“This is what I do, baby.”
With a nod, Cella took her mother’s arm and they walked into the restaurant.
The hostess smiled at them even while sizing up Cella’s casual outfit. The Van Holtz chain was one of those snooty restaurants that the Malones didn’t really go to unless, of course, it was a very special occasion or someone else was paying. Mostly because, by nature, the Malones were hagglers and the Van Holtzes really weren’t. But, it was one of the best shifter-run restaurants around. They had a wild boar with mushroom sauce that was to die for.
“Hi. We’re here to meet with Thorpe and—”
“Ah, yes.” The hostess began to laugh before grabbing a couple of menus. “Right this way.” And she walked off ... still laughing.
After frowning at each other, mother and daughter followed the hostess through the restaurant and down to a row of private rooms. She stopped at a set of double doors and opened them. Luckily, she was a fellow shifter, a wolf, which allowed her to step back before she got hit with someone’s purse. The hundred-dollar Chanel knockoff slammed into the opposite wall and landed on the floor. It was gold-colored. A She-lion’s purse. Some Prides could afford the real thing, some couldn’t, and some weren’t willing to pay for the real thing. That was the O’Neills.
With a sweep of her arm, the hostess invited Cella and Barb in.
Cella picked up the big gold purse and handed it to her mother. “Good luck to ya,” she said, then went the other way, looking for a lunch that didn’t involve wedding plans or arguing She-predators.
Crush dragged the She-bear out of the back of their van and into the precinct elevator with MacDermot.
“Shut up!” MacDermot snarled, and he didn’t blame her. The sow had not stopped roaring and complaining for the last hour. She was probably just coming down from whatever high she’d been on, but Crush, and he was sure MacDermot, didn’t care.
“You fuckin’ bitch,” the sow screamed-slurred. “You fuckin’ bitch whore!”
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, where the sow would be booked and put in a titanium cell. At the very least, they’d be done with her.
“What about her sons?” Crush asked when they arrived at booking, where another sow was manning the desk. “I say we go back out and track them down.”
“I’m up for that.”
“You stay away from my boys! Stay away from my boys!”
“Shut upppp!” MacDermot yelled, making Crush chuckle. The woman had no patience for screamers. She never did.
Crush’s phone went off as two uniforms took the sow from him. “Hey,” he told MacDermot. “We got a text from Gentry. She wants us back upstairs.”
“Okay.” MacDermot finished the paperwork the sergeant at the desk needed to book the sow.
MacDermot had just pushed the clipboard across the desk when the sergeant snapped at the uniformed officers, “Don’t uncuff her here—”
But it was too late. The sow spun around, free of her bonds. Facing MacDermot, she swung her big fist and sent the full-human flying out of the room.
Shocked, everyone stood there staring, even the sow. Then, just as Crush was about to panic, thinking about what he could possibly tell MacDermot’s husband at the funeral that would explain this, a bellowed, “You fucking cunt whore!” from the hallway reminded Lou Crushek that Bronx girls didn’t go down easy.
Cella ended up eating her lunch in the restaurant kitchen with Ric Van Holtz. It never hurt to suck up to the boss and get a duo of wild boar and impala with that damn mushroom sauce in the bargain.
“So how’s it going with the rookies?” he asked before picking up the giant burger sitting in front of him for his own lunch.
“Not bad. And not one fight this morning.”
“No bleachers thrown then?” Van Holtz bit into the burger, his eyes closing. He groaned. After swallowing, he pointed at the burger. “Amazing,” he whispered. Then more loudly snapped, “I thought I said I wanted this well done?”
A young wolf, his arms and hands wet and covered in bubbles, stuck his head in from the other room. “You said medium rare.”
“No. I said well done. Get it right next time.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez.”
The kid disappeared back to his regular job and Van Holtz went back to his burger.
“My cousin Stein,” Van Holtz explained, like that told her why he was being such a ballbuster.
“You’re ridiculous,” Cella told him. “I heard you say medium rare.”
“Ssssh.” Van Holtz looked at that doorway. “I have a strategy, Miss Malone.”
“The ‘I’m a douche’ strategy?”
“You break them down first so you can build them back up.”
“And when does that building begin?”
“Whenever I say it does.”
Cella laughed. “You’re worse than my dad. Of his four children, I’m the only one who could handle his idea of training.”
“And look at you now.”
“The reality is I had it easier than the boys because I was daddy’s little princess.”
Van Holtz frowned. “You? Really?”
“What d’ya gotta say it like that for?” She pointed at herself. “Don’t I look like a fuckin’ princess to you?”
“In what world,” Smith’s voice said from behind Cella, “are you a princess?”
Damn Smith, sneaking up on her again. How did she do that? “In the same world that Smiths are considered upstanding and law-abiding citizens rather than backwoods crazies.”
“Sassy talker.”
“Psychopath.”
Smith walked over to Van Holtz’s side, pressing up against him. “You in here chattin’ up my man, Malone?”
“Well, it’s about time he had a woman with some curves.”
“Don’t most just call that back fat?”
“No brawling,” Van Holtz quickly warned them when Cella pulled her fist back and Smith went for that damn bowie knife she kept holstered to the back of her jeans.Once it seemed that he’d diverted any fights in his precious kitchen, Van Holtz asked Smith, “You want something to eat?”
“Later maybe.”
“Where have you been?” Cella asked, cutting another piece of meat. “I called you earlier.”
“Yeah, sorry. I was checking in with the people MacDermot put on surveillance detail for us.”
“They get anything?”
“Nope. But I did pull some favors and get video footage from stores in a one-block radius of the taxidermist. Printed a few pics.” Smith pulled out a manila envelope and took out several photographs. “Anybody look familiar to you?”
Handing his half-eaten burger to his mate—the man never took Smith’s “I’ll eat later” seriously—Van Holtz looked through the photos, sliding each one across the table to Cella when he was done. After several moments, he retrieved one of the photos he’d passed to Cella, studying it a little more. “This man ... Do we know him?”
“I don’t.” Having finished Van Holtz’s burger, Smith was now working on his plate of fries. “But before I came here, I showed these pics to the surveillance team. They pointed him out, too. Said he met with the taxidermist, but never in his store. Always met him a block away. I told them if he comes back, to put someone on him.”
“We should touch base with MacDermot, too.” Cella pushed her empty plate away. “She’ll want in on this if it turns out to be something.”
“I called Gentry,” Smith said. “She’ll send MacDermot to meet us at the office later. Although, I do wonder why we never go to your office, Malone.”
“Do we need to get something done?” Cella demanded. “Because that won’t happen if we’re at the KZS office. It’s like twenty of me instead of just one.”
“And just one of you is terrifying enough.”
“Cella!” her mother called from somewhere in the restaurant.
“In here, Ma!”
“Is there a Malone that don’t yell?” Smith asked.
“Is there a Smith that don’t lick its ass?”
“Don’t be jealous of those who got the talent and dexterity.”
“You’d be amazed at my dexterity.”
“Malone, are you sweet on me? And here in front of my mate and everything.”
Cella’s eyes crossed and she turned in time to see her mother strut her way into the kitchen.
“I assume, Ma, from your sexy walk that all went well?”
“Why do these people question me? When it comes to weddings”—she held her hand out—“by this claw, I rule.”
“She,” Smith muttered, “is so your momma.”
Trying not to laugh, Cella said, “Ma, you remember Dee-Ann.”
“I do?”
Cella scratched her head and tried harder not to laugh. “You’ve met her four, five, maybe ten times.”
“Huh.”
“But you do remember Ric Van—”
“Of course, I do!” Because vast wealth always managed to jog her mother’s feline memory. “Good to meet you again, Mr. Van Holtz,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Ric, Mrs. Malone. Call me Ric.”
She gave her best “think of me whenever you’re shopping for a wedding planner” smile, then turned back to Cella. “Was the double wedding your idea?”