“Auggy, that may be the stupidest reason for doing something good I’ve ever heard.”

  “Kind of endearing though, right?”

  “Maybe a smidge.”

  “Enough to let me wash off in the lake?”

  “I already said no.”

  “Oh, come on, Detective.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant-detective. I don’t want to go into jail smelling like this. They’ll throw me in the drunk tank.”

  “As opposed to in general population with all the rest of the criminals.”

  “Hey, whoa, now. Easy on the labels. I may have done some illegal things, but I am not a criminal.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Auggy, but doing illegal things is exactly what makes you a criminal.”

  “That’s not fair,” he said. “Besides, what else was I supposed to do? I’m not allowed to petition outside City Hall. And I’ve been trespassed from most of the government buildings in Boston. Kind of hard to get a meeting when you can’t get within five hundred yards of anywhere.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re reaping what you sow.”

  “Look, just give me thirty seconds in the lake. You don’t want me getting in your car like this. Think of what it might do to your upholstery.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Auggy, but my car’s seen worse.”

  Which was the God’s honest truth. As we reached the entrance to the park, I spotted my vehicle, and Auggy made a surprised noise as we came up beside it, tilting his head to the side like a dog that had just bitten into a head of broccoli when he’d expected steak.

  “Uh, that’s your car?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Jesus, and I thought I had it rough. Are you like, working undercover or something?”

  “Feels like it some days, but no, I’m just trying to make it through the day.”

  To be fair, Auggy wasn’t completely out of line. My old Ford Crown Victoria was a station hand-me-down with faded gray paint and a bumper literally held together by duct tape. The seats were frayed, and sections of the cushioning had been dug out by a family of hamsters that had previously called the vehicle home. The radio didn’t work, and there was a wet, moldy smell coming from behind the dashboard. And don’t even get me started on the black smoke being expelled from the exhaust.

  When I said our division had zero funding, I meant just that. To the Brass, Blue Moon was an island of misfit toys and not worthy of department vehicles. Without Lieutenant Kermit calling in some favors, I would have been reduced to relying on public transportation to get around. As it was, we were going to need more vehicles if we were going to continue to grow. We weren’t quite desperate yet, but my car was running on fumes, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that we were one pothole away from being grounded.

  Running a division while under constant threat from the Upper Brass wasn’t easy. I’d won a small victory over Deputy Bulwark during the Fairy Wars, enough to get him off my back for a while, but it was a temporary ceasefire, and my gut told me it wasn’t going to last. If we were going to survive, then we would need allies within the department.

  Unfortunately, I’d made a substantial misstep last month when Code Enforcement had gifted us one of their new smart cars, and I’d smashed it to bits trying to apprehend Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. For the full story, see the Jade Enclave File. It’s public record.

  Suffice to say, once word got out, the goodwill of the other divisions had dried up. Partly because they didn’t want to incur the wrath of the Upper Brass, and partly because the estimated damages relating to that chase were still being tallied. Playing bumper cars and indiscriminately firing assault rifles through a city like Boston is not cheap. According to our legal expert, Pongo, we were covered, but there weren’t going to be any department vehicles coming our way anytime soon, and I’d started setting aside a portion of my paycheck to pay for future repairs.

  What we really needed was a case involving a haunted automotive garage or the ghost of a wayward mechanic. Something simple and easy to disprove that would leave the afflicted parties feeling so indebted that they’d offer to repair my vehicle for free. And as long as I was dreaming, I might as well throw in some uniforms, money for training, and an all-expense paid vacation to someplace tropical where I could lay in the sun and smell like a coconut.

  That would be nice.

  But since none of those things seemed likely to happen tonight, I probably needed to get on with my actual case.

  I gave Auggy a quick pat down but didn’t find any weapons. I hadn’t really expected to. Instead, he had an old tobacco pipe that didn’t smell like tobacco, a bag of some kind of seeds that he claimed to know nothing about. A picture of a cat that wasn’t his, and a spiral flipbook filled with pages of handwritten poetry.

  I placed them all inside his backpack, holding my breath against the animalic odor of raccoon that had seeped into the material, and was about to place him in the car when the hairs along the back of my neck suddenly stood up. For a brief moment I thought Auggy was about to try something, but he seemed remarkably relaxed, given the circumstances. I glanced past him, peering around just in time to see the new arrival as he stepped out from behind the bushes.

  He was in his early twenties, a couple inches shorter than I was, and husky, with green eyes and sandy brown hair curling near the tips. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, forest green yard company outfit adorned with a stitched emblem of a tiny elm tree leaf, the muted earth colors allowing him to blend seamlessly into the foliage.

  He stepped out onto the sidewalk and raised his hands into the air. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said slowly, reminding myself that standing in the bushes wasn’t actually a crime. Even if it was kind of weird. “Something I can help you with?”

  “Are you Mayfield?” he asked. “From Blue Moon Division? I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I need your help,” he said. “If you’ll just come with me, I can—”

  Auggy cut him off. “Whoa, pump the breaks there, little man. No one’s going anywhere. In case you didn’t notice, the lady is a little busy.” He twisted at the torso, jiggling his handcuffs. “If we don’t get down to the jail by midnight, they count it as a whole new day, which means I miss first appearance and can’t bail out until tomorrow. So how about you skedaddle and come back another time?”

  “Please,” the gardener said. “This is important.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked.

  “It’s better if I don’t say. There’s no telling who might hear. But if you’ll just come along, I have a car nearby, and a friend in need who—”

  Auggy cut him off. “Ah, ah, no can do. I’ve got a date with an intake officer who doesn’t think I’m totally disgusting. And after that, she needs to run by animal control and drop off Master Paco.” He glanced back at me and lowered his voice. “Just tell Junie I’ll be by to pick him up later.”

  I exhaled and rolled my eyes before motioning to the gardener. “Hold that thought.”

  I opened the backseat door and shoved Auggy inside. He tried to protest, but I tossed him in sideways across the seat and then pushed his feet in after him. Master Paco went in the trunk. I figured even if he woke up along the way and got free of my jacket, he would at least be contained.

  I slammed the trunk lid and then turned to regard the newcomer. “Much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

  “Please, you don’t understand.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “I can’t. Not out here. I just need you to trust me.”

  I drew in a long breath and then let it out in a huff and shook my head. “Sad to say I’m not real big on trust these days. Especially when it comes to strangers trying to get me into a car so they can drive me God-only-knows-where. I’m going to have to pass.”

  “You’re making a mistake. There are things happening. Horrible things.”

  “Things that can’t be spoken of or discussed,” I said, feeling my patience begin to run short. “Look, I’m about done for the night. As soon as I drop Auggy off at the jail and Master Paco at Animal Control, I’m going home to rummage the ruins of my refrigerator and catch up on some sleep. You want to play cloak and dagger games, have at it. But if you want to report a crime, come by the Blue Moon office tomorrow morning and I’ll be more than happy to speak with you. Otherwise, have a good night.”

  The gardener’s mouth slowly closed, and I could feel his eyes on me as I came around the side of the car and dropped down into the driver’s seat. I brought the engine to life and pulled away from the curb, making a point of not looking back through my rearview mirror as we drove away.

  Home Sweet Home. Wednesday, August 5th 2355hrs.

  I drove Auggy to the county jail. The sprinklers were running when we arrived, and I relented at the end and allowed him to rinse himself before pulling into the intake bay. He walked in soaking wet with his head held high, and didn’t bother to look back as the guards took him inside to be processed. I stayed just long enough to finish my report and handed the jail their copy before heading back to my car.

  I left a black trail of smoke in my wake as I pulled out of the sally port, and the stuttering coughs coming from my trunk told me that Master Paco had finally woken up. I did my best to ignore his cries as I drove back to the city, all the while wishing I had a working radio to drown out the noise.

  Boston’s Animal Control office was located near the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, in the Old City Hall building. I pulled in along the back near Court Square and called Junie, our animal control officer, to see if he would meet me there. He said he’d be out in a minute, and I waited five before exiting the vehicle.

  Master Paco was in quite the state by the time I opened the trunk. Angry beyond reason, he also refused to vacate the space. I tried poking him with the edge of my flashlight, but he hissed and swiped with his claws, and we ended up in a stalemate that lasted until Junie finally arrived.

  “Hey now,” he said. “What’s all this about?”

  Master Paco let out a squeak and threw himself into Junie’s arms, chittering like mad. Based on the way he held the trembling raccoon, you would have thought they were long lost cousins. Master Paco carried on for several minutes, casting several nasty glances back toward me before Junie finally got him calmed down.

  “Thanks for bringing him by, Chloe,” Junie said in a soothing voice as he stroked Master Paco’s fur. “I think I can take it from here,”

  “Have at it,” I said and slammed closed my trunk. I suspected from the smell that Master Paco had urinated inside. There was a faint Dr. Pepper aroma, but I wasn’t going to clean it tonight. I’d leave the trunk open and let it air dry.

  My apartment was located in the South End, on the second floor of a little Victorian row house overlooking Union Park. I parked along the curb, and made my way up the sidewalk, hesitating outside my door. A quick touch revealed the doorknob was still locked, but I’d taken it upon myself to cut two tiny chips, one in the doorknob, the other in the brick. They were still aligned exactly as I’d left them, so I unlocked my door, drew my gun, and stepped inside.

  They say home is where the heart is, but they neglected to mention how PTSD makes it impossible to relax when you’re worried that a killer clown might be lying in wait for you. Yankee Candle doesn’t have a soothing fragrance to dispel that fear.

  I’d begun minimizing my possessions shortly after the Boiled Sons Street case, limiting the number of things said clown or leprechauns could hide behind. As a result, my living room was down to the bare essentials: a couch, a lone end table, and a refurbished stationary exercise bike angled to face the television. I’d removed my coat closet door a while back and had adopted the habit of folding my jackets so that there were no hanging garments to crouch behind.

  A fish tank occupied most of my dining nook and served as a home to the dozen or so fish I’d purchased from Walmart. They danced between the various decorative pieces, including faux seaweed, a cheesy pirate skull with gold coins, and an English longsword covered in crustacean life that may or may not have been the legendary Excalibur. The jury was still out on that one.

  I finished my sweep of the living room and moved on to the bedroom, checking all the nooks and crannies, including those within the bathroom, which offered far less concealment for a hidden intruder since I’d traded out the traditional shower curtain for a translucent plastic sheet. Once I was convinced it was all clear, I holstered my firearm and made my way into the kitchen, where Yosemite stood waiting inside his cage.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, dipping my hand inside and rubbing my fingers along his back.

  Yosemite had been part of the hamster family who had nested inside my car, using the cushioning for their homes until the day I took possession. When they vacated, they’d left Yosemite behind, and I had adopted him at a time when we both needed the other.

  His auburn-colored fur bore two large white patches rising on opposite sides like twin rock formations that always reminded me of Yosemite Valley. He’d lost some weight this summer, likely because he’d been forced to skip a few meals when I got occupied by various cases, but I’d tried to make it up to him as best I could.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he glanced over to his empty food bowl, then back toward the pantry door. I nodded and made soothing noises to let him know I’d gotten the message before moving over to the counter and removing his hamster food from the shelf, along with my last fortune cookie.

  I refilled Yosemite’s bowl and gave him half of a fortune cookie to ensure our goodwill continued. After a moment’s hesitation, I said heck with it and threw in the other half as well.

  Yosemite waited to ensure there wasn’t more coming, then scampered across his cage, sending stuffing into the air and greedily diving into his food. I smiled and watched him eat before turning my attention toward my own meal.

  Opening my fridge revealed a lone container of chicken noodle soup purchased from Chinatown three days past. Ever since the Jade Enclave case I’d been getting it on the house, but even though it was my favorite I tried not to order more than once a week so as not to be perceived as a mooch.

  I pulled the chicken noodle soup from the fridge and ate it cold, not because I preferred it that way, but because I was too tired to heat it up. In all honesty, I would have been alright skipping food entirely, but I knew if I did then I would pay for it come morning. One of the drawbacks of using exercise as a coping mechanism meant I needed to be sure to get enough protein and salt to be able to function. Otherwise, I’d spend the day fighting muscle cramps.

  I drank the soup straight from the plastic container, tapping the bottom to loosen the last bits before dropping the empty container into the trash. I hadn’t been there enough for the trash to start overflowing, but I didn’t want to risk the smell attracting bugs, so I lifted the half-filled garbage bag out and tied the top off before dropping it into the can outside.

  Back inside, I triple locked my door and then went into my bedroom and stripped off my clothes, deciding to forgo the shower in favor of an oversized t-shirt. I laid my pistol onto the nightstand alongside my phone and dropped into bed. I’d taken to sleeping with the lights on, and tonight was no exception. Laying my head onto the pillow, I exhaled and tried hard to not think about how quickly morning would come.

  It proved to be prophetic.

  The sun had yet to make an appearance when the phone on my nightstand came to life, rousing me from my dreamless slumber and causing me to jerk upright. A low groan slipped out my mouth as my body started registering all the aches and pains I’d accumulated over the past few weeks. The Fairy War had been mentally and physically taxing, and getting my face kicked in by a bunch of kung fu vampires last month hadn’t helped. Add that to the dozens of smaller cases I was juggling at any one time and… well, suffice it to say I was running on fumes. Not so far gone that I’d begun hallucinating my dead former partner, but it was a close thing.

  My phone continued to ring, and a quick glance down revealed Rickson’s phone number. I hit the green button and brought it up to the side of my face, clearing my throat once before answering.

  “Hiya, Rick.”

  “Morning,” he greeted me. “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” I said. “Been up for a while now.”

  He snorted. “Liar.”

  “Got me. What can I do for you?”

  “Got something here you might want to take a look at.”

  I shifted positions on the bed. Rickson was a good friend, and one of the best cops I knew. He was a local hero, and not the type to call unless it was important. “What kind of something?”

  “Ghosts, I suppose. Only—” he hesitated, struggling to find the words, “darker somehow. Angrier.”

  “Wraiths?”

  “That’s as good a name as any.”

  “What did they do? Scare some old lady, or attack a couple in a park?”

  “More like they raided an apartment complex and tore the place up pretty good.”

  I grunted. “How bad is it?”

  There was a moment of silence before he said, “Look, you should get down here. I’ve got a feeling this thing is going to get dumped in your lap no matter what I say. At least this way you can get a head start on it.”

  A head start. Wouldn’t that be refreshing for a change?

  “Send me the address. I’m on my way.”

  Where the Ring Wraiths Roam. Thursday, August 6th 0645hrs.

  The address Rickson provided belonged to the Berkshire Village Apartments, which were located roughly thirty minutes south of downtown near Dorchester Center. The complex was comprised of four, two-story apartment buildings centered around a small courtyard. It wasn’t the type of place that would ever be confused with luxurious living, but the sidewalks were clean and the yards neatly trimmed. Well-kept rows of flower beds lined with dark soil housed small bushes bearing red and purple blooms.