Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  “Hello, Officer. How is your first case going?” After they had exchanged the usual politeness, she gave him a brief description of what she recalled while he typed away. They agreed to meet the next morning in her hotel lobby so she could sign the paperwork.

  The next morning, Charles showed up right on time. She signed and declared herself officially off the hook.

  Her writing kept her busy the following days. It had been a while since she had written so intensely, and she loved every damn moment of it.

  On the following Sunday, Christopher got back from his meetings, beaten and not up to his usual teasing. He didn’t even bring up the motel episode. Since the quarter disaster and the murder accusation, he had not been quite his usual controlled self. Not with her, never with her. If anything, his overprotective nonsense was worse than before. But the job seemed to get to him now. She detected an underlying impatience in him even if he denied it. As she had foreseen, he kept himself busy with work.

  Ingrid organised an impromptu cocktail party at her office staff the next weekend. Hence, Patricia left on Thursday and did not get back until late Monday. Then later that week, three homeless bums discovered two bodies in an old warehouse. Since it looked like a murder ritual, Christopher took the case himself, looking for a distraction maybe. He brought in specialists and kept the entire team even busier.

  Maybe she needed time apart from him without her taking off or breaking up with him? Just damn quality time apart to concentrate on her writing. With her serial killer book character now under arrest, her PI woman-slash-cop story was coming along nicely.

  PI Unlimited: The Job

  The smell was nauseating. The stiff must have been soaking for a while; a couple of days at least, Jeremy guessed. Surprisingly, for there was so much of it, the blood barely covered the body to the waist. Maybe it was deceptive; maybe the dead guy had very skinny legs.

  The flies were fucking annoying. The last week had been unseasonably warm. Lucky for the stiff for no one might not have found him until spring if not for the stink. Unlucky for Je, though, for he had to wait until the tech guys had done their things before he could open a window. He had already made a quick survey of the place, a more thorough search would follow the tech job.

  Procedures clearly stated that the homicide investigation team had to wait for the forensic team to declare the dead a homicide before he could take over the scene. Forensic or not, when his team got called, it was usually obvious. This one sure was pretty fucking ‘obvious’ since multiple stab wounds deep enough for the blood to ooze out crisscrossed the stiff’s body. That the stiff sat in the bathtub only made the murder cleaner. Even if both wrists had been slit, no way could this be suicide. With the wrists plus the chest plus the femoral arteries, no way could this be accidental.

  Was there water in the tub mixed with the blood? Forensic will tell although, from the smell, colour and thickness of the broth, Je doubt it. Which wound had the killer made first? Had the victim fought back? When had this taken place? Forensic.

  In this instance, the how of the kill was evident; his job was about the who and the why. Who had done the guy in and why. Je would settle for just the who, the why being, from the look of things: crazy and angry. What else made one stab someone repeatedly until the blood all but emptied out.

  He didn’t mind so much the crazy and angry, all part of the job. The smell and look of the crime scene didn’t bother him either. He was not very sensitive, never had been. Climbing the stairs to the stiff’s place, he had crossed a rookie green as can be running down. He didn’t have that problem. He had other problems, though. Parts of his team he needed to sack. And elements in Central he was pissed at. And an element, just one, in his personal life he wanted to add.

  Almost two months after and he still couldn’t forget the woman. Damn woman. He had tried to track her down. She had given him a fake name, so he’d taken to refer to her as Princess Jane, a pretty name for a pretty lady, much prettier in any case than Jane Doe.

  Jane’s hospital file (one of his guys had swindled a copy from a friendly nurse) hadn’t helped. Without even being sure it was hers, he had run fucking DNA tests with samples taken at the apartment but hadn’t got a hit. To be sure, he should have taken a lock of her hair at the hospital, but he had not. Illegal. Yah right.

  The real reason was, Je hadn’t thought of taking a sample then. She had looked damn helpless in the white hospital bed; he hadn’t thought she would run then. He knew better now. Next time, Princess, you’re mine.

  Twice he had underestimated her. More than twice actually. A couple of times at the bar, then at the apartment, in the living room and later, in the bedroom. Amazing woman. No signs of her and so many questions left unanswered. Why was she with the killer?

  Je had interrogated the killer woman, but the bitch kept changing her version of the events every two days until the Court lawyers pulled him off the case. Abuse of power my ass, the murderess had been going at it all over the country. They might never know just how many she had killed. From what he had seen when she had tried to do him, she enjoyed killing a hell of a lot.

  Fucking Central had sent him to therapy after. Post-traumatic shock they called it. Assholes. It wasn’t his close encounter with the serial killer that unnerved him, not his first, not his last, all part of the job. No, it was the woman, his Jane. He had wanted her that night and the fuck if he didn’t want her still.

  The killer wouldn’t give him a straight answer, but he was not a fucking detective for nothing. From what he had gathered at the apartment and at the bar where she had killed her last two victims, then at the hotel where she had killed the two before, the murderess worked alone.

  He talked to the shrinks like Central had asked. Not therapy, screw them, but investigation. Could a nymphomaniac serial killer switch from men to women? Some said yes, most said no.

  He had seen how much the killer was aroused on that night, but by what, or by whom? Her impending kill? Him as a male? Because her female companion Jane had so obviously aroused him? By Jane herself? By the presence of a female witness? A female participant? A potential female victim? What? He also knew without a doubt Princess Jane had not enjoyed any of the bedroom play, far from it. Looking back, he had the feeling he had been the bait but for whom?

  He didn’t have much to go on, only her physical description. Tallish. Lithe. Stunning. Even with those ridiculous glasses she had put on. Shy. Damn he liked when she blushed. Smart. Delicate. Strong. Damn sexy.

  The bathtub hacker dude was a welcome distraction; the case would help keep his mind off Princess Jane.

  Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line

  Her Cold Case

  A new file awaited her when she returned to the precinct: a two-year-old murder case of a twenty-three-year-old student waitress. Depressing.

  Cold case research was the primary albeit unofficial reason of her presence in Christopher’s office, although her personal file stated she was a filing clerk. And why wouldn’t it? The HR guys had no imagination, and they wouldn’t have known what to do with her had she said she was doing research for possible female PI-slash-cop stories.

  At the time of her death, the student-waitress was down to her last year of economics at the University and worked at a diner part-time. The murderer had knocked her dead in the back alley of the diner on a Sunday night. Since the place was closed on Mondays, the victim was found only the following Tuesday morning, in a dumpster. It had rained for days; the police had found no useful evidence. No clues. No enemies.

  Her family loved her; her school friends and her co-workers appreciated her. Except for the killing strike, the police did not find any signs of fight or violence. Either the blow had taken the girl by surprise or she had known her killer.

  The file was not that thick, but Patricia took days to read it, re-reading some of the interviews and taking notes. Nothing stood out and yet something felt odd. With the team busy with the ritual murders, as the press was
calling them, no one had any free time to spend with her. Hence, she had no one to contact the detectives initially involved with the case, no one to accompany her to talk to the family. An official position on the team might have made her research easier, but she did the next best thing. She had lunch at the diner.

  The place looked pretty ordinary. Service was average, the food was average, but that didn’t explain why she couldn’t eat a bite. She took a stroll down the back alley. As she walked, she called Christopher just to hear his voice.

  “Hi, Big guy, are you busy? How about I take you out for a coffee or something?”

  “No can do; I have a meeting coming up.”

  As if she hadn’t known that already. “So how’s your day going so far?” Just from the sound of his voice, he was not having a fun day. Too many meetings with the Brass lately. “Do you have plans for the weekend? If you want, we could go shopping.” Anything to keep him on the phone while she walked up and down that dark alley. For sure he knew she was up to something but hearing his voice was reassuring, whatever he was saying. Silly.

  She hung up only when she returned to the street. She had not seen anything peculiar, had felt no zingy light-bulb moment of insight. Her imagination was at a stop. This visit was a big zero.

  She went for a drink with Reid that night, her nursing the boondoggle of a diner tour with too much red wine, Reid forgetting yet another lousy date with too much cognac.

  “Life sucks,” Reid commented. Reid was a woman of few words.

  “It totally does,” a tipsy Patricia agreed. “I’m in the mood for some Tai Chi. Are you in? Let’s go tonight.”

  Spur-of-the-moment decisions were the best. They headed for a weekend at the Yoga Tai Chi resort Patricia sometimes went to for a break from police work and the policemen that came with it. Seeing as Patricia was already drunk, they flew to the place.

  Strangely, she missed Christopher that weekend. Tai Chi was the thing she did when she felt overwhelmed. Tai Chi, Yoga and red wine. Young and not-so-young trainers worked at the retreat. She liked the sight, but Reid totally loved it as only an exercise addict could. Going out with jerks was definitely easier than dating Christopher, Patricia mused. At least back then, she had enough detachment to sample the trainers, almost mandatory since the Yogi strictly forbade wines and other alcoholic beverages on resort grounds. Her samples remained mostly fingertips-and-lips-brushing affairs, though. It was a wonder she kept coming.

  Then again, it was a wonder they kept accepting her. Granted when (if?) she practised, her Tai Chi was close to master level, but her Yoga was barely average from lack of patience, go figure. Worse, she jumped the wall to the neighbouring town every other night to hit the ice-cream parlour. The Yogi master did like her, though. Wise old man. He looked worried about her this weekend. Yet again. How did he know the last months had been hellish?

  After half a dozen solved crimes, a couple of fights, some misdemeanours and two or three suspensions, she had reached a mutually satisfactory agreement with Christopher. She worked at the precinct three days every other week (meaning she basically went to the precinct whenever she wanted). In return, the Big guy granted her access to one cold case at a time, just one. He made damn sure to control the information she could access too, by giving her files the team had not worked on, for example.

  Where he got those, he never said, and she didn’t ask. She wasn’t to interfere with ongoing investigations, never, unless someone specifically invited her. Luckily, she had ways of eliciting requests. Not by Christopher, of course, she could give the man a hard-on just by walking into a room (or so he said), but he wouldn’t let her help. Infuriating. Not that she resented Christopher for not inviting her. She might not be ready to admit it, not to him at least, but lately (understatement of the year), she was getting sick of dead people.

  She had been working part-time for Christopher’s team for a while now. Not her first job with law enforcement. When she was dating her late ex-boyfriend Joshua, she had found a job at the City Archives Department as a filing clerk-slash-research assistant. A while ago, Christopher had her transferred to his squad, although, for some reason, the Big guy was under the impression she had tricked him into it.

  It had started innocently enough, her wanting to read some newer older case files than the ones she got to see at Archives, and Christopher, the damn infuriating cop of a man she was dating, had not wanted her to. To be honest, she had not worked her three days every two weeks in a while, a long while, so maybe the damn man was getting his way. Maybe she should just quit.

  In her private monastery room that Saturday night, exhausted, a little from the Tai Chi, a lot from the Yoga, without any red wine, without a private trainer, without Reid already asleep, she missed Christopher. She couldn’t remember ever missing anyone, not even Joshua, and she wasn’t sure she liked the feeling. Infuriating.

  Normally the Yoga place was a cell-free retreat, and with her mobile phone addiction, she shouldn’t have brought hers, but she was rarely into normality. Sneaking the phone into the place had not been that hard; she wasn’t about to let anyone search her, was she? Especially when Christopher was not around to do the job.

  She called him at home on his home phone.

  “Hi, Angel, you OK?” Concern laced his voice.

  “Hi to you. Why wouldn’t I be OK?” Really, I’m doing Yoga, how could I not be OK? The man was infuriating.

  She heard the smile in his voice. “Princess, you called my place knowing I’d be here.” Yup, she had. Not good. She really wanted to hear his voice.

  “It’s Saturday night, Christopher. You could have been out.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Out. With the guys. Some place.”

  “You mean to the strippers?”

  “Christopher!”

  “Princess of mine,” he cooed. “Where do you think I go when you take off?”

  “I think you go on your terrace and sulk.”

  “You wish.”

  She sighed. He heard. “You sure you’re OK, Angel?”

  “Just groovy.”

  “Not good, Pussycat, you’re only groovy when you don’t want to talk. You sure you’re OK? Want me to come over?”

  She laughed. “By the time you get here, it’ll be morning.”

  “I know. Too bad. That’s what happens when you run off.” Damn, he was arrogant. She wasn’t running away. She was merely, well, spending quality time apart. “It’s a shame I’m not there to rub your back, isn’t it? To make you feel truly groovy.” Damn him, he had his low voice on.

  “That’s fine, Big guy, plenty of guys here who give back rubs.”

  “Patricia.” Warning in his voice.

  “Oui, mon chéri?”

  Pause. “Please don’t.”

  She started laughing. “Don’t what? Get my back rubbed or tease you?”

  He laughed too. “Both, I guess. Laugh for me again.”

  “Make me laugh again.”

  “How about I have you moan instead?”

  “Christopher.” What was he thinking, it was a two-hour flight! It was too late to arouse her.

  “What is it, Princess? Don’t you want me?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Really?” Damn, his voice was low. Husky.

  Damn, damn him, he was doing it to her again. Fine. She too could turn on the heat. “Mon chéri, you know I’m much better at falling asleep wired with lust than you are.”

  “Who says I’m going to sleep?”

  “Christopher.”

  “Darling, really, I like it so when you get all breathy like now.”

  “Christopher, please.”

  “I’d like to listen while you mas−”

  “Christopher!”

  “Darling of mine, you have no idea how much I would.”

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she indeed was a much better tease than he was. He was more a take-charge kind of guy. A take hold kind of guy. “Re
ally, you’re a middle-aged man, how can you?”

  “Angel, middle-age starts at fifty. I’ve still got a few good years left. And with you around, I’m keeping young. Especially with all the running.”

  Knowing he only ran when he was preoccupied or angry, she asked playfully, “Did you go running today?”

  “Nope. No running. No smoking. Just beer and strippers with the guys.”

  “You are not funny.”

  “I know. The beer wasn’t cold enough. But the strippers, wow!”

  “Christopher!”

  “Yes, Darling? You know, if I heard you moan, I wouldn’t need to alleviate.”

  “Alleviate?”

  “Jerk myself.”

  “Christopher James MacLaren.” The man was laughing again. “Do you really need to be so … graphic?”

  “With you, yes. You tend to be, shall we say, imaginative with everything. I want to make sure we understand each other.”

  “And what am I supposed to be understanding right now?”

  “I have a major boner.”

  “You always have an erection.”

  “I haven’t had one since I last saw you or thought of you.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, good. I haven’t been, ah, you know, hum, wet since I last saw you.”

  “Fuck, Patricia!”

  Her turn to laugh. “How about I listen to you, Big guy? You are big and hard, right?”

  She heard him groan. “Damn right I am, Princess, but I don’t moan like you do.”

  “You are impossible.”

  “You are impossibly sexy, even hours away. What am I going to do about it?”

  “Nothing tonight.”

  Big theatrical sigh at the other end. “You sure you don’t want to jack−”

  “Christopher, this is costing me a fortune in long distance.” Big theatrical sigh from her end now, but then she smiled. “Tell you what, after we hang up I’ll touch myself thinking of you. Where do you suggest I start?”