by V. P. Trick
With the late afternoon traffic, it took almost forty minutes to get to Vitto’s. The ride was a silent one. He parked in front of the door, in the no-parking zone right in beside the fire hydrant. She didn’t comment. Not yet ready to talk then, it would seem.
Frankke helped her out of the car, a protective arm around her shoulders. Chris had a feeling Frankke was mostly protecting her from herself, and perhaps a little from him too. No need. Fuck, he hated how lost she looked.
Vitto himself directed them to a table in a quiet back corner. At this hour, except for them, not an officer lingered in the coffee shop. Good. Frankke directed her on the chair propped against the wall. The two men sat on each side of her, turned sideways so they could watch her and the door simultaneously. Old habits. Afraid she would make a run for it. She stared at the door briefly as if she was seriously considering it, but she sank back into her chair with a resigned look.
Another dead body. He couldn’t believe it. What were the odds? No way in hell she could have planned going to that restaurant; she probably hadn’t even known it existed before noticing it in one of her fucking walks. He could think of a million better ways for her to write books. Forget the files and make everything up, like for her other books. Yah right. Like she hadn’t been doing the fucking research thing from the very beginning.
Vitto brought coffees they had yet to order: a double espresso, black, a large, decaf Latte, and a coffee Americano for Frankke. Vitto was an excellent barista and a good guy. The old Italian returned with a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies and a sweater that he handed to Patricia without saying a word (he waited for her to put it on before retreating).
Chris, as Frankke, studied her, his face expressionless. He waited. She studied her cup in silence. Are you still thinking of running, Princess, or merely collecting your thoughts? His cup empty, Frankke headed to the counter for another coffee, then took a seat sideways to them, blocking the way to their table yet giving them some privacy. He kept an eye on her, an eye on the door, the opposite of an ordinary guy enjoying a coffee on a rainy day. Good guy that Frankke, giving them space but staying close. Protective to the end.
Patricia drank the last of her coffee, put her cup down slowly but kept her hold on it as if trying to warm her hands. And maybe she was. She started to talk, calmly at first when she was telling him about her morning, her work at the coffee shop, her walk in the morning drizzle, the rain that had soaked her wet, and her lunch.
She kept her calm through her description of her stroll at the back of the restaurant, her photo shoot. Why she had gone there. Research. That damn research obsession was going to get her injured some day. Had got her injured, Chris corrected himself. Fuck, why couldn’t she go to the library like everybody else?
Her voice remained steady when she told him about the garbage truck, the garbage container. The positioning of it. In her crazy kind of way, the way it had all come down sounded logical, didn’t it? She held on to her cup hard as if anchoring herself to it. Chris didn’t dare touch her for fear she’d lose her concentration.
Her voice got a little shaky when she recounted how powerless the girl had looked. Broken. “I thought, perhaps she was still alive. I just wanted to get her out of the rain. It was so cold outside.”
She recalled her knocking on the door. She must have banged pretty hard; Chris noticed the bruises on the edge of her hand when she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her speech became shaky and hesitant as she recalled the cook opening the door, the standing in the kitchen not knowing what to do. She confided her yearning to get out of there, wanting to run, not being able to.
Her voice steadied again when she resumed her conversation with the cops. The questions they had asked. Her answers. He caught Frankke smiling despite the guy’s attempt to hide the grin behind his cup. The detectives had expected an easy confession out of a helpless woman in less than an hour and had got her instead. No wonder the jerks were annoying, she had pushed them around quite skilfully. Surprising woman. She never reacted quite like he expected her to.
“I want to go to the precinct and take care of the report right away,” she demanded in closing her story.
“Whatever you want, Princess.”
The rain had stopped, but they took the car nevertheless. Silence again. Their floor was empty. No one to tell of what had gone down. It was better that way, safer. They had the damn report written and signed within the hour.
Chris left a message from the 31st chief. “I’m sending the witness’s statement to your attention. You have any question, call me directly.”
When the report was typed and emailed, Frankke hugged Patricia and left.
“Finally alone, Princess.”
He sat at his desk; she stood next to his couch, half of her engulfed into Vitto’s sweater. Gone were her shivers and the bluish colour that had stained her lips. And her hair was now a mass of curls and frizz.
She crossed and uncrossed her arms in front of her, before stepping to his desk. He rose and reached her midway. They didn’t touch as he followed her to the door, down the staircase, to the garage, to his truck. He opened her door and waited until she was settled to go to the driver side.
“Your place or mine?”
She didn’t answer but for a small nod. He took the hint. Her place. And he wasn’t staying. They rode in silence.
At her hotel, he was out and around the car to her door before she had time to unclip her seatbelt. He offered his hand to help her out; she stared at it without moving for half a minute. Slowly she lifted her hand and placed it on his, her skin cold in his palm.
Once he helped her out, he didn’t let go, couldn’t; he gathered her into his arms and hugged her tight. She smelled of shampoo, rain, wet hair, garbage. He held her harder until she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him in response. His breathing had slowed. She was safe. They were going to be fine.
She broke the embrace first, kissed his cheek before disappearing through the door. He was not angry anymore. He wasn’t hungry either, just fucking tired. He could use that scotch right now. He started the car and drove away.
A New Dawn for Patricia
She went up to her room without talking to anyone. Damn tired, she headed straight to bed without undressing. Pulling the covers tight under her chin, she fell asleep and surprisingly slept the night.
Drawn crept in. One minute she was asleep, the next she was wide awake, feeling even more exhausted than the night before. She had to find a better way to do research. At the library maybe? And why did she have to write about the adventures of a female PI? Stay-at-home moms must have lots of escapades too. A romantic love affair between a distraught single mother and her pool guy. And her postman. And her neighbour. And her neighbour’s wife. And a cop. Big sigh.
She stayed hidden under the covers, Christopher invading her thoughts. They had taken that coffee after all, although not the way she had planned. What might have happened yesterday if the Big guy had not shown up with Frankke at the diner?
Maybe she should try her hand at children’s books again. No sexy man in those. No complicated love affair. And no dead bodies. She dozed off. Dreamt of bad cops and murderer pool guys and children drowning under the rain. She woke in a sweat.
Shower time. She stayed under the water a long time, washing her hair twice, scrubbing her body vigorously until her flesh felt raw. She got out pink and smelling flowery, without so much as a hint of garbage stink.
She phoned the desk clerk. “Hi, it’s Patricia in four-fourteen.” As if the receptionist didn’t know. “When someone has a minute, I’d appreciate some help to change the bedding, sheets and covers. Oh, and pick up the trash. Thanks.”
No way was she ever again wearing the clothes she had on yesterday, not after they had come into contact with the dead girl. Totally irrational but then again, she had no illusion about how screwed up she was.
She was hungry. “Hi, me again. Can you ask the cook to fix me something? Pancakes wi
th maple syrup.” Her comfort breakfast of choice. “With Chantilly cream if you have any. And orange zest like he did the last time. Plus sausages and a side order of bacon. Do you know if he still has some of that maple flavour bacon left?” Surely she would be back to normal after her feast. Near-normal at least.
She played dress-up while waiting for her food. Nothing like a full make-over to lift one’s spirit. First, she blew-dried her hair into soft waves. Then, she dabbed gold-brown eyeshadow on her eyelids, traced a subtle line of dark-brown eyeliner and applied triple coats of black mascara. A hint of peachy blush on her cheek completed the look. She donned an outfit to match. Black underwear, black tights, short black skirt, silky black blouse, unbuttoned just enough to show the top edge of her bra. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Christopher would not be able to stay mad at her for long. Although he had not looked all that mad yesterday when he had dropped her off.
A knock on the door announced Christine, the maid.
“Hi, Patricia sweetie. Heard you had a bed emergency,” the petite woman teased.
Together they changed the bedding, including the mattress protective sheet, the covers and the bedspread. Patricia assumed the chain of contamination went from the dead girl to Patricia’s clothes to her bedding since she had slept in her clothes. Again totally irrational. Christine lent a hand without superfluous enquiries. A most perfect hotel maid.
Patricia had been living in the hotel long enough to know the staff personally; she had befriended some of them, including Christine, enough that she often gave the woman clothes she didn’t want to wear anymore. Christine worked magic with a needle, and could fit Patricia’s clothes to her size, or her sister’s, cousins, nieces. Christine’s family tree resembled a forest.
“You will throw the bedding away, won’t you, Christine? Charge them to my room.”
’’
While they worked, Benjamin, the valet assigned to her floor, walked in with her breakfast, and soon the three of them were chatting, or rather gossiping about staff members, guests, and Patricia.
Whatever the day, the hour, not to mention the state of her outfit, someone was always around to notice Patricia as she breezed in, clumped or returned stealthily, be it the doorman, the front clerk, the barman. They were her surrogate family and as such, when she walked in dishevelled, angry, tired, sad, dirty, wet or drunk, they took notice hence the gossip. She didn’t mind (too much) since their interest came (mostly) out of concern for her. They were teasing her about her look of the previous night when they heard a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Benjamin offered. “I’m the only one not doing anything.” He came back announcing, “Two gentlemen here to see you, girly girl. Policemen I’d say, from the badges they shoved in my face.”
Not Christopher and a friend then, because the entire staff knew him and his team by now. Besides, the Big guy rarely knocked. Hum.
“It can’t possibly be−” she mumbled as she hurried into the living room, but sure enough there they were, the two dumb detectives from hell standing uninvited in the middle of what she called her house.
If they intended to harass her again, they had another thing coming. She considered calling Christopher, but the thought vanished when one of the dumb-asses opened the hostility. “Time we got answers to our questions, Missy.” She hated it when anyone, and especially cops, called her missy.
A very bad start. No “hello”, no “how have you been”, no “we would like to apologise for yesterday, us being so dumb and all.” She set her jaw and stomped to her door. If she let them go on, she might get irrevocably angry, and that spelled trouble. She was mad enough as it was.
She spoke in an even tone, controlling her voice, making it cool and measured. “Gentlemen, I already made a written statement to Chief Officer MacLaren. For now, I’m tired, annoyed and hungry, and my breakfast is getting cold. Hence, any question will have to wait for later. Out you go.” She pointed to the door.
One of the cops did tread to the door, not so dumb then. But the other, the one that had tried to intimidate her yesterday with the bad cop attitude, hands on the table, getting in her face with all his height and fat, that dumb one did not move.
“Bad move, buster,” she growled silently. “This morning, I’m no longer distraught. Today, I’m dry, and I’m home, on my turf now. Believe me when I tell you, you will leave.”
The dumb detective didn’t hear the growls nor did he see her thoughts in her eyes. He wanted to push, “Look, missy, you will answer the questions, here or at the station−”
“Not that again,” she cut him off. “I do not have to answer any of your questions.” She tried keeping her voice neutral but only half succeeded, her anger became audible the more she spoke. “I will, again, for the last time, ask you to leave.” Almost polite. Not bad considering what she wanted to say was more in the line of, “Get the fuck out now, you dumb ass.” Excellent anger management, Christopher would have been proud.
Dumb-ass forever, the guy didn’t let it go. Unknowingly by Patricia (not that she would have given a damn), the officer had spent the night at the diner, working the mouth, talking to the customers and staff. Then, upon his return to the station, his chief had lectured him endlessly (Central had lectured said chief in the previous hours).
“Your lack of collaboration to the MacLaren guy was duly noted and deemed unacceptable.”
Hence, a shitty day on the job for the detective, and all because of that tart, the dick had concluded. So no, she was not going to get away with it. He didn’t care who she was humping at City Hall; he was pretty sure he could make the murder charge stick for a while. After all, the woman had shown she had a temper. Could be a lover’s quarrel with the dead girl. The vic was younger; had the girl stolen the woman’s guy? The older broad had offed her competition. Or the wench could have taken the girl’s boyfriend, seeing as the bitch was a looker. Funny he had not noticed how sexy she was yesterday.
“OK, let’s go,” Not-so-dumb ordered his dumb-ass partner with an eye roll. He even tried dragging the ape to the door by the shoulder.
Dumb-ass ape remained dumb. “That’s it, woman. I think you’re implicated, and I’m taking you in.”
“‘Implicated,’” Patricia mimicked. “And people said I have a wild imagination.” Seriously, does he want me for murder? Cops are all the same. You show a little smart mouth, and they think you’re a killer.
Benjamin and Christine were observing the showdown openmouthed. Patricia took a deep breath and tried to smile. She obviously didn’t succeed because Benjamin looked at her in worry. “Patricia, should I call security?”
“Shut up, kid,” Dumb-ape snapped at Benjamin. “We’re cops; we’re security.”
Security my ass. It was one thing to push her around, but she was not going to let him hassle her friends.
“OK, missy. Let’s go.”
That missy thing again! “Am I under arrest? Because that’s the only way I’m coming to the station with you.”
Ape took a step toward her, but she stood her ground, arms crossed and defiant chin up higher than ever. His buddy came to stand between the two of them, but the jerk pushed him away and lunged at her, twisting her arms behind her back, hauling her toward the door.
This was not a good week. Dumber was the third man to grad her in the last few days. She was fed up of men squeezing her arm like a child. Nobody was going to put her in a room.
She stepped on Ape’s left foot hard and kicked his right leg harder. As he let go of her right arm, she elbowed him in the gut. He instinctively clutched his middle, clearing the way for her right fist to connect with his face. A near-perfection rendition of her favourite self-defence moves, the only one she mastered (most of the time). Unfortunately, Christopher’s hand caught her fist before it reached its goal. For once, she had some decent speed going so her fist slammed painfully into his. The impact reverberated from her fist to her wrist, and up her forearm, elbow, shoulder. Damn, it hurt.
She had not seen the Big guy come in and, judging from their reactions, neither had the apes. His big paw wrapped around her fist, he tucked her to his side as he slammed the ape against the door frame with his shoulder. Everyone stood frozen. Christopher’s body was rigid next to her. Body and face etched in stone. He didn’t lose control often, but at this instant, he looked as if he was about to blow.
MacLaren Gets a New Resolution
The cop took hold of his jerk partner and yanked him out of the room. “We’ll head back to the 31st. We’ll stop by the South Precinct later. Is four o’clock OK with you, MacLaren?”
Chris nodded; the two policemen left, but Chris kept her fist in his hand. She took a step backward, a small step, perhaps feeling both his body heat and his anger.
After a moment of hesitation, Benjamin and Christine made a beeline for the door, but not without fussing. “Is everything OK, Patricia sweetie? Want me to call security?”
“Everything’s fine, Ben. No security.” A good talk with the damn woman was what they needed; Patricia didn’t require security for that, she could hold her own. “I’d appreciate a breakdown of what I’ve missed, though.”
Ben and Christine filled him in on the events prior to his arrival. How the two cops had showed up uninvited and threatened to take her to the police station. They left out a few details because their story didn’t explain why Patricia had been fist-fighting with the detectives at his arrival.
He reassured Benjamin and Christine. “Thanks, guys. I’ll take care of the rest.” He heard Patricia sighed. Lots of sighing in their relationship, from the both of them.
“Yes, Sir. Good day, Sir.”
Those two idiot cops weren’t supposed to have come. But not matter that, one wasn’t supposed to kick or punch a cop, even if said one was a lithe, sexy woman with very limited upper body strength. She could throw some vicious punches when she wanted to. Thankfully, she didn’t often. Besides, for her attack to be successful, she had to concentrate on her moves, and when the damn woman was angry, she wasn’t good at focusing. Hence, she had not severely hurt the jerk, not physically at least.