Book Read Free

Quintic

Page 5

by V. P. Trick


  Chris read his messages and the files left on his desk standing up, studying them from his office window. The women’s animated conversation resumed in-between each phone call.

  Patricia had a simple white blouse and fitted pants on. The cut emphasised her waist, making her look thinner. Her wavy hair was loose, a simple headband pulling it away from her face. When she turned her face to look at Bridget’s computer, he saw she was wearing her glasses. The brainy look disguise today, was it? She looked softer, more delicate with all the hair. He knew how unruly her hair could get if he got her to bed. He liked her hair unruly. Maybe he could finish work early and take her home. They probably wouldn’t make it to the bed. He cursed under his breath; he was getting fucking distracted again.

  Had she chosen her outfit for what she wanted to do? She had a disguise for every occasion, and this one sure worked on her. But, even though Bridget loved her almost as much as he did, as a woman, his old secretary did not have the same weaknesses he had. Would Bridget yield to the softer, tender outfit as he was about to?

  He didn’t want to break up their conversation in case his secretary was softening to Patricia’s coaxing, but he couldn’t spend the afternoon holed up in his office as if he had not seen her. The precinct was a place of business, damn it, and he had work to do! He made some calls to stretch the half hour into an hour, but the team had long ago noticed he never stayed far from Patricia when she was in the place, so hiding out in his office would soon become suspicious.

  He didn’t have to ignore the two women for much longer. Before the hour was up, both women gathered their things and made for the door.

  “I’m taking Bridget home,” Patricia duly informed him. “I’ll be back in less than an hour. Bridget has the flu; she needs rest. It’s all settled. She’s going to take a couple of days off. Two, maybe three.” Patricia smiled at Bridget for approval. “Bridget has agreed to let me fill in for her. She’s shown me the phone, but I think the rest will wait for her return.”

  “You’ll do just fine, sweetie.” Bridget patted Patricia’s cheek before turning to him. “I appreciate your concern, Chief MacLaren.” Calling him by his title was Bridget’s way of letting him know she knew he had used Patricia to set her up but wasn’t holding a grudge. “I called the Chief of Police to inform him of the arrangement.” No grudge all right. The Police Chief didn’t have anything to do with Patricia’s hiring so why Bridget had called the guy was beyond his comprehension. Solely to prevent him from hiring a temporary receptionist? The thought never crossed my mind, Princess.

  And on that, the women left. He had expected Patricia to take Bridget away from the office, but not by offering to take over the woman’s duties. An inefficient solution, they had temps for that. What the hell did the damn woman know about phones?

  MacLaren’s Newest Employee: The First Hours

  The phone switchboard was a mess. A long time ago, the IT department, under Bridget’s tight supervision, had programmed the team’s desk phone numbers, mobile phone numbers and home phone numbers in the console, but not one had bothered to identify the collection of buttons on the console. Bridget knew the buttons by heart and could patch a call in seconds.

  She had also programmed an impressive list of contact numbers within the force; she had built up quite a network over her thirty-year employment. Those contacts proved very useful when Chris needed to get something done fast or sidetracked the system. Bridget might disapprove of his unorthodox ways but helped nonetheless.

  The phone rang then but did anybody answer? Nope, no fucking receptionist for now. As the ringing stopped at the first ring, Chris knew Bridget had transferred the calls to the precinct’s main switchboard before leaving. Maybe he should leave the main desk in charge for a few days? An hour or two of delay in getting his messages wasn’t catastrophic, and the fuck if he wouldn’t enjoy forcing Central to leave a message. Besides, the only urgent calls coming through where about dead guys, and dead guys were never in a hurry.

  Patricia returned an hour later. The damn woman had probably left Bridget’s car neatly parked in the old woman’s driveway, and walked back. Cats sure liked to walk. He smiled as she tried to smooth her windblown, messy hair. No need, Pussycat. In a few hours, I guarantee it’ll be worse. Yes, he would quit early today, very early. He was on the phone as she waltzed by his office, but when he looked up and gave her that crooked smile of his she liked, she blushed and headed straight to Bridget’s desk. Maybe she had guessed some of his lingering thoughts about her softer, tender outfit.

  When the phone rang next, she answered it. Not good. The phone kept ringing the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes, it rang for more than two rings, and a few times he counted up to six rings. He let her sweat at it. The sooner she realised she was in over her head, the sooner he could hire a temp, off the record, though. He knew a woman at Human Resources that shared his views on Central’s meddling. At five sharp, Bridget’s regular closing time, Patricia made a call. The phones went quiet after that.

  Smiling big, he put his desk in order, switched off the lights, closed his office door and swaggered to Bridget’s desk. Patricia sat observing him. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were dark. Tired, Angel? The blues got darker as he drew closer. From its typical fifty-two beats per minute, his pulse spiked to seventy, not an unusual pace around her. She did look so soft. And sexy. Her hair was definitely about to get a whole lot more tousled.

  “Hey, Angel. How about I give you a ride?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you,” she answered with a smile as she picked up her bag and followed him. He liked.

  She did most of the talking on the way to her place. Through the lobby. Up the elevator. Down the hall. She stopped talking when he closed her door. She was always babbling when she was nervous, wasn’t she? Nervous, apprehensive or hopeful.

  “I did promise you were going to pay for it, didn’t I?” he said, barely five minutes later.

  She was breathtaking with her hair magnificently dishevelled. He tugged at a lock of hair gently and kissed her neck. He kissed her ass. The hair didn’t have anything to do with him kissing her ass, but the sleek pants and panties around her ankles did. She was still breathing heavily under him, her front to the back of the couch. He liked coming at her from behind, her wetness enclosing his cock deep into her, his hand playing with the sensitised hood. Immensely. She did too.

  “Fuck, I like to hear you moan.” So it had not been from her masturbating, they still had time. Then again, knowing her, she was probably going to run off again. One day, I will make you stop running, Pussycat.

  They had a lovely evening of sex, both hard and soft, food, wine, red (of course), spicy and robust, and talk, all soft, and mostly silly. Vacation ideas. People they knew. Her work. Her books. Her paintings. His work. The cases the team were investigating. Patricia’s waitress case. Plans for the weekend.

  Patricia remained vague about how she had convinced Bridget to take three sick days. Chris did not bring up Patricia’s new receptionist job. Perfect evening. Not once did he mention the marriage papers sleeping at City Hall, the moving in and anything relating to the last months events (we’re well past the first year mark, Angel); all those could wait. She smiled in her sleep; he was happy.

  He left early the next day. He needed to stop by his place for a fresh change of clothes. He usually kept four or five suits at her home, underwear, toothbrush, t-shirt, weekend clothes, emergency sweats, running shoes and such. No pyjamas, though, what was the point, right? Rummaging in her walk-in closet, he realised he had forgotten to bring his suits back from the dry-cleaner.

  “What did you do with all the clothes you left in my closet a couple of weeks ago?” She asked when she heard his curse.

  “Wore them all. They’re at the cleaner.”

  “All of them? How come?”

  “Want me to show you, Darling of mine?”

  She blushed and buried herself under the covers. “Just wear what you had on yesterday.


  Wish I could, Angel, but I messed my pants. For some reason, he hadn’t taken the time to completely pulled them off. And then, they had stayed in a pile on the floor where he had dropped them off after.

  For all-nighters on the job, he only changed his shirt (he had a couple of new ones in the bottom drawer of his desk). They were in the off-season for murders, and nobody had worked last night. For sure the guys would notice if he went to work wearing the same suit as the day before. They would know why too. He didn’t give a fuck who knew, but she might get embarrassed. It saddened him when she was, made him feel as if he should have protected her better. Unless she was blushing at him, then he liked. Immensely.

  As for the suit jacket, Patricia had worn it for their late in-room supper.

  “It smells of your cologne,” she had said.

  Now the jacket smelled of her. He had trouble thinking of work with that damn scent cocooning him hence him driving home to change both pants and jacket, a big grin on his face.

  Since she had left for work at the same time he did, she arrived at the office earlier than he did. Something was up. First, she had awoken before him and was showered and dressed before he was up, an event in itself. Then he had to hurry to get her breakfast from the hotel’s kitchen downstairs while she was putting her makeup on or she would have left without getting any food. A first. She preferred to take a cab instead of him dropping her off, alleging she had to sort the messages before the team got in.

  Chris suspected the early start, the almost-missed meal, the cab, all of it had more to do with her being yet again in over her head in a job, but he didn’t say anything. He took it as a good sign she was ready to come back more regularly to the office.

  The big grin stayed as he shaved, taking his sweet time too, showered and dressed. He even made himself a cup of espresso and sipped it watching the morning news.

  Patricia called him once on his home phone. “Just wanted to know if you’re planning on coming in soon. No rush, Big guy.”

  Shortly after, she called his cell, his urgent-but-not-life-and-death number, “Can you stop by Bridget’s house to make sure she’s OK?”

  So he did. Bridget answered the door in her bathrobe, a feverish glow to her skin. Patricia had done a good job of persuasion. He had known only Patricia could convince the old broad, but still he was impressed with the three fucking days.

  Bridget did not let him in the house. “It’s full of germs; you better stay on the balcony.”

  “No problem. Do you need anything?”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you. Is everything all right at the office? You are not overworking Patricia, are you? I can go back if she needs me; I’m only staying in for the team. I don’t want them sick from my virus.”

  He had trouble keeping from laughing at Bridget’s confession. Difficult to say if Bridget believed she was doing it for the team, or if she agreed to the sick days just so that Patricia would appear to have more influence on her than he did. Either way, since it made the two women happy, it was fucking grand with him. Needless to say, he didn’t linger on Bridget’s balcony.

  He wondered if Patricia would fetch him coffee. She was working for him for the next days, was she not, not working with the team but for him? The thought made him smile, and it was quite a smile. Wolf-like.

  Business as Usual for MacLaren

  When Chris finally arrived at the office, most of the team was in already. He found her in deep conversation with Fredrick, her calling him Frédéric every two sentences and the kid eating it up. If the kid kept leaning closer, he risked toppling over. The kid’s smile was as big as Chris’s had been at her place. That kid needed to get a girlfriend of his own, someone his age, and soon.

  Both Patricia and Fred were wearing jeans and a white long sleeve V-neck tee, but that was as far as the resemblance went. Fred looked like he had slept in his clothes while she looked sleek in her outfit. The mandatory jacket she equated with the plainclothes cop uniform was for now draped on the back of her chair. With her hair loosely braided, she was gorgeous. This morning, her perfume, as Chris knew from earlier at her place, was light and flowery; the kid was close to swallowing her up.

  “That kid’s going to be in a fucking good mood all day,” Chris grumbled to himself. Not that Fred was capable of showing such an emotion.

  From the looks of them, they were up to something. She sure was working on Fred hard. She smiled up when Chris stepped closer. Fred’s left eyebrow had twitched before he scurried back to his dark basement office. Yup, fucking up to something.

  “How is Bridget?” She asked handing him his messages. “Did she look better? Does she want me to stop over? Maybe I can drop by on my lunch hour and bring her soup.”

  “She’ll be fine. Let her sleep it off.” He held his smile as he noticed she had mapped the phone keyboard with names and instructions. “Since you’re playing the receptionist here, could you call the team in for the meeting? I want them all in the conference room in five.” He grinned. “Please.”

  Since he had not called a meeting yesterday, the team would be expecting one today. The mandatory Monday morning meeting held on a Tuesday was unusual but not unheard of. The meeting could occur tomorrow or the day after, or until he fucking chose to have one. He liked to keep the team on their toes, and the meetings were only one of the many ways he employed. The team’s training was a continuous process, as was hers. He could have motioned the guys to the conference room, but it was much more fun to watch her work.

  His turn to park his butt on Bridget’s desk and watched as she phoned the guys one by one, either on their cell or their desk phone depending on where his men were standing. She used the console’s preprogrammed buttons without making one mistake. She smiled and looked straight at him during each call. A little more and she would have pulled her tongue at him. Point taken, Angel. The upcoming three days were going to be entertaining.

  Ten minutes later, a very relaxed team was sitting in the conference room.

  His new sexy receptionist came to the door. “Is anyone waiting for an urgent call? If not, I’m going to hold all calls.”

  “Thank you, Patricia,” LeRoy said, playing second-in-command.

  Then Hamilton stole Chris’s thunder by asking her, “Hey, Pussycat, we need coffee here. Be a good girl, and get some for everybody. And bring me a snack too.” Ham could always be counted on to do the macho thing. Second nature.

  Patricia stared at Ham, then at him. He looked straight back without showing any reaction. Eyebrows arched, she gave them that icy smile, the one that preceded her snapping an insult. She took a sharp breath, but no invective came out. She nodded curtly, and out the door she went.

  Hamilton and DesForges howled in laughers, LeRoy smiled, Shapiro made tsk-tsk sounds, disapproving and smiling at the same time, Frankke did not react in any way, Reid got up and slapped Hamilton in the back of the head angrily. Typical reactions all around. As soon as she was out the door, Fred had lost interest. The kid was playing with some computer gizmo, a tablet this time. Time to get back in charge.

  Chris had them talking in turn about the cases they were working on. The guys knew the drill, and thus, meetings ran smoothly. Each had cases, old and new, of which they were in charge. During the period the team referred to as the off-season, the couple of months when the body count was lowest due to colder weather, seniors like Shapiro and LeRoy worked six or seven cases at a time. Less experienced officers like Reid and DesForges took on two or three max. The other two, Frankke and Hamilton, had around four or five. Those numbers might double or even triple during the murder season.

  During his murder accusation, he had depleted the quartet, thankfuckinggod, and he dispensed with the two leftover quarts. Hell, they weren’t even in the precinct for he had them doing research on cold cases at Central (his only goal was to keep them out of his breathing space). It was either that or make the two quarts disappeared (something Central should arrange as a suck-up present instead
of sending him on fucking business trips. Jerks). As for the team’s two odd ducks, Fredrick and Patricia, naturally, he did not assign them any current case. None, zilch, nada.

  Chris wanted the team to learn from each case and had made it clear the guys had to be on their death bed to be excused from the meeting. Having the entire team up to date had the added benefit of making them more flexible.

  Since Chris rarely led cases himself these days, he worked with all of his guys and followed each case closely. He read every and all reports, transcripts, interviews, entries and pieces of information put in the log file; however seemingly unimportant the info, he still knew about. As a result, Chris always had around twenty cases to overlook, twenty cases in his head, twenty puzzles to jiggle. He liked. He found the work kept him measured and focused. Controlled. Some might say cold and hard, and so he was, most of the time. Some thought his family had raised him that way, but he knew better; he was born that way.

  Half an hour later, as they had gone through a third of the caseload, Patricia strolled back, pushing a cart holding a large coffee pot and a plate of donuts.

  “Sorry for the interruption. Your coffee, as requested.” She had on her professional smile, as Chris liked to call it. Never a good sign. She wasn’t a bitch even on her worst days, but when she put her mind to it, she was a queen. She put the coffee pot on the table, the tray with milk, sugar, donuts and napkins next to it, and added without looking at anybody, “Enjoy.”

  The team stared at the pot except for Chris, Ham and Fred, who were staring at her, Chris trying to guess what she was up to, Fredrick and Ham, merely admiring. As usual.

  Fredrick slowed her exit with civilities. Who knew the kid had it in him? “Thanks for the coffee,” he drawled without a trace of irony. “That is very thoughtful of you.” Clueless kid.

  Since she smiled at the kid before leaving, Chris figured she had not poisoned the coffee. But, no big surprise there, the java turned out to be tepid and infect, worse than vending machine coffee. Childish, Princess, but well-deserved. Chris was glad he drank his coffee black. From the sound the milk made when Ham poured, or more accurately dropped some in his cup, the milk wasn’t milk. As for the donuts, Des tried one, bravado surely, and put it back after one bite. Point taken, Darling of mine. Not that he was above ordering coffee from her once again later. Macho Ham drank his cup to the bottom, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it.

 

‹ Prev