“Okay, what’s the problem, Crushek?”

“You’re in KZS.”

“Yes. I just said that.”

“So you’re basically a well-trained assassin who can handle herself in any situation.”

“There’s no basically about it.” When his eyes narrowed, she explained, “Look, you’re either one of four things at KZS: management, administrative, clean-up, contractor. I’m a contractor.” A good one, too, known for her long-distance taps.

But Cella could tell by the look on the bear’s face that he was absolutely horrified about what she did, about who she was, and she felt really insulted by that!

“Oh, whatever.” She brushed past him and headed to Van Holtz’s office, the bear right behind her. She opened the door and stepped in, dropping into a seat on the far side of the room—away from all judgmental bears.

“Everything all right?” Van Holtz asked, his gaze moving back and forth between Cella and the bear.

When the pair did nothing more than nod, he went ahead and got started.

Crush was impressed with how things were run between the three organizations. They worked together, concentrated on each other’s strengths rather than what they couldn’t do, and helped to keep each group honest.

So Crush wasn’t really surprised that BPC wasn’t a part of this meeting. Peg Baissier, with her title of “Chief Technical Advisor” had been running BPC since 1762 ... at least that’s how it felt to Crush. And she was a sow who liked her control. She definitely didn’t believe in sharing it. And to share anything with any other species besides bear she considered treachery. She didn’t announce that last part to the tri-state bear populace she and her people were supposed to be protecting because lots of bears worked for lots of different people. But Crush knew for a fact that’s what she believed.

He also knew she was an evil bitch, which was why he stayed away from her.

Yet Crush wasn’t really thinking about Peg Baissier as he listened to, and approved of, what was being said around him. Instead, he found his gaze straying constantly over to Malone. She pretended to ignore him, but he knew he’d pissed her off. But he couldn’t help it. He’d thought she was just some dingbat hockey player, not part of KZS. If she was KZS that meant she was trained in nearly every form of hand-to-hand combat, most weapons, and foreign languages and cultures. She would be well traveled and highly intelligent. And Crush knew this because KZS was the one organization that Baissier kept her distance from. She’d take them on if necessary, but it was never her favorite plan.

And yet, this woman, this feline, who said she was a KZS “contractor”—read “killer”—also said she needed Crush to be her “pretend boyfriend” because shecouldn’t seem to control her own elderly aunts that she might have to beat up?

Huh? What?

“Detective Crushek?”

Crush looked up, realizing that everyone was staring at him. “Yes?”

Van Holtz handed him a picture. “Do you know him?”

He took the picture, glanced at it, nodded. “Yep. I know him. You know him, too, MacDermot.”

“I do?” MacDermot took the picture, glanced at it, and handed it back to Van Holtz. “Oh, yeah. Wow. He looks kind of different. Real cleaned up.” She nodded. “Yeah. We know him.”

The room fell silent until Malone barked, “And?”

“And what?”

Malone began to say something else, but the She-wolf placed her hand against her shoulder and Van Holtz asked, “And who is he?”

“Oh. Frankie Whitlan. Frankie the Rat. Frankie the Snitch. Frankie the Talker.”

“Big Dick Frankie,” Crush tossed in.

“Oh, my God,” Malone said to Smith. “Now there are two of them.”

Van Holtz raised his hand to calm the two females and said to Crush, “Detective, perhaps you can tell us something about this man. I assume he was some kind of informant.”

“He was a scumbag.”

“And a lot of cops used him. Some got their gold shields because of Frankie.”

“So,” Malone asked, “he’s a scumbag because he ratted on his criminal friends?”

“No. He’s a scumbag because he played both sides of the fence.”

“Crushek’s right. There were rumors that he only ratted out the guys in his way. Don’t let his nicknames fool you. Frankie Whitlan was a murdering motherfucker. He ran a massive drug ring and I think gun running—”

“But he started in gambling. Was a leg breaker for bookies in the Bronx.”

“Then ten years ago ... gone.”

“We figured either he’d been hit and dumped or—”

“Federal protection. The timing was interesting because we were trying to take him down for the murder of a stock market analyst and his entire family, including three kids. The rumor was he’d done it himself, which was rare because he usually had someone else do his killing for him.”

“But if he’s in federal protection, why is he back?” Smith asked. “Seems kind of stupid.”

“Hard to leave the life. Lot of those mob guys find their way back to their old neighborhoods just because they miss their favorite pizza place.”

“Yeah, but why is he hanging out with the taxidermist Smith found?” Malone asked. “He was missing his favorite taxidermist?”

Van Holtz nodded. “She has a point.”