Quintic (31 page)

“
I’m going to bring it back to life
and take you for a spin,” he said, meaning both her and the car.
Maybe that was what he could give her. A spin. A life anchor, a
real
-life bulwark. Even though he
suspected she was beyond his power, she was well worth the
try.

They sat in the car. Sexy. He sat in
the driver seat; she sat in the passenger seat. They talked and
listened to the radio. He slid his ass to the centre of the seat.
He stretched his arm around her shoulders.

He made love to her. Love, not sex. He
came when she did. Louder. Longer. He collapsed inside her. She was
nothing like the whores, not even as the women before. It scared
him. So big a void in him. He demanded. No, he implored, with his
hands, with his body. The taste of her. Stunning she was in that
instant, and from then on, beautiful she kept on.

Excerpt
from
The J-man
, by Trica C. Line

T
hey
celebrated but barely.

“
How about
we go to the wine bar near the park?” She suggested. “I wrote the
damn report there, so it is appropriate we go there for my
resignation. After all, Lemieux has a lot to do with
it.”

But
since traffic was hell, he took them home, his
place. He had a selection of red wines he kept aside for just this
type of occasion, when he got her all to himself for an entire
evening, without anything pending between them. Well, almost
anything. She had lied repeatedly − not sure yet how much − since
the beginning of this mess. And she had gone to see those
detectives (albeit it appeared to have gone smoothly). But all in
all, he was in a good mood. Hopefully so was she. Romantic and
charming.

He
had
big plans for the evening. On the way
back from the library, he had called the little Italian place they
both liked near the office and had them prepared some plates, to be
delivered at his place around seven. Chris and Patricia were among
the owners’ favourite patrons, so they always went out of their
ways to please them. In return, both he and Patricia always went
out of their way on tips.

A seven
o’clock delivery left them with an hour to unwind, an hour to relax
and get comfortable. He wouldn’t bring up her visit to the locals
during those sixty minutes. He didn’t plan on talking much during
those minutes anyway because he planned to occupy his mouth
otherwise. He realised he was smiling, caught her watching him with
puzzlement and kept on smiling.

The
f
irst thing he did upon arriving was to
pour them a drink. A red wine for her, a scotch for him. Of course.
They stood side by side, drinks in hand, glancing out the front
windows as traffic thinned out on the street. After a few sips, she
leaned her head on his shoulder. He listened to her soft pants, the
best fucking therapy, and waited.
Your move, Princess
.

She put her
arm around his waist
without looking at
him. He didn’t move. He liked when she came at him like that. Her
initiative, and like now, a slow approach it often was. He liked.
He remained immobile; plenty of time, an entire hour before the
Italian restaurant delivered their food. And all night after
that.

Her hand
moved from his waist to his back, slowly, to his neck, so
leisurely, without her eyes leaving the window.
He caught the beginning of a smile on her lips, heard her breathe
faster. He didn’t move. She rested her hand on his nape, hovering
and caressing for the longest time. He didn’t move. He liked a lot.
She pasted her body to his, her lips on the vein on his neck. He
liked immensely.

He waited,
frozen and expressionless, but surely she knew he was ready.
So ready, Angel. I’m waiting for
your move to lose it
. The vein beat under
her lips. Pulsing so fast, oh so very fast. They needed not say a
word. He could have stayed like that all evening but knew she
wouldn’t last that long. She was the impatient one. He grabbed
their two glasses and set down them on the windowsill.
Keep your hands on me now, Angel of
mine
.

Her legs
wrapped around him as he lifted her to him. She tightened her arms
around his neck, hiding her smile against his skin, her lips
anchored on his throbbing vein. He leaned her back to the window,
her front pressed to him, and again, he became motionless, enjoying
the feeling of her against him, so against him. Throbbing.
Gradually, she started rubbing against him. He started stroking
back, his groin gyrating and kneading faster and faster,
burning.

“
Right
there, Pussycat? Do you feel that?”

They kept on
dry-fucking like teenagers, his growls and her moans ringing in his
ears. They climaxed fully clothed. She smiled against his neck; he
grinned in her arms.

“
Once again,
the dry-cleaner will look at me funny.”

“
A man your
age!”

“
You’re only
five years younger, Princess.”

“
How
indecorous, Big guy.”

“
Fucking
right. Well worth it, though.” He might bring her to his
dry-cleaner one day as an explanation. A look, a smile, a brush of
her hand on the man’s shirt, and the guy would understand. He
smiled wider.

Then his
phone rang. The tone ring meant work. Thankfuckinggod the call had
not come in a couple of minutes earlier.

“
Mac, Ham
here.” Ham was the detective on duty tonight. “We got ourselves a
stripper.” Fuck. “No need to dress up, Boss.”

No way was
he going
to tell Patricia where he was
going. “I have to go, Dollface. You can wait here if you want, this
shouldn’t take long.” Like it never did. “The food should be here
soon. Eat, watch television, drink, wait for me.”
Just fucking wait for
me
. He hoped to find her in the same
frame of mind as before. Teenagers fucking.

MacLaren’s
Look-Alike

C
hris woke up in a bad mood.
Shitty evening. The rain had started again. It took forever to get
to the strip club.

Half
the
club’s neon lights out front were
busted. Broken bottles and condoms littered the parking lot. The
club’s interior was just as classy. Three steps down from the
shithole Patricia had taken him to.

A
disgruntled Ham was waiting for him at the edge of the security
perimeter. What was the matter with the guy, Ham usually liked that
kind of place
? That kind of
case.

He
went over the details for Chris. “I came over to
check the place out and had a few beers. You know, to blend in. I
talked to one of the girls. Very friendly place.” Ham’s style, no
doubt. “She took me backstage to talk. Fuck that place’s
noisy.”

Yah right.
Chris knew his guys well enough, knew what
‘talking’ meant in Ham’s case in a strip club; the fucking
guy
talked
with his hands even more than with his mouth. Even after
the false wrap with Greta, Ham had not learned. Or maybe he had for
he wasn’t into take-out anymore. His officer now restrained his
consumption strictly to the premises.

Chris had
also noticed a brusqueness to Ham when he talked to the strippers
girls that had not been there before. He didn’t give a shit on how
his guys ran their lives as long as they got the job done without
unnecessary interference. And, Chris chastened himself, with
Patricia no longer with the team since of this morning, he was once
again able to follow his own fucking rule.

Ham
ha
d been with a stripper, ‘talking’ with
his hands and tongue. “You know how it goes down. I asked her about
the hooker at the motel, showed her the picture and
all.”

Chris
easily imagined the scene. “She knew
her?”

“
She didn’t
work
here, but Candy said−”
Candy
, for
real? Ham didn’t seem to mind the name. Hence, Chris didn’t
comment, “−She’s seen her once or twice with a girl that used to
work here.”

Chris
wondered if Ham had told the stripper he was a cop. Probably not,
not then at least. Sometimes
, it was
better to keep things simple, and money was a better introduction.
He had done the same with Patricia when they first had met. Not the
money, the cop thing. The damn woman had known
nonetheless.

“
I asked her
about the friend. Candy says she quit a couple of weeks back, she
ain’t sure when, but the boss-man says weekend of the motel shit.”
Ham kept on talking as he walked Chris through the club.

Chris nodded
at the few police officers he recognised, shook hands with the
forensics people on the scene and followed Ham, passing the bar,
the stage, the backstage access, through the strippers’ changing
room, now empty of girls.

“
She was
supposed to come to work on the Saturday night but never showed up.
Not all strippers have regular shifts, so the boss-man didn’t do
anything about it.”

“
Meaning
nobody went looking for her, and nobody reported her
missing.”

“
Roger that.
They all thought she would eventually show up again. Or
not.”

Chris had to
hand it to Ham, even with a couple of drinks
behind his tie and his hands full of fleshy things, his
officer’s instincts were impeccable. One of the reasons Chris liked
him so.

“
I asked to
see the girl’s stuff; turns out she had left her costumes
behind.”

They didn’t
have a lot to search. Ham pointed at a shoebox, the whole of her
nine different outfits fitted in it. Bras, panties, whips and
masks.

“
The
b
oss gave me her address. I’ll go check
it out later, and yes, I’ll take the rookie with me.” Charles, he
meant. “The asshole’s probably napping now.”

Chris was
pretty sure Ham hadn’t called Charles yet. Initiation or
something.
And Ham sure as hell hadn’t
invited him to come with him earlier for the talking hands
shit.

“
The recent
departure of the stripper, you know, her leaving her job the same
weekend as the motel showdown, got me thinking. I wasn’t suspicious
or anything at first, just fucking curious.”

Thus,
Ham had walked around the place, talked to the
boss, the muscle guys, before going outside to have a look around
the parking lot and the building. Cop instinct. Ham had noticed a
small hatch at the bottom of the back wall, had talked to the boss
again. They had reached the basement door at that point of Ham’s
story.

“
The place’s
some kind of dirt cellar. Overstock of beers and shit.”

Ham
had
retreated the keys − Chris didn’t ask
how, hand talking again, flashing a badge − and gone downstairs.
Just a hunch. The ceiling was low, barely five feet. Standing on
the last stair with the boss-man, Ham had checked the place with
his flashlight, had seen some freshly overturned ground and had
investigated.

“
Good job,
Ham. No unnecessary interference.” Chris put a hand on Ham’s
shoulder and squeezed. Impressive police work. Then again, he
expected no less of the guy.

“
Look,
Chris, it ain’t pretty down there.”

“
What the
fuck, Ham?”
Why was Ham warning him? He
had seen plenty of dead bodies on the job, way more than Ham. He
shrugged the comment off. Ham followed him downstairs.

A woman was
almost unearthed. The friend of the hooker as identified by the
stripper. She was buried, her grave shallow, some two steps from
the front wall’s left corner.

“
The glow
from the outside neon and the street lights illuminates the hatch.”
It was bright enough now with the squad cars’ flashing lights
outside to see the mount. “Even without the floodlights it’s bright
enough, the boss-man says. The killer could have buried her
anytime, day or night.”

Chris
stayed at the base of the stairs for the medical
examiner’s team was at work. His breath caught when he saw the vic.
The woman looked familiar. Shoulder-length brown hair (although not
naturally brown the lighter roots indicated), and curly. A slim
figure. Average height. He leaned closer. Younger than Patricia.
Less pretty. Thicker, puffier lips. Bigger breasts, more compact
somehow, implants most likely. The nose was shorter, a tad crooked
to the left. The clothes were cheap-looking, dirty and torn. Hard
to tell with the closed eyes, but the eyelids seemed smaller.
Later, he couldn’t say how, but he knew the eyes were
blue.

He
stood
frozen steps from the body for a
long time until Ham finally pulled him out of his daze. They
stepped outside. He needed some fresh air. He’d been breathing
through his nose, his jaw clamped shut, since laying eyes on the
dead stripper.

Ham offered
him a
cigarette.

The nicotine
hit didn’t relieve him of Fists and Knot. Watching the forensics
people comings and goings, they smoke in silence.