Quintic (14 page)

“
I’m not gay nor am I impotent,
Princess.” He took note of her obvious dislike at the princess.
Good. He too could play.
No serial killer
will stand between us tonight, Princess
. “How about you?
Are you married?”

He expected the same answer as the
other night but no. Another direction. She laughed. “Of course not.
I’m gay.” Damn, she was good.

“
If really you are, I’m going to
arrest you. If you’re not, I’m going to ask you out. Your
call.”

“
Either way, I don’t screw
cops.”

He felt the anger flare up. Just
like the last time. But this time, he caught the triumphant smile
that shadowed on her lips momentarily. She was indeed trying to
anger him and doing a damn fine job. She had almost succeeded once,
but she wouldn’t again.
Not on my watch,
Princess
. Not if he wanted to kiss her. And he did, very
much so.

My turn to play, Jane. “That’s a shame,
Princess, I was so looking forward to making love to you. Or watch
you come.” He admired as she blushed again. So, so lovely.

No answer.

He did most of the talking. He smiled,
softly, talked, softly, and looked at her face, only her face. Her
eyes. He could have sworn they were getting darker as he
talked.

Since his aim was to make light, soft,
intelligent conversation, he did not mention the serial killer
again. Small talk only. He wasn’t big on small talk, but that night
he made more conversation than he had in the previous year. Decade.
He kept it honest. He wanted her all. True. As is. So true.

He watched her frown and smiled and
sighed. As he yearned to seduce her, he waited for every fucking
smile and sigh and reacted accordingly. Her every damn reaction
enthralled him. He brushed his lips against hers before she left.
Took off. Ran.

He checked her out the next morning, or
rather he had one of the computer geeks checked her out. It took
him a while to admit she had had him again. He still didn’t know
Princess Jane’s real name.

Damn, he had liked that kiss. The
beginning of a kiss before she had run off.
I
won’t let you take off again, Princess.
Once he’d find
her again, he wouldn’t.

Excerpt
from
PI
Unlimited
, by Trica C.
Line

Patricia’s
Breakfast

T
he diner was open and already
busy. Of the twenty-some places, only three were free. Patricia
took one of the empty stools at the counter. She didn’t have to
wait long for the waitress to bring her a menu, then, with barely a
nod, the woman hurried away to serve a customer.

The
clientele was mostly male, dressed in overalls and work clothes.
The restaurant was i
n an industrious
neighbourhood; it looked old but clean in the morning light. Most
of the furniture sported vinyl and-or cheap plastic. From her seat,
she had an unobstructed view of the kitchen. One cook, plus one
dishwasher guy. With the one waitress, they composed the morning
staff. Both the cook and his helper looked like they had been here
for a long time; they were working side by side smoothly without
talking, filling orders out swiftly.

P
atricia wondered if the staff
were the same as on the night her dead waitress was killed. Today’s
waitress seemed new, though; the girl looked like a college kid,
like her dead waitress in the file. It was too busy to speak to
them for now.

The waitress
finally returned to take her order
.

“
I’ll have
two eggs sunny-side up, and toasts. White bread, butter, no
margarine. Do you have decaf?” The waitress shook her head. No big
surprise. “Well, then, I’d like a plain orange juice, please. And
maple syrup, but only if it’s real maple syrup.”

Nope, it wasn’t.

She
studied people as they came and went. Around
seven, with the place growing quiet, both the cook and the waitress
started relaxing. Showtime.

She
motioned the waitress over. Even though Patricia
tended to be shy, she could fool anyone when play-acting or doing
research. As she was doing both now, she was up to asking the staff
all, starting with the young waitress.

“
Are you in
college? I did a lecture awhile back on mystery literature.” True.
“And you kind of look familiar.” True enough. At that age, college
girls all looked the same, didn’t they?

The girl
confirmed being in college. After verification, both dead and alive
waitresses attended the same college. So far so good.

“
I’m doing
research for a book,
the diner back in
the old days.” Also true since she was indeed always doing research
for some book, and she liked the old days. “Have you been working
here long?”

“
About a
year. They hired me when the old waitress retired,” said the girl.
Not so good. The girl must have noticed her disappointment for she
hurriedly added, “But the cook and his helper have been here for
years. And an old waitress drops by from time to time too.” Good
and good.

“
Do you know
of anyone else that has worked here more than two
years?”

“Nope.”

Hence
, to gather more inside
information, Patricia only had a total of three potential sources.
“Okeydokey. Waitressing in a place like this seems as if it’s
either a part-time college job or a life-long vocation.”

“
It’s sure
is,” the girl agreed. “An accident occurred some years ago.”
Accident
?
Was the girl referring to the murder? “And the woman here that
night changed diner but didn’t stop waitressing. A life’s work like
you said.” Interesting.

When
t
he late birds began to invade the place,
Patricia left but not before asking the staff if she could come
back on another day to talk to the men.

Stepping
out, she realised the day was sunny, and she was tired. She called
the office (fortunately Christopher wasn’t in), “Hi, Bridget. I
just thought I’d let you know I won’t be in until the afternoon.”
If ever.

She walked
down the street to a cab station
. Back to
her hotel, she went straight to bed. She was exhausted; she fell
asleep within minutes. Since getting to the restaurant, she had not
thought once about Lemieux’s report.

A
ll in
all, it took Chris less than ten minutes to cook breakfast and eat
it. He ate standing, next to the stove. Patricia would have made a
sassy remark had she seen him for he was the one requesting they
sat at the table during meals. Not that he didn’t enjoy her sitting
on the counter while he cooked. The thought made him smile. A
little.

T
he eggs were mushy and uncooked,
yet it could have been worse; his mind hadn’t been on the cooking.
He barely tasted the food in any case because he kept glancing at
the envelope he had carefully placed on the table next to where he
would have set his plate had he bothered to sit. He left the dishes
piled in the sink, grabbed his coffee, finally sat down at the
table, opened the thing and read it. Once.

The style
was telegraphic and
straight to the
point. She hadn’t written it as some book chapter. Only facts
without many details and yet somehow it gave too much information.
He took a walk down his living room, to his bedroom, to his
terrace, and had a cigarette in the lounge chair before reading her
statement again. After, he folded it neatly, put it in his shirt
breast pocket and left for work.

Intent on
doing
paperwork as he waited for the damn
woman to arrive,
if she
came
, he locked himself in his office.
Bridget was already in, of course, making up for sick days no
doubt. He barely nodded at her before slamming his office door.
Bridget knew better than to come and talk to him when he was in
such a mood. But he had just taken his jacket off and wasn’t even
sitting when she came knocking. It had to be fucking urgent for
Bridget to bother him.

“
Good
morning, Sir. Would you like a coffee?” When he shook his head no,
Bridget gave him a tight smile.
Yah, I know, I’m not a morning person.
“Patricia called. She won’t be in until later.
The afternoon most probably.”

Damn
dest woman. He should have
known; she probably hadn’t slept any better than he had. He stopped
short of driving over to wake her up. He could wait. He was
patient, wasn’t he? Fucking patient. He needed to be with her. And
she was worth every second of waiting.

When
the
team showed up, he went over their
caseload, “Yes, guys. Again,” before taking Ham and Charles to his
office to review with them the background information Patricia had
given on Lemieux. He chose not to give them copies. He could have;
should have; didn’t. Hence, he summarised what was in the letter in
his own words. Shortly after, the guys left to continue the
legwork, and, with everyone finally out, he was alone in the
office.

A little
after ten-thirty, Bridget brought him a coffee. He suspected it was
a ploy to check on his mood. His disposition had not improved, not
even close. He drank his coffee standing up, looking at the guys’
empty desks (which included Reid’s), his glance straying to
Patricia’s desk and her surveillance pot all the way at the back.
He knew her fucking deposition by heart now.

Lemieux

R
ick
Lemieux.

1st encounter: Book show in town. North
Convention Centre. Three years ago.

L bought one of my books right out the
pile, asked for my autograph. And my phone number. I signed the
book. No number.

Fuck, it
would have pissed him off
had she agreed
to give Lemieux her number the first time she met the jerk. She had
him wait a long time. OK, maybe not all that long but it sure had
seemed that way. He wanted for it to have been longer for Lemieux.
He fucking wanted it to have been tougher for the fucking lot of
Joshua and his knights. For anyone. He was the man she was crazy
about, wasn’t he?

2nd encounter: Book show. Next day.

L brought his book back. Asked for an
autograph. And my phone number. I signed again. No number. L came
back, end of the day. Asked for an autograph. Without my phone
number. He had written his. I signed his book. No number.

Of
course
, her fucking report didn’t mention
what a good memory she had. Chris suspected she had that number
memorised the minute she saw it. And yet she had trouble
remembering to call his mobile phone when he was out!

3rd
encounter
:
Coffee shop. Book show neighbourhood
.
Later.

Later when?
An hour? A day? A week?
He hoped she had
not seen the jerk too soon. A week of waiting was still not long
enough. Or a month. He suspected it was a couple of weeks at the
most because she tended to cram her signing appearances and go on
vacation after. Busy the next days, off the next months. So a week
or two, three max.

I was having a coffee while working on my computer. I had
decided to stay in town for a while.

How
long
was awhile? And, more importantly,
why the fuck?

Beautiful weather. Tiring book tour. I was tired of moving
around. L was a sweet-talker. Pleasant. Kind of
charming.

Chris didn’t
her fucking praising Lemieux. Was she complementing the jerk or
more like defending herself?

He
a
sked for a date.
No.

Third
encounter and still no date? That made
him feel better. On their third day, Chris had slept with
her. Granted she had been drunk, and they did not have sex, her
falling asleep on him, he still chose to consider it as sleeping
together. She had stayed in bed next to him all night, and who
cared if she had been the only one sleeping. Still damn sleeping
together.

4th encounter: Same coffee shop. One week later.
Rainy.

L seemed sad. We talked. Nice. He asked for a date. We went
for supper after coffee. Walked to an Italian place five blocks
down. Each paid. I called a cab at the end. Handshake, no kiss. I
gave him my phone number. Mobile only, no address.

Chris could
see how the hand
shake-no-kiss would have
worked on her. Her being tired from a book tour, dinner at an
Italian place on top of that, the Rick guy hadn’t been such an
idiot.

5th encounter: Date. Three days later. Classical ballet
show
.

Her idea for sure.

L a
lmost fell asleep
during. Very honest about it.

Testing
him,
had she? She had tried something
like that on him too. Worse in truth. A damn opera. He had not
slept but spent the duration of the damn thing watching her watch
the show. Lovely sight.

Drinks after, Irish pub, downtown Irish quarter. We met two
of his friends: The kid and the king.

She had not included their real
names in the report, how fucking surprising.