Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  All through the men from Internal remained polite. He had had more than his share of meetings with Internal in his career, but they had yet to blame him for anything. “As agreed, we gave her five minutes. When she didn’t come out, we moved in.”

  “At all times, she had police tagging her.”

  “Is that a question? Because you’re starting to piss me off here.”

  “I apologise. Please, continue.”

  “How come you guys didn’t do anything about those assholes before today?” Internal met his question with silence. “Right. That’s what I thought. Jerks can be as dirty as they want as long as they’re not on your watch, am I right? Fucking great, guys! Three shots fired. Fatso number one aimed at me. I shot him. Fatso number two wanted to retaliate, so I shot him too. Any additional enlightening questions, or can I go back to doing my fucking job?”

  Over the course of Internal’s investigation, they identified Creep’s buddy as an ex-cop, Creep’s last partner before both were let go from the force.

  In all, the cops retrieved five guns and one stun gun at the scene. One was in Creep’s holster, one in Ugly’s holster, and three on the floor near the bodies. Two of the guns had Creep’s fingerprints on them, and two, the partner’s. The techs found no fingerprints on the stun gun.

  Without surprise, the autopsy revealed both Creep and Ugly had died from a straight shot to the heart. Expertise confirmed the killing bullets came from Chris’s gun. The techs found powder residue on Creep’s hand. A preliminary visual was noted at the scene; the autopsy also confirmed that both men were sexually aroused prior to their deaths. Semen smeared Ugly’s sexual organ, briefs and pants.

  Since Patricia was unconscious when the shooting had occurred, Chris had filled her in on the official story for Internal (the only story she needed to know). Her role in the events, he pieced from details she let out, things she said in her sleep or wrote, mostly things she wrote.

  Her Epilogue

  He was so damn close that her mouth tasted of blood. She willed herself not to think. Go. She stormed in on the fat ugly creep. As in those silly action shows, she almost yelled cop-like, “Freeze!”

  The creep was parked on the couch with his back to her. She should have stun-gunned him without further ado. The guy didn’t react. Could the salaud be sleeping at a moment like this? Her moment? As she rounded the couch and realised she was facing the wrong man, panic rose.

  The stripper club buddy grinned at her, not one bit surprised. “Hello, bitch. Glad you could make it. I heard good things about you.”

  Damn it, the buddy’s presence here meant the creep was someplace close. Fear blanked her mind for a beat. A moment too long for indeed, the creep was near. He sprung from the staircase, grabbed her, took her gun and pushed her onto the couch. The buddy didn’t smell too good. The stench and horror overwhelmed her.

  “Well, well, cunt. I’ve been expecting you. Saw you at the titty bar, major turn-on.” He had fooled her too easily! Has he been waiting for me all along? “I’ve been expecting yah. Have been waiting since that night for you to look for me. Been waiting a long time, puss. Did you like my gift?”

  “What gift?” Think. Blood rushed to her ears.

  “Come on, you must have known I was coming? Smart puss like yah. Must say I hadn’t expected you’d find me so quickly.”

  Was he complimenting her?!

  “Looking good, puss. I like more tits, but hey, you got enough to get me off. You’re going to be fun. We have some unfinished business the two of us, haven’t we?”

  In the corner of her eye, she caught the partner wetting his lips and rubbing himself. Don’t think. Go. She launched herself at the creep.

  He started laughing and fired a shot way to her left, but it stopped her in her tracks nonetheless. It stopped her even if she knew he wouldn’t kill her, not yet at least. She had something he wanted first.

  He pointed the gun at her and took off his belt. He started to unzip his pants.

  She waited for the pants to drop before she kicked him but aimed too much to the right and missed. The creep was a lefty. He backhanded her. Her nose started bleeding. He slapped her again, harder, so hard that she flew into the bookcase. Crashed into it.

  She stopped feeling.

  His Ever After

  Chris never found out if she had left details out. Her story made sense, the timing was right, but she could have imagined some of the details and left out others. She was so damn fucking good at inventing tales, wasn’t she?

  “I went to the car shop on a hunch; it’s a place he had used way back when. He met his clientele of misfits there.”

  “With Joshua?”

  Small nod. He had no way of knowing how true her statement was. She never entirely lied to him, so it was at least partly true. And frankly, right now, he didn’t give a fuck about the lying. He didn’t give a damn as long as she was safe. I’ll make you well whatever time it takes.

  “You know how I hate guns,” was her answer when he mentioned the fifth gun. “Do you see me going there packing? I went straight from the hospital.”

  Technically not a lie for she had not denied the gun nor said she had been unarmed, had she? A lie by omission then. She was brave to the point of recklessness and maybe a bit delusional, but she was not dumb, quite the opposite.

  She knew as well as he did that the asshole cops couldn’t have carried five fucking guns. With one tucked in the back of their pants and one in a holster each, where would they have put a third? In addition to his side and back holsters, Chris carried a third piece, smaller, at his ankle. None of the weapons found had the scene were small enough. Thus, she had bought a gun somewhere.

  And what about the stun gun? The creep aimed to kill. He had murdered at least twice that they knew of, three if one counted the dead-by-overdose hooker; he didn’t have any use for a taser. To keep her still? He had crashed her into a wall and hadn’t needed a fucking stun gun for that! Patricia liked tasers, that much Chris knew. He had confiscated one or two from her in the past. Right now, though, he didn’t give a damn for she was safe.

  Later, Chris had checked the content of his safe. It pissed him off that no guns were missing. She should have taken one of his; he had made damn sure she knew his safe’s combination. Why the fuck hadn’t she asked to borrow a weapon? She had in the past, so why not for the creep? He would have known something was up then. Guess that was the point, wasn’t it, Angel? By no telling him shit, she thought she was keeping him safe. Funk, he was angry at her, but that too was OK. She. Was. Safe.

  Days after the clash, at her urging, he had recapped the shoot-out’s official version. Sitting on yet another hospital bed, she had listened attentively, head crooked to the side. She still had a large purplish bruise on her cheek, swollen lips, bandages on her head (again), a pack of ice on her leg, an IV needle in her arm, but no clouds had disturbed the blues, serious, worried, locked on his face. Damn, she was beautiful. She was safe.

  Holding her breath, she had taken in every one of his words. She had remained silent for a long while after, before finally nodding. “OK,” she had said. “This might work,” she had whispered, murmuring so softly he thought she was talking to herself, but he had heard nonetheless. He had not given a shit, though; who cared about lies and perjury as long as she was safe?

  She took his hand, lifted it to her face and placed his palm on her healing cheek. His. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being there. You know, Christopher, mon amour, I’m not sorry they’re dead. I should be, but I’m not.” She brushed her bruised lips against his skin, that soft kiss pulling at his groin like only her kisses did. “But I am sorry you’re the one who had to kill them.”

  He did not ask what she meant.

  Loose ends. He had made a mistake that terrible night. He had shot the cops, both of them. He, the man in her life, the boyfriend, the lover, had taken charge and shot them both. He shouldn’t have, not the way he had at least.

  MacLar
en-the-cop would have waited and asked questions. First, he would have injured and questioned them and got the facts straight. MacLaren-the-detective would have unearthed all of the facts and all of the details. He would have made fucking sure. Would have left nothing unanswered such as Joshua’s heritage. Then he, Chris, the lover, the boyfriend, the man in her life and he, Chris, the cop, the detective, the fucking chief would have shot them both. No questions left.

  The boyfriend had been faster; he had shot first. He had wished he was killing Joshua. Now her boyfriend-lover-cop thought, analysed and lived with the facts. He lived with the hollow feeling in the pit of his gut. He went on not knowing for sure if he had killed them all. If it was really the end. If she was, once and for all, truly safe.

  About the Author

  Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A midlife crisis later (a very early midlife crisis), what if the earth changed axis? Writing began, and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

  Thank you for reading my book.

  If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

  Other books

  Please visit your favourite ebook retailer for some of my other books

  Duet

  Trois

  Quartet

  Coming soon!

  Six

  Read on for an excerpt from SIX

  Chris’s Vacation

  “Patricia, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m packing!”

  He had seen Patricia pack before, and this wasn’t packing. She was throwing clothes haphazardly into a duffel bag without folding any items, without even glancing at them.

  Pants and long sleeve tees, Pussycat? No fucking way she was going to be wearing those. “I’m taking you to the beach, remember, Patricia?”

  More of the tossing. “How can I forget, Big guy! You’ve been hassling me for days about it!”

  “Days? Fuck, Patricia, I only mentioned it the night before last.” A pair of jeans flew by his nose and landed two steps to the left of the bag. “I know what you’re doing, Angel of mine.”

  “Of course, you do. You’re the best damn detective in the metropolis! I. Am. Packing.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to pick a fight.”

  She frowned at him and bit her lips.

  Although, when he thought about it, fighting was a good sign, an indication she was healing. She had been quiet these last few weeks. Injured. Again. Out of a job. Again. She had kept still. No coffee shop run hence no writing. No girls’ night out hence no red-wine induced tipsy girlfriend. No visits at his place. No fooling around.

  Every time she accidentally touched him, brushed against him, leaned too close or kissed him (every time at his investigation), she blushed and pulled back. She pulled back and blushed and avoided eye contact. Fucking OK with me, Angel of mine. I’m patient.

  “She’s recovering, rebuilding herself,” or so the precinct shrink had said.

  The fat ugly dirty cop had nearly caught her after two years of her pretending she hadn’t been nearly raped.

  “She has issued to sort out,” as per the good doctor again. Issues! “It will take months,” the same counsellor had warned Chris.

  “Fucking OK by me. She’s well worth the wait.”

  Another item, a sweatshirt (his at that) landed at his feet. “It’s not going to happen, Princess.”

  “Wanna bet, Big guy?” Apparently, she was healing fast.

  “Nope, Princess. You know I’m not a betting man.”

  “Like heck, you’re not! What about poker nights with the Brass? Poker nights with the guys? Poker nights with the A-team?”

  “That’s not gambling; I always win.”

  “Damn, you’re arrogant!”

  “Self-confident.”

  “You’re impossible!”

  “Impossibly sexy? So are you, Princess, hot as fuck.”

  Fists on hips, chin defiantly up and hair provokingly messy, she glared at him. She might have caught him licking his lips hungrily or noticed his boner for she stopped packing and did the pulling back and blushing thing before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t lock herself in, though; that door had no locks. She lived living alone in an exclusive (self-designed, and uniquely so) hotel suite, why would she have put a lock on the only inner door? Hell, Pussycat, you should have forgone the door altogether.

  The door, the packing, the fucking blushing, everything was OK by him. Patience. Healing. Fucking worth the wait even if it kills me. He went back to the couch. He sure spent a lot of time with his ass on that damn couch these days. I’m keeping you safe.

  Minutes later, he got back up and poured himself a scotch. Eleven in the morning and he was already drinking, but the mood she was in, he wasn’t about to go jogging. She had gone back to walking and might decide to take a stroll while he was out. And then, who the fuck knew what the hell could happen? Smoking was also out because the hotel was a smoke-free environment. He doubted the hotel staff would have said anything, though; they all thought of her as one of their own and granted her free passes for just about anything.

  She came out of the bathroom an hour and a second scotch later (a noon scotch to celebrate his first day off). She looked exactly the same as an hour earlier. Had she napped in the fucking bathtub?

  She eyed him suspiciously before announcing, “I don’t want to go.”

  “I kind of figured that, Princess.”

  A trip to the beach that included sex, itsy-bitty bikinis, wine, sun, sand, waves, fancy food, and rest as on their last vacation together, she should have wanted to go; he for one fucking did. Mostly for the first two items on the list.

  “I’m a fucking great detective, ain’t I?” That didn’t make her smile. Not good. “No problem, Angel. I’m easy. What would you rather do?”

  “Go fishing with the guys.”

  “Go fishing?” Had the woman ever fished? He didn’t care, having her alone and helpless in a launch was going to be fun.

  “Go fishing with Lonzo and MacCarmick.” Go fishing with the A-team? Not so much fun in the boat.

  “Why?”

  “You need the rest, Big guy.”

  Me? How the fuck did this become about me? Time for a change of tactics. “It’s going to be cold, Patricia.”

  “Bring a sweater.”

  “How about you?” You’ll be cold all naked in my boat.

  “It’s warm this time of the year over there.”

  OK, he was apparently missing something. “Over where?”

  “Italy.”

  No fucking good. “I’m going fishing, and you’re heading to Italy?”

  “I’m going shopping. You don’t like shopping.”

  Indeed, he did not unless they shopped for her, especially for lingerie. He fucking loved lingerie shopping with her. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. It’s a male thing, I suppose. Most men just don’t like shopping.”

  An hour in the bathroom for her and two glasses of scotch later for him, and she was still trying to start a fight. Even knowing she was doing it on purpose, he felt the restlessness grow. “Not the damn shopping! The vacation together, Patricia. Why the hell not?”

  “I want to be alone.”

  “No.” It just came out. That was probably the very worst thing he could have said at that point. No ranked right up there with the moving-in-together incident, and she had thrown him out naked that time.

  “No? What do you mean ‘No?’ As if it’s any of your damn rights to tell me no! You’ve been here every damn day for the last three weeks. You had everyone on your damn team come over. I’m all right.”

  His eyebrow jerked up, but he didn’t contradict her. She needed venting. OK by him. She was sexy as hell when she ranted.

  “Christopher James MacLaren!”

  Her howl brought his attention out of his pants. “Yes, Dar
ling of mine?” OK, so he was grinning. She wanted to go to Italy? No fucking problem. He liked fishing. He would go fishing while she went to Italy. I’ll let you have Italian food, Italian wine, Italian shopping, but not one damn Italian man. He would go fishing alone and get the wood camp ready for her return, scoop her up at the airport and have her all to himself then. He needed to buy a launch, though. He would go fishing alone and send the A-team over with her. No fucking Italian man, Angel.

  Fishing Trip

  “Christopher James MacLaren, don’t you dare!”

  “I haven’t said anything, Angel.”

  “Damn you! You’re doing it again.”

  “What am I supposed to be doing exactly?” He asked in a soothing voice. He saw no point in them both being angry.

  “This. I can see it in your eyes; you’re already planning on having me followed.”

  “On keeping you safe,” he rectified, his calm voice somewhat a tad sharper.

  “Don’t. Leave me alone. Stop interfering all the time. I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of myself.”

  Of course, she could. When she did her writing, her living, her dating things, but not when she did her damn research for her stories. Not when she bumped into her fucking ex’s leftovers. Not to worry, Dollface, I am the one covering the dating thing now, not your dead asshole ex, Joshua. Even when they were dating long-distance as he foresaw straight ahead.

  “Patricia,” he cooed in a gentle voice.

  “Don’t ‘Patricia’ me! I’m going to Italy, and you’re not! End of discussion. Go.”

  He reviewed his options. Italy wasn’t so bad. She liked it over there and would surely return with a sexy honey-colour tan. He hoped for a slight gain weight. Don’t be shy with the pasta, Angel, you haven’t been eating much lately. Want money to splurge on new suggestive lingerie, clothes, maybe a tie for me? A smile on her face. In her eyes.