Quintic (2 page)

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
thought
s would be more in the line of,
‘
S
he 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

“C
an 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
wal
king 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
stee
red 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.