Quintic

By V. P. Trick

Patricia returned to her filing clerk-receptionist position at Chief Officer Christopher James MacLaren’s precinct to fill in for his sick secretary. Answering phones, fetching coffees, and admiring her cop of a boyfriend should be safe enough. Days at the desk and evenings writing a follow-up story of her female serial epic, life is grand. It was about time her PI character got a story of her own. The college-aged waitress murder would help her fictional character (not my alter ego as I only do fiction, Big guy). And nothing (or no one, including the infuriating man), could stop her from researching–wasn’t that what writers did–her one allotted cold case.
Chris would prefer she spent her days at the library but figured nothing could go wrong as long as the damn woman stayed within precinct walls, right?
Called on a crime scene on his day off, Chris merely intended to help out a rookie. When he finds a connection between Patricia and the vic, though, he takes up the case, intent on solving it without her involvement. As if that ever worked. As her past catches up with her, she gets it in her head to train his rookie officer, solve the case, and protect him. Him! I’m trained and armed, Angel. The idea of handcuffing her to his bedposts is becoming more enticing by the minute.

“You guys in the mood for a beer?” Chris asked his men. “My treat.”
His team was always in the mood for a beer, even more so when they had open cases or unfinished business. Fucking right, unfinished business. “Reid? Le? How about giving Patricia a ride, I’ll meet up with you there?” He had a feeling LeRoy and Reid wouldn’t be the only ones around for drinks. “Charles, Ham, my office. Now.”
He didn’t wait to watch them scamper out of the conference room.
“Ham, I want you to run a background check on our victim Lemieux while I talk with Charles. See what turns up,” he ordered midway to his office.
“Charles, let me make a couple of calls before we review the case again. Any objection to working with us on this?” He didn’t wait for the rookie’s answer. If he wanted the case transferred (and Charles temporarily assigned to his team), Chris had to hunt for a replacement for the local chief.
He briefly thought of the quartet’s leftovers but decided against it. He had enough enemies already, hadn’t he? Enemies but friends also, it took him about a dozen phone calls, half an hour of favour calling, flattery and bribes to set up everything; he even called Central to check it with them. Not that it would have made a fucking difference for him. Just keeping my eyes on Lemieux for you, Darling of mine.
He briefed Charles about the way of the team. About his ways. “I know you want in. I see it in your eyes, same as in my guys, but Charles, it won’t be easy.” Fuck, the guy looked like a kiddie cop–a fucking rookie.
He briefly hesitated on what to tell the kid about Patricia. “About Patricia. She works here part-time. She. Is. Not. A. Cop.” He decided to spell out precisely what was allowed and what was not. “Anything she says, asks, demands, requests, orders, or begs for, you clear it with me. She doesn’t do anything or go anywhere without me breathing down her neck. Got it?” As he spoke, he speculated how long it would take for her to trick the rookie.
He repeated, keeping it simple, “Never do anything she asks; never let her go anywhere she wants to visit unless I, your boss, have authorized it specifically, out loud and face-to-face. And Charles? I will never consent to it. Ever.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Jul 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310659607

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

The weekend was going well so far. Really well. A weekend spent at Christopher’s place, a weekend of mere teasing, without one heated discussion, fight or argument. Her place was roomy enough for a twosome once in a while, but since they had not planned on staying in bed all weekend, his place was better.

First of all, it was easier for him to cook breakfast in his kitchen. She smiled at the thought. She liked his breakfasts. She ate cereals at her hotel, but a plate of specialty bacon, sausages and eggs at his place was grand, especially with those thick slices of baguette bread he had bought. The leftover bread had made delicious pain doré this morning; the French recipe was her contribution to the breakfast.

Patricia’s contented smile grew wider. If it wasn’t for their personalities, or temper, mostly his she thought; their work, his and hers; her peculiar past which she was trying very hard to keep in the past (with less and less success); if it wasn’t for all of that, but mostly for his wanting to take charge, solve everything and protect her, their relationship would be perfect. If it weren’t for the rest of the world and well, the two of them, their relationship would be perfect.

She sighed lightly, her smile fading a little. She felt Christopher’s eyes on her as if he was trying to follow her silent trail of thoughts. He had the interrogative eyebrow raised and a small smirk lingered on his lips. She kept on staring at the scenery as they drove on.

She liked small art galleries like the one they had visited north of the city. They were heading back to the city, and the drive through the suburbs was pleasant. How a guy she found at times so infuriating she could find so charming was still a mystery and as always, she forced herself not to think about it. Now was not a good time. It never was, but especially now since he was sitting right next to her.

His forearm brushed against her knee when he shifted gear. Good thing she was wearing that short skirt, she enjoyed his feather touch. The scent of his cologne drifted to her. She sighed again as she realised he was trying (successfully so) to arouse her. With the late afternoon traffic, they had an hour at least before her hotel, more if they went back to his place.

Want to stop some place for coffee? He asked. I know a cosy coffee shop a couple of streets out the next exit.

If she turned her head and looked at him, she would find him smiling at her with that sexy crooked grin of his. The grin either meant he was about to trick her, pick a fight, talk as he called it, or touch her. She sighed again. Mixed feelings.

It’s right next to this little park, your kind of place, Angel. The man was so sure of himself.

Still, she felt something close to contentment. He could always tell, of course; it was one of the things they had learned about each other. Their bodies never failed to react to one another, his often a few paces ahead of hers. She took a deep breath and was about to reply when the phone rang.

His mobile phone had three ringtones. One for official police business, he rarely answered that one. The second for the important-but-not-life-threatening business, only the team, close friends and she had that number. The third ringtone was for life-or-death. This time, it was an important but not deadly type of call. His turn to sigh. He smiled at her softly.

Once again saved by the bell, Darling of mine. I still intend to take you to that park. He picked up his phone. MacLaren. He grew serious as he listened, his contribution to the conversation minimal as usual. Where? When? and We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

It appeared the detour by the park was not going to happen and the weekend was now over.

The shabby motel was a short drive from the exit. It looked old and out-of-place, an out-of-date leftover from the fifties. The long, low building was way at the back of an unnecessarily broad parking lot sprawling between the building and the street. On each side, a useless fence protected the lot and the buildings, the fence seemingly continuing in the back. Included in the gated area, on the left of the parking lot, sat a small one-storey cube of a house bearing the name Office.

An old diner long since closed down bracketed the right side of the lot. Sitting at the dead end of a low-income family neighbourhood, rows of small greying houses surrounded the motel and its companion buildings. The motel’s backyard was a vast land of emptiness except for the freeway overpass made blurry by the distance. The few cars parked on the street were old and rusty. Among them, an old black Impala stood out on the opposite side of the street, the wide vehicle a boat run aground, a souvenir from way back that fitted right in with the motel’s décor.

The motel parking lot was empty except for a red Corvette and six police blue and white cruisers, one parked next to the office, one next to the diner and the four other side by side next to the rooms and the Corvette. Christopher turned into the parking lot, drove straight up to the rooms in the back and parked next to the Corvette.

He smiled as he turned to her. This shouldn’t take long. Right, like it never does, she thought. You can wait in the car if you like. Or I can have someone drive you back to my place. Either way, I will be waiting for you, Big guy. Not good. I think you should wait in the car. Right again, she thought, like I always do. Not.

I’d rather walk around outside, she answered back with an innocent smile.

He frowned then shrugged. She sat as he got out and walked to her door. Hand extended, he opened the car door and leaned in to help her out. How she so liked those old-fashioned courtesies!

When she was up next to him, he smiled again. Try not to get into trouble, Angel of mine. Like all previous troubles were her fault. Really. Who went out of their ways to find trouble? Certainly not her.

Not to worry, I won’t even go near whatever you came to see.

While they were studying at each other, a young cop standing watch had gone in the first room at the left end of the motel. He was now coming out with an older cop. They both walked over to introduce themselves.

Chief Officer Floyd. The older man extended his hand. You must be MacLaren?

Chief Officer Chris James MacLaren.

She figured the old Chief Officer Floyd to be the Corvette man. He was not too discreetly wearing a toupee. Someone should tell him he’d look sexier without it.

Thanks for coming, MacLaren. Appreciate it. This is Officer Charles.

The men shook hands before turning to her. Pleased to meet you, Floyd. Charles. She shook their hands. I’m Patricia. Prudence told her to leave out her job title. Not their business anyway.

Since Christopher failed to provide the missing information such as her rank or her role, both officers looked her over with annoyed curiosity. It didn’t improve the men’s disposition when Christopher ordered junior Officer Charles to stay with her and keep her away from the rooms. The Big guy was infuriating!

Chief Officer MacLaren, this is absolutely unnecessary, she snapped back. I can assure you I have no intention whatsoever of going anywhere near that room. She was angry, and she wanted to make sure he knew it. Childish. So what if he did not want her to go inside, she had no intention to snoop around, so he didn’t need to have her babysit by some cop. Again.

He went inside with a lazy shrug and Corvette Floyd while she stayed outside in the sun with Charles the rookie.

Patricia at the Motel

Junior Officer Charles did not look happy. He also looked brand-new. Patricia didn’t give him more than two years on the job. He had probably left his countryside with dreams of making it to the big city. Had he worked with the local police in the hopes of, one day, he would become a detective like his childhood heroes? Didn’t they all? Probably this was his first dead body, and he had to babysit some− She didn’t complete Charles’s imaginary thoughts. Since Christopher had left her standing in the middle of a dried-out parking lot with some kiddie cop, Patricia decided she was going to make a new friend, perhaps even flirt a little.

She took off her sunglasses, looked up and smiled at Charles. How about we take a walk in the shades along the motel building? She took his arm as she talked and started walking, a well-practised move, without waiting for his assent.

Is it a gruesome crime scene? Silly question, all crime scenes were horrible. Six police cruisers seem excessive for the neighbourhood, is it not? Although I don’t know much about securing a crime scene. And what are your responsibilities here, Charles? Can I call you Charles?

Charles’s mind seemed to have frozen upon her taking his arm; he looked both silly and very in charge but barely managed to walk along with her without stepping on his own feet.

Hence, they slowly walked as Patricia talked, teased and smiled. Charles gave back monosyllabic answers as if he did not know what to do with her but felt flattered to have her undivided attention. Cops were so easily manipulated, weren’t they? Well, all except one, most infuriating.

She tried her best to have Charles forget about his first murder case. It took them a good ten minutes to walk all the way down to the decrepit diner and back. She was walking excruciatingly slowly as she enjoyed the embarrassment she was causing, yet she knew Charles was paying for someone else. Would their stroll make Christopher jealous? Absolutely not.

She crossed the dusty parking lot with her new friend, all the way to the street. The black Impala across the street intrigued her. They circled around it, Patricia looking at the car, Charles unsure what to do.

She observed the rookie’s reflection in the tinted windows of the car as he hopped from one foot to the other, his baby face betraying what he was thinking. Was he supposed to keep her close to Chief Officer MacLaren’s car or just follow her around? Technically they were off the crime scene ground, way off, all the way across the street and kiddie was uncomfortable.

‘And what was she looking for exactly?’ Charles might have been asking himself. Yes, ma jolie, what are you looking for, she asked herself. Why so intrigued? Just an old car, considered a classic by some perhaps, but she wouldn’t know about that. Charles wouldn’t either, chances were he liked trucks better, more useful in his hometown. Yet, she was now peering into the car’s every window, a frown on her face.

Oblivious to the fact that she could see him in the darken glass, Charles was now openly staring at her. It was easy to imagine what he was thinking, easy for her at least, she had a heck of an imagination.

Charles’s thoughts she wrote in her mind as she would for a character in one of her books. ‘Strange women,’ he was thinking. Of course. Half the people she met find her strange. Almost all of the other half ignored her.

‘She smells nice.’ She did, didn’t she? She had dabbed Italian perfume on her skin today; the scent was as light and flowery as her mood, well, her mood until fifteen minutes ago. Italian perfume with a hint of aftershave perhaps, Christopher’s, from this morning.

‘Perhaps I can ask her out. At the station, some of the guys say older women were better in bed.’ She did not consider herself old, but, compared to Kiddie here, she was in the older women category. Charles was right, though. Sex was indeed incredible, but she had to give Christopher most of the credit; the Big guy sure knew what he was doing, damn him. So did she when it came to him. She smiled although she shouldn’t. She didn’t do cops. Well, except for one, of course, most infuriating.

‘I can feel the warmth of her hand through my sleeve. Except for the few lighter strands, she does not look old, in her early thirties, I’d say. Chief MacLaren looks older. Is their age difference proper? Is MacLaren taking advantage of her?’ She smiled again. Based from the small hopping dance Charlie-boy was doing, she doubted he had the capacity for such thoughts.

The rookie’s thoughts would be more in the line of, ‘She seems to like me.’ She did like him. Cute and wholesome, what was not to like? And he seemed sincere about being a cop. That was rare.

She brought her focus back to the car, interrupting her circling around to stare at it, unsure as to what she should do next. That car felt strange, so out of place in the afternoon sun. Maybe she could use the scene in a book? She wished she had her mobile phone with her. She always carried her cell in the old days.

As they turned around to head back, Christopher came walking toward them, his face a blank mask. His usual cop face. When the kid’s arm stiffened under her hand, she gave it a light squeeze that made him blush. Christopher’s jaws clamped at the sight of them. A little reaction was always nice, wasn’t it?

They marched back to him.

I’m going to talk to the manager in the front office. Interesting car?

She answered with her usual, Research purposes. Why did he bother asking? He knew anything was research to her. He often said he loved to see her get worked up about her daydreaming, as he called it. Her writing process was as mysterious to him as it was to her, but contrary to the Big guy, she just followed her fancies without questioning herself. Charles is helping me.

Judging from Charles’s empty look, helping her with what he didn’t have a clue. Neither did she. Perhaps Charles was her way of getting even with the Big guy for cutting the weekend short and thus forcing her to wait for him? She was not good at waiting.

A Woman in the Rooms

"Can Charles show me some of the rooms or is that also forbidden?"

For research purposes, I take it? Why not? The motel’s empty. I take it all the other rooms were searched and proved to be empty? Christopher asked turning to Charles.

Chief Officer Floyd had four officers go through all the rooms, Charles confirmed.

Once the Big guy had commandeered the master key from the manager, she walked back holding Charles’s arm, leaving Christopher behind by the office to watch them go.

Christopher had said this was not going to be one of his cases.

Just some worthless hooker murdered by her john. Chief Floyd’s words, the jerk.

She doubted Corvette-Floyd was going to put a lot of efforts in finding said john. Normally, Dispatch would not have called the Big guy. He worked the South District, not the East, and if she had the geography right, they were North-East of Central, and way off in the suburbs so way, way off Christopher’s territory. But apparently, Chief Floyd’s local unit only had two detectives, and one was on vacation, the other out because of pneumonia.

She felt the call probably had something to do with Central sucking up, overcompensating the quartet fiasco by making Christopher feel important. She wasn’t sure it was working. Christopher wasn’t all that big on flattery; she should know, she used it often enough. She never could get what she wanted out of him although it did turn him on. Then again, most of what she did turn him on. All of what she did. The man was impossible.

The good news was, with the case off Christopher’s regular playground and Chief Floyd visibly eager to handle this one himself, Christopher would want to leave as soon as possible. Just a few questions to the manager so the Big guy, thorough as usual, convinced himself no other possibilities but the john and the hooker scenario existed, and they’d be on their way. There might have enough time to make it to the park after all.

For a quick one, he had whispered in her ear. Infuriating. She made as if she had not heard him. Not that it wouldn’t be nice.

Before walking back to the long building, she watched him take control of the office. Nice. She liked the in control him.

Skipping the crime scene room, she entered the adjacent motel room, leaving the door open to hear the officers working in the next door. Research. The room she had dragged Charles in was very simple. Next to the door, yellowish curtains failed to brighten the single window; time had rendered the fabric so thin she could see the cars parked outside through them.

The décor, if she could use such a word for her surroundings, was minimalist. Worn out grey wall-to-wall carpeting, a double bed with a washed-out yellow cover, one chair parked on one side, same dull fabric, a small fake-wood table on the other end, grey lamp with a faded grey fabric lampshade on it. The bed rested against the wall adjoining the victim’s room, effectively blocking the communicating door between the rooms. Against the opposite wall sat a three-drawer desk with an old television set on top. Obstructed by the desk, partly hidden by the blocky television was another communicating door. Out of habit, she tried the handle. Locked.

The walls were painted a dull pinkish-brown hue. The bathroom was at the back. Old tiles, old shower, old sink, no windows. In the farthest corner, the shower frame partially hid an empty linen closet; the door, crooked, did not close completely. No towels, facecloths, nothing. How did guests dry themselves after a shower? Considering the clientèle, surely showers were mandatory, before and after usage of the bed. Was hot water even running in this place? She checked the tap. Water dripped, almost warm, almost clear. The air smelled of mould and cheap disinfectant. She found the whole place depressing. Surely not a place for lovers rendez-vous. Somewhat like the houses she had brought for Christopher’s release, except more decrepit. Decades of it.

She steered Charles to the third room, to the same furniture, same carpeting, same doors going nowhere, same design but in a mirror image. When she tried the handle of the inside door to the second room, she found it wasn’t locked on this side. Thinking the view through the rooms with all connecting doors opened would give an interesting effect − she might use it as an escape route in one book − she went to the fourth room and again tried the handle. If the door opened, she would ask Charles to push the bed. Unfortunately, the two communicating doors in the fourth room were locked, their keyholes glued.

Hum. Maybe she could come back later in the week and ask the manager to open all the doors for her? She imagined the sight it would make! The glue wouldn’t be a problem; she could hire a guy to drill through the locks or have the lock casings removed. For sure her hermit friend Mario knew of such a man. Mario knew guys for everything. For some extra cash, she was sure the manager wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t like his place was rolling in gold.

In the third room, Charles had enthusiastically succeeded in pushing the bed aside. Poor guy. She helped him push it back.

After the bed moving, she had enough. She was hungry. Perhaps she could ask babysitter Charles to get her some food or better yet, she should ask him to lunch. Christopher might not like that, though. Before they exited, she took a peek in the bathroom. Any towels in this one? Nope. It was identical to the other, even for the linen closet not closing correctly. Although this cabinet turned out not to hide empty shelves but a door. She jiggled the handle and, as the door popped open, found herself looking out behind the motel. Neat.

She stepped out into the sun-baked dusty field behind the building. A few shrubs here and there. A land pocked by small hills, the sandy ground resembling waves. The view of the freeway barely cut through the late afternoon hazy glow. From here, she couldn’t hear the sound of a single car. No wonder the motel’s parking lot was fenced right up to the building on both sides; that field must be full of rats and mice, perhaps coyotes.

She turned to face the motel. The back view looked worse than the front. She counted three access doors to the field; all three decorated by mildew on their lower half, fading to dirt in their middle and peeling paint on their higher third. When Charles came through backdoor number one, she waved him back. Enough is enough, she thought. She was officially starving.

Give me a minute, and I’ll take you out for dinner, she shouted at Charles. Go get yourself a cruiser. This was going to be a fun ride.

Why did she turn to have a last look at the field? In retrospect, she couldn’t say. Another picture to take if she came back perhaps? She noticed something on the ground, barely higher than the top of a small hill. Taking a step closer, she stretched her neck. Hoping not to see a rat or some dead animal, she took another step. One more. Two. Three. Four. She did not recognise it was a man’s foot until she was standing right next to it.

There he lied on his back, completely naked but for the black cloth covering his face. Some dark goo crusted the cloth. Great body if not for it lying dead naked. He wasn’t even wearing socks. Funny, wasn’t it? No socks but a cock ring. She stared at it before slowly shuffling back. And then she broke into a run, back to the door, back to the bathroom, where she stopped short. What to do? Had trouble found her again? Surely Christopher couldn’t say she had been looking for it, damn it!

She barely managed to close the bathroom door softly, no need to attract Charles’s attention, and tried to calm down. She didn’t want to throw up. Luckily her stomach was empty. She coughed, spat, breathed and repeated. She was getting good at this. Coughed, spat, breathed, and again. She stopped when she felt light-headed.

She opened the door gently, glanced into the depressing room, no signs of Charles. She crossed the room silently and peered out in the parking lot. Charles was waiting, practising an I’m-leaning-casually-against-a-wall pose. Not a success.

Grab your chance, Kiddie, she whispered without looking at him. Dead guy in the field. Through the back. Straight line out after the bathroom’s cabinet.

She heard Charles’s ‘Holy Moses’ as he went back to the room but she was already heading back to Christopher’s truck. She locked the door and sat with her eyes closed, breathing hard, trying not to think. At least, she thought, Christopher hadn’t been there to see her storm out of the room.

Chris

From the office where he was listening to the manager and the officer in charge going on and on without saying anything worth a shit, Chris saw both Patricia race to the car and Charles rush inside the room. Now what, he wondered? Surely the guy hadn’t been improper, not the type. Granted she had been a little flirty, but the kid looked too shy for it to lead anywhere. Then again, with her, anything was possible. Considering that the interrogation was going nowhere, the manager hadn’t seen anything, hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t known the girl, had watched television all night and hadn’t seen the client before or after, Chris decided he had heard enough. She might accuse him of being overprotective as usual but so be it. He headed back to his truck.

Patricia was sitting with her eyes closed. She looked pale, and he noticed she was breathing through her mouth. ‘Something is up,’ both his instinct and the knot in his stomach screamed.

He knocked and waited for her to unlock the door. When she didn’t move, he used his key fob and barely wrenched the door open. It could be a delayed reaction, the last weeks, months, had been straining to her. Her denying it all hadn’t helped any.

She spoke, eyes closed, before he had time to say anything. You were right, this is not much fun. I think I want to go now. You can stay and finish up. Could you call a cab or have someone drive me back?

Shit, something was definitely wrong. How about I ask Charles to bring you back to your hotel? He suggested, to see how she should react. Tell me, Angel, if the rookie was out of line.

A shaken but excited Charles dashed out of the room. I saw the body of a dead man, he announced. Naked Caucasian male, in the field behind the motel. Shall I go tell the chief?

Fucking shit, those stupid suburb cops had left a dead guy out back? What kind of shitty organisation was Floyd running?!

Why the fuck did I bother asking if you had searched the place? You had searched it, right? He should have done it himself. Fucking incompetents. Incompetents infuriated him. Fuck, he was pissed and more than a little worried. What had she seen? The knot in his stomach tightened, and so did his fists.

Patricia opened her eyes to look straight at him. Pondering his next move, Chris stared back. Considering Officer Charles just found this new dead body, she said. I think you should let him take the lead, Big guy. I’ll take a cab.

Yah right, Officer Charles. Mentally composing himself, Chris took a deep silent breath. On the surface, he was cool and composed, but his fists remained clenched, the knot tight.

Before she could add anything, Charles saved Chris from arguing with her. I’m sorry to say, Sir, that I did not find the body. Ms Patricia did. It would seem that we have not searched the place completely. No shit. Floyd might be lazy, but the kid had potential.

OK, Charles. Since Patricia here thinks you’re up to it, you go tell your chief. You’re in charge of securing the scene. Charles left right away, leaving them to glare at each other. Anything specific you would like to share with me, Princess? Depending on how she answered, he would know if she was in shock.

She sighed and gazed away for a few seconds.

Anything to tell me, Patricia?

Tell you what? I do not know what you mean, she whispered. The shadow of a smile at the corner of her mouth told him she was going to be all right.

OK then, Darling of mine. I will have an officer drive you home.

Even if this weren’t his patch, with a double murder and a rookie in charge, he would be staying awhile. Leaving it all to this lazy crew would be unprofessional. But if they had questions that Charles could not answer about their finding, well, they were going to suck it up and wait for tomorrow when she was less unsettled.

Even if the chief didn’t really have a man to spare, Chris asked for a patrol car to drive her home. Under the circumstances, Floyd knew he couldn’t afford to say no. Chris helped her in the blue-and-white.

She leaned out the car window to wave him goodbye. Don’t work too late. And, Christopher, I do hope that I, hum, didn’t step on any pieces of evidence. And off she was. Damn woman.

Her Interlude

As soon as she closed the room of her hotel suite, Patricia stripped and threw her clothes in the trash before taking a long shower to clean herself of the sweat and dirt from the field, and the smell of the dead. Rationally, she knew, since she had not touched the corpse, that she did not stink of dead, and yet the irrational part of her smelled something.

At her request, Luis, the hotel barman, brought her up a glass of red wine from the hotel’s secret selection. The colour was beautiful, almost raspberry red and the taste subtle but deep, with just enough tannins, once again a delectable choice. Maybe she could get drunk. Or go to bed. She hadn’t eaten in what seemed like days. Those suburb cops had not learned how to drive correctly; she had felt like throwing up during the whole ride over.

So she was grouching. Bitching was an important part of her instinctive reaction pattern to the recently departed, nothing more than an automatic reflex. See a corpse, throw up, grumble. She wondered yet again what it meant. Perhaps she simply hated dead people? She had yet to get used to them. How did Christopher do it? He always looked so imperturbable at crime scenes, not a muscle flinching.

An old instructor of Christopher had told Lou, Christopher’s Captain, that the Big guy had been like that even in police school. It might explain why he was so good at what he did. No reaction to impair his brain, and quite a brain he had. She suspected he didn’t see corpses as people, more as problems with a multitude of possible solutions, like a challenging puzzle.

She did like the Big guy. A lot. A whole lot more than like, in fact. Crazy about him. Which was a problem with no solutions. Impossible man. How could I have let that happened, she cursed herself again? The cursing was more and more one of wonder than anger. She might just say yes to moving in with him. Maybe. That glass of wine was really hitting her hard. Time for bed.

When Christopher called around ten on his way back from the crime scene, she was already fast asleep on her couch thanks to some red wine and didn’t hear a thing.

The next morning, she went to that little French café she had discovered a few months ago close to Main Street and worked on her manuscript. She had a routine for writing days. Get up. Drink the fresh orange juice waiting for her on the entry table that Benjamin, the hotel’s weekday valet, brought up around seven. Take a shower, no matter if and how many she had taken the day before. Get dressed. Her writing dress code was casual; today she had on sleek jeans, a loose navy blue t-shirt falling on one shoulder, a strapless navy blue bra, navy blue panties and a pair of sandals to complete the navy blue workday outfit.

The routine continued with: grab breakfast in the hotel’s small restaurant. She sat on the kitchen’s countertop to watch Lewis prepare the breakfast orders for the other guests, scrambled eggs that morning. The eggs were delicious: farm eggs scrambled with milk and a touch of cream, some shallots, red peppers and slices of browned maple sausages, all served with thick slices of white pain de ménage buttered all the way to the crust. Perfect. Once she packed her laptop and wallet, she was good to go.

She almost called Christopher but figured he had got home late the night before hence she didn’t. She almost cheated and packed her mobile phone. She was trying to quit her mobile dependency. It wasn’t that she chatted on the phone a lot, but she did photograph (spy on might be more accurate) the world around; the habit was becoming way too addictive.

Mario had installed all kinds of applications on that thing, turning it into a simile James Bond phone. Mario’s phones were not of the type an average person would or should find useful. She loved her phone, but since she aimed to be normal, she left the phone back in her room. Besides, if Christopher called today, he was going to ask about the motel incident for sure. If she didn’t bring her phone, she’d miss that call. Childish.

As she walked to the café, a good half-hour walk, she observed her fellow early birds rush along on the sidewalks, in their cars, coming in and out of apartment buildings and offices. Lucky her, she was in no such hurry. As she did not allow herself to ruminate on the previous afternoon, she was enjoying her morning stroll.

At the coffee shop, she sat at her usual table in the front window, her back against the wall. There again she studied people on the street. She also had a front-row view of the coffee shop, not that she had much to admire at this hour.

With its dozen small tables, barely big enough for a laptop, this was not the kind of place where students hung out. Their loss. The coffee was excellent and the owner, Marcel, a true Frenchman. When she took breaks after a couple of pages of writing or an intense scene, they talked about the weather, the news, films coming out, anything really, all in French. C’était charmant! Marcel kept her informed on the hockey, football, baseball and whatever-ball scores or the players’ injuries or exchanges. In French, it all sounded much more interesting. Sometimes, she would talk about the game with Christopher. The man was an ex-jock, but he was gentleman enough not to ask her about too specific questions that might have betrayed her limited interest of the games.

She drank way too many lattes and worked straight until the evening; the sandwich Marcel had made her was long gone. She grew tired from her full day of sitting. Time to go home, take a long bath and go to bed.

Her answering machine flashing light indicated two messages; her mobile phone message icon showed one missed call. She listened to Christopher’s messages first.

He had left one on her machine in the late morning. "Call me." Then, early afternoon, he had left a more detailed message on her mobile. That message demonstrated his gentlemanly ways once again as they did not mention the dead guy in the field. Had he foreseen she didn’t want to talk about the motel thing? So perceptive of him.

"I’ll be working late, Angel. Have a nice evening, and try to think about me some. Cute. I have to go out of town for a few days for some police business. Last-minute meetings with the big Brass."

A free business trip, she translated; Central’s way of sucking up again. Didn’t they know he hated the trips as much as the sucking up? Too bad for him but quite good for her, she was off the hook. When he got back, in a black mood from the bootless errand, his workaholic tendencies were going to kick into overdrive. Each week, the Big guy went over each of the team’s cases with each of the guys, pondered the latest developments and discussed the findings with the team; upon his return, he’d want to play catch-up in the cases. The motel murders weren’t his, so she considered herself off the hook for her motel trespassing. Hopefully.

"And Patricia? Please stay out of trouble. I hear the library is lovely this time of year." Damn him.

It had been a while since she had gone to the precinct. For some reason, she kept postponing it. Of course, the team would be happy to see her, as would she them, but with Christopher away, it wouldn’t be as much fun, would it? Besides, no doubt they would all keep an eye on her as their damn usual.

Her fun was foremost, in the Monday morning meeting reviews. Going out with the team to interrogate a person of interest was good research too. She had missed this week’s meeting, and no way was the team going to let her tag along without Christopher’s permission. They had their orders, and they all were very conscientious about following them (when Christopher issued them at least). Had she burned the team too many times? During her first weeks, she had successfully tagged along with each of the Big guy’s officers (tricked them into it most of the time). Unfortunately now, they saw her coming from parsecs away and kept her busy at the office when Christopher wasn’t there. Such was his leadership. Her manuscript would be getting her full attention then.

The second message on her machine was from that Charles officer.

"Yes, good afternoon Ms Patricia. If you could, please return my call at your earliest convenience. It regards your deposition as an eye witness." A witness of what? The guy had been by her side; he had seen the same damn thing she had.

She called Charles back nonetheless. As it was late, she counted on the rookie officer to have left for the night already. Talking to answering machines was way easier than talking to real people, especially about cadavers. Unfortunately for her, Charles had not left.

Hello, Officer. How is your first case going? After they had exchanged the usual politeness, she gave him a brief description of what she recalled while he typed away. They agreed to meet the next morning in her hotel lobby so she could sign the paperwork.

The next morning, Charles showed up right on time. She signed and declared herself officially off the hook.

Her writing kept her busy the following days. It had been a while since she had written so intensely, and she loved every damn moment of it.

On the following Sunday, Christopher got back from his meetings, beaten and not up to his usual teasing. He didn’t even bring up the motel episode. Since the quarter disaster and the murder accusation, he had not been quite his usual controlled self. Not with her, never with her. If anything, his overprotective nonsense was worse than before. But the job seemed to get to him now. She detected an underlying impatience in him even if he denied it. As she had foreseen, he kept himself busy with work.

Ingrid organised an impromptu cocktail party at her office staff the next weekend. Hence, Patricia left on Thursday and did not get back until late Monday. Then later that week, three homeless bums discovered two bodies in an old warehouse. Since it looked like a murder ritual, Christopher took the case himself, looking for a distraction maybe. He brought in specialists and kept the entire team even busier.

Maybe she needed time apart from him without her taking off or breaking up with him? Just damn quality time apart to concentrate on her writing. With her serial killer book character now under arrest, her PI woman-slash-cop story was coming along nicely.

PI Unlimited: The Job

The smell was nauseating. The stiff must have been soaking for a while; a couple of days at least, Jeremy guessed. Surprisingly, for there was so much of it, the blood barely covered the body to the waist. Maybe it was deceptive; maybe the dead guy had very skinny legs.

The flies were fucking annoying. The last week had been unseasonably warm. Lucky for the stiff for no one might not have found him until spring if not for the stink. Unlucky for Je, though, for he had to wait until the tech guys had done their things before he could open a window. He had already made a quick survey of the place, a more thorough search would follow the tech job.

Procedures clearly stated that the homicide investigation team had to wait for the forensic team to declare the dead a homicide before he could take over the scene. Forensic or not, when his team got called, it was usually obvious. This one sure was pretty fucking ‘obvious’ since multiple stab wounds deep enough for the blood to ooze out crisscrossed the stiff’s body. That the stiff sat in the bathtub only made the murder cleaner. Even if both wrists had been slit, no way could this be suicide. With the wrists plus the chest plus the femoral arteries, no way could this be accidental.

Was there water in the tub mixed with the blood? Forensic will tell although, from the smell, colour and thickness of the broth, Je doubt it. Which wound had the killer made first? Had the victim fought back? When had this taken place? Forensic.

In this instance, the how of the kill was evident; his job was about the who and the why. Who had done the guy in and why. Je would settle for just the who, the why being, from the look of things: crazy and angry. What else made one stab someone repeatedly until the blood all but emptied out.

He didn’t mind so much the crazy and angry, all part of the job. The smell and look of the crime scene didn’t bother him either. He was not very sensitive, never had been. Climbing the stairs to the stiff’s place, he had crossed a rookie green as can be running down. He didn’t have that problem. He had other problems, though. Parts of his team he needed to sack. And elements in Central he was pissed at. And an element, just one, in his personal life he wanted to add.

Almost two months after and he still couldn’t forget the woman. Damn woman. He had tried to track her down. She had given him a fake name, so he’d taken to refer to her as Princess Jane, a pretty name for a pretty lady, much prettier in any case than Jane Doe.

Jane’s hospital file (one of his guys had swindled a copy from a friendly nurse) hadn’t helped. Without even being sure it was hers, he had run fucking DNA tests with samples taken at the apartment but hadn’t got a hit. To be sure, he should have taken a lock of her hair at the hospital, but he had not. Illegal. Yah right.

The real reason was, Je hadn’t thought of taking a sample then. She had looked damn helpless in the white hospital bed; he hadn’t thought she would run then. He knew better now. Next time, Princess, you’re mine.

Twice he had underestimated her. More than twice actually. A couple of times at the bar, then at the apartment, in the living room and later, in the bedroom. Amazing woman. No signs of her and so many questions left unanswered. Why was she with the killer?

Je had interrogated the killer woman, but the bitch kept changing her version of the events every two days until the Court lawyers pulled him off the case. Abuse of power my ass, the murderess had been going at it all over the country. They might never know just how many she had killed. From what he had seen when she had tried to do him, she enjoyed killing a hell of a lot.

Fucking Central had sent him to therapy after. Post-traumatic shock they called it. Assholes. It wasn’t his close encounter with the serial killer that unnerved him, not his first, not his last, all part of the job. No, it was the woman, his Jane. He had wanted her that night and the fuck if he didn’t want her still.

The killer wouldn’t give him a straight answer, but he was not a fucking detective for nothing. From what he had gathered at the apartment and at the bar where she had killed her last two victims, then at the hotel where she had killed the two before, the murderess worked alone.

He talked to the shrinks like Central had asked. Not therapy, screw them, but investigation. Could a nymphomaniac serial killer switch from men to women? Some said yes, most said no.

He had seen how much the killer was aroused on that night, but by what, or by whom? Her impending kill? Him as a male? Because her female companion Jane had so obviously aroused him? By Jane herself? By the presence of a female witness? A female participant? A potential female victim? What? He also knew without a doubt Princess Jane had not enjoyed any of the bedroom play, far from it. Looking back, he had the feeling he had been the bait but for whom?

He didn’t have much to go on, only her physical description. Tallish. Lithe. Stunning. Even with those ridiculous glasses she had put on. Shy. Damn he liked when she blushed. Smart. Delicate. Strong. Damn sexy.

The bathtub hacker dude was a welcome distraction; the case would help keep his mind off Princess Jane.

Excerpt from PI Unlimited, by Trica C. Line

Her Cold Case

A new file awaited her when she returned to the precinct: a two-year-old murder case of a twenty-three-year-old student waitress. Depressing.

Cold case research was the primary albeit unofficial reason of her presence in Christopher’s office, although her personal file stated she was a filing clerk. And why wouldn’t it? The HR guys had no imagination, and they wouldn’t have known what to do with her had she said she was doing research for possible female PI-slash-cop stories.

At the time of her death, the student-waitress was down to her last year of economics at the University and worked at a diner part-time. The murderer had knocked her dead in the back alley of the diner on a Sunday night. Since the place was closed on Mondays, the victim was found only the following Tuesday morning, in a dumpster. It had rained for days; the police had found no useful evidence. No clues. No enemies.

Her family loved her; her school friends and her co-workers appreciated her. Except for the killing strike, the police did not find any signs of fight or violence. Either the blow had taken the girl by surprise or she had known her killer.

The file was not that thick, but Patricia took days to read it, re-reading some of the interviews and taking notes. Nothing stood out and yet something felt odd. With the team busy with the ritual murders, as the press was calling them, no one had any free time to spend with her. Hence, she had no one to contact the detectives initially involved with the case, no one to accompany her to talk to the family. An official position on the team might have made her research easier, but she did the next best thing. She had lunch at the diner.

The place looked pretty ordinary. Service was average, the food was average, but that didn’t explain why she couldn’t eat a bite. She took a stroll down the back alley. As she walked, she called Christopher just to hear his voice.

Hi, Big guy, are you busy? How about I take you out for a coffee or something?

No can do; I have a meeting coming up.

As if she hadn’t known that already. So how’s your day going so far? Just from the sound of his voice, he was not having a fun day. Too many meetings with the Brass lately. Do you have plans for the weekend? If you want, we could go shopping. Anything to keep him on the phone while she walked up and down that dark alley. For sure he knew she was up to something but hearing his voice was reassuring, whatever he was saying. Silly.

She hung up only when she returned to the street. She had not seen anything peculiar, had felt no zingy light-bulb moment of insight. Her imagination was at a stop. This visit was a big zero.

She went for a drink with Reid that night, her nursing the boondoggle of a diner tour with too much red wine, Reid forgetting yet another lousy date with too much cognac.

Life sucks, Reid commented. Reid was a woman of few words.

It totally does, a tipsy Patricia agreed. I’m in the mood for some Tai Chi. Are you in? Let’s go tonight.

Spur-of-the-moment decisions were the best. They headed for a weekend at the Yoga Tai Chi resort Patricia sometimes went to for a break from police work and the policemen that came with it. Seeing as Patricia was already drunk, they flew to the place.

Strangely, she missed Christopher that weekend. Tai Chi was the thing she did when she felt overwhelmed. Tai Chi, Yoga and red wine. Young and not-so-young trainers worked at the retreat. She liked the sight, but Reid totally loved it as only an exercise addict could. Going out with jerks was definitely easier than dating Christopher, Patricia mused. At least back then, she had enough detachment to sample the trainers, almost mandatory since the Yogi strictly forbade wines and other alcoholic beverages on resort grounds. Her samples remained mostly fingertips-and-lips-brushing affairs, though. It was a wonder she kept coming.

Then again, it was a wonder they kept accepting her. Granted when (if?) she practised, her Tai Chi was close to master level, but her Yoga was barely average from lack of patience, go figure. Worse, she jumped the wall to the neighbouring town every other night to hit the ice-cream parlour. The Yogi master did like her, though. Wise old man. He looked worried about her this weekend. Yet again. How did he know the last months had been hellish?

After half a dozen solved crimes, a couple of fights, some misdemeanours and two or three suspensions, she had reached a mutually satisfactory agreement with Christopher. She worked at the precinct three days every other week (meaning she basically went to the precinct whenever she wanted). In return, the Big guy granted her access to one cold case at a time, just one. He made damn sure to control the information she could access too, by giving her files the team had not worked on, for example.