by V. P. Trick
“I’m driving Charles too hard?” What did she think he was doing, running a fucking preschool? “Princess, this is my show, my call. This case was a nightmare from the get-go. It’s been hard for everybody.”
In his mouth, ‘everybody’ meant her. He was referring to her and Lemieux, thus to himself. Christopher was patient, but she had nearly pushed him over the edge with Lemieux, making the investigation (and their relationship) rough for him.
“This case is driving me crazy, but so are you! Christopher, what if Charles had been to the club with someone else? What if he had gone with, let’s say, Reid? Pretend it’s the exact same thing, identical ending, but it’s Reid instead of me. Then what?”
They locked eyes. Stormy midnight-blue clouds were gathering over the specks of green in her eyes. Had it been Reid, it would have been different. He knew it. She knew it. He would have been mad, yes, but mostly at them for first, getting into trouble and, second, getting caught. He would have sent them back the next evening, though.
They. Are. Trained. Doing their fucking work and what they needed to get the job done. His officers patrolling the night scene did not elicit a knot in the pit of his stomach. He exhaled noisily and explained sternly once again. We’ve gone over this a million times, Princess. “Darling, you know it’s different. It’s part of the job, their job. It’s not part of your filing clerk assignment.”
“Even if I’m good at it?”
He almost smiled. Indeed, she was, gifted and brilliant and adventurous and irresponsible and sexy as hell. The damndest thing. Pretending it was research didn’t make it any less dangerous; less scary for her maybe, but not for him, quite the contrary, “Darling of mine, you weren’t that good tonight. The getting results part only counts for half. Staying out of trouble matters too.”
“So you want results without trouble? Let’s say no complication arises from tonight, then what? Will it be OK then?”
“You knocked a guy out, kicked him unconscious and, from what I’ve heard, kept on booting him while he was out. I have to take you to the local police station tomorrow morning, you and Charles both, but mostly you. I doubt tonight won’t bring us a shitload of problems.”
She pressed on, “But what if we don’t get into trouble? Let’s say the guy decides not to press charges. And that you make the locals forget about it. We would be OK then, right?”
She was dreaming again, he thought, ruling over her writer’s fantasy world as she pleased. Yes, he could make the cops drop it. Probably. Steve knew her and seemed to like her now, for whatever reasons. Chris intended to talk to the fat guy; he might convince the jerk to drop the charges. Maybe.
“That’s only half of the job, Patricia. The effort of getting you out of trouble has to be less than the amount of results you bring. Simple equation. Efficiency and effectiveness,” he pointed out, more for Charles’s benefit than for hers.
The trouble she something brought him was meaningless, absolutely nothing compared to the joy and peace she brought him. Smiles. Happiness. Smarts. Laughter. Softness. Love. Sex. Challenges. Contentment. A brain, a heart, a soul and a body. Her.
“Let me spell this out, Big guy. No charges from the fat guy grant us a free pass, agreed?” Were her steel-grey eyes pleading? “Right, Christopher?” The blues were begging all right. He liked. “For both of us, hence a job for Charles?”
An impossible conclusion to tonight’s mess thus an easy answer. Fuck, he should have known better. Later, he would curse himself later but right then, he didn’t see it. “Yes. I guess it would. But Angel, you’re not getting an extension. I gave Charles one last chance as you’ll recall, and I warned you about it. That’s it.”
Time to set an example, so the next time she would think twice before she got one of those crazy ideas of hers. The team too needed to learn the lesson. Recalling Charles’s dismissal might prevent them from embarking on a wild goose chase with her.
Although, as crazy as they had gone about it, Patricia’s plan was feasible when done right. Had she fucking told him, he would have made it safe. Would have tried it out with the team while she was locked up somewhere, handcuffed to his bed possibly.
He smiled that wolfish grin of his, the one she never understood. She grinned back at him, a broad, mischievous smirk curling her lips. Whatever the Big guy was thinking, she trusted he wouldn’t go back on his word.
Tonight might have been a disaster, but she was taking control now. Christopher was going to be pissed and worried, but she intended to keep him from doing anything rash.
“OK, Big guy. Nice to know. So we have a deal. No problems and we clean the slate over tonight?”
Did she think she could get the fatso to drop the charges? Even with the best lawyer in town, she wasn’t walking away scratch-free on this one, so Chris nodded once. “No trouble, no consequence, Princess, but like I said, no extra time.”
When Patricia beamed at him as she held Charles’s fucking hand again, he realised he had missed something, and something big.
She inhaled deeply and exhaled as if she was pacing herself. Her head crooked to the side, a twinkle in her blues, she said, “As it turns out, Big guy, we don’t need more time. I’m sure you won’t have any problem taking care of the locals. As for the fat guy, let me assure you he won’t be a problem either. It so happens that, during the fight, I noticed he had a scar on his neck. A large, ugly mark. Surely, Charles, you saw it too.”
Fist and Knots jumped to attention, afraid of what she was saying. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
The Break-in, Part I
They broke into the building together. His (and hers in a way) gorgeous handyman had prepared the path. They were excited. It wasn’t their first raid together, but it was the first time they were the only two going in.
Mario wasn’t an on-premise hacker. Tonight, the kid was visiting his mother. The king was parked further down the street. He was to stand watch in the car and wait for them to return. As for the handsome factotum, his contribution made for the evening, he was out prowling the night scene.
She was thrilled. Even though the job wasn’t complicated, quite the contrary. All J had to do was enter the company’s mainframe and shuffle some folders around. He then scratched off one machine below its book value and bought a fictitious used equipment to replace to one he has scrapped off the records. Finally, he issued a statement to the imaginary seller, a bogus company who happened to have one Jo person as an employee. This new machine had (of course) the same serial number as the old one.
The difference between the sale price of the old and the buy price of the new was the Jo employee’s salary. J hired workers, as the electronic files stated, and paid for the installation of the replacement machine. He scheduled the made-up set-up during a four-day weekend, paid in overtime, of course. J also created two new employee files.
“Much-needed watchmen for the night shifts,” she suggested. “This place could use tighter security. We breezed in too quickly.”
“Rick’s great, isn’t he?”
She readily agreed. Rick was indeed the best. And quite handsome.
All in all, the venture would bring the Jo employee about eighty thousand. Not much in itself perhaps, but close to one percent of the ten million promised as a bet. Their gamble stipulated that J’s ten-million heist was to go unnoticed.
Tonight was not part of his regular hacking jobs. Tonight was strictly for the pleasure of the gamble. To have his woman by his side made the night even more exciting.
The Cake had dressed up for the part too. With her long blue hair covering half her face and her trim body tight in her black SWAT outfit, she was hot.
He had a boner; the fox saw too, and smiled and teased and laughed at him. The errand shouldn’t have taken him more than an hour, but an hour and a half into it, he still wasn’t done.
If he successfully stole the money, she was going to lose their wager. And win it all. With tonight’s money, he was up to almost a mill. The Cake had no idea he had so
much. He was having more fun than a kid doing mischief.
Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line
Job Trick
Both men stared at her dumbstruck.
“That scar is nasty,” she insisted. “No wonder the jerk wore a turtleneck shirt. N’est-ce pas, Charles?” Charles had better pick the ball fast if he wanted his job back, she thought.
The rookie just kept on staring.
Christopher was the first to react. “Run that by me again,” he asked, his eyes locked on Charles.
And Charles naïvely answered! She needed to teach that young officer a couple of tricks. “I didn’t notice the scar,” Charles confessed. “Never saw it. Are you sure? Is that why you attacked him?”
Really helpful, kid. Now Christopher was back to glaring at her.
“You attacked him?” His voice was calm, like always when he was mad, and apparently he was getting angry again. She caught the vein throbbing on his neck.
“I did not! He was launching himself at Charles; I had to do something. I grabbed the first thing I found and knocked him out.”
“And you kicked him?” Still the level voice. With the vein. Plus a frown now.
“Yes, I, hum, I wanted to make sure he stayed down.” Hadn’t they already discussed all of that?
“So you had to kick him again,” he added, a statement than a question.
Christopher wasn’t pissed because she had attacked some jerk in a club; what actually angered him was his ignorance of why she had done such a thing.
“I, hum, I think I kind of lost it. With the scar and all. You know,” she explained, her eyes glued to his chest. It was a lie, of course. The scar had not been all that visible tonight. And regardless, she had lost it right upon noticing the jerk.
Easy to tell the damn woman was lying. You’re usually so good at it, Angel, but this time, you can’t even look at me. That must be one fucking big lie.
Could she be buying time with a fib about the scar? No way. She knew the locals had taken everyone’s IDs, so checking the scar would be easy. Hence, she was misleading him on something else. He turned back to the feeblest link.
“Charles, did you see the scar, before, during or after the fight?”
He got three Nos. “I saw the guy when I surveyed the place, but he was wearing a high collar. Up close, he looked heavier than the sketch, so I dismissed him.”
“You saw him standing or sitting?”
“Sitting. When he stood, I had my back to him. Then later, well, he was down. Besides, I wasn’t looking at him so much as at Patricia, trying to get hold of her.”
A credible explanation if he ever heard one, more or less in line with what the other witnesses’ testimonies. Chris wished the kid had given that info before, but better late than never. “Did he resembled Bunny’s sketch?”
Charles shook his head in a clear no.
“Not even a little?”
Charles shrugged.
Dilemma. Fact: Patricia was lying. But Chris had no clue about what yet. Conclusion? He had to check on the scar. If indeed the jerk had a scar, Chris would let Charles back. He had given his word. Hence, he had to keep Charles; the damn woman would expect no less of him. Although he could invoke attenuating circumstances, could he not? He found it surprising that she was up to speed at this late hour, sleep deprived and all, and sharp enough to trick him with the job thing.
Guessing the officer would still be at the local station, busy writing up his reports before the end of his shift, he called Steve. “Can you give me a brief recap of the fight, anything new?”
Nope, nothing new.
“You have descriptions and files on all the fighters involved? I need a favour. Think you can you send the papers over to my office?”
Big guy. Fat guy. The friend. Charles. Patricia. Chris had seen the big guy briefly in the police car, same for the friend, but the fat guy had already boarded an ambulance and Chris hadn’t checked on him when they went to the hospital later on. Steve didn’t mention a scar. OK. He would have to go and see for himself.
“How’s Patricia doing?” Steve asked.
Fuck, not him too. Chris hung up.
While he was on the phone, Patricia had gone back to the couch. Curled up against the armrest, head on her left hand, lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. Four o’clock. None of them would be getting a lot of sleep.
“Time to go home, Charles. I expect you at nine sharp, my office.” No forewarning on why he wanted to meet with the kid. The fucking rookie could figure it out by himself.
After Charles left, Chris slowly walked to the bedroom, removed his watch and placed it on the bed stand. He untied his holster and put holster and gun next to the watch. He took off his jacket and draped it on the corner chair. The tie followed, then his trousers. The shoes and socks he dropped on the floor. He stretched on the bed in his briefs, arms bent behind his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t make sense of it, not yet, but he was going to. See the fat guy. Check for injuries, old and new. Whatever he found would lead back to her.
He heard her get up and tiptoed to the bedroom. She stepped to the bed and crawled under the sheets next to him. She rested her head on his chest. He rested his hand on her head, caressing her hair. She didn’t have any fight left in her. Neither did he.
Patricia’s Tricky Job
When she woke, Christopher had already left. But he was going to be back. When he had cards in his hand, he was going to come back to confront her. For now, it didn’t take an ace detective to know he was out checking on the fat guy. He was not going to find the jerk, though.
The Big guy would also take care of Steve and the other locals by trading favours. And he had that meeting with Charles. Did he intend to keep the young officer? She hoped so but wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t; she had deceived him, hadn’t she? Technically, Charles hadn’t found the scar guy; she had. She wished Christopher came back soon with his straight flush of hearts because she wanted to move on with her life and the wait was killing her.
The more time passed, the more worried she got. She had awakened late, well past ten. Which didn’t add up to more than five hours of sleep, way below what she needed, but a lot longer than Christopher had slept. When she found his croissants in a brown bag on the coffee table, she cried. Finally. And crawled back to bed and dozed on and off for another two hours. She got up more tired. Time to take charge.
She washed twice, shampooed thrice in an overly hot shower until she got rid of the beer and smoke stinks. Her shoulder she had thought healed was sore again; that pain fought for attention with the burning of the bruises on her upper body and feet.
She carefully chose the confident and inspiring outfit for the upcoming battle (discussion, as Christopher referred to their fights). It helped that she knew her enemy’s weaknesses. A black thong, silky black push-up bra, sleek boot-cut jeans, red high-heel shoes, lacy black blouse, maybe unbuttoned a tad immodestly down her cleavage and impudent hair. After all the shampooing, her waves were all over the place; she let them be. Makeup to match. Red lipstick. Smokey-black eyes. Big loop earrings. Ready to discuss.
By three, Christopher hadn’t shown up, hadn’t called, and she was more than impatient. Angry. Defence mechanism. Concerned about Charles. Worried about Christopher. What if he had managed to find the scarred guy? A confrontation between them might turn deadly. Even in her books, it wasn’t always the best man who won. And real life was often worse.
Thinking she might as well wait for him at the office (and learn about Charles, maybe even get to read Steve’s transcript of the fight), she took a cab.
Nobody was in except for Bridget. Good. Except Bridget didn’t know what was going on.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I saw the Chief earlier. Hamilton came in at eight, and the two locked themselves in his office. You know how he gets when he’s working a case.” I sure know, especially when I’m the damn case! “Then Hamilton left with Frankke.”
“And Cha
rles?”
“What about him, dear? He too was in this morning. Nine o’clock sharp. That young man is so punctual, isn’t he? The Chief went and locked himself up again. I don’t know what’s got into the man lately.” Trust me, Bridget, you don’t want to know. “They left at a quarter to ten, and I haven’t seen either of them since.” Not good.
“Did Christopher say anything when he left?”
“Not really. He did ask that I forward some of his calls, but he has not received any.”
“OK then. Oh, Bridget? Has Christopher received any fax today? Some type of report, it’s from that local station.”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen any paperwork come in. Was it something you were expecting?”
“Nothing important. Thanks anyway.”
Well, then, unless she went snooping in Christopher’s office, she was not going to read Steve’s report any time soon. She had never searched Christopher’s desk and wasn’t about to start now. Just the thought of him finding her poking around in his office, today of all day, was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Him catching her in the act wouldn’t help with the upcoming discussion. Instead, she passed the time idly reviewing the diner case.
Reid and Shapiro were the first to come back. DesForges showed up less than ten minutes after, LeRoy in tow. It suspiciously looked like the whole gang was coming back to the mother ship. They knew something was up, something in the air (or on Christopher’s face), call it instinct, and the pack was closing ranks.
Heck, let’s have a party. To think she had expected a discreet battle en tête-à-tête. She had ways, understated but effective, to ease an argument with Christopher that she couldn’t, hum, deploy in front of the others. She had yet to catch her damn infuriating opponent in the throes of embarrassment from anything or anyone. Hence, even in front of a large audience, he had no qualms about using any means he deemed necessary to make her talk. Their next exchange was not going to be a fair fight, hum, discussion. She sighed knowing she deserved it. Kind of.