by V. P. Trick
“I was nice meeting you too, Patricia. Maybe we can do this again sometime.”
On an impulse, Patricia headed to the second diner. She intended to prove to herself she could go back to the alley without company. And she did. She walked the alley up and down once without going into the diner. She felt uneasy, but her anxiety didn’t worsen contrary to what she had expected. Strange.
So what now? Christopher was at work. She didn’t want to go back to her place. The damn library was as not tempting as always. Coffee shop? The mood she was in, work was out of the question. I may as well do something stupid. She walked to the local police station, asked for Ape and Not-so-dumb and waited. As (bad) luck would have it, both were at the precinct.
She put her best smile on and turned on the charm. “Hi, guys. Just thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing.” Lie. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any other problems because of my, well, you know, behaviour.” Lie again. “And I figured you might like an update on the case.” Big fat lie, Christopher had not told her anything about it, and she couldn’t ask now, could she? “I hope your boss hasn’t given you guys trouble because Central transferred the case.” Lie yet again. Boy was that easy. And quite entertaining.
After half an hour of chitchat and lies, she wasn’t feeling that edgy anymore. The guys were off at four. They left the station together. Cops being cops, they were acting full of themselves.
“How about we take you out for coffee or something, babe?”
Why not, she thought, I have time to kill. And with the two of them, the risks of one hitting on her were minimal. The officers had been dense and stupid during her interrogation; they were sort of obtuse and silly still but in a sweet and funny way, at least Not-so-dumb was.
Besides a couple of rare exceptions (Christopher, his team, Joseph from the small town), she didn’t like policemen. Those two, especially Not-so-dumb, were starting to grow on her. Who would have thought? “Sounds fun, officers. Lead the way.”
The police had kept her, hum, collaboration with Christopher and his team low profile. Nobody knew about her clerk job except Central’s Human Resources department (but even them only had a vague notion of what she did, or didn’t do). Lou, Christopher’s precinct Captain, was in the confidence also, plus a couple of chosen top Brass from Central because of the murder charge thing. And despite their disastrous visit at her hotel, they hadn’t figured out her relationship with Christopher yet. Hence, the two officers escorting her were in the dark as to her access or knowledge of the diner cases. Too bad for them.
Moreover, since Christopher had no power over their job, she could do with them as she pleased. Had they still been on the case, she would have milked them for information. One case leading to the other, without realising it, she started asking about Lemieux’s investigation, not specifically about Lemieux, but about the victims.
“Do you have a lot of stripper clubs in your district? Do patrons attack the strippers often? Do they murder them?” Not very subtle but then again, she was chatting with apes. “I’m doing research for a book.” She smiled from the back seat. “I could use your input. After all, you guys are the experts.” She smiled some more and talked and flattered. “Perhaps you could help me with the clubs, perhaps introduce me to some of the dancers. Strictly for research purposes, of course.” Lies, lies, lies.
They bought it all. Those guys weren’t about to be invited on Christopher’s team anytime soon. “How about now, babe? Beer instead of coffee?” The two detectives exchanged a glance. “There’s this place we’ve busted often. You could say we’re well known there now.” An ape clearly proud of his work.
“Famous.” Not-so-dumb didn’t talk much, but he had a lot of apropos. Or so he thought.
“I can guarantee you, babe, you won’t have any trouble there. Not when we’re around.” Arrogant as only cops were, weren’t they? “How about it? Or we stop for a bite first and go after. They have a buffet.”
“No!” She was not eating stripper club food. “Ah, hum, how about coffee now and the club later tonight? So you guys can go home or to the gym or whatever.” What did apes do after their shift? “We could hook up later if you’re not too tired.” Suggesting cops could get tired was a sure way to ensure they didn’t change their mind.
“Good thinking, we’ll see more girls later.” As if a single dancer was not already one too many for her. “You want, we’ll pick you up at your place.”
“No need. I have a few errands to run.” As in go home, eat, and change into strip club appropriate attire. Hum, man or female? “Easier if I meet you guys at the station.”
The coffee break was surprisingly pleasant. From there, she took a cab to her hotel. Her apprehensions were gone, her excitement level on the raise but coupled with a queasy stomach. Hum. Eager but uneasy then. What she was looking for, she didn’t know. Had she thought it over, she might have realised bypassing Christopher’s order contributed to her exhilaration. As it was, she didn’t ponder the usefulness of her upcoming evening research. Research was research.
She wanted to be in top shape for her evening at the club, so her supper consisted of a bowl of cereal without an alcoholic beverage. Because milk, cereals and wine did not mix well together, but cereals and milk certainly did. Thinking she would be back early enough, less than two hours out she figured (half an hour to and from and an hour inside), she postponed her call to Christopher.
She’d be safe enough in any case; she had two cops accompanying her. A pair of apes was safer. Going to a stripper joint with only one would be awkward, worse even than with Lemieux, Christopher or even Charles. Her third stopover in less than a month! She was going to those clubs a lot. Perhaps she needed a new hobby.
The place they dragged her to was a dump even by strip club standards. Had Lemieux ever been to this place? The motel was in the suburb, but the hooker found there with Lemieux had worked on another side of town, the same quarter as the buried girl. The Lemieux she knew had prowled around, though, so he might have stopped by this hole at one time or another. He might have been to every damn strip club in the city for all she knew. Like a city tour for perverts with a brunette fetishism.
It suddenly dawned on her that the only reason she had suggested this stupid visit was to check for tallish, slim brunettes at work. How many establishments like this one did the city offer? Dozens surely. In how many of them were brunettes dancing? A couple in each surely, wasn’t half the female population dark-haired? Unless the typical dancer was a bleached blond booby doll like the one strutting in front of her now.
She made a fast approximation. A hundred to two hundred potential victims for the killer. Dreadful odds if she wanted to predict which one would be the next victim hence setting a trap would be nearly impossible. She wondered yet again how Christopher did it, always going forward, never getting discouraged, angry yes but not dispirited. Had she been a police chief, she would have hired personal bodyguards for each one of those brunettes.
Were her new ape-friends up for the task? Not-so-dumb and Ape appeared at ease as they glanced around, talked about nonsense, their eyes going from her to the dancer to the crowd and back to her, all damn casually. Maybe they were looking at the naked woman a little more than they were looking at the crowd? More at her? Hard to tell.
They were more assertive than Charles had been. He had stared at the floor until she had told him to look up. Then, he had looked at the wall until she remarked he was supposed to look at the dancer. Only then had he looked somewhere between the woman’s shoulder and ear.
Those two were looking directly at the stripper, breasts and crotch and ass, their stares never once shying down to the floor. Back to the crowd. To her. Stripper’s breasts, ass, crotch. People and around again. And they weren’t in synch, one with an eye on the crowd, one with an eye on her, then a pair of eyes on her and one on the dancer. Patrons and her. Dancer and her and people around. In action, they suddenly didn’t appear that dumb.
&nb
sp; They were quite fascinating to look at, an old pair working well together, clearly enjoying the show but working even on their night off. Cops. She was at no risk of creating another incident. She enjoyed studying them as they did the eye thing because she had no emotional involvement tonight, nothing like when she had been at the club with Christopher or Lemieux.
Lemieux had tested her, wanting to see how far she was willing to go. In retrospect, maybe she, in turn, had tested Christopher. The results were difficult to evaluate in either case. No such uncertainty here. She watched them watch the dancer, observed them observing the crowd, studied them studying her. Perhaps they were testing her tonight. Easy enough, dummies, I’ve done this before.
She had learned from her last times and had dressed as a woman. If a bar fight indeed occurred, everyone would know she had breasts and, hopefully, they wouldn’t hit her. Her outfit was low key, though, to limit unwelcome attention. Work boots, cargo pants, jeans jacket, loose t-shirt, not a lot of cleavage showing, not that she had much to show (not compared to the girl dancing at least), and a ponytail. She showed not even the shape of her breasts but barely the hint of their swells. That and her ponytail were enough to broadcast her gender. Yet, the disguise was manly enough, thus uninteresting enough, especially next to the naked flesh on the stage, to keep her out of trouble.
They had a beer. Then another. She didn’t like beer, but she preferred to sip the stale liquid than just sit empty-handed staring at another woman’s naked rump. An hour went by. Midway through a second beer, a third for her guardians, the need for the toilet made itself known. The cops did not betray boredom; they did not show signs of arousal either, mercifully. They hadn’t introduced her to any of the women yet. Not that she cared right now for she had yet to admire any slim, wavy brunette.
The toilets were in the back, how typical. “If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen. I need to use the ladies’ room,” she shouted in Not-so-dumb’s ear since experience had taught her that in a place like this, the journey to and back was risky. She wanted to be sure they wouldn’t forget about her.
Her eyes fell on the man on her way back. She froze on the spot as soon as she recognised him. The jerk was coming out of the men’s room. He half-turned to talk to some guy but didn’t see her. He had not changed much. Same acne-scarred ugly face. Same bulky shape. The fat on his belly had grown, his hair had thinned. Not a guy she could easily forget. He was a part of the reason she hated cops so much. A huge part.
He never turned her way. Even if he’d stare at her, he wouldn’t have recognised her. She had been thinner then, skinny thin, with long hair falling over her face. Back then, the blue strikes were all that made her stand out. The sick, rotten bastard salopard had probably forgotten all about it. All about her. She had not. Yes, she was over it, but she had not forgotten nor forgiven.
She needed a drink. Damn, she wanted to get out of this place. Maudit! She wished to be invisible. She had to get the hell out. She craved to get drunk. Oblivion. She longed for Christopher’s presence. She hungered for a gun so badly, her yearning felt like a painfully real thirst. Panic washed over her. She felt the wave swell inside her, as unstoppable as the tide. And as it rose and overtook her, it immobilised her by the toilet door.
How long did she stay motionless? What felt like hours must have been minutes. At some point, one of the cop-guy appeared in front of her. He talked to her. How had he known? She hid behind a small section of the wall thus was invisible from the room. Unseen by her two coppers. Concealed from the jerk with the scars.
Not-so-dumb kept on moving his lips. He looked puzzled, maybe worried. The bells ringing in her head covered his voice. She nodded. What the hell was he saying? Could she borrow his gun?
She struggled for breaths. Was she panting? Was she in the middle of a heart attack? A panic attack? No yet an anger attack then. She wanted to get the hell out. She needed air. The policeman grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the backdoor. Nice door. Very useful. From now on, she was going to enter only visit places with backdoors. Backdoors without back alleys. Her mind was swirling.
The cold air hit her; it felt good on her clammy skin. At her side, Not-so-dumb kept on yapping. She caught the noises he was making, the sounds if not the sense. She nodded. Whatever, who cared.
He guided her back to the car as Ape showed up. She smiled at one. Smiled at the other one.
“Oui, oui. I’m fine. The place got to me. The beer got to me.” Lies again. “Sorry, sorry. It’s getting late; I should go now. I’ll take a cab,” she whispered. I need to get the hell out, she thought. Please let him not come out, she prayed.
They took her back to the cab station. They offered to drive her back to her place, but she wouldn’t have it. They apologised for taking her to the club, for staying so long.
“Not your idea, not your fault. No need to apologise. It’s probably something I ate. Or maybe I drank too much.”
They bought it all. Despite their flaws, dumb cops were easier to handle than the guy with scars. Silly apes-cops were always better than dirty cops.
MacLaren on Coffee Break
By the end of the week, Chris hadn’t seen Patricia once. Too busy working on her book or so she said. Too tired on Monday for him to come over. On Thursday, she’d called to invite him for coffee, but he was in a meeting, as was usual on Tuesday afternoons. Central’s sucking up for the quartet disaster at its worst. She was out when he stopped late Wednesday. She called Thursday to say she was busy but perhaps over the weekend…
At first, he thought this was about her quitting and wanting back in, but by the end of the week, he wasn’t so sure. No breakthrough had occurred in the case. Nobody had recognised the fight guy from the sketch. They knew it was a long shot, but they kept at it. Following Patricia’s theory, the guys were now also compiling all the tallish slim brunettes they came across while visiting the clubs. Chris was thorough; he knew every fucking thing was possible until he proved it wrong.
Friday after work, he stopped by the Italian place and got two plates of pasta to go. He bought a bottle of red wine (an expensive Syrah he knew she liked) and headed straight to her hotel. She wasn’t in yet, so he took a shower and changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt he fished out from his allotted section in her walk-in closet.
He was sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, about ready to settle for the six o’clock news show when she walked in. With her black pants, black t-shirt, black ballerina shoes, and her hair pulled back, loose strands around her face, she looked kinky and soft. Looking one thing and its opposite was usual for her. A fucking sexy contradiction on legs.
“Hi, Gorgeous.”
“Hello, Handsome.”
His ass stayed out on the couch as he watched her walk over to him. She had a dreamy smile as she rested her hand on his shoulder and bent to kiss him. Grabbing her by the waist, he brought her down on his lap. Sleek legs now stretched on the couch, one arm around his neck and the other flat on his abs. Lovely. She pressed her face into his shoulder, sighed and moaned, “Hum, that feels nice.”
Sexy as hell, Pussycat. He slid his hand between her thighs. So fucking exquisite. “Tough day, Angel?”
“Tough week.” She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “How about you?”
He shrugged his free shoulder noncommittally before asking, “How’s the book going?” Writing was visceral for her, but sometimes she struggled with the words, rewriting certain passages dozens of times, getting angry about it.
“Hum.” Not much of an answer, was it? “You didn’t say how was your week.”
Trick question. If he told her about Lemieux and the fight, or about the stand-still in the diner murders, then what?
As if sensing his indecision, she laughed and pinched his stomach teasingly. “Mon chéri, you don’t have to answer that one.” She licked his neck once and brushed his skin with her nose. “I’m exhausted.” Heavy sigh. “And I’m hungry. And I need a drink.” Another sigh, this one content.
“And how are you?”
He smiled down at her. “I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I need a drink.” And I need you.
She was already off of his lap, off to the bathroom, removing her makeup, putting her shoes away, changing into cleaner clothes, leading him to conclude her and sex would have to wait after they ate. While she was busying herself, he called for the pasta plates he had left to keep warm downstairs in the hotel kitchen.
“I have a surprise, Christopher. I have to tell you something.”
Shit. He didn’t like surprises; the sole exceptions were surprises from her when she was about to get naked. She wasn’t. She was parked on the couch, her legs stretched to the coffee table as he had been before they ate. She was exhausted to begin with; the food and the wine hadn’t helped. “What kind of surprise are we talking about here, Pussycat?”
“Don’t look so worried, mon amour.” He hadn’t seen her all week; this could be anything. “It’s a good thing. You’re going to be happy.”
Fuck no. “Does it involve you getting naked? That would be a pleasant surprise. That would surprise me in a happy way. Big, big happy way.”
“Cute. It’s even better than that.”
She had him there. What could be better than her naked? She smiled at him, pleased with herself, very pleased with herself, so fucking happy she was almost purring. “Fuck, Patricia, you know I hate surprises. How about I make you moan and come first to lessen the shock? After, I’ll be all relaxed, and you can do the surprise shit then.”
“I have a new job!”
So much for the sex. Then it hit him. What? How? What the hell did she do now? “A new job?” He was dumbfounded.