Quintic (54 page)

She had
learned from her last times and had dressed as a woman. If a bar
fight indeed occurred, everyone would know she had breasts and,
hopefully, they wouldn’t hit her. Her outfit was low key, though,
to limit unwelcome attention. Work boots, cargo pants, jeans
jacket, loose t-shirt, not a lot of cleavage showing, not that she
had much to show (not compared to the girl dancing at least), and a
ponytail. She showed not even the shape of her breasts but barely
the hint of their swells. That and her ponytail were enough to
broadcast her gender. Yet, the disguise was manly enough, thus
uninteresting enough, especially next to the naked flesh on the
stage, to keep her out of trouble.

They
had
a beer. Then another. She didn’t like
beer, but she preferred to sip the stale liquid than just sit
empty-handed staring at another woman’s naked rump. An hour went
by. Midway through a second beer, a third for her guardians, the
need for the toilet made itself known. The cops did not betray
boredom; they did not show signs of arousal either, mercifully.
They hadn’t introduced her to any of the women yet. Not that she
cared right now for she had yet to admire any slim, wavy
brunette.

The
toilet
s were in the back, how typical.
“If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen. I need to use the ladies’ room,”
she shouted in Not-so-dumb’s ear since experience had taught her
that in a place like this, the journey to and back was risky. She
wanted to be sure they wouldn’t forget about her.

Her eyes
fell on
the man on her way back. She
froze on the spot as soon as she recognised him. The jerk was
coming out of the men’s room. He half-turned to talk to some guy
but didn’t see her. He had not changed much. Same acne-scarred ugly
face. Same bulky shape. The fat on his belly had grown, his hair
had thinned. Not a guy she could easily forget. He was a part of
the reason she hated cops so much. A huge part.

He
never turned her way. Even if he’d stare at her,
he wouldn’t have recognised her. She had been thinner then, skinny
thin, with long hair falling over her face. Back then, the blue
strikes were all that made her stand out. The sick, rotten
bastard
salopard
had probably forgotten all about it. All
about
her
. She had not. Yes, she was over it, but she had not
forgotten nor forgiven.

S
he needed a drink. Damn, she
wanted to get out of this place.
Maudit
! She wished to be
invisible. She had to get the hell out. She craved to get drunk.
Oblivion. She longed for Christopher’s presence. She hungered for a
gun so badly, her yearning felt like a painfully real thirst. Panic
washed over her. She felt the wave swell inside her, as unstoppable
as the tide. And as it rose and overtook her, it immobilised her by
the toilet door.

How long did
she stay
motionless? What felt like hours
must have been minutes. At some point, one of the cop-guy appeared
in front of her. He talked to her. How had he known? She hid behind
a small section of the wall thus was invisible from the room.
Unseen by her two coppers. Concealed from the jerk with the
scars.

N
ot-so-dumb kept on moving his
lips. He looked puzzled, maybe worried. The bells ringing in her
head covered his voice. She nodded. What the hell was he saying?
Could she borrow his gun?

She
struggled for breaths. Was she panting? Was she
in the middle of a heart attack? A panic attack? No yet an anger
attack then. She wanted to get the hell out. She needed air. The
policeman grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the backdoor. Nice
door. Very useful. From now on, she was going to enter only visit
places with backdoors. Backdoors without back alleys. Her mind was
swirling.

The cold
air
hit her; it felt good on her clammy
skin. At her side, Not-so-dumb kept on yapping. She caught the
noises he was making, the sounds if not the sense. She nodded.
Whatever, who cared.

He guided
her back to the car as Ape showed up. She smiled at one. Smiled at
the other one.

“Oui, oui
. I’m fine. The place
got to me. The beer got to me.” Lies again. “Sorry, sorry. It’s
getting late; I should go now. I’ll take a cab,” she whispered. I
need to get the hell out, she thought. Please let him not come out,
she prayed.

They took
her ba
ck to the cab station. They offered
to drive her back to her place, but she wouldn’t have it. They
apologised for taking her to the club, for staying so
long.

“
Not your
idea, not your fault. No need to apologise. It’s probably something
I ate. Or maybe I drank too much.”

They bought
it all.
Despite their flaws, dumb cops
were easier to handle than the guy with scars. Silly apes-cops were
always better than dirty cops.

MacLaren on Coffee
Break

B
y the end of the week, Chris
hadn’t seen Patricia once. Too busy working on her book or so she
said. Too tired on Monday for him to come over. On Thursday, she’d
called to invite him for coffee, but he was in a meeting, as was
usual on Tuesday afternoons. Central’s sucking up for the quartet
disaster at its worst. She was out when he stopped late Wednesday.
She called Thursday to say she was busy but perhaps over the
weekend…

At
first
, he thought this was about her
quitting and wanting back in, but by the end of the week, he wasn’t
so sure. No breakthrough had occurred in the case. Nobody had
recognised the fight guy from the sketch. They knew it was a long
shot, but they kept at it. Following Patricia’s theory, the guys
were now also compiling all the tallish slim brunettes they came
across while visiting the clubs. Chris was thorough; he knew every
fucking thing was possible until he proved it wrong.

Friday after
work, he stopped by the Italian place and got two plates of pasta
to go. He bought a bottle of red wine (an expensive Syrah he knew
she liked) and headed straight to her hotel. She wasn’t in yet, so
he took a shower and changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt he
fished out from his allotted section in her walk-in
closet.

He was
sitting on the couch,
feet on the coffee
table, about ready to settle for the six o’clock news show when she
walked in. With her black pants, black t-shirt, black ballerina
shoes, and her hair pulled back, loose strands around her face, she
looked kinky and soft. Looking one thing and its opposite was usual
for her. A fucking sexy contradiction on legs.

“
Hi
, Gorgeous.”

“
H
ello, Handsome.”

His ass
stayed
out on the couch as he watched her
walk over to him. She had a dreamy smile as she rested her hand on
his shoulder and bent to kiss him. Grabbing her by the waist, he
brought her down on his lap. Sleek legs now stretched on the couch,
one arm around his neck and the other flat on his abs. Lovely. She
pressed her face into his shoulder, sighed and moaned, “Hum, that
feels nice.”

Sexy as hell, Pussycat
. He slid
his hand between her thighs. So fucking exquisite. “Tough day,
Angel?”

“
Tough
week.” She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “How about
you?”

He
shrugged his free shoulder noncommittally before
asking, “How’s the book going?” Writing was visceral for her, but
sometimes she struggled with the words, rewriting certain passages
dozens of times, getting angry about it.

“
Hum.
” Not much of an answer, was
it? “You didn’t say how was your week.”

Trick
que
stion. If he told her about Lemieux
and the fight, or about the stand-still in the diner murders, then
what?

As if
sensing his indecision, she laughed and pinched his stomach
teasingly. “
Mon
chéri
, you don’t have to answer that
one.” She licked his neck once and brushed his skin with her nose.
“I’m exhausted.” Heavy sigh. “And I’m hungry. And I need a drink.”
Another sigh, this one content. “And how are you?”

He smiled
down at her.
“I’m exhausted. I’m hungry.
I need a drink.”
And I need
you
.

She was
already off
of his lap, off to the
bathroom, removing her makeup, putting her shoes away, changing
into cleaner clothes, leading him to conclude her and sex would
have to wait after they ate. While she was busying herself, he
called for the pasta plates he had left to keep warm downstairs in
the hotel kitchen.

“
I have a
surprise, Christopher. I have to tell you something.”

Shit.
He didn’t like surprises;
the sole exceptions were surprises from her when she was about to
get naked. She wasn’t. She was parked on the couch, her legs
stretched to the coffee table as he had been before they ate. She
was exhausted to begin with; the food and the wine hadn’t helped.
“What kind of surprise are we talking about here,
Pussycat?”

“
Don’t look
so worried,
mon
amour
.” He hadn’t seen her all week; this
could be anything. “It’s a good thing. You’re going to be
happy.”

Fuck no
. “Does it involve you
getting naked? That would be a pleasant surprise. That would
surprise me in a happy way. Big,
big
happy way.”

“
Cute. It’s
even better than that.”

She had him
there. What could be better than her naked? She smiled at him,
pleased with herself, very pleased with herself, so fucking
happy she was almost purring. “Fuck, Patricia,
you know I hate surprises. How about I make you moan and come first
to lessen the shock? After, I’ll be all relaxed, and you can do the
surprise shit then.”

“I have a new job!”

So much for
the sex. Then it hit him.
What?
How? What the hell did she
do now? “A new job?” He was dumbfounded.

“
I found a
job at a small coffee shop across from the park, near the gym; I
work part-time.”

Why the
fuck? She didn’t need a job. She already had one, writing. Her
books were selling fine, and she was no struggling writer. Even
though Central paid her close to nothing, a notch above the minimum
wage for the filing clerk impersonation job, she’d never requested
a raise because she earned more than enough money with her books
and paintings. Not that she had a lot of expenses, clothing,
makeup, food, wines and stuff. No car, no house, just a fucking
hotel suite, the rent already paid for the next five years. She
even had shares in the hotel chain for Christ’s sake.

“
What
happen
ed to your money?” Stupid question
but it was the only reason he could think of for her to work in a
coffee shop. “What did Ingrid say?” He knew Ingrid to be very sharp
about money. She watched over Patricia like a hawk. Protectiveness
was the one thing he and the old broad had in common. A penniless
Patricia might be a good thing, though. He had plenty of money,
from the MacLaren clan inheritance but mostly money he had gained
during his youth and had invested wisely and he looked forward to
her living off of him.

She
torpedoed his fantasy fast enough.
“I
have enough money. I don’t need money. I need a job.” She looked at
him pleadingly. “Christopher, don’t you see how perfect this is?
You know I love coffee shops, I go to one almost every day. Twice a
day.”

“You go to write. When are you
going to write?”

“
I can write
when it’s slow. Besides, it’s part-time; I only work four days for
now. Wednesday to Saturday, ten to four, which means I can write in
the early hours of the morning and at nights.”

“
Patricia,”
he growled. What the fuck could he say? He didn’t like her to work,
period, but she was looking at him so expectantly.

“
Christopher, I really need this.”

She
had mentioned need, not want. Shit. He didn’t
know what to say. She started to frown at him. Had she honestly
expected him to be happy?
Shit
.

“
I thought
you would be happy. I won’t bug you anymore about the cases
you’re
investigating. I won’t want to get
back on the team. And you can come over and watch me work. It’ll be
fun.”

Fun? If she
had wanted him to see her work, she should have gone to work for
Vitto’s. For sure, the Italian barista would have hired her, but
no, the coffee shop she had picked was in a lousy neighbourhood.
Thankfuckinggod she wasn’t working nights, he wouldn’t have been
able to sleep.

As for not
bugging him about the cases,
he wasn’t so
sure about that; it seemed to him she was trying a little too hard
not to. So what the fuck could he do right now? Nothing, nothing at
all.
Wait and
see
. He wasn’t so good at waiting when
she was concerned. He had no objection to making her wait forever
during sex just to hear her moan, all the patience in the world for
her but excruciatingly hard to do nonetheless. He had plenty of
objections when her safety was concerned.