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Sean Renard stands at the window and looks across at what he can see of the river. It is his day off, a day on which he appears on no duty rosters, no emergency lists. Even if a city-wide crisis hits today, it's supposed to be Captain Iveson who gets the call. Of course that has never stopped him spending days just like this one in his office, and he's self aware enough to know that's because it's the place in the world he feels most at home, but today he is having a day off. The trouble is it's raining.
He prides himself on standing alone, needing to love no-one (and maybe that's less self aware), but the truth is he loves Portland. He didn't just end up here by accident or whim, he chose to live here, and his possessive Royal instincts mean by now he feels bound to this city in a way even he didn't expect. He loves 'keep Portland weird' (if only they knew), he loves the passion for coffee and soccer and roses. He loves the fact it's a living, working, bustling city. He loves the rivers, the bridges, the parks. It has areas that are not so beautiful, but he loves it for that too. And outside the city he loves the grandeur of Mount Hood, keeping them honest with its reminder that even the boldest plans of humans and Royals and Wesen are as nothing to the power of the earth. The one thing he maybe doesn't love quite so much is the rain.
Renard doesn't know how many inches of rain are forecast for today but he knows it's too many. He's done the necessary chores, there is nothing pressing requiring his attention and now he's restless. He could stay in of course, listen to music, read. He reads widely, sometimes unexpectedly. His current pile includes a book on the Cold War, a biography and an English crime novel from the 1930s. But he doesn't fancy any of them. He wants to be out.
It would be nice, he thinks, to be the kind of Wesen that could just run through the rain, Monroe and Rosalee, blutbad and fuchsbau. Given his name he sometimes wonders what it would be like to be a fuchsbau: wily, dangerous in a fight, and yet at the opposite end of the scale to his own woge when it comes to appearance - other Wesen generally like looking at fuchsbaus, like fuchsbaus. Probably why so many of them run businesses. And how does it feel to put on fur and run free? That's not an option for him though so he goes and puts on jeans, boots, a cap and a heavy jacket instead and heads to the door.
The first cold, wet impact of the rain is unpleasant but as he walks he gets used to it. He heads downhill towards the river, waits to cross the road, the cars going past with lights on and windshield wipers working furiously. He steps forward slightly to draw the attention and meet the eye of a driver going too fast for the conditions, is gratified to see the brake lights come on as the vehicle passes him.
The path by the river is deserted and his long legs carry him along swiftly, burning off his restlessness. As he gets closer to downtown he heads away from the water, wanting busier streets, the hustle of people. He approaches a small group of teenagers, fourteen or fifteen years old maybe, sheltering from the rain where a bridge crosses over the path. He can see they are egging each other on to some misdeed, all turned in towards something. He looks to see what has caught their attention and then alters his path so that he walks right through the group, rather than to the side. They scatter out of his way, call him one or two unflattering names, but he's too big and imposing a figure for them to trouble him more. The little cat flees out into the rain, understanding that to be the lesser of two evils.
The streets are still busy, despite the rain, and if there are slightly fewer pedestrians than normal the fact they all have their heads down, umbrellas and rainwear hiding eyes, makes progress slower. He's always been tall, always the one at the back of photographs, the one whose head is above the rest. He likes it, likes being able to look out over the hats and hoods and umbrellas, see the patterns of movement. He spots a point of stillness, looks to see why. An elderly woman, smartly dressed for shopping rather than rain, huddled under an umbrella and looking side to side as though not sure which way to turn. He stops - an unthreatening distance away, hands out of his pockets - and asks if she's ok. She's lost, confused by the rain and the crowds and the changing store fronts, can't quite remember where she gets her bus. He says he's heading in the same direction, slows his pace to hers until they're round the corner and she clearly recognises where she is. She tells him he's a nice young man, which makes him smile as he considers himself none of these things.
Renard turns into a coffee shop, one he hasn't been in before. It's full, steamy with wet people and wet clothes. He orders his coffee, finds a just vacant table, shrugs off his coat. He goes to push the used cups and detritus left on the table away from him when he notices writing, a word on one of the napkins. His eye is caught because the word is 'fuchsbau'.
He looks at the napkin closely. It hasn't been written on, not directly. It's the thin sort from the metal holder on the table and it looks as though someone has grabbed a handful, written on the top one and the ink has seeped through. The word is only partial but it's clear enough to his eyes. Underneath this is a distinct figure three, so clear it was perhaps written over several times on the top sheet, followed by something that has come through only in spots, then something that looks like a mix of figures and letters, identifiable in places, a four, a letter e.
He looks at the metal napkin holder. As usual it is over-full, impossible to take out just one. Presumably the writer took his or her handful, made notes, took that one with them and left the others on the table, not noticing the word left behind. The writing, such as it is, goes up at an odd angle, the writing, perhaps, of someone with a phone in one hand, trying to write and hold the thin paper with the other.
Fuchsbau. Odd after his thoughts earlier in the day. Not a word a sensible Wesen would leave behind but it probably wasn't intentional and these things do happen. Still, odd.
He takes a sip of his coffee, turns the napkin thoughtfully. A ballpoint pen, he thinks, one not working very well. It's left indentations in the thin paper and now he looks closely he can see little specks of ink on the table, as though the recalcitrant pen was shaken in frustration.
On a whim he turns to the woman at the next table, asks her if she saw who was sitting here before him. She shrugs, no idea, goes back to her conversation.
So, what can he work out. Two chairs, two mugs, two people. Ordinary mugs like his own, not fancy coffee in hugely oversized cups or glasses. There is no trace of lipstick or balm on the rims, which doesn't tell him much in the negative. In fact the main point is that neither is empty - one is a third full, the other about half. You don't usually leave that much behind unless you suddenly have to leave - or possibly if the coffee is awful, which it isn't. So, a phone call, notes on the napkin and the two leave straightaway, out into the rain without finishing their drinks.
He looks again at the the napkin, holds it up so the light catches it at an angle. Ash would work, he thinks, but not an option here. The coffee shop does some food so he goes across to the counter where the silverware and condiments are, gets a couple of small paper packets of pepper.
Back at his table he takes the napkin, sprinkles the pepper carefully across, shakes off the excess, leaning back to avoid breathing it in. That's better, the dark powder has settled in the pen marks, made the writing much clearer. 'Fuchsbau' is now undeniable, the line underneath has '3 sec camer' and the third line looks like an address. There are a few words in English that start 'camer' but surely the commonest is camera. Three security cameras?
This could all be nothing of, course, probably is nothing (and maybe he's read too many Golden Age English detective novels lately) but he's interested. He looks at the third line, the address. The numbers are clear, the street name much harder to make out. But he's sitting right in the heart of his city, his precinct, and he knows it intimately, as lovers do. After some thought he comes up with four, maybe five possibilities. He takes out his phone, taps in the possible addresses. Two are residential, one doesn't seem to exist, one is a bakery. The fifth one is a jewellery store.
Now, that makes it more interesting. And it can't hurt to take a look. He finishes his slightly peppery coffee and heads back out into the rain.
The jewellery store is small but looks quite prosperous. There are bars, decorative but also functional, across the windows and the door is shut, the sign turned to closed. There is a bell next to the door and having come this far he rings it. No answer. He looks again. According to the notice in the window the store should be open at this hour and he can see that there are metal grilles which will come down across window and door. So, not locked up properly. The owner might be in doing his books, having something to eat, making out with his girlfriend, but he's rung the bell enough times that he thinks if someone was in there they'd have come to see who's creating all the noise.
Renard goes into the next-door store, a dress shop, middle aged woman in charge. He asks if the jewellery store opened as usual and she assures him it did, Rick Lawrance always opens on time and never shuts early, no matter how quiet it is. There's access at the back but there's a high wall between the stores. He goes out and looks, the manager hovering in the doorway out of the rain. A light is on, just visible over the wall and he's concerned enough now that he decides to climb over, whatever the loss to his dignity (it's a very high wall). The dress shop manager brings a chair to the doorway, he puts it next to the wall, stands on it and hauls himself across.
Renard bangs on the rear door, still no response, goes to look through the barred window. He's looking into a room that is part store room, part kitchen. There's a faucet and presumably sink directly below the window, a wooden table and a chair off to the left - and the legs and feet of a man lying face up on the floor to the right.
He pulls out his phone and calls 911.
The two patrolmen who arrive are rather startled and a little flustered to find Captain Renard himself waiting for them. But they've got a battering ram to break down the door and know how to use it and he gets them quickly focused on the task in hand. Once inside he's the first to the sprawled figure - unconscious not dead, blood sticky in his hair and on the floor. He's been hit a few times, split lip and bruised face, but it's the blow to the back of the head which is the serious injury. There is short, reddish hair caught around the wound on the mouth and Renard suspects the man was in his fuchsbau woge when he was struck. He's late sixties, thin, looks like he'd make a rather scrawny fox. There is the sound of sirens, the paramedics on their way. Renard crouches down, looking at the still figure, the blood on the floor.
This is Richard Lawrance, identified from both the neighbour's earlier description and the wallet in his jacket pocket. If his assailants hit him on the back of the head why turn him over? He frowns and pushes Lawrance's jacket further open. One of the belt loops on his pants has been cut open, the freed belt riding up over the man's shirt. The material of his pants is rubbed just below this, marked and roughened. Renard recognises this phenomenon from years of having his badge fastened to his belt - although his pants are never allowed to get anywhere near this level of wear. The worn area is large and he suspects it was a substantial set of keys that Lawrance kept there. The paramedics arrive and Renard moves out of the way, goes to look out front. There are a lot of items missing in the store, empty trays in the display cabinets, but to his experienced eye it's been a hasty sweep. These two are always in a rush to get away.
He goes to talk the dress-store manager, still here although she should be locking up by now. Richard Lawrance has a workshop somewhere, makes some of his own jewellery - she doesn't know the address or the location. Renard tells the two patrolmen to start looking through the filing cabinets in the back room, see if they can find an address for the workshop, calls the precinct, gets Wu, tells him to start looking too. He has a thought and goes to ring Rosalee Calvert, realises he hasn't got her number with him. Calls Nick. Wesen of the same kind often know each other, at least of each other. Rosalee might not know Lawrance but she might well know someone who does.
Nick is just leaving the precinct and he says he'll ring Rosalee and then will come on over, just in case. He arrives at the same time as the paramedics leave with Lawrance and just as Wu calls, the winner in the find-the-workshop-address competition. Renard tells Wu to send a patrol car, no sirens, to the address and he and Nick head to the car and for the same place.
They get there first - a small industrial unit amongst several others. Lawrance's is the only one showing a light through narrow horizontal windows, well above even Renard's eye level. He cups his gloved hands and Nick puts one wet, booted foot into them, Renard hoists him up and Nick catches the sill of the window, peers through. He gives a very slight sound of surprise at what he sees, says 'ok' quietly. Renard lets him down.
Inside there is a skalengeck and a lot of gold. In his brief glance Nick has seen jewellery, gold cups, even swords. Swords, for heaven's sake. All in an industrial lock up. Portland really is weird.
The patrol car arrives, Officers Duke and Lindberg, lights off, no sirens as ordered. Renard sends them to cover the back, emphasises to them that this suspect is dangerous - it's a skalengeck, he's not lying. He and Nick go to the door at the front, Nick with his gun drawn. Nick counts down and on 'one' they kick the door and it crashes open satisfyingly.
The skalengeck looks up, face as startled as you can get with a lizard, and Nick shouts the warning, gun towards him. The skalengeck turns, and dives towards the unarmed Renard, thinking this might be an escape route. Renard lets the zauberbiest off the leash for a second and that stops the skalengeck in its tracks. It's looking warily at him and he catches the slight downward slide of it's eyes towards the swords lying on a table between them. Renard has one of the weapons in his hand before he even thinks about it.
"Forget it. I'm quicker than you and I know how to fight with a sword. Not to mention you have a gun trained on you and it's being held by a Grimm"
The skalengeck looks at Renard, across at Nick and sensibly puts his hands in the air, retracts back to a pale faced man in his thirties. They have him down on the floor and and cuffed and Renard lets Duke and Lindberg in. The skalengeck's already given them the names of the two reinigen who carried out the robbery at the jewellery store, got him the keys. Duke and Lindberg escort him off to the patrol car, Nick calls the precinct, gives them the names, the two will be in custody by morning.
The room has a work area, a ratty old couch, two large tables and a smaller one with a camping stove on it. There are three very large metal safes in the room, all of which are open, with a big bunch of keys still hanging from the lock of the one furthest from the door. The contents have all been lifted out and the skalengeck has been packing things with some care into crates. There is an amazing amount - mostly gold but also silver, pewter, fine metalwork of all sorts. The contrast between the dingy room and the brilliance of the safe contents is almost painful. Richard Lawrance is a hoarder. He lives in a tiny, barely furnished apartment, spends most of his time in this workshop, has spent all the profits of a successful business lifetime on beautiful objects in order to keep them in a safe.
Renard is looking at the sword. It really is lovely workmanship, the intricate swirls of the pattern welded blade, the richly decorated hilt. Nick's voice interrupts his thoughts,
"You really learn sword fighting?"
He looks round, "Yes, we did have some lessons when I was a child."
Nick shakes his head, "So not on the curriculum at my school."
He laughs, gives the beautiful steel one final caress with his fingertip. Notices Nick watching him,
"Don't worry - just beautiful to look at but no powers, other than the obvious."
Renard thinks back to their last fuchsbau jeweller, given their reputation he's surprised he hasn't thought about the Coins of Zakynthos in a very long time, hopes Richard Lawrance hasn't got anything remotely similar.
They wait for the CSI team, the officers who will stand guard on all this wealth. Nick rings Rosalee, updates her about cousin Rick (he actually was, it turns out, a distant although unknown relation). When all is in hand they're free to go.
Renard gladly accepts Nick's offer of a lift - it's still raining and the appeal of the walk home has long since worn off. They put their wet jackets in the back and Nick turns up the heat. As they move away Nick looks across at him,
"So was it just chance you were at that store or did you have information?"
"It wasn't chance exactly but it's a long story."
Nick looks again. Renard doesn't know if it's because he's in Hank's seat, not in his Captain uniform of suit and tie or just that Nick's ever tumultuous domestic life means he doesn't want to go home, but Nick unexpectedly asks,
"You fancy a beer?"
They go to a bar, order a beer, discover they're both starving and get a burger and fries each. Renard tells Nick of his day, the napkin, the pepper, the wall, and they discuss the events in the workshop. That takes them through to mopping up the last few grains of salt with the last few fries. They have another beer, talk a little shop, as colleagues will, and then - maybe because it's been on his mind all day - they talk about Portland. What they like, its quirks, it's passions. And without saying it directly, why they both live here rather than anywhere else in the world, why they both love this city, the city they both protect.
After Nick drops him off Renard finds himself again in front of his window. The rain has finally stopped, the cloud is ragged, moon peeking through. He can see his reflection in the glass, superimposed over the view. Zauberbiest. Prince. Captain Sean Renard of the Portland Police Bureau. He's enjoyed his day off.