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“Wait—what was that?” Oscar said. What looked like a small black smudge had dropped onto the floor behind Butterbean. Oscar squinted at the screen. “Something’s wrong. Oh no. Tell me Butterbean didn’t just—”

“It’s POLO!” Marco shrieked. “See that sparkle? Hi, Polo!” He waved wildly at the screen.

“Going off without a hitch, huh?” Walt shook her head at Oscar. “I’m pretty sure the rat wasn’t supposed to fall off in the lobby.”

“No, that was on purpose. Look!” Marco said. “See her duck and weave? That’s her evasive maneuver. She did that on purpose.”

The little black smudge on the screen was, in fact, ducking and weaving across the lobby before finally taking cover beside a potted plant. No one in the lobby seemed to notice.

“Can we tape this? Polo’s on TV!” Marco jumped up and down.

“I don’t think…” Oscar looked uncertain.

“Ooohh! Did she wave? I think she waved!” Marco squealed and waved back. “Hi, Polo!”

“She can’t hear you,” Walt said.

“She did not wave.” Oscar suppressed a groan. He should’ve known better than to work with rats. “She seems to have hidden. Why, I have no idea.” He snapped his beak shut. His perfect plan, ruined by a rat with weak arms.

“Maybe Butterbean conditions too much?” Marco said.

“Maybe Polo needs to work out,” Oscar said.

“Cool it. It’s not over,” Walt said, twitching her tail. “They could still gather the information we need. Just keep an eye on them both.”

“Easier said than done,” Oscar said grimly, watching the blurry security screen. When this was all over, whoever was in charge of those cameras would be getting a very strongly worded complaint letter.

Polo was definitely hard to see. Only the occasional sparkle from the button around her neck gave her position away. And Butterbean, seemingly oblivious to her lost cargo, was slowly ambling out of camera range.

Oscar gritted his beak and hoped for the best.

“I made it. I MADE IT!” Polo shrieked from her position next to the potted plant. “Go get ’em, Butterbean!”

“See you after I poop!” Butterbean called over her shoulder.

“Okay, bye!” Polo shrieked again. Then she dashed out of the shadow for a second, waving her tiny hand wildly at the ceiling, where she imagined the security camera probably was. (She was a little off.) “Hi, Marco!”

Butterbean couldn’t help but feel relieved that she didn’t need to worry about a rat on her tummy anymore. Bathroom difficulties aside, it made it harder to concentrate on smelling things. And there were so many smells to focus on. Trash smells, cleaning smells, food smells, perfume smells, and that was just inside the lobby. To be honest, there were so many smells, Butterbean wasn’t sure she’d recognize the mystery coin owner even if he was standing right next to her.

She had to focus. She had to get this right. If she didn’t, Oscar would never let her forget it. Plus, she’d have to come out with a rat on her tummy again, and she definitely didn’t want that.

Luckily, Polo had lots of good ideas, so they’d come up with another new plan, just in case she didn’t find the guy outside. Plan B. But neither of them wanted to try Plan B. (It wasn’t even Oscar approved.)

“You walking this little stinker now, Madison?” the doorman said, smiling as he got up to open the door.

Butterbean stopped walking in astonishment. Stinker?

“For now. Until her person comes back,” the girl, apparently named Madison, said smiling. Butterbean stifled an outraged yip and suppressed her canine instincts, which were to go for the doorman’s bony ankles. Probably the wolf in her. But still, STINKER? And the Madison girl didn’t even defend her. The Coin Man better be worth it.

“Haven’t seen that aunt of yours recently. She okay?”

“Um, sure. Just busy I guess.” Madison shifted. She seemed less happy about that line of conversation than she had about the stinker comment. Weird.

“Well, tell her I said not to be such a stranger, okay?” the doorman said, leaning on the doorframe, blocking Butterbean and Madison’s way out. “Tell her to stop by and see her old pal.”

“Um. Yeah. I’ll tell her,” Madison mumbled, looking at the floor.

“Good, good,” Mr. Doorman said, continuing his lounging act. He didn’t look like he was ever planning to move.

Butterbean frowned. Something was up with Madison, but Butterbean didn’t think it was the stinker insult. Butterbean wuffled under her breath. Sounded like secrets.

That was it. She’d had enough. She had work to do, and she really did need to pee.

In one big dramatic flourish, Butterbean started to hunker down, like she was going to let loose and pee in the lobby. (As if. Biscuit would never let her live that down.)

Mr. Doorman immediately stopped his lounging and sprang into action.

“Oh geez, better get that dog outside, quick,” he said, jumping back and shooing Butterbean toward the exit with his hat. She had to do a little hop to avoid getting whacked in the butt, but it was worth it to get moving again. Butterbean shot him a snippy over-the-shoulder look, snout in the air, and bounced outside.