agent Yatagarasu. Happy hunting.”

She exited as quickly as she came in. Baxter lingered a moment—just a moment, just a moment too long—and winked at Yata.

An electric shock seared through Yata’s system. Baxter said nothing, did nothing, but he was humming as he closed the door behind him.

Yata gaped at the door, even as Renard crept out of the closet. Lupin. Lupin! He’d had Lupin right here, standing right here—

“You didn’t let her take me,” Renard was saying in his ear.  

Yata turned. Renard stared down at him in frank disbelief, edging just a little into nervousness. “You didn’t let her take me,” he said again. “You had an Interpol inspector standing right here, and you kept me out of sight.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because Yata hadn’t liked the way MacMillan wanted him to pivot from Doyle. Because Yata hadn’t liked the way she’d gone to confiscate his evidence. Because someone was going out of their way to screw with Lupin and Zenigata both. Because Lupin was playing his own games. Because Renard, unfortunately, had been useful so far.

“I need you,” Yata heard himself say.

Renard didn’t reply. He just stared at Yata.

The weight of his eyes made Yata uncomfortable. He turned back to the bed with a scowl. “Stop staring!”

“No. I need to commit this to memory.”

“Commit what to memory?”

“This.” Renard gestured to the whole of Yata. “Goro Yatagarasu, the last honest cop.”

Was that a…compliment? Maybe, but not out of Renard’s mouth. He could make anything sound like an insult. Yata’s frown deepened. “Zenigata is honest too, you know.”

“Ah, yes.” Renard limped over to his cruller and helped himself to another piece. “He’s the very soul of honesty, our dear Inspector Zenigata.”

…

New York to Rome to Tokyo, cop shops were all the same.

Tokyo’s Interpol headquarters hummed with energy. Everyone moved at a brisk pace, from office to the street and back again, always chasing leads and evidence. It was simple enough—child’s play, really—to slip through security with a doctored badge and a nod. Even here, in ICPO’s home turf, people didn’t notice anyone who wore a uniform and pushed a trash bin along the corridors. As long as you kept your head down, people would breeze by you in their fancy suits, speaking on earpieces or each other with sharp, rapid motions.

Every single cop moved like they had something to prove.

That’s what made them easy to trip up. That’s what made it so easy to get under their skin. The sooner they learned how to keep cool and collected, the better off they were.

Jigen knew how to be confident in his work. He didn’t mind keeping his head down in the meantime.

Zenigata worked on the first floor. His insistence, Jigen knew, because the first floor was closer to the security hub, on the off-chance Lupin waltzed in to visit. His office was the further back in the larceny division, a small corner set-up covered wall-to-wall in filing cabinets. There was little in the way of personal décor in Zenigata’s office; he didn’t need it, not when most of his hours were spent in the field chasing Lupin.

Zenigata was there now, though, hunched behind a cluttered desk and tapping away at a computer that hadn’t seen an update in ten years. He didn’t look up from the monitor when Jigen slipped in and bent down to grab the wastebasket by the desk.

Jigen studied Zenigata out of the corner of his eye as he stood. He looked fine, physically. Maybe a little pale, but otherwise unharmed. He turned and made for the door.

“I hope you turned your gun in at the door.”

Jigen froze in place. He pivoted back to Zenigata. The inspector never once looked up from his ancient monitor. “Sorry?” he asked, all innocence.  

“Drop it, Jigen. I can smell you from three floors away.”

Shit. Jigen lifted his custodian’s uniform to his nose and inhaled. All right, maybe he did smell like a walking warning against Marlboros, but there was no need to call it out. He let go of his shirt to grin at Zenigata. “Hey, Pops.”

Zenigata straightened up from his computer. “Are you here to turn yourself in?”

“Nah. Lupin asked me to check up on you. Wanted to make sure you weren’t sobbing your heart out, chained to your desk or whatever.”

Zenigata smiled. He was amused by Lupin’s worry, Jigen knew, as much as he was touched by it. “Tell Lupin he can take his concern and—well, he knows where to shove it.”

“Same place he shoves everything else,” Jigen said. He set the wastebasket down and eased a hip onto the corner of Zenigata’s desk. “You okay, old man?”

“I’d rather be in the field,” Zenigata said with a shrug, “but desk duty is preferable to having my badge revoked completely.”

Jigen considered that. Zenigata had been yanked off the Lupin case before, but reassignments never seemed to stick. Zenigata and Lupin were both stubborn, in that way. “They don’t have enough evidence?”

“Not enough to stick, no. Just enough to keep me out of the public eye for the time being.”

A beat of silence followed. Jigen cleared his throat. “You didn’t do it, though, right?”

“Is that worry I hear?” Zenigata asked. He sat back in his chair.

“You’re what keeps Lupin in-check,” Jigen replied, matter-of-fact. “If you’ve decided to say screw it to the law, then let me know, because I wanna be outta the blast zone when you go off.”

That earned him a small laugh from Zenigata. “No. I didn’t do it.”

“Good.” Jigen relaxed, perceptively. “That’s good. So, who did?”

“Someone who wanted me shipped back to Japan in short order.” Zenigata paused. “And only ICPO has the authority to do that.”

Jigen, likewise, paused in place. That was almost a confession. “You think there’s rats in the house?”

Zenigata blew out a breath. “I don’t think anything yet. Not until I have something concrete to work with.”

Jigen’s pause was heavier this time. He could handle crooked cops just as readily as Zenigata could, but…

“The kid’s gonna be okay, right? I mean, I know Lupin’s there, Lupin’s got both eyes on him, but you know how he gets. I can get over there, keep a tail on ‘im…”

That Jigen had a soft spot for Yata didn’t come as a surprise. He’d already gone out of his way to keep the young agent safe multiple times. Nevertheless, Zenigata’s smile softened.

“Yata will be all right.” He had to believe that. What had all those hours of training been worth otherwise?

 I hope he proves more reliable than your prior assistant.

MacMillan’s snide comment echoed in his ear. Zenigata shook himself to clear her voice, as well as the sudden squeeze of his heart. Yata would be fine. He would be more than fine. Zenigata trusted him completely.

Jigen continued to linger. His better judgment urged him to leave, but that soft spot kept him in place. Sure, Zenigata was taking his desk duty in stride. Sure, Yata could handle whatever came his way. But extra pairs of hands never hurt either. “You need anyone shot?”

Zenigata’s eyes flashed. “No. But I could use your ear to the ground.”

“Eh?”

Zenigata glanced around Jigen to ensure his door was closed. Only then did he turn his monitor screen towards Jigen. Ellen MacMillan’s stern, freckled face stared out at Jigen.

Jigen leaned in to scan her profile. “Is that the rat?”

“MacMillan, Inspector Ellen,” Zenigata said, “twelve years an ICPO agent working out of Boston, although she’s got de facto authority up and down the East Coast.”

Jigen popped an unlit cigarette into his mouth. He rolled it from one corner of his mouth to the other as he contemplated MacMillan. The last time the Lupin gang had touched down on the Eastern Seaboard, they’d run afoul of a would-be mercenary and his elite crime family. “East Coast. That’s Vandewater territory.”

“That’s Vandewater territory,” Zenigata echoed.

“You got anything on her?”

“Just from a records standpoint, she’s clean. But…”

“But?”

Zenigata clicked through another set of files. A log appeared onscreen, alongside a list of names, dates, and destinations. “Logged vacation time. You spend a lot of time in the Bahamas, Jigen. How many Interpol agents do you see there?”

“Only one, and the last time we were there he almost got eaten by a shark.” Jigen’s fanged grin widened as Zenigata rolled his eyes. Then he refocused. “MacMillan goes to the Bahamas a lot, huh?”

“Twice a year, like clockwork. The ICPO payroll isn’t that generous.” Zenigata rubbed at his chin before closing the window out. “It could be nothing.”

“It could be nothing,” Jigen agreed. He hopped off the desk. “It never is.”

Something about Jigen’s grim practicality was oddly reassuring to Zenigata. He’d only started looking at MacMillan out of curiosity, a desire to know who would be overseeing his young partner. He hadn’t meant to start picking her apart, but once he started he couldn’t stop. It was just little things, small details like vacation time, but the longer he looked the more his gut twisted. Paranoia was something you learned to use when you worked the Lupin case.

“Y’know,” Zenigata said as Jigen started for the door, “if you get bored of crime, you’d make a decent cop.”

“Don’t insult me,” Jigen retorted. And just to show he meant it, he slammed the door shut on his way out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven, In Which Interviews Are Conducted

Yata had driven in many cars in many cities. He thought he understood traffic. New York City may have been packed with cars at all hours, but at least they wanted you to know where you were going and how to get there. Boston, on the other hand, had no such compunction. Its roads were enigmas wrapped in mysteries shoved in a puzzle box: narrow streets split or merged without warning; there was no grid system, meaning you were screwed if you missed a turn onto a side street. The constant flux of construction crews and jaywalkers didn’t help. Camaraderie, too, was lost among Boston drivers: God help you if you took too long in changing lanes or moving at a green light. Foolish indeed were the souls who thought a car was the best way to get around Boston.

Renard twisted in his seat as the GPS beeped. “You missed the turn.”

“I know!” Yata snapped. He flicked on the turn signal and began inching the standard-issue BMW into the right lane. He made it about three inches before someone in the right lane roared forward, shoving themselves into the tiny gap Yata had created. Yata swore and slammed his hand against the horn. A chorus of blaring horns from other cars echoed his sentiment, although all anyone got for their indignation was a middle finger.

Traffic idled to a standstill. Yata sat back in his seat with a heavy sigh. Renard nestled further into the heated passenger seat. He was the picture of contentment with a paper cup of coffee pressed in his hands.

The sight of Renard’s coffee reminded Yata of his own. He plucked it from the cupholder. “So, here’s what I’m thinking—”

Yata took a sip of coffee and immediately winced. Complementary coffee had been available in the hotel lobby, and he hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of caffeinated beans. Renard had been standing right there, though, and thus Yata refrained from making his usual sugar-laden monstrosity.

Tragically, this meant his coffee still tasted like coffee.

“Too hot?” Renard asked as Yata pulled the cup away.

“Too bitter,” Yata admitted.

Renard made a small noise of understanding. He shifted in place, dug his hand into a pocket, and pulled out a fistful of sugar packets. He dumped them into the cupholder next to Yata.

“Did you steal those?”

“They’re free.”

“Oh.” Yata pressed his knees into the steering wheel, freeing his hands to tear open sugar packets. “Thanks.”

“As you were saying?”

“What I’m thinking is, we take the security team first, see how their statements corollate—or don’t—with yours. Right now, that’s the biggest crack I have in proving Zenigata innocent. After that, we swing around to Jessica, and then Doyle depending on his status.”

Their destination was SecureTech—as stupid a name as it was likely—the private security business Marcus Mahoney was contracted with. Their headquarters was located along the Boston Harbor, tucked among shipping businesses and seafood restaurants. Getting there was simple enough.

In theory, Yata thought as he watched another car cut into the line of traffic.

Renard arched his eyebrows. “You’re going to walk into a building occupied by armed men and start asking questions?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Well, let me know how that goes for you.” With that, Renard kicked his seat back and slid a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. Sunglasses, Yata was certain, that had not been in his possession this morning.

“Coward,” Yata muttered.

Renard lowered the sunglasses long enough to give Yata a dour look. “I thought that MacMillan woman didn’t want you poking your nose into non-Lupin affairs?”

Yata drummed his free hand against the steering wheel. The BMW managed to push a few more inches into the right lane. “MacMillan is my immediate superior in the area. But I take my orders from Inspector Zenigata. And Zenigata would want me to tug on any possible connection to Lupin.”

“Is Zenigata your excuse for every decision you make?”

“Is Lupin yours?”

Renard didn’t reply. Yata might have savored his victory, if he hadn’t caught Renard’s quick wince, and the way he turned his face to the window. Trying to follow in Lupin’s footsteps cost Renard his entire life and then some. He couldn’t imagine putting his whole self on the line for the sake of a dream—and then failing so spectacularly.  

“Why Lupin anyway?” Yata asked, curious despite himself.

Renard didn’t answer immediately. The BMW was almost completely in the right lane by the time he spoke: “Why settle for less than the best? I’m sure you’d say the same about Inspector Zenigata.”

“But why a thief?” Yata insisted.

Renard glanced back at him. “Why a cop?”

For a moment Yata was a teenager again, back in the small, one-bedroom apartment he’d shared with his mother in Suginami City. For a moment he was ignoring his calculus homework in favor of the nightly news, watching Inspector Zenigata address an international crowd of reporters on Lupin the Third’s latest heist. His heart swelled with pride as Japan’s own Interpol inspector answered each question without fear, vowing that whatever Lupin had stolen would be returned. How glamorous Inspector Zenigata had seemed, how exciting to a teenager stuck in the rut of schoolwork and part-time jobs to help pay the rent. He’d wanted nothing more than to be like the strong, steady inspector he’d seen onscreen.

Yata cleared his throat. “To help people find justice.”

“Well, there you are.” Renard shrugged. “We’re not so different, you and I.”

His blasé shrug made Yata scowl. “What you do isn’t justice.”

“No? Who do rich men fear more—Inspector Zenigata or Lupin the Third?”

“Justice isn’t about fear.”

“No,” Renard agreed. Something dark and deeply angry flitted across his face. “It’s about getting what you’re owed.”

Yata gave Renard a searching look. His father, Olivier Renard, had been a rich man who loathed Lupin almost as much as he loathed his own son. The older Renard had used his son’s money to pay off debts and bad business ventures without a second thought. When Lupin dangled the bait of revenge in front of Renard, he’d snapped it up without hesitation or question. Renard had wanted what he was owed. Renard had wanted rich men to fear him like they feared Lupin.

Yata wondered if Renard had called it justice when his father fell down that flight of stairs.

“That’s revenge,” Yata said, careful to keep his tone even. “And Lupin doesn’t need that either. He’s a hedonist, and you’re just projecting.”

Renard snorted and flicked his wrist around, a dismissive gesture meant to swat Yata’s words away. “Two’s company.”

“What?”

“Do you really think Zenigata has stayed on the Lupin case purely for the sake of justice?” Renard coiled contempt around the word, tight as a snake. “Surely, you’re not that stupid. Or naïve.”

It was all-too-easy to remember that maniac grin stretching Zenigata’s long face, or how he’d howled Lupin’s name with something bordering on delight. Easy enough, too, to remember his own shiver of excitement when he’d realized Lupin was close. There had to be a measure of enjoyment in the job. There just had to be, or else you’d burn out faster than one of Lupin’s trick bombs. That didn’t preclude justice, though.

“Inspector Zenigata has never given me cause to think otherwise,” Yata said firmly.

“He’ll disappoint you eventually. They all do.” Renard turned bodily to face the window, and with that conversation lapsed.

A quiet ride ensued, all the way to the Boston Harbor.

The rank smell of low tide permeated through the South Boston Waterfront. True to its name, long rectangular docks jutted out into the Boston Harbor proper. Massive commercial freighters docked in the Harbor, bobbing precariously in the low tide. Here and there a cruise ship could be spotted, although why a cruise ship would come to Boston in March was a mystery to Yata. Most of the buildings seemed to be shuttered or empty, with only the seafood restaurants seeing any sort of business.

There was one called Legal Seafood. Yata made a mental note to discover if there was such a thing as Illegal Seafood.

The SecureTech building itself was a squat, three-story gray building that blended in with the others. A chain-link fence and a massive iron gate barred entry from any casual passersby. Pickup trucks dotted the parking lot alongside the building, while one of the huge freighters floated in a dock around the back of the building. Long shipping containers were piled high in the parking lot and around the back, suggesting that SecureTech shared its space with one of the many commercial shipping companies present.

Yata pulled the BMW to the curb and threw the gear into park. “All right, civilian.” He grinned at Renard, even as the thief scowled. Someone didn’t like his nickname. “Stay here, and keep both eyes out.”

“Don’t get shot, Yatagarasu,” Renard said as Yata hopped out of the driver’s side.

Yata arched his eyebrows. “Are you worried?”

“No.” Renard rested his head back and flicked the sunglasses back down over his eyes. “But you’ve got the hotel keycard.”

“Ass.”

He slammed the car door shut on Renard’s laughter. Yata shoved his hands into his pockets, partially to fight the brisk wind coming off the harbor and partially to ensure he did have the hotel keycard. Yes, he had it—along with his keys, his wallet, his phone, and about twelve sugar packets Renard slipped into his pocket when he wasn’t looking.

Yata took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled. He couldn’t arrest a man for being deeply infuriating. More’s the pity.

…

Mattias Vandewater could get used to a corner office.

All right, officially, it was only his corner office on a technicality. But Dad never had much reason conduct face-to-face meetings in Boston, not when his cronies could catch the train down to New York. This office space was usually reserved for the middlemen and managers who kept Vandewater facilities running under legal auspices, but he’d given it to Mattias under the condition that he kept it clean.

And he had, too. Mostly.

The office had changed hands so many times that there wasn’t much in the way of personal effects. Mattias kept his fidget toys next to the keyboard on the massive desk made of some dark wood. There was a small closet full of ancient, boring paperwork and office supplies, and a security monitor that let him see all angles of the building. Really, the only thing even remotely cool or interesting about this office was the view.

Mattias stood by the third story window, watching dock workers unload shipments from one of the docked freighters. He wondered, idly, if he could chance taking a toy or two for himself without his father getting irritated. Not a gun, Mattias mused. Domas had been the real marksman of the Vandewater family, and Mattias couldn’t work up the same amount of enthusiasm for controlled blasts. Besides, he’d already helped himself to the sidearm he’d liked best from the last shipment. His thumb slid back and forth over the harness strapped to his side. This one had just come in yesterday, and he couldn’t wait to try it out against Lupin.

“Has Jo sent you the new card yet?”

Jessica’s question cut through his fantasizing. He turned to face his sister, who was seated at the cluttered desk and frowning at her emails. “No.”

Mattias sighed. Johan was their youngest brother, and a genius when it came to all things graphic design. But he was eighteen, and deadlines were as much a mystery to him as they were to the average eighteen-year-old. His eyes sailed from the unmoving set of emails to the security television mounted against the wall. Instantly he stiffened.

Jessica, meanwhile, sat back into the creaky office chair. She pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Christ, he’s probably too busy watching Dancr compilations to do the one thing we asked to—”

Mattias’ hand slapped against her shoulder once, twice, three times.

“What? What! What what what—”

Mattias seized the back of her chair and swiveled it to face the television. Onscreen, a grainy Goro Yatagarasu smoothed out his lapels before approaching the front door. He pressed a finger to the buzzer.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Matt breathed.

“Looks like he’s selling Girl Scout Cookies.” Jessica was all ice to Mattias’ muted fury, and her tone dripped with contempt. “So, what are you going to do?”

Mattias started. He pulled his gaze from the television to look down at his sister. “Me?”

“I don’t think he came here to speak with the assistant curator for an art gallery,” Jessica said as she got to her feet. “You’re up, Marcus.”

All the brisk, easy confidence he’d felt at the window vanished. At the art gallery, it was easy enough to play the role of Marcus Mahoney. But here? What would Dad think, if he knew they’d let an Interpol agent through the front fucking door? Mattias stared at Jessica as she pressed a button concealed under the desk. One of the side panels in the wall slid away with a gentle click, revealing a set of downward stairs.

“He can’t come inside. Not without a warrant,” Mattias said. He shot the onscreen Yata a dark look. “If he tries to get inside I’ll pump him so full of lead—”

“No, you won’t,” Jessica said. “That will just lead to awkward questions about who murdered Zenigata’s lackey.”

“He’s alone. We could dump him in the harbor, and no one will know—”

Jessica cut his musing short by grabbing his collar, yanking him close. When she spoke again, her voice was low and hard: “What did Dad say?”

Mattias squirmed in her grip before relenting. “No unnecessary killing.”

“Good.” She released him with a shove, sending Mattias stumbling back against the desk.

He grimaced and straightened, rubbing at his stinging back. “What do I do?” he asked, glancing at the security monitor again.

“Find out what he wants, and then send him on his way,” Jessica replied. She started towards the opened side panel. “Get as close to the truth as you can without going over. Makes it easy to keep track of the lies that way.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out the side. It’ll be awkward if he catches me here.”

“But—”

Jessica stopped short on the threshold, long enough to give her brother an exasperated look. True, he hadn’t been blessed with the same social graces that she and her father shared, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. “Relax. Just…do what Dom would do. Flex your muscles, and don’t say a lot.”

She started down the steps before Mattias could form a reply. He scowled and slammed his thumb against the hidden button; the panel slid back into place in response. Flex your muscles, he thought darkly. Yeah, sure, of course. Let him be the brute force. Dad didn’t need to flex muscles to get people to listen—they just did.

He stood in silence for a moment, soaking in his frustration. He could be as good as Dad. He just had to prove it.

…

Someone had shoveled piles of dirty snow-slush away from the walkway and up against the chain-fence, which was about all the compliments Yata could give for SecurityTech’s exterior upkeep. His shoes crunched under scattered rock salt as he stepped up to barred door. A plaque beside the door read ‘SecureTech, est. 1986’. There was no welcome sign, Yata noted, but the security cameras seemed functional.

Yata summed up his courage before slamming a thumb to the buzzer. After a moment, a woman’s voice crackled back at him: “Can I help you?”

“Agent Goro Yatagarasu, Interpol.” Yata held his badge to the fisheye camera. “I need to speak with one of your employees. Marcus Mahoney.” He tried to make it sound like a statement, not a request.

The voice on the other end was quiet for a moment. “One moment.”

A click followed. The security light flicked from red to green. Yata gave the door handle a tug, somewhat surprised when it actually opened.

SecureTech’s interior was surprisingly…nice. The design was dark wood and complementary metals, backed by soft lighting, and huge vases of flowers. Yata was floored, until he remembered that this was a place for hiring security—of course it was supposed to be welcoming to potential clientele. And nice did not necessarily mean soft. After all, the secretary was seated behind barred counter, and she peered at him suspiciously over the rim of her glasses.

A nearby elevator dinged. Marcus strode off the elevator, making a beeline towards Yata. He had a plastic, almost-sick expression plastered to his face; it was the look of a man struggling not to show how pissed he truly was. He took three long strides towards Yata with hand outstretched.

“Agent Yatagahrasu!”

He said it wrong. Again.

“What brings you here?”

Yata might have been inclined to believe the enthusiasm if Marcus’ mouth hadn’t tightened at the corners. And, more importantly, if Marcus hadn’t nearly shot him two days ago. For the sake of propriety, though, he accepted the hand and shook. “Thank you for meeting with me. I won’t take too much of your time. Is there someplace private we can talk?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

Marcus led Yata into a sitting room, with plush chairs and a low coffee table. Marcus sat down first, propping his boots up on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankle. Yata sat across from him, already taking out his notebook.

“I hope this isn’t about Doyle,” Marcus said, as soon as Yata settled.

More than you know. “It’s about Lupin,” he said. “I’m still trying to discern why he chose the Wareham Art Gallery, as well as how he managed to get past security. Any insight you have would be very helpful.”

Marcus shrugged. “He got in as a caterer. Obvious now, right?”

“Did you vet the catering company and all employees before they arrived?”

Annoyance flitted across Marcus’ scruffy face. “Well, yeah. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Background checks and pat-downs, stuff like that. My guys didn’t find anything unusual. They would have told me if they had.”

“How big is your security team?”

“Five guys, including myself.”

Five men. And three had been out front, leaving only two to perform those vital pat-downs as hired help came in. Yata jotted that down. “In your time at the art gallery, did you ever receive similar threats?”

“Nada.” Marcus waggled a finger.

“No attempted heists? Disgruntled artists? Suspicious characters?”

“Nope and nope.”

“How did you come to be employed by Henry Doyle?”

This time, Marcus took a moment before responding: “Jess set it up. Doyle wanted to beef up his security. Last guy didn’t cut it, so she reached out to me and my team here. We negotiated terms and got it set up.”

Yata paused to reread his notes. Carefully now, he said to himself. Carefully. “If the Wareham Gallery hadn’t received any threats, why would Doyle want to improve his security?”

A longer, deeper pause followed. Some (Renard, perhaps) might have even called it awkward. Marcus shifted in his seat. Something flickered in his eyes when he did. “Dunno. Why don’t you ask him that?”

“I intend to, as soon as I get clearance,” Yata said.

He watched Marcus with a neutral expression, noting the way he tensed, the way his fingers twitched a little of their own accord. He wasn’t a very good liar, Yata realized. Unbidden, the memory of his first meeting with Renard came flooding back: the rooftop terrace in Rome, Renard’s easy welcome, how he’d played himself as altering clueless and curious. Renard was—had been—better, much better, but even he’d let inconsistencies slip.

“Are you worried about Lupin coming back?” Yata asked, deciding it was time to change direction. “Round Two for whatever he was after?”

Marcus shook his head. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Well, why would he? We already chased him off once.”

Oh, he really didn’t know Lupin at all, did he? Lupin was implacable. He was like Zenigata, in that way.

“Be that as it may,” Yata said. “I’d like you to keep an eye out for anyone who lingers around, anyone who seems suspicious—” The idea occurred to him even as he spoke, and the words were leaving his mouth before he could stop them: “Like that man from the other night. Is he local? Has he caused trouble?”

Marcus stared at him as though he were an idiot. “How the hell should I know?”

You would, Yata thought, if you had made it your business to know the neighborhood. You would, if you bothered to notice a limping, redheaded Frenchman on your doorstop. It wasn’t evidence, per say, but all the same Yata made a note before pulling out his contact card. “Contact me if you think of anything else. And please, if Lupin does make a reappearance, please avoid lethal force.”

Marcus tapped a finger against his holstered gun. Yata stilled. A cracking gunshot echoed through his mind, and all his limbs tightened in response.

Marcus was studying him now, dark eyes a study in contempt. “Y’know, life would be easier if you just shot him.”

“That’s not how justice works,” Yata said.

Marcus’ thumb flicked against the gun’s holster. “What’s a cop know about justice?”

“More than a security guard, I would hope.” It was fortunate he’d had this go-round earlier with Renard; it helped keep his tone level, even as his blood roared. He looked down at Marcus’ gun, trying to look curious for the sake of curiosity. “That’s a Glock-Seventeen, right?”

“Yeah.” Marcus started, momentarily pulled out of his glowering by the question. “How’d you know?” All at once, he sounded younger and more earnest.

Yata pulled back his woolen coat to reveal his own Glock-Seventeen, strapped against his hip. “Standard issue. It’s reliable.”

Marcus waggled a hand in Yata’s direction. “I prefer mine with a little more firepower.”

He’d picked the wrong gun for it, Yata thought mildly. Glock-Seventeens were reliable, light, and easy to clean, qualities that made them standard issue in the first place. But firepower? It would never rate as the flashiest of guns. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Probably better than you do.”

Yata blinked. There it was again, that sudden flashback to Renard in Rome. Marcus dripped with arrogance, from his bold exclamation all the way down to his slouched position in his chair. He wasn’t taking any of this seriously. Why should he? He had some power over other people, and like all men with power he thought the rules didn’t apply to him.

Renard had had wealth. What did Marcus have?

“Thank you for your time,” Yata heard himself say.

“No problem. You need me to walk you out?”

“No need. I can find my own way.”

He turned, deliberately, towards the door and away from Marcus. Gun or no, he refused to be afraid of this cocksure pup, no more than he’d ever been afraid of Renard. They were all alike, these men. They all felt the need to show off: how clever they were, how strong, how powerful. Dealing with men like that was more exhausting than anything else.

No wonder anyone who wasn’t Lupin bored Zenigata.

The thought made him stop on the threshold. He half-turned back to Marcus. “Just one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“When you found Doyle, did he mention anything about Lupin?”

Marcus shook his head. “Nope. Sorry.”

It was just little things. But they were starting to add up, more and more. Yata nodded. “Right. Thanks again for your time.”

He held his composure until he’d stepped back out into the weak sunlight. Only then did he exhale, a long, slow breath of mingled relief and frustration. He lifted a hand to his throbbing temple. Marcus made him angry, in different way than Renard did. But he’d gotten through the talk in one piece, and with more than enough to mull over in the meantime. It wasn’t enough for a warrant, Yata thought as he glanced back at the imposing SecureTech building. It wasn’t nearly enough for a warrant. But Marcus just couldn’t resist showing off, could he?

Yata was feeling pleased with himself (which was a rare enough sensation), right up until he rounded the corner to the BMW.

The car was empty. Renard was gone.

For a moment Yata didn’t mind. That problem had just solved itself neatly—and then panic came up from behind, beaning him over the head so hard he saw stars. Where was Renard?! Had he been kidnapped? Had this all been a ruse? Was there an ambush waiting now, in the emptied shells of buildings around them? Yata spun in a circle, cursing himself for a fool—

“Yatagarasu! Over here!”

The call was accompanied by a flash of red down an adjacent street.  Yata, hand on his gun, stalked forward. Sure enough, there was Renard, crouched between two buildings. An orange tabby did figure-eights between his legs, purring contently.

“What are you doing?!” Yata demanded.

“Exploring,” Renard replied. He kept his eyes on the cat, who curled its paws up into the air as Renard scratched behind its ears.

“I told you to stay in the car!”

“No.” Renard glanced up, and then back down. “You didn’t.”

Yata opened his mouth to argue—and then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He huffed before finally relinquishing his grip on his gun. “I wanted you to stay in the car.”

“Then you really ought to learn how to communicate your wants and needs, darling,” Renard said dryly, “otherwise this relationship is never going to work.”

Yata briefly considered whether bashing Renard over the back of the head was worth the effort of hiding the body. It wasn’t, not really, so Yata settled for another deep breath. “What,” he said, trying not to sound like he was another smart remark away from first-degree murder, “did you find that’s so interesting?”

“Not what,” Renard replied. He bundled the orange tabby into his arms, who seemed perfectly content to be there. “Whom.”

Renard led Yata down a street of broken and abandoned buildings, sprayed liberally with graffiti and seagull droppings. Renard didn’t seem to mind the dismal surroundings. He breezed into one shattered shell of a building like he owned it. Yata frowned before following, squeezing through the gap left by the broken door and into the building proper. The interior was dark and dingy, heavy with pungent smell of piss and vinegar. Yata exhaled sharply before pressing a sleeve to his mouth. Renard was already moving up a set of shattered stairs. Yata continued after him, mindful of the stairs there were broken and or otherwise stained with…something.

It occurred to Yata that, despite their similarities, he never would have followed Marcus up this flight of stairs like he followed Renard. Renard moved quickly despite the limp, and Yata lost sight of him as he reached a landing and turned to the left. “Quickly, Yatagarasu, quickly!”

Yata followed the sound of Renard’s voice up the stairs. The landing led to a mostly-destroyed hallway, littered with dust and debris. The corridor was lined with doors: some broken off the hinges, others sagging with moisture and neglect. Renard stood in front of one of the few intact doors. He adjusted his grip on the tabby before opening the door and striding through.

Yata, baffled, continued after Renard. When he reached the doorway, he stepped through the threshold to find an aged—but surprisingly clean—apartment space. Renard, former socialite, squatted on the floor to chat amicably with a pile of heavy blankets.

Something small and soft collided with his leg. Yata looked down to see a black kitten, purring up a storm as it started to climb his leg. Sharp little claws dug through the pant fabric. Yata sucked in a breath as he crouched to untangle the kitten from his leg—and suddenly it was in his arms, mewing and purring and looking at him with big yellow eyes.

“Oh,” he said, not having the heart to drop a kitten that fit so snugly into his arms. “Okay. You’re here now. Okay.”

“Sharp one, isn’t he?”

It was a woman’s voice, muffled by the weight and layers of so many blankets. A few of the blankets shifted as Yata neared, giving him a better look at the old woman peering back at him. She was anywhere between sixty and seventy, with a puff of white hair and leathery, wrinkled skin. She was an average old woman in most respects…save for her eyes. Her piercing, hawkish brown eyes reminded Yata of Zenigata and Lupin both.

She appraised him for a moment before turning to Renard. “He’s not that sexy.”

Yata blinked before whipping around to Renard for an explanation.

Renard sighed as he set the orange tabby down. It immediately trotted over to the old woman, purring up a storm. “I promised her a sexy young officer of the law in exchange for what information she had to share.”

He didn’t appreciate being used bodily as a bargaining chip, but all the same he crouched down in front of the old woman. “Can you tell me your name, ma’am?”

“My name is Marie,” she said, inclining what could be seen of her neck. “And I’ve been living in this building all my life. As such, I didn’t see a reason to leave even when some hoity-toity company bought out the block and kicked out the tenants, so’s they could build some grand company that would revive the waterfront.” She rolled her eyes to emphasis what she thought of that scheme and its subsequent fallout. “Most everyone went quiet enough, but not me.”

“Why not you?”

“Didn’t have any place to go, ‘cept that nursing home my good-for-nothing son wanted to toss me into. He was plannin’ on collectin’ on my Social Security, y’know. Declare me incompetent so he could buy another yacht.”

She turned her head and spat to the side. Renard made a small noise of sympathy. Yata glanced at him, surprised—until he remembered that Renard knew what it was like to have your money taken by family.

Marie continued her story with a shrug. “But all those shiny fancy buildings never made to the waterfront. So here I sit, watchin’ the world go by and waitin’ for sexy young men to show up on my doorstep.”

 Yata blinked again. Something in his gut stirred. “Who do you watch?”

“The neighbors, or what’s left of them.” Marie gestured to the window beside her. A pair of binoculars rested on the windowsill. Yata stood, passed the kitten (whose purring had escalated to a jet engine) to Renard, and crossed to the window.

Sure enough, Marie had a perfect view of SecureTech and the adjacent buildings, as well as the docked freighters that towered as tall as the buildings themselves. At this level, he had a decent visual sweep of the waterfront.

Yata watched the distant figures working on one of the freighters before turning back to Marie. “Have you seen anything of interest lately, ma’am?”

“Ooh, he calls me ma’am, how very polite,” Marie said to Renard. She added something in French, and Renard laughed. She emerged from her mass of blankets, all five-foot-three of her, and totted over to join Yata at the window. “The whole damn thing is suspicious, if you ask me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The comings and goings. Too much noise for a sleepy, rundown little spot like this. And the men.” She spat to the side again. “Slick boys in slick suits. Remind me of my good-for-nothing son. Always using that side entrance.”

“Side entrance?” Yata repeated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Renard lean against the wall, black kitten curled tight in his arms. “That’s not entirely suspicious, lots of people use a side entrance for a building.”

“Not moving like that girl did. She did not want you to see her.”

Yata stopped short. “Girl?”

“A term often used for someone of a younger feminine presentation,” Renard said dryly. He turned to Marie when she chuckled. “Difficult concept for him, he’s not very good with women.”

“Neither are you!” Yata snapped, his inspector’s composure momentarily dropping against Renard’s smirk.

“I have an excuse,” Renard replied with a sniff.

“Being tactless isn’t an excuse.”

Renard opened his mouth to retort—and found that he didn’t have a good one at the ready. Marie smiled as he fumed. “You two must be friends.”

“We can barely stand each other, actually,” Yata conceded. He had to admit it, watching Renard struggle for a witty remark sent a fierce rush of satisfaction through his chest. Maybe that’s why Renard did it.

“You two must be very good friends.”

And maybe someday pigs would fly. Yata shook his head. “Can we get back to the girl, please? What did she look like?”

The threads of her shawl waggled when Marie shrugged. “I couldn’t give ya a police sketch from this distance, if that’s what you want. She had long dark hair, and was moving like she had some place to be. And made a point of avoiding you.”

Jessica, he thought at once. Sure, there were plenty of women with dark hair in the world, but how many knew both he and Marcus? Furthermore, why would she want to avoid Yata? He hadn’t spoke to Jessica since Zenigata’s arrest. Unless…unless…

He reached into his coat pocket, feeling for the event pamphlet. Doyle hadn’t been the one to organize the event. Jessica had. Which meant she knew where the funds had come from. Jessica had been the one to set up the contract between SecureTech and the Wareham Art Gallery. Jessica, he thought with sudden unease, had been the one who’d called him out of his hotel room the night Doyle was attacked.

He needed to speak with Jessica Jansen. Immediately.

Yata stared out the window into nothingness, leaving Renard to clear his throat. “Have you noticed anything else unusual?”

Marie shrugged again. “Just those freighters. Never knew a perfectly legitimate business needed so many shipments by night.”

“You’ve never gotten closer to find out?”

“I’m old, boy. Not an idiot.”

Renard grinned. “An idiot would have gotten caught squatting by now.”

“What’s there to catch? I’m a harmless old cat lady, sittin’ by the window and watchin’ the world turn. Sure, sure, just because the waterfront’s a perfect place for crime, doesn’t mean we’re all criminals.” Marie fixed Renard with a look. “If you catch my meaning.”

Yata stirred out of his thoughts. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. It’s appreciated.”

“Oh, no problem. Come on back anytime. I could use a change of scenery.” She winked.

Renard winked back, and offered her that crooked smile of his besides. Yata resisted rolling his eyes, instead pulling out his wallet and digging around for a business card. “This is my contact information.” He waited for her to take it and study it. “If you have any trouble, please reach out to me directly.”

Marie squinted at the card before leaning over to Renard. “He’s a very good public servant,” she said, in a shrill whisper.

“That’s why we put him on all the posters,” Renard whispered back. His grin widened when Yata huffed.

Yata thanked her again, gave the orange tabby a scratch behind the ears, and left. Renard’s exit was decidedly more languid: he seemed to enjoy giving the old woman a long, effusive farewell in French. Yata was already on the ground floor by the time he heard Renard’s uneven gait creaking on the stairs above.

Yata waited to speak until they were both on the street again. “How did you find her?”

“I saw a cat.” Renard craned his neck up as he spoke. From the street, one just could make out the outline of a black kitten sitting in a window.

“You saw a cat?”

“I was bored.” There was a hint of reproach in Renard’s tone, as though it was Yata’s fault he’d been left unsupervised and unentertained. “And we alley cats have to stick together, you know.”

“You’re not an alley cat,” Yata said. He poked Renard once to bring his gaze back to street level. “You’re a grown man.”

A small pause ensued. Renard rolled a pebble around with his worn sneaker. Yata stood with hands folded over his chest, struggling to get the next words out of his throat. The struggle only eased when he told himself Zenigata would give a man credit where it was due.

“That was good work,” Yata said. He kept his eyes fixed on the graffitied wall opposite them. That way, he didn’t have to see Renard’s head jerk up from the pavement, or the way his eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Finding her, interviewing her. That was really good work. Thank you.”

For a moment Renard did not reply. He just stared down at Yata with a peculiar expression. When he spoke again, his tone was oddly halting: “As I said. I was getting bored.”

Yata decided it was safe enough to wrench his eyes away from the exaggerated male anatomy spraypainted on the concrete. Instead he looked over Renard’s head at the kitten in the window. “Should we call someone? Have them come out here to check on her?”

Renard shook his head. “Who? I don’t think she would take kindly to being forced into a program. Her son has shown no interest in her. And getting anyone over here might attract attention from certain unsavories.”

“I don’t want to leave her in the cold,” Yata said. It wasn’t bad now, but once the sun started setting…

“She’s out of the cold,” Renard pointed out. “If you want, we can bring her some supplies later. But she’ll be all right.”

This time, Yata trusted himself to make eye contact with Renard. “How do you know?”

“Alley cats.” Renard’s smile was wan. “They’re survivors.”

…

Jessica wasn’t answering her phone, and his gently inquiring text message remained unread (never a good sign, according to Renard, who added something about a woman scorned under his breath). The trip across the city to Jessica’s apartment took entirely too long, thanks to the beast known as Boston Traffic. Renard spent the entire time complaining about how much faster it would have been if they’d just taken the T, the Orange Line was right there, we would have been there by now, but no, someone had to use the BMW. Yata spent the entire time progressively turning the radio volume up higher and higher to drown Renard out.

The windows of the BMW thrummed with the bassline of a heavy rock song by the time they pulled up to the curb of Jessica’s apartment building. Yata cut the engine and stepped out, taking a moment to study the surroundings. Jessica lived in the heart of SoWa, surrounded on all sides by boutiques and fine dining. The building itself was made of brick and high windows that showed off the art gallery on the lower floor. Pricey for someone living on an assistant curator’s budget, Yata mused.

He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and pivoted to glare at Renard.

Renard curled his hand back away from Yata’s back pocket. “Just checking to make sure you’re alert.”

“Keep your sticky fingers in your pockets.”

Renard rolled his eyes but acquiesced. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets all the way up to Jessica’s apartment. The door was locked and closed, and no amount of knocking roused anyone inside.

“Time for a warrant?” Renard suggested as Yata frowned at the unopened door.

“I don’t have enough to justify a warrant.”

Renard, hand still in his pockets, bent to study the lock. “I could break in.”

Yata shook his head. “Due process.”

Renard threw back his head in an exaggerated groan, one that lasted all the way to Yata crossing the corridor to the door across from Jessica’s. This time, the door opened at his polite knock. Yata smiled down at the glowering little boy who’d thrown the door open.

“Hey, kiddo. Is someone home I can—”

Yata didn’t get the chance to finish. The kid’s leg swung up, sharp and fast, and his foot collided with Yata’s shin.

Renard roared with laughter as Yata sank to the carpeted floor.

“Jared, oh my god!”

Jared’s harried-looking young mother appeared on the spot, apologizing profusely as she bundled the scowling little bastard into her arms. “I am so sorry, he didn’t get his nap this afternoon—”

“Quite all right,” Renard said. He smoothly stepped over the gasping Yata to smile at Jared’s mother. “Do you know if Miss Jessica Jansen is home?”

“Jessica?” Her brow furrowed. “No. She left this morning—we caught the elevator together, I was going to the laundromat—and I haven’t seen her back since. Is she in trouble?”

“No, but Agent Yatagarasu here—” Renard gestured to Yata “—has a few questions for her.”

Limply, Yata pulled out his badge and showed it to Jared’s mother. Jared stuck his tongue out at Yata when he did.

“Jared, stop that,” she scolded. “Please, don’t mind him, I’m really sorry…”

“It’s all right,” Yata managed. He grabbed Renard’s arm and pulled himself back to his feet, wincing when his leg stung. He forced the pain to the back of his mind. “Has anyone been by her apartment recently?”

“Well, her brother comes by sometimes—at least, I think that’s her brother, he looks like her...and there was an older man the other night. I think maybe her father. He stopped to chat in the hallway. He was very nice.” She smiled. “Otherwise, it’s pretty quiet. No friends or casual visits, that sort of thing.”

“I see. Thank you for your time.”

For the sake of his dignity, Yata waited until they were back on the elevator to wince and rub at his leg. “I don’t think I like kids.”

“I don’t think kids like you,” Renard replied. “So, Jessica has a frequent visitor who looks a lot like her. What does this Marcus fellow look like, again?”

Yata closed his eyes and rested his head back against the elevator wall. He ignored the momentary weightlessness of the elevator, calling Marcus’ image to mind. Dark hair, dark scruff, dark eyes. The wildfire to Jessica’s calm and collected. The more he thought, the more snatches of conversations came back to him:

“Marcus, put the gun away. You’re not playing GTA, Jesus Christ.”

“If the Wareham Gallery hadn’t received any threats…why would Doyle want to improve his security?”

“Jess set it up.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“How about with Lupin?”

The elevator dinged. Yata reopened his eyes to see Renard watching him. Yata exhaled as he pushed away from the wall. “I think we’re dealing with more than one Lupin impostor.” He didn’t trust elaborating until they were out of the building. Once they were, he made a beeline for the BMW.

“I think they’re siblings, working together for—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

A bright orange ticket had been tucked against the BMW’s windshield. The words VIOLATION – BOSTON were set in a deep, bold print against the orange. Yata snatched the parking ticket up, scowling at the finer print detailing when and where to pay his parking ticket.

Renard made a show of inspecting his fingernails. “I told you we ought to take the T.”

Yata looked left. Yata looked right. Satisfied that there were no children around to emulate his poor behavior, he swung around and punched Renard in the face.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight, In Which Sources Are Interrogated

“Remind me again why I decided to join you.”

Goemon’s tone was flat and disaffected as he and Jigen pushed their way through the beach crowd. The sun shone overhead in a burst of bright, hot yellow, setting the golden sand underfoot to shimmering. The brilliant blue ocean lapped lazily around the legs of beachgoers as they dipped into the water. Compared to the playful families and lounging vacationers crowding the beach, the samurai and the gunman edged past ‘suspicious’ and right into ‘actively committing crimes’.

“As a favor to Lupin?” Jigen suggested.

Goemon nimbly dodged a young boy and the bucket of sand he hurtled along. “I don’t owe Lupin a favor.”

“Fine. As a favor to Zenigata.”

To that, Goemon just sighed. The thick sand sucked at his sandals and the salty smell of the ocean stung his nose. He would not endure this ignominy for Lupin. But for Zenigata’s sake, Goemon could keep his mouth shut. The inspector had been put through enough perilous positions by Lupin’s antics in the past.

Together, he and Jigen made their way up a concrete ramp, out of the sandy beach and into a row of bungalows, cabanas, and canopies. Vacationers had packed around one particular bar, laughing and chatting and sipping pineapple cocktails. The crowd was massive, but the man behind the bar dwarfed them all.

Dynamite Joe enjoyed being the center of attention, and he was certainly in his element now. A large, muscular man, sun-golden streaked through his pompadour of brown hair and down his sideburns. His tropical shirt was buttoned just a little too low, revealing an impressive set of pectorals and curly chest hair. Joe moved with a brisk, easy confidence as he shook drinks and made light conversation. Each drink was served with a small umbrella, a crooked smile, and a wink if the waiting lady was especially pretty.

Then Joe caught Jigen’s eye, and all the sunny humor drained out of him.

Jigen pushed his way through the bikini-clad crowd to lean against the counter. “How you been, Joe?”

“Christ.” Joe looked between Jigen and Goemon. “Could you two look any more like assassins?”

“Sure,” Jigen replied. He pushed his jacket back in a smooth gesture, revealing the sidepiece at his hip.

“Asshole,” Joe muttered. He glanced around at the chattering, relaxed crowd, and then back to the pair. “What do you want?”

Jigen pulled a photo from his pocket, smoothed it out, and held it out towards Joe. “You know her?”

Joe didn’t have to reply; the way his eyes narrowed was enough. “Give me fifteen minutes. Here,” he pushed two pineapple drinks across the bar. “On the house.”

Credit where credit was due, Jigen mused as he sipped at the tangy, sweet drink. Dynamite Joe knew his way around explosives and cocktails. Goemon sat beside him, stabbing his paper straw into the ice. Both watched the ebb and flow of the crowd in silence.

After fifteen minutes, Joe’s replacement arrived, and Joe himself slid around the bar. He jerked his head towards the bustling restaurant nearby before starting round the back. Jigen and Goemon followed.

The rank smell of weed permeated the back of the restaurant’s kitchen. Two busboys surged to their feet when Joe slammed the back door open. He ignored the blunts they hastily hid behind their back in favor of jerking a thumb over his shoulder. The busboys left in a rush, leaving plenty of room for Jigen and Goemon to step inside.

Joe produced his own lighter and rolled joint. He settled down on a milk crate with his lit joint and a scowl. “What the hell were you thinking, flashing that woman’s picture around? Don’t you know how many gangsters come here on family vacation?”

“Oho.” Jigen grinned as he sank down onto a milk crate of his own. “So you do know her.”

“Ellen MacMillan, Interpol,” Joe said. He flicked a dismissive hand around. “She manages a few vacation weeks in a year. Mean woman. Nice tits, though.”

Goemon just barely avoided rolling his eyes. Jigen suppressed a snort. “Does she cause trouble?”

Joe started to answer—and then stopped short. He leaned back even as Jigen leaned forward. “Well, now. What’s got you interested in Interpol agents causing trouble?”

“We think she might be involved in trying to pull a fast one on Lupin,” Jigen replied. He saw no need in mentioning Zenigata. Criminals outside the Lupin gang didn’t quite have the same affection for the old inspector. But Interpol screwing with Lupin? That was like saying the sky was blue.

“Answer the question,” Goemon said.

“She ain’t friendly, that’s for sure,” said Joe. “Keeps to herself, always orders a peach bellini, hangs out under the cabana. Won’t let you say more than ten words to her. Gives shitty tips. She’s from the States, right?”

Jigen didn’t answer for a long moment. He studied Joe carefully, wondering how far he was willing to trust an old friend who was also a career criminal. The tropics fit Joe well enough, but if he even caught a whiff of profit…

“Vandewater territory,” Jigen said at last.

“Oh,” Joe said.

A beat of thoughtful silence followed.

Then Joe surged to his feet, as fast as the busboys before him. “Oh, shit! Who the hell did you all piss off?”

Jigen remained seated. He and Goemon exchanged glances before he answered: “Lupin had a run-in with one of the Vandewater kids a few months back.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Joe said. He took a long drag off his joint before laughing. “Oh, shit. You’re all screwed.”

Goemon tilted his head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, the only thing Vandewater cares more about than his empire is his kids,” Joe said. He shrugged. “They’re a part of his image, y’know? Screwing with them is screwing with him. And he hates being screwed with.”

“You know Vandewater well enough to make that assessment?” Goemon said.

“He came lookin’ for a contract once,” Joe said. He caught the way Goemon’s mouth twitched downwards. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, I know he went to Jigen too.”

Jigen held up a hand to stop Goemon’s retort. “What happened?” he asked.

Smoke curled around Joe’s mouth as he answered: “He found me in prison on Martha’s Vineyard. Everyone gets caught once or twice, y’know? Well, Vandewater waltzed in and paid my bail. Cash. Took me out for lunch at a diner, said he’d been followin’ my career with interest. Wanted to know if I’d be interested in a contract. I’d do jobs, he’d pay my fees, and we’d both get a cut of the profits.”

Jigen studied Joe’s casual stance, his easy, matter-of-fact tone. “You said no.”

Joe nodded. “Never been interested in tyin’ myself down, y’know? He took it all right, didn’t seem too bothered. Said if that was the case, I could pay him back by spendin’ some time with his son. The kid was mad for explosives, and he wanted an expert to make sure he didn’t go blowin’ the garage up.”

“Which kid was that?”

“Oh, geez, this was like ten years ago now…Matt? Yeah, yeah. Matt. He wasn’t the one you ran into, was it?”

“Nah. The older one. Domas.”

“Oh, shit!”

Jigen arched an eyebrow.

“Y’know how parents aren’t supposed to play favorites?” Joe waited for Jigen to nod. “Well, Vandewater never got the memo. What’d Lupin do to him?”

“Gave him a scar and got him arrested,” Jigen said, watching the way Joe winced and touched a hand to his cheek in sympathy.

Joe lowered his hand back to his side. “So, what’s MacMillan got to do with it?”

“Someone’s trying to screw with Lupin,” Jigen said. “MacMillan’s a cop living on more than a cop’s budget, workin’ in Vandewater territory. M’too old to believe in coincidence.”

“Fuck that. If you’re old so am I. But…you might have a point.” Joe looked between Jigen and Goemon, and when he did something subtle shifted in his broad face. “Watch your back, Jigen. You too, uh—”

“Goemon,” Goemon said.

“Yeah. Both of you, watch your backs. If Vandewater knows you’re sniffin’ around one of his cronies…”

“He started it,” Jigen said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “He’s not gonna like when we finish it.”

Goemon waited until they were a safe distance away from cabanas and crowds to speak again: “I don’t trust him.” He waited for Jigen’s gaze to shift his way before continuing: “He offered information freely. Too freely, for someone claiming eyes and ears are everywhere.” Goemon glanced around, as though expecting some enemy to rise from the golden sands. “We must needs keep our eyes open. These Vandewaters have long tendrils.”

Jigen sighed and tilted his hat upwards, squinting into the tropical sun. “At least we’re someplace sunny, huh?”

…

“So, here’s my current theory—”

Piping-hot steam rose from the chunk of clam cake in Yata’s hand. He stopped mid-sentence to blow on the small ball of fried dough and clam meat. Renard had insisted on treating Yata to local eats, which mostly meant Renard pointed out a go-to seafood joint and Yata paid for it. But he had to admit—however begrudgingly—that hot clam cakes and accompanying clam chowder were a good antidote for the bitter cold outside.

They were back in the hotel room, safe and snug as chill wind moaned against the windowpane. Yata sat cross-legged at the head of his bed, jacket and shoes discarded for the day. Renard shared the bed, albeit at the foot: he kept shooting glances out the window with something like relief. Otherwise, he simply dipped his clam cake into a to-go container of chowder and waited for Yata to continue.

“They’re a sibling team,” Yata said at last. “One went in as the curator, the other went in as security. They scoped the place out, then sent out a fake Lupin calling card to get both Zenigata and Lupin on the scene. Stage a confrontation, get Zenigata off the case, and then…” He trailed off. Then what? What was the point of all that work?

Renard seemed to be reading his mind as he cleared his throat. “Counterpoint. Why?”

“I…don’t know.” He didn’t like admitting it out loud, much less to Renard. Yata took another bite of clam cake to hide his frustration.

“Think it through, then,” Renard said. He licked his fingers free of grease. “Who stands to lose the most from this scheme?”

“Inspector Zenigata, if their aim is to discredit him.”

“Why would they target Zenigata specifically?”

Yata took his time chewing and swallowing the bit of clam and potato in his mouth. Why would anyone want to discredit Zenigata? His only claim to fame was the record amount of time he’d spent on the Lupin case. “Zenigata is on the Lupin case...”

“And how many criminals have landed in a box because Zenigata was chasing Lupin? Specifically.” Renard’s eyes narrowed when Yata shook his head. “Domas and I did, for starters. You must admit, Lupin and Zenigata make a wonderful team.”

Yata settled back with his bowl of chowder, studying Renard. Renard hadn’t expected to be caught all those months ago. He’d gone in with the assumption that a younger, more agile thief could easily best Lupin at his own game. And when the young lord hadn’t gotten his way, there’d been hell to pay. He’d made an enemy of Lupin in Rome, but their fledging rivalry had only escalated after New York…

This was not the first time, Yata realized with a jolt, that someone had gone after Zenigata when Lupin was right there.

“Renard…” He spoke slowly, not sure how to pry open this can of worms.

“Yatagarasu,” Renard said in a sing-song voice. He opened a small package of oyster crackers and dumped them into his chowder.

“In New York…why did you shoot Zenigata instead of Lupin?”

“Lupin?” Renard paused to stare at Yata. “Why would I shoot Lupin?”

“Well, you’d already broken his fingers, forced him to chase you across the Atlantic, and got into a fistfight with him in the middle of a museum floor.”

Renard’s brown eyes hardened. A long, uncomfortable pause followed. Yata fought the urge to look away, forced himself to keep his gaze level on Renard.

After an eternity, Renard shrugged and went back to his chowder. “It’s hard to gloat over a man if he’s dead. And more than that…going after Zenigata, hurting Zenigata…I knew it would hurt Lupin more than anything I could do to him physically.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You didn’t see the look on Lupin’s face when I put a bullet in Zenigata.” A ghost of the old Renard flickered over the young thief’s expression. He was back in the moment, Yata realized, reliving whatever he had felt the moment he’d pulled that trigger. Yata’s stomach clenched with hate.

“What look?”

“You’d think most men would be happy to be rid of such a long-standing nuisance. But not Lupin. He looked like I’d put a bullet through his heart.”

Yata stood abruptly. He set his bowl of chowder down before he pacing the small length of the hotel room. He was aware of Renard watching every step he took, but what else was he supposed to do with this rush of nervous energy? This felt too close to something private, something clandestine, something that belonged to Lupin and Zenigata and them alone. Every word Renard spoke was violating.

Renard continued: “Does your dear inspector have a wife, children? Someone he can go home to? No, he was does not. He spends all his waking hours chasing after one man. One man,” Renard held up a finger for emphasis, “who does not want his inspector interfered with. You weren’t there, that night in New York.”

“That’s not true,” Yata insisted. “It’s not.”

“Which part?”

“Lupin doesn’t love Zenigata. He can’t. Don’t you know how many times he’s left Zenigata in the lurch? That’s not love. That’s—they’re enemies. They’re mutual enemies. Rivals!”

“Funny,” Renard’s tone sharpened, twisted like the knife in Yata’s stomach. “I never said they were in love.” He got to his feet, planting his hands on his hips as Yata continued to pace. “Do you have something you’d like to get off your chest, Yatagarasu?”

Yata stopped short. The semantics-loving bastard! He’d all but dangled the conclusion of his argument in front of Yata. But he’d said it, hadn’t he? And now he had to find a way to backtrack, all while the blood roared in his ears. “That’s not—it’s different!”

“How?”

“It just is! Zenigata couldn’t—wouldn’t!—love some criminal lowlife like Lupin—he hates Lupin! He’s devoted his entire life to putting Lupin behind bars!”

“Devoting one’s whole life to another man? Doesn’t sound very heterosexual to me.”

Yata whipped around, glaring daggers into the smirking Renard. “Not. Another. Word.”

“Why?” Renard bent at the waist, leaning into Yata’s personal space. “Do you hate admitting that the old man is just another crooked cop?”

Yata might have had a coherent response, but it was lost in the sudden haze of red around his vision. A fist he didn’t remember making swung up to catch Renard in the jaw. Yata grinned fiercely as Renard stumbled back with a yelp of pain.

And then Renard surged forward to pay Yata in kind.

They went down in a flurry of fists and knees, spitting curses, grappling on the cheap carpet as each tried to gain the upper hand. Renard was hard and lean, unafraid of cheap shots as he slammed an elbow into Yata’s stomach. But Yata was fitter, stronger, and–more importantly–not on the brink of starvation. In less than sixty seconds, Yata had rolled Renard onto his stomach, taken a fistful of red hair, and smashed his face into the carpet.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by each man’s heaving breathing.

Renard wriggled in Yata’s grip, but Yata twisted his hair until the thief winced and stilled. A fierce, perverse rush of pleasure soared through his chest. He could taste blood on his tongue, and his stomach ached from where Renard had hit him. He was hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to hurt in turn.

“I can’t wait for Lupin to find us,” Yata snarled, “so he can see what a useless sack of shit you are!”

He picked up Renard’s head and slammed him into the carpet once more. Only then did he relinquish his grip. Yata got to his feet, clutching at his stomach. He aimed a halfhearted kick in Renard’s direction. “Asshole.”

Renard did not reply. He remained face down on the floor, panting and half-curling into himself. The longer he stayed down, the more Yata’s fierce triumph flagged. He’d won a fistfight against a half-starved man with a bad leg—a fistfight he’d started, no less. Who did he expect to be impressed?

“Right,” Renard said at last. He had pulled himself upright to run a hand under his nose. His brown eyes burned with tears of pain. “Right. If that’s how you feel about it, then—”

He staggered to his feet, less gracefully than Yata had, and limped towards the door.

Yata should have let him go. But something, urgent and not easily named, propelled him forward. He pushed himself between Renard and hotel door. “Renard—Renard—Renard, wait!”

Renard stopped short when Yata shoved his hand away from the door handle. He looked from the handle to Yata, all with those burning brown eyes. Not anger, Yata realized. Humiliation. Humiliation he was desperately trying to hide, even as his freckled face flushed pink. Yata opened his mouth, closed it, and then cleared his throat.

“Renard, please. Don’t go.” 

“My name,” Renard said stiffly, “is Oliver.”

“Oliver,” Yata echoed. “That was—that was out of line. You’ve been nothing but helpful so far. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

A longer, more painful silence followed.

Then Renard ran his hand under his nose again. “I’m…sorry that I said those things about Inspector Zenigata. I was only doing it to get a rise out of you.”

“Well. It worked.” Yata eased away from the door, convinced that Renard would not bolt. He sidled around Renard and made for the bed. “Inspector Zenigata is a good man. Sometimes he makes compromises. But he’s not…it’s not like that, with he and Lupin. It’s different. It’s…hard to explain.”

Renard’s mouth twisted, but he kept any thoughts mercifully to himself. He stood in place a moment longer before rejoining Yata. “Where were we?”

Where indeed? Yata asked himself. He rubbed his hand over his forehead, fighting down an emerging headache in order to think. “I think Jessica and Marcus took Zenigata off the playing field, to make going after Lupin that much easier. Whether it’s for glory or pride or some revenge scheme, I don’t know. But I think SecureTech is key to it all. It’s their cover of legitimacy, after all. Rip off that cover, and we’ll see what’s beneath.”

“You don’t have enough evidence for a warrant,” Renard said. He sounded tired as he took his place at the foot of the bed. “Currently, all you have is conjecture.”

“So, here we sit,” Yata said, suddenly weary. “Stalled.”

The wind roared against the windowpane once more. Beneath it, both men could hear the sounds of the city: emergency sirens and the low rumble of traffic, a barking dog. Renard twisted to face the evening, and the bitter cold he was currently shielded from. “You know who doesn’t need a warrant?”

Yata blinked. He studied the skinny, lopsided Renard. Renard, who he just wrestled into the carpet. Renard, who knew exactly what he was asking with that question. “No,” he said.

Renard scoffed. “What vote of confidence is that, I ask you?”

“It’s a vote of non-confidence, is what it is!” Yata replied. “Zenigata’s already in trouble. I have to work through official channels. Legal channels. I have to do my job the right way.”

To that, Renard just shrugged. “Call whatever I find an anonymous tip, then.”

Yata stared at him, lost for words. Let Renard run amok in SecureTech, on the slim hope of finding something useful? But then, what was the alternative? Chase Jessica and Marcus in circles, continuing to waste valuable time picking apart their arguments little by little? All he had right now was conjecture. If Renard could find something tangible, it would help speed the process along. But on the other hand, Yata didn’t see trigger-happy Marcus taking well to any thief caught in his building.

On the other other hand, what would be lost by sending a man he didn’t particularly like into enemy territory?

Yata took a deep breath. “Ren—Oliver. Are you sure you can do it?”

Renard’s response was a fierce, feral smile. “I can steal anything I want to.”

They kept to curt, businesslike conversations after that: reviewing the perimeters of SecureTech, outlining the risks, comparing approaches. Yata was emotionally and mentally exhausted by the time both men got ready for bed. It had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than an uninterrupted night’s sleep in a decent bed.

Hours later, Renard woke from a fitful sleep with a strangled shout. Yata had been lying still, listening to him gasp and thrash, and only just managed not to flinch. He lay silent, listening to Renard’s heavy panting. After a few minutes, the mattress creaked. Footsteps padded over to the bathroom. The light clicked on.

Yata rolled over. Renard stood with his back to Yata, lanky frame illuminated in the bathroom’s sickly yellow light. He stood on the threshold, clutching the doorframe for support. Yata’s eyes flitted down his shaking frame before landing on the starburst scar marring Renard’s back.

A lump formed in Yata’s throat, but before he could speak Renard slammed the bathroom door shut.

…

The chill March wind swept Henry Doyle up the clanging iron steps to his third-floor apartment. The cold sank through his thick layers of clothing, deep into the cuts in his skin and the cracks in his bones. It hurt to breathe, never mind move, and Doyle cursed his way to the apartment door. His stiff fingers fumbled with his keys, and it was a long minute before he forced the door open.

A dismal sight greeted him. His one-bedroom apartment was dark and dim, devoid of everything but the most basic comforts. After all, what use did he have for this meager space? He spent most of his waking hours at the art gallery, building the life he’d always desired. This…this was nothing but a reminder of the world he was trying to leave behind.

A shiver of pain went through his chest. Doyle grimaced, shut the door behind him, and stomped into the apartment proper. Two fractured ribs, a broken wrist, one black eye, and a hoard of bruises and cuts besides. He needed a shower, some painkillers, and a sandwich.

Doyle limped into his meager kitchen. He leaned against the counter, and when he did his hand brushed against a stack of envelopes stamped PAST DUE.

Worth it, Doyle told himself as his head swam. Fifty-thousand dollars, and all it had taken was some blood and bone. With this, he could start over: sell the gallery, move to Paris, change his name again. And this time, the change would stick.

Christ alive, that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though. Nikolas better keep an eye on his kids, Doyle thought darkly. He fished his good hand into his jacket pocket, searching for his painkillers. Jessica was a frigid bitch, but Mattias…that boy was a smolder waiting to ignite into something ugly. 

He would be well out of the way by the time that happened, though. And in the meantime, MacMillan was a useful go-between. She’d already warded Zenigata’s nosy coffee-fetcher off.

An expired milk jug and a jar of pickles rattled when Doyle yanked the fridge door open. He frowned at the nearly-emptied fridge, sighed, and turned back—

Only to find the point of a knife at his neck.

He’d heard of Lupin the Third. It was impossible not to, really, when you worked in the art world. He’d always heard Lupin spoken of in faintly flattering terms: a feckless fool, a charming interloper, a man after passions more than prices. He’d seen a bit of it for himself in the gallery.

But now Lupin’s dark eyes were flat and hard, the hand on the knife steady. No quips or commentary followed; there was no thief of joie de vivre here. Only a wolf, snarling at the man he had pinned to the refrigerator door.

“Well, well, well.” For a man held at knifepoint, Doyle wasn’t fazed. He even managed a sickly sort of smile. “Lupin the Third, slumming it with the rest of the petty thieves. To what do I owe the pleasure—”

Doyle choked on the back half of his sentence as the knife’s edge pressed deeper into his neck.

“Someone,” Lupin spoke in low, terse tones, “is trying to play games with me. And I don’t like playing games when I don’t know the prize.”

Doyle’s nostrils flared. “And what do you think a simple art gallery owner can tell you?”

“You tell me, Henry Davis.”

What little humor he had drained from Doyle’s face. He went completely still, even as his eyes flickered with annoyance. He hadn’t been Henry Davis for five years now, not since Nikolas Vandewater had put him on the payroll. Henry Davis has been a petty financial accountant convicted of fraud, and Vandewater had sworn that man was dead.

A corner of Lupin’s mouth twitched upwards. “Thought no one could find you, huh? Funny what you can learn from twenty minutes on an Interpol database.” He lowered his voice to stage whisper: “They’re not very good at securing their sites.”

“What,” Doyle said, “do you want?”

“Information.”

“And how do you think you’re gonna get it?”

Lupin tilted the hilt upwards, increasing the pressure as he did so. “Asking nicely.”

“That’s all you got?” Even with a knife to his throat, Doyle managed a sneer. “You don’t have the guts.”

“Don’t I?”

“Everyone knows you got soft. Ever since you let some kid beat you to the punch in the Vatican—”

Lupin nicked him. A bead of red bloomed on Doyle’s skin, trickled down his long neck. Doyle fell silent.

“He’s not standing here right now. I am. Why do you think that is?” Lupin’s voice was mild as he pulled back. He snorted as Doyle pressed a hand to his bleeding neck. “This won’t take long.”

“What do you want?” Doyle hissed.

“Answers.” Lupin folded his knife back into his pocket. He turned his back on Doyle, moving towards the counter. “Who planted that calling card in your gallery?”

“If you think I’m gonna give it up that easily—”

Lupin picked up one of the many stamped envelopes on the counter. He flipped it through his fingers as he turned back to Doyle. “ICPO might be incompetent, but they keep great files. And do you know what else ICPO is able to track? Fifty-thousand American dollars deposited into several off-shore bank accounts. Fifty-thousand, in this economy? I hope some of that is going to your medical bills.”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed. If Lupin had gotten close enough to find him, what were MacMillan’s prospects? Unless MacMillan had already thrown him under the bus…

“If you can track the money,” he said slowly, “you don’t need me.”

Lupin shrugged as he flicked the envelope away. “Maybe not. But it saves me time if I can hear from the horse’s mouth. We can take this downtown if you want. I’m sure the local boys will be delighted to know that Harry Davis has been living under a false name and operating under false pretenses for the last five years. Hell, they might even give me a medal for it. They like giving out medals.” He pushed his orange jacket back, flashing a set of police cuffs in Doyle’s direction. “Your call, Doyle.”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed, balancing Lupin’s bravado against the genuine threat he posed. “Vandewater.”

The name echoed in the empty kitchen.

“Ah.” Lupin cocked his head to the side. “Finally decided to put his mouth where his money is, huh?”

“Not him.”

“Not him?”

“His kids.” Doyle took a perverse satisfaction in watching Lupin frown. “Not big fans of yours, hoo-boy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly endeared to their family either.” Lupin stepped back. “They’re more than welcome to join the I Want Lupin Dead Club. I hear they’ve got pins.”

Doyle snorted. “Who said anything about wanting you dead?”

That, of all things, stopped Lupin mid-step.

“They want you miserable, motherfucker.”

Lupin had no clever quips, no smart remarks at the ready. He slipped back into the shadows. Doyle heard a window in the apartment open and shut, and then he knew he was alone.

Doyle exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He rubbed his bloodied neck, cursed inwardly, and turned back to his fridge. Funny, he thought as he pulled the jar of pickles out. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn Lupin had been worried.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine, In Which the Rookies Make Mistakes

“This is a bad idea.”

Yata’s quick, rapid steps matched his agitated words. The setting sun cast Marie’s apartment in hues of red and yellow, with shadows creeping thereafter. Although the temperature was rapidly dropping, a portable heater kept the tiny apartment from freezing. Marie herself sat in her pile of blankets, nursing a Styrofoam cup from Dunkin’ Donuts with both hands. The orange cat had curled itself into her lap. Both watched Yata wear circles into the worn, threadbare carpet. The black kitten, meanwhile, made a game of chasing after Yata’s loose shoelace.

“Then why did you agree to it?” Marie asked placidly.

“Because I was out of other ideas!” Yata stopped short. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to soothe the roiling waves of anxiety in his stomach. It worked, enough that when he dropped his hands his voice was steady. “Out of good ideas.”

The black kitten pounced on his shoelace, biting at the aglet with fierce little war cries.

“You don’t have much faith in your partner,” Marie noted. The orange tabby yawned widely, settling deeper into the blankets as Marie scratched between its ears.

“He is not my partner,” Yata said. He moved towards the windowsill, leaving a kitten scrambling in his wake. “My partner is…”

Well. Technically he didn’t have a partner. Technically, he was still Zenigata’s junior officer. Until he’d passed the exam for Inspector, he was still Agent Yatagarasu. And that was assuming Zenigata, who’d always operated as a lone wolf, wanted a partner at all.

Yata pushed the stray doubt away. He would be Zenigata’s partner in due time. Zenigata wouldn’t have kept him this long otherwise.

“…indisposed,” he finished when he realized he’d been silent too long. “Renard is just…temporary help. For the moment.”

“Yes, that’s what temporary means,” Marie nodded. “Tell me about your real partner.”

“He’s an inspector for Interpol,” Yata replied. He allowed himself one little glow of pride when he saw Marie’s surprise. He knew he was young for Interpol as an organization, never mind as an active field agent. “And he’s probably the best there is. He’s smart. He can look at a crime scene and tell you exactly what the thief was thinking, how they did it, and where they’re going with the loot. Nothing ever stops him in the pursuit of justice. And…” he sighed as he sank down beside the windowsill, “he’d probably kill me if he knew what I was doing.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m letting a thief snoop through a security firm.” Yata balled his hand into a fist, knuckling his forehead as the first throb of a headache began. “If Renard gets caught—if he points the finger at me…” He trailed off, not allowing himself to think of what consequences could follow. “Zenigata would have found a different way. A better way. I should be upholding the law, not watching someone break it.”

He’d been having the same argument with himself, round and round until he was dizzy. It wasn’t too late to get back into the BMW and leave Renard to his fate. And if he did get caught—who would believe a mangy street thief over an officer of the law? But that in itself was dishonorable. He’d told half-truths on reports before, but he’d never thrown another man under the bus to save his own skin. On the other hand, Renard had volunteered to get inside SecureTech. Yata hadn’t asked him…but on the other other hand, would Renard have spoken up if Yata hadn’t insulted him in the first place?

Marie’s derisive snort cut through his navel-gazing. “By law,” she said, raising her voice a little to get his attention, “you outta remove an old squatter from private property. But you haven’t.”

Yata picked up the pair of binoculars, spun the diopter absentmindedly. “You’re not causing anyone harm.”

“And your Inspector? He would agree?”

“I think so.”

“Then he knows the difference between what is necessary and what is law.” Marie got to her feet, somewhat unsteady, and tottered over to the camping stove in the middle of the room. “A cup of tea will soothe your nerves. Hang onto those,” she nodded towards the binoculars in Yata’s hands. “And keep an eye on your partner.”

…

On the street level and across the way, Renard stood in the lengthening shadows of shelled building. He blew a breath into the air, watching with dismay as it iced. Yata had bought him a fresh set of black, flexible clothes. Perfect for a thief, but less so for when the weather dipped below fifteen degrees Celsius.

Fahrenheit, he reminded himself. Bloody Americans used bloody Fahrenheit.

Renard curled his hand into a fist and pounded it against his left thigh. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what scale of temperature he used. It was cold. It was the creeping sort of cold that seeped through the layers of his new clothes. Little phantom needles stabbed up his left thigh and lower back. When his leg seized like this, it was hard—nearly impossible, actually—to move. C’mon, he cursed, slamming his fist against his thigh, trying to feel something. C’mon, not now, not fucking now…

What a useless sack of shit you are!

Rage flickered in his chest, warmed it like nothing else could. Fucker. Sniveling little asshole, that was what Yatagarasu was. He played the good cop exceedingly well, but when push came to shove he was like anyone else. He was only interested in saving his own skin, and that of his precious Zenigata. Goodly Saint Zenigata, who’d never had an impure thought in his life. Renard glanced up at Marie’s apartment.

If he screwed up, there was no doubt in his mind Yatagarasu would rabbit.   

And his best chance of finding Lupin would vanish with him.

Renard thumped his fist against his thigh again, and this time he felt a dull ache bloom under his skin. Good. Maybe a barely-functioning leg would help with the illusion he needed. He remained standing in the shadows, checking and rechecking his supply of lockpicks. Simple tools for a simple heist.

Simple. So simple. He didn’t need to feel nervous. He didn’t need to feel the sudden rush of bile in his throat, or the way sweat congealed under his gloves. He’d done more daring things, more dangerous things, than this. Renard closed his eyes, conjured up same memory he always did when the temperature dropped.

Vatican City in the summertime, stretched out below him like some toy city. The way the wind had propelled him upwards onto the rooftop, the sound of ancient tiles clacking under his boots. The thrill of circling Daisuke Jigen with rapier drawn. Racing Lupin down a long stretch of hallway towards the prize.

He was Oliver Renard the Second. He could do this simple thing.

Renard dragged his gloved hands through his hair. He exhaled loudly, expelling his nerves in one sharp breath. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

The sun was sinking below the city behind them. Darkness had already swallowed Massachusetts Bay. The Atlantic Ocean seemed louder in the stillness of the Waterfront, the push-and-pull of its waves like the breath of some massive beast. Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of yellow onto the cracked pavement.  

Renard watched as the first SecureTech employees stepped out for the evening.

Step One.

Renard zipped his ragged green windbreaker up and pulled the hood over his face. He stepped out of the shadows, adopting a meek stance as he did: shoulders slouched, head down, left leg tilted at an awkward angle. Renard had very quickly discovered that people tended not to make eye contact with those that made them uncomfortable—and a scruffy, unkempt man with a limp made everyone uncomfortable. He’d seen it all in the way they looked at him: pity, contempt, loathing. It used to be a blow to his pride, until he wrapped what little was left of it in barbed wire.

Sure enough, the two SecureTech employees stopped short when they caught sight of him. Renard mumbled something about cash, words low and bunched together. He kept his face to the pavement, even as his gaze flickered up to study the duo. One looked uncomfortable at his approach. But the other, a skinny, hook-nosed man, narrowed his eyes immediately. One hand drifted towards the gun at his hip.

Fortunately, the other’s expression had twisted with pity. He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a fistful of dollars. “Here, man. Get something decent to eat.”

Renard reached forward, fumbled, and knocked his hand against the mercenary’s. The wallet hit the ground. Immediately both men went for it. And even stiff with cold, Renard’s clever fingers slipped the keyring off the mercenary’s waist while he was distracted. He folded his hand over the keyring, undid the security fob, and folded it against his palm.

When he straightened, Hooked Nose was still staring at him. Renard’s heart slammed against his chest in sudden panic—caught, he’d been caught, goddamn it, and he hadn’t even made it through the front door!

But Hooked Nose looked away, said something about meeting Jerry for Trivia Tuesday. The other mercenary, busy doing a quick inventory of his wallet, just nodded. Renard murmured some sort of thanks as Hooked Nose brushed past him. Already he’d been forgotten.

Step Two, he thought as he limped back into the night. He allowed himself one ounce of pride, one pat on the back for a job well done. The security fob had been his target, but those keys could open all sorts of interesting doors.

Renard unfolded his hand to study his prize—and stopped short. He blinked, brow furrowing as he stared down at his palm.

He still had the key fob, but the keyring itself was missing.

Strange. He must have dropped it somewhere in the passing. He glanced back up towards the chain-link fence separating SecureTech from the street. More men were coming out now: staff in slacks and wingtip shoes, contracted security in black jackets and boots. Renard remained in the shadows, studying the security as they passed. They were all big men, fit and muscular, and they moved briskly through the cold.

Something in their swagger reminded Renard of Domas. That was the very first thing he had noticed about Domas: how he moved through a crowded rave scene, all languid confidence as he’d made his way to the bar. Renard had slipped into the space beside him, already smiling—

“KILL HIM, YOU COWARD!”

His stomach jerked as a phantom bullet ripped through it. The pain jerked Renard out of the memory and back onto the silent street. He was breathing hard, suddenly, and sweat pooled beneath his collar. Domas wasn’t here, he told himself sharply. And whatever he and Domas had had was dead. 

Nevertheless, the last of the SecureTech employees had left by the time his gut unknotted itself. Renard waited until the last car’s taillights vanished down the street. Only then did he crouch, picking through the rocks and chunks of pavement at his feet until he found a good-sized stone. Renard weighed it in his hand a moment, flicked his wrist a few times to get the trajectory exactly right.

The crack! of shattered glass echoed across the Waterfront. The streetlight flickered and died, plunging the immediate area into total darkness. Renard slipped through the shadows and past the chain-link fence. Icy slush and rock salt crunched beneath his heel. Renard moved slowly, not wanting to risk a fall before he’d reached the front door.

He kept his hood up and face down, away from the security cameras Yata had warned him about. He lifted the key fob to the small black plate by the door. A small click followed. The security light turned green.

Step Three. 

The foyer was laid out exactly as Yata described it. Credit where it was due, the man had an eye for detail. Must’ve come from writing all Zenigata’s reports for him. Renard turned in a circle as he walked. SecureTech’s stylishly austere sensibilities put him on edge. It reminded him too much of his father, of Bryan Bunch, of anyone who valued the net profit above all else.

He shook off the feeling as he approached the secretary’s desk. Barred, he noted, like some teller at a high-profile bank. Picking the lock on the gate proved easy enough, but once Renard was on the other side of the bars he saw little of interest. Pinned Christmas cards, sticky notes with appointments, up-to-date computer monitor…nothing but the usual desk tchotchkes and office supplies here. Renard yanked a file drawer open to frown down at the stack of unused labels and a half-opened set of flash drives.

No physical files. Now, was that the result of the digital age or the nature of files you didn’t want left around?

Jostling the mouse booted the computer monitor to life. An account email and password were both necessary logging in.

No luck there, Renard thought. And he wasn’t about to waste his valuable time on the off-chance the secretary was stupid enough to leave her account credentials laying around. He helped himself to one of the flash drives and a fistful of pens in any case.

Renard sat back in the secretary’s ergonomic chair. He drummed a beat out on his thighs as he considered the immediate area. There were conference rooms down that adjacent corridor—where Yata had spoken to Marcus—and the elevator that led to the second level.

Up, Renard decided. Up meant more offices, and more potential goodies.

He took the stairs rather than the elevator, never mind how his leg complained. There was something almost obscene about using an elevator during a heist. So Renard went slowly, carefully, up the set of stairs to the second floor. The building around him was dark and still. His ears were straining for something, anything, to hear beyond the sound of his own heartbeat. This wasn’t like the merry chaos of the Vatican or the mass confusion of the Natural History Museum: this was slow, somber, tense in a way that didn’t seem to fit a low-profile commercial building. The stretching, silent dark almost made Renard wish for someone else to watch his back.

Almost. He knew what happened when he left his back to others.

SecureTech’s second floor was nearly as boring as the first. Most of the offices were cramped cubbies meant for people who liked attending meetings and saying “let’s do lunch”. And not a one kept physical records. Not in their desks, not in their filing cabinets, not on any shelves or in storage spots.

Curiouser and curiouser, that. What did these people do all day?

The Spartan settings had piqued his curiosity, but Renard was increasingly convinced he’d be slipping out of here empty-handed save for those pens. And even Yatagarasu wouldn’t be impressed with a fistful of gel pens. His last hope for anything criminally interested laid with the corner office. 

The lock on the door popped without much prompting. The door hinges whined as Renard pushed into the office. It was startingly empty for such a massive space: one large desk, pushed between the two massive windows that dominated the south and west wall. Whoever owned the office probably had a fantastic view of the harbor when the blinds were up. Renard noted the security monitors mounted on the wall, flickering grainy images of the streets outside. The narrow closet yielded nothing but stacks with paperwork and boxes of files Yatagarasu would have had a field day organizing. Renard shook his head, shut the door, and moved to the desk.

The computer whirred softly to life as Renard sat down. He noted the prompt for a password with a flair of irritation. C’mon, c’mon…he didn’t get all the way in here just to be stalled by a password…Lupin would’ve been in and out by now!

Renard looked down at the keyboard. The matte on some keys was gone, leaving behind the tell-tale shine of all worn keyboards. Strangely, the shiniest keys were on the number pad…

He yanked the desk drawer open, grabbed a pen and notepad from within, and jotted the numbers down: 5678.

Each combination he entered, however, just set the screen to shuddering. Incorrect password, the computer helpfully offered. Enter correct password or contact administrator. Renard gnashed his teeth as he sat back. He glanced back down at the number pad. The numbers stared back impassively. “Cinq, six, sept, huit,” he murmured out loud. Those were definitely the numbers he wanted, but…

But on the closer inspection, the 5 key was just a little more worn than the others.

87565.

The login screen slid smoothly to the desktop.

Renard grinned, allowing himself one sharp burst of pride. He scanned the desktop before jamming the flash drive in and copying everything indiscriminately. He and Yata could look through all these documents at their own leisure. As the files copied, Renard dragged the mouse around the other apps: desktop browser, printer driver, Solitaire and email. 

The pride was rapidly curdling in his stomach. It was starting to taste a little like anxiety. Renard rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants before opening the emails. Management junk, mostly, and meeting reminders, except for…

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

re: don’t ever ask me for a favor again

Well now, how was he supposed to resist a subject line like that? And it had an attachment besides. Renard double-clicked the attachment—

—and nearly jumped out of his seat when it opened a near-perfect copy of a Lupin calling card.

“What the fuck?” Renard hissed. Immediately he saved a copy to the flash drive. “What the fuck?”

He didn’t know whether he was more annoyed at some low-level thugs for trying to take a swipe at Lupin, or at Yata for being right.

Yata, Renard decided immediately. There’d be no living with the Boy Wonder after this.

…

The Boy Wonder, meanwhile, valiantly resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall. He took a deep breath to try and curb his impatience. Lupin would have been in and out by now, true, but Renard wasn’t Lupin. No one was.

Marie had nodded off beside him with both cats on her lap. Yata glanced her way, smiled, and stretched out his aching legs. Sitting in one position for too long had left pins and needles stabbing under his skin. Yata winced as he rubbed at his aching neck.

Maybe Renard had done a bunk.

Yata pushed the thought away immediately. Even if Renard had fled, where would he go? He was out of friends and resources. He had to come back.

You useless sack of shit!

He had to.

The sudden rumble of engines cut his musing short. Yata’s attention snapped back to the window. He scrambled for the binoculars, found them in his lap, and jammed his eyes to the window. After a moment of searching, he found the source: cars moving through the pitch-black of the Waterfront. Just passing through, Yata prayed. Just passing through, just a wrong turn, no need to stop…

Unfortunately, his hotline to a higher power had been dead for some time now. The cars rolled to a stop in front of SecureTech.

Marie blinked owlishly as Yata shoved the binoculars into her hands. “Stay here, and stay quiet,” Yata hissed. “Whatever you hear, stay quiet.”

And then he was out the door, racing down the grimy steps of Marie’s building, out onto the cracked and icy streets. Only when a patch of ice sent him skidding did Yata stop to think. He blindly grabbed at a concrete wall for support. Think! he ordered himself. Blind panic wasn’t going to help anyone. What was his goal?

Simple. Get Renard out of SecureTech before anyone got caught. Or killed.

And then?

Yata glanced over his shoulder, at the BMW parked surreptitiously in a nearby alley. Get Renard, get out. And don’t give anyone a reason to wander over here in the meantime.

He took a breath to steady himself before drawing his gun. Yata kept to the deeper shadows as he moved through the ruined shells of buildings. He moved slowly, carefully, mindful of every piece of debris he knocked his foot against. Like a thief, he thought, and tried not to think about where he might have learned to move so quietly. 

Car headlights burned like minor suns, illuminating the stark exterior of SecureTech. Three cars, Yata noted. Jeeps, black, and probably armored. There were five men emerging from the cars—no, six, because of them was already out and at the front door, wrenching it open to get inside. The others moved more languidly, stretching their legs and cursing the cold.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck! What alarm had Renard tripped?

Yata sidled along a low wall, keeping himself out of view of the mercenaries. He was almost parallel with their position. There was no way he was getting across the street without being noticed. Not without some means of distraction, anyway. But he was near enough now that he could hear the grumbling of two men:

“—prolly just a raccoon or somethin’ chewin’ through a wire. Looks fine out here.”

“Whatever, man. I’m getting time and a half for this. We’ll call it if Vandewater hasn’t found anything in fifteen.”

Yata’s gun slipped from his grasp. Only his Academy training kept him from dropping it completely. Vandewater? Vandewater? Some macabre puzzle piece slid into place, and Yata stared at the mercenaries with renewed horror. Renard was in a Vandewater building. Renard was in a Vandewater building alone.

Blood roared in his ears. Yata lifted his gaze to SecureTech, searching for signs of life within. C’mon, Renard, c’mon—where are you?

Vandewater’s goons watched the building. Yata watched Vandewater’s goons. A minute passed in frozen silence. Two. Yata’s blood had risen from a roar to a scream, searing through his veins. His gut had turned a slush of nerves and bile, and he flinched when one of the SecureTech windows suddenly illuminated.

Another two minutes passed, though, before the crackle of a walkie-talkie broke the silence:

“Call it off. I’ve got him.”

Panic was an interesting thing. One moment, his insides were attempting to chew their way out. The next, the world snapped into a cold sort of clarity. Yata’s eyes darted to one of SecureTech’s massive windows. He would regret this, he knew, in about ten seconds.

But those ten seconds had not yet passed when Yata raised his gun and fired.

…

Renard drummed his fingers against the desk. He kept his chin in his hand, watching the pixelated files fly into the flash drive. Bored, he quit drumming long enough to snatch the spinner from the pile of fidget toys on the desk. One good flick set it spinning—faster than Renard had anticipated. He fumbled as it slipped from his grasp and hit the floor. Renard sighed as he bent to retrieve it.

And then froze, staring at the little button on the underside of the desk.

Renard straightened instantly. There was a voice in his head—and it sounded suspiciously like Yata—telling him not to press hidden buttons on undersides of desks just because you found them there. But that voice was rapidly drowned out by another, urging him to press it. And since that second voice sounded like Lupin, Renard was willing to give it due consideration.

Click.

A panel of the wall slid back and to the side. A secret passage! The side passage, more like than not, that the oh-so-mysterious Jessica had made use of just the other day. Renard sat back with a wide smile. Mystery rivals, hidden passages—what a wonderful little outing this was shaping up to be.

The dull roar of a car engine cut his delight short. Instantly Renard was up, moving to the window to peer out the blinds. A Jeep—no, Jeeps, plural—had pulled up against the curb, just on the other side of the chain-link fence. Already someone was bursting from a driver’s side and barking muffled orders.

Renard’s stomach plummeted. Yata, he thought at once. The sniveling little shit! He’d double-crossed Renard, left him cornered like a rat—

Fury flared, red and hot, but Renard forced himself to swallow it. Fury wouldn’t help. Not here, not now.

He made for the desk again, yanking out the flash drive and shutting the computer down in a few quick strokes. He weighed the benefits of disappearing out the secret passage before shaking his head. He had no idea if there was a closing mechanism on the other side. Furthermore, the side passage just led out to the parking lot. He would be visible to anyone on the ground level. Nothing to be done for it, then, except…

Renard clicked the passage shut, double-checked the flash drive was in his pocket, and slipped into the closet. Stacks of paperwork shifted as he pressed back against them. He could just see through the slats into the door to the empty office, dark save for the slivers of moonlight. He’d left no trace, Renard reminded himself. All he had to do was stay quiet.

He heard the faint sound of a front door opening and closing. Renard closed his eyes, swallowed the bile his mouth. His heart beat loud, too loud, surely someone could hear it, echoing like a drum in the dark?

No, no, damn it, that was panic talking. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay—

The office door opened. Renard forced his eyes open in turn, watching the shadowed figure enter the room. He was a tall man, built, and he kept one hand at his waist in the way all gunmen did. He moved slowly into the room, turning in circles as he studied every inch.

 Nothing to see here. Nothing out of place. Circulez, s'il vous plaît, il n'y a rien à voir! All he had to do was stay quiet. All he had to do was stay calm. And he did, right up until the young man stepped into a stray shaft of moonlight.

Domas.

A gun cracked somewhere in Renard’s mind. His stomach clenched, hard, as a bullet tore through his back and out his abdomen. Blood trickled down his waist, down his legs, sticky and warm and impossible red—he pressed a hand to his abdomen, felt the jagged ruin of a scar. His mouth was dry, suddenly, his head was pounding—and a small, keening nose escaped him.

Domas’ head snapped to the closet. He crossed to it and wrenched the door open.

Not Domas.

The younger brother. Mattias.

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Mattias seemed as equally stunned, as equally ill-equipped for this encounter as Renard was. Then his expression twisted, hardened, even as he barked out a laugh.

“Well, fuck me running. Bon jer, you piece of shit.”

“Matt,” Renard said, trying for pleasantries despite his trembling. “Your French needs work—”

Matt slammed a fist into his stomach. White stars burst across Renard’s vision, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. The moment was all Mattias needed to seize Renard by the collar and haul him out of the closet. He dragged Renard to the desk, lifted him up, and slammed him against its polished surface. Renard choked as Mattias wrapped a hand around his throat.

 “How,” he wheezed, “did you know I was here?”

“Security system sends me an alert whenever someone tries to get in after hours. And here I thought you were cleverer than that.”

Fuck. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility. Renard tried for a smile, really he did, but it was hard to look smug when you felt so sweaty. “Maybe I wanted a reunion.”

“Bad timing,” Mattias replied. He looked so very much like Domas, dark hair and dark eyes and dark fury rolling off him in waves. “The fuck you doin’ here, Renard?”

“Looking for pictures of your brother—”

Mattias lifted him, just enough to slam his head against the desk again.

Now Renard managed a laugh. It was all so absurd, all so ludicrously stupid! This was just his luck, his bloody luck—if he didn’t have his bad bloody luck he’d have no luck at all. The taste of blood was on his tongue as he asked: “How is dear Domas?”

“Like you give a shit.”

“I gave even more of a shit before he shot me.”

“He should have killed you. He should have put you out of your fucking misery. And now he’s stuck in some eight-by-four pisshole, because of you,” Mattias spat.

Renard ignored the gob of spit smearing down his forehead. He stared up at Mattias, trying to fight those insane giggles. “And are you here to finish the job?”

“God, I wish. But Dad wants you alive.” Mattias jerked Renard upright. With his free hand he fished for his walkie-talkie. “Call it off,” he said, to whoever was listening on the other end. “I’ve got him.” 

Renard scoffed. “Do you really expect me to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until your father comes to collect us?”

“I said Dad wanted you alive.” Mattias pocketed his walkie-talkie as he spoke. He tilted his head to the side, studying Renard as though looking for the right spot to start pulling him apart. “I never said in one piece.”

BANG-CRACK!

The window behind them shattered into a thousand pieces. Mattias jerked back as a bullet shot past—and Renard leaped forward, slamming his knee hard into Mattias’ groin. Mattias buckled, stunned, and Renard shoved him to the carpeted floor. Instantly he slid back across the desk, slammed his thumb against the button under the keyboard. The false panel slid back and away, and Renard was in the secret passage before Mattias had even gotten to his knees.

But the stone steps were steep, steeper than he’d anticipated, and he was moving too fast for his uneven pace. Renard tripped on the edge of one stair, losing in the world in a gray blur as he tumbled ass over end to a landing. His shoulder jarred against a concrete wall as he slammed to a stop.

Renard tried to rise, failed when his left leg gave out beneath him. Pain, yes, there was pain, hot as ever, but it was muted next to the panic bubbling its way to the surface again—get up, get up, you have to get up! Keep moving!

The coppery taste of blood was in his mouth. Smoke burned at the back of his throat.

GET UP! And, from very away, Lupin’s voice: Keep your eyes open!

Renard obeyed. He forced his eyes open, blinked back the tears, and used the wall to support himself. His left leg was shaking, agony given form, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Mattias’ shouts and spat curses from above. Renard exhaled sharply through his nose before continuing forward, limping now as he followed the passage down. Faster, he needed to move faster, there was a man with a gun at his back—

A mist descended over his eyes. But it wasn’t the red rage, it wasn’t anything he could harness. This was something sour and sickly and gray; this was pure, blinding fear, the scramble of a rabbit for its hole. Somehow, he was outside. Somehow, he was moving down the metal staircase spiraling down the side of SecureTech.

These stairs were slick with the frost, though, and Renard slipped halfway down. He went down hard on one knee, and for a moment the world went white and mute. All he had left was breathless, blinding pain. But something forced him up, told him to cling to the rail even as he hit the pavement.

Cover, he needed cover—somewhere beyond him there was men shouting and bullets cracking in the darkness. He needed to run, he needed to hide. He had no choice but to make for the chain-link fence, but it was the longest distance he’d ever crossed, a flat calm sea of gray pavement—but he had no choice, he couldn’t stay here—!

A door burst open above him.

Adrenaline gave him what conviction alone couldn’t. The chain-link fence rattled as Renard threw himself against it. Metal dug into his palms as he forced himself up, climbing, climbing—faster and higher, faster and higher—he couldn’t slow, couldn’t pause, not with his back to a Vandewater.

He was at the apex of his climb, flinging one leg over the top of the fence, when the brrpt-brppt! of gunfire sounded from behind him. Renard jerked backwards, nearly losing his grip as he did. But he wasn’t injured, he hadn’t been shot. He was almost there—Renard lifted his bad leg over first, anticipating the drop—

Almost there—

“FUCKER!” Mattias bellowed.

BRRPT!

And then pain and panic was all Renard knew.

…

Okay, now he had time for regret.

The sudden crack of a gunshot and shattering of window glass had every mercenary in the immediate vicinity pivoting towards the noise. Yata lowered his gun and his body both, ducking back behind the wall as the first bullet pinged against the concrete. Not ones for warning shots, these men.

Yata cursed under his breath as he slid backwards. He needed to get out of here, he needed to get back to the BMW before anyone else found it.

But what about Renard?

BLAM!

“WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE, BASTARD!”

Yata had no idea who fired the bullet, or from where, but the shout was too close for comfort. Renard was a big boy. He could look after himself. Hopefully, the gunfire below would provide adequate cover for any escape attempts. Yata ducked low, sliding along pavement to ruins of a doorway. He peered around the doorframe, cocking his Glock as he did.

Four men, he noted, fanning out with a military precision. He had no idea where the fifth went, but didn’t relish the thought of a sniper going for any of the nearby rooftops. Yata considered their positions a moment before aiming above their heads. He fired one shot off blind, and then immediately retreated from his crouching spot.

They had numbers, true, but he had the advantage of cover and surprise. As long as he kept moving, as long as he stayed in the shadows, he might be able to hold them off. So Yata ducked and weaved between the skeletons of buildings, firing here and there, never staying still long enough to let them get a sense of his position.

The mercenaries were considerably less careful with their positions; if the sharp pops! of their return fire didn’t give them away, the crackle of the radios at their hips did.

As stealthy as he could be, though, Yata was drawing the attention of every living thing in a mile radius. He couldn’t play this game all night, especially if they were smart enough to call for backup. So he lead the mercenaries left, always left, away from SecureTech and Marie both. He could lose them in the twisting remains of Waterfront businesses, double-back to the BMW and get the hell out of here.

If Renard was as clever as he thought he was, he’d be there by now…

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his planning short. Yata pivoted, gun raised to chest level, as a hooked nose mercenary stepped from the shadows. “ICPO,” he said in a low voice. “Take another step, and I have full authority to fire.”

He didn’t, not really, but he wasn’t about to tell this guy that.

The hooked nose mercenary didn’t respond. Nor, strangely, had he raised his gun. Instead he tapped it against his thigh, studying Yata with dark, almost angry eyes.

“FUCKER!”

BRRPT!

The shout, followed by the unmistakable sound of automatic fire, jerked both men’s attention back to SecureTech. Yata cursed under his breath, turned, and flung himself around the next corner to safety. He sprinted away, back towards the BMW. No more time for cat-and-mouse. They had to get out, now.

…

Mattias stared down at the trail of blood leading into the twisting labyrinth of shithole buildings. He could have had this street leveled with a fistful of bombs, but no. Hell, he didn’t even know if Renard was dead. He didn’t even know if he actually hit him.

His Glock was red-hot in his hand. He gave the mangled gun a rough shake. The action sent a thrill of pain up his arm; he’d expected recoil from the gun, but the full force had nearly taken him off his feet. No wonder they didn’t sell this style to civilians.

Mattias gnashed his teeth before snarling into his walkie-talkie: “Fall back to me!”

“Boss.”

The hoarse voice sounded from behind Mattias. He jumped and spun, staring at the hooked-nose mercenary just behind him. “Jesus! Where’d you come from?”

The merc—Mattias couldn’t recall his name—didn’t answer the question. Instead he stared down at the remains of the gun in Mattias’ hand. “You need a new gun?”

“Yeah,” Mattias admitted. “Yeah, can I borrow yours?”

The hooked nose mercenary was already extending it out to him. It looked a little old-fashioned, if Mattias was being perfectly honestly, but he wasn’t in the mood to quibble. All he needed was something that could fire a bullet.

…

The BMW was still mercifully intact by the time Yata reached it. He allowed himself one sigh of relief before unlocking it and throwing himself into the driver’s seat.

Once inside he rested his head back, gulping air into his burning lungs. His hands shook as he fumbled for the keys. He could breathe later. Right now he needed to move. He had just jammed the keys into the ignition, readying to peel out, when he caught movement in the sideview mirror.

Yata twisted to watch Renard stumble into the alley. He was swaying like drunkard, one leg at an awkward angle. He collapsed against a graffitied wall and slipped down to the pavement. He didn’t even try to make for the car. And in the sudden stillness, Yata could hear a crowd drawing closer. They’d found Renard. And Renard had led them there.

Yata’s blood roared in his ears, along with the little voice that hissed:

Go! Go now!

It would be ludicrously simple, to slam his foot on the gas and peel out. The simplest thing in the world, in fact. He could leave. He could be back in his hotel room in half an hour. He could leave. No one knew he was here.

No one except himself, of course.

Renard flinched when Yata knelt beside him. His eyes were blown wide open, pupils so huge his brown eyes looked black. His breath was coming in short, rapid spats, and sweat plastered his red hair to his forehead. He kept one hand to his left leg in a white-knuckle grip.

“Renard!” Yata said, ignoring how Renard cringed when he grabbed his shoulder. “Renard, get up!”

“I can’t—” Renard breathed “—my leg, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Your leg is fine!” Yata retorted. He grabbed Renard by the arm, tried and failed to lift his dead weight. “Renard, move!”

Soft laughter sounded from the street’s entrance. Yata dropped Renard as Mattias Vandewater and his small crew rounded the corner with weapons drawn. Without thinking Yata planted himself between Mattias and Renard.

“Yatagaharsu,” Mattias said. He arched his eyebrows as he glanced between the impassive Yata and Renard’s huddled form. “And here I was thinking you were an upstanding representative of the law. The fuck you hanging out with scum like him for?”

Yata drew his gun and clicked the safety off, all without a word.

Mattias just sighed. “Look, my beef isn’t with you. Step aside, and we’ll let you go. None of this ever happened, okay? All I want—all we want—is him.” He pointed the barrel of his gun at the stricken, gasping Renard.

“No,” Yata said. He was curiously calm, suddenly.

Mattias sighed. He leveled his gun at Yata’s head, cocked the hammer back in one smooth motion. “Step aside.”

“No,” Yata said.

“Right,” Mattias said. He curled his finger around the trigger. “Your funeral.”

BANG!

Yata flinched as a swirl of colorful confetti exploded out of the gun’s barrel.

Mattias, likewise, stared at the confetti fluttering to the icy pavement. “What the fuck—”

What, exactly, the fuck was, no one ever discovered. For the hooked nose mercenary was suddenly behind Mattias, slamming a foot into the small of his back. Mattias went sprawling to the ground as the hooked nose mercenary rounded on the next, slamming his fist into his stomach. He ducked, snatching the decoy gun from the ground, and pistol-whipped his wheezing fellow across the face. Hooked Nose didn’t hesitate, pivoting on his heel to catch another in a right hook. He sidestepped a swipe, ducked the point of a jagged knife, and slid backwards towards a lamplight.

Yata didn’t need to see the mask come off to know who was under it. But it helped, all the same.

Lupin spared Yata one glance as he tossed the latex mask away. “GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” he bellowed. He had the full attention of the remaining mercenaries now, weaving and dipping to avoid their strikes, content to let them skid and slip on the patches of ice.

Yata didn’t need telling twice. He spun back to the stricken Renard. This time he knelt, pressing one hand to Renard’s sweat-slicked face. “Oliver,” he breathed, and this time Renard’s eyes went to him. “Oliver. Stay with me.”

“I—” Renard shuddered “I can’t walk—”

“You have to. I’ll help.”

The sounds of fighting were suddenly faraway as Yata hoisted Renard to his feet. Together they stumbled to the BMW. Together they got Renard into the back of the car, where Yata forced him to lay across the seats.

Renard pressed one hand to his eyes, as though that would help blot out whatever he was feeling. “Can you—could you look—”

“Your leg?” Yata asked. He glanced out the window, where Lupin continued to make short work of part-time thugs. He looked back to see Renard nod. The thief twisted his left leg to reveal a jagged gash in his pant leg. Blood smeared skin and leg hair both.

Yata held his breath as he ripped the pant leg away. He expected a bullet wound, some further mangling that would explain Renard’s state, and thus he didn’t immediately understand what he was seeing.

A cut ran down Renard’s leg. It was long, yes, but shallow. Not much worse than what a child might get trying to hop a chain-link fence. Yata stared down at the cut, all his concern shriveling away to annoyance. “It’s…it’s just a scratch! It’s just a scratch, you complete—”

He stopped short. Renard was lying with his head back, one hand over his eyes. The other was gripping at his abdomen now, massaging in small circles as though pained. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

It wasn’t about the cut, Yata thought with a sinking heart. It wasn’t about the cut at all.

“Oliver,” he said, voice hoarse. “Oliver. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s just a cut, see?” He reached forward to take one of Renard’s hands in his. “It’s—you’re not hurt badly. Look. Look.”

Renard didn’t reply. But when Yata squeezed his hand, he got a small squeeze in return.

They’d wasted enough time, and the sound of fighting had died in any case. Yata straightened to see the prone or unconscious forms of men littering the street behind them. Yata took a deep breath before clambering over the console, into the front—

Only to find Lupin sitting in the driver’s seat. He gave Yata one appraising look before starting the engine, with keys Yata hadn’t even realized he’d been missing.

Yata slid into the passenger seat as the BMW peeled out. They were safe, he told himself. They’d gotten away with their lives. But as the silence in the cabin stretched on, he found himself half-wishing that he was still back on the Waterfront. Any danger on the street was preferable to the way Lupin was frowning now.

“Lupin—” Yata began, “Lupin, I—”

Lupin cut him off with a sharp look. “What the hell were you doing there? What the hell were you thinking?”

Yata shrank back. “I—I wasn’t—”

“No.” Lupin’s cold tone froze Yata’s rebuttal in his throat. “You weren’t.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten, In Which We Break for Bolognese

Sunlight filtered through massive windows, illuminating Lupin’s form in bright gold. He stood at the top of a winding staircase: hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched. He smiled as he tilted his head to the side, studying Renard. 

Renard was halfway up the stairs. His heart was in his throat, choking anything he might have said out loud.

Lupin grinned that wide Cheshire Cat grin of his. Renard knew it well; after all, he had spent hours practicing the same smirk in the mirror. He couldn’t find it in him to grin now, though, even as Lupin rolled to the balls of his feet. He extended one hand out towards Renard. “Well?” he asked. “You coming?” 

Renard took a step forward—and the whole world burst into flame. 

Orange flames burst through the windows and walls, and the air was thick with black smoke. Renard staggered as the staircase beneath him cracked and shattered. He fell to one knee, and as he did pain—hot and hard as a bullet—pierced through his back. Renard pressed a trembling hand to his abdomen. When he pulled his hand away again, dark red blood coated his palm.

“Are you coming?” Lupin repeated from on high.

Renard could only manage a gasp in response. Smoke clung to the back of his throat as he forced himself upright. He stood for a moment, swaying, before pain sent him crashing back to his knees. “I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t—”

Lupin sighed. He took a step towards Renard, and then another, and as he descended through the smoke his form shifted. Now he was Lupin—now his father—and then Renard himself, Renard as he had been, staring down at himself with ill-disguised contempt.

“Then what good are you?”

Renard woke with a shout, the question ringing in his ears like an iron bell.

…

The warm, rich scent of garlic and onion wafted through the modest brownstone. A pot of bolognese shimmered away on the stove. Occasionally Lupin would give it a sharp stir. He was still dressed for the streets, save for the pink ‘Kiss the Me’ apron he’d draped over his mercenary clothing. 

He’d had a lot of options after peeling away from the Waterfront. He could have caused a scene. He could have sped out of Boston and down to New York. He could have killed both idiots and dumped their bodies in the bay. He did not have to pull up along his brownstone. He did not have to bring the unconscious Renard upstairs. He didn’t have to be standing here now, making a fresh batch of bolognese for a pair of morons that had been caught out in the cold.

But he was.

Why?

Because he was a good goddamn person, goddamn it. And making bolognese was more productive than kicking Yata’s skinny ass. 

The Boy Wonder currently sat at the kitchen counter with shoulders hunched. He flinched when Lupin tapped his wooden spoon against the edge of the silver pot. He cringed again when Lupin threw the cupboard open– BANG! –and clattered around for a dish.

Maybe the rush of smug satisfaction was petty. All right, yes –it was petty. But Lupin couldn’t help it. A little jumpiness would keep Yata alive longer. Lupin shot the wilting younger man one look before crossing back to the stove.

He stirred his wooden spoon through the bolognese again. Then he pressed his mouth to the edge of the spoon, smacked his lips, and turned to Yata. “Try this,” he said as he extended the spoon out. “What does it need?”

Yata accepted the spoon warily. He licked the edge–at least he didn’t think Lupin was going to poison him–and tilted his head in thought. A thoughtful silence followed before Yata tentatively answered: “Salt?”

Lupin arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” 

He wasn’t. That much was obvious from the way Yata grimaced. His eyes flickered downward in sudden thought.

“Maybe more garlic?” Yata ventured as he passed the spoon back.

Lupin dipped his spoon into the sauce again, sampled it thoughtfully. “You were right the first time. Needs salt.” 

Yata sat back. “Oh.”

“You know what else a good sauce needs?”

“What?”

“Time.” Lupin turned fully to frown at Yata. “And careful planning.”

The metaphor landed quite nicely, judging by the way Yata flushed. He flushed and lowered his gaze again. Wisely, he did not respond.

Lupin began to prep his pasta (boxed, alas, but it would save time). This process involved more clattering of pots and pans, and Yata flinched with every noise. Lupin would shoot him the occasional look as he worked. “You’re lucky it was me who found you. Zenigata would’ve flayed you alive if you’d died on him.” After recovering from the  heart attack, of course–and never mind what he would have done to Lupin.

The fistful of dry spaghetti cracked in Lupin’s grip. He allowed himself one rush of panic, one selfish rush of horror and fear, before pushing it away. He dumped his broken pasta into the boiling pot of water.

Behind him, Yata was tearing a napkin into shreds. “How did you know where we were?”

“I didn’t. You two idiots ran into me ,” Lupin said. He gave the bubbling  sauce another vicious stir. “What the hell were you thinking, sniffing around SecureTech?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Yata muttered.

Lupin had always credited Yata for being bold. But that snide little mutter was too bold, far too bold, bordering on impertinent. Lupin pivoted to glare at him. And this time, Yata glared back.

“SecureTech is a shell company for Vandewater commercial interests,” Lupin said. He watched Yata’s eyes narrow and tried not to feel too smug. He folded his arm across his chest. “Oh? Someone didn’t do his research?”

“I did plenty of research.”

“Oh . So you knew Renard was going into a Vandewater-controlled building for—what? Fun? Did you two take bets on how long it would take to trip a silent alarm?”

“I—we didn’t know it belonged to the Vandewaters.”

“So you didn’t do your research.” 

“AND WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” 

The shout tore out of Yata like an open wound. He was bleeding fury, every inch of him shaking with rage as he shredded another napkin to bits. It was a necessary anger, Lupin knew. Anger was easier to feel than shame. “You knew I was still here! You knew I was alone! You could have told me what you were doing! You could have told me what you found! I could have helped you! ”

“I don't need your help.” Lupin flicked a hand around. “C’mon, kid. You’re good, but you’re no Pops.”

Yata’s face was steadily reddened. “He wanted me to stay here. He told me I could trust you to help!”

“And who said I wanted your help? Who said I needed your help? The only thing you've managed to do is ruin a perfectly good plan.”

“I would have known it was a perfectly good plan if you weren't so set on keeping secrets! I want Zenigata back too!”

Lupin’s eyes flashed. “And what did Zenigata want you to do while he was recalled?”

“My job! ”

“Remind me what your job is again?” Lupin asked. “Is it helping the criminal masterminds or locking them up? Because you don’t seem to be doing much of either.”

Yata slammed his hands against the counter and rocketed to his feet. “YOU SON OF A BITCH–!”

“Watch your tone, kid .”

Yata’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Lupin grabbed the ladle. For a moment they stared at each other, sizing each other up–waiting for the other to start the inevitable fight when–

BANG! 

Somewhere above them a door slammed. Yata and Lupin both jumped, eyes shooting upwards as the thump thump thump of a quick, uneven gait echoed from above. It grew louder as it reached the stairs, and louder still as those uneven footsteps slammed down the staircase. 

Yata turned towards the kitchen threshold, just in time to see Renard go flying past. The front door opened and shut with another hard slam.

Lupin pointed at Yata as he started to rise. “Stay.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Yata scowled.

“Oh yes I can. Stay.”

Something in his tone must have betrayed his impatience. Yata paused before sinking back down onto his stool. Slowly.

Lupin waited for him to be fully seated before rounding the counter. He grabbed his jacket off a kitchen chair and slung it on. “I’ll be back. Don’t let the bolognese burn.”

He stepped out of the kitchen, turned left towards the staircase instead of right towards the door. He had no intention of chasing after Renard. Oh, no. The boy had made him do enough of that already. Instead he slipped into his bedroom, slid the window open, and stepped out onto the fire escape. The bitter cold bit at his face and hands as he scaled the fire escape to reach the rooftops. It was colder on high, without buildings to block the whipping wind, but the long view of Boston’s sprawl was worth it. It was a black, starless night (most were, in a city this size). Moonlight alone guided Lupin as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. He moved at a leisurely pace, content to watch his quarry stalk the street below with no clear destination in mind. 

And wasn’t that just an apt description of Renard? Rash, reckless, trigger-temper Renard. Renard who thought he could take on the world without having earned an ounce of its respect. Renard who had looked up to him. Renard who hated him. He’d cut a large swath of destruction through Lupin’s life and still–still—

There was—had been—something there. Some spark of brilliance Lupin was sure he could ignite. He just needed the time. 

He also needed to intercept Renard before he took this next left.

Renard stopped short when Lupin landed in front of him. What little color the redhead had drained from his face. His breath came in sharp, short puffs in the night air. His eyes were burning red; prepared to fight or flee.

Lupin straightened with a wince. His knees couldn’t take impacts like they used to. “You look—”

“Like shit?” It was almost a demand, a desire for confirmation, and Renard emphasized it with a sharp jerk of his hand through the air. 

So much for keeping it light. Lupin sighed as he stepped towards Renard. “Where the hell have you been, kid?”

“Oh, you know,” Renard’s tone was tight, even as he averted his eyes from Lupin. He lifted his shoulders in a half a shrug. “Sightseeing. Backpacking. Learning to live as the other, as it were.”

Lupin stepped closer still, noting how Renard tensed the instant his personal space had been crossed. “And how’s that been going for you?”

“Poorly,” Renard said. He glanced back at Lupin, just in time to see Lupin’s expression twist. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You’re the one who told me to find you.”

“When you were ready. When you had healed.”

“And endure the ignominy of prison in the meantime? Endure being treated like a number, like a piece of meat?”

“Yes!” The reply was sharper than Lupin would have liked, but Renard’s disdain grated on him. “Maybe a little more humiliation would have done you some good!”

“I don’t need this,” Renard snarled. He shoved past Lupin, taking extra special care to check Lupin’s shoulder as he did. 

Lupin closed his eyes, summed what little patience he was known for, and spun on his heel. “Oliver!” he barked. "OLIVER!" 

Renard froze mid-step. 

“At least put something in your stomach before you storm off in all your self-righteousness.”

“Not hungry,” Renard said, keeping his back to Lupin. 

“Fine,” Lupin said. “Then at least thank Yata for saving your life first.”

Renard stayed very still. After a moment he swore under his breath, turned around, and began to make his way back to the brownstone. 

Lupin didn’t follow immediately. He stood in place, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Renard was lashing out, same as Yata, and it wouldn’t do any good to match his energy. But goddamn –Renard was good at pushing specific buttons without even trying.

Renard had already made it to the kitchen by the time Lupin made it back through the front door. He stopped on the threshold, listening to the halting exchange within:

“Oliver!” Yata’s relief was painfully audible. “You’re all right!”

Renard, by contrast, was so stiff Lupin would have gladly paid for a chiropractor. “For a given definition of all right, yes.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I just got hit by a two-ton truck and then told it was my fault for not diving out of the way.”

An awkward pause followed. Lupin had just resolved to save them from themselves when Yata cleared his throat.

 “Look…I’m sorry.”

Yata? Apologizing? Yata apologizing to a thief ? What strange new reality had he just sidestepped into? He forced himself to reorient as Yata continued:

“I shouldn’t have sent you in there. Even if it hadn’t been Vandewater property–we should have prepared more. I put you at risk.”

Huh. Well, at least he was willing to admit he was wrong to someone. Too bad it was wasted on the likes of Renard—

Renard sighed. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Oh, what the fuck.

“I do when I’m the one who pushed you in the way of that bus.”

“Oh, please. You couldn’t push over a paper bag.”

“I could if it irritated me enough.”

Low, awkward chuckles from both echoed from the kitchen.

…huh. 

Lupin slipped his hands into his pockets and loped around the corner. Renard had taken the seat next to Yata at the kitchen counter. Both tensed as Lupin resumed his place at the stove. He peered into the bubbling pot of bolognese, confirmed it hadn’t charred in his absence, and set about making plates for everyone present. 

It was a strange feeling. Normally he could rely on the smell of Jigen’s tobacco throwing off the scent of dinner. Normally he could rely on Goemon’s polite-yet-pointed refusal of foreign cuisine, and for Fujiko to know which wine paired best with their meal. Even Zenigata would be grumbling good-naturedly about saving more time with ramen as he set his hat aside. But these two…

Yata sat sullen and silent. Renard rubbed his hands together and stared down at the countertop.  

What was he supposed to do with these two?

The most immediate answer was feed them. Lupin pushed plates of spaghetti bolognese towards them both. “Eat,” he said as he sat down across from them.

Renard didn’t need telling twice. Yata, on the other hand, picked at strands of pasta with veiled disinterest.

Lupin took a moment to sample his own cooking–now with acceptable amounts of salt and garlic–before speaking. “So,” he said as he wound pasta strands around his fork. “Cards on the table. We’re not getting anywhere otherwise.”

“All right—” Yata began.

“FIRST!”

Both boys flinched at Lupin’s sudden shout.

“Where the hell did you find him?” Lupin jabbed his fork in Renard’s direction, earning a scowl in return. 

“Bargain bin at Price Rite,” Renard said drily. 

“Fuck.” Lupin snapped his fingers. “I knew there was one place I forgot to check. Then what? How did you two idiots wind up in cahoots?”

“Well, once I told Yatagarasu the baby was his, he insisted that we get married as soon as—OW!”

 Yata dislodged his elbow from Renard’s ribs as the redhead fell off his stool. Yata sniffed. “He tried to pick a cop’s pocket.”

“Well, that was stupid.” Lupin picked up the bottle of red wine he’d aside and poured himself a generous portion. He had the sinking feeling he was going to need a lot of wine to get through this with his good humor intact.

Renard’s head poked back over the countertop. He clambered back into his seat with all the grace of a fox clambering out of a trap. “I didn’t know he was a cop!”  

“Stupid and blind.” Lupin said. He peered at the label on the wine bottle, more interested in that then the daggered glares Yata and Renard shot each other. “Anyone with half a brain could clock him for a cop at thirty meters.”

“Excuse me? ”

Lupin set the wine bottle down while Yata spluttered. “So, if he picked your pocket, why isn't he in jail?”

Lupin had had his fair share of unlikely allies through the years. Some more unlikely than others. But between Renard’s bad attitude and Yata’s stubbornness, it was hard to picture them coming to any sort of agreement at all. Trying to fit these two together was a bit like pairing red wine with ramen noodles. It simply wasn’t done in polite society.

Renard went back to eating. That left Yata to tell the story in bits and pieces: how Renard had found the calling card in his wallet, their mutual desire to find Lupin (it was hard not to feel flattered), how they had begun to pick apart the employment of SecureTech at Doyle’s gallery, and then SecureTech itself. 

Lupin listened without comment, content to eat while Yata and Renard picked apart their own reasonings. Reflecting after a heist–especially a failed heist–was an important skill. For what it was worth, Lupin thought, Pops had chosen his eventual successor well. Maybe even a little too well, because now Yata was making diagrams of SecureTech’s layout with his uneaten pasta.

“So,” Yata spread his hands at last. “That brings us to here. What have you been up to this whole time?”

Lupin made a show of dabbing his lips with a napkin. Then he took a sip of wine, cleared his throat, and settled back to wow them. “Well, you can imagine my irritation when Pops left without so much as a kiss goodbye.” That earned an eye-roll from Yata, a slight smirk from Renard. “And then you up and vanished for a full day. Which meant that if I was going to figure anything out, first I had to infiltrate the Boston Police Department.”

“YOU DID WHAT?”

“Cool!”

Lupin shrugged. “Those idiots are so overworked, they didn’t even notice an extra pair of hands. From there, it was just a matter of moseying my way over to the Interpol offices and helping myself to the local servers.” 

There was the soft, subtle sound of Yata grinding his teeth to dust. Renard looked significantly more impressed. “Why did you start there?”

“Call it a hunch. I didn’t send that calling card to Doyle’s gallery. And frankly, there’s nothing particularly special there for an imitator to go after. So why send a card there? Who benefits from items going missing at an art gallery?”

“The owner,” Renard replied immediately. 

Lupin snapped his fingers and pointed to Renard. “Insurance is a bigger heist than anything I’ve ever pulled, that’s for sure. With that in mind, I decided to do a little digging into our favorite patron of the arts, Henry Doyle–and what do I find but a not-so-very sealed record belonging to Henry Davis , mid-level insurance fraudster and Vandewater toadie. That gallery is a subsidiary of Vanderwater’s empire, and probably nothing more than a front for whatever he needs moved.”

Stunned silence followed this revelation. Renard sank forward, planting his elbows on the counter and his face in his hands. “Oh, bordel de merde.”

“Bordel de merde indeed.” Lupin nodded. “You really know how to pick ‘em, kid.”

Renard didn’t reply. 

Yata cleared his throat. “What do they want?”

They want you miserable, motherfucker.

Doyle’s voice rang in his ears. Lupin shook his head to clear it. “My guess? A long, overly-complicated revenge against those who’ve wronged them.”

Yata glanced at Renard, who had fully buried his face in the countertop, and then looked back to Lupin. “Zenigata didn’t do anything to them.”

“He was Domas’ arresting officer.” Renard’s voice was muffled from the depths from his despair. 

Lupin nodded. “And what’s he gotten so far? A slap on the wrist, a mark on his record, and administrative leave. Hitting the old man right where his pride is. Pretty smart, eh?”

Yata frowned. “If the Vandewaters were willing to do all this to push Zenigata out just for arresting Domas…what will they do to you?”

Renard sat up again with a sharp exhale. Lupin paused before he replied to Yata: “Nothing good, I imagine. Which is why we need to be more proactive in our planning.”

“We?” Yata repeated.

“Oh, yes. We. What? Did you think the Vandewaters were going to let Zenigata’s assistant run free across their turf? Especially after he’s sicced his feral fox on one of their chicken coops?” Lupin clucked his tongue. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Yata paled. Renard went rigid. Lupin took another sip of wine before continuing:

“Speaking of—did our fox find anything of use while he was poking around SecureTech?”

Renard didn’t reply for a long moment. Lupin was readying to stop him from bolting when Renard finally reached into his pocket. He flung a flash drive at Lupin, spun around, and stormed out of the room. This time, his thundering, uneven footsteps took him upstairs.

Yata muttered something under his breath before springing off the stool to follow.

Lupin was left alone with his thoughts. He picked up his wine glass and swirled the last of the contents for lack of anything better to do. For the first time in a long time, Lupin could feel the creeping tendrils of disappointment. He’d had a neat picture of what finding Renard again would look like, complete with quips and impressive choreography as they took down a legion of faceless mooks. He would toss that rapier to Renard, and the young man would prove in an instant why he deserved Lupin’s tutelage.

This…this was not that. Renard was too injured, too touchy, and had too large of a target on his back. Renard brought complications with him everywhere he went. Lupin couldn’t let him go in good conscience, but what could he do with him in the meantime? What good was this gaunt shadow?

Lupin curled his free hand around the flash drive. It felt a little bit like clinging to a lifeline.

… 

“If you throw yourself out the window, I am not calling an ambulance.”

Yata had stopped on the threshold of a guest bedroom. Renard was across the room, at the window, struggling with the latch and cursing like a French sailor. Unfortunately for Renard, this was an old brownstone, and the latch had long since rusted shut.

“Fuck off! ” 

Yata didn’t know whether Renard was talking to him or the window. He sighed as he eased into the room. “Oliver, where are you trying to go?”

“Somewhere—” Renard had resorted to petty violence now, slamming his hands against the glass in a futile attempt to break free “—that isn’t crawling with Vandewaters!”

“Oliver, calm down!”

“Do not tell me to calm down!” Renard rounded on Yata with fists clenched. “They’ll never forgive me for what happened to Domas! Do you understand? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to me?”

“Oliver—!”

“Do you know how close I came to dying tonight? DO YOU?” 

Yata stumbled as Renard gave him a hard shove. Fury flashed, as did the desire to deck Renard, but Yata fought it back. The firefight at the Waterfront had only been a few hours ago; Renard’s panic and desperation was fresh in his mind. As was the look on Mattias’ face when he leveled that gun at them both. If Renard had been even a moment slower…

Yata couldn’t blame him for wanting to run. Even if he wanted to. 

“I won’t let that happen,” he said softly.

Renard’s laugh was bitter. “You think you could stop them? If Lupin hadn’t been there tonight—he would’ve blown your brains out and I would’ve—I would’ve been—”

The panic attack rolled over Renard like an ocean wave. He dropped on the spot, hugging his legs and pressing his face to his knees. A sharp, keening sort of noise escaped him.

Yata froze on the spot. His first instinct was to shout for Lupin–let Lupin handle Renard, birds of a feather and all…but almost immediately he brushed the thought away. Lupin hadn’t exactly seemed happy to see Renard, and Renard was already stretched to the point of breaking. He didn’t need Lupin to see him like this.

Yata knelt down across from Renard, trying to judge a respectful distance. “Hey. Hey. Oliver. It didn’t happen that way. It didn’t. We’re here, and we’re safe. And there’s no place safer for you right now than next to Lupin. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To find him?”

Another harsh sob left Renard. “I don’t know.”

And wasn’t that a confession in and of itself? Yata scooted around to sit beside Renard.  “We’re going to figure this out, together.” He couldn’t handle the Vandewater empire alone. That much he was willing to admit. And that, in turn, meant he would have to work with Lupin and Renard both. The realization came with a sort of weary acceptance. 

Renard didn’t reply immediately. A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by Renard’s gulping attempts to get his sobs under control. Eventually, though, his breathing evened out. Renard fell backwards to sit beside Yata on the carpeted floor. His face was splotchy and damp. Yata pretended not to see Renard rubbing at his nose with his sleeve.

“Together?” Renard said wearily. 

“Together,” Yata said with a nod.

Renard scoffed. “You know…back in the alley, when you couldn’t get me to move? For a moment…for a moment—I thought you were going to leave me behind.”

Another, heavier silence fell between them.

“For a moment,” Yata said softly, “so did I.”

He didn’t know what compelled him to tell Renard the awful truth, but for some bizarre reason Renard smiled.

“Yatagarasu, honest to a fault.” Renard leaned over, just enough to touch their shoulders together. “I think that’s what I like best about you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11, In Which Business As Usual Resumes

Jigen let the phone ring once, twice, three times. Only the fourth ring–once he was sure whoever was calling was genuinely willing to deal with his morning ire–did he snatch his phone off the bed stand and to his ear.

“What? ” he snarled.

"Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart.”

Jigen groaned as he sat up. “It’s too early for you, Fujiko.”

Fujiko’s reply was a small, almost agreeing hum. “Before you’ve even had coffee, I suppose.”

Goemon stirred in the hotel bed beside Jigen’s. He lifted his bleary gaze to Jigen, hair tousled and lips pursed in confusion. Jigen gave him a slight up-nod before refocusing on the conversation at hand. “What do you want?”

“I was wondering just what, exactly, you two were doing down at the Dynamite Cabana.”

Fuck. Shit. Hell. And all the other expletives it was too early in the morning to get creative for. Either Joe had sold what he knew faster than Jigen had supposed, or Fujiko had been completely incognito at the beach. Both options irked him. He cycled through acceptable answers amid a fog of drowsiness. “Gathering information,” he replied.

A pause followed on Fujiko’s end. “And Lupin isn’t with you because…”

“He shipped up to Boston. There’s, uh, been some trouble.”

“Good trouble?”

“Big trouble.”

“Ah.” It was a single word, spoken heavily. “Well, why don’t we meet up somewhere? This story sounds longer than a phone call.”

Jigen’s first instinct was to refuse. Then he caught Goemon’s flat look. Aw, hell. Fujiko could come in clutch…and if he refused she’d probably find a way to worm into their business anyway. “Fine,” he said, doing his utmost to convey as much vitriol in the word as possible. He rattled off their location before hanging up. 

He rolled out of bed, all the better to ignore the eyebrow Goemon arched. “Lupin would appreciate your magnanimity, Jigen.”

“Yeah,” Jigen said with a sigh. He ran both hands over his cragged face, craving a cigarette and coffee in equal measures. “I deserve a medal for world goddamn peace.”

Fujiko Mine had arrived in the hotel lobby by the time both men had freshed for the day. She sat in one of the plush, high-back chairs with one long leg folded over the other. Curls of auburn hair sprung out from the stylish headscarf she wore, and she lifted a lipstick-stained coffee up in greeting as Jigen and Goemon stepped off the elevator. Her mouth curved upwards in a smile. “You really need to work on that beach tan, Jigen.”

Jigen grunted something that might have been an insult, if not for the public setting. He slowed just a little as he made for the hotel exit. “Walk and talk.”

Goemon, at least, waited for Fujiko to sigh and stand. She followed them out into the sun-baked hotel parking lot. Palm trees waved in a placid tropical breeze as Jigen led them around the building to the section reserved for smokers. There, between drags of cigarettes, Jigen filled Fujiko in on everything they knew about what was happening in Boston, and everything they suspected about ICPO Inspector Ellen MacMillan. 

Fujiko listened without comment. She kept her expression one of mild interest, while Goemon leaned against the hotel facade and watched seabirds wheel overhead. 

When Jigen finished, Fujiko pursed her lips. “So, what’s the goal? Discredit MacMillan to save Zenigata’s reputation? Because all you’ve got right now is a pile of coincidences. People are allowed to take vacations. Hell, she might get that extra income from Etsy or something.”

“Which is where we are stuck,” Goemon said. He folded his arms over his chest. “And where your assistance would be valuable.”

Jigen rolled his eyes at that. 

Fujiko didn’t reply immediately. She drained the last dregs of her coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash bin. “You need something that concretely connects her to Vandewater. Vandewater recruits from criminals who need his support, right? Well, who tells him where to find these criminals?”

“A crooked cop,” Jigen replied. “But how? Can’t exactly send an email. There’s gotta be some dead drop, some information pass. Track it down, and you’ve got proof.” He scratched at his goatee in thought. “Could work. I’ll pass the thought to Lupin.”

“Are we on to Boston, then?” Goemon asked. A bit of dread crept into his tone at the thought of leaving the tropics for New England.

Fujiko ran a perfectly manicured nail across the bottom of her perfectly matte lip. Her brow furrowed in clear thought. “Not yet.”

“You have an alternative destination in mind?”

“Lupin’s a big boy, he can handle himself for a little while longer. So why don’t we take the opportunity to test the Vandewater method for ourselves? Do you think Joe might still have Vandewater’s contact info?”

“No idea. I can ask him, though.” Jigen paused suddenly. He didn’t need the sudden sidelong look from Goemon to tell him what he needed to say next. “Hey, uh…I know Lupin would appreciate your help. So, yeah.” The word thanks pressed against his lips, threatening to escape, but Jigen swallowed it back.

Fujiko seemed to have heard it nonetheless. She reached up to give his goatee a playful tug, eliciting a snarl of annoyance in return. “Well, I wasn’t about to let the boys have all the fun.”

…

Yata woke suddenly, inhaling sharply as adrenaline shot through his system. His body knew he was somewhere different, unfamiliar, with a strange restraint around his chest. He tensed, readying to throw off the restraint and spring for freedom. 

Then Renard let out a small, contented sigh. Yata’s mind caught up with his body’s instinctual reaction. Right. SecureTech, Lupin. Bolognese. He and Renard had sat side-by-side in the dark, saying nothing, until exhaustion claimed them both. Which meant…

He twisted, annoyed but not surprised to see Renard tangled around him like the world’s most angular blanket. The contact made him itchy. Renard didn’t really have fleas–right?

He was about to shove Renard away when another soft noise escaped him. He pressed his nose further against Yata’s chest. Yata’s indignation ebbed, although he remained tense beneath his skinny arm. 

Like this, Renard looked…young. The hard edges of his profile had eased, and longer locks of red hair fell across his forehead and eyes. Plus, his mouth was shut, which was always a bonus. Yata tried to shift without stirring Renard, only to have his grip on him tighten. 

“Oliver,” he said softly, wriggling a little as he did. “I have to go to work.”

Renard’s reply was a low groan. He opened one eye to stare up at Yata, and then relinquished his grip. Yata eased himself out of bed. A slight exhaustion headache bloomed across his forehead, and every muscle in his body protested when he stretched. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the warm, soft bed…but one of them had to earn a paycheck.

“I’ll be back,” Yata yawned. 

Renard flopped facedown into the pillow with a thumbs up. 

Yata did his best to freshen up with mint toothpaste and a comb he’d found in a guest bathroom. His suit and pants, both of which he’d wriggled out of before passing out, had been pressed and ironed and hung up on a hanger on the back of the door. Yata didn’t know whether to be irked more by Lupin padding around in the bedroom while they were asleep, or touched by his generosity. Irked felt more natural, so that’s what he went with. 

Lupin was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and chattering away on his phone. He pressed a finger to his lips when Yata entered. “Yeah–yeah, Ji, I’m listening, I’m not ignoring you–”

Yata plucked an orange from the fruit bowl on the counter. Jigen ? Now that he thought about it, where was Jigen? And Goemon, and Fujiko, for that matter? Lupin rarely went anywhere, did anything, without his team. What could have caused Lupin to rush up here alone?

The treacherous answer was just out of reach. Yata left it there for his own peace of mind, and exited the brownstone. 

Winter and spring must have come to a begrudging accord, because the temperature hovered near tolerable. The sun was a pale yellow dot in a clear blue sky. The metallic thrum of melting ice and snow running through gutters echoed through the early morning streets. Yata blinked away his exhaustion and pulled out his phone, trying to reorient himself.

The map app revealed he was annoyingly–some might say, disconcertingly –close to the Boston Police Department headquarters. He could walk the distance and still make good time. What’s more, a walk might help to organize his thoughts and observations thus far. Yata took a deep breath and started off.

So, the Vandewaters had it out for Renard, and Lupin, and Zenigata. Zenigata, simply because he had been Domas’ arresting officer. The pettiness of it all took his breath away. And now Marcus had seen him with Renard and Lupin, had watched him put himself between Renard and a loaded gun (loaded with confetti, but still). Yata picked up his speed as he walked the length of Tremont Street, trying not to feel like he had a target on his back. 

Tremont Street was already choked with traffic despite the early hour. Yata hurried past the businesses opening for the day and the lines stretching outside of breakfast joints, right up to the gleaming, many-windowed building that was the Boston Police Department headquarters. The ground floor was quiet, save for the beep of his badge through security, but on the second floor he found the chaos he was looking for.

The Interpol offices were sequestered away in the rear of the cop shop, forcing him to walk through the flurry of activity that was the BPD HQ: ringing phones and the clack-clack of aides typing up notes made a symphony of sorts with the greetings of officers changing shifts and the snores of those taking twenty at their desks. The tell-tale cop shop smell of bad coffee, cologne, and body odor wafted through the air. Yata tried not to feel small as he squeezed through the thick-necked, muscular cops. Zenigata had been better suited to blustering his way through crowds like these. His broad frame had been a shield for Yata to hide behind, unobtrusive but always attentive to what was happening at Zenigata’s back. Now, though, he was exposed. Naked against their sidelong looks and arched eyebrows.

It was almost a relief to see MacMillian’s fiery mane of hair standing outside the Interpol section with two steaming cups of coffee. She extended one cup out towards Yata. “Good morning, Agent Yatagarasu. MBTA running more or less on time?”

Yata checked his watch, somewhat relieved to find himself only ten minutes late to clock in. Even with a near-death experience or two, he managed to be on time. Yata patted himself on the back for that one before accepting the proffered coffee. He took a sip and immediately tried to hide the grimace. Straight black coffee, the worst kind of coffee…

Then he remembered the twelve sugar packets Renard had slipped into his coat pocket. He dug around for them, even as he spoke: “I’m afraid I don’t have any updates on the Lupin case, Inspector.”

Which was…well, not the untruth. He didn’t have any updates on the Lupin case, because Lupin hadn’t stolen anything yet. Yata distracted himself from the distinction by tearing two sugar packets open with his teeth and dumping the contents into his coffee.

“Fortunately for you,” said MacMillan, “I might have something of interest for you. Let’s talk in my office.”

She led the way onto the Interpol side of the floor. Yata had no choice but to follow her to her office. Hers was tidier and more personalized than Zenigata’s: in addition to a massive desk and leathery guest chairs, three of her four walls were adorned with certificates, commendations, and photos of her service over the years. Her fourth wall was a window that looked out into the busy bullpen. Once they had entered, though, Macmillan reached for a pull cord by the window. Beige blinds clacked down across the window, giving them some semblance of privacy.  

Something twinged in the back of Yata’s mind. Why close yourself off from your men? Why make it so you didn’t have eyes on them–and they, in turn, did not have eyes on you? 

He filed the observation away for later and sank down into one of the visitor chairs. 

MacMillan moved to stand behind her desk. “There was an incident late last night at SecureTech headquarters. A breakin, followed by a shootout between employees and an intruder. I trust you understand the significance?” 

“SecureTech is the company Doyle hired at his art gallery,” Yata replied. He schooled his face to be one of curiosity. He had no idea what sort of thing could have caused that incident, no sir. “Do you suspect Lupin was involved? Was anything of significance found?”

“The Boston police are still doing a sweep of the building. There were no bodies found or injuries reported, onsite or from nearby hospitals. We did find some blood–that will be taken to the lab for testing–and plenty of nine-by-nineteen Parabellum casings.” 

Which didn’t mean much. 9x19mm bullets were the standard issue for most firearms, including the Glock-17 at his own hip. Even Lupin’s beloved Walther used 9x19s, a factoid Yata only knew from his long hours of watching Zenigata compare bullets at Lupin crime scenes. 

There had to be something else. None of that evidence would point to Lupin specifically. Yata sipped his improved coffee. “Was there anything else, Inspector?”

MacMillan furrowed her brow. Yata didn’t know what to make of it as MacMillan bent to retrieve an evidence box from beneath her desk. From that evidence box she produced a sealed bag. Inside was a mangled Glock with an evidence tag hanging from the trigger. Yata sat forward with a frown. It looked like any other Glock-17, save for the fact that it was ruined. Think , he told himself, think like Zenigata–no. Not Zenigata. Think like Lupin. What would Lupin see if he saw this gun in another man’s hand? What would Lupin want from this gun? 

Standard issue, he’d told Mattias when they’d compared their firearms. Reliable.

I like mine with a bit more firepower, Mattias had replied. Slouched and arrogant, like he was getting one over on Yata. 

The BRRPT! of automatic gunfire rang in his ears. 

And then it clicked.  

“That’s a Glock-Eighteen.”

He’d never seen one in real life. He’d never met anyone who’d ever claimed to use one, not even Jigen . Not that Jigen would have wanted one, Yata mused. Jigen preferred his Smith and Wesson for its control. Glock-Eighteens were pistols that had been designed for full-auto fire, a bit like transplanting a wolf into a hound’s physicality. Even with expert training, such firepower in a handgun was liable to destroy the gun in addition to whatever it was you were aiming at, not to mention wasting your entire clip of ammo in one go. Glock-18s weren’t just illegal for civilian use, their impracticality meant they were increasingly rare . 

And Mattias Vandewater had had one. And Mattias Vandewater had flashed it at him like it was some big joke.

Yata raised his eyes to the waiting MacMillan. “I think Lupin stumbled upon something more interesting than some art gallery. A weapon smuggling operation could be lucrative for an individual seller.”

MacMillan nodded. “I would like you to accompany me to the crime scene to get your impressions.”

“Gladly,” Yata said, fighting to bury an ignited spark of rage. If the Vandewaters had a weapon-smuggling operation coming through Boston, it was his duty to stop it. But first…

“If you would give me twenty minutes. I just need to write up some preliminary notes first, send them over to ICPO Central for review.” Zenigata would want to know about this, he added to himself. He was off the Lupin case, but that didn’t mean Yata couldn’t use his expertise from afar.

Macmillan laughed softly. “So dedicated! Inspector Zenigata must be doing something right. He always attracts types like you.”

“Types like me, sir?” Yata asked as he got to his feet.

“You remind me of Oscar, that’s all.”

“Oscar?” Yata blinked. Maybe it was the last remnants of exhaustion, but he couldn’t recall ever meeting an Oscar that had worked with Zenigata. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with an Oscar…”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I’m certain Inspector Zenigata doesn’t like to speak about the unfortunate business with that young man. And I’ve overstepped my bounds already.” Macmillan shrugged before Yata could speak. “Let me know when you’re prepared to head out, Agent.”

…

Lupin sat and ate his pancakes in silence. He tried to distract himself by clicking through the flash drive contents on his laptop. It worked…for a little while, at least. But with each bite of syrupy goodness he found himself wishing Jigen were at the stove, flipping more pancakes and making some sour crack about Lupin’s imitators. He wished Goemon were here sipping green tea and frowning in that way he did when something was technologically beyond him. And then there was Fujiko, who’d swipe his pancakes when he was distracted and ask pointed questions about the next best course. He missed his team. He wanted his team. Unfortunately, all he had was…

THUD.

Lupin chewed another mouthful of pancakes as he listened to the ungodly sounds of Renard struggling to get out of bed. He glanced at the stove clock, impressed that Renard was trying to get up and face the day by 9:30 am. 

Renard finally stumbled into the kitchen. He stopped to blink blearily at Lupin. A small grunt of acknowledgement escaped him. “So, you weren’t a bad dream.”

“‘fraid not, kid.” Lupin slung an elbow over the back of his chair to watch Renard cross to the fridge. He pulled out an entire bottle of OJ and began to chug. “How’re you feeling?”

Renard took a few impressive pulls from the OJ bottle before answering. “I’ve had worse nights.”

An awkward silence followed. This was the first time–since their very first meeting–they’d been alone in a room without trying to kill each other or someone trying to kill them. Hoo-boy. Lupin turned back to his pancakes, pretending he was more interested in them than the way Renard stared at him. Truthfully, he didn’t know which playbook would work best with the angry, ruined young man. The master thief, the world traveler? Mentor? Parent? Fuck no, not parent, not with Renard’s baggage. The winner of their little pissing contest, then? No, gloating didn’t seem the right play. There was no need to kick him while he was down…but sincerity was one of the few things Lupin did not carry in his back pocket.

Renard was looking at him warily. He had to speak, and soon. 

Lupin clucked his tongue before spinning his laptop around. He’d pulled up the PDF and copied emails Renard had pilfered from the SecureTech computer. He tapped the top of the screen. “This was a good find.”

Praise had been the right approach. Renard visibly relaxed as he sat down on a countertop chair. He didn’t speak, although his grip on his orange juice tightened.

“So,” Lupin said, trying not to feel like a captain whose ship was sinking in increments, “what do you think we should do?”

“We?” Renard squinted.

“We,” Lupin affirmed. Saying it out loud helped. He’d promised to train Renard, hadn’t he? Ipso facto, I had just become we . “Look, Oliver, you and I have the kind of history that lands you on Maury–”

“Am I supposed to understand that reference?”

“–but I’m a man of my word. I offered to train you, and I will. The timetable’s moved up, and the Vandewaters aren’t the kinds of bad guys I wanted to put you up against, but…”

“A good thief doesn’t throw hissy fits when things don’t go correctly,” Renard said, in the cadence of a student recalling his lesson. “Or am I misremembering the first rule to thieving?”

Lupin stopped short. Those were his words Renard threw back at him. The first piece of genuine advice he’d given the kid, and he’d had the audacity to remember it. Lupin didn’t know whether to be endeared or annoyed. Somehow, he settled on a mix of both. 

Lupin recovered from his shock with award-winning aplomb, flinging both arms out in a good imitation of a pastor. “Lo, and the masses do heed the prophet on the hill.” He grinned when he saw the ghost of a smile across Renard’s lips. He lowered his arms. “Now, stop stalling. What do you think we should do?”

“Stop the Vandewaters, obviously.”

“Too big. Think small. Local,” Lupin said. “Rule number two: a good thief solves his problems in order from ‘manageable’ to ‘comet about to strike planet Earth’.”

Renard exhaled. Lupin could see the gears turning in his head. “The Vandewaters are targeting the people they hold responsible for Domas’ arrest. Blemishing Inspector Zenigata’s record, trying to bait you out with an imitator, and trying to shoot me in the face. Bit of an escalation there, don’t you think?”

“Punishment fits the crime, blah blah blah.”

“I’m sure Inspector Zenigata has said much the same to you.” Renard stroked his goatee in thought. “If we’re focusing locally, on the immediate threat to both our lives, then we need to neutralize Mattias. Take down his little cohort and whatever shells Vandewater has here. Pry their fingers out of the pie.”

“The Boston Cream Pie?” Lupin asked. It was a simple enough observation, but nevertheless he was oddly proud of Renard for puzzling it out. 

Renard made a face. “Ew.”

“Grow up.” Lupin leveled his fork at Renard. “You’ve got a good outline, though. Find their shells, find their money, take their money, frustrate them into doing something stupid. And muzzle their police dog while we’re at it.”

“Police dog?”

“MacMillan.”

“MacMillan? ” 

Lupin nodded. He took another quick bite of pancakes. “Our trusty teammates have been doing some independent research. Seems like she has more money to spend than your average civil servant, and as the head honcho in Vandewater territory…well. He has to pick up desperate criminals from somewhere, right? They can’t all be dating his kid…what was his name again?”

“Domas,” Renard snapped. He was frowning so deeply he was making a canyon of his forehead. “Is Yatagarasu in danger?”

Huh.

Huh. Huh.

Huh.

Lupin filed that one away for later before straightening up. “Dunno. But generally speaking, being near the flagrantly corrupt cops isn’t healthy for the regularly corrupt cops in the long term. They’re like asbestos but with less regulations.”

Renard snapped straight up. “Yatagarasu isn’t corrupt.”

“He was aiding and abetting a criminal on Interpol’s dime. Isn’t it his job to arrest bad guys like you and me?” Lupin asked. He cocked his head to the side. He couldn’t help the needling, and it would give him insight into whatever the hell was going on with those two without stooping to ask. 

Renard scowled. “He’s honest. He’s made it abundantly clear, time and again, that he would arrest me if prevailing circumstances hadn’t taken precedence.”

“And you don’t think that makes him dirty?”

“No dirtier than Zenigata.”

Zenigata. Oh, Zenigata. Zenigata who somehow straddled that line between what was right and what was lawful. It was a more exhausting balancing act than any Lupin had ever had to do. Lupin sighed. “Lesson number three: never be the worst guy in the room. It gives our favorite bulldogs someone else to latch onto. In this case, we aim both of our honest cops right at MacMillan.”

Renard still looked uncertain. “So, how do we muzzle MacMillan?”

“Still working on that bit. For now, we need more evidence that connects her to criminal activity. You up for a tour of the Boston Police Department HQ?”

“Sorry?” asked Renard, startled.

“Come, my protege,” Lupin said, all lofty airs. “It’s time to introduce you to the makeup and costuming department. You did a nice job of that, by the way.”

“What?”

“Last night, when you tried to lift that key off that security guard,” said Lupin, gesturing to Renard’s left leg, which he had rested at an odd angle. “Your whole wet and pathetic act. It really worked.”

Maybe a little too well. Lupin had thought the night would be one of simple surveyance, following the little Vandewater around to see what he was up to. And then Renard had come limping out of the dark, looking cold and ragged and hungry. Lupin could count on two hands the number of times he’d been stunned in his criminal career, and Renard’s broken mumbling had nearly taken him off his feet. And after the shock came something sour and sick in the pit of his stomach. It had taken every trick Lupin had up his sleeve not to blow his character then and there. He had had to trust that Renard knew what he was doing…even if he thought he really, really didn’t. 

“People…underestimate what I can do,” Renard replied. He curled his hand into a fist and thumped his left thigh. Lupin had no idea how conscious the action was. 

Distantly, a gunshot cracked through the Vatican. A heavy heel came down on his fingers. Zenigata’s blood left a trail across a museum floor. Lupin knew exactly what Renard could do. And he had no intention of forgetting even now.   

Lupin got to his feet and nodded towards the living room, where his trunk of tricks waited. “And that’s what screws them over. C’mon, kid. We’ve got a cop to catch.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12, In Which the Circus Comes to Town

“This is not going to work.”

Lupin seized Renard by the shoulder and forced him back into the kitchen chair. With his other hand he steered a comb through Renard’s wet tangle of hair. He clucked his tongue when the comb’s teeth caught on a particularly stubborn snarl. “It will work. You have to believe that. Otherwise, it won’t work at all.”

“I didn’t realize–” Renard winced as Lupin worked comb and snarl free “–how much thieving relied upon Tinkerbell logic. Clapping my hands isn’t going to make this easier.”

Lupin bit back his initial retort. He was beginning to learn, through painful trial and error, that a scared Renard was prone to lashing out as surely as a pissed-off Renard was. And matching that energy wasn’t going to do either of them any good. So he took a moment to gather his thoughts, gently smoothing his comb through Renard’s freshly-washed hair. Occasionally he followed up with a snip from his hair scissors, styling just so. Strands of damp red hair littered the kitchen floor before Lupin deemed himself calm enough to step around to Renard’s front. He didn’t say a word; just stared in contemplative silence. 

Renard hunched his shoulders even as he glared up at Lupin. “What?”

“I’m looking for the guy I met back in France. You know, the guy whose first big heist was the freaking Vatican? The guy who put together a whole song and dance of riddles and games for me? Where is that guy, huh? Because I need him.”

Renard’s scowl deepened even as he looked away. “That was cringe.”

“You’re cringe!” Lupin snapped. He planted his hands on his hips. “That guy was an asshole, but he had a vision! Panache! That audacity to do the impossible, and not only do it, but be good at it! He’s in there somewhere, I know he is!”

“That was before I got–” Renard’s hand flew to his stomach. He rubbed a small circle even as he shook his head. “I’m not what I was, Lupin. People will see. People will know. Something’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, ‘cept for the fact that you’re like twenty pounds underweight.” All of Lupin’s indignation left him in a sigh. He set his styling tools aside to crouch down in front of Renard. “There are all kinds of reasons a guy walks with a limp. Surgery, pulled a muscle at Tai Chi, advanced age–”

“Not as advanced as yours, surely,” Renard muttered. 

“Age before beauty, wise guy. Point is, no one is going to give a damn about you. People are so, so…” Lupin twirled his hands around, trying to capture the essence of what people were. “So wrapped up in their own lives that they aren’t paying attention to other people. Sure, they might notice the limp, but you’re not Quasimodo. No one is going to start throwing tomatoes at you. They didn’t pay attention to the bum, and they’re going to pay even less attention to the IT guy just doing his job. You’ve got this. I know you’ve got this.”

Renard didn’t seem fully mollified, but he did lower his hand from his stomach. “And if I get caught?” he asked.

“Then I bail you out,” said Lupin. “We’re a team now, and frankly I’ve put a lot of work into keeping you alive already. I’m not leaving you behind again.”

Renard’s brown eyes bore into him. Lupin simply looked back. He didn’t know whether Renard was looking for a hint of falsehood or further assurance. Renard was older than he had been, Lupin thought. Not just physically, but in his eyes. He was no longer that cocksure, smirking little brat who’d had the balls to take on the Vatican. And for that, Lupin was very glad…and, strangely enough, a little sad too.

“Do you promise?” Renard asked softly. “Not to leave me behind?”

“I promise,” Lupin replied. He stuck his pinky finger out for good measure.

Renard hesitated before sliding his pinky around Lupin’s. “All right,” he said with a sigh, “let’s have a go at it.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Lupin sprang to his feet with a grin. “C’mon, Gloria Swanson, let’s get you ready for your close-up.”

Twenty minutes later, Officer Baxter and a freshly-trimmed IT guy by the name of Joel Dover stepped out of the brownstone and out into the bright Boston morning. Traffic of both foot and car variety had picked up since Yata had left, and both men fell into the rhythm of street commuters.

Renard fiddled with the strap of the laptop bag slung around his shoulder. Lupin walked beside him, taking slow, easy strides to match Renard’s unevenness. “Got your flash drive?” He asked. 

Renard patted his pocket and nodded. This was a new flash drive, one Lupin had produced with the promise that the program within would bypass most password protection and security systems. Renard had no idea where one would acquire such a sophisticated program; presumably it was a trade secret, or at the very least a Lupin trade secret. Lupin had also gifted him the ID he had used to break into the Boston Police Department the first time around. 

Lupin had found all the time to prep this, and make pancakes, Renard thought, while he had struggled to find a reason to get out of bed. 

He curled his hand into a fist and thumped it against his thigh. He wanted Yata here. He would have felt better about all this, more confident, with Yata here. Yata was easy to rile up, easy to put on a show of strength for. Yata, always suspicious, had treated him like he was still a threat. 

With Yata, he was an equal. With Lupin, he felt…small. Small and inadequate.

Small and inadequate was not what Lupin wanted for his protege, though. The show had to go, regardless of if he felt like participating. So Renard pulled a pair of fake glasses from his pocket and slid them on. “How do I look?”

Lupin wore a Latex mask for his Office Baxter disguise, and this close Renard could see the creases when he smiled. “Like you have opinions on vinyl records and IPAs.”

Renard couldn’t help the small snort that escaped him. Nor could he help the secret, sudden thrill in his stomach: he was walking beside Lupin the bloody Third, about to pull off an audacious heist in the midst of law enforcement. This was what he had always fantasized about, wasn’t it?

Some long-buried spark of hope ignited in his chest before Renard tamped it down. He couldn’t afford hope. Right now, he needed focus. 

Neither spoke as they walked the length of Tremont Street to the Boston Police Department headquarters. About halfway there, faint pain began to radiate up Renard’s left leg. But that pain was a familiar enemy, ignorable, and Renard focused on looking bored when Lupin ducked into a Dunkin for a half-dozen donuts.

As they neared the Boston Police HQ, Lupin began to chatter inanely about some sporting event from the night before. Renard nodded and made small noises to indicate he was listening. Together they joined the throng of comers and goers through the glass doors, just one more set of folks in the workflow. 

Lupin gave the officer at the security desk a nod. He made his way over to the desk, and Renard followed without question. Lupin set the box of half-dozen donuts down in front of the security officer. “Mornin’, Frank. Did you catch the Celtics last night?” 

Frank ran a hand through his thinning hairline. “Nah, wife and I went to a pottery class.” He leaned forward and lifted the lid on the donuts. “Jeez, Bax, did I win a bet against you or somethin’?” 

“Nah, jus’ feelin’ generous. This here’s Joel,” Lupin indicated Renard, who raised his hand in greeting. “He’s here to do some IT up in the Interpol office.” 

“Picked a helluva day for it,” Frank replied. He threw back the lid on the donut box and offered his fellow law-abiding citizens first choice. 

There were no crullers, so Renard settled for a chocolate glazed. “Busy day?” he asked. 

“MacMillan’s on the warpath. Apparently there's some big-shot thief in town, and the lead on the case is this young guy from, uhhh…Japan? Yeah, Japan, that's it. There was another older guy on the case, but he got booted. Now she ain't too happy about havin’ to kowtow to someone half her age on this big case, y’know?” 

“How d’you figure that?” Lupin helped himself to a strawberry sprinkled donut as he spoke. 

“Got it from Kathy over in HR, who nearly got her head bit off by MacMillan this morning.” Frank rolled his eyes as he set the box down. “Politics, man. S’why I'm glad I'm runnin’ the front desk. Be careful goin’ up, Bax. And thanks for the breakfast.” 

“Anytime, Frankie.” 

Frank buzzed them through the lobby of the BPD HQ. Renard waited until they were a good distance away before blinking at Lupin. “He just…let us through?” 

“Rule number…what number are we on?” 

“Four.” 

“Rule number four. Always make nice with the people at the front desk. They know everything that goes on in a given building, more than a CEO ever–” 

“BAXTER!” 

The sharp bark had both thieves stopping short. MacMillan strode across the lobby with a frowning Yata on her heels.

Yata froze when his eyes met Renard’s. Renard couldn’t help the sudden grin stretching across his face. He straightened up a little and lifted his donut in greeting. Yata scowled, and mouthed something that might have been ‘ don’t you dare’ .

Lupin, meanwhile, grinned and waved at MacMillan. “Mornin’, Inspector! Just showin’ Joel here around the place, he’s here to do some debugging–”

“Pass him off to someone else. We’re heading out.”

And just like that Renard’s grin slipped. He shot Lupin a look, but Lupin just nodded. “Sure. I’ll leave him with Andersen. Jus’ give me a minute.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds.” Macmillan walked off. Yata lingered a moment too long, eyes daggering into Renard, before following. 

Lupin glanced around before seizing Renard by the elbow. He dragged Renard into an empty stairwell.

“No,” Renard said as he shook himself loose from Lupin’s grip.

“You can do this.”

“Please, no.”

“You’re going to have to do this.”

“Don’t leave me here alone–”

“Oliver–”

“–surrounded by cops–”

“Oliver!” Lupin took him by the shoulders and squeezed gently. Renard flinched back, unable to keep himself from stiffening under the touch. Lupin looked him up and down, and once more Renard was caught between hope and despair. “You can do this. There’s nothing more cringe than cowardice, okay? Get me results.”

“What are you going to do?” Renard asked in a small voice.

“Depends on where we’re going. But I have a few ideas. Ciao for now, okay?”

Lupin slipped away. Renard almost reached out for him–and then stopped. He lowered his hand back down to his side. He was not a child. He did not need comforting. He watched Lupin walk away with Yata, and did not feel the slightest bit abandoned. 

He could do this. Lupin was counting on him, expecting him to do this, and the idea of failing Lupin made him sick in a way being surrounded by cops did not. 

So Renard hoisted his bag a little higher on his shoulder and started up the stairs. 

The smell of bad coffee and the shouts of cops going about their day led him straight into the lion’s den. Renard paused at the entrance to watch the chaos unfold, trying to get a sense of the bullpen’s ebb and flow. He had to wonder how orderly, easily-frazzled Yata worked–thrived?–in such an environment. 

A uniformed cop stopped when he caught Renard’s eye. “Can I help you?”

“Yo,” Renard said. He couldn’t manage a Boston accent, so he had decided on something safely mid-American. He flashed his badge at the uniform. “Name’s Joel Dover. IT. I got called over to run some debugging programs for, uh…” He made a show of pulling out a pocket notebook and flipping through it. “Inspector Ellen MacMillan.”

“Ah. Can I see your ID?”

Renard nodded and handed it over. He tried to look relaxed and unbothered, munching on his donut as the uniform studied his ID and did a quick run of the numbers.

“Looks like you’re all set,” the uniform said. “MacMillan just left–”

“Yeah, I met her downstairs. She said to come on up, do what I need to do. Have somebody check me in and leave the office door open when I go in. She seemed, uh, pretty busy.” He grinned sheepishly. “You all do.”

The uniform sighed. “You have no idea. Head on back, she’s the last office along the back wall. And leave the door open, like she said.”

“You got it, officer.”

He started forward, limping through the crowd of broad-shouldered cops, all too absorbed in their own tasks to notice the criminal striding right through them. That little spark of hope reignited in his stomach, and excitement and glee fanned the flames. He was doing it! He could do this, he could do this! 

There were eyes on his back as he stepped into MacMillan’s office, but Renard didn’t care. Why would he? He was just the IT guy, here to do some debugging. He left the door open, just like he said he would, and took a moment to examine the space.

Clean, orderly, professionally feminine in that way some women were. She had commendations and certificates on the walls, and blinds currently raised over the window that looked into the bullpen. Renard cocked his head at the blinds. Curious, that. Why wouldn’t such a decorated officer of ICPO want to be seen?

The comfortable leather chair groaned when Renard sank down into it. He pulled the flash drive from his pocket and inserted it into the USB. The bypass program whirred to life with a small beep! 

Renard blew out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Only then did he pull a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slip them on. The less traces left behind, the better. And so protected, Renard felt confident enough to drum his hands across the surface of the desk as the bypass ran. He glanced out the window to confirm no cops were really watching the IT guy, and then began to discreetly pull the drawers of MacMillan’s desk open.

Notepads. Pencils. Gum. Mints. Pens. File folders. Blank forms. More notepads–ooh, fountain pens! 

Renard lifted two expensive-looking black fountain pens from the drawer. He looked around once more before tucking both into his pocket. 

He straightened when the bypass program beeped again. Suddenly Renard was looking at MacMillan’s desktop: a lovely photo of a sunny beach, far away from here. Renard allowed himself one ounce of sympathy before scanning through her desktop folders.

He copied her calendar and contacts, decided he didn’t need the PDFs of those blank forms or expense reports. Renard leaned in as he clicked around, acutely aware of the seconds ticking away the longer he sat in this chair. He forced the fear back as he clicked through file folders. Documents, more documents, some PowerPoints on gun safety, outreach programs to the public–

–and a folder simply labeled “Follow Ups”.

Renard held his breath as he clicked on the folder. A sheet of names bloomed onto the screen in front of him. And more than names: arrest records, posted bails, current employment status. Most of these criminals had been employed in security firms such as SecureTech, or otherwise transport and accounting firms…and, in the case of Henry Doyle, fraudulent accountant formerly known as Henry Davis, the Wareham Art Gallery.

“Et voilà!” Renard whispered. That secret flame of excitement burned hotter and brighter in his stomach. Evidence! He had it! He’d found it! He copied the entire folder before closing out, unplugging the USB, and logging off. He sat back, savoring the taste of victory, before getting to his feet. At the door he remembered to yank the gloves off and tuck them back into his pocket.

The uniform who scanned him in was waiting for him just outside the office. “All set?”

“All set,” Renard replied. He couldn’t help his grin. “Have a great day, officer.”

“You too, Mister Dover.”

Renard made his way back to the stairwell, down into the lobby swarming with cops and civilians. Frank gave him a wave goodbye, one that Renard returned enthusiastically. His wide, almost manic grin remained as he stepped out into the sunshine, pockets heavy with Macmillan’s secrets and her most expensive pens.

…

Yata sat in silence and did not seethe. 

The Boston Police Department BMW had stalled in Boston traffic. Lupin-as-Baxter was driving, and MacMillan sat shotgun scrolling through her emails. Yata sat in the back, doing some deep breathing exercises to try and keep his blood pressure in check.

Lupin was driving the car to the crime scene he’d helped create, and the senior-most ICPO officer was sitting right next to him. And they’d left Renard behind in the middle of BDP HQ. They’d left him alone, surrounded by cops, and no doubt on some mission for Lupin.

What if something went wrong? What if Renard got caught?

Wait.

Renard was a thief, and an accomplice to murder. He should be rooting for Renard to screw up and get caught. He should want to come back to find Renard twiddling his thumbs in a cell. 

So why didn’t he?

He was still puzzling it out when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Yata yanked it free, expecting to see a message from Zenigata. Instead he stared at the unlisted phone number and its accompanying text:

Relax, kid! You look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel!

Yata’s eyes snapped up to glare at Lupin, who smirked back in the rearview mirror. Yata glanced at the preoccupied MacMillan before replying:

Eyes on the road. No texting while driving.

He set his phone facedown on his lap, resolute to ignore whatever Lupin replied with. And then immediately flipped it back over when it buzzed again:

Calm down, Safety Sam. Sitting in traffic isn’t driving.

I’m not arguing with you. Eyes on the road.

You don’t even want to know what I’m up to?

Making my life harder.

Lupin laughed a little at that, earning an odd look from MacMillan, but mercifully did not reply. Yata shoved his phone back into his pocket and twisted to stare out into the city. He didn’t really see it, though, as his thoughts almost immediately turned to Oscar.

He didn’t know an Oscar, had no memory of the name. But when MacMillan spoke of unfortunate business–well, whatever happened to him couldn’t have been pleasant. Had he been a prior aide of Zenigata’s? A partner?

His stomach clenched with something like jealousy. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Whatever had happened in the past, he was Zenigata’s partner now. And surely a better partner to him than whoever Oscar had been.

Right?

He was still mulling it over when the BMW crunched to a halt outside of SecureTech. 

What had been a sleepy corner of the Waterfront had exploded into a full-blown crime circus. Whole areas had been wrapped in yellow tape while forensics collected casings and cops swapped notes. News crews stood on the other side of the yellow tape, all repeating the same talking points that the media liaisons had cleared for them. The flurry of activity had brought the onlookers too: a thick crowd of gawkers, some of whom were already flashing their phones at the crime scene.

Yata withheld a sigh. The last thing he wanted was to go viral on Dancr for this.

He caught sight of Marie in the crowd, but had the good sense not to wave or acknowledge her. Instead he moved to set his hands on his hips in front of the SecureTech entrance. He did another scan of the crowd with a frown. “No employees turned up for work today?”

“Not a one,” MacMillan said, likewise frowning. “We’ll get a full list of employees going and follow through.”

“Have you followed up with the CEO, the CFO? Marcus Mahoney?” Yata pressed.

“We’re working on it, Agent,” MacMillan replied, tone clipped. “Dotting the is of this investigation isn’t why I brought you here.”

Yata bit back a retort. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lupin sizing up the crowd, angling his head back to get a sense of the scale of the building. Yata’s stomach gave a sharp twist, and he couldn’t pretend it was because of the rank smell of low tide. Please , he silently pleaded with Lupin, please, just hang back and watch…don’t do anything reckless, please…

Even inside his head it was a futile effort. 

He forced his gaze from Lupin back to MacMillan. “Lead the way, Inspector.”

She did, past SecureTech’s chain-link fence, through the imposing front door and the elegantly-styled interior. She crossed the lobby where he had interviewed Mattias, leading them clear across SecureTech to an unassuming door marked ‘Cleaning Supplies’.

The door was open, and more police were coming in and out of there than could fit in a broom closet. Yata’s frown deepened as MacMillan led him in. Instead of cleaning supplies, he found himself at the top of a long staircase leading down. 

Renard had missed this. But then, how could he have known to look at the very back of the building, in a cleaning closet? How could he have, when he’d gone in alone? When he had sent him in alone?

He ignored the tug of guilt and descended downwards. MacMillan was at his back, but so was Lupin, and despite everything the thought was comforting. They walked in silence, down down down, down further than SecureTech’s exterior should have suggested. The din of voices rose as the temperature dropped. Eventually, the winding stairs led to a landing.

Yata stopped short. He heard Lupin suck in a sharp breath behind him.

SecureTech’s basement was more akin to a warehouse. It was a huge, almost cavernous space, with high ceilings, bright lights, and stacks and stacks of boxes. Crates, Yata corrected himself. Those were crates. Some were already cordoned off, their contents tagged and laid out on tarps for review.

Yata stepped towards the nearest tarp with eyes narrowed.

Guns. 

Thanks to Lupin, this wasn’t his first rodeo with weapon smugglers. But the mundanity of it all was what shook him. Where were the piles of gold and jewels, the outlandish supervillain architecture, the doomsday devices? Where was the panache? 

MacMillan snapped a handkerchief out of her pocket and plucked a random pistol from the tarp. She passed it to Yata. “Do you recognize this device?”

He did, after examining the markings on the side. “Heckler and Koch, VP-Seventy-M. A machine pistol.” Like the Glock-Eighteen, he noted inwardly. “They stopped producing these in the eighties. It’s older than I am!”

That earned a bark of laughter from Lupin. Yata was vaguely aware of Lupin helping himself to one of the pistols within the crate, but MacMillan held his attention with another gun. “And this one?” she asked.

“Heckler and Koch HK-Forty-Five,” Yata answered. He couldn’t help but to feel like this was a test, and he was passing. “Not for civilian use.”

“I’m starting to sense a pattern,” Lupin said. He tilted the Heckler and Koch back and forth in his grip. 

“SecureTech is a front for a weapon-smuggling operation,” Yata said aloud. His pulse jumped in his neck in a strange mix of fury and fear. “You need to get the names of those employees, Inspector.”

“Is there any evidence Lupin the Third could have found his way down here?” MacMillan asked, voice and expression firm.

“No,” Yata replied with equal firmness. “If Lupin had come this way, he would have made off with as many valuable weapons as possible. And he would have left a calling card to gloat. He likes to gloat. He can’t resist, even when he ought to.”

As if on cue, MacMillan’s eyes snapped past Yata’s shoulder. “Baxter! Where are you going with that?”

Yata withheld a groan as he turned. So did every other cop in the immediate vicinity, so that Lupin was suddenly the center of attention. He froze with the Heckler and Koch in hand. A huge, shit-eating grin stretched the length of his long face as he met Yata’s gaze.

“Don’t,” Yata mouthed. 

So, of course, Lupin did.

“Collecting my own evidence, of course!” Lupin exclaimed. He raised his voice so that it echoed across the warehouse, garnering more attention from all present. He lifted the Heckler and Koch into the air. “The men and women of the BPD have done a fantastic job of cracking this case open, but I’ll be taking it from here!”

Yata took a full step forward. MacMillan stared at Lupin in bafflement. “Baxter, what the hell are you–”

His mask came away with a fwip! Baxter’s long face fluttered to the warehouse floor, and a bare-faced Lupin stood grinning at a warehouse full of police officers and illegal guns. “No need to pack this all up, boys,” he said to the stunned uniforms beside him. “You can leave it out for me.”

“LUPIN! ”

Yata’s bellow cracked the stunned silence. Lupin smashed a smoke bomb against the floor as the cops all dove for him. Instantly, thick gray smoke filled the air. Yata fought the instinct to go right for Lupin, instead running for the only egress with billowing smoke at his heels. In the mad dash he collided with another cop, falling hard as MacMillan rushed past with her immediate squad in tow. The sharp hiss of smoke, the sudden shouting and mass confusion–the scene was oddly, dizzyingly familiar, like seeing his own ridiculous life from the inside out.

Yata forced himself back up–and then paused. How was Lupin intending to outmaneuver everyone in the building? It was a long way to the exit, and all the personnel here…how many personnel were in the building? It was suddenly hard to think straight, and the world was wobbly…

Yata went to take a breath, and then stopped. A strange, sweet smell filled the air as smoke curled around his legs. Because–because the smoke bomb was full of knockout gas! 

Oh, that son of a bitch.

Yata yanked his shirt over his mouth and nose before sprinting forward, determination and fury lending him the speed to catch up with MacMillan and her squad on the stairwell. Shouting rang up and down the stairwell, and Yata was suddenly aware of how many cops had their weapons drawn. 

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” he bellowed. “HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

He tore up the stairwell, overtaking MacMillan as sweet-smelling smoke filled the air, and those slower on the uptake slump to the floor or against walls. Up the stairs, back through the lobby, towards the door–and with a final burst of speed Yata caught Lupin by the back of the jacket. 

Lupin pivoted and wrapped an arm around Yata. A quick grappling session ensued: Yata was younger and more pissed-off, but Lupin was preternaturally slippery. Furthermore, Yata had yet to master all the Lupin restraints Zenigata had taught him, a fact that became apparent when Lupin wrapped both legs around one of his, sending them both crashing to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Yata hissed in Lupin’s ear.

“Giving you a bit of credibility!” Lupin hissed back. “You’ve got a role to play, kid, remember that!”

“Stop calling me kid–!”

Pain exploded across his abdomen. Yata retched when Lupin dislodged his elbow from his stomach. His grip loosened enough for Lupin to roll forward and back to his feet. He gave Yata a quick, apologetic smile before bounding out the front door.

Yata gritted his teeth and staggered up to his feet. He made it to the front door in time to watch the entire media circus swivel cameras and microphones to the thief. Lupin flung both arms out, every inch the superstar. “Ladies and gentlemen! Criminals of Boston! I thought you’d like to know that I’ve found one of your treasure troves, and it piqued my interest! Boston’s a big city, and I can’t wait to see what other treasures you’ve got hidden away.”

He aimed a finger gun dead center of a camera. 

“This is your fair warning, Vandewater.”

He vanished with classic panache: an ear-piercing crack and a flash of light, leaving only a smoldering circle in the salt-speckled pavement.

Yata was left, sweaty and gasping, in front of a dozen cameras and hot mics. He stared forward as MacMillan came limping up beside him. She gave the media a quick, furious glance. “What the hell was that?” she murmured.

“That,” Yata replied grimly, “was Lupin the Third.”

...

“Ladies and gentlemen! Criminals of Boston! I thought you’d like to know that I’ve found one of your treasure troves, and it piqued my interest! Boston’s a big city, and I can’t wait to see what other treasures you’ve got hidden away. This is your fair warning, Vandewater.”

“–that was recorded live this morning at the South Waterfront, and confirms the presence of international thief Lupin the Third in the heart of Boston. ICPO agent and current head of the Lupin case, Goro Yatagarasu, followed up immediately with Channel Twelve reporters–”

Mattias clicked the evening news off, and tossed the remote to the side with more force than necessary. He propelled himself to his feet and began to pace in front of Jessica’s couch. 

Night had fallen uneasily over Boston, and particularly Jessica’s apartment. It was a reasonably large space, spacious even with four people taking up separate spots in the living room. It was the tension, the muffled frustration and fury, that filled the empty spaces and suffocated the silent air. 

Jessica remained on the couch with hands pressed to her temples. MacMillan stood behind the couch with a stony expression and arms folded over her chest. And his father stood with his face to the window, drinking from a bourbon glass and inspecting Jessica’s houseplants. He hadn’t said a word since coming through the door twenty minutes ago, only helped himself to the bourbon and moved to the window. He should have been in New York on business. That he had recused himself and rushed back to Boston put a sour pit in Mattias’ stomach. 

Matt took the sour pit, gnashed it between his teeth, and rounded on MacMillan. “You should have just shot him!”

MacMillan’s steely eyes narrowed. “While the lead on the case is shouting ‘hold your fire’?”

“Don’t you outrank him?!”

“He is the lead on the Lupin case, thanks to you. If I had opened fire and Agent Yatagarasu called for an investigation, that could open doors you do not want opened. More than they already have, at any rate.”

“You’re a coward.”

“I am working two jobs, while you are leading Lupin right into our profits.”

“You’re the one who literally walked him down the stairs into the warehouse!”

“MacMillan was doing her job!” Jessica snapped. She got to her feet and moved to join the older woman behind the couch. “Which is more than can be said for you! You were supposed to hold Renard when you found him, and instead you let him escape while trying to kill Agent Yatagarasu! He’s the lead , Matty! If he goes down or goes missing after he’s been publicly visiting our sites, people are going to look harder! Clean hands!”

“It wasn’t about goddamn clean hands!” Mattias snapped. Blood rushed to his face, and he clenched his fists. “I had Renard right there, right in front of me, and I could have blown his fucking brains out if the cop and Lupin hadn’t shown up! Fucking Christ, what is everyone acting all spooked for anyway? Lupin’s not some fucking mass murderer–”

Vandewater set his bourbon glass forcefully down on the table, and the soft thunk of glass and ice rang out like a gunshot.   

He did not turn around. Instead he caressed one of Jessica’s houseplants with a finger. He began to fiddle with the rings on his fingers. They were thick-banded rings, studded with priceless gems, and each cost more than a man’s life. 

“Did you know,” he said, into the sudden, strained silence, “that many plants lose their defensive properties after humans domesticate them? They become sweeter, less thorny, less likely to survive in the wild. All because humans protected them, made the hard decisions for them.”

Mattias took two steps towards his father. “Dad, what are you–”

Vandewater spun on his heel and backhanded Mattias. Jessica shrieked when her brother hit the floor, and MacMillan seized her arms to hold her in place.

Mattias lay stunned. Pain bloomed across his face, and when he touched his cheek his fingertip came away bloody. He stared at his own blood uncomprehendingly. His dad had hit him. His dad had never hit him. Hot tears pricked at his eyes even as he rolled over to stare up at his father.

Vandewater stood over him, adjusting his rings back into place. “My children,” he said, with a slight aside to the stricken Jessica, “seem incapable of thinking for themselves when left in the real world. I have worked very hard, for many decades, to ensure the power and prestige of the Vandewater name. That my children seem intent on squandering my goodwill is, perhaps, my own fault for indulging you. When Domas approached me with Renard, I allowed it. When you two approached me for my blessing to ruin Lupin the Third, I made the mistake of believing they would learn from their brother’s mistakes. I, foolishly perhaps, believed they were capable of caution and discretion, and would not lead Lupin to the front door of one of our most lucrative operations.”

“MacMillan–” Mattias started.

“Ellen has served me ably for decades now, and knows when to play her role. That she even had to enter SecureTech today as Inspector is because you turned our facility into an active crime scene!”

Mattias flinched. Vandewater hadn’t raised his voice, but even so Mattias could feel the blood draining from his face the longer his father stared at him. Like he was nothing. Like he was less than nothing. 

Vandewater took a deep breath before turning to MacMillan. “We’re pulling out of Boston. Liquidate as many assets as you can, and issue covers to personnel. The rest we’ll start consolidating. Tap our people in New York, Atlantic City, Philadelphia. Hell, get the Block Island Sound ready to ship assets off-shore. Lupin can dig around Boston all he likes. He won’t find much more than dirt.”

MacMillan nodded.

“Jessica, you’re leaving. You’re dropping this cockamamie revenge scheme and heading to New York to lead my meetings. Everything that happens in Boston from here on out goes through me.”

Vandewater waited for Jessica’s wordless nod before continuing: “Doyle will drop the charges against Inspector Zenigata. If Zenigata returns, that might slow Lupin down enough that–”

Mattias had been listening to his father with mounting incredulity. His heart pounded in his chest, faster and faster, his blood boiling hotter, and the words exploded out of him: “Why are you afraid of him?!” 

Vandewater’s stone-gray eyes flashed down at his son. MacMillan snorted. “Your kid didn’t do his research, Nik.”

“Apparently not,” said Vandewater in a soft voice. He took a step towards Mattias, and then another, forcing him to scoot backwards. “You weren’t born when Cagliostro’s counterfeit operation suddenly, violently ceased. You weren’t born when Shot Shell’s organization literally went down with their ship. Perhaps you don’t know about Zylberstein, or Lombardo Heavy Industries, or any other rich, arrogant man who strafes too close to Lupin. Hector Finnegan had a lucrative system going in Dorrente until Lupin arrived. So did those idiots at Marco Polo, right up until Lupin drained all their money away. Do you know how many good assassins they got killed trying to after Lupin? Do you? Do you understand, Mattias?” 

Vandewater advanced on every word, forcing Mattias to scuttle backwards: “Hell, Enzo Bron could have taken over the world with Shake Hanz, and now he’s nowhere to be found. Because he went after Lupin.”

Mattias’ back hit a wall. There was nowhere for him to go when Vandewater seized him by the shirt and dragged him to his feet. He stared at his son with barely-buried fury. “Lupin the Third destroys whatever crosses him. He’s not just a thief, he’s a threat . When Shot Shell went down I dedicated myself to clean hands. I vowed I would never give Lupin a reason to look at a Vandewater. I made the mistake of trusting you. And our entire East Coast operation is in jeopardy because you couldn’t be bothered to do a personnel sweep during a break-in!”

“Dad, please–”

“This is the second time I’ve trusted one of my sons to do what was right for the Vandewaters, and the second I’ve been let down.” All the fury left Vandewater in a rush, leaving behind something colder and far more terrifying. “There will not be a third.”

Tears streaked through the blood drying on Mattias’ face. “Dad–” 

“You’re off all assignments. You are cut off from all assets. You are not to contact myself or your mother for a goddamn cent, not until you’ve proven yourself capable of some goddamn common sense.”

Vandewater moved to the apartment door as he spoke, dragging Mattias with him. Mattias was too stunned to struggle as Vandewater wrenched the door open and shoved him out. It was only when he stumbled out into the dark hallway that Mattias realized what was happening. 

He wheeled back around to his father. “Dad, no, please, Dad–”

Vandewater’s face was a study in contempt. “Clean hands, Mattias.”

Mattias had just enough time to meet Jessica’s wide, terrified eyes before the door slammed shut on his face. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 13, In Which No One is Alone

Meanwhile, halfway across town, Renard sprawled out on Lupin’s couch and watched Dancr compilations on a freshly-acquired phone. He didn’t look up when Lupin poked his head into the living room. “You’re gonna lose brain cells staring at that thing all night.”

“Jealous because you’re not the one who went viral, hm?” Renard fired back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lupin’s quick grin. He allowed himself a small smile in return before clicking on the next video. 

Someone had taken disparate footage from this morning’s chase debacle and set it to a house remix of The Sound of Silence. A sharp bark of laughter escaped Renard when the editing zoomed in on Yata’s thousand-yard stare. He left a like and began to scroll through the comments. 

A part of him, and it was a part of him bigger than he cared to admit, was irked that he had missed all the action. It was hard not to feel like he had been relegated to errand boy, safe out of the way, while Lupin and Yata did the exciting bits. Then again…he was the one who had stolen all the important information off of MacMillan’s PC. His day had been productive. 

Renard had spent the better part of it wandering the Boston Common, enjoying the bright spring day and picking pockets of those foolish enough to do the same. When he had filched enough cash, he made his way over to a secondhand electronics store and bought himself a phone.

It was a cheap phone, three years out of date, with a crack clear across the screen. But it was his. 

Lupin had appeared in the kitchen around sunset (although Renard never heard the front door open or close). He hadn’t asked about the phone, just taken the flash drive with a nod of approval. 

He was making dinner now, judging from the clatter of pans and the occasional beep from the oven. Renard lifted his head off the couch, thinking he might as well ask if he should help prep dinner, when the front door slammed open.

His stomach twisted with an old anxiety. Slammed doors meant furious men, and furious men did not make for a peaceful night.

Then Yata stomped into view, and just like that the knot in his stomach loosened. Renard sat up a little and put on his biggest, most shit-eating grin. “Yatagarasu! You went viral!”

Yata stopped short. “What?”

“The footage from this morning, it’s everywhere. You’re a meme now! Folks are calling it Confused Cop. I’ve saved you the best edits–”

Yata stepped into the living room, fingers curling as though itching to wrap them around Renard’s neck. He stopped in front of Renard–and then collapsed onto the couch. His curled fingers dug into his own dark hair.

“Shut up. Just–shut up! Do you know what kind of shit day I've had?” 

He looked so miserably, uselessly frustrated that Renard couldn’t help a small twinge of sympathy. So he flung himself upright and swung his legs off the couch to sit beside Yata. 

“On the scale of shit,” he asked, all genuine curiosity, “does it rank your average porta john or the golden chamber pot of Louis the Fourteenth?” 

Yata didn’t answer right away. But he did stop trying to rip his hair out, and Renard thought he saw a corner of his mouth twitch. “He didn’t have one of those.” 

“Oh, yes he did!” Lupin called from the kitchen. “And I stole it! But never mind that. Who wants chicken nuggets?” 

He floated in, carrying a tray of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and sizzling crinkle-cut fries. He set the tray down in front of the younger men and stood back with his hands on his hips. He seemed only a little surprised when Yata ignored the food and leapt to his feet.

“Lupin–you complete –you better have a good explanation for that stunt!” 

Lupin’s grin was full Cheshire Cat. “Of course! But first, Yata, what was the rest of your day like?” 

“Terrible! After you vanished I had to ward off every microphone shoved in my face, repeat over and over and over that we are actively investigating, and that was before MacMillan and I got yanked into the mayor’s office to try to explain why multiple criminals are running amok in his city during an election year, and while he’s chewing us out the Commissioner walks in, on a call with one of the Interpol publicity heads, and all three make it very clear that if I don't take care of you and Vandewater in the next few weeks, I'll be spending the rest of my law enforcement career writing parking tickets in Tokyo! When I finally get out of there, my phone and email are blowing up with requests for quotes and useless anonymous tips about your whereabouts, with the highlight being that you were parading around Faneuil Hall dressed as Paul Revere! So then MacMillan lays into me about how she doesn't have the manpower to cover every single lead, and it’ll be up to me to comb through them AND write up the incident report AND oversee the bag and tag of all the evidence from SecureTech, since it's technically a Lupin crime scene and, as everyone keeps reminding me, I’m the lead on the Lupin case! And somehow, in the meantime, I APPARENTLY became a STUPID MEME!” 

When Yata finished, wild-eyed and panting, Lupin just nodded. “And did anyone ask about the IT guy?” 

“What IT guy?” Yata snapped. 

“Exactly! Who's going to worry about what the IT guy is doing when Lupin the Third is running around, causing scenes and challenging criminals to come out and play?” 

Renard jumped to his feet as Yata whipped around to him. He took a full step backwards out of melee range. 

“What,” Yata said, sounding more like Zenigata than he ever had before, “did you do.”

Renard weighed whether or not answering honestly would cost him his life, or at the very least his airway. Fortunately, Lupin answered for him:

“We’ll show you after dinner.” He waved a hand around, shooing Yata’s fury away like an irritant fly. “And you’ll feel better when you have something in your stomach. So mangia! Mangia, mangia.” 

Yata’s eyes burned hot. His breath came in heavy, uneven spurts, and still his fingers twitched. Renard recognized that heavy, piercing fury; it was the fury designed to bury fear, frustration, doubt. The same fury had coursed through his veins when he’d put a bullet through Zenigata’s leg. 

Perhaps Yata was thinking about drawing his gun on Lupin right now. 

If he was, the better angel of his nature won out, and he sank back down onto the couch. Renard settled back down beside him and helped himself to a crinkle fry. 

“I don’t suppose you have ketchup?” he asked as he bit in; crispy, piping-hot salt burst across his tongue, and it was an effort not to groan with ecstasy. 

“Ketchup, cat’s sup, got it all.” Lupin disappeared back into the kitchen. 

Renard took the moment alone to glance at Yata. All the heat had drained from his eyes, and he stared at the chicken nuggets blankly. Somehow, that was worse than seeing Yata on the verge of homicide. 

Renard chewed on his fry before clearing his throat.  “Erm…sorry you had a rough day, and all.” 

Yata blinked out of his stupor. “It's fine,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did. “I’m just–tired. I don't know how the Inspector does it.” 

“Not well, I imagine, before you came onboard.” Renard helped himself to two more fries as he spoke. 

“Flattery doesn't mean you get to eat all the fries,” Yata muttered. But at least he began to pick food off the tray as Lupin returned with an armful of condiments.

They ate in silence. Renard watched Lupin out of the corner of his eye the entire time. The elder thief ate with gusto, and didn't seem to pay the younger men the slightest bit of attention. Which meant, of course, that he was watching them like a hawk. Was he gathering his own thoughts? Giving Yata space to work through his fury? 

Dull pain twisted in his back. Renard winced and got to his feet. “Je reviens,” he muttered. 

He stepped out into the hallway to stretch. Yata’s heavy coat hung on a hook by the door, and when Renard saw it inspiration stuck. 

By the time he returned, Lupin had his laptop out and was showing Yata something on screen: “–addresses, bail amounts, skills. She has it all logged here.” 

Yata ran both hands through his hair. “That doesn’t mean she’s dirty. It means she’s keeping track. Do you know how much information Zenigata has logged on you?” 

“Well, I'm me, and every criminal on this list is not. They don't warrant this much follow-up. Especially petty insurance fraudsters like Henry Doyle.” Lupin jabbed a finger at the screen with a scowl. 

“This is circumstantial evidence at best. If you want me to accuse her of corruption, you need something more. Something substantial. I mean, how did you even know to look at MacMillan? Doyle was the one pointing the finger at Zenigata.” 

“I didn’t,” Lupin said. “Zenigata said to take a look at her. He’s very, very good at catching criminals, y’know.” 

Renard winced as Yata went very, very still. “He talked to you about this? Why didn’t he talk to me?”

“He didn’t talk to you because he’s got more sense than that,” Lupin replied, and there was more edge in his voice than Renard thought necessary. “Think, Yata. How does it look if it gets out that he suggested looking hard at the cop who’s supposed to be working with his partner? And, for what it's worth, he didn't talk to me. He talked to Jigen, who talked to me.”

“And when were you going to share this with me?” Yata demanded, with an equal amount of unnecessary edge. 

“When you weren’t acting like you were going to put the nearest pencil through my eye.” 

“Laisse-le tranquille, Lupin,” Renard muttered. His eyes flicked between Lupin and Yata.

“Je crois qu'il a besoin de se détendre,” Lupin snapped, all without taking his eyes off Yata. “I am on your side, whether you like it or not.” 

“I know that, but he–I haven't heard from Inspector Zenigata at all. I thought he was busy, maybe looking at cold cases, or…” 

He trailed off, but not before his voice cracked. Renard knew that tone, too. That was resentment. That was the first small crack appearing in the foundation of his monument to Zenigata. Renard couldn't help but to pity Yata…and envy him, a bit, for making it this far on faith alone. 

And again, Lupin didn't push further. He waited for Yata to shake his head and refocus on the list. “Have you ever met any Vandewaters, Lupin?” 

Lupin gestured to Renard. “Only his shitty ex-boyfriend.” 

“Domas,” Renard said flatly. He leaned against the doorframe, all the better to shift the weight off his bad leg. “I've had the pleasure of meeting Nikolas Vandewater. He’s the one who ought to concern you. Mattias and Jessica may be the muscle here, but he's the one in control.”

Yata pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. “If Nikolas Vandewater were to get a direct challenge from Lupin the Third, what would he do?” 

“You're interviewing me now?” Renard asked, startled. 

Lupin beamed even as Yata nodded. “Whether any of us like it or not, you’re the best insight we have into how Vandewater thinks. So, what would he do?”

Renard blew out a breath. “He’s cautious. He doesn't tolerate loose ends, or sloppy work. He expects you to commit to a course of action. Never to second guess. He calculates the world in profits and losses. If Lupin were to challenge him…” 

He trailed off, remembering Vandewater’s clean, quiet home, and the smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gut clenched with phantom pain. 

“He’s not the sort who goes to war. War costs resources. Better to cede the territory and redouble your efforts somewhere else.” 

“And the men who work under him wouldn’t grumble, or call him a coward?” Lupin pressed. 

“No.” Renard shook his head. “Why would they? He owns them. He buys up their debts, pays their bail, puts their skills to good use. He sponsored me, and if you hadn't intervened I would have called the arrangement fair. He doesn't need the opinions of other men. Not when he has their lives.” 

He looked away from Lupin and Yata both, fighting the pull into his past mistakes. Only when Yata clicked his pen did he decide it was safe to look back. 

Yata and Lupin were looking at each other. An unspoken agreement seemed to pass between them. “We keep an eye on these businesses,” Yata declared. “If Vandewater is using them to move goods, we might see some close shop or abruptly change owners. Maybe a mass layoff. And when that happens…” 

“Notorious thief Lupin the Third strikes!” Lupin snapped his fingers before pointing at Yata. “Do you understand now, what this morning was all about?” 

“To put pressure on Vandewater,” Yata said slowly. “His kids thought they could push you around, and you're about to make him regret raising bullies.” 

Lupin’s Cheshire Cat grin grew more sinister. “Exactly.” 

“I still don't forgive you for making my day a living hell,” Yata said. He closed the laptop with a definitive thud. 

“It had to be done. Why’s that, Oliver?” 

Renard blinked. “Eh?” 

“Why did I have to make Yata’s life hell?” Lupin snapped his fingers again, twice. “C’mon, c’mon, think like a thief!” 

Renard stared blankly at Lupin. Why had he done it? Well, because he needed a big, obnoxious distraction to divert any attention from a visitor to MacMillan’s office. But, no–Lupin had already made that point quite clear, there was no reason to repeat it. So, what, then? What benefit could that chase have had for Yata? Yata, who had been designated the Internet’s laughingstock until the next new thing went viral–

Ah.

“Because it had to be seen, publicly,” he spoke cautiously, not quite trusting that he had the correct answer. “You had to be seen humiliating Zenigata’s replacement on the case. MacMillan had to see it, the Vandewaters had to see it. They have to think you're not a threat, and they can never know that Lupin is helping you. Your pride had to take a hit to keep you safe.”  

“Bingo,” said Lupin, in a sing-song voice.

 Yata blinked before turning back to Lupin. “You could have just told me that.”

“And when would you have listened to me?” Lupin sat back on the couch and crossed one long leg over the other. He arched both eyebrows. “When you walked through the door, pissed off and looking for a fight?” 

“I–” Yata deflated a bit. “Thanks.” He said it while staring at his shoes. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don't thank me. Do you know what Zenigata would do to me if you got hurt?” Lupin went to reach for Yata’s shoulder, but stopped short of physical contact. “Besides, you–you’re–” 

Oh, no. Renard almost took a physical step backwards. Now Lupin was choking, and Renard did not have wherewithal for a social Heimlich Maneuver. 

Fortunately, Lupin rallied. His hand crossed that small space and pressed against Yata’s shoulder. “Well, Jigen and Goemon like you too. You're important to a lot of people, m'kay? And even if you take some licks, you're not alone.” 

“I never had the chance to be,” Yata said. He glanced over at Renard. 

Soft heat crept up the back of Renard’s neck. He scratched at his goatee and shrugged again. 

Yata managed a tired smile as he got to his feet. “I have to get back to the hotel. Take a shower, finish up my reports. Contact me if anything pops. The moment something pops.” The last he added with a warning tone. 

“Pinky promise.” Lupin stuck his pinky out, but Yata didn’t take it. He walked away, leaving Lupin sitting on the couch and looking bemused. 

That left Renard to pivot around the doorframe, following Yata into the hallway. “Yatagarasu, wait!”

Yata paused in the middle of yanking on his jacket. He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Renard stopped with a wide grin. “Before you go, I’ve got something for you, here–”

He dug into his pocket, and produced one of the two fountain pens he’d pilfered from MacMillan. Yata accepted it with a furrowed brow–and then he scowled. “Who did you steal this from?”

“I didn’t steal it from anyone! I found it!”

“Oh, really?” Yata snorted. “Where did you find it?”

“Inspector MacMillan’s desk.”

A noise of pure, unfiltered disgust escaped Yata. He flung the fountain pen at Renard’s chest and stormed out. 

“You’re welcome!” Renard called as the door slammed shut. His grin widened as he turned around–

–only to find Lupin slouched in the living room threshold, hands in his pockets. His dark eyes flickered from Renard to the door and back again in what Renard could have sworn was disapproval. “Stop flirting with him.”

“I’m not flirting with him,” Renard said. He squeezed past Lupin and moved towards the couch. “I’m just having a bit of fun at his expense.”

“That’s flirting with him, and we both know it. It’s cuteness aggression towards the junior cop. I know it when I see it.”

“I’m certain you do.” Renard muttered. He sank back down onto the couch. “He’s not even that good-looking.”

Lupin arched an eyebrow. 

“All right, he’s…seven-point-eight out of ten. Maybe an eight-point-one. Even so, I don’t think he’s interested in anything that isn’t his precious Inspector Zenigata or a blank expense report form. There’s nothing untoward happening here, Lupin.”

“Uh-huh. Untoward your skinny freckled ass.” Lupin followed back to the couch, collapsing down beside him. “This is how it starts, you know. Going out of your way just to get his attention. Next thing you know, you’re taking bullets for him, hunting down rogues who get in his way, swooning while he’s passionately exclaiming how he’s going to hunt you to the ends of the earth for sport…” 

Lupin's fond tone went beyond that of dearly bitter rivals. Renard gave him a sidelong look. “Is that how you and Zenigata did it, then?”

“Pretty much,” Lupin admitted. 

Vindication was a funny sort of feeling. Renard couldn’t help but to punch the air with a whoop of triumph. “I knew it!”

“Did you?” Lupin asked, more interested than defensive. 

“Of course! I’ve been following your exploits since I was old enough to read. And every time, after your name, there was Zenigata’s. The only time he wasn’t when he’d been reassigned to some other case, and you know what happened then? Those cases tended to close quite suddenly. So, either Zenigata was that devoted to locking you away…or you two have some baffling psychosexual fixation that only the other can relieve.” 

A startled laugh escaped Lupin. “Harsh!”

“Am I wrong?” Renard laughed in turn. It was so ridiculous, so very Lupin, that there was nothing else he could do. 

“It’s more complicated than that.” Lupin shook his head. “And, for what’s worth, we were perfectly happy not discussing our weird psychosexual fixation until you came along.”

“Really?” Renard didn’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult. 

“Really. Most of the bad guys I go after…” Lupin paused in thought. He flexed his hands, and then shook his head. “Well. I’m pretty good at making myself a shootable target. Most bad guys don’t try to go after Zenigata. And nearly losing him, thanks to you, made me realize I cared about him. A lot. He meant more to me than just the guy who keeps me in line.”

He smiled, wistfully, and it dawned on Renard that there was more to Lupin and Zenigata than he had supposed. But not love, surely. Surely love could not exist in the strange neutral space thieves and lawmen carved out for themselves. How could it?

“You read all the news stories, huh?” Lupin asked suddenly. He tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Did you have a favorite?”

Renard set his musings aside to focus on the question. He clucked his tongue. “Oh, there are so many to choose from. The Marco Polo debacle was very entertaining to watch develop in real time.” Renard copied Lupin’s stance with a thoughtful sigh. “Shake Hanz, too. I never liked that app. Cagliostro is a classic…that time you married Rebecca Rossalini…or that time you got arrested, what was it, eighty-six times in three months? All to prep a single cell with tools and tricks, and then break a man out!”

Lupin whistled. “Now that’s going back. Zenigata thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, y’know. I could hear him laughing all the way out of the prison!”

Renard could hear it too: a bellowing, boisterous laugh, fitting for a man that large. It was one thing to have scrolled through news archives in search of Lupin’s older exploits, or to watch news coverage from the latest ones. It was quite another to hear the real details–the truth, or at least Lupin’s version of it. 

An easy sort of peace settled over the pair of thieves. Renard closed his eyes, savoring the sensations: a warm house, a comfortable couch, clothes that didn’t reek of sweat. He was pleasantly full, without even the slightest edge of hunger. Even his back and leg weren’t bothering him, except when he stretched his left leg out straight. A small hiss escaped him.

He felt, rather than saw, Lupin’s eyes fall on him.

“Hey, Oliver…” Lupin spoke slowly, as if each word was a wire on a bomb. “We need to talk about your leg.”

And just like that the easy peace vanished. Renard sat up as his stomach knotted. “I thought you said no one would notice.”

“And they didn’t!”

“But.”

Renard let the word hang in the air between them. Lupin sighed and lowered his hands back to his sides. “How much pain are you in, at any given time?”

His skin prickled with sudden heat. His pain was private. It was his burden to bear, and his alone. “It’s manageable,” he said, flatly.

“I don’t think you ought to be in pain at all,” Lupin countered. He continued in that same cautious tone: “Look–your gait is off, and trying to put weight on that leg hurts your back more, right? Have you…thought about using a cane?”

The prickly heat crept up his neck, burned on his cheeks. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not here, not now, not with Lupin. He was fine, he was fine, goddamn it, it was just taking longer to heal. He would be his old self again soon. “I don’t need a cane,” he answered, stiffly. “I’ve managed just fine thus far.”

“Yeah. Managed. Hey, look, you took a bullet in the back. We’ve all been there, taken our lumps. But it takes time, and getting you what you need. Whether that’s a back brace or some cane–”

"I don’t need a fucking cane!” 

The fury ripped out of Renard, and the edge of his visions tinged red. Blood thundered in his heart, in his ears, drowning out the voice of common sense. He was too aware of himself, suddenly, too aware of his body: how thin he was, how scarred, the pain that ebbed and flowed with each heartbeat. 

Don’t look. Don’t look, don’t think, don’t mourn. What’s done is done. Don’t look–

The mantra drowned in the blood along with common sense. He couldn’t do it. Not with Lupin here. Not with Lupin looking at him, thinking, mourning for him. 

Fury and panic both propelled him to his feet. “I’m not some old man, nor am I some–some invalid! I don’t need to be treated like some porcelain doll! I’m not going to break! I’m not! ”

“Oliver.” Lupin didn’t rise, and neither did his voice. “You gotta let that pride go. Using a cane doesn’t make you an invalid. It’s a tool–”

“It’s a marker,” Renard snapped. “It’s obvious. Anyone would be able to identify me in a crowd.”

“So you learn to work around it! Just like I did with my fingers in a splint!”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“A splint is easier to hide, and your fingers healed quickly enough!”

“As opposed to your back and your leg, which are taking forever because you won’t admit you need help!”

“I’M NOT WEAK!”

He hadn’t meant to shout, but all the same the words burst from him like a bullet from a gun. Lupin froze as Renard rounded on him with chest heaving. The words poured from him suddenly, a wound from deep within freely bleeding: 

“My father thought I was weak, that I lacked discipline, and he took it upon himself to try and correct me. Other fencers thought I was just some–some flashy hedonist who’d burn out on sex and drugs in a few years, and they were only content to keep my company so long as I was the one buying drinks. After New York, Vandewater thought I was weak, a burden, and Domas didn’t hesitate to shoot me in the back. And in prison ?” He spat the word. “The doctors and the nurses and the guards–I wasn’t anything to them except meat. Bloody, bruised meat that would sit quietly in its cell. They all watched, Lupin. They all stood there and watched as I learned how to sit up and stand and fucking walk again, and the whole time the contempt was in their eyes. Every. Single. Day. And when I finally escaped, it was to find the same contempt and pity on every street corner. I won’t–I can’t invite more. I won’t have them stare and cluck their tongues and shake their heads when they think I’m not looking. I won’t be singled out as less than.”

His voice cracked on the last, and when he swallowed it burned. Someone had taken a knife and scraped his throat raw. Hot tears pricked at his eyes, and when Renard tried to blink them away they just rolled down his face. He sank back down onto the couch with fists clenched. 

Lupin did not move. He did not speak. The seconds stretched onward. A minute passed. Only when Renard’s breathing ease did he scoot forward. “Hey. Oliver. You wanna know what else makes people stare? What else makes people shake their heads and cluck their tongues and treat you like a moron?”

Renard ran a hand under his nose. “What?” he asked, too exhausted for riddles.

Lupin took a deep breath. Then he reached his hand up, and combed back his thick, dark hair to reveal the strands of silver. 

“Age,” Lupin said. He lowered his hand back to his side. “And all its latent, unpleasant side effects. But I can’t help my age anymore than you can help your back. It sucks, but–well, c’est la vie. I can worry about people judging me for something I can’t help, or I can plan a daring, lucrative heist. I don’t have the energy to do both.”

“How?” Renard’s voice was raw. “How do you ignore them?”

“Oh, I have a mantra. It’s simple, but it works.”

“What is it?”

“Fuck ‘em.”

Something that was almost a laugh–but not quite–escaped Renard. Lupin grinned. “Age is slowing me down. Maybe it doesn’t look like it from your end, but it is. Like, man, I cannot fall asleep on this couch or my back will kill me.” He aimed a few comically frustrated punches at one of the couch pillows. “But I’m learning how to make do. And I’m learning that people will underestimate what an old man can do.”

“No one underestimates you,” Renard murmured.

“You did.”

Renard had no good reply to that. He didn’t move as Lupin scooted even further into his space. “Take their assumptions, and use it against them. Let them think the guy with the cane isn’t a threat. At the end of the day, you’ll be the one laughing all the way to…to…well, where do you want to laugh to?”

“Rio?” Renard suggested.

“Rio! I like it! So, what do you think?”

Lupin’s eyes were bright with an odd gleam, and Renard couldn’t help but think that whatever cane he got would contain its fair share of thieving tools. He had to admit, the idea had appeal…but still pride kept his back. He was only twenty-two, he didn’t want to be treated like some old man…

Some of his hesitation must have shown, because Lupin sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

Renard half-rose to follow. “Where are you–”

“Stay right there.” Lupin pointed to the couch. “This is private stuff.” 

Renard watched, fascinated, as Lupin crossed to a bookcase and yanked on a particular book. A latch clicked, and Lupin effortlessly swung the bookcase away from the wall. He stepped behind it, into an unseen room. The soft thuds of furniture and goods being moved echoed from with, as did Lupin’s grumbles:

“–know it’s in here somewhere–old bastard–never let me live this down–family history–important–I swear, Gramps–revenge for my stupid stunts–”

Lupin reappeared, and closed the bookcase behind him. He crossed back to Renard with a photo frame in hand. “If you can’t be like me–” He shoved the photo at Renard, who fumbled to accept it.

“–be like him.”

Renard stared at the aged photo. In it, a handsome older fellow smirked at the camera. He shared Lupin’s long face, his expressive eyebrows, his sharp nose. Even the smirk was the same, in truth. He seemed to be dressed for a night about town, what with the sleek black suit and the top hat perched jauntily on his head. In his left hand he held a pocket watch. In his right–

Renard’s heart skipped a beat.

And in his right, a cane.  

...

ICPO had gotten him a new hotel, closer to the BPD HQ, with only one bed. 

Yata stood by the bed and blinked blearily. His feet throbbed, and a dull ache had bloomed across his shoulders and forehead. He wanted nothing more than to kick off his shoes and drop into bed.

Instead, he checked the room over for bugs (both the biting kind and the listening kind). He dragged a chair around the room, inspecting corners and closets for hidden cameras. It felt good, in its own bizarre way, to push through exhaustion and do his due diligence. It made him feel stronger. 

It also kept him from thinking about the fact that he was alone. 

He'd never done this sweep without Zenigata before. And when Zenigata was gone, Renard had stepped into the space left behind–not neatly or cleanly, but still. He had been someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of. Alone, thoughts crawled against the interior of his skull like wasps trapped in a jar. 

Finally, there was nothing to do except sink onto the edge of the bed. He’d kept the lights off, leaving only pale moonlight peeking through the window. He ought to finish his reports, like he said he would. He ought to lay back and get some much-needed sleep.

Yata took out his phone and dialed. 

Facetime, of course. It was Inspector Zenigata’s favorite of modern communication tools; Lupin could mimic a voice easily enough, but harder to mimic a video call without prep. 

Zenigata picked up on the fourth ring. His warm, broad face filled the screen. “Yata. I had a feeling I'd hear from you today.” 

“When were you going to call me?”

A part of him quailed at his own flat, disaffected tone. This was his superior , he had no right to talk to him like that. But another part of him (and it was a part that sounded a lot like Renard) said he had a right to anger. 

Zenigata’s face fell. He propped his phone up somewhere on his desk; Yata could see the ramen noodle containers and piles of undone paperwork. 

“When were you going to call me?” Yata repeated. “When were you going to check on me? Do you know what kind of day I've had? Have you checked the news at all?” 

“I have,” Zenigata said quietly. “And I figured you’d be overwhelmed. I didn't want to add onto the pile.” 

“And before that? Do you know what I've been through in the past few days? Did Lupin fill you in? Or Jigen?” 

His stomach churned with mortification, but his tongue couldn't stop. He couldn't hurt Lupin, and he wouldn't hurt Renard–but Zenigata, his teacher, his mentor, he knew exactly how to hurt. 

Sure enough, Zenigata’s expression twisted. “Yata–”

“You’ll talk to Jigen, but not me!” 

“Yata–” 

“You’ll share your thoughts with everyone except your partner–!” 

"AGENT YATAGARASU!" 

Yata's tirade died on his tongue. The mortification boiled up from his stomach and into his throat, up to burn behind his eyes. He shrank back, suddenly remembering that Inspector Zenigata was the only one Lupin had ever had cause to respect. 

Zenigata stared at him, hard. But instead of ripping into him, he took a deep breath and shook his head. "I didn't check in on you, because I didn't think I had to. I didn't want to hover. I had complete confidence in you." 

"I don't," Yata's voice cracked. The burning mortification coalesced into tears trailing down his face. "I'm trying, I promise, I'm trying my best, but every time I turn around Lupin's there, acting like I don't know what I'm doing!” 

The past few days spilled out of him in a rush: Renard, SecureTech, the Vandewaters. How Lupin was there at every turn, treating him like a rookie on his first assignment. Zenigata did not stop him, or interrupt. Zenigata just listened. By the time Yata finished, his shirt collar was soaked through with tears, and his face and throat burned.  

He took a shallow, gasping breath, trying to get himself back under control. “I’m–I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to–” 

Zenigata hushed him. He reached towards the screen, as if he could put his hand through and reach Yata. “It's all right, Yata. It's all right. You've seen me crying over Lupin too many times not to know it's all right.” 

“He's the worst,” Yata muttered, rubbing at his puffy eyes. 

“He isn't,” Zenigata said. “He just seems like the worst right now. He has a strange way of caring.” 

“He made me look an idiot, in front of everyone, to protect me.”

Zenigata snorted before nodding. “That sounds right.” 

“He said you didn't talk to me, in case it got out that you were looking at MacMillan.” 

Zenigata nodded again. Amusement faded from his expression, leaving only concern and–guilt? He sighed before rubbing at his own eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice, “that I haven't called you. But it wasn't because I trust the Lupin Gang over you. It's because I trust you to make the right calls on your own.” 

“I’m trying. I am, I really am. It's just–I don't know if I'm doing the right thing.”

“Do you think MacMillan should be left to take a criminal’s money?” 

It wasn't even a question in Yata’s mind. Just the thought made him angry all over again. “Absolutely not.” 

“Then there you go. Lupin needs to serve his time, but he has his own codes. He’ll help you see this through, and then try to steal a Rembrandt on his way out. That's when you stop him.” 

Yata swallowed back a sour wad of phlegm and wiped his eyes again. “What about Renard?” 

“You know him better than I do. What about Renard?” 

“He wants to help too. It'd just be easier to accept the help if he weren't so annoying.” 

Zenigata’s laugh startled him out of his misery. “Well, that's the way it goes. Do me a favor, Yata.” 

“Sir?”

“Take the night off. Don't fill out any more reports, don't answer anymore emails. Get a snack from the front desk and put on some crappy television. You've done enough today. The work will be there tomorrow.” 

Did you give the same advice to Oscar? 

Yata almost asked the question. Almost. But asking risked ruining the way Zenigata was smiling at him. Asking risked the calm, gentle tone Zenigata spoke with. So he didn't. The questions, like the work, would still be there in the morning. 

“Yes, sir,” he said instead. “Thank you. And, um…I’m very sorry. For yelling at you.” 

To his immense relief, Zenigata just shook his head again. “We all have our bad days, Yata. Get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I appreciate it.” 

The call blinked off. Yata was left staring at his pale, tear-stained reflection. He sighed and set his phone on the bedside table, and then began to empty his coat pockets. Wallet, keys, notepad, pen–second pen?

Yata pulled the heavy, expensive fountain pen out of his pocket. He stared at it before rolling the note wrapped around it. 

Yatagarasu - 

If you throw this one away I'll just steal more. I've seen your notes, and good notes deserve a good pen. Thanks for saving my life.

-Oliver 

Renard, that complete– 

Ridiculous– 

Yata smiled, brushed away the last of his tears, and tucked the pen back into his pocket.