Quintic (63 page)

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

Job Trick

B
oth men stared at her
dumbstruck.

“
That scar
is nasty,” she insisted. “No wonder the jerk wore a turtleneck
shirt.
N’est-ce
pas
, Charles?” Charles had better pick
the ball fast if he wanted his job back, she thought.

The rookie
just kept on staring.

Chr
istopher was the first to
react. “Run that by me again,” he asked, his eyes locked on
Charles.

And
Charles naïvely answered! She needed to teach
that young officer a couple of tricks. “I didn’t notice the scar,”
Charles confessed. “Never saw it. Are you sure? Is that why you
attacked him?”

Real
ly helpful,
kid
. Now Christopher was back to glaring
at her.

“
You
attacked him?” His voice was calm, like always when he was mad, and
apparently he was getting angry again. She caught the vein
throbbing on his neck.

“
I did not!
He was launching himself at Charles; I had to do something. I
grabbed the first thing I found and knocked him out.”

“
And you
kicked him?” Still the level voice. With the vein. Plus a frown
now.

“
Yes, I,
hum, I wanted to make sure he stayed down.” Hadn’t they already
discussed all of that?

“
So you had
to kick him again,” he added, a statement than a
question.

Christopher
wasn’t pissed because
she had attacked some jerk in a club; what actually angered him was
his ignorance of why she had done such a thing.

“
I, hum, I
think I kind of lost it. With the scar and all. You know,” she
explained, her eyes glued to his chest. It was a lie, of course.
The scar had not been all that visible tonight. And regardless, she
had lost it right upon noticing the jerk.

Easy to tell
the damn woman
was lying.
You’re usually so good at it, Angel,
but this time, you can’t even look at me
.
That must be
one fucking big lie
.

C
ould she be buying time with a
fib about the scar? No way. She knew the locals had taken
everyone’s IDs, so checking the scar would be easy. Hence, she was
misleading him on something else. He turned back to the feeblest
link.

“
Charles,
did you see the scar, befo
re, during or
after the fight?”

He got
three
No
s. “I saw the guy when I surveyed the place, but he was
wearing a high collar. Up close, he looked heavier than the sketch,
so I dismissed him.”

“You saw him standing or
sitting?”

“
Sitting.
When he stood, I had my
back to him. Then
later, well, he was down. Besides, I wasn’t looking at him so much
as at Patricia, trying to get hold of her.”

A
credible explanation if he ever heard one, more
or less in line with what the other witnesses’ testimonies. Chris
wished the kid had given that info before, but better late than
never. “Did he resembled Bunny’s sketch?”

Charles
shook his head in a clear
no
.

“Not even a little?”

Charles shrugged.

Dilemma
. Fact: Patricia was
lying. But Chris had no clue about what yet. Conclusion? He had to
check on the scar. If indeed the jerk had a scar, Chris would let
Charles back. He had given his word. Hence, he had to keep Charles;
the damn woman would expect no less of him. Although he could
invoke attenuating circumstances, could he not? He found it
surprising that she was up to speed at this late hour, sleep
deprived and all, and sharp enough to trick him with the job
thing.

Guessing
the officer would still
be at the local station, busy writing up his reports before the end
of his shift, he called Steve. “Can you give me a brief recap of
the fight, anything new?”

Nope, nothing new.

“
You
have
descriptions and files on all the
fighters involved? I need a favour. Think you can you send the
papers over to my office?”

Big guy. Fat
guy. The friend. Charles. Patricia. Chris had seen the big guy
briefly in the police car, same for the friend, but the fat guy had
already
boarded an ambulance and Chris
hadn’t checked on him when they went to the hospital later on.
Steve didn’t mention a scar. OK. He would have to go and see for
himself.

“How’s Patricia doing?” Steve
asked.

Fuck, not
him too. Chris hung up.

While he was
on the phone, Patricia had gone back to the couch. Curled up
against the arm
rest, head on her left
hand, lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. Four o’clock.
None of them would be getting a lot of sleep.

“
Time to go
home, Charles. I expect you at nine sharp, my office.” No
forewarning on why he wanted to meet with the kid. The fucking
rookie could figure it out by himself.

After
Charles left, Chris slowly walked to the bedroom, removed his watch
and placed it on the bed stand. He untied his holster and put
holster and gun next to the watch. He took off his jacket and
draped it on the corner chair. The tie followed, then his trousers.
The shoes and socks he dropped on the floor. He stretched on the
bed in his briefs, arms bent behind his head and closed his eyes.
He couldn’t make sense of it, not yet, but he was going to. See the
fat guy. Check for injuries, old and new. Whatever he found would
lead back to her.

He heard her
get up and
tiptoed to the bedroom. She
stepped to the bed and crawled under the sheets next to him. She
rested her head on his chest. He rested his hand on her head,
caressing her hair. She didn’t have any fight left in her. Neither
did he.

Patricia’s Tricky
Job

W
hen she woke, Christopher had
already left. But he was going to be back. When he had cards in his
hand, he was going to come back to confront her. For now, it didn’t
take an ace detective to know he was out checking on the fat guy.
He was not going to find the jerk, though.

The Big
guy
would also take care of Steve and the
other locals by trading favours. And he had that meeting with
Charles. Did he intend to keep the young officer? She hoped so but
wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t; she had deceived him,
hadn’t she? Technically, Charles hadn’t found the scar guy; she
had. She wished Christopher came back soon with his straight flush
of hearts because she wanted to move on with her life and the wait
was killing her.

The more
time passed, the more worried she got. She had
awakened late, well past ten. Which didn’t add up to more
than five hours of sleep, way below what she needed, but a lot
longer than Christopher had slept. When she found his croissants in
a brown bag on the coffee table, she cried. Finally. And crawled
back to bed and dozed on and off for another two hours. She got up
more tired. Time to take charge.

She washed
twice,
shampooed thrice in an overly hot
shower until she got rid of the beer and smoke stinks. Her shoulder
she had thought healed was sore again; that pain fought for
attention with the burning of the bruises on her upper body and
feet.

She
carefully chose the confident and inspiring
outfit for the upcoming battle (discussion, as Christopher referred
to their fights). It helped that she knew her enemy’s weaknesses. A
black thong, silky black push-up bra, sleek boot-cut jeans, red
high-heel shoes, lacy black blouse, maybe unbuttoned a tad
immodestly down her cleavage and impudent hair. After all the
shampooing, her waves were all over the place; she let them be.
Makeup to match. Red lipstick. Smokey-black eyes. Big loop
earrings. Ready to discuss.

By three,
Christopher hadn’t shown up, hadn’t called, and she was more than
impatient. Angry. Defence mechanism. Concerned about Charles.
Worried about Christopher. What if he had managed to find the
scarred guy? A confrontation between them might turn deadly. Even
in her books, it wasn’t always the best man who won. And real life
was often worse.

Thinking she
might as well wait for him at the office (and learn about Charles,
maybe even get to read Steve’s transcript of the fight), she took a
cab.

Nobody was
in except for Bridget. Good. Except Bridget didn’t know what was
going on.

“
I’m sorry,
sweetie. I saw the Chief earlier. Hamilton came in at eight, and
the two locked themselves in his office. You know how he gets when
he’s working a case.”
I
s
ure know, especially when I’m the damn case!
“Then Hamilton left with Frankke.”

“And Charles?”

“
What about
him, dear? He too was in this morning. Nine o’clock sharp. That
young man is so punctual, isn’t he? The Chief went and locked
himself up again. I don’t know what’s got into the man
lately.”
Trust me, Bridget,
you don’t want to know.
“They left at a
quarter to ten, and I haven’t seen either of them since.” Not
good.

“Did Christopher say anything
when he left?”

“
Not really.
He did ask that I forward some of his calls, but he has not
received any.”

“
OK then.
Oh, Bridget? Has Christopher received any fax today? Some type of
report, it’s from that local station.”

“
I’m sorry,
I haven’t seen any paperwork come in. Was it something you were
expecting?”

“
Not
hing important. Thanks
anyway.”

Well
, then, unless she went
snooping in Christopher’s office, she was not going to read Steve’s
report any time soon. She had never searched Christopher’s desk and
wasn’t about to start now. Just the thought of him finding her
poking around in his office, today of all day, was enough to send a
shiver down her spine. Him catching her in the act wouldn’t help
with the upcoming
discussion
. Instead, she passed
the time idly reviewing the diner case.

Reid and
Shapiro were the first to come back. DesForges
show
ed up less than ten minutes after,
LeRoy in tow. It suspiciously looked like the whole gang was coming
back to the mother ship. They knew something was up, something in
the air (or on Christopher’s face), call it instinct, and the pack
was closing ranks.

Heck, let’s have a party
. To
think she had expected a discreet battle
en tête-à-tête
. She had
ways, understated but effective, to ease an argument with
Christopher that she couldn’t, hum, deploy in front of the others.
She had yet to catch her damn infuriating opponent in the throes of
embarrassment from anything or anyone. Hence, even in front of a
large audience, he had no qualms about using any means he deemed
necessary to make her talk. Their next exchange was not going to be
a fair fight, hum,
discussion
. She sighed knowing
she deserved it. Kind of.

I
t was well past five
when he returned with Hamilton, Frankke and Steve. The guys froze
when they saw her; Chris didn’t. He had been expecting her; no way
was she going to stay at her place all day not knowing. He hadn’t
expected the entire team to be in, though, but the more, the
merrier.

Let’s do this once and for all
.
He was exasperated and wanted answers.
I’m glad to see you’re ready for me,
Pussycat
. Her outfit screamed, ‘bring it
on, Big guy’, and the blues’ combative glint broadcast her
eagerness for the impending confrontation. That argument would have
been interesting one-on-one; she was sexy when she was defensive,
and she was damn irresistible in that disguise, but right here
right now would do.

“
Meeting.
Now,” he ordered, heading to the conference room without checking
if she was following, so sure he was that she would. After all,
a
meeting
was why she was here, wasn’t it? Why she hadn’t called all
day. Why she had dressed sexy, and why she had let the fucking
curls run free and taunted him.

Patricia
hesitated, unsure if his order was meant solely for her. She
silently wished for a duologue. Unfortunately, the team wasn’t into
answering prayers tonight, and the damn pack marched in right on
her heels. Unsurprisingly, Charles was nowhere to be
seen.

Everyone
took his or her usual
spot around the table. Frédéric was the other absentee; he wasn’t
all that good with confrontation. Steve took the kid’s seat, not
knowing. Once settled, the gang sat in an exceptionally monastic
silence.

Her cheeks
burned of awkwardness; her heart already drummed too fast. She was
getting angry, again. And sad, again.
I don’t want to do this
. She
had moved on, but Christopher would worry, even more than before.
Worse, if for now he was safe, it wouldn’t last, not if she told
him everything.
Please, don’t
make me do this
.