Duet

By V. P. Trick

Securing a job as a filing clerk on her detective boyfriend’s investigation team was the easy part. So were his overprotective meddling, his attempt at getting her to quit or him firing her (as if you could, Big guy). Writing about dirty cops proved quite different than hunting a serial or two, though. What started as a casual love affair may be the end of her. Literally!
Shy and dreamy female writers should spend their days at the library, or so Chris James MacLaren, Chief homicide detective, believed. Too bad his girlfriend had never read the memo. Now, he has to protect her (for his team and herself both) as she traipsed around the city working on her cold case. Yah, even with just that one case he bestowed upon her, the woman could cause mayhem. He blamed the company she kept, in particular, her ex-hacker boyfriend–deceased, thank fuck–and his elusive agoraphobic sidekick, this one very much alive. Chris has a plan, though. He intended to make her days too busy with filing to run off or recklessly research the hell out of another one of her crazy ideas. As for her nights, they’ll be all his.
Christopher worried too much. Surely, that filing clerk job she secured on his team will prove a perfect research project. Observing the Big guy handle his men (and women) was damn sexy, a little too much considering theirs was a casual relationship, right? Besides, she hated cops, and he was too tough and independent for anything serious, n’est-ce pas ?
Yes, the two liked each other. Sparks flew. If it weren’t for dead bodies, beautiful women, turning up (at least, white parts of them), their lives would be grand.

“You will let me read files and take notes as I want?”
“Absolutely.” Christopher was charming when he wanted to be, wasn’t he? And he did seem to have made up his mind about letting her do her research. Not that she was convinced working in his office was such a good thing. What if she liked him at work? Didn’t she already like him too much? If she had her way, all of her ways, she would have been allowed to take the files home, but HR had said no, absolutely non-negotiable. “And I won’t fetch you coffee.”
“Of course not, Angel.”
Lucky Patricia wasn’t a mind reader because damn if he wasn’t thinking of ways to change her mind. If on such an occasion, she happened to be wearing that outfit with the skirt and heels, or anyone of the many other sexy outfits she had waiting in her closet, well, it would make it all worth it. Not that he intended to have her around long, that wasn’t part of his new emergency plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311213624

V. P. Trick

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A middle life crisis later (a very early middle crisis), what if earth changed axis? Writing began and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Book preview

How dare he locked her in the car! Christopher James MacLaren!

He glared down at her from outside the truck and mouthed, Stay put.

She jiggled the handle again. Still locked. Why had the damn man put a child safety lock device on the truck’s front passenger door? Infuriating! And as if it wasn’t insulting enough, he ordered some big-bellied cop to babysit the car. You are impossible! She growled through clenched teeth. Not that he heard, his back was already receding toward the decrepit apartment building twenty steps away. The scene of the crime.

The man was an arrogant jerk. What did he think she was going to do? Go in and take pictures? Hum. Ok, so she might have. She had never seen a live police search before, so understandably she was curious, who wouldn’t be, but the building was an abandoned wrecked, dirty and surely full of rat, rickety place. Six floors of it, not very tempting.

She fumed angrily in the car for a short while, but fuming got boring fast. She rapped on the windshield to motion Big belly cop over. He seemed like a nice gentleman and looked as bored as she was. She briefly considered climbing out the car’s window. Although, with the clothes she was wearing, there was no way she could make a ladylike exit, not without tearing her sheer black stocking or showing too much bare skin. Not tempting, not yet anyway. Besides, Christopher had left his keys with Softening Belly, so the old copper was the decent way to go.

She pleaded with a smile, not above flirting a little when desperate enough as she was beginning to be, You think you could let me out? My legs are going numb. Would you like a piece of gum? Whatever he heard or saw through the window seemed to satisfy him because he unlocked and opened her door. Is it ok if I walk around a little? Big smile to Belly, who smiled back.

Years of trial and errors had thought her men were handled best when she held their arm delicately; maybe it made them feel strong and manly her hand barely wrinkling the fabric of their shirt. She took Belly’s arm, and together they strolled around the car. Once she had an arm, all she needed to do was stir the man in the right direction. Even Christopher fell for it the first time. Unfortunately, the infuriating jerk was a fast learner and now he covered her hand with his thus ensuring she couldn’t let go when she wanted to. Most infuriating really. Nonetheless, he had been perfect tonight. Delicious meal, entertaining club, perfect evening right until the damn car locking thing.

She sighed and marched on with Belly, daydreaming as she rested her hand on his sleeve. Had they lived a hundred years back, her hand would have been gloved. The club was the perfect setting for a murder. Turn of the twentieth century, a club hostess found murdered, the club as background décor. Maybe if she worked at the club for a while, as an ambiance immersion of sort. To add the smell of Cuban cigars to her story, one of the men in the cigar room should do the killing.

Her musing half-drowned Belly’s antics. I’ve been on the force for so long, I can’t remember joining. I’m getting too old for all-nighters like tonight.

Christopher too, complained of being too old and yet, there he was, on the job in the middle of their date, and there she was, with Belly in tow. Her anger came back.

The street was gloom. Not one recent construction on that block. All she saw were abandoned apartment buildings. Seven six-floor buildings in a row on one side of the street, all closed-down; and opposite, ancient two-storey Victorian cottages, she counted ten, of which eight were inhabited she assumed from the lights peeking through their greasy windows. Inhabited but not proudly tended to. The grass was burned to a crust, the flowerings, nonexistent, and the fancy window dressings unwashed for the last fifty years. Not a pleasant area to live in. The houses might have been tidy during the decade they were built, but now the wood trimmings were flaking, and none of the roofs had a complete set of tiles.

The apartment building Christopher and his cop buddies were searching was busily noisy with the comings and goings of crime scene investigation. The house directly opposite on the other side of the street was dark. Belly cop in tow, she walked to house’s front porch. Another perfect setting for a murder. Police flashing lights illuminated the neighbourhood and yet, there were no onlookers, not one soul standing around behind the police tape. That no one had the curiosity to come out of his house to gawk was rare. Not one neighbour with a clear enough conscience perhaps? Or might be they were all too drunk. Or dead. This was one creepy street.

It had seemed so simple a couple of days ago, asking Christopher for a date. Typical. How could such an innocent suggestion bring her to this dump? All she wanted was one normal date, damn it, was it that much to ask?! Christopher’s fault entirely.

Chris

Two weeks ago.

Damn woman. How did she come up with those ideas! He never saw it coming. Was caught totally unprepared. Again.

The week had been going nicely. The murder scene was quiet this month; he had almost all his evenings free, evenings he spent with her, eating out, eating in, making out, making love. Evenings and mornings. Lovely times. He’d come to her hotel, and they’d improvised, often not making it out until morning. Or she’d meet him someplace for dinner and a movie, and he’d take her back to his place. Fuck he liked having her at his place. Talking, showering, breakfasting at the table when she agreed, more often sitting on the kitchen counter as he cooked breakfast, watching movies, reading, sleeping. He liked having her next to him in bed. Liked it a lot.

They had yet to talk about where the relationship was going, about how they felt about each other, about how serious their thing was, about being exclusive. They had yet to talk about those things normal couples talked about. Not that he needed to. Damn obvious to him she drove him crazy. Even more fucking obvious he was crazy about her. Forty-two-year-old cop, as cynical as can be and then some, and yet he had fallen for her, delusional as she was. Fallen hard as in, I’m hers, and she’s mine. The fucking love thing. He should have known better, but he loved her and every damn minute they spent together and had no intention of slowing down. He wasn’t quite sure how she felt, though. She liked him for sure, might even love him. If he was so lucky. He made her smile and laugh and sigh, got her aroused and got her relaxed yet he wasn’t sure. If he pushed, she would run, that he knew. She had done it before and would do it again. Not a problem, Angelface, you have no idea how patient I can be.

So the relationship was treated like an affair. Casual. Light. An affair between two strong-willed, independent adults very attracted to one another, each pretending those nights they spent together were just that, light and casual. And if the nights turned into days, it was ok, all light and casual, an it-just-kind-of-happened thing, let’s-not-make-something-out-of-it fling. And if he made her breath catch just by looking at her a certain way, well, that was just physical, wasn’t it? Or so she said. Him getting a boner merely from the sight of her walking into a room, that too was light and casual. A man his age! He damn well knew it wasn’t just physical, but he kept it slow, fucking pretended, for now enjoying the ride and postponing the moment he was going to make it official. Confront her. Marriage had never been on his list, not with his job, not with his temperament, but he would, with her. I’ll let play along and let you pretend all you want, Princess, but like it or not, the I’m yours and you’re mine, is happening.

Christopher, I’ve been thinking…

Everyone called him Chris, except her. He liked any and all ways she said his name. Softly, teasingly, laughing, angrily, breathy. Fucking liked breathy, and husky, especially when followed by a please. She had said his name softly.

Yes, Princess, what’s up?

The princess often got a reaction out of her. And sure enough, she jumped out of the bed. Reacting to the princess and the casual tone, or was it the laughter audible in his voice? A second before she had been laying naked on her stomach watching him get ready for work, the covers up to her lower back, but now stood naked in front of him, hands in fists on her hips, frowning at him. Fuck she looked good. He had a meeting with the Brass at Central this morning, but he could spare a few minutes. Hell, the state he was in, he wouldn’t need much time anyway.

She caught him lowering his gaze to her breasts. Christopher! I’m trying to have a conversation here. The angry-sounding Christopher, maybe with a hint of breathy Christopher. Easy for her to guess what he was thinking. She ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

He smiled. Like a locked door had ever stopped him from getting to her. He knocked on the bathroom door just to let her know he was willing to wait. For tonight. Tomorrow. The weekend. Plenty of time. Breakfast in ten, Angel.

He finished getting ready and headed for the kitchen to prepare the announced breakfast. Coffee was first, double espresso for him, hers would wait until she came out. On the menu today, toasts, patés, cheese and jams, and maple butter for her, she was a maple-addict. For the nth time, he thought of dipping himself in the stuff and letting her lick it off. That got him smiling, big time, but didn’t help lessen his erection.

She came out of the bedroom fully dressed, light makeup on, hair done in a ponytail. Same message as the locked door. Ignoring the kitchen counter, she headed straight to the table. He sighed. No fooling around this morning, and no maple-dipped dick.

I’ve been thinking

They sat down to eat. More precisely, he ate and she played with her food. She watched him with her head slightly crooked to the side, a pose he had come to decipher as either her precarious I’m-thinking-hard pose or the perilous I’m-up-to-something pose. Either way, it meant he was about to be tricked. Big time.

Christopher, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think we should do this again.

What the fuck? Keeping his voice low, his tone casual, noncommittal but brain working hard, he scanned his memories of the last days. What the hell had they done? Have breakfast? Do what again, Angel? It seemed to him they had been pretty quiet lately. No hiding, no arguing, no fighting, no shootings, no running. Perfect.

This. All of this. Breakfast.

He was taken aback. Breakfast was her favourite meal. And it wasn’t like he had her slaving at the oven, he was always the one cooking. Neither of them enjoyed cooking, but breakfast he liked. She was slim, not much fat on her; she was usually starving when she awoke. Considering her weight, she was a surprisingly sturdy eater in the morning. Breakfast gave her a lot of energy, she once told him. If he had plans for later, he liked her having energy.

Don’t worry about it, Dollface. I like making breakfast. I make it for all of my women. A blatant lie, of course, and a damn macho thing to say, but he was aiming at casual here. He had not made breakfast for a woman in years, decades really. He hadn’t brought any woman home to spend the night since he had gotten his place years ago. Back when he was into casual fucking, he preferred visiting his mistresses at their places, way easier to leave after. Except with her, her he didn’t want to leave.

She frowned at him. You don’t understand. I don’t think we should do this, she gestured with her arms, encompassing the dining table, his place or the fucking universe? not just breakfast, all of it. See each other. Sleep together. Have sex. All of it.

The fucking universe it was. Where the hell was that coming from? She liked breakfast, and she liked seeing him and sleeping with him. She had a way of rubbing her face against him, her mouth to his skin, before falling asleep. And she liked sex with him, he fucking made sure she did. He liked it too. Immensely. I thought you liked it. Liked it all. I know I do. I like it a lot. All of it, he teased and then paused. Proceed carefully, he warned himself silently. Why? Any reason in particular?

Yes. Plenty of reasons. We argue all the time, and we hate each other’s guts. I think you’re an arrogant jerk of a cop, and you think I’m sassy and crazy.

She was right of course, but it had never stopped them before. In more ways than he could count, they were perfect for each other. Patricia Darling, that doesn’t change anything. I still like it all. I like you. A lot. And I think you like me too.

There you go again! The arrogance of you! What makes you think I like you so? Her voice was getting angry. Looking for a fight, was she? One of her defence mechanisms. Once they started to fight, he wouldn’t get to the bottom of this.

He smiled. A half smile, a little crooked, cocky. Would you like me to show you exactly how much you like me?

No! Stay away from me! That doesn’t mean anything! It’s just physical. You have more mileage thus more techniques. Big deal. I’m not talking about sex!

He kept on smiling, knowing he probably shouldn’t yet he couldn’t help himself. That a woman with her looks and character could be so naïve was, well, fucking sexy. Yes, he had been with a lot of women. Women liked cops, they liked men with money. More than that, they liked bums, smart men and guys with an attitude problem. He had been all. Still was. Adding funny and damn charming and protective since he had met her, he was all. For her only. She had had her share of men too. While he might have had hundred of fucks, she had had a dozen of loves. And love in his opinions, made it worse. The worst was the Joshua guy; fuck he hated that jerk. Bottom line, they both had been around, granted him a lot more than her, but for sure she knew what they did was more than sex. Lust. Desire. Love.

What the hell are you talking about, Pussycat? Losing his patience now. Thoughts of the Joshua asshole did that.

Don’t call me that! He smirked when she let out a heavy sigh. "I’m talking about this, Big guy. This is not right."

What’s not right? We like each other; we see each other. What’s wrong with that?

She sighed. Another big heavy sigh, theatrics, like he wasn’t getting something obvious. What’s wrong is we did it all backward. We started fighting even before we knew each other. You kissed me, and I didn’t even know for sure you were a cop. We had sex on your kitchen counter before you were even sure I wasn’t a killer! Damn it, Christopher, we’ve never even gone on a first date!

He couldn’t hold back a laugh. Damn woman. She liked him, she fucking liked him! Her trying to back out only showed how much she fucking liked him. Good, he knew how to be patient.

Christopher James MacLaren, this is not funny!

She sharply pushed her chair away from the table, but he caught her by the arms before she could get away. I’m sorry, Angel. You’re right, this is not funny. Look, we may have skipped a few steps, but that’s ok. It’s really ok. We can still do it. Do it right.

She looked unsure. You’re going to ask me out on a date?

Yes, I will ask you out. On a first date.

Properly?

Yes, fucking properly. Whatever the hell she meant. He nodded.

We will go out on a good old-fashioned date?

Absolutely. A regular old-fashioned date like you want, Angel.

A date like we don’t know each other and you’re taking me out for the first time?

Yes. Our first official date ever.

A no touching, no kissing, no sex kind of date?

Fuck! Yes. A first date like that. If it’s what you want. He might work on changing her mind, old-fashioned guys did that back in the days, didn’t they?

Ok then. I guess we can try. Just one simple, old-fashioned rendezvous to see how it goes. And you’re going to bring me back to my place and leave, no kissing or anything. Promise?

Promise. Damn, damn, damn.

You do know what will happen, don’t you, Christopher?

Yes, you’re going to be too damn smart and lively and funny and sexy, but I won’t spend the night and make you breakfast because you made me promise. But he didn’t say that. We’re going to have such a good time, you’ll want to move in with me?

"Non! No, of course not. It’s going to be a disaster." Damn woman.

Patricia

Christopher was picking her up at six. A bit early for a first date, when she thought about it. But she had turned him down three times already, and he had sounded tired on the phone. Murders were picking up again. Hence, he was working overtime. She had not said yes out of pity for his tired voice, though, Christopher was not a man that needed sympathy. The truth was, she missed him. Two measly weeks and she missed him a lot. Damn unsettling.

In later years, she had made it a rule only to go out with jerks, younger guys or older men, men with whom she basically had nothing in common. They were so much easier to deal with; she did whatever she wanted without giving a damn. There had only been two exceptions. Joshua, who turned out to be somewhat crazy like her. Too much like her. Joshua was dead now, and she had moved on. And Christopher, who was a jerk, sometimes, and a dangerously smart and funny and tender guy some other times. If only he were a jerk more often, her life would be so much easier. Even if she did like the jerk part sometimes too.

He was coming in less than an hour, and she still wasn’t dressed. What did one wear on a first date? A first date with a man she knew very well from having seen him play and sleep and think and cook and smile and fight and shop. A man she had seen happy and angry and sad and naked more than a few times already? A rendezvous with a man who drove her crazy? A man she might be crazy about, but didn’t dare admit so even to herself? She wanted to be sexy yet subdue. After all, this was to be an old-fashioned first date.

He had not told her where they were going. Miss Patricia, he’s dais when he called, if you would do me the honour, I’d like to invite you to an old-fashioned dinner and a show.

Did it mean pizza and a movie or a five-course fancy meal and opera? She smiled. Knowing him, he probably planned a little of both, hence no jeans but no fancy dress either. She finally settled on a classic little black dress. Black cashmere, very soft, with a scooped neck that fell just above the edge of her bra, front and back. Its three-quarter sleeves and no-frill cut had given it a plain look on the hanger, but on her, with its neckline leaving a hint of breasts and shoulders bare, it was very flattering. Christopher was going to like it. The dress followed her curves to an inch of her knees. If she wore the dress with flats, a scarf and a jeans jacket, she could almost pass for a college student. For afar. With her hair untied and waving all over, the jeans jacket, the scarf and a pair of black high-heeled pumps, she was first date material. Ok, maybe more like fourth or fifth date material, when you want him to know you’re ready for him, but what the heck, this was no ordinary first date. Besides, she needn’t worry about being too sexy since he had promised to behave. From experience, she knew it was safer for her modesty not be left alone with him in her room, she waited for him in the downstairs lobby.

He walked in at six o’clock sharp, showered, neatly shaved, freshly trimmed hair, not that his hair was ever long. He smelled of that sexy aftershave from Chanel she liked, soap, and him. She caught the scent as he took her hand and bent to kiss it. The man came no closer. Old-fashioned all the way, damn him. He looked her over, crinkles of laugher at the corner of his eyes. Maybe the date wasn’t such a good idea after all; she did find him dangerously interesting right now.

His truck had been washed too. He got the door for her, like he always did, and helped her in like he always did, before walking around to the driver side. She stole glances at him while he drove; he was so obviously at ease and relaxed. Casual and in control. So far. She only caught him once looking at her knees when he was downshifting. Just wait, Big guy, you haven’t really seen the dress yet. Although maybe the dress was a bit much, after all wasn’t the point of this date to make sure they break off, him being a jerk and her being crazy? Such was her plan for Christopher scared the hell out of her emotionally.

Part one, dinner, was flawless. He chose well. She had an entrée of duck confit and a dish of lamb, and red wine, surely too much of it, but he kept pouring it and smiling. Perfect. When they left the restaurant for part two of the date, the show, her plan had shifted to can I seduce him? As in can I seduce him before he seduces me? He had been charming, funny and gentlemen-ly if there was such a thing. Exemplary. Dangerously perfect. He obviously liked the dress, liked it a lot. She got warm and tingly from him looking at her. The man was infuriating!

For part two, he took her to a club in an unfamiliar part of town. Struggling lower-class neighbourhood in the west. He parked in front of a two-storey building with blacked-out windows, a doorman at the door and a short line-up along the front of the building. The word Cabaret flashed in purple and red neon letterings.

Please, let this not be a strip club! She hated it when men brought her to strip clubs. Been there, done that.

The front parking spot had been reserved for Christopher. The doorman let them in right away, giving her legs an approving glance along the way as Christopher helped her out of the car. Christopher frowned at the man. Door guy probably didn’t get as big a tip as he would have had he been more discreet. She smiled sweetly at him. She liked seeing poker-faced Christopher react.

Old-fashioned club

The inside of the club was a romantic’s dream. It wasn’t a strip club. A hostess in a black dress and sporting old-fashioned wavy hairdo guided sharply dressed patrons, men and women, to a sprinkling of small round tables and chairs clad in red velvet. There were about forty tables and eighty chairs she rapidly estimated. In the back, along the wall opposite the entrance, a stage lined with black velvet drapes was currently occupied by a jazz band. The musicians, piano, cello, and guitar, played for a jazz singer, a wonderfully voluptuous black woman held tight in a long velvety red gown. Walking back and forth between the tables and the bar, situated on the left side of the entrance, waitresses, just as sultry as the hostess, brought drinks to the patrons enjoying the show. Further left of the bar were glass doors behind which she glimpsed a scatter of big comfy-looking leather chairs, puffing men sitting in them. Cigar room. The men and ladies rooms were hidden between the stage and the cigar room.

Coup de foudre. She loved the place. She took it all in. The perfect mix of the twenties and fifties with the female personnel, short, tall, slim, round, good looking and smiling. The Italian-looking barman was a short guy, a shrunken version of the doorman.

There was a cover charge to get in, but she hadn’t seen how much Christopher had slipped the doorman, and he probably had made an additional donation to cover the parking space. A cop paying off for privileges, and yet it didn’t make him a bad cop in her eyes. Peculiar man. She noticed him looking at her. From the grin on his face, the half crooked smile he had when he knew he had her, he must have been studying her since they were seated. Si sexy! With that look in his eyes, the one that said I want you, I want you now. She smiled. Yes, he had her. Just as she had him, for she was going to make him come back on his word.

He ordered the drinks, red wine for her, scotch for him, and they sat and watched and listened to the singer and, during the pauses between songs, made small talk and teased. They had been given one of the last empty tables. In the center of the room, at equal distance from the front room and the stage. A great table. She had an unobstructed view of everything, the entrance, the bar, the cigar room door, people going to the restrooms. Strangely most were men, she noticed. Maybe the place had some heavy drinkers as clients? She observed the waitresses disappearing in turns for ten-fifteen minutes through a door next to the restrooms, there must be another room next to the toilets, a separate restroom for the employees perhaps?

Christopher had his back to the right wall. From their perfect cop table, he too could survey everything. He was controlling to the last details; she had no trouble imagining the Big guy reserving this very table in advance.

After a short ten-minute intermission, the band came back on. Christopher’s arm rested on the back of her chair, brushing against her back and shoulders. He leaned in every few minutes to whisper nonsense about the band, the décor and the clientele. Each time she caught small touches of his cologne, of his heat, of his lips brushing against her skin. She was getting dizzy. From the noise, from the wine, from desire.

MacLaren’s old-fashioned woman

Patricia gently brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck as if she was feeling hot, and rubbed at the exposed skin distractedly. An innocent yet so sexy gesture that said it all. He knew she was ready to leave now. He had successfully avoided her foretold disaster date, and he intended to end this by-the-book, old-fashioned date the old-fashioned way, without even so much as a kiss on her cheek. He didn’t dare kiss her even lightly, for fear he wouldn’t be able to stop with just one cheek. She so looked the part tonight. Without having tried to, she was a superb old-fashioned tease. Her usual self with him. He might need to put an icepack in his shorts later if he wanted to sleep. Damn woman.

His phone rang as they were about to leave. He had three numbers directed to his cell phone. The official number only Brass and strangers called; an emergency all-hell-broke-loose number; a something-has-happened-but-nobody-you know-is-dead number. The last two numbers he had given only to his team and her. So what if something had happened, he was a fucking date! He let it ring.

Once, twice, three times.

She looked him over and, smiling, grabbed the phone from his back pocket. Chief Officer MacLaren’s cell phone. May I take a message? She listened intently. I see. Listened some more. We’re on our way. She hung up and gave him his phone back. Let’s go, Big guy. Duty calls.

"What was the fucking we about, Angel?"

That was someone called DesForges, she explained, her arm hooked with his, as they walked out to the car. It seems some local police station received an anonymous tip regarding a missing person case. Your DesForges guy seems to think there might be a connection with a case your team is working on. He gave us the address so we could meet him there.

Us? Don’t even think about it Princess.

"Yes. Us. It’s a ten-minute ride from here. If you bring me back to the hotel, and then drive back, you’ll waste an hour and the locals are already at the place. From the comments you’ve made, I know how little faith you have in local police squads. They’re just waiting for the go from their chief. You’ll be missing all the fun, she teased him. And surely you don’t want to put me in a cab, do you? Not the way I’m dressed and feeling a little tipsy."

He couldn’t tell exactly how drunk she was, but, smiling and bright-eyed, she was indeed tipsy. She was so soft when she was tipsy. She had taken her jacket off to remind him how sexy she looked. Damn it, as irrational as it was, he couldn’t put her in a cab, not in this neighbourhood. What if she decided to stop some place or change the old-fashioned date to a girls-on-the-town evening? If she called that Ingrid woman, her editor-agent-best friend-drinking buddy, who the fuck knew where they might end up? So against his better judgement, he took her with him.

The trip took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes he spent planning what he was going to do with her. To her. First, he was going to lock her up in the truck. And to make sure she didn’t get out, as an extra precaution, he was going to put a policeman in uniform to watch over her. Then, after he had survey the place and seen whatever the hell there was to be seen, he was going to take her home. Get her naked. But no kissing, not even on the cheek. He planned on licking her all over but without getting licked or kissed in return. Just a regular old-fashioned date. Surely licking was allowed. Hell, he wasn’t even going to take the damn dress off, she looked too sexy in it. He was going to lick from the top, lowering the dress a little, and from the bottom, hiking it a little more. Was licking on his part to be considered sex? For sure old-fashioned guys had done major licking back in the days.

Patricia shows herself a good time

Perfect end to a perfect night. Now if only she could find a way to convince herself she didn’t want to see him anymore. Such a simple plan: divide and conquer, starting with a fight. That was where the date should have led them. A mega-giga-fight to end it all. Albeit there was still time. She turned to face the old house again. Why not? Christopher was busy doing his police thing; she might as well do her writer thing. Research. A creepy place like this, she might have use of it in some future story. Perhaps if she asked Belly nicely, she could take a look inside.

Look, the window’s broken. Lucky break for both front and back doors were locked, and Belly kept insisting he didn’t know how to pick locks. Probably didn’t know how to break doors down either.

She peeked into the back window. There isn’t one single glass shards left hanging on the frame. Not a fresh break then, wouldn’t you say? Cops usually liked playing cops, but Belly shrugged noncommittally. Okeydokey.

Maybe there was a break-in, she suggested. Someone had cleared the shards for sure. Maybe we should check it out. No way was he coming in with her; the belly didn’t fit into the window. Maybe you can check the backyard while I take a look inside? Belly smirked as he glanced at the bare backyard. Ok, it was a lame excuse but she went in anyway, climbing in barefoot, her high heels discarded along the outside wall. I’ll be right back. Please, don’t go anywhere. Going into an abandoned house alone in a shitty neighbourhood was easy when one had a cop standing guard. Thanks, Christopher. She showed some skin climbing in, but the guy probably didn’t noticed. Besides, he was married.

Belly’s wife being a fan, she had learned that much pacing in front of the (forbidden) apartment building housing the (even more forbidden crime scene) with the old copper in tow. Hence, she had little trouble convincing him to let her in alone. This will be great research material. As a writer, I need to breathe in the atmosphere alone before you can follow me. People really did believe anything about writers, didn’t they? Unless Belly was indeed getting too old for the job. Or maybe it was her promise to write in the name of his wife in a future story that did the trick. Whatever, she went in alone.

Dusty interior, the perfect décor if she ever wanted to write a Halloween or a fright novel. She walked on. She crossed through the kitchen, dining room, small bathroom, study, living room, and, hidden behind a closet door, a small wooden staircase leading to the basement. She closed the door back and moved on. The mice could have it, no way was she going down there. Mice and rats probably. A subtle pungent odour filled the house. A second staircase stood in the front hall, curving along the wall of the living room up to the second floor. The pieces of furniture left behind hinted to a hurried departure. A bashed-in leather chair that must have been some burgundy color but was now a faded pinkish grey. A small table missing a leg that laid on the floor in the study. And the smell! For sure she was going to need a shower when she got back home.

The lights blazing from the police cars illuminated up the hall well enough for her to climb the stairs to the second floor. From there she had a clear view of the front door and part of the study and living room. She could have sworn the smell was coming from vermin in the basement, but strangely the stink was worse on the second floor. Maybe a rat was decomposing in the wall somewhere. She felt nauseous. Too much wine surely. She breathed through her mouth.

Footprints marked the dusty floors, hers with the small indents of her toes, plus some bigger shoe marks. The house being quiet and so visibly abandoned, she didn’t give it a second thought. Also, she had Belly standing guard by the kitchen window.

Four closed doors awaited her on the second floor. Bedrooms or bathrooms most probably. All the doors had been left slightly ajar. A light push with her elbow and the doors swivelled open without her having to touch the door handle. An old habit left over from hanging around Joshua and his paranoid friends, she never left fingerprints when she could prevent it.

She started with the first room at the front. Large, empty and dusty bedroom. The room had three small windows overlooking the street and the apartments buildings. She watched police officers at work behind windows on the other side of the street and tried to find Christopher but couldn’t. Hum. If I can see him, then he can see me. She smiled to herself, thinking how seeing her might not have made him happy. She exited the room and tried door number two. Master bedroom. Except for a bare mattress on the floor in a corner next to the communicating bathroom door, the room was empty. If someone had been sleeping in the house, that someone wasn’t here anymore. There were no traces of the someone anywhere; no blankets crumpled on the mattress, no wrappers on the floor, no signs of life.

She inspected the bathroom next. Dust on the sink, dust in the tub, dust on the toilet bowl, no seat, no water. Not a nice place to live in, no wonder the squatter had left. The bathroom had two doors, the one she had walked in through, a second door facing the first. Closet or communicating door for the next room? She extended her arm to open the door but paused midway, afraid of leaving fingerprints. Silly. Who cares about fingerprints anyway? It had been one of Joshua’s quirks, but Joshua was long dead. Besides, she wasn’t doing anything illegal now, was she? Nonetheless, she wrapped her hand in her jacket before gripping the door knob and opening the door slowly. Just from the smell she should have known what she was going to find. She should have known right when she climbed through that kitchen window and took her first breath inside the house, the nauseating feeling washing over her. Breathing in the atmosphere, my ass! Hanging on the door handle, she stood frozen on the spot. Poor woman.

Patricia never got to door number four.

Alternate Series: The woman

Typical. He was the first detective on the scene. Not the team’s youngest, not the fastest and yet, as always, he was the first on the scene.

For once, the local flatfoots had not screwed it up.

"Can you confirm you searched the place without running over the prints." Two sets of footprint marks were visible on the dusty floor. The footprints told of a methodical search, the path never crossing on itself.

Plenty of time later to go through the house, he went straight up to the room. For now, he wanted some time alone with the woman. See if she would tell him something. Corpses did talk sometimes, when one knew how to listen. He considered himself a good listener. Patient. Infuriatingly patient some said. Not that he gave a damn.

The woman lay on her back. Barefoot, naked to her waist, her legs a flat ghostly white, nor shiny or waxy like skin could be but dull white. She was facing away from him so he couldn’t see her face as he walked in, only the long plain brownish hair covering her side. Her arms were crossed over her chest, tied together at the wrists with a sturdy boating rope. She was wearing a long sleeve V-neck shirt. No coat. A length of rope peeked through her hair and curved loosely on the floor next to her shoulder. The corpse’s way of telling him, if he pulled the hair away and followed the rope, he was going to find it wrapped around her neck.

He didn’t touch her hair, didn’t touch anything. Later he might. After the technicians had searched the scene, after the woman had been given her own space at the morgue. Then he might touch her, then again, he might not. It all depended on the questions he had, but mostly on the answers he needed.

extract from Alternate series, by Trica C. Line

Her date’s definitely over

She walked out the room through door number three. Walked slowly down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Clambered out the window. Nodded to Belly. Walked to the farthest end of the backyard. Threw up. Some date.

Here, girl. Take my handkerchief, Belly offered, showing up at her side. Cotton, very old-fashioned, very gallant.

Thank you. She took a shallow breath. If you would be so kind, could you maybe get my bag from the car? She carried a toothbrush in it. And perhaps, some water?

When Belly returned a couple of minutes later with both purse and water she didn’t ask where he had gotten the water, hopefully not from any of the street buildings. Her mind a blank, she brushed her teeth for a while. She stopped when she tasted blood. What old Belly thought while watching her brush, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Hum. Not true, she did care a little, his wife had read her books after all. What Belly would now tell the wifey!

She took his arm, to steady herself this time. Belly was the one to lead them back to the street. They reached the car as Christopher strolled out of the building. Damn. The Big guy had left her for less than thirty minutes and to find her out of the car was going to anger him, especially when he learned of how she had spent her time. Don’t tell him. It’s not like I had anything to do with the woman. None of my business. Do not tell him. For a fraction of a second, the thought flashed through her mind. Do not tell him anything, let him take you home and tuck you in. Hadn’t she changed the plan? Seduce him and forget the rest. But how could she forget the woman?

Well, Patricia?

Well what, Big guy? Her voice sounded edgy to her ears.

Couldn’t stay put, could you? A fucking half hour! He was looking both at her and at babysitter cop Belly, hard to tell at whom he was angrier.

Christopher−

He cut her off, Don’t! I’ve asked you a very simple thing. Why was she let out? Turning his anger on Belly.

I let her out. She looked tired of sitting, Belly answered without apologising. Wow, a cop Christopher didn’t intimidate. If she weren’t suddenly so tired, she would have enjoyed the standoff between the two men.

Christopher, she repeated, interposing herself to cut the argument short.

Don’t! Damn it, Patricia! This is not the kind of place to go wandering off!

She didn’t go wandering off, I stayed with her the whole time. Belly, her new hero.

With or without you, she shouldn’t have gone anywhere. You were given a direct order.

Boy, already with the order thing. Christopher James MacLaren, leave him out of this!

As far as I was told, she isn’t in police custody. Not under arrest, is she? Belly, taking her defence again. Good thing she had a chat with him earlier, telling him she was a writer helped for sure. Such a nice guy that Roger belly guy, she would have to send something to his wife, Irma. What was she to do with a character named Irma?

The throbbing vein on Christopher’s neck brought her back to the present situation. The throbbing was never a good sign; he was looking to pick a fight. Fine, she was ready. Fighting had been her plan all along in any case. And this was clearly and without a doubt entirely his fault. Christopher James MacLaren, stop being a jerk!

He narrowed his eyes at her. Princess, you were supposed to wait for me in the truck. The FUCKING truck. But no, you went ahead to do whatever fucking research you always want to do, and I’m the jerk for not wanting you to stay put? Fuck, it’s my job to snoop around, not yours!

Your job?! She smirked at him. Let me get this straight. Your job is to search for some missing person while my job is to stay in the car, expectantly awaiting the return of the big man, mission accomplished, is that it? Such a perfect date! Such an infuriating man!

Yes! Finally! Why is that so hard to do?

She was now officially pissed. Expectantly waiting for a man was NOT her thing. Head tilted, she looked him over. And how did the job go, Big guy?

Complete waste of time all around. Her included no doubt.

Now that’s just too bad. Would it be too much to ask to have officer Roger here drive me home? Since I assume you don’t want me to take a cab, and there is no way in hell you are driving me home.

He threw his arms up in response as if he felt she was acting unreasonably. The hell with him. Wait for him? No chance in hell. He turned to Roger, but the cop had already taken her elbow, stirring her toward one of the police cars.

She only remembered about the dead woman as she was being driven away, seated in the back of a squad car like a damn prisoner. Damn! What if the woman was the one Christopher had been looking for? Patricia was so mad at the Big guy, she didn’t want to talk to him, but she couldn’t leave the poor woman unattended. She called his cell. Generally, when she had news to tell him, bad news, any news, she left messages on his answering machine at his place. Tonight though, anticipating he might not get home anytime soon, as a show of good faith she called his cell’s serious-but-not-urgent number.

Probably having considered not answering at all, he did not answer until the fourth ring. Calling to apologise, Princess? The arrogance of the man!

"Non. No way. Never. You’re the one who should apologise."

Patricia!

Stop! I’m just calling to let you know that, while you were wasting your time and taxpayers’ money on that apartment building, Roger and I found something interesting in the house in front. You might want to take a look. If you have the time, of course.

What? What the hell are you talking about?

I want you to go have a look. Good night.

Patricia!

Good night. She paused briefly. And I was right, wasn’t I? It did turn out to be a disaster. She hung up on her now possibly ex-lover. The man was just impossible!

Working girl

She did as she had planned. For research purposes, she got herself a job at the Cabaret. Hostess-ing, wearing heels all evening, smiling and being nice to everybody ended up to be hard work. The day after her perfect and disastrous date with Christopher, she went to the Cabaret. The owner, who turned out to be the Italian-looking barman, was utterly unimpressed by her lack of experience.

How about trying me out, free of charge, for a one-night test?

She showed up late afternoon, all dressed up, or more accurately all dolled up for the part. Hair tied in an impeccable bun. Classy black dress, not the one she had worn on her date but another that showed less of her legs and shoulders but more cleavage, thanks to the help of a black push-up bra. A pair of short Mary Poppins boot-type shoes with sturdy square high heels. Sensible shoes despites the heels. She didn’t regret wearing them. She did a lot of walking that night, a damn lot. The finishing touch was her face painted like a retro glam actress with black eye-liner, three coats of mascara and shiny red lipstick. All around a very boudoir-like fifties look.

When first she knocked on the front door, nobody answered. But with the time invested in the hair and makeup job, no way was she turning back. She circled the building and found the doorman smoking by the side door.

Hello Sir, I’m new. I’m starting the hostess thing tonight.

Hey, Sugar. The guy looked her up and down. You were here last night, weren’t you? He added as he held the door for her. Funny, she didn’t remember him looking at her face. Probably the fact Christopher had paid for the parking space, the fast entrance and the table was what got her in.

I visited the place, yes, but now I’m here to work.

Before the seven o’clock opening, she had dinner with the four waitresses working that night. For her test drive, the boss put her in charge of the reception. When clients came in, she was to find them a table, evening the placement between the four hostesses’ respective section (apparently waitresses did not like being referred to as waitresses). Easy at first since the night started slowly, but it soon picked up, the place filling up. But later, as people started leaving and new ones came in, she had to keep track of how much occupied tables each hostess had.

By eleven the place was packed, and Bossman decided she could take the row farthest from the stage, six tables in all, all to herself. So much fun! She had an all-men crowd. And she was a success, all smiles and delicate curves and loose locks of hair falling on her sultry eyes. Since she succeeded in keeping the other sections busy, none of the working girls resented her. When the place closed at three, she stayed a while to talk to Bossman and her new colleagues.

She particularly liked one of the women, a mid-thirties stunning petite blonde who talked like a truck driver. The others she found to be cold and unfriendly.

Don’t worry about them, Blondy told her. Those two, she added pointing at two tall and thin hostesses lounging at the bar, are ok most of the time. They do their thing; you do yours. The other one, chin nod to the third, tallish, thinnish, curvy, can be a real bitch so you should just ignore her.

The two tall and thin hostesses, Patricia nicknamed Twiggy and Reedy. The bitch was to be Bitchy for now.

Bossman disregarded her few mix-ups with the drinks because the clientele, a couple of regulars amongst her row of men, had liked her. They stayed longer, and you brought in good money, so you’re in, kiddo.

She had no idea what good money was for Bossman, but tonight’s work sure had brought her good tips. With only her six tables, for only half the night, she had earned nearly enough to pay an average sized apartment’s monthly rent. Not that she needed it, having no actual rent to pay. Had Christopher spent as much money the night before? Not that she was worried. No way was the Big guy about to be short on cash.

Ok, listen, kiddo. The place’s opened three nights a week. So you work again tomorrow, then you’re off until next Thursday, Bossman explained.

Hostessing might just be the perfect job. It gave her plenty of time to write and do research. After she’d worked for a couple of days, she planned on formally asking Bossman for his permission to snoop around the place, make sketches and take pictures. Maybe she could even convince him to let her work in the cigar room for a night. A big silent guy, a smaller copy of the doorman, attended to the cigar room. He was the clientèle’s cigar advisor. The men usually went in carrying their drinks, but Silent guy could also take orders if needed. Another guy, copy number four, brought the drinks. The male hosts were dressed in expensive-looking black Mafiosi type suits with black shiny leather shoes. None of the four had a beard, piercings or visible tattoos. Even Bossman wore the suit, without the jacket but with dressy suspenders. Classy.

You’ll have to buy or borrow, no difference to me, a couple of black dresses. Some of the clients come twice on the same weekend, and I don’t want you wearing the same shit twice during the same weekend or even two weeks in a row. We’re running a classy operation here.

She doubt the patrons remembered the dresses but hey, Bossman was the boss, so she didn’t argue. She would need six black dresses. Expensive job uniforms but with the kind of tips they made, it was not surprising none of the waitresses seemed to mind.

You can borrow some of mine, Blondy offered in a whisper. I have lots. She cast a glance at Bossman. The boss and the clients don’t mind seeing the same dress two nights in a row as long as it’s on two different bodies. There again, more likely they didn’t even noticed.

She was still angry at Christopher thus, naturally, she didn’t see him during her first weekend at the club. Besides, weren’t they off now? She didn’t know how to make the break-up official without actually talking to him. Seeing him. Smelling him. He did leave a message saying he had to work all weekend on the dead woman case. He hadn’t sounded happy. Was he going to scowl her on hindering the justice process or something? She had told him about the woman, what more did he want? If it hadn’t been for her, he might not have found the body at all so it must mean that, technically, he owned her, non?

There she was, unable to decide what she truly wanted. I should stop acting like a teenager. A woman her age! Damn, she liked him. Damn, the man was dangerous. Not that she was afraid of him, never had been, never will be, but the cop in him was overprotective and controlling. She was afraid of where the whole affair was going. If he asked her to move in, she might perhaps, possibly, say yes. Maybe. Scary. This relationship was in complete contradiction of her vows of the last decade. Stay off men or date only jerks. It had been the perfect way to go until she had mistaken Christopher for a real jerk. Which he was, big time, but he was so much more. Most infuriating.

Her real job

Monday, her first day off. Since she now had a job, she now had days off. Perfect. She went over to Ingrid’s, her editor-friend-drinking partner extraordinaire. Whenever she had some soul searching to do and wanted to delay it, like forever, she visited Ingrid and had the equivalent of a grown women pyjama party. Excellent meals, fine wine, male bashing, bar crawling, in a tasteful, classy womanly sort of way.