Quintic (35 page)

Fifth’s
paw would have got her
too if not for Charles deflecting the blow. The fist landed on her
shoulder instead of her face. Lucky. At her age, she had learned to
appreciate her nose and jaws the way Mother Nature had set them on
her facade.

Pain
shot through her shoulder to her fingertips and
her ears.
Weird how pain
travels
. She wavered while Charles
returned Fifth the courtesy.
Damn, this hurt
. The cops showed
up. Mayhem receded.
What am I
doing here again?
They arrested the five
fighters, six bystanders (no one explained why; she didn’t ask),
plus Charles and her. Hamilton would have enjoyed himself.
I shall not howl in
pain
.

And as they
say, the rest was history. The cops checked the thirteen of them,
very un-thoroug
hly. Their search, a fast
pat and a sweep of the electronic device on her legs and arms,
would not have impressed Christopher. Since the high-tech thingy
did not sense any weapons, nor did it detect a female in disguise,
off she went with the men.

After the
cops had piled them in two windowless minivans, they rode in
companionable silence. If the locals were hoping for some of them
to resume the fight on the way, she and her new allies greatly
disappointed them. Upon arrival, the only fight she had left was
dedicated to keeping her nausea in check. Sweaty,
testosterone-smelling (at least she hoped it was hormones and not
any other bodily fluids) men cooped up in the back of a truck did
not make for the most sanitary packages.

Charles
sat opposite her and
stared down their opponents, ready to pounce. One thug or another
had torn his shirt, smudged his pants, tussled his hair, and
bruised his face. Hamilton would have loved it.

The search at the station was
much more thorough.

“
Up against
the wall,” Officer-in-charge barked when her turn came. He had two
buddies as back-ups in the interrogation room with him.
Excessive measures, don’t you think,
guys?

She
suspected O
fficer-in-charge realised she
was a woman mere seconds into the search for, after all, her
disguise was not anatomically correct. For comfort considerations,
she had foregone stuffing her panties with a pair of socks. She was
neither lefty or righty when he cupped her groin, but he didn’t
stop right away. The paws went back to her ankles. Legs. Thighs.
Butt. Waist. When he circled to her belly and neared her crotch
again, she kneed him. Would have kicked him earlier but the
wooziness from the ride hadn’t completely dissipated.

She did not
hurt him severely, her knee-jerk barely a knee-slap, nowhere neat
an assault on an officer, but more an
I-know-you-know-I’m-a-woman-you-jerk. Officer in charge backed
away. The kick had a welcome side benefit as it temporarily
distracted her of the nausea Officer-in-charge’s touch had
triggered.

For
her third body-search, the powers that be
designated a female officer, although Officer-in-charge and his two
bouncers stayed put for the show. Perhaps they were bored stiff and
to watch a female officer working on a woman dressed as a man
turned them on. Apes. Sick apes. The woman did a swift job, asked
her a few questions and, seeing as she was none too-collaborative,
locked her up in the women’s cell.

Hence, she
was now researching the heck out of h
er
cellmates. Her PI character needed some street contacts and
hookers, seeing as they spent so much time on the streets, made
good informants, did they not?

Breathing
through her mouth so as not to smell her pleasant surroundings,
Patricia
nonchalantly leaned on the wall
and discreetly studied the women locked up with her. If it wasn’t
for the drunk getting louder and cruder and tongue-woman turning
into a snake, she might be having the time of her life. Research,
way better than the library. Except for her shoulder that hurt.
That hurt a lot.

The guy had
punched her harder than she had first realised.
After the initial, almost electric pain, a dull numbness
had settled, fooling her into thinking her shoulder was fine, but
now, the agony was back with a vengeance. She rolled her shoulder
and rotated and stretched and, good news, felt no broken limbs. She
was going to have a heck of a bruise, though.

Tomorrow
, at the end of her
unfortunate incarceration, she would ice it. Too bad, police
precincts offered no bar services, she would have appreciated a
glass of wine to ease the ache.

After what
seemed like an eternity, the female officer came to get her. Was it
morning already? Nope. The she-cop brought her into yet another
interrogation room. For what, questions she wouldn’t answer? Could
one of the thirteen have testified in her favour, and seeing as she
had nothing to do with the fight, the cops had decided to let her
go? But no way would she leave without Charles.

His
behaviour, his courage during the fight (once he stopped talking)
had
impressed her tonight. He so wanted
to be city-like. The club was his idea. Well, mostly his idea. Hum.
So maybe she had given him a few hints, but he did suggest it at
some point.

“
I want to
do something Hamilton does,” he had said.

“
You’re
already doing everything Hamilton does for this case, aren’t you?
He does take you with him, right?”

“Because he doesn’t have a
choice.”

“
Hamilton is
a tough guy, and Christopher or not, he wouldn’t take you with him
if he didn’t think you could handle it.” Seeing as Charles had not
appeared convinced, she had asked, “Where have you guys been to so
far?”

“Stripper clubs. Feels like
it’s the only places we ever go to.”

“
Stripper
clubs are good places for a crash course. And from what I heard,
Hamilton is good at working that scene.”

“
Maybe he
is, but it doesn’t feel right to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“
You’re a
woman; probably you can’t understand. Or maybe you can
because
you’re a woman but− I don’t feel comfortable in those
clubs. I never know where to look.”

S
he couldn’t help Charles on
that, she didn’t know either.

“
Hamilton’s
left me in the car the last two times. Says he can’t get any
collaboration when I’m around. Apparently, I look like a
cop.”

Patricia
suspected that it
might not be only
collaboration Hamilton wasn’t getting. Did cops get freebees from
strippers? She would have to ask the hookers. Would the hookers
give her credit until she got her money back from where the cops
had confiscated it? Hamilton’s ex-hooker lady-friend Greta would
know, but Greta wasn’t here at the moment, was she? Besides, Greta
had a nice garden now and was working hard at putting the life of a
strip club dancer behind her. Hence, Patricia wasn’t about to
embarrass her with silly questions.

What if she
asked
Hamilton directly? Hum. Had they
been on speaking terms, she might have, but ever since the kiss (no
more than a brush of the lips really), Hamilton wasn’t quite the
same with her. Angry still at her tricking him. Asking him how he
composed with the cop doing strip clubs, hookers and handouts might
not go so well. Not to mention, he might tell
Christopher.

So what about some freebees, ladies?
If the female officer ever remembered she existed and
brought her back to the cell, she might ask the smallest hooker,
the other two were scary. No petite women any of them. Their backs
must hurt with all the breasts they were carrying. With her medium
bosom flattened into a sports bra, Patricia had felt quite the flat
chest teenager next to them. And their breasts were nothing to
their butts. The scary part was, nothing swayed when they moved.
Hard, compact fat all around. Perhaps her co-prisoners gave
donations
themselves. Perhaps they knew Hamilton and had given him
one or two. If it were the case, that would be a very useful piece
of information to have, strictly for Charles to use, or misuse, of
course.

Was the
officer watching the sunrise
as she
waited for her prisoner’s free confession? Patricia had no watch.
She tried counting the seconds but got bored. What difference did
it make anyway? The room had no cameras or mirrors like on
television shows. On a previous visit in such a room, Christopher
had stood behind said mirror, pissed. This time, thankfully, she
was alone. She rested her head on her crossed arms on the table in
front of her. Where had the female officer gone? Was she fetching
reinforcement in the form of a lame colleague? Good cop, bad cop
once again.

Never before
had a female officer interviewed her, this might be interesting.
She had seen Reid at work on the street but never while she was
conducting an interrogation. Come to think of it, she had never
seen an interrogation that she wasn’t a participant of. Such a
silly thing, not to worry, this was going to be fun. She was in a
good mood tonight. Technically, she hadn’t done anything, and, most
importantly, hadn’t uncovered any dead bodies. The nauseous feeling
disappeared. When she avoided thinking about Ape’s hand between her
legs or of her damn shoulder, she was peachy. Tired. Happy.
Thirsty. Pulsing with pain. Leaning her arms on the table wasn’t
helping.

She walked
around. Nope, too tired. She sat on the floor, tucked in the
corner, her head propped on the right wall, opposite her injured
shoulder. She made sure she was visible from the door window; she
was so not in the mood for apes or female officers to storm in guns
drawn. As if she could escape. So tired.

S
he closed her eyes. Her falling
asleep wasn’t going to make a good impression on the good cop-bad
cop girl team. Out of female solidarity, she forced her eyes back
open. Maybe they were friends of Reid. Well, not friends per se,
Reid didn’t do the female cop friendship thing, but acquaintances,
colleagues, police academy buddies? Sisterhood, she thought again,
but her eyes kept closing. She thought about getting up. Decided
against it. She was just
sooo
sleepy.

She heard a
door open and closed far away. Her room? Was Female finally
visiting her? Not a sound. Seeing how her prisoner was resting her
eyes, Female had decided to let her sleep it off. Female
camaraderie and all. Nice. Even in her near-sleeping state, the
thought lingered without making sense. No cop was that nice, not
even a she-cop buddy of Reid. The room filled with a new
odour.

What did one
smell in dreams? A woman-cop’s spicy, musky, perfume? Was the
woman-cop truly giving her a repose? She had not heard a chair
creak. Funny what one can ponder when half asleep. An intense
conversation unfolded in her head. She fought the urge to open her
eyes. She refused to acknowledge what was happening in her closed
chamber.

T
he faintest hint of tobacco.
Cologne. Manly. Nice. Sexy. Christopher’s. Damn. Please, let it all
be a dream. A harmless, erotic dream.
No way am I opening my eyes or pinching
myself
.

PI Unlimited:
Interrogation Room

“N
ame?”

“
Queen Elizabeth the Third.”

“
The third?”
Jane Doe, Princess Jane, Queen Elizabeth the third. You will
give me your name eventually, Love.

“
Yes. The Third.”

The woman sitting in front of him was
dishevelled. Tired. Angry. Stunning. Even with her oversized
clothes, makeup-free face and messy hair, or maybe because of it
all, she was gorgeous. It’s her eyes, Jeremy decided. Expressive,
changing, intelligent, challenging. He wanted the eyes to focus on
him.

“
Why the third?” He wondered
aloud.

She stopped staring at the wall and
turned her head to him. Not his first interrogation and not his
first conversation with her, but this time, she was on his turf.
His game. His rules. Third time’s a charm.

Tonight he had lost a bet and was stuck
working on the strippers. This one was different. Je had met her
before. No stripper. Not that he wouldn’t like to see what she had
under the men’s clothes.

“
Are you a first born?” She asked
him.

“
An only child actually.”

“
Typical. Children from one-child
families are spoiled. Makes them arrogant. Like cops,” she
underlined, her wide blue eyes serious on him. Dark. Her sweet
smile broke on her lips. It wasn’t often he got insulted with such
a smile. She was making fun of him and liking it too.

He did not return the smile, asking
again, his cop face on, “Why the third?”

He heard her sigh before she answered.
“The first born is the responsible one. The first has to prove the
parents’ worth. The second must be better. An overachiever in the
shadow of the perfect first.”

He was curious. “And the third?”

“
Everyone has lower expectations. No
possibility of surprise. The first two children have done and
undone it all. Proved and contradicted it all. Hence, the third has
to be the best.”