Trace took a right turn onto Bayshore Boulevard, accelerating the Buck coupe as he cleared the turn. The vehicle rumbled briefly when the wheels bumped through the tram tracks on the center lanes. Azerda sat next to him, eating from her flax seed package while kicking the front bench – her rear hooves were too short to reach the carpeted car floor. "Are you finished?" he grumbled, his eyes still on the road.
Azerda chewed her seeds loudly. "What's wrong? Can't a mare enjoy a ride?"
"You're several years my elder, and yet I feel like I'm driving an obnoxious teenager to hoofball practice," Trace retorted, pointing a talon at the zebra mare. "I don't have to bring you along, you know. You're a private investigator and you have no legal jurisdiction."
"If I weren't there, you would have been running circles around that investigation. I heard the WPD likes solving these cases quickly for good press."
"We made progress on that investigation together," Trace corrected, briefly eyeing Azerda as he pulled on the manual gear lever. The apartments and houses gradually transitioned into warehouses and factories, roofed in drab corrugated steel. The poorly maintained concrete and brick walls were covered with graffiti. "And I don't care about good press or making money. All I want is to find the truth."
"Alright, noble detective. Keep saying that when you're begging in the streets," Azerda returned sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Every creature likes to act like they're some altruist, but push comes to shove, they care about their personal gain. At least I'm transparent about it."
"If the crime scene was staged, then that means that our driver for the military equipment is our prime suspect. Our suspect wanted us to assume it was some mob shooting and have us go on a wild goose chase," Trace said, changing the subject.
Trace made another left turn, this time onto Bath Street. The two-lane industrial road was dotted with patches of darker colored asphalt and covered in piles of trash lining against the sidewalk. They stopped in front of a red brick building with wide windows wrapping around the perimeter, connected to a small warehouse. An inactive lighted sign read on top of the door: Squall Line Logistics. A few Lightstar trucks parked neatly side by side in front of the warehouse's loading gates, though most of the parking spots remained empty; the drivers were already out for work. Azerda briefly observed that most of the trucks had flat cushions rather than car seats, much too low and close to the wheel for a hippogriff driver to operate.
He pulled the parking lever and shut the engine off, grabbing the abandoned truck's registration slip on his dashboard. The two got off the police car, and Trace pushed the door open into the building. Azerda followed Trace, but not before the door swung back and nearly hit her face if not for a timely block with her forehoof.
The lobby of the building was floored with pine hardwood, with a few metal chairs next to the entrance tucked together as a waiting area. In front of them was a cerise hippogriff with glasses, eating a tuna salad sandwich while staring at a stack of papers in front of her L-shaped desk. She was dressed quite simply, wearing a coral red sweater vest over a dress shirt. A typewriter, desk lamp, and all sorts of office tools lay near the corner, and the desk fan facing towards the lobby did little to provide relief for the hot and stuffy environment. Behind her was a row of file cabinets, a potted Kirian evergreen which was growing patchy from over-watering, and a map of the city of Winggarden pinned against the wall – the city followed a rough radial grid pattern that surrounded the crescent-shaped bay.
The cerise hippogriff looked up from her papers, standing up from her swivel chair as Trace and Azerda entered the room. "Oh! What can I do for you?" she greeted.
"Detective Trace Drizzle and Miss Zamarata, ma'am. Are you in charge here?" Trace asked, ignoring the irritated stare from Azerda.
"Yes, I am. Parcel Post. Is there a problem?" Parcel took another bite from her sandwich.
Azerda patted the crumbs off her flannel shirt and looked straight at Parcel, who stopped chewing. "Are you missing any trucks lately?"
Parcel blinked and swallowed her food. "No? All of our drivers have clocked in like normal."
The zebra leaned her hoof on the table and beckoned the hippogriff proprietor. Parcel shuffled back uncomfortably. "We found a truck with missing plates and a registration slip that goes right back to your company. A freight company like you must have some records lying around here. Hoof over the employee time sheet."
"Erm, sure. But this is very unusual. I don't remember having any worker trouble lately," Parcel muttered, turning around and opening the file cabinet behind her. She took out a sheet of paper and reluctantly placed it in front of Azerda.
Trace placed the yellow registration slip next to the sheet, pointing to the serial number at the top. "B4861," he read aloud the plate number.
Azerda scanned her eyes down the sheet. Jezalla Zatyb. Kanmi Tammuzit. Zyrum Varzel. "Interesting set of names, Parcel. You seem to like hiring Warzenans and Zumidians a lot," she commented, flipping the sheet over and stopping at the top. "B4861. Operated by a Zephon Zaqhatid. Clocked in at around two in the morning."
Trace's eyebrows furrowed as he checked his watch. "It's almost eleven, Mrs. Parcel Post. Your driver should have been clocking out an hour ago."
Parcel adjusted her glasses. "Zaqhatid said he would work overtime. I was going to pay him double when he returns at noon," she answered hastily.
Azerda slammed her hoof on the table, prompting Parcel to jump up with a yelp. "That's the best lie you can come up with, birdbrain? I looked over the time sheet and around half of the drivers on this sheet should be off for work, but more than four-fifths of the trucks outside are still missing. You're full of it," she exclaimed, pointing her hoof only a couple centimeters away from her chest.
"Alright, Azerda. Calm down," Trace placed Azerda's hoof down, tapping the table with his free claw. "Mrs. Parcel, Arisian labor laws limit work days to eight hours a day, five days a week. Demanding employees work almost ten hours a day without overtime pay is a violation of workers' rights."
Parcel gulped and pushed her glasses again, almost out of habit. "They're...uh, they're not employees. They're independent contractors," she clarified weakly.
"You're employing foreign zebra workers as 'independent contractors'? So you can pay them less and force them to work longer, Mrs. Parcel?"
"W-what I did was legal, sir. There's nothing wrong with hiring contractors!"
Azerda's eyes narrowed. I've had enough of this slimy hookbeak. "That's the second time I've heard that excuse today," she snapped, pacing a few steps before glaring back at Parcel. "Tell us Zephon Zaqhatid's address right now! Or do you want me to dig through your company files?"
"O-okay, alright! 1281 Seaforth Lane, at the Communication Hill neighborhood," Parcel sputtered out.
Trace placed a claw to his tie and whistled insincerely. "Sorry, Miss Parcel. I'm afraid I did as much as I could to control my partner here, especially as she isn't under the authority of our police department here. Do you have any delivery records tied to Mr. Zaqhatid?" he questioned calmly. "If you cooperate, I may consider placing a good word for the Ministry of Labor. Perhaps a generous fine to pay your so-called 'contractors' would be more preferable to shutting down your business."
Parcel nodded slowly, staring at Azerda uneasily while she pulled out a beige folder from a different cabinet; Zaqhatid, Z, 05-1024 was labeled on the folder's tab in thin, black marker. "...Here. This should cover his deliveries since the start of the month."
Trace slid the folder in front of Azerda and him, flipping it open to reveal a small stack of papers, one sheet for each day. He split the stack in half, passing one half to Azerda. "You start from the most recent date in descending order, and I'll start from the beginning of the month," Trace instructed, scanning the paper with his claw. "We need to check for any unusual patterns in the addresses and shipments. I have a good feeling Zaqhatid might be involved in the military equipment heist."
The two spent a little more than ten minutes reading through the stack quietly; Azerda had paused briefly to get a paper cup from a water dispenser near the back of the office, earning her a stern look from Trace. "How many times do you see a 325 Barracuda Drive, Trace?" Azerda asked. "I have two for the 11th and the 8th."
"1st, 4th, and the 6th. Mr. Zaqhatid seems to be visiting this address every other work day, at around six in the morning. The shipped packages are all categorized as 'small' as well," Trace pointed out, looking up at the city map on the wall. He walked around to the back of the table, forcing Parcel Post to shift away with her swivel chair to make room for the detective. Trace located a red dot on the map, corresponding to the building on Bath Street the two were currently in.
"That's five times in the last two weeks. He would have been doing another delivery today, but I can't find the Barracuda address for today's schedule," Azerda stated, taking one last sip from her near-empty cup of water. "Not one to jump into conclusions, but these deliveries seem a bit too routine. If I was some creature or business, I would be ordering my shipments in bulk instead of wasting money on smaller shipments every few days."
Trace studied the map further. The red dot was in the southwest of the city against the port. With his claw, he traced the route Zaqhatid's truck would take down Bayshore Boulevard, the main arterial along the waterfront, moving north onto Coral Street where they had found the truck crash. Finally, the hippogriff located Barracuda Drive, three kilometers east of Coral and near the city's downtown. "What's the last delivery location Zaqhatid made around four today, Azerda?"
Azerda flipped over to the bottom-most sheet. "140 Turquoise Street. Delivery was expected to be complete at around 4:15," she said.
Trace tapped his claw where Turquoise Street was, right between Coral and Barracuda. "That explains the crash. Whoever Zaqhatid was working with, they had set up the crash en route for one of his normal delivery routes. Then they could mask the weapons heist with a shootout, and the company would be none the wiser," he concluded.
Azerda closed the folder and pushed herself away from the table. “Are there any notable features that can help identify Zephon Zaqhatid, Miss Parcel?” Trace added, turning to the cerise hippogriff.
“He had hazel blue eyes. I don’t know, a lot of them look the same,” Parcel answered, pausing to anxiously glimpse at Azerda’s scowling face. “I-I mean…he had a slicked back striped mane with a small ponytail. And he’s a little taller than your zebra partner, I guess. Around his thirties like her, too. We don’t keep any pictures of our employees around here.”
Trace nodded. “Thank you for your time. I expect a 200 Seashell payout for each employee by the end of the month. Does that sound reasonable, Miss Parcel?” he demanded with a firm look.
"Will I get compensation for–erm...yes, Detective."
Trace walked out of the building after her response. Azerda appeared to follow him out at first, but stopped in front of the entrance to glance back at Parcel. With a smirk, she lightly bucked the waste bin next to the door, tipping it over and pouring its contents – a mix of food wrappings, stationery, and crumpled paper cups – onto the hardwood floor.
The two quietly got back into the police car. Once Trace closed the driver's door, he looked at Azerda. "We'll head to Zaqhatid's house at Seaforth Lane first. Communication Hill is closer to the industrial park here, and it's along the way," Trace explained, turning the ignition. The engine rumbled to life and he pulled the parking lever down. "I thought you were all about the money. But a cheapskate boss exploiting cheap migrant workers for some extra Seashells is too much?"
Azerda snorted. "All the money that's mine, I at least made fair and square. She's just a leech."
Trace sighed and reversed the vehicle onto the road. "Winggarden could use more investigators like you in the police department, Azerda. The fact that you went off at Miss Parcel for using your fellow zebras means you still have some sense of justice left."
The zebra mare looked out the window, seeing the flat-roofed industrial buildings pass by. "It's Winggarden, Trace Drizzle. A city of broken dreams and a rotten cesspit."
"Well, it's my rotten cesspit!" Trace exclaimed. "I remember growing up here, before the fascists and the Nightmarists ruined everything. It was a great city once, one that wasn't tainted by opportunists and mobsters. I joined the police force so I can clean this place up. Is that too much to ask?"
Azerda sat up and stared at Trace. His claws were tightening on the steering wheel like a vice while he spoke. "...Excuse me," he muttered, loosening his grip.
The rest of the ten minute ride was silent, save for the noise of the engine as the car reached its destination. They stopped in front of a brick row house near the corner of Seaforth Lane and Foam Drive. The row house had seen better days; the front door was made of cheap plywood, likely a replacement due to how poorly framed the door was. Graffiti covered the open side wall facing the street corner and a broken sofa was placed on the sidewalk.
Communication Hill was named after a long gone Arisian fort that was once on the hill, formerly used to signal incoming ships by flag. The area had rapidly expanded after the discovery of a nearby oil field, leading to its eventual municipal annexation by the city of Winggarden. That was before the days of Legation rule; the neighborhood had been vacated more than a decade ago due to the ruthless crackdowns by the Chiropterran-dominated Joint Command, and the Zumidian refugee crisis forced zebras to live in the deteriorating and neglected residences.
"Heard of this place on the radio. Called it one of the worst eyesores of the city, and City Council wanted to replace it with a public housing project," Trace commented, shutting the engine off.
"What's going to happen to all the residents?" Azerda asked, wafting the smell of burning plastic seeping into the car. A short sweep of her surroundings showed a zebra tiredly burning her trash in her front yard, a thick plume of smog leaking from her incinerator's chimney.
"Move them all into the new project, I think. The Royal Advisory Council hasn't approved the funding yet."
Or leave them all homeless. Azerda snorted and trotted out of the vehicle, closing the car door behind her. "Let's see if any creature is home first," Trace added.
Trace flew up to check the second floor windows while Azerda trotted towards the front door, giving it a short knock. Seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a short tan earth pony with a cigarette in her mouth. The mare in her early twenties was wearing a black leather jacket and white shirt, and her flank had a cutie mark of a radio dial. "First time I've seen you around here," the earth pony remarked. She removed her cigarette and took a deep exhale, blowing a small cloud of smoke; the smell of tobacco was familiar to Azerda, though the zebra had quit long enough to prevent her cravings from taking over. "Are you looking for Clock Drift or somepony else? My sister's at work."
Tobuckian accent. The city-state of Tobuck further south was the first victim of conquest by the Nightmarist state of Chiropterra, and it was no secret that the annexed pony-majority "republic" was a smuggler's den for military equipment. Although most Tobuckians fled to Equestria or the Griffonian continent, Tobuckian refugees on the Aris Archipelago was not unheard of. "What's your name? And does Zephon Zaqhatid live around here?" Azerda asked.
"Zaqhatid? I don't remember somepony like that living here," the mare responded with a blink of confusion. "Sounds like a zebra's name, though. Anyways, the name’s Static Noise. We split the rent with four others, including my sister and me.”
Trace flew down next to Azerda and raised an eye. "You've never heard of Zephon Zaqhatid, Miss Static Noise? Slicked back mane, hazel blue eyes, shorter than your average stallion?" he questioned.
"I mean, we have two zebras living around here, and one of them has blue eyes," Static said nonchalantly, placing the cigarette back into her mouth. "That sounds like Izavel. His bedroom is the first door on the left. He shares it with Abirami, some other zebra. Abirami's at work too."
Trace looked at Azerda. "You go check out Zaqhatid's...or well, Izavel's room, Azerda. I'll ask Miss Static Noise here a few questions. Something doesn't feel right here."
A zebra with different names. What gives? Azerda looked inside the row house, which was almost as dilapidated as the exterior. The living room was cramped, with the dining table and pewter cupboard leaving little in the way of walking space. The wooden floorboards creaked as she trotted across them towards the staircase. Reminds me of my old home back in Zirta.
The second floor was dark and musty; the bathroom door right in front of the staircase was open to offer some natural light, showing a leaking toilet and a freestanding tub on missing flooring. The bathroom's wall corners were caked with soap scum and mildew.
Izavel's bedroom was in marginally better condition. Two beds flanked each side, with a writing desk in front of the window facing onto the street. There was at least an attempt to clean up the bedroom; the sheets were neatly folded on top of the mattresses, which were too small for the bed frames. One wall next to the wardrobe near the door was missing part of the flowery wallpaper that covered the entire room and looked thirty years out of date.
Azerda trotted towards the desk. The lacquer was faded, though it was still mostly usable as furniture. On it was an alarm clock, a desk lamp, and a black antique typewriter with rusty keys. Each side of the desk had three drawers – she opened the one on the top right first. Inside were a few books, marked with the name of Abirami Zaladid. A hole was located at the center of the drawer. "So this is Abirami's side," she muttered, turning to the left side of the desk. She could hear the muffled sounds from Trace and Static conversing downstairs.
Izavel's drawers had a wild assortment of items compared to Abirami's, mostly office stationery organized into bundles. Her eyes stopped at a metal L-shaped hex wrench, which unlike the other items, was not bundled with rubber bands. Most importantly, there was no hole in the drawer's center, and Azerda noticed that the drawer dimensions felt significantly smaller than that of Abirami's.
Almost instinctively, Azerda went to feel the bottom of the drawer, her hoof feeling a subtle ridge where the hole was supposed to be. She grabbed the hex wrench and pushed the long end below the drawer and into the hole. The false bottom of the drawer suddenly shifted up, revealing a hidden compartment. Your simple tricks won't work on me, Izavel. I was burglarizing homes growing up as a filly.
The hidden compartment had a hoofful of $20 Seashell bills, along with a small stack of paper and a folded note. She took all of the papers and laid them on top of the table, pushing the typewriter back to vacate more space. A cursory examination revealed that each paper was an acceptance letter signed to different trucking companies: Shooting Star Motor Lines, Fetchflow Trucking, and Squall Line Logistics. The oldest letter to Shooting Star was signed at the first month, and the most recent at Squall Line at the fourth.
The letters were also signed in different names: Zanno Zatrunzor, Azmelqart Zarvadid, and finally, Zephon Zaqhatid. Azerda opened up the note as well, reading the contents.
Crystalstar Shipments
30-01-1024: S300
19-03-1024: S375
13-05-1024: S500
Meet for pay at 325 Barracuda Drive
"So there's some third-party paying Izavel on the side. 500 Seashells for today's heist," Azerda hummed, folding the papers and placing it in her satchel. "He's been using false identities so the companies don't track him down."
She trotted back down the stairs, seeing Trace and Static sit around the uncomfortably tight dining table. The young earth pony had already put out her cigarette stub on an ashtray. "You done snooping around Izavel's room now?" Static asked.
"Static said our zebra of interest's name is Izavel Zatyeb, thirty-four years old. He's been living in this apartment for four years now, but he lost his job around six months ago," Trace summarized, standing up from his chair. "She doesn't know much about where he's working, but he's been truck driving back and forth to pay rent. What did you find, Azerda?"
Azerda pulled out the folded acceptance papers. "Izavel's been working under three different trucking companies under different aliases. Some creature who knows when Crystalstar is moving equipment out is paying him to 'lose' military equipment," she explained, hastily putting the papers back once Trace had a good look at it.
"So our heist ringleader may be a lot closer to Crystalstar than we think," Trace concluded. Static let out a small chuckle.
As he finished, the door suddenly swung open, a zebra stallion with blue eyes in a denim shirt carrying a saddlebag on his back. He was much shorter than the average stallion and barely taller than Azerda, with thick stripes from his jaws almost to the eyes that looked like spikes. Izavel paused as he looked up at Azerda, Trace, and Static in the living room. "You didn't tell me you were bringing friends along, Static," he said.
Trace pointed to Izavel and walked towards him. "WPD, Mr. Zatyeb. You're under arrest," Trace stated, raising his voice.
Izavel bit his lip and stepped back, his face turning panicked as he processed the situation. "Wait, wait! I won't try and put up a struggle..." The zebra abruptly slammed the door shut and galloped off.
“Damn it, the bastard’s getting away!” Trace shouted, pulling the door back open and spreading his wings to take flight. “Azerda, you chase him on hoof! I’ll tail him from above!”
Azerda raced behind Trace, keeping her eyes fixed on Izavel as he ran down the road. Trace was gaining speed on the runaway zebra – flying was much faster than galloping on hoof. Izavel glanced back at his approaching pursuers, and quickly made a turn down the block, into the back alleyway of the row houses; the cobblestone alley was barely a couple meters wide, much too narrow for Trace to reasonably fly through without hitting his wings against the brick walls.
"Azerda, keep tailing him! I'll get to the other side and try to stop him there!" Trace flew ahead towards the other side of the block. Halfway down the alley, Izavel jumped over a high wooden fence into a small backyard, pushing his way into a white-painted wooden row house's door. Azerda swooped up after him, pushing the door before it could close.
She was met with a sudden incoming buck as she entered the house. Azerda dodged at the last moment, Izavel's rear hoof only just missing her chest. With one of Izavel's rear hooves extended out, Azerda grabbed his rear hoof and lunged forward against his flank, locking her hooves against his standing rear hoof to knock him off balance.
Izavel reacted well, rolling onto his back to buck Azerda, hitting her right jaw and knocking the boater hat off her head. She flinched from the sharp pain and swore something in Zonician, ignoring the crimson blood leaking out one of her nostrils.
He took the opportunity of Azerda's brief hesitation to push his weight down on his grappled hoof – Izavel wrapped his other rear hoof around her, attempting to lock her by the neck. Azerda glanced around her surroundings while resisting his headlock. They were in some stranger's laundry room, and her eyes stopped at a towel radiator mounted in a wall just next to Izavel's chest.
Her fore hooves eventually buckled from the weight, forcing Azerda down on top of his barrel. In one swift motion, she bucked the radiator, crushing one of the mounting plates and sending a spray of scalding hot water onto Izavel's shoulder. The stallion's hold on Azerda weakened as he howled in agony.
Azerda stood back up and stomped on his chest, the stallion too busy recoiling from his scalding burn to retaliate. A small puddle of hot water formed on the ceramic tiled floor. "Poor move, Izavel," she growled in Zonician, turning the radiator valve to shut it off.
Izavel groaned, glaring back at Azerda. "Screw you, broodmare!" he retorted in the same language. "Do you enjoy bootlicking for filthy cops?"
Azerda raised her hoof to prepare for a punch to his face before the front door slammed open. "Azerda, that's enough! We still need him healthy enough for questioning," Trace shouted, armed with a baton in one claw and a pair of hoofcuffs in the other.
She panted and looked back at the hippogriff, wiping the blood off of her nose. Azerda spat the blood that had seeped into her mouth; a few drops of blood fell into the water puddle, mixing the puddle into a subtle pink. I was just about done, anyways.