Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  “The fuck he shouldn’t have bothered calling me!” Did she honestly believe Charles had done well? Chris didn’t know where to start. Shit. And nothing justified them being there in the first place! He might have been smiling right now, but it wasn’t an I-think-you’re-cute smile. His anger was coming back. “Want to run that by me again, Princess. Slowly. I must be so fucking tired. I think I’ve missed something. Who’s stupid idea did you say it was?”

  She frowned and shifted ever so slightly on him. He dropped his hands on her thighs, soft but firm, to prevent her from standing up. Their eyes locked.

  “Weren’t you listening, Big guy? And what the heck difference does it make? Of course, it was my idea.”

  Big fat lie. He knew the signs to look for: one, she had not confessed to it being her idea right away; two, her answer contained two snap-back questions.

  “We were talking about Lemieux, and I thought it would be a good idea to go back and study the place some more. For Charles, of course, so he could give his input to Hamilton.”

  So it had been Charles’s idea. Covering for him, was she? Why? Charles had already admitted, repeatedly, that the trip was his idea. Not that Chris thought her entirely innocent. If Charles had only hinted that he might, possibly, at some point, consider maybe going to the club, she would have been already halfway to the place, the rookie in tow.

  “So Charles’s idea. OK, Pussycat. Got it. Why on earth did he take you with him?” As if Chris didn’t know the fucking answer to that one already. He saw the faintest hint of a smile in the corner of her eyes, admired as she valiantly fought not to let it go to her lips. The damn woman knew he knew.

  “Really, Big guy. Do you think I could have let him go by himself? Alone in that kind of place. I wouldn’t go alone, and I’m a city girl. Someone had to cover his back. For Hamilton. For you.”

  “Say what?” Again he was stunned. “You covered the rookie’s back and for me no less, you have a lot of imagination, Princess.” What did she expect him to reply to that? Thank you? No fucking way. “Why did you say Charles wanted to go?”

  The kid could have picked any strip club. Three clubs were of interest in the case, a one in three odds. Charles didn’t know Lemieux had brought Patricia to that particular club, neither did the young officer know she had also taken Chris, the boss, so why the fuck did he chose that one? Coincidence, no way. Charles wanted to go to a strip joint. She picked which one.

  “I don’t know, Big guy. He probably thought it would help the case. I didn’t ask. I don’t have that detective instinct, those hunches like you do.”

  Instinct? Taking his boss’s lover-girlfriend-damn woman to a strip club didn’t testify for great instincts on the kid’s part. Lousy cop instincts and, even more, fucking shitty survival skills. Chris just couldn’t get over that part. And comparing Charles to me won’t soften me up, Darling of mine. “Princess, I know you chose the place. You wouldn’t have brought him there if you didn’t have an ulterior motive. So let’s try again. Why?”

  He noticed the fingers of her right hand pianoting on her thigh absentmindedly. The woman was thinking hard. Her eyes cast down, she rubbed her hands on her thighs a few times as if smoothing the fabric of her pants.

  “I can’t tell you.” Well, that was a new one. He lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Truly, I can’t. I would if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.” Her eyes pleaded with him now. “Christopher, I really can’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with the case. Well, not really. But I believe he needed to do it. You’re going to have to trust me. And Charles did well. He behaved like a proper officer; you should be proud. And you should confirm him in the team. Let him know he’s doing OK. Oui?”

  When she started with the French thing, he was in trouble. He did trust her judgement. At least, when it didn’t regard her well-being and safety. What the fuck was this all about, then? “Let’s be clear on this. Tonight’s events had nothing to do with Lemieux? Or any other police business? Police business that, may I remind you, Darling of mine, you resigned from?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Nada.” He sighed. She had answered that one way too quickly. “Absolument rien, mon chéri.” The French thing again.

  “So what was all that about? Couldn’t you have called me earlier? You know, BEFORE going there.”

  She turned serious. “I thought about calling you, right when Charles called, but I figured he might not talk to me if you were there. And then, after, I couldn’t call. I knew you would get angry. I mean, you’re not exactly Mister Sunshine when you get a phone call in the middle of the night.”

  She had that right. Then again, how would she like it if he called her from some police station in the middle of the night to get bailed out? Fat chance of that ever happening, though. He would just flash his badge and take care of it, whatever it was. Or take care of it without the badge. Like the murder thing. Although she had helped on that one, hadn’t she? Immensely. Recklessly.

  “Besides, it was no big deal, Christopher. I was booked with some hookers that made great informants for my character−”

  “Stop! Next thing, you’re going to say you had fun.”

  “No, it wasn’t fun. Especially the fight and the punching. But it was no big deal. And Charles was great. I mean, he could have got his badge from the car and walked away from the mess, but he didn’t. Nope, he went to the station in the back of the van with the rest of us guys.”

  ‘Us guys.’ What the fuck? “They made you ride with the men?”

  She crooked her head to the side. “Great, don’t you think? Did you notice how I’m dressed? Nobody realised I was a woman until they frisked me at the station. This outfit is way better than the one I had on when we, hum. Ah. Anyway. When in a strip club, dress as a man. Lesson learned. When I go back, that’s what I’ll do.” A blazing cheshiresque smile accompanied her announcement.

  Shit. Was that supposed to reassure him? Dress like a guy? Go back? Why the hell would she go back? Ever? And she was frisked? Fuck, he had forgotten about that detail. Standard procedure. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck!

  If the cops hadn’t realised she wasn’t a guy, neither would the guys at the club. Good thing, no one would have made a move on her. He smiled back. Then frowned. For the guys wouldn’t have detected her gender during the fight either. Fucking shit. He had almost started a fight himself when they had gone together, and he knew what that fight had been about: her, in a different outfit, though. “The fight the cops arrested you for. What was that about?” He asked casually to hide his worries.

  “I don’t know. What are fights ever about? It started between two guys. I wasn’t paying attention. Then Charles intervened, attempted to pacify them and next thing we knew, half the place is in an uproar. We tried to leave but got stopped before reaching the door. I don’t know what kind of men go to those clubs, but frankly, they could use some anger management classes.”

  She had suggested such a class when they first met. Somehow sex with her seemed to work better. He grinned a the thought. “Guys in those places go for the skin and the beer,” he explained, before pressing on. “So you guys did not start it?” She shook her head no, demonstrating her slight insulted outrage by raising a delicate eyebrow. “Did you fight?”

  She looked at him, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “Who, me? You know I can’t fight. I tried to pull Charles to the door, but he kept wanting to be the good police officer. That’s how we got caught in it.”

  That sounded reasonable. It was all bullshit, though; her answering with a question betrayed her participation in the fight. “Did you throw any punches?” He looked down at her hands. Light bruises, earned during her hammering on the diner door, still shadowed her skin, but no new scratch marked her hands.

  “No. Of course not. Didn’t have time. It all happened so fast. Lucky Charles was there; he watched over me. I owe him. Really. You know, I didn’t feel all that safe with him at first, but he surprised me.”

  She didn’t feel safe with the
guy, but the damn woman had gone nonetheless?! “Did you get hurt?” Dumb question, MacLaren, as if she’s going to tell you. She looked OK, but he knew that didn’t mean shit. Even on her deathbed, she would hide her wounds from him for the sake of it-is-OK-I-do-not-need-you. Especially if she thought it might get Charles in trouble. Damn fucking right it will. “Well, did you?”

  “No. Of course not. I told you, Charles was perfect.”

  OK. Charles was perfect. Everything was fine. Why then did she make a face every once in a while? He sighed as Fists and Knot yearned for relief. “Does part of the I-wish-I-could-tell-you-but-I-can’t shit include Charles and you going back there anytime soon? At any time at all?”

  “Nope, I think we’re done for now. You can rest easy.”

  Easy for her to say, she had fallen asleep on the fucking interrogation room station! “You’re sure you can’t tell me what this was all about? No personal details, just the general intention here.”

  “I cannot. Let me just say that I did some, hum, womanly therapy.”

  “If your idea of therapy is taking one of my guys to see strippers, I want you to stop that right now. Unless I’m the guy, of course.”

  Her hands were in fists when she snapped back. “I’m not taking you to the strippers again. That didn’t feel right. You, hum.” The pink tip of her tongue wetted her lips. “Ah. You seemed to enjoy yourself a little too much.”

  That made him laugh, finally. “Jealous, Darling of mine?”

  “You’re flattering yourself, Big guy. Why should I be jealous? I mean, it’s not like−”

  “You know, Dollface, for my womanly therapy session, we don’t have to go to that specific strip club. Or any other for that matter. We can stay right here, just the two of us. How much would a private therapy session cost me?”

  “Christopher James MacLaren, you are a jerk! You have absolutely no manners. No wonder your guys are scared of you. Why do I put up with you!”

  So Charles was afraid of him, good to know. She wasn’t, though, never had been. The smile grew bigger. Her eyes had turned the stormy blue colour he liked. The nerve of you, they were saying. As if she didn’t know why she put up with him. His smile turned into another bark of laughter.

  “Christopher! Stop it. It’s not funny!” Both her hands flat on his chest, she tried pushing away from him.

  She pushed, she winced; he saw, and his laugh died. He grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and tugged it up.

  “Christopher. Now is not a good time,” she groaned.

  That he had already figured. As soon as he had jerked the t-shirt off, she crossed her arms over her chest, her hands to her shoulders. Cold, Angel? She wasn’t a prude, at least not with him. The damn sports bra didn’t lessen her beauty; he was personally acquainted with the lovely breasts she had hidden under it.

  “Let me look at you, Angel of mine. Please,” he asked in a soft voice, Knot twisting in his guts.

  She raised her chin defiantly before biting on her lower lip. Her hands dropped sluggishly. “I think. Perhaps. I would like. Some ice.” A large bruise decorated her left shoulder, its size about that of a man’s fist.

  Patricia’s New Job

  By the time Christopher got her some ice, took a shower, drive her back to her place and got her more ice, he had to go to work. Needless to say, they did not fool around.

  The Big guy was afraid to touch her; he handled her like a porcelain doll. So what if she had cried when the ice first touched her shoulder? She had shed no more than a tear or two. The man was maddeningly overprotective, and it made her want to hide under his covers and wait for him, all soft and warm. Infuriating. She didn’t need him to protect her. Truly. Moreover, she had a lot of interesting things to do besides long for him.

  What she need was a job. An exciting place where to meet people. New people. New men? Part of her problems these days came from being way too much into Christopher, that and the fact that he knew it. Damn infuriating. Nice yes, and maddeningly infuriating. Sexy. Too sexy. Dangerous. Frankly, she liked him a little too much, had from the start. So yes, indeed, she needed a new job. With men.

  A store? A department store in a mall. Those stores were always crowded with people. And she liked to shop, plus her closets were often empty. Sell jewellery? Or lingerie? And she would get discounts. Not that she needed the rebates, or money for that matter. Hum. What she needed was to keep busy.

  Shopping centres were action-packed destinations. Couples fighting or holding hands, kids running around, teenagers shoplifting. And malls had in-house security agents, both dressed in dull uniform or cloaked in plain clothes. Christopher would stay out of her way with them around. Hum. What if she liked the shoplifter-kid? Maybe he was shoplifting to help his sick mother feeding his six fatherless younger siblings. Damn, if the kid was so desperate, she might even help him do a little thieving herself and then what? She rolled her eyes at herself. Her thoughts went all over the place these days. She needed to do something.

  Library? No way. Beauty parlour? Women all day, she couldn’t. Factory? Please shoot me now. A restaurant? People ate the weirdest things. A bar? There again, people drank the strangest things. A coffee shop? Hum. Could she spend her days drinking lattes and flirting with customers? She loved coffee shops. Would her French barista have an opening? No, wait! Writing she did in dedicated areas in a ‘don’t mix business with pleasure’ tacit arrangement with herself. She wouldn’t be able to both write and work in the same place. Another café then? Unless she went back to the library? Heck no.

  Back to a bar. Maybe a wine bar? She had liked working at that club months ago; too bad it had closed down. Surely not all clubs had in-house hookers and dead bodies in storage. Would she officially become an alcoholic? A bar with a no-drinking policy for the employees might be safer, but that might be a bit too stiff-on-rule environment. She wasn’t keen of rules (nor on abstinence). What was the point of working in a bar if she couldn’t sample the wines once in a while.

  Johnny’s bar? Hum, a tad dangerous. Although, it might prevent Christopher from taking her for granted. Was he? No, probably not. Was she? No way. She suspected the Big guy could charm the pants off any woman if he’d put his mind to it. Of course, he could only keep the pretence up for five minutes, but the damage to their relationship would be irreparable (from her end, at least). Luckily, being amiable was not exactly a natural inclination for him, was it? Then again, he did win her over and over, and one had to work hard to dazzle her. She hated cops, the vast majority of them, most of the time. And yet here she was, in lov− lust with the copest of them all.

  Again. What type of job? Nothing corporate. Been there, done that, and got disastrous results. Assuredly, she wanted something part-time. Interesting and different, since the whole point was to nourish her imagination elsewhere than at the damn library. Research.

  She wrote fiction, only fiction, but reality had a way of creeping into her writing, disguised, twisted yet there. Characters. Places. Events. This book is a work of fiction and any similarities between real events and characters and blah-blah. No one recognised him or herself in her books; she alone knew whose nose it was on which character’s face and who had done what, when and how. She got high on the very process of writing. Her new job needed to provide interesting characters and events.

  Perhaps she might try her hand at an office job again? Surely renowned law firms had no wandering hands. Not that she liked lawyers a lot more than cops. Both groups had one thing in common: they were all too damn serious about the law. Being flexible with the laws was one of the things Christopher did splendidly. He might not be as imaginative as she was about it, but then again, he was a cop, and he did know more laws than she did.

  An accounting firm? Were accountants more exciting than lawyers? Debatable. She had dated an accountant a long, long time ago, before starting to write seriously. He had been nice. And funny. Had wanted to get married. They almost got engaged. Well, he did. She had oh so wanted that life. Still
did, even though she knew she would have ended up addicted to antidepressants. Red wines were so more enjoyable yet just as efficiently soothing.

  “Hi, sweetie, it’s Patricia in four-fourteen. When you have a minute, can you send someone up with today’s newspapers? Thank you so much.”

  She surveyed the want-ads. Waitressing? The diner thing haunted her, the smell the dead girl’s rain-soaked hair not forgotten. Restaurants, a definite no. Offices? A definite no. Daycare? Kindergarten? What if one of the little ones choked on his food or fell and broke his arm? Engineering? Here again, been there, done that, moved on, long, long, so long a time ago.

  She was more than smart enough but did she want to go back to school for a refresher course or a new career? Like a doctor, orthophoniste, schoolteacher, dentist. No, no, no, and no. They were looking for some director at a makeup company. Could she run her business? Self-made entrepreneur woman sounded successful. Powerful. Busy. Stressful. OK, maybe not as much as finding dead bodies but still.

  What else? Telemarketer jobs, as well as escorts and strippers offerings filled the pages. No way could she be a stripper. Not that she was a prude in private, but she was no exhibitionist either, not in public at least, and more than three she considered a crowd. Besides, from the girls she’d seen, her breasts weren’t large enough.

  Hum. When she thought about it, what Christopher and Charles and Hamilton needed on the case was a stripper. An undercover stripper might learn all the inside dirt on the clubs. Or rather, three fake strippers. One for Lemieux’s club she had visited with Christopher, then again with Charles. One where the motel woman used to work. And a third for the club where they had found the buried woman, the new case Charles had told her about. Hence, three strippers for efficiency’s sake.

  Reid was the only woman on Christopher’s team, could she do the three in turn? Could she do even one? A resounding no. Furthermore, Christopher wouldn’t ask her. He’d take someone he didn’t care about, another female officer from the outside. The quartet girl perhaps?