“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 she couldn’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.”
“Let me see what I can find out,” Crush offered. “Some guys I know.”
“Some guys you know ... what?” Malone pushed.
“Some guys I know. Don’t harass me.”
“Harass—”
“All right then,” Van Holtz cut in. “I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m sure Desiree would like to go home and take some much needed migraine meds.”
“I appreciate that.” MacDermot stood. “Because the worst part? I feel like I have to blow my nose. I can’t express to you how that’s the last thing I ever want to do.”
“Come on, darlin’.” Smith put her arm around MacDermot. “Let me get you home.”
They all filed out into the hallway, Malone silently following Smith and MacDermot.
“I guess this is a little strange for you, isn’t it, Detective?” Van Holtz asked as they walked back to the front office.
“Just new. I don’t like change.”
“I understand that. It was strange for Dez in the beginning, too.”
He watched as MacDermot stopped in front of that big glass window Crush had looked through earlier, the one with all the kids behind it, and waved. After a few moments, a hybrid girl came out the door. She was a bear hybrid, probably mixed with canine. Nearly six-four, she had a very young face, but way more scars on her arms and neck than anyone that age should have.
Eyes wide, she gazed down at poor MacDermot’s face. “What happened?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” MacDermot teased. “Apparently, I’m tough like that.” Laughing, the pair hugged, then the girl hugged Smith and finally Malone.
“How’s it been going?” MacDermot asked the girl.
“Eh.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
Finally, Crush knew he had to find out more about what was going on here. It was driving him nuts. “Who are these kids?” he asked Van Holtz, his voice low.
Crush thought there might be some backpedaling or bullshit. There wasn’t.
“Hybrids,” Van Holtz immediately replied. “They didn’t have homes and it’s hard for them to mainstream into full-human society, so we take them in. That’s Hannah,” he said, glancing at the bear hybrid. “She’s been with us for a bit now.” He leaned in, lowered his voice even more. “Dee-Ann and Blayne rescued her from a dogfighting ring.”
Horrified the girl had been used that way, Crush still had to ask, “Did you recruit her?”
Van Holtz shook his head. “After what she and some of these other kids have been through? No. Although, they have the option to join us when they’re twenty-one. But not before then. We’re just giving them a place to crash, an education, and some options. Everyone deserves options.”
“But shouldn’t you be helping them mainstream?”
“Well—”
A good-sized shaggy-haired dog ran out into the hallway, spun in circles for several seconds, and shot off.
“That was Abby.”
“Does she always run around as—”
“Yes. She also begs for food, scratches at the door to be let in or out, and snaps at flies, which is always entertaining. But we’re working on her.”
“Hey,” Smith reminded them. “We left them BPC bears sittin’ up front. Not sure we want little Abby around them.”