by V. P. Trick
“Nope.”
Hence, to gather more inside information, Patricia only had a total of three potential sources. “Okeydokey. Waitressing in a place like this seems as if it’s either a part-time college job or a life-long vocation.”
“It’s sure is,” the girl agreed. “An accident occurred some years ago.” Accident? Was the girl referring to the murder? “And the woman here that night changed diner but didn’t stop waitressing. A life’s work like you said.” Interesting.
When the late birds began to invade the place, Patricia left but not before asking the staff if she could come back on another day to talk to the men.
Stepping out, she realised the day was sunny, and she was tired. She called the office (fortunately Christopher wasn’t in), “Hi, Bridget. I just thought I’d let you know I won’t be in until the afternoon.” If ever.
She walked down the street to a cab station. Back to her hotel, she went straight to bed. She was exhausted; she fell asleep within minutes. Since getting to the restaurant, she had not thought once about Lemieux’s report.
What MacLaren Doesn’t Know
All in all, it took Chris less than ten minutes to cook breakfast and eat it. He ate standing, next to the stove. Patricia would have made a sassy remark had she seen him for he was the one requesting they sat at the table during meals. Not that he didn’t enjoy her sitting on the counter while he cooked. The thought made him smile. A little.
The eggs were mushy and uncooked, yet it could have been worse; his mind hadn’t been on the cooking. He barely tasted the food in any case because he kept glancing at the envelope he had carefully placed on the table next to where he would have set his plate had he bothered to sit. He left the dishes piled in the sink, grabbed his coffee, finally sat down at the table, opened the thing and read it. Once.
The style was telegraphic and straight to the point. She hadn’t written it as some book chapter. Only facts without many details and yet somehow it gave too much information. He took a walk down his living room, to his bedroom, to his terrace, and had a cigarette in the lounge chair before reading her statement again. After, he folded it neatly, put it in his shirt breast pocket and left for work.
Intent on doing paperwork as he waited for the damn woman to arrive, if she came, he locked himself in his office. Bridget was already in, of course, making up for sick days no doubt. He barely nodded at her before slamming his office door. Bridget knew better than to come and talk to him when he was in such a mood. But he had just taken his jacket off and wasn’t even sitting when she came knocking. It had to be fucking urgent for Bridget to bother him.
“Good morning, Sir. Would you like a coffee?” When he shook his head no, Bridget gave him a tight smile. Yah, I know, I’m not a morning person. “Patricia called. She won’t be in until later. The afternoon most probably.”
Damndest woman. He should have known; she probably hadn’t slept any better than he had. He stopped short of driving over to wake her up. He could wait. He was patient, wasn’t he? Fucking patient. He needed to be with her. And she was worth every second of waiting.
When the team showed up, he went over their caseload, “Yes, guys. Again,” before taking Ham and Charles to his office to review with them the background information Patricia had given on Lemieux. He chose not to give them copies. He could have; should have; didn’t. Hence, he summarised what was in the letter in his own words. Shortly after, the guys left to continue the legwork, and, with everyone finally out, he was alone in the office.
A little after ten-thirty, Bridget brought him a coffee. He suspected it was a ploy to check on his mood. His disposition had not improved, not even close. He drank his coffee standing up, looking at the guys’ empty desks (which included Reid’s), his glance straying to Patricia’s desk and her surveillance pot all the way at the back. He knew her fucking deposition by heart now.
Lemieux
Rick Lemieux.
1st encounter: Book show in town. North Convention Centre. Three years ago.
L bought one of my books right out the pile, asked for my autograph. And my phone number. I signed the book. No number.
Fuck, it would have pissed him off had she agreed to give Lemieux her number the first time she met the jerk. She had him wait a long time. OK, maybe not all that long but it sure had seemed that way. He wanted for it to have been longer for Lemieux. He fucking wanted it to have been tougher for the fucking lot of Joshua and his knights. For anyone. He was the man she was crazy about, wasn’t he?
2nd encounter: Book show. Next day.
L brought his book back. Asked for an autograph. And my phone number. I signed again. No number. L came back, end of the day. Asked for an autograph. Without my phone number. He had written his. I signed his book. No number.
Of course, her fucking report didn’t mention what a good memory she had. Chris suspected she had that number memorised the minute she saw it. And yet she had trouble remembering to call his mobile phone when he was out!
3rd encounter: Coffee shop. Book show neighbourhood. Later.
Later when? An hour? A day? A week? He hoped she had not seen the jerk too soon. A week of waiting was still not long enough. Or a month. He suspected it was a couple of weeks at the most because she tended to cram her signing appearances and go on vacation after. Busy the next days, off the next months. So a week or two, three max.
I was having a coffee while working on my computer. I had decided to stay in town for a while.
How long was awhile? And, more importantly, why the fuck?
Beautiful weather. Tiring book tour. I was tired of moving around. L was a sweet-talker. Pleasant. Kind of charming.
Chris didn’t her fucking praising Lemieux. Was she complementing the jerk or more like defending herself?
He asked for a date. No.
Third encounter and still no date? That made him feel better. On their third day, Chris had slept with her. Granted she had been drunk, and they did not have sex, her falling asleep on him, he still chose to consider it as sleeping together. She had stayed in bed next to him all night, and who cared if she had been the only one sleeping. Still damn sleeping together.
4th encounter: Same coffee shop. One week later. Rainy.
L seemed sad. We talked. Nice. He asked for a date. We went for supper after coffee. Walked to an Italian place five blocks down. Each paid. I called a cab at the end. Handshake, no kiss. I gave him my phone number. Mobile only, no address.
Chris could see how the handshake-no-kiss would have worked on her. Her being tired from a book tour, dinner at an Italian place on top of that, the Rick guy hadn’t been such an idiot.
5th encounter: Date. Three days later. Classical ballet show.
Her idea for sure.
L almost fell asleep during. Very honest about it.
Testing him, had she? She had tried something like that on him too. Worse in truth. A damn opera. He had not slept but spent the duration of the damn thing watching her watch the show. Lovely sight.
Drinks after, Irish pub, downtown Irish quarter. We met two of his friends: The kid and the king.
She had not included their real names in the report, how fucking surprising.
L explained the nicknames were from video games. Good-night kiss. Taxi alone back to my hotel.
Thankfully, she had not put any comments on the fucking kiss.
6th encounter: Supper. Next day. Video arcade (private membership).
Meaning underground and illegal. The hackers’ world. In his dealings with Mario, Chris had experienced first-hand how paranoid those guys were. That they had admired her in their midst after only two dates with the guy told Chris how much Lemieux had liked her.
L seemed well-known at the place. He taught me the race car game. We played for 3 hours. Drank a lot. We went back to his place. He was staying with a friend at the time. I never saw the friend. We drank some more. Had sex. In a bed. No sex toys.
Chris had stared at that part for long minutes. Of cour
se, she had sex with the jerk. Why had she felt it necessary to specify the kind? He suspected he wasn’t the only one she had had sex with outside a bed, but they had yet to use sex toys. To him, she was a hundred toys all by herself, dozens of women all in herself.
We fell asleep. I woke at four and left.
At least, she hadn’t spent the night. Knowing the guy hadn’t had her in the morning made Chris feel better. Her breakfasts were his.
7th encounter: Week later.
A week? How could the guy have waited that long?
He called. We stayed at his place. Had supper with a friend who left afterwards.
What friend?
We had sex. Rougher.
How rough?
No toys. We went for a drink at an Irish pub after. Meet some friends of his again (the kid, the king, Super Mario and Joshua).
So she had met Joshua barely hours after having had sex with his buddy? Interesting. That might explain the origin of her never-date-colleagues-or-relatives-or-friends-of-exes rule.
Following encounters at his place. Same.
Same what? Same sex? How many times? Still no toys? Not rough? Rougher? Fuck. The Lemieux jerk wasn’t sounding so friendly anymore. That part had made Chris smoke. Easier than going down to the morgue and shooting the guy. Totally irrational as it was.
Last time. L took me to a bi-gender strip club.
What. The. Fuck?
We stayed for a couple of hours.
A couple of HOURS?
He paid for me.
Paid for what?
We didn’t meet any friends. Went back to his place. We discussed the dances. No sex.
What dance? Her dance? The strippers? Male or female? He had another cigarette.
With her, one learned to read between the lines. Had Lemieux paid her a dance? What kind of sicko pays a dance for his girlfriend? Did the jerk want to turn her off? Unless she was into that stuff?
Chris had not detected her being into that shit. Had she been, surely he would have noticed. He could always tell when she liked something. She did like rough sometimes but not harsh or painful. It was easy to see she liked men with all the paintings she did that featured the male body. But strippers? She had models she hired. Weren’t naked models the same as naked strippers?
And what about Lemieux? Chris couldn’t fathom taking Patricia to a strip joint. No place in town was classy enough for her in his opinion. And why the fuck would he want to share her pleasures with anyone? He set the pace and controlled the scene to hear her breath harder, bite her lips, moan. When he aroused her, it was for his eyes only. His ears. His hands.
Fucking asshole. Two down, three to go. Mario. The king. The kid. But he couldn’t, could he? Not yet. Not when he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t find out.
After, I met a new guy.
A new guy my ass. Joshua, the biggest sonofabitch asshole.
Our encounters were always at the Irish pub or the friend’s place. Or other places. A last date around two years ago. Sex.
Sex again? In spite of everything she had written so far, he found that entry the most unsettling. After the strip dance? After Joshua? During?
Another place.
What place? She had moved into her hotel suite some two years ago. Before that, she didn’t have a permanent place of residence in the city (she used to bunk at Ingrid’s place; the old broad had a room for her still). After that and until he came along, her hotel had been a male-free zone; stay-overs were not allowed for the young, the jerks and the old, or so she had told him. He had believed her. No reason not to. Fuck and leave. He had done exactly the same with his female-free place until her.
Following was a list of addresses: the Convention Centre, coffee shop, Italian restaurant, apartment and so on, in chronological order. Including the private arcade (which for sure had closed down and disappeared by now). And including the strip club, which, as far as Chris had heard, was sleazy and in a very rough neighbourhood. It ended with a postscript − clearly she was sure to whom he was going to show the report − or not − for it just stated:
Joshua, dead two years. The kid, Super Mario and the king, address currently unknown.
A lie, as far as Mario was concerned at least.
What MacLaren Doesn’t Know Still
She was in regular contact with Mario. She had asked the jerk for all kinds of favours and had taken care of him too, way too closely to Chris’s taste. Yet, he knew how acute the damn woman could be with her wording when she chose to be, and the fatso did move around a lot. Hence, technically, at the very moment she was writing the damn report, it was not entirely impossible she might not have known Mario’s current address.
But Chris knew damn well she could contact her hacker friend any time she needed to. Any. Fucking. Time. And for fucking anything. She had contacted Mario during the quartet fiasco, and the guy had been a big help. That meant Chris had to let Mario out, right? For now at least.
He could question her about Joshua’s knights again, but what would be the point? She had once told him Joshua’s guys hadn’t stayed in contact with one another, had also mentioned not liking the king much, and that the kid was not the sharpest of the group. Hence, no hacker jerks for now. Which left the coffee shop, arcade, Italian restaurant and Irish pub. After two years, Chris wasn’t expecting much from those ends.
Ham and Charles were doing the leg work. A damn long shot. Maybe the apartment, if Lemieux had stayed there long enough to be remembered? Or the strip club if he had been a regular? If they could tie the hooker and the club. With a lot of ifs they might have something.
Chris couldn’t begin to understand why Lemieux had taken Patricia to the strip joint. As a test, like her taking him to ballet? Or to see if she was into those kinks? Worse, they had stayed a couple of hours. Knowing her as Chris did, hours seemed like a long time, too damn fucking long. If she had been angry at Lemieux for taking her there, she wouldn’t have gone in to start with. Had she not wanted to?
Even with no way back, no car, no money, no shoes, she would have walked rather than gone in. And yet she had gone in, the fucking report stated in black and white! For what? Did she like Lemieux? Or she liked it? Liked both? Or was it yet again for research purposes? Curiosity. Chris smiled. Had she been a cat, the damn woman would have long been dead more than her allotted nine lives. She was so unbelievably inquisitive, especially about the odd sides of people.
And yet, strangely, besides the arcade, the Irish pub, and the trip to the strip club, her report did not mention what the Lemieux guy did or what he was. No jobs or volunteer work, no hobbies or social associations he belonged to. She had to have known him more than what the report described.
She must have snooped around the few times she had been in the guy’s room. Chris recalled the first time she had come to his place. She had surveyed his living room quite closely, his bathroom, even his kitchen but hadn’t gone anywhere near his bedroom, not that time. Later, she had looked everywhere. Not searching per se, not as he would have when he did a search, but more as if she was mapping out the place and trying to figure it out. Figure him out.
“Ever checked on your cleaning lady’s work? Here, I’ll have a look,” she had claimed as she looked under his bed, most likely to ascertain he didn’t keep guns under there.
For sure she had done the same in Lemieux’s bedroom. The damn woman was attentive to details. That first time at his place, she had remarked on his lack of pictures. He made a note to ask her what Lemieux’s room had told on the guy.
The guy was neither young nor old and yet since she had been in his place more than once, she had not considered Lemieux a jerk either, thus betraying she had liked the guy more than her report let on. Her liking the jerk bothered Chris. That she had slept with the man, especially that last time, bothered him. His mind kept circling back to that part of the letter again and again.
She had slept with Lemieux before Joshua; she had been with the jerk after too. Once after the club a
nd Joshua. That last time, was she still with Joshua? If so, why had she? He knew the letter had been difficult to write; it had been damn difficult to read. And it was going to be even harder to review it with her. A fucking lousy day. Damn woman. He missed their escape at the beach. They shouldn’t have come back.
She Wants Italian
Patricia breezed in at one o’clock sharp. She secretly hoped Christopher was off to some meeting at Central. As they were sucking up for the quartet fiasco these days, the Brass at Central liked to summon the Big guy over. No such luck but, at least, he was busy on the phone, so she walked by and waved without checking if he waved back.
At Bridget’s desk, she was dutifully informed that “Big Chief MacLaren is not in a good temper.” Bridget only called Christopher ‘Big Chief’ when the Big guy was in a very, very bad mood. Great. “He has not left his office. And I have yet to see his smile today.”
“Christopher is not the smiliest guy to start with, you know,” she pointed out to Bridget.
“I know that but still,” Bridget rambled on. The woman was not in a sunny disposition either. “Tell, Patricia sweetie. Is something amiss between the two of you?”
No, Patricia thought, not yet but soon. And we might as well get this done and over with. With that thought, as soon as she saw Christopher hang up, she headed for his office.
He stood still watching her approach. She knew she looked pretty; she had to erase all signs of her sleepless night that her too-short nap had only made worse. Her clothes and makeup were her shield for her upcoming battle with the Big guy. When they threw down the gloves, both she and Christopher were more offence than defence. Way more.