by V. P. Trick
The offer took her by surprise. They had gone out a few times with a group of friends but never the two of them alone. More the friend of a friend than a friend. “Well… It’s kind of late. My ride will be leaving soon. Maybe some other time, OK?”
“Come on, it’s not that late. You can take another taxi. Or we can go to my place. It’s not far. I’ll call you a cab from there. What’d you think?” The friend of a friend looked at her with a pleading look.
She was tired. Moreover, she wasn’t entirely sure she liked that person much. Sweet yes, but she wasn’t looking for a romantic involvement right now. She declined again and turned to leave. A hand grabbed her by her coat sleeve; this was becoming unpleasant.
“Look, this won’t take long. Just to talk, OK? After all, you’re the one who started it; don’t you lead me on.”
She didn’t understand. How could she have deceived anyone? They had held hands and hug, but everybody did so; it was a group thing. College kids held hands at the movies; those were scary films. They held hands and embraced in coffee shops, but only on the cheeks, like brothers and sisters, as she did with her younger siblings. “I’m sorry you got the wrong impression. Truly, I am. But I’m not looking for a relationship right now with anyone. And I really have to go.”
“I know your type. All sweet and soft. But what, you think you’re too good for me?”
“How improper.” What a waste of time. That unpleasant person must be drunk, or worse, stoned. Luckily, no yells were thrown her way; she would hate for the cook to overhear them. How embarrassing. “That is enough. I’m going now.”
She pulled her arm free and turned to run out of the alley. Hopefully, her cab ride hadn’t left yet.
She didn’t see the killer grip a backpack, didn’t see the movement as the killer swung it at her. She didn’t feel herself fall to the ground for she was already dead.
It rained all night.
Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line
Not bad. She would put that passage aside for a few days. Let it simmer, figuratively speaking, then she would rework it. And, if Christopher worked late again this weekend, she might come back for a chat with the cook.
Why couldn’t the world be more like in her books? Life would be oh so simpler.
Now that she had killed the girl, she deserved a celebratory treat. She yearned for more than a glass of red wine, though. She had not seen the Big guy since forever, had not questioned him about the cases. In truth, she had not asked anyone about any of the investigations. She deserved a drink all right.
Guy Time
“Good job, guys,” Chris praised Ham and Charles. “And before you say it’s not much, Ham, let’s see where it leads us.”
The duo had been touring the titty bar scene, befriending strippers and showing photos around of Lemieux, his dead hooker and the dead stripper that had been unearthed. At one club, a stripper vaguely remembered Lemieux getting into a fight with some guy a couple of days before his murder. Unfortunately, at some point during his interrogation, Ham had leaned too hard, and the woman had clamped up. She had yet to volunteer a detailed description of the fighter. Hence, the three of them were now on their way to meet this new potential witness.
“I can think of better ways to spend my Saturday afternoon, but anything for a case, right, Boss?”
“Right. What time did you say her shift starts?” Chris wanted to have a word with her before she got into her work uniform or lack thereof.
“She dances the early evening shift; we’ll catch her before her show.”
“Good.”
That case was weird beginning to end. Beginning to the middle, he corrected himself; they were far from wrapping it up. If the guy they were looking for was one of the dead girl’s regulars. If he had done the hooker. If he had begrudged Lemieux. If he had killed Lemieux... Lots of ifs but the shadow of a motive.
The only positive thing in Chris’s job these days? Patricia was staying away from the cases. Fucking impressive, her world record as of yet. She hadn’t questioned his guys either, not even Reid, not even Charles. So Chris didn’t worry about her walking around stirring things up. Yah right. He hoped she remained safely into her writing frenzy. That dreamy air of hers was damn attractive, like at the bar the other night. How she got a seriously uptight Reid to act that silly was beyond him. Karaoke for Christ’s sake!
When Patricia’s turn had come up, she had intoned a French song. He had not understood more than a few words, something about a guy wanting to bite into a shepherdess as if she was an apple. Kinky.
“It’s a little song by a dead French singer named Joe,” she had explained. “The guy in the song likes this country girl, but he’s a tad presumptuous in his approach to her. The girl’s a bit sassy, so she makes the guy wait.”
The lyrics seemed eerily familiar, damn sensual too. Then again, everything she said in French sounded suggestive. In any case, like the girl had stood up the poor sap in the song, he too was misinformed on occasions. She had fallen asleep in the car on the way back to his place. He had to drag her to bed; the damn woman would probably have slept in the car had he let her.
Experience had taught him (the hard way) how much trouble arose when she was sleep-deprived, with her imagination going into overdrive and busying itself with matters other than her books. Hence, he had let her sleep. Better a quick jerk off in the bathroom than amazing sex if it led to her day-dreaming one of his cases. To be on the safe side, he let her sleep in the following morning too. The fucking French song was stuck in his head. In his shorts. He had felt her skin, smelled her hair all night, but still he had let her sleep. He deserved a fucking medal for that.
His mood had been crappy since then. The weather wasn’t helping. Damn rain again, all yesterday, all today so far.
“You OK there, Charles?” He prompted. “Want me to drive?” The rookie made all his stops, three seconds each, signalled all turns, basically driving like a sissy. No wonder Ham had been in such a bad mood lately.
Not that Ham had let Charles drive. In Ham’s book, rookies didn’t get to drive, hierarchy or something. Since Chris had not wanted to drive, it was their case after all, as the boss, he had offered the driver seat to the kid. A welcome break from the duo’s routine, he had thought. Yah right. Should have kept your fucking mouth shut, MacLaren.
He made a note to ask one of the guys to bring Charlie’s driving techniques up a couple of notches. Not Ham, though, the man drove like a maniac. Not Reid, since Charles went rigid when Reid was around. The two didn’t speak as such, more like every time Reid greeted him, the kid stopped breathing. Chris couldn’t tell yet if Charles was infatuated or merely afraid.
Charles became stiff and breathless around Patricia too, plus he turned scarlet. Charles certainly felt no anxiety toward her, unfortunately. How could a grown male, a police officer at that, fucking blush? Granted the damn woman was an accomplished blusher herself, so she probably knew from her real-life experience which buttons to push to make one flush. Chris sure knew how to turn her pink. Damn liked it too. Sexy as hell. How long had it been since he had made her blush? Too long. His plan for his Saturday evening included her, all of her and only her. Her and the French apple song thing.
The strip joint was three blocks down from Lemieux’s club and four from the dead stripper’s. This neighbourhood was the destination of choice for gentlemen in wants of tasteful entertainment. The dive looked shabby but who was he to judge?
“I see someone recently bombarded the parking lot,” he commented ill-humoredly. “More than once.” Holes pocked the cement all over. “Lucky we took the truck; a guy’s suspension could get total just trying to park here.”
The walk was just as bad.
“I counted eighteen empty bottles of beer, probably enough pieces of glass to make another ten, nine condoms, seven syringes and three shoes. How much did you get?” Ham’s humour.
“Just get us inside, Ham.”
“Not a fan of t
he garden, I get it, Boss. Better warn you, though, the decorator didn’t go splurged on the glamorous interior either.”
Shit no. Typical crummy decor. A door-less toilet next to the entrance, a narrow bar, its top crisscrossed by cigarette burns, a long catwalk, a double row of chairs on each side. The entire place might have been painted flat black initially but had more of a dark brownish-greyish-dirty as hell hue now. The paint was peeling from the walls, from the ceiling, from everywhere. Chris suspected paint dandruff fell on the stage when the place was busy. For now, the flakes were hanging on by a thread, waiting for the place to start shaking a little. It looked like it wouldn’t take much, at the first bar fight, it would be snowing. Next to the dance floor at the farthest end, a door led into the girls’ dressing room.
Feeling yet again he was getting too old for this shit, Chris cursed between his teeth and decided he hated Lemieux even more. He glanced over at Charles. The kid was staring at the wall instead of the floor. An improvement from even the week before. The young officer did glance, very short peeks at a time, every ten seconds or so at the stripper.
I don’t blame you for turning a blind eye, man. The dance did not make for an attractive sight. Perhaps the kid was not a total failure. After all, he was better than any of the quartet had been. And, except for his wild night out with Patricia, Charles had kept a low profile, working relentlessly on the case.
Ham had confirmed (reluctantly) that the kid was doing more than his share of the legwork, the mouth-work. Charles was putting up with Ham in the process too, so kudos for that. You still owe me big, Angel of mine, for keeping the kid around.
Ham was another story. Strip joints were the guy’s playgrounds; he was quite at ease this afternoon. Chris suspected Ham and Lemieux would have had a lot in common, beginning with her. Too bad he was comfortable with the team he had now, and too old to start over, because sometimes he dreamed of a classier team.
The woman on the stage was concluding her number. Everything on her looked too big: lips, ass, breasts, nipples, even her hair. Not his type, not by a long shot. The few guys watching seemed to disagree with him, though, as they were ogling her (not so much her face, however). The three officers went unnoticed.
“Maybe if I leave Charles with the chic clientele,” Chris whispered to Ham. “He’ll get the hang of it.” Then again, it might be a lost cause. Seeing as Patricia had talked sweetly to the kid every single time they had met, she had probably ruined him for any of the working women around tonight, even a naked one smiling from the dance floor.
Indeed, the curvy stripper was smiling at Charles.
“Want me to call her over, Boss?” Ham offered. “I’m buying a half hour for the baby. Crash course.”
Chris glanced at Charles again. The younger man managed a smile, a sharp nod at the woman, all without a blush. Polite but not aroused, maybe the kid too thought the stripper’s flesh was overly generous.
Only Ham was enjoying himself, trying to get Charles embarrassed. The duo could be at it all day, but Chris was tired of standing around.
“Fuck this, I have plans for the evening. Get things moving, guys.”
The manager didn’t seem to be in at this time because no one came forward to hassle them. Although, since they kind of stood out in their suits and ties, possibly the manager was hiding somewhere hoping for their hasty departure. The club didn’t present many hiding places, though. The door-less toilets were empty, and the club offered no private booth for their patrons. Did the girls carry dividers for private lap dances? Fucking tasteful.
The bartender, a portly, bald man of undetermined age, was busy staring at the girl from the bar. How could he still be interested? Chris studied the short man more closely and realised the guy wasn’t looking at the dancer but at a point on the wall to her left, as Charles was doing. Or maybe the man was sleeping with his eyes open because he hadn’t blinked once while Chris observed him, and he sure hadn’t offered them anything.
“You want something, Mac, you get it yourself. They don’t do table services.”
Chris raised an eyebrow at Ham. “No fucking tables.” And thank God, no buffet. Chris couldn’t imagine what a meal in this place would taste like. If he ever caught her in this dump, he was going to detain her for insanity and hang whoever brought her here.
“Classy joint, ain’t it?”
“Let’s get this thing moving.” Impatient.
Fat spread out, the stripper finished up. When she strolled back to the dancers’ changing room, they followed after her, Ham leading the way, Charles trailing after Chris. Nobody stopped them.
The designer had not invested a penny in the changing room either. The paint coat on the walls was decades old here too. Four small chairs, one in each corner of the room, and the hooks on the wall above each made for the furniture. Work clothes, faded colour, sequins missing, feathers missing, hung on the hooks, waiting their turn under the spotlight. The backstage was fucking depressing.
Chris found the images of lingerie negligently left on a floor or draped over the back of a chair arousing. Patricia’s lacy, silky, frilly, he found particularly feminine and enticing for it forecasted she was naked somewhere nearby. Nothing sensual or ladylike on the hooks here, just fucking pathetic.
As a police officer, he had visited too many hellholes to count; this wasn’t amongst the worse, not by a long shot, but it was depressing to think of Patricia showing up in a place like this. I’m too damn old for the shit. He never had that kind of worries before her. Fuck, he’d see her tonight or he might get plastered.
Try his fucking best in any case, even if he couldn’t get drunk when he wanted to. Good genetics and training from his reckless youth left him without a buzz. It used to anger him, but now he appreciated. It had its usefulness when one tried to make one’s girlfriend drunk so one could steal information out of her or seduce her. It was annoying as hell, though, when one was depressed or pissed off by the said girlfriend. Such was his life these days, the best damn time of his life.
He turned his attention back to the strippers in the room. A lot of curses were thrown back and forth. What was their problem anyway? No way was this the first time cops had walked into the place. So what if the girl from the platform hadn’t had time to dress up yet? No big deal, they had already seen too much of her.
As for the other two dancers in the room, Chris didn’t want to see them naked either. One was skinny-thin in an unhealthy, cadaveric way. She still had breasts, though. Fake. The other was average in weight, height, looks and breast-size. Your next-door neighbour. Your hairy, sulking, mean-looking homebody.
Ham motioned to her. “That’s the one who saw Lemieux fight with someone.”
Lemieux might have been a shadow, but women remembered him nonetheless. The guy had been a hunk. Unfortunately.
Guys and Their Work
“Hi, Bunny. Remember me?” Ham took the floor, flashing the badge while talking and smiling. “I brought you the big boss. You think you can talk to him about the picture I showed you?”
“Hello, I’m Chief Detective Chris James MacLaren.” Chris offered Bunny his hand. “Please, just call me Chris. It’s nice to meet you, Bunny.” Bunny, Candy, Sandy, ridiculous names but anyway. “Ham told me you’ve been most helpful.”
He gave the woman a gentle, non-threatening smile, looking straight into her eyes and her eyes only. She seemed to like that.
“You think I can maybe take a few minutes of your time?” The girl nodded, and he started his shit. “I’m Officer Hamilton and Officer Charles’s boss.” He pointed at his guys without taking his eyes off Bunny’s face. “Ham told me about the conversation you two had. By the way, very sharp of you to recognise the guy.” He paused and smiled some more. Ham, standing at the dancer’s back, smirked over her shoulder. Asshole.
“I thought it was important I come and talk to you in person.” He leaned forward. “I’m glad I did. Even if I don’t learn anything new, it’s been worth the trip. Worth
my time.”
The woman smiled back. Ham smirked back.
“Would you like a smoke?” He offered although he considered himself a non-smoker. He didn’t smoke all that much, only occasionally to get the stress out, when he couldn’t go jogging or drink scotch. These past months, he had smoked more than usual. Of course.
He used to keep a pack at home in the pocket of his lounge chair. He’d have a cigarette in the middle of the night, around three or four when he woke and lay awake unable to go back to sleep, thinking about a case. For when Fists and Knot came visiting, often unannounced, often for extended stays, he had a pack in that pocket now still, but many, oh so many times refilled. He had added a box in his truck glove compartment, though. And now, he also carried some in his jacket breast pocket in case of emergencies. Damn woman. Ham tried to hide his smile when he took out the pack. The guy wasn’t dumb; he knew why Chris carried packs of cigarettes in his suit pocket now. Fuck him. He lighted the woman’s cigarette, then his.
“See the sigh there, Stud? Barkeep’ says we ain’t supposed to smoke inside.”
“‘Stud’?” Ham mouthed at her back.
Chris shrugged as she puffed smoke his way. Hell, the place reeked of stale cigarettes. “Hey, girl, we’re the police,” he told her with a mental eye roll. “We give you the right to smoke.” Macho. And flirty. The frisky technique worked wonders when Patricia did it. He excelled at it too but didn’t get to practise as much, seeing as he met a lot more men in his line of work than women. Which, when he thought about it, was a good thing as the word could do without dead women or she-killers.
He pulled an empty chair and sat in front of Bunny with a smile. She was smiling back big time now. Oily skin, yellowing teeth, she looked to be in her late twenties. From the smell of her, she hadn’t taken her bath today, nor yesterday, and probably not the day before. The smoke covered some of the smell, but her cheap perfume was giving him a headache. Fuck, I’m old. He kept on smiling.