Werewolf Cop by Andrew Klavan

‘stoomp bassard’ or ‘stupe bassard’ or something. I turned up something online called Stumpf’s Baselard. According to the dictionary, a baselard is a kind of sword or dagger folks wore in the 14th and 15th, maybe 16th, centuries. And Stumpf’s Baselard—well, we’re not sure. It seems to be a dagger that’s gone missing. Maybe valuable or something. Anyway, some professor in Germany wrote an article about it and I’m trying to track her down.”
    â€œInteresting,” Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell said. She looked from one to the other of them, waiting for more. That was all they had worth telling. “Okay.” She practically leapt out of her seat in that I’m-all-business way she had. “Back to work.” But then, as Goulart started for the door, she said, “Give me a second, Zach, there’s something unrelated I wanted to ask you about.” Adding a look at Goulart that said: Zach alone.
    Goulart hesitated, but what was he going to do? Throw a tantrum? “I guess I know when I’m not wanted,” he said with a show of good humor.
    â€œGood,” said Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell. “And if you don’t mind, close the door on your way out.”
    When he was gone, when Zach was seated on the over-soft sofa again, she brought her chair around the side of the little coffee table and moved it in close to him, her knees near his. Blocking his view of the TV set, of the smoke and fire on the screen, she jutted her long face at him.
    â€œWe need to talk about Goulart,” she said.
    Zach managed not to groan, but only just. If there was one thing he hated, it was office politics. He considered it girly kindergarten stuff: If you’re friends with him, you can’t be friends with me. Goulart didn’t like Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell, Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell didn’t like Goulart. So what? Deal with it. Catch bad guys. Do your job.
    â€œWe have reason to believe he’s dirty,” said Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell.
    Zach was completely blindsided. He reacted before he could stop himself. “Oh, come on, Rebecca!”
    â€œI know.” She held up a hand. “I know. He’s your partner—”
    â€œIt’s not that—”
    â€œAnd I know what you’re thinking. I know how Goulart feels about me. Or about women in general. Or about his ex-wife, whom he projects onto women in general, or whatever it is. I know you figure that must mean I hate him back. Well, I won’t pretend he’s on my Christmas list. But truth is true, right? That’s the whole thing about it. Eyes open or eyes shut, it’s just the same. Things happen or they don’t. People are what they are. You have a lead, a clue, you follow it, you find what you find, like it or not. The truth is true. We know that.”
    Zach’s narrow, wind-weathered face had turned to craggy stone. She was right, of course. The truth was true. But she was also right—it was also true—that Goulart was his partner. And unless Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell could prove what she had said—unless she had recordings or pictures—real money shots of Goulart receiving a brown paper bag full of Benjamins in a drug-den men’s room—Zach would stand by the man who had walked into that Kansas farmhouse with him three years ago—and his feelings for Rebecca Abraham-Hartwell would turn as stony as his expression.
    â€œThere’s true—and then there’s proving it,” he told her tersely.
    She leaned in even closer. Zach could smell her bath soap, feel the heat of her breath. He caught a glimpse of the flames dancing around a marble façade on the TV set behind her.
    â€œYou remember that cargo ship we had the Coast Guard stop last month?”
    â€œThe Chevalier , yeah. What about her?”
    â€œSupposed to be carrying—”
    â€œA container of sex slaves out of Eastern Europe, yeah, only it