Oh, so not good. Wolfe set the coffee cups down on his desk, stalked into Nari’s office, looked around, and slapped his head. A desk drawer had been busted open, revealing the remains of a gold-plated lipstick with bite marks on it. The colorful hue was smeared over several papers on the desk and across the white leather chair. No doubt the makeup had been expensive. “She’ll kill you.” Then he caught sight of the other damaged shoe in the far corner, which Roscoe had bitten right through. Wolfe looked up to the top of a bookcase to see everything scattered across it as if the dog had somehow jumped from the desk, hit the books and potted plant, and knocked much of it down. The shoes had probably been up there. “Why didn’t you just wear them?” The dog seemed to have a shoe fetish, both wearing and eating them.

Roscoe snorted and reclaimed the second shoe, flopping down and munching happily. He burped.

Wolfe straightened and turned, studying the pooch. “Tell me you’re sober,” he ordered.

Roscoe hiccupped.

Damn it. Wolfe dropped to his knees and lifted the dog’s head to stare into murky brown eyes. The dog had a drinking problem and had been to the vet several times, but he apparently had the liver of a ninety-year-old miner. “Booze is bad for dogs,” Wolfe murmured, patting Roscoe’s head. “I wonder if you’d be better off around people who weren’t so screwed up.”

Roscoe sneezed and sent the shoe flying.

Wolfe sighed. This wasn’t good. He stood and angled his neck toward the enclosed office in the back of the depressing space, which was situated between the two case rooms. Only silence came from the office.

Roscoe followed his gaze and whined.

Wolfe rubbed the ache between his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. “I’ve got it, buddy. Just stay here and sober up.”

Roscoe set his face on his paws, sneezed again, and then shut his eyes. Snoring commenced almost immediately, interspersed with a whimper or two. Then the dog let out a stream of farts that punctured the silence with loud pops.

Wolfe stood to grab the lattes before striding around the pod of desks to the rear office. “Force?” He poked his head in to see Angus sprawled, face first, across a worn leather sofa against the wall, his arm hanging off near an empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor.

Wonderful. Wolfe set the lattes on the paper-strewn desk and grasped his boss by the shoulders, flipping him around to a sitting position. “Do you need to throw up?”

Force wobbled and then blinked, his eyes so bloodshot it hurt to look at them. “Wolfe. It’s Sunday,” he slurred. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d wait here until my church services started,” Wolfe drawled, releasing his hold on Force’s shoulders once the man seemed semi-stable.