“When I found out about this place,” Smith said, “I was just going to go on in there, cut the guy’s throat, and leave—”
“What is
wrong
with you three?” Gentry sighed.
“—but I noticed something when I was hanging around in the woods across the street. There was already a team watching the place.”
“What team?”
The She-wolf smirked. “BPC.”
BPC, or the Bear Preservation Council, was a Brooklyn-based organization that raised money for the care, research, and protection of full-blood bears worldwide. They were also the cover for the agency that protected shifter bears in the tri-state area. And unlike KZS, the Group, and the NYPD’s shifter division, BPC refused to work with the rest of them on anything. They made it very clear that what happened to other species was not their problem and the bears that had jobs with NYPD and the Group were simply foolish.
Gentry’s hands dropped to her desk. “BPC was watching the place? Are you sure?”
“Recognized one of the team.”
“Recognized him how?” Cella had to know.
“Broke his spine during a fight once.”
And that was why Cella “had to know,” because she knew she’d be entertained!
“Y’all can stop staring at me like that. He’s clearly walkin’ ...
now
.”
“You gotta wonder why BPC wouldn’t just move on a place like that, too,” MacDermot said, her gaze out the window. “From what I hear, they handle shit the way Cella and Dee do.”
“They do,” Gentry confirmed. “Which makes me very curious about what they’re doing.”
MacDermot looked at her boss. “You want me to put surveillance on it?”
“I do.”
“Okay, but if BPC is already on it, why do we need to get involved?”
“BPC is run by Peg Baissier. And has been for the last twenty years. It’s believed that she’s become a bit of a problem. There are some of us in the bear community that have been looking for a way to ...”
“Force her into retirement?”
“Something like that.”
“Just because you don’t like her?”
“No. Because she’s dangerous to her own.”
“How do you figure that?” Smith asked.
Gentry moved around in her chair, her hands tugging the jacket of her suit down.
MacDermot glanced at Cella and Smith before saying, “Chief?”
The sow cleared her throat. “Besides his stellar record, there’s another reason I had Crushek—the polar bear”—she clarified for Cella and Smith—“pulled into this division as quickly as I could manage without setting off major alarms and a massive investigation by the full-humans of NYPD.”
“What reason?”
“There’s a rumor his cover was blown.”
“By Baissier?”
“Most likely.”
“Did you tell his C.O.? Chief of D’s?” MacDermot asked.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is shifter business and the last thing we need is the NYPD looking into the BPC.” She sighed. “And ...”
“And?” MacDermot pushed. “And what?”
“And ...” Gentry looked at them all before finally admitting, “Peg Baissier was Crushek’s foster mother.”
Sick of hearing Conway laugh at him about having to get his hair cut, Crush slammed his phone down.
He hated change. Change was bad. Change sucked. Change ...
Crush looked around the room, realizing that everyone was staring in his direction, but they weren’t really looking at him.
Slowly, he swiveled his office chair around and looked at Gentry’s office. MacDermot, the She-wolf, and that damn feline were all standing on the other side of that big window. . . watching him. Even worse—they all looked sad. Devastated. What the fuck was going on?
“That’s it.” Crush stood, officially unable to take any more of this. “I’m out of here.”
C
HAPTER
F
OUR
W
ith MacDermot out on Friday, Lynsey had Lou Crushek spend most of the day going through files and acquainting himself with some of the current open cases. When he said he was leaving early because he had something to do in Manhattan, Lynsey called him in. She knew she couldn’t keep hiding the truth about Baissier and what the sow had done or, at the very least, was rumored to have done.
But the polar’s reaction to the news ... not exactly what Lynsey had been expecting.
Crush stared at her, nodded, and replied, “Uh-huh.”
Lynsey blinked and looked around her office, concerned she hadn’t actually said the words out loud. She finally settled her gaze back on him and asked, “I did just tell you that—”
“My cover was blown? Yeah. You just told me.”
“And that it was—”
“My former foster mother? Yeah. Yeah. You told me.”
“Uhhhhh, okay. I ... I guess I just expected more of a panicked, ‘Oh, my God! The guys I was trying to put away are going to come kill me’ kind of thing.”
“Well, they can
try
.”
“Okay. Uh ... perhaps some devastation at the betrayal of the woman who raised you?”
“Have you
met
Peg Baissier?” he asked flatly. “I wouldn’t exactly call what she did ‘raising me’ in the traditional sense. Her leaving me alone this long is really surprising. Which kind of makes me wonder why blow my cover now? What’s the benefit? Because she always has a benefit. But other than thinking that, I’m not really shocked.”
“All right then.”
“If it helps, I’m kind of pissed she ruined my career.”
“Well, she didn’t ruin your career. I mean, you’re out of undercover, but you’re still a cop. And now that you’re with my division, you’ll be making more money and have great people to work with. So, ya know, all good. Right?”
“Sure. Why not?” He glanced around, shrugged, and asked, “Anything else?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Well, like I said this morning, I’m leaving early.”
“Okay. Have a good weekend.”
“Yeah. Thanks. You, too.”
She watched him walk out. Jesus, what had Peg Baissier done to the boy Lou Crushek once was? Hearing the news, it was like he’d just shut down, and honestly, she had to wonder ... if what she had just told him didn’t get a reaction out of him, what exactly would?
Crush scrambled out of the barber’s chair, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
Conway, who’d dragged him to this shifter-friendly barbershop, laughed. “I can’t believe what a baby you’re being. Just get the damn haircut.”
At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Late lunch with his old partner and then he could head over to the Sports Center for tonight’s game. But Crush had had no idea that Conway would get such a bug up his ass about Crush getting a goddamn haircut. A haircut he didn’t even want!
“No way. MacDermot will just have to deal with my long hair.” He tugged at the strands. “This is polar hair. It’s not like everyone else’s. It just can’t be randomly butchered.” And, to be honest, Crush kind of knew he would never look good with a buzz cut, which was apparently all this particular barber could handle. In fact, Crush was pretty certain that with a buzz cut, he’d go from looking like a lowlife biker to looking just like a serial killer. Especially with what a full-human date once called his “soulless black eyes.” He didn’t think they were soulless, but his eyes were black. Like most polar bears’ eyes.
The sun bear barber let out a sigh. “Get your ass in the seat.”
“No way. You’re not just cutting it off.”
“All done!” a cheerful voice chirped. And from a back room, a pretty black woman walked out. She was definitely canine, but Crush couldn’t tell if she was wolf, wild dog, coyote, or some other canine, which made him think she was a mutt. “Hybrid” being the less offensive term. “I cleaned out your pipes and they should be flowing just perfect now.”
Crush and Conway looked at each other, trying not to laugh. To them, “cleaning out your pipes” usually meant a blow job, but since she was dressed in grimy khaki pants and a Philadelphia Eagles football jersey while carrying a tool bag in her hand and had a tool belt around her waist, Crush would guess she was actually a plumber.
“You’re a lifesaver, Blayne,” the barber said. “And I appreciate you coming over here so fast.”
“No problem, Mr. P. Anyway, I gotta go. I got practice in a couple of hours. Gotta meet Gwenie.”
“How much do I owe ya, sweetie?”
“We’ll bill you. But don’t forget you get the neighbor discount.” She suddenly focused on Crush and Conway, grinned, waved, and said with an alarming amount of cheer, “Hi!”
Crush jumped a little. Wow. She sure was perky. “Hi.”
“What’s going on? Everyone looks very tense. Like this.” She made a frown that had Conway chuckling.
“This wuss”—the sun bear motioned to Crush—“won’t let me cut off his hair.”
“Because it’s cool!” She walked over and took a closer look. “Wow. So very cool!” Then she sniffed him. “Are you a polar?”
“Uh—”
“How cool!”
“You need the cut, dude,” Conway reminded him. “There’s no getting around it. He needs it for work,” Conway explained to the hybrid. Although why he felt that was necessary ...
“Well, there’s a cut,” the canine explained to them, “and then there’s butchering.” She shrugged at the sun bear. “Sorry, Mr. Peterson, but you’re kind of a butcher. You should come with me,” she told Crush.
“Why?”
“I know someone who can cut your hair but give you, like, a
great
cut. That way you’ll look more handsome bear and less ...”
She dropped her tool kit on the floor, dragged a chair over, and stood on the seat. Then she put her hands into his hair and pushed the strands off his face. Why did women keep touching him? Was he releasing pheromones or something?
“Oh, God. Yeah,” she said. “You lose all this hair it’s totally serial killer time.” She frowned, leaned back a little. “You’re not, though, right? A serial killer?”
What an odd question
... “No. I’m not.”
Her grin was blindingly bright. “Cool! Then come with me. I’m heading back to the office anyway. We’ll totally get you fixed up.”
“Well—”
But she was dragging him out of the barbershop and down the street, Conway laughing and following them.
Cella cut through the training rink to get to the team’s locker room. She’d spent most of the afternoon with her KZS bosses. She was afraid they wouldn’t want anything to do with BPC, considering KZS’s history with that organization, but it seemed that like Gentry and the Group chief, Niles Van Holtz, out of Washington state, they wanted Baissier out. Now. So Cella would be again working with MacDermot and Smith. Although what anyone really expected to find at a damn taxidermist’s storefront, Cella didn’t know. But she was well aware that she was the muscle to their little team. She left the obsessing over every little detail to the canine and the canine-lover.
Of course, none of that mattered right now. She had a game tonight and just enough time to get in a warm-up. She had to be ready. Her father would be meeting up with his old buddies and watching the game from the owner’s box. She had to make sure that, at the very least, she didn’t embarrass herself in front of him.
Cella reached for the rink entrance door, but she heard the sounds coming through it. Knew what those sounds meant. Growling, she snatched the door open and rushed through.
“Unbelievable.” She dropped her bag and charged across the rink and right into the middle of the brawl, pushing the males back and away from Novikov. Because, as always, he was at the center of the fight. But what surprised Cella was that the one fighting him was Ulrich Van Holtz, the wolf the entire league referred to as “The Gentleman.” He was also the Carnivore team’s captain, goalie, and goddamn owner.
“I control this team!” Van Holtz shouted at Novikov. “Not you!
Not ever!
”
Blue eyes shifting to gold, the longest fangs she’d ever seen exploding from his gums, the hybrid roared, “
Then you can take your goddamn team and
—”
Cella punched Novikov, her fist slamming into his nose, shutting him up. Shocked and bleeding, he stumbled back, gawking down at her.
She pointed a finger at him. “Do not say anything you’re going to regret.” She spun, pointed that same finger at Van Holtz. “You either.” Cella looked around at the rest of her teammates. Well, at least the male ones. The females were sitting in the bleachers, eating popcorn. Useless. These people were useless!
“We have a game in less than two hours,” she reminded them. “Let’s get ready.”
The males skated out, leaving Cella with Van Holtz and Novikov. She motioned to the three females watching them from the bleachers. But they only motioned back. Realizing it would be a waste of time to try to force those bitches to do anything, she walked over to Van Holtz first. “I’ll meet you in your office in about ten. Okay?”
When Van Holtz just stood there, scowling at Novikov, Cella turned him and shoved. “Ten minutes.”
She went back to Novikov and grabbed his arm, yanking him across the ice toward one of the exits. Without saying a word, she led him to Jai’s office.
“Maybe I could just—”
“Trust me!” the hybrid promised, practically skipping down the street like a little kid, but holding on to Crush like a linebacker while Conway followed behind them.
Still
laughing.
She dragged him into an office building, past the front desk, around a pillar, and into a small office. A feline sat at the desk, frowning when she saw what her friend was dragging in.
“We need your help, Gwenie.”
“Another stray, Blayne?”
“No.”
“Really?” She sat back in her desk chair. “What’s his name?”
The canine chewed on her bottom lip, finally eking out, “Big handsome bear?”
Shaking her head, the friend began to turn away but the canine quickly explained, “He needs your help, Gwenie. He was at Mr. Peterson’s about to get a buzz cut!”
The feline turned back around, her frown worsening as she looked Crush over. “He’ll look like a mass murderer.”
“I was thinking more serial killer.” The canine looked up at him. “There’s actually a difference.”
“Yes, I know,” Crush responded. “Look, I can just go to one of those Quick Cut places—”
“Bite your tongue,” the one called Blayne gasped. “We don’t discuss those places here.”
The feline rolled her eyes. “I swear. The drama with you sometimes, Blayne.”
“Come on, Gwenie. Please? Help a bear-brother out.”
Finally laughing, a smile lighting up that pretty face, the feline stood. “All right, all right.” She pointed at herself. “Hi. Gwen O’Neill.”
“Oh! And I’m Blayne Thorpe. Sorry.”
Now it was Crush’s turn to frown. “Why do I know that name?” His frown deepened. “You’re not a criminal, are you?”
“Here or in Philadelphia?”
Confused and a little alarmed, Crush asked, “Does that matter?”
“Yes,” both females answered at the same time.
“Hey.” Conway, who’d been lounging against the doorway, enjoying every moment of Crush’s nightmare, stood straight, pointed at framed pictures on the office wall, and asked, “Do you guys know him?”
Crush stepped forward and leaned in to study the pictures, shock ripping through his system. “Holy ...
do
you know him?”
“Hockey fan?” the one named Gwen asked, grinning.
“Hockey stalker, more like it,” Conway joked.
“I don’t stalk. I just attend every home game. Religiously. Without question. Which is why I can’t worry about fancy cuts right now. Gotta get to the Sports Center. Game tonight.” The New York Carnivores, his home team, against the Alabama Slammers.
Still, Crush had to know ... “So
do
you guys really know Bo Novikov?”
The canine grinned. “A little.”
Hhhhm. Probably a hockey groupie. But her name still sounded familiar; Crush just couldn’t remember why.
“Where are you sitting?” Blayne asked.
“Nosebleed seats. But they’re
my
nosebleed seats.”
“You didn’t invite me to the game,” Conway complained.
“I didn’t think your mate let you out of the house after dark.”
The feline took a handful of Crush’s hair and examined it closely. “Weird.”
“Do you mind not calling my hair weird? It gives me a complex.”
“It’s like hair, but different.”