Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  “As if it was a fucking accident? Hell no, she did not fucking apologise. She did not act contrite for hitting you, didn’t express regret for hitting the girls, for neither of them.”

  Despite Christopher’s vehemence, she was relieved that they had caught a killer and happy that she hadn’t been too off in her story. Relieved and happy. Cases closed. All was well.

  “So I was right?”

  Damndest woman! “About what, Princess?”

  “She’s gay.”

  “I’m not sure what she is. We have no indications she ever had an affair with the waitresses or any woman for that matter. But she was obsessed about the waitress. She said the girl was her friend. She seems very possessive; said the girl betrayed her. That they had a connexion, but the victim rejected her.”

  “So she killed her?”

  “She claims she didn’t. Perhaps she didn’t mean to. She was angry and just swung her clutch at her, a fucking heavy purse. She carried one of them calculating machines, an older one with a paper roll.” He paused and studied her.

  “She used the purse again with the other waitress?”

  “Yes. She started going to the other diner, talked to the waitress. She says they became friends. She’s crazy; experts will interview her.”

  “So the purse is the murder weapon for both?”

  “Yes, the purse and the calculating machine make for the weapon for both.”

  “So she killed them both? The rain, the alley triggered the other murder?”

  “I don’t know about the rain and the alley, but yes, she killed them both.”

  “So, hum, basically, if it wasn’t for me, you might never have found the murder weapon?”

  Apparently, she still didn’t understand how close a call her visit had been. “Yes, Princess, you found the weapon.” He took a deep breath. When he spoke again, the anger was audible in his voice. “Yes, you fucking found it. Congratulations! It’s the same bag she hit you with.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about all of this. If I’m honest, I think I’m both angry and happy.” She smirked and closed her eyes. “I’m happy because you guys didn’t have a clue. I know it’s bad, but it still makes me happy as it kind of proves my point.”

  “Patricia,” he warned in his voice although, unfortunately, she was right. They never saw it coming. Worse, he never saw it coming.

  Her eyes widened as she continued as if she had not heard him, “I’m angry because I never saw it coming. Not a clue. Good thing you had me tailed,” she added, finally (somewhat) acknowledging his tail’s usefulness. “If I had thought she was the murderer, I would never have gone to her place.”

  Wouldn’t she have? Somehow, Christopher wasn’t entirely reassured. Not that it made a fucking difference now for she had gone and had got hurt. Beatrice was sick; she might not have meant to injure Patricia. Then again, Bea denied any criminal intentions regarding the two dead waitresses.

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t have killed me.”

  “Funny, that’s what she’s saying about the two dead girls. Patricia, for Christ’s sake! They’re still dead.”

  “Yes, I know, but it’s not like she’s a vicious murderer or some psychopath serial killer now, is she?”

  He just stared at her. Bea, the ex-waitress, had killed twice, neither time in self-defence. “What do you think killers are? Fuck, Angel, they can be just your ordinary next door neighbour. Who happens to off someone just because they weren’t friendly enough, and it was a fucking rainy Sunday night!”

  “OK, I get it, Christopher. You were worried.” As always, it surprised her. And took her breath away. And angered her. She could take care of herself, couldn’t she? Well, maybe not that time, but she was convinced Beatrice wouldn’t have murdered her in cold blood. “I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll make sure it’s safe before I do anything, d’accord?” She put her hand on his arm gently. “OK?” She watched him frown, fists not relaxed yet. She pleaded, “Christopher, OK?”

  She waited forever for him to answer.

  Her eyes were slowly turning green. He yielded, “All right, Darling of mine.” He would make sure she was indeed safe. She wouldn’t do anything unsafe for she wouldn’t do anyfuckingthing. As soon as she got the clear from the doctors, he was going to move her in with him, no more discussions. Until he sorted this whole mess out. Until he closed Lemieux’s case. And long after that.

  She was moved to a private room shortly after breakfast, at Christopher’s insistence she suspected. As was the private nurse bustling about in her new room. The big motherly figure of a nurse kept fluffing her pillows, pulling her covers right up under her chin, stroking her cheek, telling her to rest, tugging her hair behind her ears, fussing as if she was a child. It wasn’t enough she had Christopher watching over her, making sure she ate all her plate, stayed in the bed and all. She had to deal with two of them now.

  She liked it for a time. It grew annoying by late afternoon. It pissed her off by early evening. At eight, she sent him home. “Out!”

  “Fuck, Patricia.”

  “Fuck, Christopher.”

  “Cute.”

  “No, not cute. Infuriating!” A deep breath. “I’m tired. I need rest, and I can’t relax if you’re in the room.”

  “I’ll keep out as soon as you sleep. Close your eyes, I’ll massage your−”

  “You’ll not massage my anything. We’re in a hospital!”

  “You have a very filthy mind, Pussycat. I like it.” The Big guy flashed a wolfish grin. “I was going to say, I’ll massage your hands. I know you enjoy it when I rub your hands,” he teased back, demonstrating as he spoke.

  She did indeed like it, had to fight to keep her eyes open. “I won’t rest if you don’t. You look exhausted, mon chéri. Please, go get some sleep.”

  He finally agreed to leave.

  Quiet fell after his departure. Naps and police interviews had occupied the last ten hours. Steve stopped by first; she gave him a full report on her evening. Christopher stayed by her bed the entire time. As she was telling Steve the details of her conversation with Beatrice, she caught Christopher shaking his head.

  “What, Big guy? I hadn’t meant to ask, but one thing had led to the other.”

  He shook his head and shrugged but refrained from growling.

  The thought had occurred to her out of nowhere “Do you know if the girl was having an affair? With the cook? Or perhaps the older waitress?” A love triangle between waitresses gave an interesting kinky twist to her story.

  “It turns out I was right about the love thing between the waitresses,” she pointed out to the two officers. “But, unfortunately, I didn’t identify the right waitress. Better luck next time as they say.” Neither Christopher nor Steve laughed at her jest. Cops, really.

  Naps and police interviews and meals kept her day busy. Dreadful food. No red wine. No maple syrup. Overcooked veggies. Bland meals. How could anyone survive on that stuff? She had believed hospital food were rumours highly exaggerated but nooo. She was in a private room with first-class services.

  She told Olga-the-nurse (probably not her real name, but the drugs fizzled her short-term memory), “Imagine what the four-in-a-room commoners ate!” She shuddered at the thought.

  “I would die for a decaf latte and a lemon pie.” The Big guy growled at her unfortunate choice of words. “I promise to behave if you get me a coffee from Vitto’s and a slice of that delicious pie they had at the Italian bakery near your place. Please, mon chéri,” she begged Christopher.

  “Forget it. I’m not leaving this room.”

  The man was most infuriating! “I’m injured; shouldn’t you be waiting on me hand and foot like a queen? Or, at the very least, a princess?”

  “I am. You get the unrelenting protection of my body.”

  “But I’d rather have maple syrup.”

  “Next time I get you alone to myself, I going to dip my di−”

  “Christopher!” She cried out in slight outrage. Olga-
the-nurse didn’t even blink.

  She had spent her day between naps and police interviews and meals and visits. The entire team had shown up. The Big guy had not looked happy about his officers showing up, one or two at a time. None lingered for long; all brought sweets.

  Reid brought maple candies, Shapiro, Frankke and DesForges, a bottle of wine each. Hamilton gave her a dirty magazine, sporting naked men. To tease Christopher, she flipped through the glossy pages. She wasn’t looking at the pictures, though; Christopher made for a more interesting subject as she studied him from the corner of her eye. His eyebrows shot up. His fists tightened once again, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He had that glint in his eyes. She might be bald, unwashed and wearing the ugliest hospital gown ever, she was still arousing him. Damn, the man drove her crazy. Her man.

  Bridget gave her flowers. Ingrid stopped by with girlie magazines, a bottle of wine, maple candies, maple donuts, croissants, sweet-and-salty popcorn, flowers, a new nightgown, bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, perfume, lingerie and tears in her eyes. The woman knew drama. With Ingrid’s gifts, Patricia had enough supplies to spend the week (except for clean, everyday clothing and edible food).

  “Thanks for the gift.” She hugged Ingrid to her side. “I like them all.”

  “Patricia can never have too many pieces of lingerie,” Christopher agreed.

  Even Charles showed up. He arrived in the late afternoon after everyone had gone. He brought two coffees, a tall decaf latte for her and a double espresso for Christopher. No lemon pie, though, but she had donuts and everything now.

  They spoke for awhile; she did most of the talking. Charles looked happy but worried about her. He was extra nervous around Christopher although she strongly suspected it was Christopher that had called him. All was going to be well.

  Now visits were over, and the hospital had gone quiet. Patients were tucked in for the night. She was finally alone, thinking of her hotel bed, imagining Christopher in his bed. She missed his bed and the warmth of him. That led to her thinking about Lemieux.

  Go, Girl!

  She had to do something regarding Lemieux. And the creep. Beatrice had completely ruined her plans. No rental agency, no car shop, no creep. What to do about the creep, what to do, fast. Christopher had the wolfish cop face on, the look that spelled, loudly, “Enough of this fucking nonsense! I’m taking over.”

  That she had found the damn murder weapon purse, granted accidentally, didn’t matter; he believed she was in danger and thus he was (over) reacting full-blast by securing her. As soon as she left the hospital, she wouldn’t be able to take a step without him hearing about it right away. And, depending on how unsafe he thought she had acted − and she had acted very hazardously lately she was ready to admit, at least to herself − she might not even be able to take such a step.

  She could predict his next step: he would try to lock her up somewhere. He had not threatened to handcuff her to his bedposts yet, but from the looks of him, the Big guy had thought about it the entire day. Could she wait? She pretended to think about, fooling herself again, even though she already knew the answer. Non. No. Absolutely not. She was not going to take a chance on the creep surprising Christopher; her breath hitched just imagining their confrontation.

  Her private nurse had left for the night (and not a minute too soon), so the head nurse came to check on her. “Your vitals are a bit erratic, sweetie. Are you feeling all right?”

  Of course, her heartbeat was erratic, damn it! She was stuck in bed while the same creep that had tried to rape her two years ago was about to shoot down her infuriating boyfriend!

  “Would you like a mild sedative?”

  “No, thank you,” she declined. She had plans. “But could you maybe unhook me? Those machines are quite noisy; I’ll never fall asleep,” she pleaded.

  “Let me check with the doctor.”

  Minutes later, she was free. A piece of cake. When the nurse stopped by a bit later, she faked sleep. Too easy.

  She had her gear in her bag, compliments of Frankke who had brought it in from Beatrice’s apartment. The officer had even tucked her pack in the room’s locker, where it had kept out of sight and out of her thoughts until Christopher’s departure.

  Could she still deploy the plan still? Of course. She felt no head pain, not even a slight headache. Beatrice’s blow had been mean but perhaps not that hard for Patricia hardly felt it anymore. She was in splendid form. Truly. She could go now if she wanted to. Hum.

  Except she lacked clothes. Christopher had taken them. “I’ll wash them. Bring you clean ones.” No doubt, he had meant subconsciously to reassure himself that she couldn’t, wouldn’t leave without them. And of course, she wouldn’t; she couldn’t go hunting the creep in a hospital gown, now, could she?

  Where to, then? Her hotel? She didn’t mind taking a cab in the green frock, but her hotel was as far as she was willing to go thus clad. None of the hotel personnel would say anything; they were all so very classy. Plus, once in the place, she could borrow one of the hotel’s rentals. That car would be so much easier to trace than a truck from the rental agency, but Christopher wouldn’t know unless someone on the staff rated her out. That might happen soon than later, though. The Big guy had made quite a few friends at her hotel (contacts as he called them). OK then, on second thoughts, the hotel was a no-go.

  Back to the plan, a revised plan. She had with gear but without clothes or transportation. What if she waited until the morning for Christopher to bring her clothes back? What if the doctor signed her leave then? She might look well enough in the morning, especially considering how damn well she was feeling right now! As soon as the doctor gave her the go, Christopher was going to take her straight home never to be seen again until the creep was caught. Not an option. The plan had to go down tonight. Damn, she was tired of all this! She considered taking a nap− No! She needed to keep Christopher safe first so they would have plenty of time for a nap later.

  How about Ingrid? Although Ingrid rarely questioned her, would the woman call Christopher? Ingrid and Christopher were not the best of pals, but her friend might call the cavalry if she was worried. Hum. How about if I go over for a nap and some clothes, then sneak out early morning? Ingrid never slept much, so her chances of sneaking out unnoticed were slim at best. Not Ingrid then.

  Patricia went through everyone she knew from her friends to Christopher’s team and Vitto’s family, but obviously, she couldn’t go to any of them. She didn’t want any of them involved or asking questions or calling Christopher. That should have told her something. The stupidest of ideas. But all she could think about then was Christopher not finding out, Christopher not stepping into the middle of it, Christopher not getting hurt by the creep. Or worse. So, so much worse. As Lemieux.

  Gear. Car. Clothes. Or clothes, then a car. She put on Ingrid’s gift. Underwear, check. Where could she buy clothes at ten past eleven on a Saturday night? Did all-night grocery stores sell clothing? Probably not. And even if they did, could she shop in the hospital avocado monstrosity? Without shoes? Christopher had taken the shoes too, most infuriating. Could she steal clothes? She had never stolen anything. Well, except for Joshua’s million-bet, but that didn’t count since it had been Joshua, not her, doing the stealing. And the theft had been only theoretical; nobody took the money for real.

  The neat thing about private rooms was that they were, well, private. Nobody to watch one think. The other usefulness of said rooms was that they shared a bathroom with the adjoining rooms, yes, even private hospital rooms.

  She sneaked into the connecting room. Empty. Christopher’s doing yet again? Perfect. Thanks, Big guy. Nobody occupied the bed hence no one caught her switching room, and nobody was out in the aisle guarding that room. She cracked the door open and waited for the copper (the infuriating man had left at her door) to look the other way. Copper was busy teasing the nurses passing by. A boring job he had, watching her door for nothing; no creeps were going to come
at her. When posting cops in a hospital, the man in charge should choose the best man for the job, or as in this instance considering all those nurses, the best woman. Tonight was not her first escape from a hospital, not the first time she observed a cop on duty flirt with nurses. Good. When a particularly engaging nurse chatted up the young cop, Patricia strolled out of the empty room and headed the opposite way with purpose.

  Four doors down, she came upon the medical team’s lounge. This early in the night shift, not one nurse or doctor lingered in the cushy seats. The small kitchenette and two rows of staff lockers were empty also. She quickly searched the lockers until she found something, anything to replace her khaki camouflage. All were locked, but she found one with an old Dudley-type combination lock. She might not be proficient at jumping locks but those she could crack in record time. Inside, she found a lone sweater and a mammoth scarf she turned into a long skirt. With shoes and a hat to cover her bandage, she’d be incognito.

  The hat, a baseball cap, she found by a patient’s side. The black cap beckoned her from an elderly man’s side table. The patient was hooked up to so many beeping machines that he never heard her approach. The man’s head was bald, not one wound or suspicious rash marring its cleanness gleaming under the red and white of the blinking machines. She promised herself to return the cap as soon as she had dealt with the creep.

  She didn’t find shoes, but Machine-man had a pair of rain boots, too big or running or climbing but tolerable for a cab ride to a store if she ever found one opened at this hour. She sure could have used her phone just about now, for a quick search on commando-style disguise but her infuriatingly overprotective cop boyfriend had taken that too. That he had forgotten about her bag betrayed how upset he was. Unless the gifts and slutty magazine piled on top had camouflaged it? She made a note for future occurrences.