Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  He heard her sigh. She nodded once, tilting her chin up. Ready for the next round. He sighed in turn. Fuck, she turned him on. Both the most delicate of warriors and the most reckless. He liked strong-minded women, and she was as obstinate as they came. Damn fragile right now yet fucking resilient.

  Emerald green eyes. “I’m sorry, Big guy.” Good start but she didn’t have to be sorry for crying. “I am very sorry,” she repeated.

  OK. Maybe she was not apologising for the crying. Let us play a little, Pussycat. “You should be sorry. Don’t do it again.”

  She blinked, her eyebrows scowling with doubt. For sure she wasn’t apologising for the crying.

  Let’s play some more, he thought, better to have her angry than sad. “You should be so very sorry. I think a bigger apology is in order.” She was clearly puzzled now. Good. He was puzzled too. “I think you should tell me again how sorry you are.”

  He paused and admired as she stared back, her head crooked to the right, attentive, and, judging by how she was biting her lower lip, thinking hard.

  “Better yet, Darling of mine. You should show me how sorry, how so very sorry you are.” He didn’t give her time to anticipate his intentions. “Let me see. How could you show me how sorry, how so very sorry you are?”

  The damn woman had a naïve side to her that was fucking arousing. He took a step forward and in one swift movement, grabbed her wrists, hauled her closer by her right hand, crushing her left to his groin. Not their first time.

  She cursed at him when he ground his hardness into her hand. “Christopher, damn it, I’m serious here.”

  “So am I, Princess. So am I.”

  She freed her hands with a jerk and ran for the door. He reached it at the same time she did and, his palms flat on the wood, held it close. Her back to him, trapped between him and the door, she tugged on the handle with both hands.

  “I’m way stronger than you, Darling of mine. Talk to me.”

  She heaved a sigh as her body sagged, her forehead to the door panel. Stand still. She let go of the handle. They had been there before too, different door, same respective positions. What followed would be either a full-scale fight or foreplay. He wished for the second while mentally prepared for the first.

  She surprised him with another, “Christopher. I am sorry.”

  “I know you are, Darling of mine.” His face in her hair, he smiled. “But enlighten me. Just so we’re clear. What exactly are you sorry for?” Pause. “And just how sorry are you?” Smiling from ear to ear now, he lowered his mouth to her neck and slid his arms slowly down the door on each side of her.

  “Ah. I’m sorry about.” She exhaled sharply as his hands left the door for her hips and started moving up. “I’m sorry about, hum, I’m sorry about Lemieux.” His hands reached her belly. “I’m sorry about not telling you about Lemieux’s car.” His hands skated up, up to the underside of her breasts.

  They froze before reaching their targets. Say what? He forced her to turn and held her hard against the door. Her chin pointed up. “What? Run that by me again. You’re sorry about not telling me what?”

  “I’m sorry about not telling you about his car. I should have remembered. Perhaps not at the motel but at least later. When I wrote the report.” Blue-green eyes implored him. “I’m sorry.”

  What the hell was she hinting at? “What about his car? You think Lemieux had a car? He didn’t have one, Patricia; no car’s registered to Lemieux.”

  “That big car. At the motel. The one parked on the street. It was Lemieux’s.” He gawked. What else could he do? “Christopher, don’t you remember the car? At the motel. Parked on the street. That old car. The one I looked at with Charles. It was Lemieux’s.”

  “What? WHAT?” He was smart, intelligence above average, but sometimes, like right fucking now, he had trouble keeping up with her. He took a deep, steadying breath. Yes, he remembered that black vintage car, mostly remembered her and Charles looking it over, her playing a number on the rookie. Lemieux’s car? “OK. Explain to me again why you’re sorry about Lemieux’s car at the motel. Slowly. With plenty of details, please.”

  “Lemieux’s car was parked on the street at the motel. I saw it that day we found his body. I saw the car across the street,” she impatiently enunciated as if he was particularly slow, and perhaps he was this afternoon. “I went to look at the car. I guess, subconsciously, I knew. But I didn’t consciously. But today I do. I was looking for a car for my PI character. But now it’s gone. Stolen probably. Maybe in a container somewhere overseas.”

  First part clear. She had seen Lemieux’s car. He hadn’t come to the motel with the hooker then. It made sense; to Chris’s knowledge, hookers did not chauffeur their johns. That explained why they had not identified the vics’ mode of transportation, and why no cab company had come forward. But the PI? The container overseas? “I got the first part. You found Lemieux’s car. Excellent. No need to apologise. We’ll−”

  She cut him short. “No. No. It’s not excellent. The damn car has vanished!”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I went to get it to the motel.”

  “You went to the motel?! How? Why?”

  By now she was frowning, hands on hips. “You know, Big guy, I can go places by myself. I took a cab; it cost me a fortune. I had only enough loose change to take the bus back.”

  The motel was all the way to the suburbs. A dangerous suburb at that. Imagining her alone, waiting at the bus stop brought some of his anger back. “Let me get this straight. You took a cab to the motel to get the car. The car wasn’t there. You came back.” Not questioning, stating the facts.

  “Yes. I looked everywhere. I must have walked at least a dozen streets around the motel looking for it, but the damn car has disappeared.”

  So fucking grand! She had spent her fucking day walking around that crummy neighbourhood. He looked her over. She looked too damn young in jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt, the tee too damn revealing for such an expedition. He could see flesh down that collar, cleavage! “You went to the motel. Alone,” he emphasised dumbfounded. “You sashayed about in those jeans alone in the streets. Alone! Looking for the murder victim’s car. Fucking alone! Lemieux’s the victim of a yet unknown, on the loose murderer.” He paused to take a sharp lungful of air, nostrils flaring. “The murder happened weeks ago. Probably the car was just towed.” He gulped another deep breath before adding through clenched teeth, “And it never occurred to you, at any time during the whole process, to call anyone? To fucking call me?”

  MacLaren’s Car Talk

  She stared at him, seemingly surprised that he was mad again. “I told you already, Big guy! I couldn’t call. I wanted to see the car first to make sure I was right. What if I had called you, and it had turned out not to be his car? Then what? You’re a chief officer. I’m sure you have better things to do than take a ride to some old motel out in the boonies for nothing.”

  Deep, deep breaths again, more growls than soothing inhalations, though, as Chris thought of what he had done all day. A fucking day with the Feds assholes. Taking a ride to the motel won no contest. Even without a car in evidence. Even if the motel was shitty. Even if there hadn’t been assholes.

  “Why are you telling me now? Please, why not let me be ignorant for a while longer while you went overseas looking for the car in some container?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she smirked back. “I didn’t have my passport with me.” Her acting like a smart ass indicated she was getting impatient. Not so sorry anymore, was she?

  “The car. It’s not in the report. Lemieux never gave you a ride in it.”

  “I only saw it once. We, hum, ah, we, well, we sat in it. It was in his friend’s garage. Some old shack behind the apartment complex. He wasn’t driving it; the wreck had no motor. He must have had it fixed and repainted. It wasn’t as shiny back then.”

  He frowned. Seeing how she was blushing, he figured they hadn’t just sat in the fucking car. Great.
“What makes you think the car was stolen?”

  “Didn’t you listen? The car is gone, and nobody saw anything. Days it was there, and then one day, Pouf! It wasn’t. Stolen.”

  “Nobody saw anything? Any witnesses to the theft?”

  “No, but−”

  “Anybody said when it went missing?”

  “Someone remembers seeing it on Wednesday, because of the garbage truck.”

  “Someone?” Chris frowned at her. “Garbage truck? Care to elaborate?”

  “Wednesday is trash day. That evening, when the truck arrived, it had trouble pulling next to Mr Parson’s house because the punks who live next door were having some sort of party. Pick-up trucks and cars were parked all over the lawn. And Lemieux’s car was right in front of Mr Parson’s spot. He painted a spot on his driveway for his waste cans, can you imagine? Anyway. Lemieux’s car was right where it had been the week before. And the week before. Understandably, he wasn’t happy. Because of the punks and their cars, and Lemieux’s too although he didn’t complain about it, Mr Parson had to move his cans all the way down the street for an open spot. The next day, the street was empty. No more big, black car.” She paused before adding in a measured tone, “I checked with one of the people next door. He confirmed seeing the car on Wednesday but not on Thursday.”

  Something in her voice told Chris her conversation with Mr Parson’s neighbour might not have gone smoothly. Punks were they, according to Mr Parson? He waited, hoping for more.

  “Mind you,” she concluded after a beat, “that man could have stolen Lemieux’s car himself. He was not the most, ah, civilised man. He probably put a torch to it himself. Cut the parts out and shipped them overseas to be sold at some flea market in Germany or China.”

  Meaning the jerk had screwed with her. And, of course, she was not going to tell him about it. Fuck. Too bad the Feds jerks had left, he would have enjoyed using them as punching bags. After another fucking steadying breath, he suggested, “Surely someone had it towed. Mr Parson perhaps?”

  “No. I asked the neighbours and none−” She stopped and frowned. “I did ask Mr Parson why he didn’t have the cars towed if they were such nuisance. He said that wouldn’t do; he was a gentleman, although he did mention complaining to the garbage truck driver. Seems they said it wasn’t their problem.”

  “Perhaps the driver figured it was his problem after all and had it towed. Let’s make some calls.”

  He took her firmly by the elbow, and back to the office they went. Reid and Ham were waiting, not even hiding their spying. Leaving the sitting in the car part out, Chris filled them in on Lemieux’s car and put them to good use. Reid was to type up Patricia’s story while Ham helped him make some calls.

  Chris’s first call was to the Parson’s guy, who, of course, remembered Patricia vividly. The old geezer mustn’t have women knocking on his door often.

  “No, I haven’t called the towing company. I would never.” Yah, right.

  Chris got the punk’s number from Mr Parson and called him next.

  When Chris identified himself and asked if he was the one who had talked with Patricia, the first thing out of the guy’s mouth was, “The bitch came on to me, man. I invited her in so she doesn’t cook under the sun, and how does she thank me? The broad put her hand on my crotch.”

  More like the other way around, asshole. Chris slammed the phone down. Really mature, MacLaren. Chris knew Patricia wasn’t above flirting when she wanted something, but her way of dallying was to hold a man’s arm, just above the elbow, her touch so light her fingers brushed the clothing but not the skin underneath. That did it for most. That feather-light graze was her hard limit; she disliked touching strangers. No way in hell would she put her hand on a guy’s crotch, however much she wanted something, not even on a guy’s thigh, not even on a guy’s fucking knee. Except his, but he was no stranger, and him she didn’t only caress his knee.

  He felt Ham’s eyes on him. He stood and walked the anger off. A little. I’m getting too fucking old for the job. He had to call the scum back, of course. He was going to send Ham over, Ham and Charles. If Chris ever found out that there had been more than knee-grabbing, he might have to go too. Alone.

  When the guy answered the second time, Chris said, “Me again. Officer MacLaren. Did you have the car towed?” Silence. “The car she asked you about, did you have it towed?”

  “Nope. Did the bitch−”

  Chris cut him off, his anger level too high to listen to what more the punk had to say about her. “A police officer will come by for a visit next Monday if necessary. Don’t leave town.”

  Ham had better luck with the garbage company. “The driver has not yet started his shift, and he was lingering at the drop point when I called. Says they didn’t have it towed. Your Mr Parson’s an annoying customer. Complains all the time they said. Driver says they don’t take the old geezer seriously anymore.”

  “What else?”

  “Since the Puss seems sure about the car, I checked towing companies. Only one covers that neighbourhood. They were closed for the day, but the night guard says he has a car that fits Patricia’s description. The place’s fenced; the guy doesn’t have the keys, can’t reach the owner and blah-blah. Says they open at seven, and he’ll let us have a look in the morning.”

  Since it was easier just to show up in the morning than to run after a search warrant on a Friday night, Ham offered to come pick him up and go have a look in the morning.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  By then, Reid and Patricia had completed the report, and all he wanted now was a drink and a quiet evening with French appetisers. Many servings. A buffet.

  “Everything’s OK then? Great. And again, I’m sincerely sorry. I wish I had remembered before. But come the morning, we’ll go see the car, and the case will be back on track. Great. I’m glad all is well.”

  All was well? All is not well, Pussycat. She had tried so hard not to remember her past with Lemieux that she had succeeded. She had spent the day walking around in a way-too-sexy outfit in a bad neighbourhood, had skipped lunch, and from what he had gathered, some sonofabitch had harassed her. Not even close to being well, Angel. He cursed under his breath. And what was that fucking ‘we’ business. He didn’t want her near Lemieux’s car. He smiled, wolf-like. He had the evening to tire her out.

  Car Ride in the Past

  “You looking good, Pattycake.”

  She didn’t like that nickname he had for her. It made her feel like he wanted to eat her up. Which he might from the look of him.

  “So do you, Rick,” she complimented back.

  He truly was a good-looking man. Such a beautiful face! Perfect skin, almost glowing. He was gentle and tender with her, but she sensed a darker side to him, though. As bright as the exterior was, as dark the interior she suspected. Exactly how dark and how deep, she didn’t know yet. His blackness compelled her to him.

  She was so tired of men, but yes, damn it, she liked him. Too soon to call it love, too soon to call it friendship even, but she liked where their affair was going. She was comfortable with him. Talking. Laughing. Teasing. Even if he seemed sad sometimes, shadows creeping into his eyes.

  She waited, intrigued, maybe a bit aroused by the mystery of him. Unsure exactly what he expected from her. They had had sex four times so far, but she had yet to feel him. Come he had, but he had not let go, not even after, remaining watchful and expecting. She was so very intrigued.

  He showed her his car. An old, rusted, big boat of a car. Long. Wide. Propped on blocks. Not going anywhere anytime soon.

  “I’m going to bring it back to life,” he said.

  Was it what he was expecting of her, for her to bring him back to life? Not in her power, she thought. Life is something you want, not something that is handed out.

  They sat in the car. Leathery smooth and cool, the bench was surprisingly comfortable. Sleek and sexy like the man himself. He sat in the driver seat behind where the wheel should h
ave been. She sat in the passenger seat in front of the doorless glove compartment. He turned the radio on.

  “It works!” She laughed in delight.

  They talked and listened to music. He slid to the centre of the seat, then crept to her half of the seat. Making fun of teenagers making a move on their girlfriends at the drive-in, he put his arm around her shoulders.

  He made love to her. This time, when he came, she felt him be. He took, melt, collapsed. It scared her. So big a void to fill. His caresses did not merely claim her, they implored. With his hands, with his tongue, with his body, he marked her and gave himself in turn. He was no ordinary man. No regular, normal man. So beautiful.

  Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line

  Her Preparation

  “I need a shower,” was the first thing out of her mouth when they headed down to Christopher’s car. She wanted to drown in luxuriously smooth shower gel and hot water for hours, alone, to wash away the smell of street tar, burned grass, Mr Parson’s fetid breath, the punk’s sweat. Her knee itched from the bastard’s paw. She needed to wash that knee. And her left bottom cheek the jerk on the bus had fondled.

  Going to the motel’s neighbourhood had not been the best of ideas. She had wanted so much for the car to be there! She had planned it all out. How she would have called Christopher straight on his mobile phone, not to gloat but as a present, or, silly as it was, an apology because she had known Lemieux. If the car had been there, the trip to and back wouldn’t have taken more than two hours. If the car had been there, she might have had a trunk full of evidence to give Christopher, rendering the damn report useless in comparison. If.

  “I need a drink,” came second. She couldn’t stop babbling during the ride. About what she had seen at the motel, the houses, the people, the questions she had asked.

  Christopher drove in silence, not interrupting her once. He knew she was debriefing. She knew he knew but couldn’t stop.

  He dropped her off in front of the hotel. “You head up. I’m going to look for a parking spot.”