Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  Conference

  It was well past five when he returned with Hamilton, Frankke and Steve. The guys froze when they saw her; Chris didn’t. He had been expecting her; no way was she going to stay at her place all day not knowing. He hadn’t expected the entire team to be in, though, but the more, the merrier.

  Let’s do this once and for all. He was exasperated and wanted answers. I’m glad to see you’re ready for me, Pussycat. Her outfit screamed, ‘bring it on, Big guy’, and the blues’ combative glint broadcast her eagerness for the impending confrontation. That argument would have been interesting one-on-one; she was sexy when she was defensive, and she was damn irresistible in that disguise, but right here right now would do.

  “Meeting. Now,” he ordered, heading to the conference room without checking if she was following, so sure he was that she would. After all, a meeting was why she was here, wasn’t it? Why she hadn’t called all day. Why she had dressed sexy, and why she had let the fucking curls run free and taunted him.

  Patricia hesitated, unsure if his order was meant solely for her. She silently wished for a duologue. Unfortunately, the team wasn’t into answering prayers tonight, and the damn pack marched in right on her heels. Unsurprisingly, Charles was nowhere to be seen.

  Everyone took his or her usual spot around the table. Frédéric was the other absentee; he wasn’t all that good with confrontation. Steve took the kid’s seat, not knowing. Once settled, the gang sat in an exceptionally monastic silence.

  Her cheeks burned of awkwardness; her heart already drummed too fast. She was getting angry, again. And sad, again. I don’t want to do this. She had moved on, but Christopher would worry, even more than before. Worse, if for now he was safe, it wouldn’t last, not if she told him everything. Please, don’t make me do this.

  “I have spent a hell of a day,” Christopher said, locking eyes with her as if they were the only two on the room.

  She was the shy one while he, well, he didn’t have a single timid atom in his body. It never made any difference to him who was around to watch them fight.

  “We did not find the fat guy,” he announced with a smirk. “The ID he gave turned out to be fake.”

  That statement did not come as a surprise; the creep was sneaky.

  “No one remembers a scar.”

  No surprise there either, the devious jerk was partial to high collars. Christopher paused. She waited for more.

  Chris studied her in silence. None of his declarations had shocked the damn woman. He had run in fucking circles all day, trying to get a hold on the whole thing. They were missing something. He was missing something, something major. Knot hadn’t eased up since Charles’s call about the fight.

  “OK, Princess.” She twitched at the pet name; public endearments made his angel bashful. “Let’s recap the last days for everyone’s benefit. You and Charles went around visiting titty bars.” His slang elicited another shudder on her part. I’ll get you so worked up, Angel, that by the end of our little talk, you’ll confess your feelings for me just to shut me up.

  “Four days of hooters and cunts, twenty-some clubs in search of a sonofabitch your ex fought in a shitty parking lot. That’s what you were doing, right, Pussycat? Hunting a guy with a scar on his neck as described by some skank. Still with me, Dollface?” He purposely laced his speech with nicknames, each provoking either a blink, a grimace or a jolt.

  “Yesterday, in yet another shithole, you pushed Charles, accidentally my ass,” he quickly added when she meant to talk. “Effectively starting a fight since the rookie rammed into some jerk who fought back. When the two assholes that happened to be sitting next to you got up, you knocked out one of them and kicked him, while he was on the floor unconscious. You kicked and kicked and kicked. The police showed up. That about right, Steve? Did I forget anything?” He asked without taking his eyes off of her.

  She bit down on her bottom lip, but no matter how titillating he found her nervous tick, he wasn’t about to let it sidetrack him.

  “He made his statement to the cops, got an ambulance ride to the hospital and, a couple of stitches later, the hospital released him. Now, we can’t find him!” He slammed his palms down flat on the conference table and towered closer to her. “You said the guy had a scar on his face, but nobody saw it but you.” He lowered his voice. “I believe you, Angel, but I need more.”

  Of course, he needed more! She nodded. She had known all along it would come to this. Had known all day that, at some point, she would have to tell all.

  “And before you say anything, Darling of mine,” Christopher continued before she could say anything. “You should know your new pal Steve here, who oversaw yours and Charles’s arrest, mentioned taking you to that same fucking club not so long ago.”

  Damn. She had not seen that one coming. In her book, a man should never admit to another that he took the other man’s girlfriend to a stripper club. Such an admission did not make for good male bonding, especially a guy like Christopher.

  “And Steve mentioned you felt sick that time. Strange coincidence, isn’t it?”

  She groaned under her breath. Christopher didn’t believe in coincidences. She was beginning to think he might be right. In fact, had known it wasn’t a twist of fate the minute she had laid eyes on the creep at the club, but, crazy her, had deluded herself that it was. In a repeat of Lemieux’s car denial, she had willed herself to forget.

  But before she spilled her secret, she fully intended to take care of her friend. “What about Charles?”

  Chris shook his head at her in disbelief. “I want to know about you, and you’re fucking asking about Charles?!”

  Chris hadn’t told the team about Charles either. Ham didn’t make a comment nor a single sly quip. Le didn’t offer a joke. Everyone sat frozen.

  “Fuck, Patricia,” Chris cursed under his breath. “Remember how I gave the rookie a specific order of not to take you anywhere without my direct authorisation? The jerk chose to ignore−”

  “Christopher, you know it’s not his fault−”

  “I don’t care whose stupid idea it was. I gave him the directive; he had to follow it. He didn’t.”

  “But you said that−”

  Again he didn’t let her finish. “You found the fight guy, not Charles.” He rubbed his hands in his hair in a frustrated telltale. “I suspended Charles for two weeks. When he returns, I will team him up with everyone, a week each, and then I’ll see. And, Angel? My decision will be final.”

  He saw his words sank in. Her Charles was safe. For now. He smiled a little, “Patricia Angel, you can be sure that from now on, Charles will tell me every single idea you so much as breathe out.”

  Christopher was right; she wouldn’t be able to get Charles to do anything, at least not right away. Fine by her, she was all out of plans anyway. She nodded. “OK, Big guy. I get it.”

  “Good. Now tell me about the guy in the club. Are you absolutely sure he had a scar?”

  She frowned before taking a sharp breath, suddenly looking for air. Here we go. She took her time answering. Delaying. Praying for a miracle. Nope, not today. Okeydokey then.

  She finally reluctantly uttered, without looking at him, without looking at anyone, “Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Patricia, look at me.” Christopher’s voice was so soft. She glanced up. “Witnesses and cops say the jerk had pulled his collar up to his jaw. Maybe it’s a stain you saw. Blood, beer, whatever.”

  “I didn’t in truth see the scar.” She gulped a steadying breath. “But I know it was there.”

  “Witnesses didn’t recognise him from the sketch.”

  “I don’t know who made that sketch, but the proportions are off. He’s Lemieux’s attacker. No happenstances, remember?”

  By now, people who weren’t acquainted with her would be rolling their eyes impatiently. But, except for Steve, everyone in the team knew her and knew her well. Hence, they stayed put and waited expectantly, foreseeing something big was coming.r />
  “I didn’t see the scar; I didn’t need to. I know it was there.” She stopped and licked her suddenly dry lips. Let out another dejected sigh. How she wished she had stayed under her covers! This conversation was tougher than she had anticipated. “I saw him when I went with Steve and his partner.”

  “And you remembered seeing the mark then? Why didn’t you tell me about it? Even if you were out of Lemieux’s case, you sh−”

  Her turn to interrupt him. “No, no, I didn’t see any cicatrices then. He had his collar up.”

  “You saw the scar before that?” Chris dreaded where this was going. “Patricia, please don’t−”

  “I knew about the scar.” She took the longest of pause, so long he thought she was done talking. “I knew about it because I, ah, hum.” She swallowed hard, biting her bruised lower lip. “I knew about the scar because I, hum. Well, you see, I, ah. OK. Here’s the thing.” One last exhale before she muttered in a rush, “I kind of put it there back then, when I was with Joshua. And Lemieux. The guy’s a police officer, or at least, he was back then; I haven’t kept up with his employment. I have no interest in the jerk.”

  Stunned silence. Nobody moved. Hell, nobody breathed. Shit. Shit. SHIT! “Everybody out. Now,” he hissed as he walked over and wrapped his hand around her arm. Nobody moved. His hand rested heavily on her biceps. “Get. The. Fuck. Out” Except you, Angel of mine. You, I may never let out of my sight again.

  Nobody left the room.

  “Fuck.” He seized her wrist and hauled her away.

  The Break-in, Part II

  Neither she nor J heard the door. They were in the back, on the mezzanine. By the time they noticed their uninvited guest, the man was already standing by the office door. And he had brought a partner. Those two were quite the pair. The fat and the ugly.

  She couldn’t tell who was who, though, since both were portly, and both were foul. Each had a hand on the holster at his hip; each was smiling. The overall effect was menacing. She turned to J; he looked as surprised to see them as she was.

  “This is not a job I’m doing for you guys.” His tone implied it wasn’t a job he was willing to share.

  Nevertheless, he would have to pay them a small fee for their silence. Like always. Cops were the worst. Especially this type. Mean. Dirty.

  She barely knew the pair. She had seen J talk to them a few times; the conversations were always very brief. Even with their plain outfits, she could tell they were police officers.

  “We’re just businessmen doing business,” they said.

  Extortion she called it. But what could J do? Cops taking money from the hacker thief could swiftly turn into cops gathering evidence. The whole sordid affair had started before she had met J and his pack, and since J didn’t seem to have a problem with the dirty jerks, she left it alone.

  The fat (or was it the ugly?) had offered her money once. “For a girly job,” he had suggested.

  She understood the offer for what it was: a barely disguised offer to do the fat or the ugly, both probably as they were joined at the hip. She laughed it off. No way was she going near any of the two.

  “No one needs money that bad, asshole.”

  She had not told J. He probably would have shrugged it off as she had. The shabby showing up here was worrisome, though. Why hadn’t the king warned them?

  The conversation started smoothly enough but went downhill fast. Oh surprise, they wanted a cut! But it was not all the fat, from here on out to be referred to as the creep, wanted. The creep also wanted her.

  “I’ve seen your puss around, J my man,” the fat said. She winced at his words. “I like the looks of her. I want my share.”

  J didn’t try to offer them money for he caught the crazy gleam in the fat guy’s beady eyes. He jumped at the jerk before the man had time to unclip his gun.

  Surprisingly, considering his trade, J was a fighter, but he had not honed his skills lately. Kept in shape, yes, with her mostly, or rather, kept her in shape. J liked night practices with her. And mornings. And mid-afternoons.

  Unfortunately, the policemen had anticipated his reaction. As he pounced on the fat creep, his ugly buddy knocked him out fast. Two fat, ugly bastards against an unprepared, untrained, too much blood in his pants, not enough in his head troubled hacker. Two blows to the head, one from the fat, one from the ugly, and J was out.

  She should have escaped then, but she didn’t. She couldn’t just leave J unconscious on the floor.

  The creep smiled at her. Tried to grab her. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but she knew men’s most delicate parts. She kicked and pushed and punched and kicked some more. The guy was fat. He laughed and fisted her hair, throwing her against a desk. Her nose started to bleed. His fingers bruised her arms when he plastered her to him.

  “Such a pretty face! I don’t want to hit you again. Let’s do this amicably. I can be a friendly guy if you’re a nice girl. You’re a nice girl, ain’t you, pussy?”

  A steadying hand around her neck, he thrust her into the mezzanine’s front office. President, the lettering on the door read.

  “See here, this place is nice. Real swanky for a classy cunt like yourself.”

  Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line

  Nothing Left Unsaid

  He bypassed his office without missing a beat. The interior window was useful for checking on the guys, but, even with the blinds pulled down, it didn’t offer much privacy, not enough for a shouting match at least. He dragged her to the toilets; the place was her refuge, her safe heaven. Whenever she freaked, wanted to get a hold of herself or thought she might throw up, or all of the above, she ran to the men’s room.

  The building housing the South District precinct was old bricks and weathered wood. On the Homicide and Vice floor, the toilets were men-only, but with Bridget, and then Reid, and now Patricia, the joint had become a his and hers facility. The team gave Bridget some privacy whenever she visited. They weren’t that polite with the other two women.

  Only on occasions when Patricia locked the entry door had the team tacitly agreed to keep away. He had not, though. No matter the reason, every time she had locked herself in the joint, he had jimmied the door. He had considered removing the locks, but cracking them from the outside was such a small thing when compared to the reassurance it seemed to give her. Hence, the locks remained.

  He pushed her into the room and locked the door. No doubt the guys were prowling the hallway on the other side, but the toilet walls, dating back to the construction of the building, were solid stones and, for all intents and purposes, soundproof.

  He knew how she spiked her fiction with facts. Her books were more fictional than factual, though, he had believed until now. Had he been wrong all along, he questioned, the chapter about the break-in and the cop incident at the forefront in his mind? For the rest of the book, the J-character had obsessed about it (as he had when he read it). Chapter after chapter, J, and Chris right along with him, had wondered about that night, but the girlfriend character, damn her, kept it a secret, teasing, taunting, but never giving details as to what had happened.

  Chris had read the book at the beginning of their relationship. He barely knew Patricia then, or rather, barely knew about her history. Her, he had recognised from the start. The whole of her, mind, heart, soul and body, was sexy as hell and drove him nuts. He got her even then but had yet to learn about Joshua and his lot. He recalled how uneasy that particular book had made him. The storyline went from light to dark and turned downright gruesome after that passage. She had a vivid imagination. For once, had that gift of her served to lighten the facts?

  Even then, a knot had tightened in the pit of his stomach, and right now, he was wound up so tight, he was afraid of scaring her. How could such a dreamy woman write such things? Originality, creativity and research, he had figured back then. Too much fucking research, he thought now; the woman liked to do her research up close and personal.

  The book didn’t tell more besides
an alarm had gone off in the building, the cop had run out before other cops, not as dirty, had shown up. The lead female persona had sneaked out the J-jerk, each carrying the other. The king was still parked down the street.

  The loser’s explanation went something like, “The dirty cops’ unmarked car crept in from the adjoining parking lot. I didn’t see them until it was too late.”

  The three would-be thieves had escaped and moved to other ventures after that.

  Back in the real here and now, Patricia was shaking against his. Was she thinking about that fucking night in detail? Details he didn’t have, details he feared.

  Again, Chris thought about killing Joshua. The guy was dead already, but fuck, he felt such a deep hatred towards the jerk. Not only had Joshua not protected her, failed to keep her out of harm’s way, but his actions had put her in the direct line of fire. He had let that creep do whatever to her. Moreover, he had not avenged her. Chris found it all utterly unacceptable. Intolerable. Unforgivable.

  He held her tight, crushing her against his chest, trying to infuse his warmth into her, his strength, his love.

  “Christopher, I’m fine. You can let go now.”

  He didn’t move. Couldn’t let go. She was shaking still. He wanted her to feel safe. I’m going to take care of it, Darling of mine. Joshua hadn’t, but he would take care of the creep and make her safe.

  “Christopher. Please, let go, I can’t breathe.”

  He released her. Some. Putting her hands flat on his torso, she pushed him away. Tried to. He took one step back. One little step. His hands still around her shoulders and middle holding tight.