by V. P. Trick
Police officers were unsuspecting of fellow officers. Even if Christopher knew what a creep the guy was, even after the quartet and the murder accusation, the Big guy still thought of the creep as a cop. Hence, he would follow procedures. He’d assume the creep had some honour and thus, take the time to read the creep his right, and that might be the Big guy’s fatal mistake. Her way was so much safer for Christopher.
Get Set, or MacLaren’s Longest Hour
Chris received the first call at six fifty-two.
“They’re at the ex-waitress’s place now,” Frankke duly informed him.
Patricia and the waitress with the raincoat had gone for a drink at a pub earlier, but apparently the damn woman hadn’t completed her socialising and, most probably, research on her case.
Chris had added Frankke to the shadowing the day before. Since Patricia had gone back to work on the diner cases, the man was the appropriate choice. And considering Frankke had never followed Patricia before, Chris hoped she wouldn’t notice the big black man on her trail. Despite his size and skin colour, Frankke was discreet. Moreover, his man knew the diner cases inside and out, the neighbourhoods, the locals hence, he might be able to anticipate her moves.
So far, Patricia had hiked around plenty, talked to one and another at both places. She had gone to a post office back in Mario’s old neighbourhood. Why the post office, Angel? The A-team didn’t have an answer to that one. Chris had yet to search her place to see what she had retrieved there. If he questioned her directly, she might have told him some nonsense about buying stamps.
The hunt had made him restless. The three dirty cops possible IDs came with so much fucking red tapes that he hadn’t been able to go through the personnel files the way he needed. He had called the toothless guy at Archives, Patricia’s old coworker, for complete copies. The old man’s uncooperative stubbornness convinced Chris the damn woman had placed a call to warm her old pal off.
He had Fredrick break into the system. I too have hacker friends, Princess. Fred’s search turned up seven new possibles, four of which were already under surveillance. He stretched his team to the limit. Reid and Shapiro. Hamilton and DesForges. LeRoy and Charles. He was one guy short; he might as well use Charles for, after all, the rookie had some responsibility in this mess. The pairs kept around the clock surveillance, each guy doing twelve-hour shifts. Which still left four ex-cops unaccounted for. He needed more manpower and a change of tactics.
He couldn’t wait to pick her up and put her away someplace safe. He kept postponing it, though, because she knew something, and he wanted to find out what. As soon as he secured her, she’s become mad as hell; no way was he going to get anything out of her then, not for a while at least, a long, long while. Thus, he needed to find the missing cops and pick the right one. He was working on that full-time, day and night.
Thankfully, they had finished the clubs’ tour; that had been a hell of a depressing job for everyone. Even Ham had grown bored midway. They found zilch, nothing but anecdotal information. They talked to over a hundred strippers but had nothing to work on. Some of the girls might have recognised him but maybe not. The creep was clearly not the only customer to be fat and ugly. And the scar wasn’t all that visible. One girl mentioned a port-wine stain on the right side of some jerk’s jaw and neck, another acne scars, another a no-neck guy. Shit. If he had more time and resources, he would go back over and over and wait it out.
But he didn’t want to wait. He had three victims that might be related to the fat creep; three stiffs that might be connected to Patricia. Was the sicko pissed at her for before? Chris (no more than you, Pussycat), could be sure the creep hadn’t identified her. She had seen the asshole twice; the jerk might have seen her too. Even if she was convinced the creep hadn’t, Chris wasn’t about to chance it, not with a potential killer. Two Patricia lookalikes and a man that had saved her were dead; no way in hell they were coincidences.
If she hadn’t been who she was, he might have taken her to the clubs and used her as bait. He couldn’t risk it. I cannot. He had to find another way. Letting her walk around freely and snoop her fill was dangerous but much less so than luring a killer with her as the decoy.
Too bad one couldn’t use truth serum on one’s girlfriend. Wine might do it, though, wine and other stuff he knew from experience that lessened her defences. He was good at those things, wasn’t he? He liked them immensely with her. Listening to her moan. Watching her. He even found her silly geezer outfit sexy. I know what you’re hiding under all those thick layers of clothes, Darling of mine.
If possible, his stripper overdose had made him crave her more. Each fucking night, Angelface. He was sick and tired of strip joints and way too old for the job. He barely glanced at the girls. He clenched his jaw so tight that he tasted blood. Fuck, he wanted the sonofabitch. He knew what to do with him too. The creep was his opportunity for a thorough immersion in her past. Chris wanted to know about Joshua and the lot of them. He needed to know what the jerk had done to her.
He had to find out what she was up to. Right now, she was rationalising whatever the hell she was doing. Each night, he went back to her to make sure she was safe. She felt damn fucking good against him, even with her lithe body cloaked in long pyjama pants and a long-sleeve pyjama top. Each night as he took her in his arms, fell asleep his face in her hair, he knew she was safe. How he wanted to wake her and take her! You. Are. Mine.
What was Patricia doing up in the ex-waitress’s apartment? She wasn’t supposed to be alone in a secluded or private place with anyone related to the cases, any of them.
“I can’t see any movement through the windows,” Frankke reported from his post on the street. “Want me to move surveillance closer?”
“Hell yes, go closer. Move into the building.” He wanted Frankke to listen in if possible.
Hanging up with Frankke, Chris called MacCarmick. “Know what she’s up to?”
“No clue. I’m parked at the corner. I’ve got eyes on both the front entrance and the back alley.”
Any which way Patricia got out, Mac was going to see her. Hence, all Chris had to do for now was wait.
Frankke called again at seven-twelve. “I’m in the staircase. I can hear voices from the corridor but can’t make out words. Shall I return to the car and wait there? Don’t want her to open the door on her way out and surprise me eavesdropping.”
His guys were good officers. Once upon a time, they wouldn’t have called him to ask about such trivial detail, but apparently, following one boss’s woman was a highly explosive job.
Frankke was unsure of what to do next. “Look, Chris, I get the keeping-her-safe part. It’s the how-far-can-I-go-to-do-it part that’s puzzling to me.”
“I’ve got your ass.” Whatever goes down, I’m the only one she’s going to be mad at anyway. “Do whatever the hell you feel is needed.”
Chris tried her phone, but, of course, the damn woman didn’t answer. He called MacCarmick again. “Be prepared. She might rush out of the place.” If she indeed made out Frankke, she was going to be out in a flash and try to lose him.
Frankke called again at seven-forty-four. “Get the hell over here.”
“Where’s she?” Chris growled over the phone as he headed for his car.
“They had a fight; the girl knocked out Patricia. She’s stunned and slightly bleeding but otherwise unarmed. The girl’s neutralised.”
Bleeding but otherwise OK?! His mind went blank. What the fuck? “Call a fucking ambulance!”
“Already on its way. As soon as we hang up, I’ll call it in and wait for police backup. Sure we need some local prick butting in on our case?”
“For now, we do this by the book. I want that waitress in the slammer.”
Chris drove on automatic pilot, pedal to the floor, red lights flashing, sirens blasting. He probably broke a world record, but it still took fucking forever. MacCarmick was guarding the front door when he arrived. The ambulance was already there. Chris cli
mbed the steps three at a time and burst into the apartment just as Patricia was getting settled on the stretcher.
She had blood in her hair, and drops had dripped on her face. She looked dizzy, didn’t smile when she saw him. She wasn’t complaining about being taking care of; it must have been a hell of a blow.
The medics were prepping the ex-waitress on a gurney, her cuffed hands complicating the process. The left side of her face was swollen.
“I might have punched her,” right-handed Frankke admitted under his breath. “Just doing ‘what was needed.’”
When both women were cleaned up, bandaged and settled, they rode in the same ambulance. Chris made the drive sitting between the two, holding Patricia’s hand. Every minute or so, the ambulance guy spoke to them, asked their names, checked their eyes and reflexes.
Frankke stayed behind to talk to the locals. “I’ll catch up with you at the hospital.”
Chris was sure MacCarmick would be there too, even before they arrived.
When they arrived at the Emergency, MacCarmick was indeed waiting for them. As were Shapiro and Reid.
Chris mumbled a curse. “Fuck, Shapiro. Call back the others, I don’t want everyone to crowd here.” A fucking pack closing in to protect its kin. “You guys have surveillance to do, so do it!”
Reid went back while Shapiro stood guard over the other girl. “Reid’s got the night. I’ll keep an eye on the crazy waitress while you speak with Patricia’s doctor.”
The medical team took Patricia to the examination room. After the longest time, the doctor came back.
“We’re transferring her to an observation room. Blunt head trauma, slight concussion, five stitches. Her injury could have been worse; the wound didn’t bleed much. She’s lucky the ambulance got to her so fast. I’ve requested surveillance of the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“Can I see her?”
“You next of kin?” The look on Chris’s face was enough for the good doctor. “Only a few minutes, or I’ll have the head nurse kick you out.”
A white face crowned by dark curls and a white bandage. Her hand was cold when he clamped his hands on it. She squeezed his hand lightly but didn’t open her eyes.
“Hey, Angel of mine. You’re going to be just fine. You rest now, Darling,” he whispered against her cheek. “I’m going to take care of you; you’ll see. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
Too fast, the doctor motioned him out. “We’ve given her a mild painkiller so no interrogation until morning, maybe later.”
“Fine by me. Nobody’s going to talk to her but me.” And that could wait until she was OK. “The other woman that was brought in, how’s she?”
“Blunt blow to the face. A nasty bump on the back of the head.” The bump might have come from her head hitting the wall after Frankke’s fist landed on her face.
Frankke arrived at the hospital shortly after, the locals in tow. “Steve’s at the scene. The crime scene’s his now; his captain says I’m not impartial, threatened to call Internal. Fucking asshole. Steve’ll call if he finds anything. The locals here,” Frankke jerked his chin at the two officers by his side, “came for the women’s depositions.”
“They can hassle the waitress all they want, but nobody goes near Patricia.”
“I hear yah, man. How’s she?”
“Resting under observation. Light concussion. Doc says she should be fine.”
“Thank the fuck for that.”
“How about giving me a breakdown while the local dicks are busy pestering the medical staff?”
“After our call, I waited in the staircase for a while, going to the door every four minutes to listen. On the one pass, I didn’t hear nothing. I figured the women were in the bathroom or something, waited again. Next pass, again no voices or sounds. The silence made me edgy but not enough to barge in yet. I know how your woman gets when you have her tail.” A light chuckle from Frankke. Cop face from Chris.
“Go on.”
“I jogged downstairs, rung the bell, ran back up. I wanted a visual on the two. Patricia never stays put long, so I figured a quick peek she had not fled through a window was a requisite. That woman sure keeps us on our toes.”
“Fuck, Frankke.”
“Sorry, chief. I heard the buzzer from inside the apartment. Muffled voices. The girl peered out. I went in.” Knowing Frankke, it meant the guy had pushed the door open as the woman was closing it in his face. Instinct. “Living room was empty. Waitress started screaming, tried pushing me back.” An ironic smirk from the big black. Frankke was at least twice the girl’s size. “That’s when I saw Patricia. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to me, head on the table as if she was sleeping. I took a step closer, saw blood, lost it, fist shot out into the bitch’s face. Unnecessary strength. No regrets, though. I’ll use the suspension to repaint my place; it’s been awhile.”
“Forget it, you’re not getting a vacation.”
“Bummer. The girl fell backward into the wall, and then the floor. I checked Patricia’s injuries. She was coming to by then. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me as if she didn’t know me. That fucking worried me, man. I put a towel on her head, called the paramedics, handcuffed the bitch, applied pressure on Patricia’s head, called you, called Steve. The rest you know.”
“I don’t know shit.”
“To quote Ham, ‘Roger shit.’”
For now, the ex-waitress wasn’t talking. Whatever happened next, she was looking at a minimum charge of assault, and as Patricia had been sitting at the time of the fight, the crazy girl couldn’t plead self-defence. A vicious attack. Whatever Patricia had been doing in her apartment, she had triggered something. A blow to the head similar to the one that had killed the diner victims. Damn woman.
“We’re going to look that Beatrice woman over again,” Steve told Chris. “Maybe, for once, instead of trying to find a killer that fits the clues, we’ll see if the clues fit the woman.”
“I have a hunch they will.”
Chris spent the night at the hospital, on a chair next to Patricia’s door. The emergency department’s observation aisle was a busy place. Nurses came in and out of Patricia’s room through the night without waking her. They didn’t wake Chris either; he hadn’t even considered sleep. He waited, his eyes locked on Patricia’s sleeping form through the observation window. Fuck, she was pale.
He rose, stretched and sat back down, long legs out in front of him, hands entwined at his nape. He waited and brood over the cases. Allowing her to stroll about the megalopolis was a mistake. The moment he had realised she was up to something, he should have moved her to a safe place. No more, Love of mine. As soon as you’re feeling better, I will lock you up. In a detention cell again if needed, or at Central if that was what it took. All would be well.
She opened her eyes early Saturday morning.
On their Mark
Early the next morning, her eyes opened on a tired-looking, unshaved, cop-face Christopher standing guard behind the window of her room. Damn if the man didn’t look scrumptious. She smiled at him and went back to sleep. All was going to be well.
She woke again around seven, feeling much better. Whatever drugs she had in her, they were doing the trick. The observation room was hush-hush with the medical staff walking around briskly but quietly. Two nanoseconds after she woke, a matronly nurse came to see her, Christopher on her heels. He looked far worse than she felt yet still looked damn good. Had he been pestering the medical team all night? Probably not since the nurse didn’t seem annoyed by his presence.
“Hi, Angel.”
“Hi to you, Big guy.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel fine. Don’t I look pretty?” She batted her eyes at him, a big smile on her face.
Chris grinned back. Her hair was a mess; the doctor had shaved a strip of it to stitch up her wound. A gauzy bandage now ribboned her head, plus her face was stark white, almost as white as the fucking bandage, a
nd she was wearing one of them sexy greenish hospital gown. She looked exquisite and alive. “You look perfect.”
“Ah, hum, big liar you are.” She probed the bandage with her fingers. “They didn’t shave my hair or anything, did they?”
“No. Nope. For sure. I don’t think so. Not too much of it.”
She frowned at him. “I thought you liked my hair. I know you do, way more than I do. You’re supposed to watch over it. I don’t want to be bald!”
He laughed. “You’re not bald. And it’s just hair!” She gave him a look. “OK, yes, I love your hair. But right now, I don’t give a damn about the waves. I’m just glad you’re alive.” She was right. It was his job to protect her. Job, honour, compulsion, pleasure.
“Christopher, I’m sorry. This incident isn’t in any way your fault. I shouldn’t have gone over there. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m really sorry. But I had been to her apartment before, and nothing had happened. I didn’t imagine she had anything to do with the murders. Truly, I didn’t. She took me by surprise. One minute, we were talking, and the next, bam! I guess there are questions one shouldn’t ask.”
The damn woman had denial down to a fine art. He grinned at her. He already knew some of it since the ex-waitress had confessed to some late last night, “May I ask what you two ladies talked about?”
Patricia knew he knew. The Big guy’s voice was smooth as silk; he wasn’t a yeller (not with her at least). But right now, his fists were clenched and his knuckles white. Plus, he was simultaneously smiling and frowning. Moreover, the vein on his neck was throbbing; that was a sure sign. How she wished she could nibble the pulsing skin! “Did she say anything? Did she apologise?”