Quintic (56 page)

“
Patricia
Bambina
, we cannot let you work
here as you ask.”

“
Marina is
right, Bella. No job if you don’t take a paycheck.”

“
But I don’t
need money;
I just want to be busy. See
people, maybe write a little in a corner when it’s
quiet.”

“
We pay. You
work. A little. And you eat.”

Eat?
“I can’t work full-time, is
that a problem?”

“
No
problema
,
bellissima
. You work afternoons,
two-three days a week as you like. Vitto teaches you the
macchina
.
You replace him when he wants a break, or when I want him with
me.”

“
I’ll teach
the
macchina
, but it takes
time,
Bella
. Years for my no-good son.”

“Maybe he just wants to spend
time with you.”

“Precious child.”

Normal
people.
She would find a way to pay them
back.

O
ver the weekend, she
had once again taken him by surprise with the Vitto job. The other
coffee shop was a dump, but she had enjoyed her work there; he had
not, though. The select clientele of steroid junkies from the
corner gym pissed him off. For sure, something had happened, some
shit that she had forgotten to mention. Not that it was hard to
guess. A fucking skirt!

She had
started the weekend
with her damning, “I
have a surprise,” shit. “I’ve moved my coffee shop skills to
Vitto’s.”

He had taken
her
revelation in stride this time. “OK,
Angel. Whatever you want.” Vitto’s place was a definite step up.
Maybe not quite classy enough yet as jobs for her went, but safer
and damn closer to his office. “Do I still get
freebees?”

“Cute, Big guy. Maybe we can
trade?”

He had known
what was coming days ahead of her, had anticipated her plea yet
knew he would not deny her. How could he? Safe, happy, his. He
wanted all three for her, and his precinct was the fastest way to
achieve the trifecta (as long as she stayed
put
in the fucking
office). “Trade what?” He enquired with fake innocence.

“
I want to
come back, please,” she pleaded. “I’m not done with my cold case
yet, and I kind of miss the team.”

So, as he
had known all along, he prepared himself to take her back. With her
PI book idea, he feared she was going to hire herself out to the
first private detective that came along, and then who the fuck knew
the trouble she could get into? Easier to watch out for her at the
office. “I’ll agree to the same schedule as before, part-time, and
one week out of two. Not sure why you quit in the first place,
Angel, but this time, no funny business.”

“What on earth do you mean?”
Demure blue eyes blinked at him. Yah right.

She
was back to work on the diner case,
unofficially, of course; she wasn’t a cop for Christ’s sake.
‘Patricia’s diner case’ was how the guys (and him too) referred to
the investigation now, thanks to that damn picture she had received
from some ex-waitress.

“
Look how
cute and wholesome they were. So alike. With those silly raincoats,
one could easily mistake Beatrice for the victim, don’t you think?”
Her new theory.

“
True
, the raincoats are
identical.” He was not going to base a case on fucking
raincoats.

“
Not
identical but very similar,” she interjected. “Their colours are
different; one is beige and the other, more of a light corn hue.”
The fucking coats looked identical to him. “Think about it,
Christopher. The girls were the same height, one a little heavier
than the other perhaps, but it’s hard to tell under the coats. And
it had been raining. At night. So, maybe like you, the killer
couldn’t tell beige from light corn, and he made a
mistake.”

Point noted, Angel. Starting Monday, we’ll look into it,
but, for now, you’re mine.

They had
made love softly. S
o softly. She had
seemed unsure, apprehensive and fragile. He could have sworn
touches of green speckled the blues just before she closed her eyes
tight and came.

“Christopher?”

“Hum?” He gathered her closer
to him.

“
Do you
think that, well, except for the mandatory meetings, of course, you
could, hum, avoid talking to me about Lemieux?”

Aye, he could. For now. “Sure
thing, Princess.”

“
Okeydokey
then.
Merci, mon
chéri.
Thank you. For
everything.”

“
You are
most welcomed, Darling of mine.”

He had
stayed awake, listening to her soft breaths as he so often did,
Fists and Knot in the bed with them. The mere thought of her at the
office excited him, yet, as he brooded over the diner murders, dead
stripper and Lemieux, he worried at having her back.

To prevent
an excessive show of emotion, from her but also from his guys, they
agreed on a late arrival in time for the Monday meeting. His men
were tough; he had no wish to see them turn soft upon her return.
Having her close was going to be great, nice, sexy. He smiled and
cursed himself, already a little less in control.

She timed it
perfectly
and, no surprise there, had
dressed the part. Tight dark-blue jeans. Faded at the butt and
thighs, they emphasised her curvy hips. The high-heeled boots made
her legs even longer and slender. Her simple light-pink silk blouse
was tailored to her curves but not clingy; she accessorised it with
a dark-blue tie loosely draped around her neck, his he recognised.
The dark-grey jacket, in some stretchy fabric that fitted perfectly
at the shoulders, the back, the waist beckoned the eyes to her
bosom.

Her jeans,
shirt, tie and jacket looked identical to the plainclothes cop
outfit his guys wore every fucking day, but her interpretation (a
disguise as so many of her outfits) scored dangerously high on the
attractiveness scale. Damn fucking hotter than on his guys.
Bodacious angel all around. With her hair up in an unruly bun and
her silly glasses, her serious look, already soften by small locks
of hair falling over her eyes and neck, she took his breath away.
No way was he letting her go home alone tonight.

She waved at
Bridget and sauntered right into the conference room without
missing a beat. As if she had not resigned. The team followed her
as if on cue, each taking his usual seat. Chris walked right in
behind them and closed the door.

They had a
full case load and reviewed each one
(excluding the hackers-fake burglaries, obviously), in more
details than on the previous weeks. He caught his guys glancing her
way throughout the meeting, smiling at her when their time to speak
came. Reid was beaming. He would have to watch her; she might be
the first to break and let Patricia take her on some wild hunt.
Fred too was grinning, a different type of smirk, though. The kid
was practically sitting on her lap.
It feels great to have you back, Pussycat, but it’s going
to be hell.
His kind of hell.

He
kept the diners and Lemieux for the end. The
diner case review went well enough; they did not have much news to
share. The guys were still slogging through the list of possible
connections; the hunted the hypothetical commonness between the two
murders years apart. Halfway down the hundred-and-some names,
nothing looked promising yet.

They had
identified and contacted a dozen
regulars. A couple had turned out to be customers of both
places. A damn long shot.

Nevertheless, Chris briefed the team on the fucking
raincoats. “Let’s spin it from Beatrice’s perspective. Do a
background check on her, enemies and the shit, and see what turns
up with that second killing.” Everything was possible until proven
otherwise.

“
On
it
, Boss. I’d like a copy of that
picture, Babe, if you don’t mind.”

At
last
, only Lemieux’s case review
remained. Charles did the briefing, a first. Chris wasn’t sure if
it was a sign the duo had finally resolved their issues, or because
of Patricia’s presence, Charles being the softer, more polite of
the pair. In any case, the kiddie cop did OK (once again, not great
but OK). He reread all they had, every fucking detail; Chris pushed
and challenged when needed.

Since
Patric
ia had requested an embargo on
Lemieux outside of meetings, Chris wanted her to be up to speed,
and this was the only place to do it. Lemieux. The stripper. The
fighter. No reaction. They were all somewhat weary as Charles went
over the file, but Patricia’s calm did not waver. Chris knew how
good she was at acting, but right now it wasn’t an act. Was the
damn woman even listening? Good at pretending, even better at
avoiding what she called unpleasantness.

Fine by me, Princess, you can force yourself not to listen,
but you heard nonetheless. I’ll just wait and see what simmers out
from that fucking backburner of yours.
It
was well past one when they broke out for lunch.

He
didn’t
catch anyone asking Patricia
anything; for sure, they wouldn’t ask him. Good. They would at some
point for they were a fucking curious bunch. More importantly, they
cared. Also good. He did see Reid give Patricia a hug. So did
Shapiro. And Frankke. And Freddie wanted her to come down to his
tech room for whatever, nothing new there either. And Ham did mess
her hair some and whispered in her ear secret dirty little
proposals. Nothing else, not yet at least.

Patricia
went to talk to Bridget
, who made a fuss.
Not so good but nothing he had not expected. Bridget was the mother
figure, and one of her children had come home, her favourite at
that. He watched in amusement as his secretary straightened
Patricia’s jacket, closed one additional button on her shirt,
tucked an escapee curl between her ear. He smiled at Patricia’s
embarrassment, at her failed attempts to look annoyed and to
prevent her laugh from bubbling out. Bridget took Patricia to the
downstairs cafeteria for lunch (for once Bridget took the phone
gizmo with her), Patricia dragging Reid along. So much for him,
nobody dragged him anywhere. He had a stale sandwich from the
second-floor machine.

By
two
, everybody was back to business like
nothing had happened. The team stayed in and smiled a little too
much; a buzz of eagerness filled the air. Patricia worked at her
desk, reading, looking at her computer, making notes, probably
sneaking peeks at them in her kettle pot. He spent the afternoon
going through his follow-up calls, standing by his office window as
per his usual, studying his team.

Shapiro
was the first to call on
her. File in hand, his senior officer walked up to her desk, to ask
her to supper no doubt. The first thing his old Italian detective
was going to tell his wife (if he had not already over the phone).
Chris wondered if the Shapiros planned on inviting him
also.

LeRoy went
next. Hands in pockets, he didn’t bother with a file, and sat on
her desk. LeRoy talked and glanced at his window in turn, at one
point he said something funny that had her laughing. The jerk left
soon after, a big grin on his face.

Frankke’s turn came next. Yup,
even Frankke. With DesForges. Neither stayed long, Patricia giving
each a thumbs-up before they left together.

Flouting
seniority, Reid cut in
before Hamilton. Purposely trying to piss off Ham, as usual. She
stayed at Patricia’s desk the longest, pulling up a chair and
sitting next to her for a good fifteen minutes. Until DesForges
came back and yelled at her to get her ass down to the car. They
were working a case together, and working well so far.

Fredrick
showed up at that time and took Reid’s place, pulling the chair
closer, leaning over her shoulder and staring. Chris frowned from
his office as the two huddled together like kids planning mischief.
Except one kid was a sexy, somewhat crazy, way too smart woman, and
the other a hormonal (probably virgin) geek totally flipped over
the said woman. Chris revised his first guess; Fred, not Reid, was
going to be the one to break first. Mercifully, as the kiddo was
scared of his own shadow, he never went anywhere. Patricia talked
to Fred, pointed at the screen, oblivious to the fact she was
brushing Fred’s arm. That chat might last forever.

At four
sharp, Vitto’s son Antonio showed up thus making Fred scamper back
to his lab. Antonio was huge, wider than Frankke, fewer muscles but
more fat and tattoos. As a rebellious teenager, Tony had made his
parents grow old before their times. Now in his late twenties, the
guy had become if not more responsible, at least more concerned
about his parents’ well-being. For Vitto and Marina’s sake, he said
he was ready to settle down and find a wife. The Italian stud still
partied, fought some (nothing serious, Italian machismo, his mother
said), and took care of the coffee shop from eleven to six during
the weekends. The coffee shop was closed mornings and nights on
weekends to allow Vitto to enjoy some family time.