by V. P. Trick
Around five that day, Ham got back, depressed and angry, a flustered-looking Charles on his heels. They sat at their respective desks sulking. What now?
“Got a minute, guys?” Rhetorical question, he was the boss and owned Ham’s and Charles’s time. “Get over here, I want a review of your day.” He demanded the same every fucking day, obsessed and worried as he was by Lemieux’s case.
“Here’s the list of the places we went to.” Ham handed over a sheet of scribbled notes over. “Nothing. The guy’s a fucking ghost.”
Charles listened in silence and stared at the floor. Was the case getting to him? To them? Might be they were getting to themselves. Chris let them go and watched as they went back to their desks ignoring each other.
He called Charles back to his office and closed the door. “So, Charles, how are things going with the job?”
“Great, Sir.”
“And with the team? You like working with them?”
“I do, Sir, thank you.” Tonight, he found the rookie annoying. And Charles calling him ‘Sir’ made him feel old.
“How’s it going with Ham?”
Pause, then, “Great, Sir. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.” Quick answer but long enough pause for Chris to notice.
“You need help with anything, Charles?”
“No, Sir.”
“Think I should switch the case load?”
Chris sometimes shuffled cases between the guys when they were in a jam. It helped to get new insights.
“No, Sir.”
In short, the rookie didn’t need anything, and everything was great. Yah right. Not that he was going to babysit the guy. He let him go.
Ham worked the computer until Charles left, then took the initiative for a turn in Chris’s office. Ham didn’t exactly complain; he was too subtle for that. Nor did he tell Chris he thought the kid wasn’t ready, or too clean for some of the places they went to, or that he was crowding his style.
“Just a thought, Mac, but maybe you could put the rookie with Shapiro or Reid, to help in their investigations.” Meaning their proper cases. “So he can get a full-around training, you know, more complete.” Meaning Ham was pissed to have to train him.
“I’ll think about it, but for now, things remain as they are.”
Ham left as he had arrived. Depressed and angry.
Chris was pissed too. Fighting among the team, he did not tolerate, not during working hours at least. He expected the guys to be professional enough to watch each other’s backs and to work tightly together. Otherwise, they became unproductive. The kid had to learn to take his place, and Ham to give Charles some space.
On his way home, Chris stopped by the cop hangout the team went to from time to time. Eternal singles, time to time had turned into every other night when one of them needed a boost or wanted to talk. The team minus Shapiro (the only married man), Charles (apparently not yet part of the team) and the quart (definitely and permanently unwanted in the group), was there: Ham and DesForges, Frankke, Reid and LeRoy. Chris wondered yet again if something was going on between the latter two. He might have the talk with them now that Patricia’s departure from the team had given him back some much-overdue credibility on the matter of in-office romance.
For now, he wanted a beer and a feel of the team’s reaction to Patricia’s resignation. Nobody had asked him why she has quit; nobody would, at least not in the office. All was (almost) well; they were getting used to her absence.
“You know, in some ways, her position was a lot tougher than ours.” Le, the philosopher. “Think about it. No guns, no badge, no training. Fu− Dating the boss. Can’t have been easy.”
“For Christ’s sake, she was a fucking filing clerk!”
“Yah right, Boss.”
“Whatever her job title, doesn’t make dating MacLaren any easier.” Frankke’s humour.
“The woman didn’t have a clue what our job’s about.” DesForges.
“Didn’t know what she was doing.” Ham
“How dangerous it can get.” DesForges.
“Too fucking curious for her own safety.” Ham.
“Courageous, though.” Reid.
“Reckless.” Le.
“Fucking smart.” Ham.
“Fucking crazy.” DesForges. “Sorry, boss.”
“Fucking sexy. Sorry, boss.” Ham.
When a football game came on, they stopped with the soul searching and just watched, enjoying being together. Chris liked the game, had played in college. He wasn’t particularly bulky, but he was fast. And stubborn. When he got his hands on the ball, he never let go and could run over anybody on the field. He still did in a way. His team lost, not a good year for his football team. He left.
He took a cold shower before going to bed.
His mobile phone ringing woke him up at a quarter to two.
He growled his usual, “MacLaren. Speak.” His voice steady and clear while his mind was racing. If it was another dead look-alike hooker, he was going to pick her up and put her in a safe house.
“Good evening, Sir.” Charles. “I was told to call you. I seem to have been arrested.”
Middle of the night, Chris wasn’t above considering letting the rookie rot in jail as a form of training. “Why?”
“A bar fight started, and a man−”
Chris cut him off, “Where are you?”
“42nd local station, corner of Main and 42nd.”
“Where was the fight?”
“An exotic dancers’ studio.” A fucking stripper joint, Charles couldn’t even call it right. “Sir, we did not−”
“We?” Had Charles and Ham kissed and made up?
“Miss Patricia is with me.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “I’ll be right there.”
He put on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and loafers and, taking the stairs two at a time, ran down to the underground garage. He got in his car, buckled up and started the engine. After a beat, he turned it off. Shit. Shit. Shit! He slammed his fists on the steering wheel. What on earth had they been doing there? No way she could have been there for a reason totally unrelated to work. With Charles!
He should go back to bed, could sleep the entire fucking night, what was left of it at least, and wait until morning before he went to bail those two up. Arrested! Why hadn’t Charles shown his badge? And why Charles? If it was the same joint she had taken him to, he was going to− He got out of the car and argued with himself. Walked back and forth. Went back up to his place. Paced some more, and then smoked a cigarette out on the terrace under the stars. Fucking romantic.
He smoked the anger off before going back to the car. He got in, jumped out barely a second later, kicked the closest tire (back driver-side) once. Hard. He paced around, took three deep breaths, a fourth, a fifth, smoked another cigarette. Climbed back in the truck. Grabbed the wheel. Started the engine. Drove off.
He got to the station well past three. It was a fifteen-minute drive when there was no traffic. There had been none.
Patricia on a Quiet Night
The circumstances were to blame here, all events purely accidental, completely, entirely, positively NOT her fault. She had been enjoying a quiet evening at home, quite innocently watching television, drink in hand, a plate of pasta on her lap, and a few errant thoughts of maybe going to Christopher’s place later. Perhaps she might even stop by the gym first. Nah. A drink and a movie were safer.
Then Charles had called. Yes, she had given him her phone number. Strictly as a friend. She had anticipated that, at some point, him a rookie in Christopher’s team, and partnered with Hamilton, the young officer was going to need somebody’s input. He sounded disgruntled over the phone.
Perhaps it would have been better for Charles to talk to someone on the team, but hey, the guy had called her. She figured her input was better nothing. She could always refer him to the competent authorities so to speak, later on if need be.
What had Christopher been thinking when he paired Hamilton
and Charles together? Not a clue. Not that she had asked, obviously (for, she reminded herself, she had quit). Did the Big guy hope Charles would keep Hamilton in line? Ridiculous. The other way around most probably. He aimed to dirty the too-clean rookie a bit, take some of the wholesome out, un-green him. In any case, it wasn’t working since Charles was coming over.
Even if she were out, surely Christopher would appreciate her taking care of his guys. She briefly considered calling him but decided against it. Charles was coming over to talk to her, the soft and reasonable one, not to his cold and tough boss. So what if Charles might unintentionally let slip information about the team’s cases, she would not hold it against him.
Now, a few hours later, locked up in that filthy tiny police station lost in the boonies or close to it, she wasn’t so sure anymore about wanting to learn about the cases. Her fellow prisoners, three larger-than-life hookers, one crazy woman that was sticking out her tongue at the others, and one drunk-and-disorderly that had yet to sober up, were not the best of companions.
Their small living space stank of cheap perfume (incredibly foul-smelling cheap perfume), unwashed body soaked in really cheap perfume and other body odours she chose not to sniff further to identify. Charles wasn’t with her; the cops must have found him some cronies of the male gender.
She was oh so proud of him! Not once during their arrest had he mentioned being a cop. Although she suspected Charles’s circumspection came from him not wanting the cops to call his boss, she still respected his discretion. In fact, it suited her perfectly. It was not her first quiet night in a jail cell. She always found lockups interesting, almost inspirational.
On previous such occurrences, Christopher had been the arresting officer. He called it preventive arrest; she called it damn infuriating male arrogance. To this day, they had not reached a consensus on the matter. On those aforementioned, hum, incidents, the Big guy had made sure she was alone in her cell. Regardless of the suffocating stench singeing her nostrils now, she quite enjoyed the company of her other cellmates. Fascinating characters.
A quiet night in the slammer, a morning audition with a judge and a fine to pay made for inexpensive research. Although, bearing in mind Charles was an ex-farm boy turned cop rookie, she realised he might not have money to spare. How much did rookies earn these days? Should she pay both fines? The judge might fine him more stiffly, higher expectation and all, since he was a cop. Unless he got no fine. Wouldn’t that be just damn typical? Would her fine be tax-deductible? The research was a work-related expense after all. In any case, she expected no complication, since neither she nor Charles had a police record. Besides, she knew a first-rate lawyer.
If the locals co-operated, they could expedite the entire process by the early morning. Withholding her name, mere reflex on her part, hadn’t helped, though. She had plenty of money in her pockets but never carried IDs with her, and tonight hadn’t brought any credit cards, fake or otherwise. Never to a strip club.
She had suggested Charles did the same and along with his wallet, he had left the badge and gun in the trunk of his car. Charles was not an inconspicuous armed man. Christopher always had his gun on him (guns rather, as he had his service piece in a shoulder holster and an unregistered spare weapon or two tucked elsewhere). Christopher’s guns were not visible unless he wanted them to be, while Charles, well, anyone could tell he was carrying from the way he walked, shoulders held low, forearms opened, right hand on his left side at a ready. Green all right.
He and Hamilton walking side by side must be quite a sight, the panther, all sleek and confident, and the cop-child. The ape. Not that Charles was dumb, but he did lack, hum, finesse, and guns or no guns, she did not feel entirely confident with him as her sidekick in the real world (and a stripper club was as real as it could get). Christopher knew his way out of any situation, smarts or fists, whatever worked, but Charles didn’t.
Their field trip to the strip club, her contribution to Charles’s ‘un-greening’, had been satisfactory until a fight broke out between two customers. That skirmish triggered a chain reaction. Charles tried to calm the fighters. Not a good idea.
Although she was never going to admit so to Christopher’s face, sometimes his ways, hit first talk after, were more efficient. Most times, the Big guy’d skipped the talking altogether.
Charles looked such the rookie cop during his peace talk, she was almost embarrassed on his behalf. Two other guys took to helping the jerks against Charles, who tried to mollify those two also. Keeping the party going, the first two tried to push her around. Charles retaliated in her name with more of the pacifying nonsense. Two fighters punched him. He returned a couple of blows. He had a surprising right hook; two of the men went down. The others kept on pounding.
Charles wasn’t fast enough. The jerk’s fists reached their target more than once. She took her leave and made for the door, dragging Charles with her. A jerk, another one, volunteered to slow them down.
Concealing her curves in a pair of straight-cut jeans, a hooded sweater, a sports bra, work boots and Christopher’s oversized leather jacket (the one that smelled of him and his cigarettes), proved to be a perfect male attire. Her disguise, which also included a makeup-free face, a baseball cap and glasses, completely fooled the fifth fight participant. The jerk threw a fist at her. Needless to say, in that very instant, she regretted the outfit she had worn for Christopher at her last strip club.
Fifth’s paw would have got her too if not for Charles deflecting the blow. The fist landed on her shoulder instead of her face. Lucky. At her age, she had learned to appreciate her nose and jaws the way Mother Nature had set them on her facade.
Pain shot through her shoulder to her fingertips and her ears. Weird how pain travels. She wavered while Charles returned Fifth the courtesy. Damn, this hurt. The cops showed up. Mayhem receded. What am I doing here again? They arrested the five fighters, six bystanders (no one explained why; she didn’t ask), plus Charles and her. Hamilton would have enjoyed himself. I shall not howl in pain.
And as they say, the rest was history. The cops checked the thirteen of them, very un-thoroughly. Their search, a fast pat and a sweep of the electronic device on her legs and arms, would not have impressed Christopher. Since the high-tech thingy did not sense any weapons, nor did it detect a female in disguise, off she went with the men.
After the cops had piled them in two windowless minivans, they rode in companionable silence. If the locals were hoping for some of them to resume the fight on the way, she and her new allies greatly disappointed them. Upon arrival, the only fight she had left was dedicated to keeping her nausea in check. Sweaty, testosterone-smelling (at least she hoped it was hormones and not any other bodily fluids) men cooped up in the back of a truck did not make for the most sanitary packages.
Charles sat opposite her and stared down their opponents, ready to pounce. One thug or another had torn his shirt, smudged his pants, tussled his hair, and bruised his face. Hamilton would have loved it.
The search at the station was much more thorough.
“Up against the wall,” Officer-in-charge barked when her turn came. He had two buddies as back-ups in the interrogation room with him. Excessive measures, don’t you think, guys?
She suspected Officer-in-charge realised she was a woman mere seconds into the search for, after all, her disguise was not anatomically correct. For comfort considerations, she had foregone stuffing her panties with a pair of socks. She was neither lefty or righty when he cupped her groin, but he didn’t stop right away. The paws went back to her ankles. Legs. Thighs. Butt. Waist. When he circled to her belly and neared her crotch again, she kneed him. Would have kicked him earlier but the wooziness from the ride hadn’t completely dissipated.
She did not hurt him severely, her knee-jerk barely a knee-slap, nowhere neat an assault on an officer, but more an I-know-you-know-I’m-a-woman-you-jerk. Officer in charge backed away. The kick had a welcome side benefit as it temporarily distracted her of
the nausea Officer-in-charge’s touch had triggered.
For her third body-search, the powers that be designated a female officer, although Officer-in-charge and his two bouncers stayed put for the show. Perhaps they were bored stiff and to watch a female officer working on a woman dressed as a man turned them on. Apes. Sick apes. The woman did a swift job, asked her a few questions and, seeing as she was none too-collaborative, locked her up in the women’s cell.
Hence, she was now researching the heck out of her cellmates. Her PI character needed some street contacts and hookers, seeing as they spent so much time on the streets, made good informants, did they not?
Breathing through her mouth so as not to smell her pleasant surroundings, Patricia nonchalantly leaned on the wall and discreetly studied the women locked up with her. If it wasn’t for the drunk getting louder and cruder and tongue-woman turning into a snake, she might be having the time of her life. Research, way better than the library. Except for her shoulder that hurt. That hurt a lot.
The guy had punched her harder than she had first realised. After the initial, almost electric pain, a dull numbness had settled, fooling her into thinking her shoulder was fine, but now, the agony was back with a vengeance. She rolled her shoulder and rotated and stretched and, good news, felt no broken limbs. She was going to have a heck of a bruise, though.
Tomorrow, at the end of her unfortunate incarceration, she would ice it. Too bad, police precincts offered no bar services, she would have appreciated a glass of wine to ease the ache.
After what seemed like an eternity, the female officer came to get her. Was it morning already? Nope. The she-cop brought her into yet another interrogation room. For what, questions she wouldn’t answer? Could one of the thirteen have testified in her favour, and seeing as she had nothing to do with the fight, the cops had decided to let her go? But no way would she leave without Charles.