Quintic (13 page)

S
he was
wasting her time.
Maudit
, she did not want to write
the damn thing. She did not wish to think about writing the damn
thing. She had to, of course, and she would, just as surely as
Christopher was going to read it even though he didn’t want to.
Dwelling on old memories, describing past experiences or talking
about old lovers was not their thing. Not hers in any
case.

Obviously,
she knew Christopher had had a few women in his life, and much more
than a few at that. Girlfriends, lovers, one night stands, even a
fiancée. For him, no commitment had meant taking up with different
women, numerous, interchangeable, concurrent and unimportant. Most
infuriating.

She
had
not had as many partners as he had
(not even close) because well, she kept her boyfriends longer, and
she had had periods of celibacy in between lovers because, at
times, the male species annoyed the heck out of her. Her way of
dealing with said species was alternating between either younger
men,
men
, not boys, so never anyone younger than− how old had that
Italian player been? Twenty-eight? Hence men without emotional
baggage. Or older men because of their lower energy level, she
found them easier to handle, or jerks. Jerks were the best; they
were totally commitment-free on her part. Young, old, jerks,
celibacy and once in a while she went on a trip to Italy to break
the routine. She had such a simple life then.

The day
dragged on.
She grabbed a sandwich with
Reid in the downstairs cafeteria. The sandwich was stale but
criticising the thing was easier than complaining about the damn
report she had to do. She got back at one. Only one o’clock. She
blamed herself yet again for coming back to the office. This day
seemed endless. At least, Christopher was not in his office when
she got back.

She
worked on the diner murder, much more fun than
her damn testimony. She reread the entire file for the third time,
jotting down a list of what she planned to do to research her
case.

E
at at the diner.

W
alk the back alley again but
slowly this time and without calling anyone.

L
ook around, maybe take
pictures?

T
alk to the dead waitress’s old
co-workers.

Show
the
co-workers the crime scene photos
(check with
Christopher
Bridget if
allowed).

Write
scenarios.

She was good
at writing
stories, imagining what might
have happened and see where that took her. She could even write a
film script, have that whatshername young blond actress that
everyone liked these days star in it. That would be something. Have
the blond woman be the star only to kill her within the first
fifteen minutes into the story. Or maybe let her last thirty
minutes and use that old actor, the one with the attitude and the
bad boy face lead the investigation. Not as a cop, though; the cop
thing invaded her life overly much right now, didn’t it? An
ordinary guy, a cook maybe, would hunt for the killer. Hum. She was
onto something. She started writing.

Lost in
her
writer’s world, she didn’t hear
Christopher come back, but she heard Hamilton and Charles. One
could count on Hamilton to make an entrance. She did not turn
around but glared at the old kettle on her desk that she used as a
flower pot. From time to time, she did bring herself fresh flowers
to put in the pot. Sometimes, she showed up for work, and fresh
flowers awaited her in the pot. She liked that. A lot. The kettle
pot was her spying tool of choice in the office. It didn’t show the
action unfolding in her back in great detail, but she saw enough to
know who was in and who wasn’t. She was learning quite a few tricks
from the guys.

She
smiled
as Christopher stomped in and
glared at her back from the middle of the room. Before he could
head her way, the guys stopped him on his track. The three
retreated to the conference room. Her cue. She saved her file,
closed the document, didn’t bother turning off her computer, gave a
brief message to Bridget for Christopher and left. The Big guy was
going to be angry, maybe, surely, until she gave him her damn
statement. Which was not necessarily going to improve his
mood.

Once
outside, she took a deep, steadying breath. Almost four o’clock.
Late enough for a glass of wine. She called it her
apéritif
.
It was going to be a long evening, and she was not going to survive
it sober, not if she had to spend it by herself in some bar, with
her laptop and memories of her ex-lover Lemieux.

Patricia had
trouble sleeping too.
She had not started
writing the damn thing before eleven; she had procrastinated by
writing book ideas in her notebook instead. Luckily, the little
wine bar near the park in central downtown hadn’t been crowded. The
barman had given her a booth off the back. Its high backrest hid
her from the front of the place and the bar where men prowled and
surveyed the female species.

She
sat
mostly unnoticed all evening, only
smiling at one male specimen, the barkeeper, each time he brought
her a new glass of red wine. A couple of guys did walk by, but only
two had dared come up to her, and her little bitchy side shot them
down easily.

She liked
the bar
. She used to come here a lot
before. Lemieux had been the first to take her here, so it was
appropriate to write the damn thing here. She liked the
old-fashioned décor, the long wooden counter, the cosy booths, the
soft lights that glowed slightly yellow; the place felt warm and
out of time. The bartender wore a suit; the male clientele, mostly
from the surrounding business district, wore suits; the women wore
dresses and high heels. Very classy place indeed.

E
very two or three weeks, she
stopped by for a drink; the barman often had a new red wine for her
to sample. On a previous night, she had enquired about scotch and
yes, the bar did offer a selection of very expensive single malt
scotch. As she had yet to bring Christopher, she had been sure to
be alone all evening.

Needless to
say, she went to bed late
, only to toss
and turn. After an hour of restlessness, she gave up. Time for some
closet cleaning. When did she last reorganised it?

Now that she
had finally written the damn thing, she wasn’t sure what to do with
it. The report was accurate and precise yet not necessarily
thorough. No need to give out details about
the
how
s and
why
s. Need-to-know info only, as
they said in the police. Or was it the army? Special forces?
Anyway. Only a brief mention of Joshua in the damn thing.
Irrelevant.

She didn’t
want to hand the damn thing to Christopher at the office. Didn’t
want to give it to him face-to-face period. She was not sticking
around when he was going to read it. Same for when he was going to
give it to Hamilton and Charles. She
so
didn’t want
them
even
to look at it. Didn’t want Christopher anywhere near the damn
report period. She sobbed. Just one soft whimper. More of a sigh,
wasn’t it? She was exhausted and utterly sad.

Dawn
was coming fast. Christopher would wake up soon;
the Big guy was not a big sleeper. She took a quick shower and
pulled on jeans, a tank top, low-heeled boots and leather jacket,
forgo the bra, panties, socks, makeup and combing her wet hair. She
was out of the hotel with the clock showing five past four. Running
out of time. Carl, the night doorman, had left already, but Philip,
the day guy, hailed her a cab.

She had the
taxi stop a block from Christopher’s building. Since he didn’t live
in the safest neighbourhood, she asked the driver to wait for her.
She planned on coming back swiftly. A brisk walk to the building’s
front door. At this early hour, Christopher was going to be the
only one in (all the other apartments in his three-storey building
were, in fact, offices). Christopher’s place was on the top floor,
but she didn’t take the elevator, too noisy.

At
his door, she slowly inserted the key
Christopher had long ago given her (way too soon in their
relationship she thought again) in the lock and turned it. She
opened the door quietly and listened. The shower was running. She
stood, left hand on the door handle, right hand holding the
envelope containing the damn thing. One second, two seconds, three
seconds, four… Damn, she wanted to accompany him in the shower. Or
get undress and hide under his covers. But not with the report. She
sighed as she lowered the envelope to the floor. She closed the
door back softly and hurriedly headed for the taxi. What
now?

She was
hungry. She was hungry enough for a Christopher James MacLaren
deluxe breakfast. If she had crawled into his bed, surely he would
have cooked her something. She seriously considered going back but
remembered the damn thing. Then she recalled the diner. Dawn had
arrived; the diner was probably open for the early birds. She had
the taxi drive her all the way to the restaurant on the other side
of town.

PI Unlimited:
Him

T
here she was.
Destiny. Faith. Bad luck, at least for her. Jeremy watched her eyes
grow wide when she noticed him. Good.
My
turn to play, Princess Jane
.

“
Is this seat taken?”

She didn’t answer. Had her eyes been
that dark, her lips looked that soft, her cheeks that rosy? She was
blushing. She seemed troubled. Fuck, he was so turned on.

“
How are you, Darling?”

She kept on the silence treatment. It
didn’t stop him. Damn, she was lovely. He was going to make her pay
for being so lovely, for arousing him, for running off. She had to
make amends mostly for taking off. He should arrest her. After all,
she was a material witness. He should arrest her and frisked her
and secured her.

“
She’s pleading insanity, you
know.”

She frowned, her eyes darkening,
turning moist. Specs of green glared back at him, and she shivered.
Damn, she was lovely even though she suddenly looked sad.
Not a good move, Je. You’re an asshole
.
It took him by surprise; Why should he even care if she looked sad?
Lovely Jane.

“
I was worried about you.” He had
been. He was. It pissed him off, but it didn’t change
anything.

She frowned again. She had the
liveliest face.
We’re going to play poker,
you and me, Jane.
He was going to win every damn fucking
time. Strip poker.

“
I have to go,” she murmured, her
ass already off of her chair.

“
Please don’t.” She looked startled
at his plead. His need for her to stay took him aback too. “I still
have your eyeglasses.” Technically, the glasses were in the
evidence box, but for the right incentive, he could get them back
to her.

“
What are you talking about?”
Innocent-looking blue eyes looked straight at him. “I don’t wear
glasses,” she lied to his face even though she knew he
knew.

He should just put the handcuffs on her
and be done with it. “Let me buy you a drink then you can go. I
promise.” A drink against him not arresting her.

She studied him. She was sharp; he
wouldn’t have to spell it out. Up to the challenge, she sat back
with a pout.

He found her quite interesting. Not
that he would have arrested her. Can’t cuff a woman then ask her
out. “I was worried about you,” he said again once they had their
drinks. He liked that she liked red wine. She had been drinking the
same on the night they’d met. Damn classy. “I went to visit at the
hospital.” Not sure what she remembered; she had seemed so lost
that night. Brave and fragile.

She nodded. The faintest of
movement.

He smiled. So she knew. He still didn’t
know her name. He offered his hand. “I’m Jeremy.”

She nodded but didn’t shake his hand.
“Jeremy,” she repeated softly.

“
What’s your name?” Princess Jane
had a nice ring, but she might not appreciate it between the
sheets.

She flashed the briefest of smile that
said, ‘nice try, asshole’ then shrugged. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, I
don’t remember you so well. Where did we meet?”

It could it be that she had indeed
forgotten. Post-traumatic shock can do that. A serial killer
licking one’s neck can obliterate a lot of memories. “We met a
while ago. In a bar.” He looked for signs of recognition.

“
In a bar, really? Which one? I
don’t go out much. What did we talk about?”

He had the feeling he was missing
something. “You wanted to know if I had a wife.”

“
Ah. Do you?”

“
No.”

“
Gay?” She was feeding him a fucking
repeat of their first encounter.

He was indeed missing something.
Missing something big and getting pissed about it. The anger took
him by surprise.

“
Impotent?” She went on. Damn, she
was good. Plainly well-practised at pissing off unwanted callers,
for what man wouldn’t be insulted by such a woman not remembering
him or calling him impotent? It had almost worked too.