Quintic (34 page)

“
No
, Sir.”

In short,
the rookie didn’t need anything, and everything was great. Yah
right. Not that he was going to babysit the guy. He let him
go.

Ham
worked the computer until Charles left, then
took the initiative for a turn in Chris’s office. Ham didn’t
exactly complain; he was too subtle for that. Nor did he tell Chris
he thought the kid wasn’t ready, or too clean for some of the
places they went to, or that he was crowding his style.

“
Just a
thought
, Mac, but maybe you could put the
rookie with Shapiro or Reid, to help in their investigations.”
Meaning their
proper
cases. “So he can get a full-around training,
you know, more complete.” Meaning Ham was pissed to have to train
him.

“
I’ll think
about it, but for now, things remain as they are.”

Ham
left as he had arrived. Depressed and
angry.

Chris was
pissed too. Fighting among the team, he did not tolerate, not
during working hours at least. He expected the guys to be
professional enough to watch each other’s backs and to work tightly
together. Otherwise, they became unproductive. The kid had to learn
to take his place, and Ham to give Charles some space.

O
n his way home, Chris stopped by
the cop hangout the team went to from time to time. Eternal
singles, time to time had turned into every other night when one of
them needed a boost or wanted to talk. The team minus Shapiro (the
only married man), Charles (apparently not yet part of the team)
and the quart (definitely and permanently unwanted in the group),
was there: Ham and DesForges, Frankke, Reid and LeRoy. Chris
wondered yet again if something was going on between the latter
two. He might have the talk with them now that Patricia’s departure
from the team had given him back some much-overdue credibility on
the matter of in-office romance.

For now, he
wanted a beer and a feel of the team’s reaction to Patricia’s
resignation. Nobody had asked him why she has quit; nobody would,
at least not in the office. All was (almost) well; they were
getting used to her absence.

“
You
know, in some ways, her position was a lot
tougher than ours.” Le, the philosopher. “Think about it. No guns,
no badge, no training. Fu− Dating the boss. Can’t have been
easy.”

“
For
Christ’s sake, she was a fucking filing clerk!”

“
Yah right,
Boss.”

“
Whatever
her job title, doesn’t make dating MacLaren any easier.”
Frankke’s humour.

“
The woman
didn’t have a clue what our job’s about.” DesForges.

“
Didn’t know
what she was doing.” Ham

“
How
dangerous it can get.” DesForges.

“
Too fucking
curious for her own safety.” Ham.

“
Courageous,
though.” Reid.

“
Reckless.”
Le.

“Fucking smart.” Ham.

“
Fucking
crazy.
” DesForges. “Sorry,
boss.”

“
Fucking
sexy.
Sorry, boss.” Ham.

When
a football game came on, they stopped with the
soul searching and just watched, enjoying being together. Chris
liked the game, had played in college. He wasn’t particularly
bulky, but he was fast. And stubborn. When he got his hands on the
ball, he never let go and could run over anybody on the field. He
still did in a way. His team lost, not a good year for his football
team. He left.

He
t
ook a cold shower before going to
bed.

His
mobile phone ringing woke him up at a quarter to
two.

He
growled his usual, “MacLaren. Speak.” His voice
steady and clear while his mind was racing. If it was another dead
look-alike hooker, he was going to pick her up and put her in a
safe house.

“
Good
evening
, Sir.” Charles. “I was told to
call you. I seem to have been arrested.”

Middle of
the night,
Chris wasn’t above considering
letting the rookie rot in jail as a form of training.
“Why?”

“
A bar fight
started, and a man−”

Chris cut him off, “Where are
you?”

“
42
^nd
local station, corner of Main and
42
^nd
.”

“Where was the fight?”

“
An exotic
dancers’ studio.” A fucking stripper joint, Charles couldn’t even
call it right. “Sir, we did not−”

“
We
?” Had Charles and Ham kissed
and made up?

“
Miss Patricia is with me.”

Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. “I’ll be right there.”

He
put on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and loafers
and, taking the stairs two at a time, ran down to the underground
garage. He got in his car, buckled up and started the engine. After
a beat, he turned it off. Shit. Shit.
Shit!
He slammed his fists
on the steering wheel. What on earth had they been doing there? No
way she could have been there for a reason totally unrelated to
work. With Charles!

He should go
back to bed
, could sleep the entire
fucking night, what was left of it at least, and wait until morning
before he went to bail those two up. Arrested! Why hadn’t Charles
shown his badge? And why Charles? If it was the same joint she had
taken him to, he was going to− He got out of the car and argued
with himself. Walked back and forth. Went back up to his place.
Paced some more, and then smoked a cigarette out on the terrace
under the stars. Fucking romantic.

He smoked
the anger off
before going back to the
car. He got in, jumped out barely a second later, kicked the
closest tire (back driver-side) once. Hard. He paced around, took
three deep breaths, a fourth, a fifth, smoked another cigarette.
Climbed back in the truck. Grabbed the wheel. Started the engine.
Drove off.

He got to
the station well past three. It was a fifteen
-minute drive when there was no traffic. There had been
none.

Patricia on a Quiet
Night

T
he circumstances were to blame
here, all events purely accidental, completely, entirely,
positively NOT her fault. She had been enjoying a quiet evening at
home, quite innocently watching television, drink in hand, a plate
of pasta on her lap, and a few errant thoughts of maybe going to
Christopher’s place later. Perhaps she might even stop by the gym
first. Nah. A drink and a movie were safer.

Then Charles
had called
. Yes, she had given him her
phone number. Strictly as a friend. She had anticipated that, at
some point, him a rookie in Christopher’s team, and partnered with
Hamilton, the young officer was going to need somebody’s input. He
sounded disgruntled over the phone.

Perhaps it
would have been better for Charles to talk to someone on the team,
but hey, the guy had called her. She figured her input was better
nothing. She could always refer him to the competent authorities so
to speak, later on if need be.

What
had Christopher been thinking when he paired
Hamilton and Charles together? Not a clue. Not that she had asked,
obviously (for, she reminded herself, she had quit). Did the Big
guy hope Charles would keep Hamilton in line? Ridiculous. The other
way around most probably. He aimed to dirty the too-clean rookie a
bit, take some of the wholesome out, un-green him. In any case, it
wasn’t working since Charles was coming over.

Even if she
were out, surely Christopher would appreciate her taking care of
his guys. She briefly considered calling him but decided against
it. Charles was coming over to talk to
her
, the soft and reasonable
one, not to his cold and tough boss. So what if Charles might
unintentionally let slip information about the team’s cases, she
would not hold it against him.

Now, a few
hours later, locked up in that filthy tiny police station lost in
the boonies or close to it, she wasn’t so sure anymore about
wanting to learn about the cases. Her fellow prisoners, three
larger-than-life hookers, one crazy woman that was sticking out her
tongue at the others, and one drunk-and-disorderly that had yet to
sober up, were not the best of companions.

The
ir small living space stank of
cheap perfume (incredibly
foul-smelling
cheap perfume),
unwashed body soaked in really cheap perfume and other body odours
she chose not to sniff further to identify. Charles wasn’t with
her; the cops must have found him some cronies of the male
gender.

She
was
oh so proud of him! Not once during
their arrest had he mentioned being a cop. Although she suspected
Charles’s circumspection came from him not wanting the cops to call
his boss, she still respected his discretion. In fact, it suited
her perfectly. It was not her first quiet night in a jail cell. She
always found lockups interesting, almost inspirational.

On previous
such occurrences,
Christopher had been
the arresting officer. He called it preventive arrest; she called
it damn infuriating male arrogance. To this day, they had not
reached a consensus on the matter. On those aforementioned,
hum,
incidents
, the Big guy had made
sure she was alone in her cell. Regardless of the suffocating
stench singeing her nostrils now, she quite enjoyed the company of
her other cellmates. Fascinating characters.

A quiet
night in the slammer, a morning audition with a judge and a fine to
pay made for inexpensive research. Although, bearing in mind
Charles was an ex-farm boy turned cop rookie, she realised he might
not have money to spare. How much did rookies earn these days?
Should she pay both fines? The judge might fine him more stiffly,
higher expectation and all, since he was a cop. Unless he got no
fine. Wouldn’t that be just damn typical? Would her fine be
tax-deductible? The research was a work-related expense after all.
In any case, she expected no complication, since neither she nor
Charles had a police record. Besides, she knew a first-rate
lawyer.

If
the locals co-operated, they could expedite the
entire process by the early morning. Withholding her name, mere
reflex on her part, hadn’t helped, though. She had plenty of money
in her pockets but never carried IDs with her, and tonight hadn’t
brought any credit cards, fake or otherwise. Never to a strip
club.

S
he had suggested Charles did the
same and along with his wallet, he had left the badge and gun in
the trunk of his car. Charles was not an inconspicuous armed man.
Christopher always had his gun on him (guns rather, as he had his
service piece in a shoulder holster and an unregistered spare
weapon or two tucked elsewhere). Christopher’s guns were not
visible unless he wanted them to be, while Charles, well, anyone
could tell he was carrying from the way he walked, shoulders held
low, forearms opened, right hand on his left side at a ready. Green
all right.

He
and Hamilton walking side by side must be quite
a sight, the panther, all sleek and confident, and the cop-child.
The ape. Not that Charles was dumb, but he did lack, hum, finesse,
and guns or no guns, she did not feel entirely confident with him
as her sidekick in the real world (and a stripper club was as real
as it could get). Christopher knew his way out of any situation,
smarts or fists, whatever worked, but Charles didn’t.

Their field
trip to the strip club, her contribution to Charles’s
‘un-greening’, had been satisfactory until a
fight broke out between two customers. That skirmish triggered a
chain reaction. Charles tried to calm the fighters. Not a good
idea.

A
lthough she was never going to
admit so to Christopher’s face, sometimes his ways, hit first talk
after, were more efficient. Most times, the Big guy’d skipped the
talking altogether.

Charles
looked such
the rookie cop during his
peace talk, she was almost embarrassed on his behalf. Two other
guys took to helping the jerks against Charles, who tried to
mollify those two also. Keeping the party going, the first two
tried to push her around. Charles retaliated in her name with more
of the pacifying nonsense. Two fighters punched him. He returned a
couple of blows. He had a surprising right hook; two of the men
went down. The others kept on pounding.

Charles
wasn’t fast enough. The
jerk’s fists reached their target more than once. She took her
leave and made for the door, dragging Charles with her. A jerk,
another one, volunteered to slow them down.

Concealing
her curves in a pair of straight-cut jeans, a hooded sweater, a
sports bra, work boots and Christopher’s oversized leather jacket
(the one that smelled of him and his cigarettes), proved to be a
perfect male attire. Her disguise, which also included a
makeup-free face, a baseball cap and glasses, completely fooled the
fifth fight participant. The jerk threw a fist at her. Needless to
say, in that very instant, she regretted the outfit she had worn
for Christopher at her last strip club.