Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  Point noted, Angel. Starting Monday, we’ll look into it, but, for now, you’re mine.

  They had made love softly. So softly. She had seemed unsure, apprehensive and fragile. He could have sworn touches of green speckled the blues just before she closed her eyes tight and came.

  “Christopher?”

  “Hum?” He gathered her closer to him.

  “Do you think that, well, except for the mandatory meetings, of course, you could, hum, avoid talking to me about Lemieux?”

  Aye, he could. For now. “Sure thing, Princess.”

  “Okeydokey then. Merci, mon chéri. Thank you. For everything.”

  “You are most welcomed, Darling of mine.”

  He had stayed awake, listening to her soft breaths as he so often did, Fists and Knot in the bed with them. The mere thought of her at the office excited him, yet, as he brooded over the diner murders, dead stripper and Lemieux, he worried at having her back.

  To prevent an excessive show of emotion, from her but also from his guys, they agreed on a late arrival in time for the Monday meeting. His men were tough; he had no wish to see them turn soft upon her return. Having her close was going to be great, nice, sexy. He smiled and cursed himself, already a little less in control.

  She timed it perfectly and, no surprise there, had dressed the part. Tight dark-blue jeans. Faded at the butt and thighs, they emphasised her curvy hips. The high-heeled boots made her legs even longer and slender. Her simple light-pink silk blouse was tailored to her curves but not clingy; she accessorised it with a dark-blue tie loosely draped around her neck, his he recognised. The dark-grey jacket, in some stretchy fabric that fitted perfectly at the shoulders, the back, the waist beckoned the eyes to her bosom.

  Her jeans, shirt, tie and jacket looked identical to the plainclothes cop outfit his guys wore every fucking day, but her interpretation (a disguise as so many of her outfits) scored dangerously high on the attractiveness scale. Damn fucking hotter than on his guys. Bodacious angel all around. With her hair up in an unruly bun and her silly glasses, her serious look, already soften by small locks of hair falling over her eyes and neck, she took his breath away. No way was he letting her go home alone tonight.

  She waved at Bridget and sauntered right into the conference room without missing a beat. As if she had not resigned. The team followed her as if on cue, each taking his usual seat. Chris walked right in behind them and closed the door.

  They had a full case load and reviewed each one (excluding the hackers-fake burglaries, obviously), in more details than on the previous weeks. He caught his guys glancing her way throughout the meeting, smiling at her when their time to speak came. Reid was beaming. He would have to watch her; she might be the first to break and let Patricia take her on some wild hunt. Fred too was grinning, a different type of smirk, though. The kid was practically sitting on her lap. It feels great to have you back, Pussycat, but it’s going to be hell. His kind of hell.

  He kept the diners and Lemieux for the end. The diner case review went well enough; they did not have much news to share. The guys were still slogging through the list of possible connections; the hunted the hypothetical commonness between the two murders years apart. Halfway down the hundred-and-some names, nothing looked promising yet.

  They had identified and contacted a dozen regulars. A couple had turned out to be customers of both places. A damn long shot.

  Nevertheless, Chris briefed the team on the fucking raincoats. “Let’s spin it from Beatrice’s perspective. Do a background check on her, enemies and the shit, and see what turns up with that second killing.” Everything was possible until proven otherwise.

  “On it, Boss. I’d like a copy of that picture, Babe, if you don’t mind.”

  At last, only Lemieux’s case review remained. Charles did the briefing, a first. Chris wasn’t sure if it was a sign the duo had finally resolved their issues, or because of Patricia’s presence, Charles being the softer, more polite of the pair. In any case, the kiddie cop did OK (once again, not great but OK). He reread all they had, every fucking detail; Chris pushed and challenged when needed.

  Since Patricia had requested an embargo on Lemieux outside of meetings, Chris wanted her to be up to speed, and this was the only place to do it. Lemieux. The stripper. The fighter. No reaction. They were all somewhat weary as Charles went over the file, but Patricia’s calm did not waver. Chris knew how good she was at acting, but right now it wasn’t an act. Was the damn woman even listening? Good at pretending, even better at avoiding what she called unpleasantness.

  Fine by me, Princess, you can force yourself not to listen, but you heard nonetheless. I’ll just wait and see what simmers out from that fucking backburner of yours. It was well past one when they broke out for lunch.

  He didn’t catch anyone asking Patricia anything; for sure, they wouldn’t ask him. Good. They would at some point for they were a fucking curious bunch. More importantly, they cared. Also good. He did see Reid give Patricia a hug. So did Shapiro. And Frankke. And Freddie wanted her to come down to his tech room for whatever, nothing new there either. And Ham did mess her hair some and whispered in her ear secret dirty little proposals. Nothing else, not yet at least.

  Patricia went to talk to Bridget, who made a fuss. Not so good but nothing he had not expected. Bridget was the mother figure, and one of her children had come home, her favourite at that. He watched in amusement as his secretary straightened Patricia’s jacket, closed one additional button on her shirt, tucked an escapee curl between her ear. He smiled at Patricia’s embarrassment, at her failed attempts to look annoyed and to prevent her laugh from bubbling out. Bridget took Patricia to the downstairs cafeteria for lunch (for once Bridget took the phone gizmo with her), Patricia dragging Reid along. So much for him, nobody dragged him anywhere. He had a stale sandwich from the second-floor machine.

  By two, everybody was back to business like nothing had happened. The team stayed in and smiled a little too much; a buzz of eagerness filled the air. Patricia worked at her desk, reading, looking at her computer, making notes, probably sneaking peeks at them in her kettle pot. He spent the afternoon going through his follow-up calls, standing by his office window as per his usual, studying his team.

  Shapiro was the first to call on her. File in hand, his senior officer walked up to her desk, to ask her to supper no doubt. The first thing his old Italian detective was going to tell his wife (if he had not already over the phone). Chris wondered if the Shapiros planned on inviting him also.

  LeRoy went next. Hands in pockets, he didn’t bother with a file, and sat on her desk. LeRoy talked and glanced at his window in turn, at one point he said something funny that had her laughing. The jerk left soon after, a big grin on his face.

  Frankke’s turn came next. Yup, even Frankke. With DesForges. Neither stayed long, Patricia giving each a thumbs-up before they left together.

  Flouting seniority, Reid cut in before Hamilton. Purposely trying to piss off Ham, as usual. She stayed at Patricia’s desk the longest, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her for a good fifteen minutes. Until DesForges came back and yelled at her to get her ass down to the car. They were working a case together, and working well so far.

  Fredrick showed up at that time and took Reid’s place, pulling the chair closer, leaning over her shoulder and staring. Chris frowned from his office as the two huddled together like kids planning mischief. Except one kid was a sexy, somewhat crazy, way too smart woman, and the other a hormonal (probably virgin) geek totally flipped over the said woman. Chris revised his first guess; Fred, not Reid, was going to be the one to break first. Mercifully, as the kiddo was scared of his own shadow, he never went anywhere. Patricia talked to Fred, pointed at the screen, oblivious to the fact she was brushing Fred’s arm. That chat might last forever.

  At four sharp, Vitto’s son Antonio showed up thus making Fred scamper back to his lab. Antonio was huge, wider than Frankke, fewer muscles but more fat and tattoos. As a rebellious
teenager, Tony had made his parents grow old before their times. Now in his late twenties, the guy had become if not more responsible, at least more concerned about his parents’ well-being. For Vitto and Marina’s sake, he said he was ready to settle down and find a wife. The Italian stud still partied, fought some (nothing serious, Italian machismo, his mother said), and took care of the coffee shop from eleven to six during the weekends. The coffee shop was closed mornings and nights on weekends to allow Vitto to enjoy some family time.

  If Tony’s parents had their wish, Chris felt family time might include Patricia. They approved of her for Tony even if she was older and non-Italian. Except for his parents, anyone could see Tony wasn’t ready for marriage, but even more apparent was Tony’s willingness to practise marriage activities with Patricia; dinners at his parents and sex at his place topped the list of events. Mostly sex at his place. For her first day back, Vitto through his son offered Patricia a freshly made decaf latte, delivered in a real porcelain cup with its matching saucer. So much for Chris, again, nobody brought him a coffee.

  Hamilton and Charles closed the day together. They sat at her desk, one in the chair, one on her desk, for some small talk, compliments and teasing. She shifted her attention from one to the other, smiling at both in turn. So far so good.

  Perhaps they hadn’t asked about Lemieux yet, maybe wouldn’t, not the first day. He had not told them not to either. The deal is between you and me, Pussycat; work’s different. She would have to deal with it, be it today, tomorrow or next week it did not matter for, eventually, his guys would question her. He had taught them thoroughness after all.

  For now, his guys were taking their sweet fucking time. Shit, it was getting late. Chris thought about kicking them out of the office. The sandwich was long gone, and he was hungry. And damn curious about her undergarment interpretation of a detective outfit. Wasn’t curiosity a marked desire to investigate and to learn? I sure feel a marked desire, Princess. Don’t you?

  Bridget left at five sharp and dragged the lingering duo with her. Chris waited as Patricia shut down her computer and tidied up her desk. Who cared if his last hour of work had been a waste? An unproductive time work-wise but an entertaining sixty minutes as far as the scenery out his office window was concerned.

  They rode the elevator down together, not talking, not touching, to the garage and into the truck. He put the radio on. She closed her eyes. He knew how nervous she had been about today, but as he drove, she was finally loosening up, a faint smile on her lips. He stopped at a pizza place on the way, got the food while she waited in the car.

  They ate the pizza cold, his curiosity satisfied at last. Great underwear. Not that he had looked at it long. So much for him, finally. A great fucking day.

  PI Unlimited: Getting Prep

  He watched her come and go with those geeky, skinny boys. He wanted her, but the first time he saw her, the bitch didn’t even look at him.

  What’d she think she was, better than them? Than him? No fucking way. Dyke, he said to himself. Would hump her anyway.

  It took him a while to figure what she was doing there. Boffing the jerk, the one in charge. Fuck him. The geek asshole probably paid her. Better not be with his money.

  He could have them taken care of if he wanted to. Fuck, could take care of them himself. Would enjoy it too. Especially that bitch.

  He dealt only with the jerk in charge. The others were small change, insignificant, not worth his trouble. The idiot in charge, that was who he watched out for, unimportant as he was. He gave the geek a few jobs, small scale. Got leverage on the jerk, useful if only for payments. Everybody paid his fee, so those fuckers had to pay like the rest of them lowlifes. Even small times like them. No record. It didn’t make a shit of difference; he could give them a fucking record if he wanted.

  He had their balls, the whole bunch of them. The fatso, the pretty, the kid and the jerk himself. The fifth, he didn’t bother with; no worries, he had him already. As if he needed a snitch. Hence, he had their balls but no tits.

  When he saw her next, she was working at that place. Stupid uniform. She looked better in them jeans and a t-shirt. Not enough boobs but she would do.

  It’s her attitude that did it, her disdain toward the both of them. She looked them over. As if she was the hunter, the little bitch. He would get her in an alley or something.

  He increased his fees. Twice. What was a cunt like her doing around here anyway? He asked around. She had just showed up with them geeks. No owner. He understood the stupid uniform.

  “Might have a job for you, Puss. Easy money.”

  She laughed at him.

  “Come on, you must be tired being on your girly feet all day like that.”

  “I don’t do your type.”

  “Everybody does us, Puss.”

  “Not enough money in the world for empty guns like yours. Why don’t you jack off together? That perhaps you can about manage.”

  They would wait for her. Plenty of dark alleys in the neighbourhood. He’d show her his gun. Make her hump it.

  Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line

  Her Escape

  Working at Vitto’s coffee shop was great. She liked its atmosphere and clientèle, and adored Vitto, the perfect Italian gentleman, and his wife, her new self-appointed Italian mamma. She was even fond of Antonio. What was not to appreciate? The younger Italian testosterone-filled man doted on her without subtleness. His eyes fixated on her cleavage or her butt endlessly, but, gentleman that he was, he kept his hands to himself.

  When they worked from the office, Christopher and his team stopped by. Sometimes, they made the trip twice or three times a day. On her last count, Christopher was up to four double espressos. Lots of glances for him too, restrained but intense, and plenty of hands. She was happy.

  Going back to the team had been easier than anticipated. She felt as if she had not left. They were perhaps a little more gentle with her than before, or was it was only her imagination? Although she couldn’t remember the last time Hamilton had made a sexist remark or an explicit sexual invitation. Was he tired of Lemieux’s investigation? Or fed up of his partnership with Charles? Unless his lifestyle was to blame? So far neither Hamilton nor Charles had talked to her about Lemieux albeit twice her appearance had cut short a heated discussion between the two. Since she didn’t want to discuss the kiss nor Lemieux, she didn’t question Hamilton about his life. Besides, she didn’t know what Christopher had told them, and she didn’t want to know. No way. Everything was fine as it was; she was happy.

  She worked all week, either at the office, at Vitto’s, or on her book. Murder scene ideas were swirling around in her head. How to rework it, how to add the crazy love-strung killer, how to turn him into a serial kill. She had crossed paths with a few of those lately, hadn’t she? Lemieux’s fixation on her physical type had given her the idea. Not a serial hunting for the perfect female body part, those were too real for comfort, more like your ordinary waitress-obsessed killer.

  The bastard had killed his first woman out of rage for his unwanted love. After, he had deluded himself into believing he had not killed her.

  ‘Barely a blow, she must have fainted, and someone else had killed her later,’ the killer argued to dupe himself.

  Her crazy killer (weren’t they all?) had gone on with his life, dated again, although not the same type of women, until he stumbled into the second restaurant, somewhat like she had, for French fries and a piece of pie. A waitress of college years had smiled at him, and he had fallen in love again, only to have his love rejected once more. The storyline seemed promising. She was happy.

  The weekend came and went quietly. Quiet was good; she needed peace. She had Christopher all to herself for the entire weekend, just the two of them, a first since like forever. Since Lemieux. So lovely.

  They fooled around, made love and cooked, well, he had in any case. Big lovemaking, big breakfasts. She took him in her hands, rubbing and fisting firmly, and wat
ched as he fell apart. How she loved to look at him! He was usually so damn distracting. He slammed into her right after. Ready again.

  “Your hard breathing got me hard,” he had said. “Your eyes are so fucking dark,” he had growled. “Look at me.”

  She had yelled out. Yielded to him. So quickly. How was it she couldn’t delay her arousal when she provoked him? Age, hormones, what? Not that it mattered for she was happy.

  The workdays came again. Police work for him, just coffee shop for her, writing and serving. Vitto gave her the first lesson on Barista one-oh-one for dummies. She learned how to compact the grains, only that; the procedure was harder than it looked. She wasn’t up to Vitto’s standard yet, but then again, nobody was.

  Christopher worked nights all week, but she got to see him in and out a few times. He stopped for coffees, messed up her hair or cornered her behind the counter to whisper suggestive remarks before disappearing. Damn was she happy!

  She saw a film with Bridget. Some silly romance flick, but the lead actor was a hunk. His nakedness on the big screen had them giggling like school girls.

  She spent an evening at the wine bar with Reid, giggles there again. They felt like queens under the handsome attention they got from her once-almost-fiancé owner friend. She needed that, being around gentlemen.

  She enjoyed a typical Italian family dinner at the Shapiros with Christopher. She cared for them very much, the husband, the wife, the girl. They had a lot in common with Vitto’s family (plus a shy daughter; minus a sexed-up son).

  She even went out with Frédéric for a drink at one of his usual spots, an arcade not far from his apartment. She had a glass of wine; he had some green-coloured power soft drink. He introduced her to a couple of his pals, the same he had introduced her to the last time and the time before that. She was going to be the talk of the place for the days to come. Their awkward devotion flattered up since they were on average fifteen years younger than she was. If it didn’t work out with Christopher, she could always turn into a cougar woman. Although, surely, she was still too young, was she not? She was happy.