by V. P. Trick
“I didn’t fire Ham yet. Just you.”
“You didn’t fire me.”
“Patricia. It’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“Whatever you’re attempting to do.”
“I’m trying to get you to tell me about your day as normal couples do. They tell one another about their life and stuff.”
“We’re far from normal the both of us, aren’t we? Work, that’s what happened!”
Up to now, the tone of the conversation had been somewhat playful. Not anymore, “This is all because I slept with him, isn’t it? What’s the big deal? It was two years ago. I’ve slept with other guys since then. I’ve moved on, and so should you!” She pushed away from him in a huff, but he held her down by her thighs, partly holding her thighs, partly gripping the robe.
“This is not about you and Lemieux.”
“What is it about then? If it’s not about him and me, what is this about?”
Damn, she was magnificent, half-naked and angry. None of her look-alikes came even close. “Lemieux.”
“What about Lemieux? What? Christopher James MacLaren, you are infuriating!” He just smiled at her. So damn sexy, Pussycat. “Stop looking at me like that; we’re having an argument here, damn it!” She took a deep breath and glanced at him sideways. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I can find out another way.”
“Patricia, you quit, and you’re staying out.”
“I changed my mind. I should finish the job. It wasn’t right of me to leave in the middle of an ongoing investigation.”
“No. You’re not coming back.” He was going to have to keep an eye on her.
“I am coming back; you can’t stop me. The team expects me back. Besides, you know I never leave things half-done.”
“Yes, you do. You do it all the time with me. So no, you’re not coming back. You don’t want to resign? Fine. You’re fired.”
She looked stunned for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Mon chéri, really. What’s the point? All I have to do is show up at work, act as if I’m back, and that will be it. I’ll have a chat with Frédéric. I hope you put everything in the electronic files for me to see.”
The damndest woman was right. He could have her arrested for breaking into the office; it was a damn police station after all, but who was he kidding? Besides, if Fred didn’t give her the files, Mario would.
She had promised not to have her hermit hacker friend break into the police system without telling him first. Chris trusted she wouldn’t break her promise, but she had promised to tell him, not ask for his fucking permission. Think fast, MacLaren.
He studied his options silently, cop face on. Concluded in was a hundred times better, safer to have her in the office than snooping around on her own, be it to go to strip clubs with his guys or alone to dinners with dead bodies.
Her laughter quieted down as doubt filled her blue eyes. “You’re not honestly firing me, are you?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fucking firing you for real. You’re reckless, impatient, nosy and dangerous.”
“But−”
“Patricia. Stay out of Lemieux’s case.”
“Why?”
Fuck, the woman was stubborn. “Because I say so.” He was running out of patience. He still hoped for the top, but if it didn’t happen soon, he might get a drink. A cold shower. Both.
“Christopher, you know that’s a cop answer. I know I didn’t help with the case but only in the beginning. And I did write that damn report you asked for; it contained personal details I wouldn’t have revealed in a million years otherwise. And I took you to the club, that has to count for something.”
The club? Damn right it counted for something; he just didn’t know how the fuck yet. “You’re still out.”
At that moment, Hamilton’s words flashed into Patricia’s mind. As she mused out loud, “If this is not about me going out with him, maybe this is about him going out with me?” Christopher’s thigh muscles clenched under her, his entire body tensing. She was onto something.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Patricia. Stay. The. Fuck. Out.”
She had a lead; she kept with it. What else had Hamilton said? “It’s about Lemieux going out with me over and over.” Whatever that meant. Christopher looked angry, thus worried. Was it because of Lemieux going out with her?
She tried to recall the motel hooker. She had not seen her body at the scene, had barely skimmed the pictures Charles had brought. She had not seen the woman in the club’s basement; nobody had bothered to show her those photos. Not that she wanted to see them. “Christopher, what did the dead dancer, the one Hamilton found look like?”
“Patricia.” His voice came out as a growl, barely controlled. He was furious.
She couldn’t let it go. “Did she look like the hooker at the motel?” His hands dug into her thighs painfully. She vaguely remembered brown waves, a slim frame. “Did she look like me?” Judging from how tightly he clamped his jaw and fists, the answer was yes. What was that about?
That certainly explained why he was unsettled. And now, she was upset too, not to mention maybe a little freaked. She had had it with this crap. She was never again leaving the library. “Fine, I’ll stay out.”
She leaned into him, lowered her head to his shoulder. Her heart was beating so fast, she had trouble breathing.
Chris felt her lips brush his skin, caressing, settling on the throbbing vein at the base of his neck. It took him a while to calm down. She had said she was going to stay out, and she would. She should. She was always true to her word. He just had to make sure nothing or no one dragged her back in.
After a while, when the anger left him, he whispered into her hair, “It’s getting late, Darling of mine, let’s go to bed.”
He let her escape to the bathroom while he turned off the television and lights. She settled into bed, clad in the damn fucking robe, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
With a disappointed headshake, he went back to the living room to check the locks and get his mobile phone, setting it on the night table as he slipped into the bed next to her.
She slithered on top of him, the bathrobe nowhere to be seen. “It’s my turn to be on top, mon chéri,” she cooed.
No way, Angel, you’re mine.
Her Dinner Craving
She slept divinely. She had fallen asleep right after their bout of lovemaking, a warm and heavy Christopher atop of her. She lingered under the covers, listening drowsily as pots and pans clattered in the kitchen; the Big guy was cooking breakfast.
In moments like these, she could move in with him. Marry him all over again. The instants never lasted long enough for her to confess her yearnings. What if he said no? What if he said yes? Scary. Which one was worse? Truly terrifying. That one time he had asked her to live with him, had he asked solely because he already knew she would turn him down? He was a very independent man. She was independent too, and delusional. Not to mention a little screwed up.
They fought too much, didn’t they? Well, she argued while he discussed. Last night had not been any different. He never raised his voice, but he still got what he wanted. She was out of Lemieux’s case. But of Lemieux’s case only, she told herself silently with a smile. The Big guy was going to work today, and so was she. At the diner.
Christopher marched into the bedroom shortly after, probably to check if she was awake yet. She stayed immobile as if she was asleep. So childish. Didn’t she deserve to sleep late on a Sunday morning? She could have used him next to her, though, literally used him. She sighed from under the covers, her sigh going unnoticed when the doorbell rang announcing Hamilton. No way was she getting up now; she cowardly elected to stay hidden in case Hamilton disclosed her late-night call to his boss.
She heard Christopher strolled back into the room, listened as he picked up his things, opened and closed the closet door (taking a jacket?), then silence returned. She didn’t move. The infuriating man could be anywhere; he was so steal
thy when he wanted. She strained to detect voices, footsteps or, even better, the front door closing when suddenly his palm pressed on her stomach.
“Good morning, Princess,” he growled gruffly. “I’m going to work now. It would be lovely if you waited for me. In bed.” No chance of that. “Or we can meet here later for supper. It’s your turn to eat naked.” No possibility of that either.
He started to laugh. “I know what you’re thinking. And both will happen. Eventually.”
Damn, he was arrogant! He kissed the top of her head as if she was a child. Really, a woman her age!
She heard the front door close. She took a deep breath. He had smelled great; she loved the scent of his aftershave. She would have used him had Hamilton came just a little later.
After lingering in bed for way too long, she took a quick shower and ate Christopher’s French toasts. Anticipating she wasn’t going to get up early, he had left her meal in the oven; she ate warm and fluffy toasts, with real maple syrup (he had stocked his fridge with jars of the stuff). If he wasn’t already so damn arrogant, she might praise his near perfection.
She thought about making herself a latte but decided to grab one on her walk to the diner instead. Drinking coffee alone was not her thing; she believed coffee consumption needed to be a shared experience. Sipping a latte surrounded by complete strangers in a coffee shop who ignored her was almost a spiritual experience. Well, maybe not but it did make for a pleasant research interlude. Funny how people thought her borderline-alcoholic because she sometimes had a glass of red wine alone in her suite but were themselves closet coffeeholic since they ingested the drug anywhere.
Using his home phone line, she dialled Christopher’s mobile. He answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Angel.”
“Hi, Big guy.”
“Miss me?”
“No.” She sighed breathily before confessing. “Yes. I missed you this morning.”
“I was there this morning.”
“No, you weren’t. You weren’t here. You know. In me.” She heard him catch his breath and laughed at his reaction. “Just thought I’d call to say hi and thank you for breakfast.”
“You’re very welcomed. I’ll be there later. You know. There. In you.” His voice had taken that deep husky tone.
She pressed her thighs together. How was it that every time she wanted to turn him on, she became aroused too? “I’ll let you go now, Big guy. Have a good day.”
“I will, Darling of mine. Please do what I’ve said.”
How could he know? Had she talked about the diner in her sleep? “What did you say again?”
“Supper.” Oh, that. No way was she eating naked; her face flamed at the thought. “You’re blushing now, aren’t you?” Raspy voice. “Damn it, Princess. I have to work today!”
“You started it!”
“I fucking did not, Pussycat. But I will finish it; you can count on it. Supper. Later.”
Mercifully, he hung up after that. The man was infuriating. Her sex throbbed. His better be disturbing his concentration too.
From Christopher’s place, the walk took almost three hours including the coffee stop. She didn’t mind, she was in no hurry, she had good boots on, and it wasn’t raining today. The walk cleared both her head and her body. The sky was cement-grey; the cold and humid air turned her soft waves to an exuberantly unruly curly do. She was used to it, no point fighting it, she never won.
The streets were almost empty; the coffee shop was mostly empty. Hopefully, she hoped for a vacant restaurant too. She had taken her time at Christopher’s place and left only a little past noon. She had even done the dishes since Anna wouldn’t be in to clean the place until Tuesday. For whatever reason, he was barely ever there, Christopher had the cleaning lady come twice a week, but hey, his place was always spotless, and he never had dirty socks lying around.
The diner wasn’t full. Three o’clock on a dull Sunday afternoon, who wanted a club sandwich? The cook was just starting his shift, and so were his helper and the two waitresses.
Patricia sat at the counter and ordered a piece of pie, a lemony creation that tempted her from the pie plate. It looked delicious when the young waitress set the plate in front of her. The sweet and bitter tarte was even more scrumptious than it looked. She got lost in its taste. When she got back to reality, three customers had joined her at the counter. A young couple and a man. From the looks of his clothes, haircut, personal hygiene, the man was single from way back. Could he be the killer?
With only the four of them as patrons, the waitresses kept busy chatting amongst themselves. The couple held hands, eating their pies in blissful silence. The single guy stared at the two waitresses behind the counter, looking at one then the other; his stare was not level on their faces. He, or someone like him, might truly be her killer.
A customer went unnoticed by the girl waitress; he ogled and admired her day after day. The waitress was friendly. Sometimes she placed a hand on his shoulder as she removed his empty plate, maybe he took it as an encouragement. But he was a little too old for her, wasn’t he? If the girl had seen him in the back alley that night, surely she would have become suspicious right away. Patricia knew she would have been distrustful of an older man had it been her in that alley. Or maybe not, since, in her case, the older-men-are-less-trouble mantra had started early.
Hum. If not him, maybe someone like him? Someone overlooked, a man the waitress knew but not really. Someone she was familiar with. The cook still looked good for the crime. So what if he was married; some married men were sleazebags, as she knew first hand. Married men could be murderers too. Except for the cook appreciating compliments on his wife’s pies, he could be a killer.
She asked to talk to the cook again, “Just for a little while, until the place gets busy.”
He remembered her from her last visit. She stayed with the friendly writer doing research approach and questioned the cook for almost an hour, the waitresses cutting in from time to time, the helper not saying much.
“The cops came back twice. Last week and the week before,” one of the waitresses informed her.
“Did they now? What did they want?”
“Not sure,” said the cook. He seemed uneasy about it. “Might be about that murder down Thirteen Street, at that diner. You heard about it?”
“The cops told you that?”
“The police didn’t say shit. Some college kids told us. We asked the cops after for details, but you know how those guys are.” I sure do. “They better not try to put it on us again.” And by us, Patricia understood he meant him. Was he afraid getting caught, or was he traumatised by his previous experience as a suspect? Funny, when Christopher had suspected her of Bozniak’s murder, she had been mad, not traumatised. Perhaps the cook’s reaction was more reasonable?
“Are you worried about this second murder?” Nope, he wasn’t. “Did it stir up memories?” She wished the second death had awakened up long-forgotten details. Nope, nothing.
“I mean, we talked about it, a college kid, a diner. But this town’s crazy. College kids died every other week, killed or run over, or overdosed. Just so happens this one hit close to home.”
Since the police had not given out a lot of information, she didn’t want to push the similarities further. She didn’t mention her role in the second murder discovery, didn’t confide that the police had interrogated her. Keeping with the research routine, she didn’t get much. The cook got annoyed. The waitresses got busy; half the tables were now taken, the couple and the killer-look-alike customer had left. She was about done here.
Since no one here knew she didn’t smoke, she followed the helper out back for a cigarette. She wanted to see the alley again but not alone; the helper was as good a tour guide-slash-bodyguard as any would do. She did some small talk to get him to loosen up. He hadn’t spoken to her about the murder yet although he was working at the diner at the time.
What had the file said? Ah yes, he had left early that ni
ght.
“Did you know the girl well?”
“Not well.”
“Was she a good waitress?” Very insightful question, Patricia.
“Good enough.” Talkative, wasn’t he?
“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?” He shrugged. Did that mean he didn’t know? Didn’t care?
This tête-à-tête was a major waste of time. She felt woozy from the cigarette, not to mention the damn alley creeping her out. She should learn to listen to Christopher and stay out. Thinking of the Big guy made her think of Lemieux. And that led to Lemieux’s women.
“Back then, did another waitress look like the dead girl? You know, young, wholesome, perky.”
He seemed weirdly uneasy with her question. He inhaled a long drag before answering. “Nope.”
She put her hand on his arm (high up on the guy’s short shirt sleeve) and smiled, stepping closer. “Did another waitress go to the same college?”
“Lots of college kids work as waitresses. Hard to remember.”
“Maybe a customer? Someone who ate at the restaurant often?”
“No.”
Dead end all the way. Her interrogation skills weren’t up to speed, and neither was her imagination. She might change career after all. Maybe she should reconsider working at a diner; she might have better odds that way.
Discouraged, she asked for a job. “I’m thinking of getting a job as a waitress. Think I can cut it?” He looked startled. “I’m not too old, am I?” No answer. Great. “I don’t have any experience so how do I get in?”
“This place, you need references. A friend gets you in.”
“Who got you in?”
“Stan.”
The cook. “You too are friends?”
“We went to school together.”
The guy looked young enough to be Stan’s son or his baby brother, how annoying! “Ah. Would you get me in?” No answer. He wouldn’t then. She couldn’t blame him, Christopher didn’t want her in either. She pouted and considered her next question. “And the girl? Who got her in?”