by V. P. Trick
He tossed and turned and finally give up on sleep around five. He shaved and showered quickly. After he had finished dressing, he intended to grab a quick breakfast, maybe an espresso then head to the office for an early start.
He noticed the envelope on the floor next to the front door as he strolled to his open-plan kitchen. The stark-white rectangle had not been on the dark wood floor last night. It had not been there before his shower. Only one word was written on it, ‘Lemieux.’ Damn woman.
He took his fucking time preparing breakfast, a dish of scrambled eggs, ham and toasts with a strong coffee. Double espresso corto, black. He was going to look into the fucking envelope after his relaxing breakfast, he decided, not fucking fooling himself for one second. He did not want to wait but damn, did not want to read it either.
Her Night Watch
She was wasting her time. Maudit, she did not want to write the damn thing. She did not wish to think about writing the damn thing. She had to, of course, and she would, just as surely as Christopher was going to read it even though he didn’t want to. Dwelling on old memories, describing past experiences or talking about old lovers was not their thing. Not hers in any case.
Obviously, she knew Christopher had had a few women in his life, and much more than a few at that. Girlfriends, lovers, one night stands, even a fiancée. For him, no commitment had meant taking up with different women, numerous, interchangeable, concurrent and unimportant. Most infuriating.
She had not had as many partners as he had (not even close) because well, she kept her boyfriends longer, and she had had periods of celibacy in between lovers because, at times, the male species annoyed the heck out of her. Her way of dealing with said species was alternating between either younger men, men, not boys, so never anyone younger than− how old had that Italian player been? Twenty-eight? Hence men without emotional baggage. Or older men because of their lower energy level, she found them easier to handle, or jerks. Jerks were the best; they were totally commitment-free on her part. Young, old, jerks, celibacy and once in a while she went on a trip to Italy to break the routine. She had such a simple life then.
The day dragged on. She grabbed a sandwich with Reid in the downstairs cafeteria. The sandwich was stale but criticising the thing was easier than complaining about the damn report she had to do. She got back at one. Only one o’clock. She blamed herself yet again for coming back to the office. This day seemed endless. At least, Christopher was not in his office when she got back.
She worked on the diner murder, much more fun than her damn testimony. She reread the entire file for the third time, jotting down a list of what she planned to do to research her case.
Eat at the diner.
Walk the back alley again but slowly this time and without calling anyone.
Look around, maybe take pictures?
Talk to the dead waitress’s old co-workers.
Show the co-workers the crime scene photos (check with Christopher Bridget if allowed).
Write scenarios.
She was good at writing stories, imagining what might have happened and see where that took her. She could even write a film script, have that whatshername young blond actress that everyone liked these days star in it. That would be something. Have the blond woman be the star only to kill her within the first fifteen minutes into the story. Or maybe let her last thirty minutes and use that old actor, the one with the attitude and the bad boy face lead the investigation. Not as a cop, though; the cop thing invaded her life overly much right now, didn’t it? An ordinary guy, a cook maybe, would hunt for the killer. Hum. She was onto something. She started writing.
Lost in her writer’s world, she didn’t hear Christopher come back, but she heard Hamilton and Charles. One could count on Hamilton to make an entrance. She did not turn around but glared at the old kettle on her desk that she used as a flower pot. From time to time, she did bring herself fresh flowers to put in the pot. Sometimes, she showed up for work, and fresh flowers awaited her in the pot. She liked that. A lot. The kettle pot was her spying tool of choice in the office. It didn’t show the action unfolding in her back in great detail, but she saw enough to know who was in and who wasn’t. She was learning quite a few tricks from the guys.
She smiled as Christopher stomped in and glared at her back from the middle of the room. Before he could head her way, the guys stopped him on his track. The three retreated to the conference room. Her cue. She saved her file, closed the document, didn’t bother turning off her computer, gave a brief message to Bridget for Christopher and left. The Big guy was going to be angry, maybe, surely, until she gave him her damn statement. Which was not necessarily going to improve his mood.
Once outside, she took a deep, steadying breath. Almost four o’clock. Late enough for a glass of wine. She called it her apéritif. It was going to be a long evening, and she was not going to survive it sober, not if she had to spend it by herself in some bar, with her laptop and memories of her ex-lover Lemieux.
Patricia had trouble sleeping too. She had not started writing the damn thing before eleven; she had procrastinated by writing book ideas in her notebook instead. Luckily, the little wine bar near the park in central downtown hadn’t been crowded. The barman had given her a booth off the back. Its high backrest hid her from the front of the place and the bar where men prowled and surveyed the female species.
She sat mostly unnoticed all evening, only smiling at one male specimen, the barkeeper, each time he brought her a new glass of red wine. A couple of guys did walk by, but only two had dared come up to her, and her little bitchy side shot them down easily.
She liked the bar. She used to come here a lot before. Lemieux had been the first to take her here, so it was appropriate to write the damn thing here. She liked the old-fashioned décor, the long wooden counter, the cosy booths, the soft lights that glowed slightly yellow; the place felt warm and out of time. The bartender wore a suit; the male clientele, mostly from the surrounding business district, wore suits; the women wore dresses and high heels. Very classy place indeed.
Every two or three weeks, she stopped by for a drink; the barman often had a new red wine for her to sample. On a previous night, she had enquired about scotch and yes, the bar did offer a selection of very expensive single malt scotch. As she had yet to bring Christopher, she had been sure to be alone all evening.
Needless to say, she went to bed late, only to toss and turn. After an hour of restlessness, she gave up. Time for some closet cleaning. When did she last reorganised it?
Now that she had finally written the damn thing, she wasn’t sure what to do with it. The report was accurate and precise yet not necessarily thorough. No need to give out details about the hows and whys. Need-to-know info only, as they said in the police. Or was it the army? Special forces? Anyway. Only a brief mention of Joshua in the damn thing. Irrelevant.
She didn’t want to hand the damn thing to Christopher at the office. Didn’t want to give it to him face-to-face period. She was not sticking around when he was going to read it. Same for when he was going to give it to Hamilton and Charles. She so didn’t want them even to look at it. Didn’t want Christopher anywhere near the damn report period. She sobbed. Just one soft whimper. More of a sigh, wasn’t it? She was exhausted and utterly sad.
Dawn was coming fast. Christopher would wake up soon; the Big guy was not a big sleeper. She took a quick shower and pulled on jeans, a tank top, low-heeled boots and leather jacket, forgo the bra, panties, socks, makeup and combing her wet hair. She was out of the hotel with the clock showing five past four. Running out of time. Carl, the night doorman, had left already, but Philip, the day guy, hailed her a cab.
She had the taxi stop a block from Christopher’s building. Since he didn’t live in the safest neighbourhood, she asked the driver to wait for her. She planned on coming back swiftly. A brisk walk to the building’s front door. At this early hour, Christopher was going to be the only one in (all the other apartments in his three-sto
rey building were, in fact, offices). Christopher’s place was on the top floor, but she didn’t take the elevator, too noisy.
At his door, she slowly inserted the key Christopher had long ago given her (way too soon in their relationship she thought again) in the lock and turned it. She opened the door quietly and listened. The shower was running. She stood, left hand on the door handle, right hand holding the envelope containing the damn thing. One second, two seconds, three seconds, four… Damn, she wanted to accompany him in the shower. Or get undress and hide under his covers. But not with the report. She sighed as she lowered the envelope to the floor. She closed the door back softly and hurriedly headed for the taxi. What now?
She was hungry. She was hungry enough for a Christopher James MacLaren deluxe breakfast. If she had crawled into his bed, surely he would have cooked her something. She seriously considered going back but remembered the damn thing. Then she recalled the diner. Dawn had arrived; the diner was probably open for the early birds. She had the taxi drive her all the way to the restaurant on the other side of town.
PI Unlimited: Him
There she was. Destiny. Faith. Bad luck, at least for her. Jeremy watched her eyes grow wide when she noticed him. Good. My turn to play, Princess Jane.
“Is this seat taken?”
She didn’t answer. Had her eyes been that dark, her lips looked that soft, her cheeks that rosy? She was blushing. She seemed troubled. Fuck, he was so turned on.
“How are you, Darling?”
She kept on the silence treatment. It didn’t stop him. Damn, she was lovely. He was going to make her pay for being so lovely, for arousing him, for running off. She had to make amends mostly for taking off. He should arrest her. After all, she was a material witness. He should arrest her and frisked her and secured her.
“She’s pleading insanity, you know.”
She frowned, her eyes darkening, turning moist. Specs of green glared back at him, and she shivered. Damn, she was lovely even though she suddenly looked sad. Not a good move, Je. You’re an asshole. It took him by surprise; Why should he even care if she looked sad? Lovely Jane.
“I was worried about you.” He had been. He was. It pissed him off, but it didn’t change anything.
She frowned again. She had the liveliest face. We’re going to play poker, you and me, Jane. He was going to win every damn fucking time. Strip poker.
“I have to go,” she murmured, her ass already off of her chair.
“Please don’t.” She looked startled at his plead. His need for her to stay took him aback too. “I still have your eyeglasses.” Technically, the glasses were in the evidence box, but for the right incentive, he could get them back to her.
“What are you talking about?” Innocent-looking blue eyes looked straight at him. “I don’t wear glasses,” she lied to his face even though she knew he knew.
He should just put the handcuffs on her and be done with it. “Let me buy you a drink then you can go. I promise.” A drink against him not arresting her.
She studied him. She was sharp; he wouldn’t have to spell it out. Up to the challenge, she sat back with a pout.
He found her quite interesting. Not that he would have arrested her. Can’t cuff a woman then ask her out. “I was worried about you,” he said again once they had their drinks. He liked that she liked red wine. She had been drinking the same on the night they’d met. Damn classy. “I went to visit at the hospital.” Not sure what she remembered; she had seemed so lost that night. Brave and fragile.
She nodded. The faintest of movement.
He smiled. So she knew. He still didn’t know her name. He offered his hand. “I’m Jeremy.”
She nodded but didn’t shake his hand. “Jeremy,” she repeated softly.
“What’s your name?” Princess Jane had a nice ring, but she might not appreciate it between the sheets.
She flashed the briefest of smile that said, ‘nice try, asshole’ then shrugged. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, I don’t remember you so well. Where did we meet?”
It could it be that she had indeed forgotten. Post-traumatic shock can do that. A serial killer licking one’s neck can obliterate a lot of memories. “We met a while ago. In a bar.” He looked for signs of recognition.
“In a bar, really? Which one? I don’t go out much. What did we talk about?”
He had the feeling he was missing something. “You wanted to know if I had a wife.”
“Ah. Do you?”
“No.”
“Gay?” She was feeding him a fucking repeat of their first encounter.
He was indeed missing something. Missing something big and getting pissed about it. The anger took him by surprise.
“Impotent?” She went on. Damn, she was good. Plainly well-practised at pissing off unwanted callers, for what man wouldn’t be insulted by such a woman not remembering him or calling him impotent? It had almost worked too.
“I’m not gay nor am I impotent, Princess.” He took note of her obvious dislike at the princess. Good. He too could play. No serial killer will stand between us tonight, Princess. “How about you? Are you married?”
He expected the same answer as the other night but no. Another direction. She laughed. “Of course not. I’m gay.” Damn, she was good.
“If really you are, I’m going to arrest you. If you’re not, I’m going to ask you out. Your call.”
“Either way, I don’t screw cops.”
He felt the anger flare up. Just like the last time. But this time, he caught the triumphant smile that shadowed on her lips momentarily. She was indeed trying to anger him and doing a damn fine job. She had almost succeeded once, but she wouldn’t again. Not on my watch, Princess. Not if he wanted to kiss her. And he did, very much so.
My turn to play, Jane. “That’s a shame, Princess, I was so looking forward to making love to you. Or watch you come.” He admired as she blushed again. So, so lovely.
No answer.
He did most of the talking. He smiled, softly, talked, softly, and looked at her face, only her face. Her eyes. He could have sworn they were getting darker as he talked.
Since his aim was to make light, soft, intelligent conversation, he did not mention the serial killer again. Small talk only. He wasn’t big on small talk, but that night he made more conversation than he had in the previous year. Decade. He kept it honest. He wanted her all. True. As is. So true.
He watched her frown and smiled and sighed. As he yearned to seduce her, he waited for every fucking smile and sigh and reacted accordingly. Her every damn reaction enthralled him. He brushed his lips against hers before she left. Took off. Ran.
He checked her out the next morning, or rather he had one of the computer geeks checked her out. It took him a while to admit she had had him again. He still didn’t know Princess Jane’s real name.
Damn, he had liked that kiss. The beginning of a kiss before she had run off. I won’t let you take off again, Princess. Once he’d find her again, he wouldn’t.
Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line
Patricia’s Breakfast
The diner was open and already busy. Of the twenty-some places, only three were free. Patricia took one of the empty stools at the counter. She didn’t have to wait long for the waitress to bring her a menu, then, with barely a nod, the woman hurried away to serve a customer.
The clientele was mostly male, dressed in overalls and work clothes. The restaurant was in an industrious neighbourhood; it looked old but clean in the morning light. Most of the furniture sported vinyl and-or cheap plastic. From her seat, she had an unobstructed view of the kitchen. One cook, plus one dishwasher guy. With the one waitress, they composed the morning staff. Both the cook and his helper looked like they had been here for a long time; they were working side by side smoothly without talking, filling orders out swiftly.
Patricia wondered if the staff were the same as on the night her dead waitress was killed. Today’s waitress seemed new, though; the girl looked like
a college kid, like her dead waitress in the file. It was too busy to speak to them for now.
The waitress finally returned to take her order.
“I’ll have two eggs sunny-side up, and toasts. White bread, butter, no margarine. Do you have decaf?” The waitress shook her head. No big surprise. “Well, then, I’d like a plain orange juice, please. And maple syrup, but only if it’s real maple syrup.”
Nope, it wasn’t.
She studied people as they came and went. Around seven, with the place growing quiet, both the cook and the waitress started relaxing. Showtime.
She motioned the waitress over. Even though Patricia tended to be shy, she could fool anyone when play-acting or doing research. As she was doing both now, she was up to asking the staff all, starting with the young waitress.
“Are you in college? I did a lecture awhile back on mystery literature.” True. “And you kind of look familiar.” True enough. At that age, college girls all looked the same, didn’t they?
The girl confirmed being in college. After verification, both dead and alive waitresses attended the same college. So far so good.
“I’m doing research for a book, the diner back in the old days.” Also true since she was indeed always doing research for some book, and she liked the old days. “Have you been working here long?”
“About a year. They hired me when the old waitress retired,” said the girl. Not so good. The girl must have noticed her disappointment for she hurriedly added, “But the cook and his helper have been here for years. And an old waitress drops by from time to time too.” Good and good.
“Do you know of anyone else that has worked here more than two years?”