“We traced the note,” the officer said, looking at Chet with pure disdain. “Your fingerprint was on the salt shaker, Mr. Marlin. And for the record? Crustacean psychics are real. My cousin is one.” Back at the Crustacean Sensation, the rain had stopped. A weak sunbeam pierced the clouds and illuminated Reginald’s tank, now back in its place of honor. Reginald was busy pushing a pebble into the exact center of his castle courtyard. A masterpiece in progress.
“Freeze, shrimp-napper!” a voice squeaked. Tanked
“My shrimp has been kidnapped,” Barn blurted. “We traced the note,” the officer said, looking
Karma was six-foot-five, shaved-headed, and had a sleeve tattoo of a koi fish fighting an octopus. She looked like she could snap a pool cue in half with her eyebrows. And for the record
Chet Marlin stepped out from behind a pile of napkin dispensers. He was a small, sweaty man in a too-tight chef’s coat. He was holding a aquarium net like a sword. “I knew you’d come, Barn. Your emotional attachment to a decapod is your greatest weakness!”
He scooped the shrimp into the Tupperware with a smooth, practiced motion. Reginald didn’t even flinch. He simply shifted his weight, adjusted his antennae, and gave Chet a look that could only be described as smug.
The rain was a steady, miserable drumbeat on the corrugated roof of the “Crustacean Sensation,” a food truck that smelled of stale fryer oil and regret. Inside, Barnaby “Barn” Finch was having a crisis.