Page 10 of Tied Over

“And your dog, Greta,” I assured him, “will be on your way to a new life.”

“What about Greta’s microchip?”

It was a valid question.

“Greta will be reported to the company who monitors the chip as having died, and then that number will be reregistered with the marshals service as belonging to your new name.”

“I bet you guys didn’t use to take animals, huh?”

“As a rule, the marshals service does not move pets, but you so happen to be in Chicago, which is run by Chief Deputy Sam Kage, who believes that causing witnesses, like yourself, who are helping to apprehend criminals, any additional stress by separating them from their pets is bad.”

“I like him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just eat your food when it gets here and answer all the questions, all right?”

He nodded quickly.

“You look like shit,” I told him.

“I was beat up today,” he reminded me. “That damage could possibly be part of the problem.”

“You’re a wiseass.”

“It’s been noted,” he agreed.

Several moments went by.

“No?” he prodded me. “Nothing else? No witty comeback?”

I grunted.

His smile was warm. “You’re a strange man, DUSM Redeker.”

“Listen, when you get moved, you need to do exactly what you’re told, all right? Don’t fuck around or be an idiot. Don’t be you. Think of your mother and sister.”

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, Miro brought food in, which I was so happy about, I could’ve kissed him. Anything to get Washington to stop telling me about his day-to-day activities in jail. My brain was turning to mush.

It was nice that Miro took a seat with us and ate his food, which consisted of some sort of bowl that had a lot of green in it that looked decidedly healthy. Not long after, he was joined by Ian Doyle, his husband, my boss, deputy director of the Northern District of Illinois, who was scowling. Not that this was any big change. As far as I could tell, Doyle had a singular facial expression, and that was the one. It was his default to be irritated.

“Is that your regular?” I asked him.

And then, out of the blue, amazingly, I got a grin. “Yes, it is,” he said proudly.

“What is it again?”

“That, my friend, is the Diablo Burrito with fire sauce from Fuego, two blocks away.”

Of course he hadn’t gotten his food from the same place the rest of us got ours. That would be too easy.

“I’ve never been to Fuego.”

“Yeah, well, you’re missing out,” he said with a shrug. “I like all my food hot.”

“Too hot,” Miro commented, shaking his head.

“Jesus, I can smell that from here,” I said, concerned that he was going to put that in his body. “Why is the sauce so dark?”