A dusty gray hare ambled over to Buck’s booth, order pad in hand. "Just the usual, Buck? Or can I interest you in actually eating something for once? You look terrible, by the way."

  Mary’s tone had all the warmth of day-old coffee, but Buck caught the thread of concern beneath it. Grenda’s partner and head server didn’t hand out sympathy often.

  "Thanks, Mary. I'll take some pancakes if you got 'em."

  She turned to call it in, only to spot four flapjacks already sizzling on the grill. Tereon, the diner’s automaton cook, shot her a quick thumbs-up with one of his many jointed metal limbs. She set a coffee cup down to be filled and excused herself to another table.

  Buck pulled a flask from his inner coat pocket and added a hit of amber warmth to his coffee. His own hunt for the Cremation Killer was starting to eat away at his sanity. Five victims in just a little over as many weeks. All charred from the face down. Right to the bone. No sensible connection between them. The few that were junkies and homeless sadly made sense. Easy prey and generally invisible to the public. The college student and the most recent, a pharmacy tech, stood out from the rest. They had homes, friends, family and the means to support themselves. Wrong place at the wrong time? Silenced witnesses? Buck decided to speak with the tech's family—after finding out what Pazienza wanted.

  Tim the busboy—a skinny green lizardkin who seemed permanently mid-shed—delivered a steaming short stack with butter and syrup. Dried scales flaked from his neck to the floor as he set the plate down. "Just holler if you need anything else," he mumbled, retreating to clear another table.

  Buck cut into his pancakes and took a look around the diner. A more colorful than normal group was packed into a booth on the far side. Two of them, a green and white cockatiel in a vest and a groundhog with a graying muzzle, looked like they could be reporters. They sat talking with an animated red squirrel while a raven in a hoodie furiously took notes. Buck watched them as he ate. The pancakes were deliciously fluffy and his belly grumbled in contentment.

  A high-pitched scream cut through the clangs of metal cookware hitting the floor of the kitchen. Everyone whipped towards the sound and Buck leapt from the booth, hand on the grip of his revolver.

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  Tim burst through the swinging kitchen door, frantically crawling away from some unseen horror. "I-I-I-I was taking out the t-t-trash and there w-w-was a buh, a b-b-buh-" Buck didn't wait for him to finish and bolted through the kitchen and out the back door into the alley.

  The air reeked of garbage and smoke. Poking out from behind the far side of the dumpster, a pair of expensive shoes lay attached to the rest of an obscured body. Standing near the dumpster was an orange tabbi in a well-tailored green suit. His eyes flashed blue as he turned to the new arrivals.

  "Don't look at me. I just got here."

  Blood pumping in his ears, Buck drew down on the tabbi. "Hands up! Now, Sparks!" He knew this one. A smooth-talking money man with a penchant for disappearing whenever fire was involved. Buck's eyes darted to the side as he took a step closer. His stomach twisted as the pancakes went sour.

  A charred, lifeless body lay on the ground in the corner of the dumpster and diner wall. Cinders still smoldering on the tips of the quills. The porcupine from his nightmare stared back at him. The eye sockets: empty, dark and hollow.

  Buck’s throat went dry. He tore his gaze back to Sparks. "Ooh ho ho, I got you this time, matchstick," he said, trying to contain a smile. He’d never caught Sparks with a body before. "No slipping out of this one. I got you dead to rights." He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket.

  Sparks hesitated—then offered his wrists. Before the first cuff clicked, he twisted in a blur, snapping the free shackle onto the dumpster handle. Buck staggered, vision tilting. Sparks, perfectly composed, gave a little bow toward a squirrel onlooker who clapped approvingly.

  "As I said, detective, I just got here," Sparks said smoothly. "It's good to see you as well but I'm afraid you've jumped the gun, as usual." On the word, he produced Buck's revolver and its cylinder, neatly separated.

  Buck pulled at his cuffed arm uselessly. "We're not done here, matchstick," he snarled. He craned his neck and shouted beyond the gathered crowd, into the kitchen. "Grenda! Call the police! We got another burn victim and the culprit decided to stick around this time."

  "I had nothing to do with this," Sparks reiterated with emphasis. He laid Buck's weapon at his feet and turned to enter the diner but found his way blocked by the gathered crowd.

  Tereon called out from inside. "Authorities are inbound. I alerted them after Tim's outburst."

  Buck finally found his key and freed himself. "Tell it to a judge, Sparks. Let's go." He gripped his catch by the arm and led him back into the diner, squeezing past the knot of the crowd.