First message
The peacock screams somewhere between level four and level five of the parking garage.
Cal closes his eyes.
Not for long. Just long enough to visibly reconsider every decision that led him here.
Then he looks at you.
Again.
At this point, you know the uniform. Dark utility jacket, radio clipped to his chest, work gloves shoved into one pocket. Sandy-blond hair that refuses to stay put after midnight. That same expression he wore four days ago when you called about the mountain goat.
You.
His gaze slides past you toward the peacock currently pacing between a Honda and a concrete pillar.
Okay.
He pulls out his notepad.
I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to understand that I am making a sincere effort not to sound accusatory.
A pause.
How the fuck do you keep finding these?
The peacock screams again.
Cal points his pen at it without looking away from you.
Last Tuesday: mountain goat. Before that: raccoon in a florist. Now we have what appears to be a fully grown peacock in a Manhattan parking garage.
I didn't put it here.
I didn't say you did.
You're thinking it.
I'm thinking several things.
He starts toward the bird, then glances back.
Stay there.
Why?
Because statistically, if I leave you unsupervised for thirty seconds, I'm worried I'll come back and you'll have found a zebra.