Quintic

by V. P. Trick

“Another waitress.”

  Interesting. ‘Lots of college kids work as waitresses. Hard to remember,’ Your precise words, Helper man. “Which one?”

  “She don’t work here no more.”

  This chat was going terribly slowly. If she smoked another cigarette, she would throw up for sure. “Is she still working here? When did she quit? Where does she work now?”

  “She left a while ago. Don’t know where she is now. Never saw her again.” He didn’t look too broken up about it.

  “Did she quit before or after the murder? Did you like her? Where the two of them close friends?” She aimed to save time by sending a volley of questions his way. Please, answer at least one.

  “Don’t know. Ask Mary.”

  “OK. You didn’t like her, did you?” She asked, unsure whom, of the dead girl or the friend, she was referring to.

  He stared at her, finished his cigarette, threw the butt out and opened the door to get back inside. Okeydokey. Thank God she hadn’t been expecting an answer.

  “I liked her just fine. She was an OK kid. Sweet. Kind of old-fashioned. It’s the other one I didn’t like. She was weird. Liked her too much.” And off he went.

  To surmise, he had liked one but not the other. Whom was which remained unclear. Wow. Maybe he had been in love with the girl (whichever girl)? Maybe he was the killer? The file reported he had had an alibi but still, he could be it, couldn’t he?

  She went back inside to see Mary, the older waitress.

  “Don’t know about the girl. You should call Lucy.”

  “And Lucy is?”

  “Lucy’s an old colleague; she stops by from time to time. Here, I’ll write down her full name and number for yah. Lucy keeps in touch with everybody; if anyone knows where the girl’s gone, it’s her.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Of course, if she had been working with the team, she could have asked one of the guys to run the name for her and tadam, she would have had the friend’s address, phone number, blood type and toothpaste brand. Unless she asked Mario? Hum.

  Unfortunately, as with her sinfully spyesque phone she was trying to cut back on, she was avoiding Mario. Not too much, he needed to be looked after a little, but she drew the line at any hacking extravaganza. At least for now.

  She had to follow this new clue on her own the old-fashioned way. She called Lucy the waitress. They agreed to meet for supper; hence, she wouldn’t have to eat it naked, what a relieve.

  Patricia chose not to meet the woman at the diner.

  “Why don’t we go to that diner on Thirteen?” Lucy suggested. “You know, the one that was in the papers a few weeks back.” The police sure knew how to keep secrets. A to think Christopher thought her a snoop! “It’s not far from where you are.”

  “Okeydokey.” Why the hell not, Patricia thought, two birds with one stone. “Is six OK for you, Lucy?”

  Plenty of time for her to walk over. And call Christopher.

  She didn’t take any chances and left a message on his home number. “Something’s come up for supper; I can’t make it. We’ll talk later.” She anticipated the Big guy was going to be a tad miffed.

  His Night

  Chris got home around eight. No point going back early, Patricia had eluded him once again. Maybe he shouldn’t have requested a naked supper. Not that she was a prude, but when given time to think about things, she tended to overthink said things, and as a rookie, he had gone and given her the whole fucking day to escape. Thus, he worked later than initially planned. A total waste of time.

  They visited dumps, talked to losers, smoked, drank flat beers, got insulted and got nothing. He had fun doing it, though; Ham was a cool guy to work with. Too bad Charles had trouble seeing it that way. Then again, Charles wasn’t Ham’s boss, so the dynamic between the two was different. Moreover, Ham trusted Chris’s judgement, and Chris trusted Ham’s. He had yet to trust Charles.

  After a quick shower, Chris changed into a pair of dark-grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, his at-home uniform, and poured himself a scotch. Television on, he let his mind wander back on the day. Ham had called Charles, so the three had ridden together, Ham doing the driving and most of the talking. It had been quiet for Ham and the kid, a temporary truce. Ham even allowed Charles to do some questioning.

  The kid had handled himself adequately (barely above passably), better than before, though, but not satisfactorily enough yet for Chris. He hadn’t made up his mind yet. In fact, he would have already sent the kid packing but for two reasons. Firstly, the rookie had taken the blame for the fight at the club. Secondly, as per Patricia’s version, Charles had covered her back during the brawl. To be fair, Chris also took into account how she had led on his more experienced team on numerous occasions in the past, and he had yet to fire one of his guys. You’ve used up your one free ticket at that strip joint, Charlie boy.

  Damn woman. Chris wasn’t into the habit of agonising about someone. Of course, he worried about his friends from time to time, members of his family sometimes. Rarely. As for the previous women in his life, he had shown the requisite level of polite concern. But while he might notice those women distressed from a cold, a sprained wrist or a flat tire, he felt more a nagging sensation than genuine concern; it was something on the day’s to-do list. Work. Jog. Give fuck buddy some medicine. In that order.

  Now, his upsets were of the almost overwhelming Knot-in-his-stomach-Fists-clenched-so-tight-ready-to-beat-someone-out-ready-to-kill variety. At the first sight of her, he had wanted her but had fought like hell not to fall for her. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise he couldn’t do anything to stop the plunge, didn’t want to do anything to stop it. And then, she had talked to him (scolded really), and he had plummeted, head over heels crazy about her. The rest, as they said, was history. Fuck, she enraged him sometimes. Yet, even in those times, he was a goner. Women were the damndest things, weren’t they? One of them, at least.

  Ham had confessed about the late call. I should have known something was up, Princess. That water ran for fucking too long. Even a pussycat back from a prowl didn’t take that long a bath. She had acted silly; she had to know not only Ham wouldn’t confide anything to her about the case but would disclose the call to him.

  “She’s always fun to tease. I didn’t have to see her face to know she was blushing like a fucking virgin when she thought I was balls deep in some pussy when I answered.” Besides him, Charles turned brick red. “She called me Joseph to soften me up.” Judging from the stupid grin on Ham’s face, her call had had just the opposite result. “Spunky doll that one, don’t you agree, kiddie?”

  “Enough of the kiddie shit already, Hamilton.”

  “Or what, Charlie boy, you gonna rat me out to the boss?”

  Ham and Patricia’s complicated friendship did not rattle Chris. It didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous because he fucking was. A shitty bonus to his anxiety. She was right in saying Ham and him were a lot alike, and because of that, she could unintentionally screw the guy’s defences big time, just as she was his. But the bottom line was that Ham covered his back and would get killed for her. Chris wasn’t so sure about Charles, though. For now, the kid’s feelings clouded what little judgement Charles had left. Chris couldn’t remember being that fucking young on the job.

  At Charles’s age, he was a dropout bullying his way around the country with Lonzo and MacCarmick, recklessly picking up fights, drinking, stealing. A fight too many, a chance encounter with Bozniak, his life spun one-eighty to a more appropriate outlet for his anger. Controlling scums from the right side of the Law. Quite an unusual life he had. The fuck if I’m not feeling melancholic. It must be the rain.

  Dinner Date for Two

  The rain that had been waiting all day to fall now hammered down. Patricia considered her options. Walking back was a no, too rainy, too dark, too far, too tired. Walking two blocks to the bus stop? Ditto rainy, dark, far, tired. Call a cab? Call Christopher? Hum. Perhaps if he didn’t pick her up directly at the dinner? It m
eant she had to walk a couple of inconspicuous blocks away; sleet would drench her in the process. A no then. Hence a cab but where to? With that damn rain getting to her, she was in the mood for some strong arms around her. A rainy Sunday night like the nights of the murders. She should call him.

  Lucy turned out to be a lovely lady, older than she had expected, though. Mid-fifties, divorced, grown children, Lucy now worked in a retirement house and loved to chat and reminisce.

  “The old folks are stress-free, perfect for a broad like me,” Lucy said. “I work six to four, Mondays through Fridays, same old crowd every day. I’m home by five, and all my weekends are off. You can’t get conditions like that in diners.”

  Lucy seemed lonely. Patricia endured her rambles on the cafeteria’s daily menus before bringing her back to the dead girl. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand. It must have been a traumatic experience.”

  “Oh, it’s OK, Patricia, I don’t mind now. But I must admit I had trouble sleeping for a while after. Imagine if I had been working at the time, or found Cindy’s body.”

  “I think it’s better not to personalise,” she replied. Lucy looked at her funny, so she explained further. “Wouldn’t it be easier to speak of a diner girl than instead of Cindy?”

  “Cindy was the diner girl.”

  “I know.” Depersonalisation, I pretend not to know the names of the deceased, especially those I have found. “Sorry. Carry on.”

  “Can you imagine how it would feel to find a stiff?” I don’t have to imagine, I know, and back to the depersonalisation. “Can you imagine it happening again?”

  Patricia shuddered at the thought.

  “So you’re a writer, Patricia? I think that’s great. I’m a writer too!”

  “Are you truly?” Damn. “How interesting.” No wonder the woman had agreed so quickly to their meeting.

  “I’m working on my second book. The first’s about a cat on the trail − trail, tail, get it? − of his ancestors. I haven’t finished it yet; the end eludes me.” It happens to the best and worst of us alike. Cats were elusive by nature after all. “I don’t have much time to work on it, mind you. And I had trouble with the laptop at the folks’ home. Can’t borrow it often. This second book is about a dog.” Fascinating.

  They ended up talking more about writing than about the girl. Exhausting. Patricia didn’t talk about being a writer; she wrote, end of story.

  The meal dragged on. The diner’s décor was gloomier than she remembered. The food was ordinary, the fries not crispy enough, the pie not as sweet. Not a complete waste of time, though, for she did get the name of the victim’s waitress-friend.

  “I don’t remember Cindy and Bea being tight even if they were at the same college. I think they hung out from time to time for a film or a snack like college kids do. Cindy lived in the dorm, Bea by her own in a small apartment not far from the restaurant.”

  “Were they the same age?”

  “Bea was a bit older and more of a city girl, if you catch my drift, rougher around the edges. I bumped into her a while ago; she’s working at some office in the downtown area. Wears a suit and everything now. You think she’d make a good character? She ain’t that cute, though.”

  Patricia didn’t care for Lucy’s suggestion on book characters, but the woman had a phone number a couple of months old. “Do you think it would be OK if I called her, maybe take her out for a coffee? Does she drink coffee? I don’t want to traumatise her or anything.” Would a complete stranger calling regarding the three-year-old murder of a college friend traumatise Beatrice? Patricia figured it might be depending on how close the two girls had been.

  “Good idea. I’ll go with you if you want. Make the introduction. I know this diner three blocks−”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I think it’s better if I meet her alone.” Noting the disappointment in Lucy’s face, Patricia hurriedly added, “but I’ll keep you posted. I’ll document that book character for you.”

  “That’d be great. Maybe we can write together. I hear writers do that sometimes.”

  “Ah. You’re not really, ah. I mean, I’m not writing much these days. Do you know about writer’s block?”

  “Do I ever! You know what might help? A visit to the scene of the crime. Come on, let’s leave through the back alley. Feel the vibe.”

  Damn. She had absolutely no interest in the vibe back there, but she couldn’t let Lucy go outside alone now, could she?

  It was dark. It was raining. The dumpster was there. The gloom was there. Patricia didn’t know who was craziest, the ex-waitress or her. She wanted to cry but didn’t. Even though they didn’t stay out back long, when she came back in, she was soaked through and through, her hair plastered to her hair, her jacket clinging to her back. Even her t-shirt felt damp. Luckily she had her knee-high boots on or else her toes might be swimming in her shoes.

  To keep her mind off things while she waited for her ride, she called Beatrice, the diner girl’s college friend turned working girl.

  She introduced herself, going with the research thing again, but kept the writing part under wrap in case the Bea woman was another wannabe writer. As it turned out, Beatrice was not a writer but a technical accounting assistant, whatever that was.

  “I work all day all week, but if you want, I can squeeze you in during my lunch hour tomorrow. You have to meet me at work, though, because of security and the elevator ride, the thing is older than me, I’ll be late otherwise. I only have forty-five minutes of break.”

  “No problem. I’ll be downstairs at your office at noon sharp. Thank again, Bea.” She hung up before Beatrice could change her mind and watched for her ride by the diner’s front door.

  She didn’t wait long, and as soon as the truck pulled to the front of the restaurant, before the driver had time to get out, she ran to it. Getting him wet on top of the rest would impair her chances of a quiet evening.

  “Hi, Big guy.”

  “Hi.” He didn’t start the car.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem, Princess.” Still not moving. “You’re wet.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “You’re fucking wet.” A curse escaped his thinned lips then a growled, “Damn it, Patricia!” He looked straight ahead, started the car and turned on the heaters. “My place. No discussion.”

  Maybe not now but an argument was coming, she could see it boiling in the line of his jaw. Damn, she should have called a cab. She should have gone straight to bed.

  “Have you been smoking?” Stupid question, the truck smelled of cigarettes.

  He kept his dark eyes on the road. “I smoked a cigarette on the way over.”

  “Ah.”

  They rode in silence after that.

  She was still shivering in the elevator. Her clothes and hair had gone for dripping wet to uncomfortably clingy to more than damp during the ride; they felt mildewy as they parked in the garage. Her hair must be a disaster.

  The discussion began in the elevator.

  “What have you done today?” He prompted softly, voice level. His I’m-in-charge voice.

  “I took a walk. Ate. You know.”

  He glared at her. “What were you doing at the diner?”

  “Eating.” Oh boy, that didn’t go over well. His jams clamped even tighter. “I may have talked to some of the staff. To, ah, see how they were doing.”

  “You went there to see how they were doing?”

  He sounded astonished. Surprised was good, way better than angry. “Yup.”

  And it wasn’t entirely a lie, was it? She had indeed spoken to the staff, enquired on how they were holding up. Not that she’d had a choice, they had recognised her. She had not.

  His face was blank, nothing showing. But the tight set of his chin told he wasn’t buying it. Damn. “OK. How about I went to talk to them to see if I could get new ideas? Research for my new character.” She might have seen him roll his eyes at the r-word. She
went on, “I’m kind of in a stump. I’ve decided not to wait but to make it up, and so I wanted to get a feel of it.” A vibe.

  “I see. Is ‘a feel of it’ more than the sensation you had the last time?”

  She shrugged.

  His nostrils flared as he took a long deep breath. “And to help you feel, did you talk to anyone?”

  “Some of the staff.”

  “And did you learn anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her nothing, Chris couldn’t tell yet, might or might not be true. The damn woman rarely full-on lied intentionally, but she might have heard something that, once on that backburner of hers, would boil and go bang! In three days, two weeks, a month, she would start looking for trouble because of that fucking something.

  Hands on her hips, chin up, eyes straight at him, she did look defensive. What had she done all day to get a feel? At the fucking diner?! And what was that in her eyes? The faintest speck of green. Shit.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “No. Of course not, Big guy. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I have?”

  A double negation followed by a question indicated trouble. And green clouded the blues, a sure telltale. Dark blue au naturel, green for crying, dark grey for anger or fright (one always followed the other, always), and stormy blue, his favourite, for desire and pleasure.

  If Christopher had pursued his questioning, she might have cried for real. That back alley had been horrible. Next time she visited, she would have to go with him, she caught herself thinking. Damn her, why should she ever go back? Mental note to self, repeat after me, you are never going back there. Even as she was scolding herself, deep down, way deep down, she already knew she was going to go back. Imagination was a curse, but when in doubt, go for it.

  “OK, so I went out back. A therapeutic visit. Turns out I wasn’t ready. I might go again, though.” When all else failed, offensives were easier to survive than any defences. “And perhaps, if you’re nice, just maybe, I will tell you, and it’s conceivable I’ll even let you tag along.”