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Sticks and Stones (Cat DeLuca Series #2)

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What does a woman do when she discovers her husband is an incurable cheater? If she?s Cat DeLuca she launches the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. Now Cat does what two years of unholy matrimony taught her. She catches cheaters.When a client (Cleo Jones) shoots her cheating husband?s bum full of buckshot, he disappears, taking her money, dog, and sister with him. Private Investigator Cat DeLuca promises to return the dog and money if her client stops shooting at Walter. Cleo agrees. The detective finds ...

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What does a woman do when she discovers her husband is an incurable cheater? If she’s Cat DeLuca she launches the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. Now Cat does what two years of unholy matrimony taught her. She catches cheaters.When a client (Cleo Jones) shoots her cheating husband’s bum full of buckshot, he disappears, taking her money, dog, and sister with him. Private Investigator Cat DeLuca promises to return the dog and money if her client stops shooting at Walter. Cleo agrees. The detective finds the dog and a mysterious bag chuck-full of cash. And then she finds Walter. His very dead body is still warm.
The case is a slam dunk for the cops who arrest Cleo for the murder of her husband. She had motive and opportunity and a dozen witnesses heard her scream bloody murder. One made a video. 
Cat DeLuca is determined to prove her client’s innocence and it’s not an easy sell. Walter was an unsavory character with enemies. To find his killer, Cat will have to sift through the ones who didn’t pull the trigger. Her investigation leads to four players with secrets: a childhood friend, a gambler, a construction tycoon, and a legendary Chicago designer. When forensic evidence suggests the detective knows more about the murder than she’s telling, Cat faces the certain loss of her agency. 
Cat DeLuca is smart and charming. She’s an unlikely heroine and her partner, a beagle named Inga, is quite likely to eat the evidence. Sticks and Stones delivers steamy romance, intrigue and laugh out loud humor for a wickedly delicious read.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In Larsen’s engaging second mystery featuring Chicago PI Caterina “Cat” DeLuca (after 2010’s Liar, Liar), Cat goes after Walter Jones, Cleo Jones’s no-good ex, who’s stolen Cleo’s money as well as her Tibetan terrier, Beau. Cat, trailed by a furious Cleo, finds Walter’s bloody body, still warm, in his suburban house, plus a bag of money and Beau. With perfect timing, the police show up and arrest Cleo—who’s threatened Walter loudly and publicly—for murder. Determined to prove Cleo innocent, Cat turns for help to a number of friends, notably Chance Savino, her FBI agent lover, while evading the police to track suspects and hiding Cleo, after she’s released on bail, and Beau in her home. It’s a plus that Cleo is a great cook. Janet Evanovich fans will relate to the humor and crazy characters, but under the fun is a well-crafted plot with all the elements of a classic whodunit. (Feb.)
Library Journal
The Chicago-based Pants on Fire Detective Agency might not garner huge respect, but it gets results thanks to Cat's dedicated sleuthing against marital cheaters. Her client this time is the irrepressible, loudmouthed Cleo Jones (Cat's assistant) who made so many threats against her cheating husband, Walter, that when he turns up dead, she becomes the prime suspect. As Cat probes deeper, she discovers Walter harbored a 20-year-old secret that has caused several enemies to surface. With Cat's disguises and her cop connections, maybe she'll survive her own sting operation. VERDICT The madcap plot makes this lighthearted sophomore outing (after Liar, Liar) a good choice for mystery buffs who can't get enough Janet Evanovich. Try also with readers of Sophie Littlefield and Laura DiSilverio for the impudent, female detective angle. [See Prepub Alert, 11/11/11.]
From the Publisher
 "Fans of Janet Evanovich will enjoy meeting Cat DeLuca, Italian American P.I. and owner of the Pants on Fire Detective Agency, whose specialty is catching cheating spouses." —Booklist Review of Sticks and Stones

"Sticks and Stones will appeal mainly to an adult female audience. There is humor infused into the pages to help alleviate some of the seriousness of the story. The character interactions combined with a solid plot make this a novel worth reading." —Reader Views

"Fans of Jennifer Crusie will appreciate Larsen’s debut, full of breezy comebacks and characters that come off the page." —Kirkus Reviews of Liar Liar

"Cat DeLuca...makes a strong first impression in Larsen's comic, sexy debut." —Publisher's Weekly of Liar Liar

"Packed with action and wonderfully funny characters, this series debut is a masterstroke of hilarity. Cat De Luca is smart and charming in a scorned-woman-turned-to-avenging-all-cheated-upon-women way and is sure to appeal to fans of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum.' —Library Journal of Liar Liar

Kirkus Reviews
Suspects abound when an unscrupulous blackmailer is found dead by a private eye and her histrionic assistant. Caterina DeLuca's Pants on Fire Detective Agency, meant to catch cheaters, is charged with an investigation that may be beyond its means when Cat's assistant/partner (depending on who you ask) Cleo Jones is charged with murder. It all starts with Cleo's cheating husband, Walter, who hasn't bothered to wait for his divorce to take up with Cleo's sister. When Cleo brings Cat along to do a bit of B & E at Walter's place and rescue Cleo's pooch Beau, the two find the last thing they expected: Walter home and stone-cold dead. Now Cleo is prime suspect and Cat is looking at accessory after the fact, a status not even her connections at the police department can wrangle her out of. Cat thinks her only way out is to identify who really killed Walter, but with the dead man's unscrupulous ways, including adultery, blackmail and embezzlement at a minimum, it's hard for Cat to imagine who wouldn't want Walter dead. While Cat craves support from her FBI boyfriend Chance Savino, she's seen more of her Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker lately than she has of Chance. As Cat investigates the murder of a man the world may be better for having lost, she debates whether finding the truth is as important as staying out of trouble. It's only logical that Cat's second case (Liar, Liar, 2010) is a bit disjointed, since the author is a nom de plume of three sisters. Tighter editing might return the series to its former glory.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781590589236
  • Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
  • Publication date: 2/7/2012
  • Series: Cat DeLuca Series , #2
  • Pages: 250
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 0.70 (d)

Meet the Author

One day three sisters, linked by a voracious love of mysteries, set off to write their own. Hunched over a mojito and bucket of steamer clams, the Pants On Fire Detective Agency was born. Julianne, Kristen and Kari Larsen, (horse trainer, minister and irreverent baker) deliver a sizzling read and easy smile. Liar Liar is the first book in the Cat DeLuca mysteries. The sisters live in the Pacific Northwest and Chicago area and are currently at work on Cat’s next, most fabulous adventure.

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Read an Excerpt

Sticks and Stones

A Cat DeLuca Mystery
By K. J. Larsen

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2012 K. J. Larsen
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-59058-923-6

Chapter One

When I was seven, my second grade class made papier-mâché bunnies for Easter. Mine had big floppy ears and a white cotton tail. I gave Flopps two coats of purple pizzazz paint. When school closed for the Easter holiday, Sister Kathryn let us take our bunnies home. The thing is, I forgot.

I raced home to color Easter eggs with my brother Rocco. It wasn't until my feet hit the porch that I remembered Flopps. I threw my books on the grass and tore back to school.

I pushed the giant school doors open and ran headlong down the dark, scary hallway. The soft slap-slap of my footsteps echoed hollowly on the concrete floor. I crashed through my classroom door sucking air.

There was Flopps. Alone on my desk.

And there was Sister Kathryn. Not so alone on hers.

Our music teacher, Mr. Herbald, was making her sing.

You don't know a whole lot when you're seven. But I knew Mr. Herbald was married to Mrs. Herbald. And I knew Sister Kathryn, in good Catholic tradition, was married to—well, God.

Sister Kathryn gasped and her feet slid to the floor. I seized Flopps in my arms. Her eyes had widened since I painted them.

I raced home to Mama.

Mama was at the ironing board pressing Papa's blue police uniform. I told her what I saw, she made clicking noises with her mouth and pushed the other kids outside.

Mama shook her head sorrowfully. "Poor Harriet Herbald."

I shook my head like Mama. "I hope God doesn't know."

Mama cut two fat wedges of honey cake and a small slice for the bunny. We carried our plates outside to the porch swing. Flopps sat between us.

"Mr. Herbald is a vampire," I said. "I saw him biting Sister Kathryn's neck."

"What other people do is none of your business, Caterina. You must never tell anyone what you saw."

"But ..."

Mama cut me off with a look and a finger.

"OK." I stared down at my cake. "Mama, do nuns hide secrets under their habits?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mr. Herbald was looking for something under Sister Kathryn's skirt."

Mama made that sound with her mouth again.

"That is not something a good Catholic girl needs to think about."

I thought about that for a moment.

"Is Sister Kathryn a good Catholic?"

Mama silenced me with a look. "Just eat your cake."

Chapter Two

I'll never forget what Mama said about minding my own business. Maybe because she reminds me every day. When I became a private investigator and launched the Pants On Fire Detective Agency, it became her mantra.

My name is Cat DeLuca. I catch cheaters. Despite what Mama says, I'm not a snoop or a hootchie stalker. My clients come to me because they suspect their partners are cheating.

There are tell-tale signs of a cheater. Cheaters suddenly smell better. They dress better. They wear designer underwear. They groom their nose hairs.

I know these things because it was two short months into my marriage when the tweezers came out. My unholy union with run-around Johnnie Rizzo was a crash course in infidelity. But I have to tell you, it was good training for what I do best.

I scale balconies and teeter outside hotel windows to capture the perfect snapshot. One 8x10 glossy can speak a thousand words. And it could be worth thousands in a divorce settlement.

My client, Brenda Greger, was a timid, soft spoken woman who would apologize for sucking oxygen off the planet. Her husband, Steve, is the poster child for Mr. McCheater. Early fifties, six-two, all teeth, cocky as hell and so buffed and groomed I don't need to see his Calvin Klein undies to know he's wearing them.

At the moment I was tooling up the Stevenson Expressway with Inga, my beagle, riding shotgun. I'd been staked out at Steve Greger's office since noon. My gut told me this was going to be a good day for Cat DeLuca, P.I.

At one forty-five, Greger walked out of his office, looked both ways. The perm-a-grin expression on his face screamed booty call. He turned north on Halsted, moving with the traffic. About a block before the on-ramp, Greger's car slowed and allowed a side-parked car to slip in front of him. He followed the car onto the Stevenson and I took caboose.

We jumped onto South Lake Shore Drive and ended up at Monroe Harbor Marina. I knew from doing background on Greger that he had a slip there. I gave the happy couple plenty of room to park and watched as a leggy, twenty-something blonde in eight-inch platforms and white hot-pants wobbled out of car number one with picnic basket in hand. Typical.

It wasn't hard following them to their dock. The marina is big enough and busy enough this time of year to keep me invisible. I just acted like a car looking for a parking spot and watched as they boarded a yacht. Not the biggest yacht in the marina but not the smallest either; just a nice, sleek vessel big enough for a galley and comfy V berth. Game on.

Once aboard, Greger and Legs scooted below deck. I guessed he was a wee bit impatient after his week of good-boy behavior and he was the greedy type. I'd have to move fast if I was going to be in position for the photo op. I doubted this would take long.

I parked illegally at the end of the pier. I tossed the binoculars on the seat, grabbed the camera, told Inga to stay, and dashed down the dock to the yacht moored next to Greger's. I took the chance that it would be empty, climbed aboard like I belonged there, and made a bee-line for the bow.

I had to trust my mark would already be preoccupied as I leaned over the side to peer into those cute little round windows through the magnified lens of my camera.

Whoa! When you're a P.I. you sometimes see things you wish you hadn't. A picture will turn in your mind and you just know it's gonna keep you up at night.

I was having such a moment.

I looked through the camera lens and a nightmare germinated deep in my brain. It was Greger's hairy, pimpled butt. And the hairiest backside I had ever seen. And in this business, I've seen a lot.

The man was a grizzly bear. Only his head was bald. He was Kojak in an ape suit. I blinked and steeled my eyes back to the camera.

There in the lens were two eight-inch platforms stuck straight up in the air. Damn. I'd have to get up higher to get a gander at Greger's hairy butt, but how?

Refusing to think, I kicked off my Converses, swung the camera strap around my neck, and climbed onto the edge of the boat. I gripped the boat's side with my toes, lifted the camera and ...

Suddenly, two arms were around my waist, and a voice boomed. "Hey, hey, sweet darlin'. You here to pay me a little visit, you cute thing?"

I smelled Jim Beam and my face wasn't even turned his way. Inside the Love Boat, McCheater jerked his head and glanced behind him. It was a Kodak moment. The sweaty, flushed face filled my lens, framed by two smooth white thighs. For one glorious moment, Steve Greger was mine.

The hands around my waist tightened and pulled.


I was dragged off the edge and my feet planted firmly on the deck.

"Didn't want you to fall in, sugar plum."

Hastily I reviewed my shot. Crap. No hairy butt, no eight-inch platforms saluting the sun. Just an unfocused pic of the stern and her name: Steve's Obsession.

I glared at the guy who ruined my 8x10 glossy. He was drunk off his bum, butterballish in size, and a scream for Viagra. And he was still holding me. I smacked him with my camera.

A cabin door closed and clomping footsteps hurried along on the pier. McCheater and Legs were making their escape.

Jim Beam shot a bloodshot eye on McCheater's window and back on me. It took a moment to connect the dots.

When he did, his jaw tightened. "I'm calling security."

"Already here." I waved a library card before his unfocused eyes. "Put the phone down, Jim."

He grabbed my arm. "I know the marina's security team. You're not one of them."

"I'm a little higher up on the food chain."

"The Port of Chicago?"


"The National Yacht Association?"

"Keep climbing."

His eyes popped and he swallowed hard. His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. "You don't mean—"

I made one of Mama's clicking sounds with my mouth. "I'm afraid I do. Steve Gregor is the leader of a terrorist organization."

He dropped my arm and just like that, I was gone.

I raced to my car. A sparkling bottle of champagne was propped on my seat next to my binoculars. In the back, my faithful beagle slurped up McCheater's romantic lunch. I suspected the goose pate would give her farts.

Steve Gregor honked as he drove by flashing a toothy smile.

Not so fast, Kojak.

I bumped the bottle over and scooted behind the wheel. Pumped the gas, turned the key. I got nothing.

Steve Gregor may have left his lunch, but he took a piece of my engine with him.

I beat my head on the steering wheel. And then I called Jack.

Jack is the best mechanic in Bridgeport, maybe South Chicago. He's missing a few fingers and a few more marbles. He's like a member of my family. My crazy, dysfunctional family.

"Jack. This is Cat."

"Caterina." His voice was cool as Italian Ice. I winced. He was still steamed about Dorothy.

Dorothy, a 1967 Ford Mustang, was Jack's pride and joy. He let me drive her the last time my car was in his shop. Somebody blew her to tiny bits of shrapnel and glass. It was not entirely my fault.

"I'm at the marina and I need a tow. My Honda's missing a part."

"What? You drop a tranny?"

"Nope. Definitely something smaller. Someone screwed with my car."

Jack exaggerated a sigh. "You have a gift at pissing people off."

"Hey, I was minding my own business."

"Ha! You were taking dirty pictures."

"That is my business, Jack. You gonna help me out here or what?"

He snorted. "I'm doing this for your mama. You know you break her heart, Caterina. She's a nice lady."

Yep. Nice and crazy.

"How long will it take to replace the part?"

"It'll be a few days before I get a chance to look at it. I'm shorthanded. Devin's still in rehab."

Devin is Jack's nephew. We went to school together. He used to steal lunch boxes. Now he's graduated to stealing cars. We all grow in our own special way.

"How's Devin doing?"

"He's changed. I think he found Jesus."


"Or maybe it's the twelve steps. Anyway he's sober."

"Of course he's sober, Jack. There's no dope in treatment."

"He's sober enough. I need him at the shop."

"And I need a loaner. You gonna fix me up?"

"Fugeddaboudit. You blew up my Dorothy!"

"Hey, I sent flowers."

"I'm not givin' you a car."

"C'mon, Jack. I'll take an old klunker."

He gasped. "You're not blowin' up my Doris!"

"Doris? Seriously Jack, what kind of guy names his car Doris?"

"Hey, here's a name for you, Cat. Hertz."


I stared at the cell in my hand and mumbled something worth ten Hail Mary's and a mouthful of soap. Then I jabbed in Cleo's number. I needed a ride.

Cleo's a former client. She hired me a few months ago to identify the lipstick smudge on her husband's silk boxers. I followed Walter's canary-yellow Corvette around Chi-town for six grueling days of business meetings and seminars. On the seventh day, he rested. I found him at the Marriott resting on Cleo's sister, Hotlip –Ho for short. I shot some steamy 8x10s. Cleo shot Walter's bum full of buckshot. He slunk under the radar, taking Cleo's money, dog, and sister with him.

Losing Walter was a small loss. I'm not talking about his beer belly. I have pictures. He was an unimaginative and bumbling lover. It took Cleo one week, three pitchers of margaritas, and a traveling salesman from Toledo to get over him. I gave her a job at Pants On Fire and struck a deal. I'd help her get the money and her dog back on one condition. She had to quit shooting Walter.

I gathered my bag and basic supplies of the trade out of my Accord—camera, binoculars, this month's Marie Claire magazine, and my cooler jammed with cold pizza and Mama's cannoli. My box of wigs, glasses and wrinkle-free clothes. Everything I needed for a stakeout. I chucked the keys under the seat for Jack and hoped he'd return my car soon. The Silver Bullet is perfect for stalking cheaters; it's small, fast, and it blends.

I set the cooler on the curb and plopped down beside Inga. We watched for Cleo's Camry to scream around the corner. Cleo drives at her one speed through life: full throttle. She doesn't blend.

A screech of tires whipped my attention to a canary-yellow Corvette boring down toward us. I grabbed Inga and bolted to my feet. I did a double take. I knew that car well. But it wasn't Walter driving. The top was down and Cleo waved from behind the wheel. Her spiked pink-tipped black hair, a recent reinvention of herself from her break-up with Walter, was unruffled. It didn't even bend in the wind. Cleo was a free bird expressing her new identity.

The sports car wrenched to a stop. I groaned.

"Omigod, Cleo. You killed Walter and stole his car."

"That's ridiculous," Cleo squawked in her grating voice. "The coward wouldn't come to the door. And don't think he didn't hear me. The neighbors were staring through their blinds."

I narrowed my eyes. "Uh huh. Well, if you didn't see Walter, how do you have his car?"

She winked. "Well, technically you were half right."

"You stole his car?"

"Hey, I'm just getting started. Jump in."

I loaded my stash and buckled up. Inga hopped on my lap. Cleo hit the gas and I hit the back of the seat.

She flashed a grin. "What d'ya think? Do I look smokin' hot in this car or what?"

"How does your hair stand up at this speed? I have to admit, it's impressive. But more importantly, how'd you find him?"

"This morning I was at the firing range—"

"Ah yes, your daily fantasy about shooting Walter."

"Of course," she grinned. "Anyway, I got hungry and was thinkin' pizza sounded pretty good. Then I thought about how much Walter and I loved Gino's Pizzeria. Ding! Ding! Ding! I knew Walter couldn't live without his emergency ballgame pizza pie."

"Wow. It's amazing how your mind works."

"I schmoozed Gino's delivery boy. It only cost me twenty bucks and a case of beer."

"That delivery kid is seventeen."


"Promise me you'll never have children."

Cleo cranked the volume up on the radio and jammed to Memphis Minnie. Here's the thing about Cleo. Her painful, nails-on-blackboard squawk transforms to a rich, sultry vibrato when she sings.

We powered down the Dan Ryan to Bridgeport, feeding every car on the road our dust. Cleo's shoulders shimmied and her hands drummed the wheel.

"I'm a bad luck woman, I can't see a reason why," her voice purred.

I watched the rearview mirror for flashing lights. "You stole a car, babe. You might want to chill a bit, or you'll be singing those blues from a cell."

"Good point." Cleo eased the gas and sighed. "I just don't get why Walter's avoiding me."

"Hmm. It might have something to do with the last time you saw him. You shot him in the bum. It could make him a little touchy."

"Pansy-ass. You should have seen him running away screaming like a little girl."

"Or maybe Walter didn't answer the door because he wasn't home."

"His car was there." Cleo's lip pouted out a little farther.

Was being the operative word.

Cleo slammed on the gas. "Okay, fine. Maybe he caught a ride with my sister, the Ho."

A low hiss issued from between clenched teeth.

"You do realize everyone in Walter's neighborhood now thinks you're dangerously unbalanced."

"I hate to shock you Cat, but people thinking I am 'unbalanced' is no newsflash. Besides, what else could I do? I had to call out his lying, cheating, sneaking around, dog-stealing ass."

I flicked open a mirror from my purse and began slathering my lips with Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker. "Not when you work for me, you don't. The Pants On Fire Detective Agency is a first-class organization. We have an image to uphold."

"What image? You say 'Pants On Fire' and I see tighty-whities and a whole lot of flames."

"Discretion, Cleo. Our clients need to know we keep their secrets. We don't scream in the street and we don't draw attention to ourselves. We discreetly let ourselves through the door."

"What if I don't know how to pick a lock?"

"Then shut up and learn."

Cleo drove in sulky silence almost a block.

"You of all people should know how I feel. Your husband cheated with half of Bridgeport right under your nose. He played you like a violin. Can you honestly say you never wanted to choke the life out of him?"


Excerpted from Sticks and Stones by K. J. Larsen Copyright © 2012 by K. J. Larsen. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Posted February 29, 2012

    A Fun Mystery

    This book cracks me up. The pairing of Cat and her assistant took me on a fun ride as Cat looks for clues to save her friend from moving to Cuba. Surrounded by an eccentrically quirky family, Cat can always count on them when the need arises, especially with the amusing interludes that she winds up involved in when pursuing her suspects or helping out a friend. This fast-moving mystery with a good plot kept me on my toes and I enjoyed the engaging and witty dialogue throughout this book. All in all this was a fantastic read and I can’t wait for the next book in the thrill-a-minute romp through the chapters of Cat’s life. They say a cat has nine lives and I hope that’s the number of books we see in this hilariously entertaining series.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 26, 2011

    Funny,smart, detective story

    I had a great time reading about cat. Love her detective business name. Pants on Fire . Its a detective story,comedy and romance and family. It reminds me a little of stephanie plum stories.
    Cat has a business out of Catch Liars and cheats. Her family is full of police and not all honest. Her boyfriend is FBI agent. Her family does not like FBI. She has friends who were spies and one helps protect her. Her assistant is crazy gun toting who is up for murdering her husband. Noone but Cat believes her and is trying to prove her innocent. Her family want her to quit her job and get married.
    I was wrong figuring out who the murder was but I did pick one person for a bad guy Just not that murder.
    She tells a good story. Keeps your attention the whole way through. I was given this ebook in exchange for honest review.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 26, 2012

    Their two books are a quick read. They were okay but way too mu

    Their two books are a quick read. They were okay but way too much a duplicate of the Plum books. All they did was change the names and town. Plagiarism comes to mind.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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