Six

By V. P. Trick

Chief Homicide Detective Chris MacLaren never took vacations before he met Patricia. But the damn woman ran off, again, leaving him by his lonesome to varnish a wood bench or go fishing. Since the countryside was never his thing, when an old flame lures him down memory lane, the missing person case soon turns into a murder.
Forget work, the beach, dirty dead cops, and her infuriating cop of a boyfriend’s overprotectiveness. Patricia wants to pretend the last weeks even happened and what better place for her ignorance bliss than Italy?
Although sometimes he’s too close for comfort, she soon misses the infuriating man. She returns home only to find he left for parts unknown with an old leather-clad dominatrix ex in search of her step-son.
The last time Christopher disappeared, mayhem ensued. This time, Patricia intends to stick by his side no matter what. As soon as she finds him, that is.

He had left messages, one for each morning, afternoon and evening. “Call me,” they all said, without one mentioning the Dom. Apparently, jet lag, exhaustion, and sadness did not mix well for she called regardless.
He answered on the first ring. “About time, Princess.”
She caught her breath. How could he still do this to her? “Hi.” Should she tell him she knew?
“You sound funny. Is everything all right?”
“Groovy.” She paused; he was so infuriating! “What are you doing?”
“Fishing.”
“Fishing for what?”
“What do you mean, fishing for what? Are you sure you’re OK? Where are you calling from?”
“Where do you think I’m calling from, Big guy?”
A pause on his end. “The transmission’s great. So, what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been busy getting fat on food, drunk on wine, and numbed from, hum, well, you know.”
“No, I do not know. Getting tired on what? You had better be tired of walking, Angel.”
She liked his voice, soothing and even; he had a deep, sexy voice. “A lot of things have exhausted me. How about you, Big guy?”
Another pause. She didn’t like when he took too long to answer; his breaks meant he was protecting her. She imagined too well from what, who he was shielding her this time: his old dominatrix friend. “I miss you, Angel. How about I come over?”
“Would you?”
“Yes. Right away. Where are you?”
“I’m, hum,” she hesitated. His voice was too level; he had the cop face on no doubt. Fishing indeed, but not for fish! Well, Christopher. I think it’s time I did some fishing myself. “I called Bridget earlier. How come you went to the precinct on your vacation?”
“How come you called my secretary on your vacation?”
“I wanted to ask Bridget if she wanted anything Italian. What’s your excuse?”
“I needed a few things.” I bet you did, Big guy. Leather, oversized breasts, and a whip, “An old acquaintance stopped by.”
Old acquaintance my ass! The arrogance of him, he wasn’t even claiming his innocence! “Ah. Really?”
“I told you about her. Jessica.” She had never heard of a Jessica-the-dominatrix in her life. “She saw me in the papers.”
“Did she now? How nice.” She did more than see you in the newspapers. Did she scrub your back? “Patricia?”
“Yes?”
“I like it when you’re jealous.”
The nerve of the man! “Fuck you,” were her last words before she hung up on him. So what if she had said he could do whatever the hell he wanted? Had she not forgone an Italian god for him? Surely an Italian god was much harder to forgo than a dominatrix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370919956

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

"Patricia, what the fuck are you doing?"

What does it look like? I’m packing!

He had seen Patricia pack before, and this wasn’t packing. She was throwing clothes haphazardly into a duffel bag without folding any items, without even glancing at them.

Pants and long sleeve tees, Pussycat? No fucking way she was going to be wearing those. I’m taking you to the beach, remember, Patricia?

More of the tossing. How can I forget, Big guy! You’ve been hassling me for days about it!

"Days? Fuck, Patricia, I only mentioned it the night before last. A pair of jeans flew by his nose and landed two steps to the left of the bag. I know what you’re doing, Angel of mine."

Of course, you do. You’re the best damn detective in the metropolis! I. Am. Packing.

No, you’re not. You’re trying to pick a fight.

She frowned at him and bit her lips.

Although, when he thought about it, fighting was a good sign, an indication she was healing. She had been quiet these last few weeks. Injured. Again. Out of a job. Again. She had kept still. No coffee shop run hence no writing. No girls’ night out hence no red-wine induced tipsy girlfriend. No visits at his place. No fooling around.

Every time she accidentally touched him, brushed against him, leaned too close or kissed him (every time at his investigation), she blushed and pulled back. She pulled back and blushed and avoided eye contact. Fucking OK with me, Angel of mine. I’m patient.

"She’s recovering, rebuilding herself," or so the precinct shrink had said.

The fat ugly dirty cop had nearly caught her after two years of her pretending she hadn’t been nearly raped.

"She has issued to sort out," as per the good doctor again. Issues! "It will take months," the same counsellor had warned Chris.

Fucking OK by me. She’s well worth the wait.

Another item, a sweatshirt (his at that) landed at his feet. It’s not going to happen, Princess.

Wanna bet, Big guy? Apparently, she was healing fast.

Nope, Princess. You know I’m not a betting man.

Like heck, you’re not! What about poker nights with the Brass? Poker nights with the guys? Poker nights with the A-team?

That’s not gambling; I always win.

Damn, you’re arrogant!

Self-confident.

You’re impossible!

Impossibly sexy? So are you, Princess, hot as fuck.

Fists on hips, chin defiantly up and hair provokingly messy, she glared at him. She might have caught him licking his lips hungrily or noticed his boner for she stopped packing and did the pulling back and blushing thing before storming into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t lock herself in, though; that door had no locks. She lived living alone in an exclusive (self-designed, and uniquely so) hotel suite, why would she have put a lock on the only inner door? Hell, Pussycat, you should have forgone the door altogether.

The door, the packing, the fucking blushing, everything was OK by him. Patience. Healing. Fucking worth the wait even if it kills me. He went back to the couch. He sure spent a lot of time with his ass on that damn couch these days. I’m keeping you safe.

Minutes later, he got back up and poured himself a scotch. Eleven in the morning and he was already drinking, but the mood she was in, he wasn’t about to go jogging. She had gone back to walking and might decide to take a stroll while he was out. And then, who the fuck knew what the hell could happen? Smoking was also out because the hotel was a smoke-free environment. He doubted the hotel staff would have said anything, though; they all thought of her as one of their own and granted her free passes for just about anything.

She came out of the bathroom an hour and a second scotch later (a noon scotch to celebrate his first day off). She looked exactly the same as an hour earlier. Had she napped in the fucking bathtub?

She eyed him suspiciously before announcing, I don’t want to go.

I kind of figured that, Princess.

A trip to the beach that included sex, itsy-bitty bikinis, wine, sun, sand, waves, fancy food, and rest as on their last vacation together, she should have wanted to go; he for one fucking did. Mostly for the first two items on the list.

I’m a fucking great detective, ain’t I? That didn’t make her smile. Not good. No problem, Angel. I’m easy. What would you rather do?

Go fishing with the guys.

Go fishing? Had the woman ever fished? He didn’t care, having her alone and helpless in a launch was going to be fun.

Go fishing with Lonzo and MacCarmick. Go fishing with the A-team? Not so much fun in the boat.

Why?

You need the rest, Big guy.

Me? How the fuck did this become about me? Time for a change of tactics. It’s going to be cold, Patricia.

Bring a sweater.

How about you? You’ll be cold all naked in my boat.

It’s warm this time of the year over there.

OK, he was apparently missing something. Over where?

Italy.

No fucking good. I’m going fishing, and you’re heading to Italy?

I’m going shopping. You don’t like shopping.

Indeed, he did not unless they shopped for her, especially for lingerie. He fucking loved lingerie shopping with her. Why?

I don’t know why. It’s a male thing, I suppose. Most men just don’t like shopping.

An hour in the bathroom for her and two glasses of scotch later for him, and she was still trying to start a fight. Even knowing she was doing it on purpose, he felt the restlessness grow. Not the damn shopping! The vacation together, Patricia. Why the hell not?

I want to be alone.

No. It just came out. That was probably the very worst thing he could have said at that point. No ranked right up there with the moving-in-together incident, and she had thrown him out naked that time.

"No? What do you mean ‘No?’ As if it’s any of your damn rights to tell me no! You’ve been here every damn day for the last three weeks. You had everyone on your damn team come over. I’m all right."

His eyebrow jerked up, but he didn’t contradict her. She needed venting. OK by him. She was sexy as hell when she ranted.

Christopher James MacLaren!

Her howl brought his attention out of his pants. Yes, Darling of mine? OK, so he was grinning. She wanted to go to Italy? No fucking problem. He liked fishing. He would go fishing while she went to Italy. I’ll let you have Italian food, Italian wine, Italian shopping, but not one damn Italian man. He would go fishing alone and get the wood camp ready for her return, scoop her up at the airport and have her all to himself then. He needed to buy a launch, though. He would go fishing alone and send the A-team over with her. No fucking Italian man, Angel.

Fishing Trip

"Christopher James MacLaren, don’t you dare!"

I haven’t said anything, Angel.

Damn you! You’re doing it again.

What am I supposed to be doing exactly? He asked in a soothing voice. He saw no point in them both being angry.

This. I can see it in your eyes; you’re already planning on having me followed.

On keeping you safe, he rectified, his calm voice somewhat a tad sharper.

Don’t. Leave me alone. Stop interfering all the time. I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of myself.

Of course, she could. When she did her writing, her living, her dating things, but not when she did her damn research for her stories. Not when she bumped into her fucking ex’s leftovers. Not to worry, Dollface, I am the one covering the dating thing now, not your dead asshole ex, Joshua. Even when they were dating long-distance as he foresaw straight ahead.

Patricia, he cooed in a gentle voice.

"Don’t ‘Patricia’ me! I’m going to Italy, and you’re not! End of discussion. Go."

He reviewed his options. Italy wasn’t so bad. She liked it over there and would surely return with a sexy honey-colour tan. He hoped for a slight gain weight. Don’t be shy with the pasta, Angel, you haven’t been eating much lately. Want money to splurge on new suggestive lingerie, clothes, maybe a tie for me? A smile on her face. In her eyes.

Want me to drive you to the airport, Darling of mine?

No.

Want me to help you pack?

No.

He couldn’t help himself. Want me to kiss you?

Her cheeks turned pink, and she retreated to the bathroom. Their conversation had not gone too badly. One of his men might know of an Italian cop they could hire on the side.

He knocked and yelled through the unlocked bathroom door, Is Ingrid going with you?

No, she answered after a while.

Good. Ingrid’s way of taking take of her prized writer-friend-surrogate child was to get her drunk and sexed up, preferably by Italian men, preferably by younger Italian men. No Ingrid meant no temptation. Yah right.

He found her rosiness arousing while her withdrawals rendered him utterly helpless. He might even consider giving her a fucking younger Italian stud if he thought it would help, but she wasn’t ready. She was too damn fragile still. For now, she might be shying away from his caresses, but it wouldn’t last. She was damn resilient, the toughest woman he knew. He intended to be near when she was indeed ready.

Are you shopping for guys too? No answer. Are you? Not now for sure, but later?

What if I am?

Indeed, what if? He chose the safest option. Can I shop too?

You can do whatever the heck you want, Big guy!

Not good. Are you planning on staying in there until your plane leaves?

Silence beyond the door. OK then, Pussycat. Only one way to find out. A lock wouldn’t have made a fucking difference.

Christopher James MacLaren, get out!

He had caught her lying in her oversized empty bathtub. Yup, napping. No fucking way.

She rolled her eyes at him but stayed in the tub.

He sat down on the rim. What are you doing, Angel?

Thinking.

What about?

Things.

Wanna talk about it?

No.

He smiled. You stole my line, Princess.

Fuck you.

I will, Princess. I will. I’m waiting for you. You should talk about it. How about Reid? She smirked. Ingrid? She frowned harder. One of the guys? He would let her talk to anyone on his team. It could even be Hamilton for all he cared. Ham was better than an Italian guy; he could fire the guy after. Beat him up.

She showed him the finger.

How about Johnson? He’s good at it. He’d better be, he was the team’s appointed shrink. Not that the doctor had offered any helpful tips besides the ‘issues’ and ‘give it time’ shit.

Really? Is that why you talk to him so much?

OK, so he didn’t believe in the psychoanalysis shit for himself. He didn’t need therapy; he had her. Before her, he had survived on scotch and fights and jogging and smoking, random women and attitude. She worked a million times better, so now he only fell back on scotch, fighting, jogging and smoking those times when she threw him out.

He sighed. Promise me something, Angel.

I know this is a trick.

Of course, it was. But she was healing, and when pussycats healed, the first thing that came back was their damn curiosity.

OK, fine, Big guy, I’ll bite. What?

The damn woman was worse than a cat. Fucking lovely. I wanna be the first.

A pink hue crept over her cheeks, but she couldn’t pull back now, could she? Not from the fucking bath.

What are you talking about, Christopher? I will not promise you anything! Who do you think you are? Get out. I have to pack; the plane leaves in three hours, and I’m no way near drunk yet, she snapped back at him.

A question, a negative, a question, then a change of subject composed her retort, so yup, she was healing pretty damn fast. She had understood fucking well what he had asked too. I get it, Angel. The creep has disgusted you, and now you’re fed up of men and sick of cops. Again.

The cop thing did not worry him. She forever hated all policemen (it had almost become a habit), all except him, him and a couple of others (his team, including Charles, three or four rookies at the precinct, maybe Steve too now). Hence, as long as her animosity toward cops did not extend to him, he didn’t give a shit.

Men, she disliked from time to time. Her previous remedies had included brainless young jocks, faraway Italians, gentle older men and jerks. Apparently, she had kept up the routine for years with very few intermissions; he was the most recent break. He was determined to be the last, but with that imagination of hers, she might fucking convince herself she was due for an Italian stud, or a young Italian jerk with an older man’s gentle manners.

She abandoned the previously half-packed bag in a corner for a small carry-on. She barely filled that with her laptop, her toothbrush, a bottle of wine for the road, her cure for her fear of flying, and a single change of clothes. Good, she’ll be busy shopping then.

She insisted on taking a cab. He let her go with a kiss on the top of her head. Thirty minutes later, he was home packing a change of clothes and a sweater in a backpack. He wasn’t upset nor angry.

She had held her breath during his kiss but had not shied away, another sign she was getting better. Italian men weren’t so bad, right? They had never hurt her. I just want you back with a smile on your face. The rest doesn’t matter. Yah right.

When he realised his fists were clenched, he changed into sports gear and decided to go jogging. He spent the rest of the day varnishing the terrace bench. Her pale skin was going to be stunning against the dark wood. He intended to let it dry overnight, apply another coat tomorrow morning, then drive straight to his camp.

The King

Come in. I was expecting you.

The guy inviting him in was skinny and unshaved. They all looked the same. He was the only one with enough pride to take care of himself. Then again, he was the King.

"Have you finished the job?" He asked his skinny subject. The job was more a test than a bona fide research contact. A hacker that could not access an ordinary individual’s personal accounts was not a talented hacker, and a king did not hire incompetents.

"Yes, man. Easy job."

"Good. The game will start soon." The time had come to move forward; a king ruled by a process of elimination.

"Are we OK? I got a spot on your team like we agreed?"

"I have a job for you, he, the King, declared. When he was Joshua’s knight, all the King had wanted was to take Joshua’s place. He had learned from Joshua’s mistakes. He had no knights, only puppets. Go lay in your tub."

"Is this part of the test?" The puppet wanted to know.

The problem with geeks was that they wished to know things, the King thought to himself. Yes, he answered.

The dummy obeyed. What else could he do? The King was taller and bigger, he trained and kept in shape. Compared to geeky guys, he was a king. He was the King.

"Why the bathtub?" The geek enquired.

"So you don’t pee on the floor. The things geeks learned did not need to be useful; they didn’t even need to be true. Just lay down and close your eyes," the King ordered once again.

The guy obeyed without peeing. Which was excellent considering the King did not drink urine. The King sat down on the rim of the tub and pulled out a knife.

Holding him down with a firm hand on the thorax, the King slashed the marionette’s throat. He had discovered it was best to do it quickly. The feat was not as difficult as some websites implied, not if one had been exercising intensely for over two years and possessed a sharp blade.

Moreover, the puppet’s weakness and appropriate positioning lessened the strength required. Besides, the King had all the time in the world for he was the King. Neighbours never eavesdropped on the screams thanks to duct tape effectively preventing screams and thus pesky meddling.

The King sank the scalpel in his subject’s right arm. His left arm. His left thigh. His right thigh. The cuts needed to be precise. At that point, even puppets, drug addicts and cocksuckers were thrashing, their legs and arms flying in belated (and useless) self-defence. He slashed as close to the arteries as possible because the deeper the wounds, the more blood poured out before the heart stopped.

The King wanted to fill the tub. He had yet to fill a tub.

Excerpt from Kingdom Come, by Trica C. Line

Patricia’s Flight

She started drinking in the cab. She had left before the peak of rush hour traffic, yet it took forever to get to the airport. Once there, she kept glancing over her shoulder, half expecting Christopher to show up or, if not him, at least one of his guys. Nope, it seemed for once he had understood her point. Whatever her point had been. The man was so damn infuriating!

She couldn’t stand more of his hovering over her. Three weeks of it already, with images of him covered in blood replaying over and over in her mind. So it had been her blood, it could have been his! Not that she had bled all that much, smears really, but she had feared the jerk had hurt him. The creep had beaten Joshua, a mere hacker, pretty badly. Christopher was a cop; she had no doubt the dirty salopard would have shot him dead.

"He never came close, Angel," the infuriating man had pointed out a few times since that night but still. The creep could have, and then what?

Unfortunately, she was in love with Christopher. He was arrogant, infuriating, conceded, controlling, and overprotective. She was in love with him. How could that have happened? He made her laugh, made her smile, spiked her anger too, fixed her breakfast, made her feel good, made love to her, had her followed. How the heck had she let it happen?

A woman her age shouldn’t fall in love. A man his age shouldn’t fall in love. Surely, the L-thing was worse in his case since he was older than she was by five years, half a decade. They were almost middle-aged, damn it! Hum, well, perhaps not quite that old but ineluctably heading there. She sighed. If she were honest with herself, she might admit this moment in her life was the greatest time to succumb to love.

A woman like her was not supposed to lose her head because of the L-thing. A trip to Italy was much safer. Food, wine, shopping, men. Hopefully, men. Why hadn’t the Big guy touched her since the jerk incident, she wondered? For the last three weeks, they had treated her like a porcelain doll. Ingrid, Reid, Hamilton, the guys, him. He was the worst. She kept hoping he would just do it. Why was she nervous? They had made love before, had they not? Too many times to count.

She boarded the plane. About time too because, somehow, her wine bottle was empty. She suffered for a half hour through the excruciating take-off, the climbing, the plane turning and readjusting its trajectory. Then, for long minutes, she waited for the crew to turn off the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign. The flight attendant finally came over.

Patricia travelled frequently, so she knew to plan ahead. Upon boarding, she always made sure to warn the flight attendant about her slight fear of flying. Funny, she never used to be scared when she was a kid− Nothing like a higher education and a degree in engineering to learn all that could go wrong with planes. As for her fellow graduates, they were not all rocket scientists. To think some of them now designed planes!

Fear did not keep her from flying, though. Getting drunk helped to pass the time; it also prevented her from thinking too much. If they crashed, she would die tipsy. She knew of worse ways to die (in fact, she’d met one or two in the past years).

The stewardess, a beautiful twenty-something Italian woman, was generous with the alcohol, an exquisite Italian wine, woodsy, sturdy, red, of course. A most lovely flight. When Ingrid tagged along, the woman fed her tiny (plane-acceptable) minibar-size bottles of hard liquor. The booze kicked in motion sickness; she thought even less then. She didn’t like the feeling so much, but she had to admit, it worked splendidly.

Since Ingrid wasn’t around, she had a ball with the red wine. She spent her hours in the air drinking and ignoring the passenger in the seat next to hers, a grumpy woman who kept making annoying noises with her jewels. The time for the excruciating landing did not arrive a moment too soon. The pilot took his damn sweet time aligning the plane with the landing strip too. The flight attendant finally let them out.

Very early morning local time, she was hungry and tired. She stopped at her hotel first. She drank her first true Italian coffee while she showered and dressed in her only change of clothes.

The weather was perfect. She headed out for a stroll. She savoured fancy bite-size Italian pastries with her second Italian coffee and kept on walking. The day was sunny, with the slightest breeze. She had picked a new hotel in a new part of town; jet lag and the newness of her surroundings made her giddy.

She stopped at a boutique with a lovely dress in the front window. She bought the dress. She had a third coffee to go with the dress. She walked back to the hotel for another shower and changed into the dress. Lovely indeed. She went back her meanders.

When her stomach reminded her of the time, she had Italian pizza with Italian red wine to go with her Italian dress. She smiled at the Italian waiter. Charming. She continued her explorations. The perfect therapy for what ailed her (whatever it was, she refused to think about it). She found the perfect sandals to go with the dress. She also bought a cute pair of black shorts to go with the new shoes. Then, at the next store, purchased a pretty red blouse to go with the shorts. Two doors down, she splurged on a lacy blue bra to go with the red top, a flattering dress to go with the bra and a sexy pair of heels to go with the dress. The shoes were stunning with the dress she had on too. Shopping in Italy was indeed the perfect remedy.

She walked back with her bags, light-hearted and happy. She had the new shoes on. She wasn’t big on taking walks with heels, but those were super comfortable. Italian shoemakers were by far the best; the heels were worth the investment. She stopped at a terrace for an nth coffee.

As if Italy wanted to prove its worth further, three Italian men hit on her that afternoon. The first ambled to her over coffee. About her age, he had a sexy dimple in his chin. He turned out to be an arrogant jerk; she passed.

The second was much older. Classy, with greying temples and an Italian suit. He accosted her on her way back to the hotel. They smiled. His English was as tentative as her Italian. He handed her his card; once again she declined.

The third was younger but somewhere in his thirties hence not too young. An acquaintance of Ingrid from the publishing world, he was waiting for her at her hotel.

"I take you to meal. Ingrid has ordered, Sí?"

Sometime, Ingrid was worse than Christopher!

The King

The woman sure had ways. The King had no clue how she had found the puppet cop, but Super Mario must have helped her. She had always had a soft spot for the fat man; the obese freak would have been only too eager to help.

The newspapers didn’t mention her, only the cop, her new man-toy no doubt. She sure knew how to pick them.

"In heat, they are," the King declaimed to his (for now empty) court.

The cop in the papers looked like a real jerk. In the pictures the King had enlarged from the newspapers, Cop-man looked pissed. Why was the cop angry? Because he had killed a fellow officer? The King snickered at the thought.

"Puppets, all of them. Screw them all!"

Regrettably, with the scarred-face cop gone, the King was out one puppet. The other fat cop wasn’t that smart. Not that the King needed clever per se, but the game was more fun when his subjects believed they were controlling him.

"As if," the King snorted in the empty room. His subjects’ gullibility brought him endless glee.

She was the ultimate entertainment, though. The confrontation had been a close call. Admittedly, the King had not foreseen she would hunt his man. Scarface deserved to die for he had had no right on her.

Pattycake was the King’s possession and the King’s alone. Who did she think she was? She had been Joshua’s Queen; thus, that made her rightfully his.

He had allowed Scarface only to play with her. The King would not tolerate anyone breaking her. The puppet had been punished, and rightfully so. The King felt he was a benevolent king. She was the appropriate Queen.

Excerpt from Kingdom Come, by Trica C. Line

Breaking

Chris stopped by the precinct early in the morning. He could have just called, could have just taken off even since he was on a fucking vacation. Beach. Naked. Sex. He had not slept very well. Jogging, scotch, varnish smells and smoke didn’t mix well. Thoughts of Italian assholes hadn’t helped either. The bench would be perfect for her return, though.

He considered himself reasonable. She had not even called him