Quintic (28 page)

Patricia
drank the last of her
coffee, put her cup down slowly but kept her hold on it as if
trying to warm her hands. And maybe she was. She started to talk,
calmly at first when she was telling him about her morning, her
work at the coffee shop, her walk in the morning drizzle, the rain
that had soaked her wet, and her lunch.

She kept her
calm through her description of her
stroll at the back of the restaurant, her photo shoot. Why
she had gone there.
Research
.
That damn research obsession was going to get
her injured some day
.
Had
got her injured,
Chris corrected himself. Fuck, why couldn’t she go to the library
like everybody else?

Her
voice
remained steady when she told him
about the garbage truck, the garbage container. The positioning of
it. In her crazy kind of way, the way it had all come down sounded
logical, didn’t it? She held on to her cup hard as if anchoring
herself to it. Chris didn’t dare touch her for fear she’d lose her
concentration.

Her voice
got a little shaky when she
recounted how
powerless the girl had looked. Broken. “I thought, perhaps she was
still alive. I just wanted to get her out of the rain. It was so
cold outside.”

She recalled
h
er knocking on the door. She must have
banged pretty hard; Chris noticed the bruises on the edge of her
hand when she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her speech became
shaky and hesitant as she recalled the cook opening the door, the
standing in the kitchen not knowing what to do. She confided her
yearning to get out of there, wanting to run, not being able
to.

Her voice
stead
ied again when she resumed her
conversation with the cops. The questions they had asked. Her
answers. He caught Frankke smiling despite the guy’s attempt to
hide the grin behind his cup. The detectives had expected an easy
confession out of a helpless woman in less than an hour and had got
her instead. No wonder the jerks were annoying, she had pushed them
around quite skilfully. Surprising woman. She never reacted quite
like he expected her to.

“I want to go to the precinct
and take care of the report right away,” she demanded in closing
her story.

“
Whatever
you want, Princess.”

The rain had
stopped
, but they took the car
nevertheless. Silence again. Their floor was empty. No one to tell
of what had gone down. It was better that way, safer. They had the
damn report written and signed within the hour.

Chris
left a message from the
31
^st
chief. “I’m sending the witness’s statement to your
attention. You have any question, call me directly.”

When the
report was typed and emailed, Frankke hugged Patricia and
left.

“
Finally
alone, Princess.”

He sat at
his desk; she stood next to his couch, half of her engulfed into
Vitto’s sweater. Gone were her shivers and the bluish colour that
had stained her lips. And her hair was now a mass of curls and
frizz.

She
crossed
and uncrossed her arms in front
of her, before stepping to his desk. He rose and reached her
midway. They didn’t touch as he followed her to the door, down the
staircase, to the garage, to his truck. He opened her door and
waited until she was settled to go to the driver side.

“Your place or mine?”

She didn’t
answer
but for a small nod. He took the
hint. Her place. And he wasn’t staying. They rode in
silence.

At her
hotel, h
e was out and around the car to
her door before she had time to unclip her seatbelt. He offered his
hand to help her out; she stared at it without moving for half a
minute. Slowly she lifted her hand and placed it on his, her skin
cold in his palm.

Once he
helped her out, he didn’t let go, couldn’t; he gathered her into
his arms and hugged her tight. She smelled of shampoo, rain, wet
hair, garbage. He held her harder until she wrapped her arms around
his waist and squeezed him in response. His breathing had slowed.
She was safe. They were going to be fine.

She
broke the embrace first, kissed his cheek before
disappearing through the door. He was not angry anymore. He wasn’t
hungry either, just fucking tired. He could use that scotch right
now. He started the car and drove away.

S
he went up to her
room without talking to anyone. Damn tired, she headed straight to
bed without undressing. Pulling the covers tight under her chin,
she fell asleep and surprisingly slept the night.

Drawn crept
in. One minute she was asleep, the next she was wide awake, feeling
even more exhausted than the night before. She had to find a better
way to do research. At the library maybe? And why did she have to
write about the adventures of a female PI? Stay-at-home moms must
have lots of escapades too. A romantic love affair between a
distraught single mother and her pool guy. And her postman. And her
neighbour. And her neighbour’s wife. And a cop. Big
sigh.

She stayed
hidden
under the covers, Christopher
invading her thoughts. They had taken that coffee after all,
although not the way she had planned. What might have happened
yesterday if the Big guy had not shown up with Frankke at the
diner?

Maybe she
sh
ould try her hand at children’s books
again. No sexy man in those. No complicated love affair. And no
dead bodies. She dozed off. Dreamt of bad cops and murderer pool
guys and children drowning under the rain. She woke in a
sweat.

Shower time.
She stayed under the water a long time, washing her hair twice,
scrubbing her body vigorously until her flesh felt raw. She got out
pink and smelling flowery, without so much as a hint of garbage
stink.

She phoned
the desk clerk.
“Hi, it’s Patricia in
four-fourteen.” As if the receptionist didn’t know. “When someone
has a minute, I’d appreciate some help to change the bedding,
sheets and covers. Oh, and pick up the trash. Thanks.”

No way was
she
ever again wearing the clothes she
had on yesterday, not after they had come into contact with the
dead girl. Totally irrational but then again, she had no illusion
about how screwed up she was.

She was
hungry. “Hi, me again. Can you ask the cook to fix me something?
Pancakes with maple syrup.” Her comfort breakfast of choice.
“With
Chantilly
cream if you have any. And orange zest like he
did the last time. Plus sausages and a side order of bacon. Do you
know if he still has some of that maple flavour bacon left?” Surely
she would be back to normal after her feast. Near-normal at
least.

She
played dress-up while waiting for her food.
Nothing like a full make-over to lift one’s spirit. First, she
blew-dried her hair into soft waves. Then, she dabbed gold-brown
eyeshadow on her eyelids, traced a subtle line of dark-brown
eyeliner and applied triple coats of black mascara. A hint of
peachy blush on her cheek completed the look. She donned an outfit
to match. Black underwear, black tights, short black skirt, silky
black blouse, unbuttoned just enough to show the top edge of her
bra. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Christopher would not be
able to stay mad at her for long. Although he had not looked all
that mad yesterday when he had dropped her off.

A
knock
on the door announced Christine,
the maid.

“
Hi,
Patricia sweetie. Heard you had a bed emergency,” the petite woman
teased.

Together
they changed the bedding, including
the
mattress protective sheet, the covers and the bedspread. Patricia
assumed the chain of contamination went from the dead girl to
Patricia’s clothes to her bedding since she had slept in her
clothes. Again totally irrational. Christine lent a hand without
superfluous enquiries. A most perfect hotel maid.

Patricia had
been living in the hotel long enough to know the staff
personally; she had befriended some of them,
including Christine, enough that she often gave the woman clothes
she didn’t want to wear anymore. Christine worked magic with a
needle, and could fit Patricia’s clothes to her size, or her
sister’s, cousins, nieces. Christine’s family tree resembled a
forest.

“
You will
throw the bedding away, won’t you, Christine? Charge them to my
room.”

’’

While they
worked,
Benjamin, the valet assigned to
her floor, walked in with her breakfast, and soon the three of them
were chatting, or rather gossiping about staff members, guests, and
Patricia.

Whatever the
day, the hour, not to mention the state of her outfit, someone was
always around to notice Patricia as she breezed in, clumped or
returned stealthily, be it the doorman, the front clerk, the
barman. They were her surrogate family and as such, when she walked
in dishevelled, angry, tired, sad, dirty, wet or drunk, they took
notice hence the gossip. She didn’t mind (too much) since their
interest came (mostly) out of concern for her. They were teasing
her about her look of the previous night when they heard a knock at
the door.

“
I’ll get
it,” Benjamin offered. “I’m the only one not doing anything.” He
came back announcing, “T
wo gentlemen here
to see you, girly girl. Policemen I’d say, from the badges they
shoved in my face.”

Not
Christopher and a friend then, because the entire staff knew him
and his team by now. Besides, the Big guy rarely knocked.
Hum.

“
It can’t
possibly be−” she mumbled as she hurried into the living room, but
sure enough there they were, the two dumb detectives from hell
standing uninvited in the middle of what she called her
house.

If
t
hey intended to harass her again, they
had another thing coming. She considered calling Christopher, but
the thought vanished when one of the dumb-asses opened the
hostility. “Time we got answers to our questions, Missy.” She hated
it when anyone, and especially cops, called her missy.

A very bad
start. No “
hello
”,
no “
how
have you been
”,
no “
we
would like to
apologise for yesterday, us being so dumb and
all
.
” She set her jaw and stomped to her door. If she let them
go on, she might get irrevocably angry, and
that
spelled trouble.
She was mad enough as it was.

She spoke in
an even tone, controlling her voice, making it cool and measured.
“Gentlemen, I already made a written statement to Chief Officer
MacLaren. For now, I’m tired, annoyed and hungry, and my breakfast
is getting cold. Hence, any question will have to wait for later.
Out you go.” She pointed to the door.

One of the
cops did tread to the door, not so dumb then. But the other, the
one that had tried to intimidate her yesterday with the bad cop
attitude, hands on the table, getting in her face with all his
height and fat, that dumb one did not move.

“
Bad move,
buster,” she growled silently. “This morning, I’m no longer
distraught. Today, I’m dry, and I’m home, on
my
turf now. Believe
me when I tell you, you
will
leave.”

The dumb
detective didn’t hear the growls nor did he see her thoughts in her
eyes. He wanted to push, “Look, missy, you will answer the
questions, here or at the station−”

“
Not that
again,” she cut him off.
“I do not have
to answer any of your questions.” She tried keeping her voice
neutral but only half succeeded, her anger became audible the more
she spoke. “I will,
again
, for the last time, ask you
to leave.” Almost polite. Not bad considering what she wanted to
say was more in the line of, “
Get the fuck out now, you dumb ass
.” Excellent anger management, Christopher would have been
proud.

Dumb-ass
forever, the guy di
dn’t let it go.
Unknowingly by Patricia (not that she would have given a damn), the
officer had spent the night at the diner, working the mouth,
talking to the customers and staff. Then, upon his return to the
station, his chief had lectured him endlessly (Central had lectured
said chief in the previous hours).

“
Your
lack of collaboration to the MacLaren guy was
duly noted and deemed unacceptable.”

Hence, a
shitty day on the job for the detective, and all because of that
tart, the dick had concluded. So no, she was not going to get away
with it. He didn’t care who she was humping at City Hall; he was
pretty sure he could make the murder charge stick for a while.
After all, the woman had shown she had a temper. Could be a lover’s
quarrel with the dead girl. The vic was younger; had the girl
stolen the woman’s guy? The older broad had offed her competition.
Or the wench could have taken the girl’s boyfriend, seeing as the
bitch was a looker. Funny he had not noticed how sexy she was
yesterday.