Quintic (49 page)

He studied
his options silently, cop face on.
Concluded in was a hundred times better,
safer
to
have her in the office than snooping around on her own, be it to go
to strip clubs with his guys or alone to dinners with dead
bodies.

Her
laugh
ter quieted down as doubt filled her
blue eyes. “You’re not honestly firing me, are you?”

“
Yes. Yes,
I’m fucking firing you for real. You’re reckless, impatient, nosy
and dangerous.”

“
But
−”

“Patricia. Stay out of
Lemieux’s case.”

“Why?”

Fuck
, the woman was stubborn.
“Because I say so.” He was running out of patience. He still hoped
for the top, but if it didn’t happen soon, he might get a drink. A
cold shower. Both.

“
Christopher, you know that’s a cop answer. I know I didn’t
help with the case but only in the beginning. And I did write that
damn report you asked for; it contained personal details I wouldn’t
have revealed in a million years otherwise.
And
I took you to the
club, that has to count for something.”

The club?
Damn right it counted for something; he just didn’t know how the
fuck yet. “You’re still out.”

At
that moment, Hamilton’s words flashed into
Patricia’s mind. As she mused out loud, “If this is not about me
going out with him, maybe this is about him going out with me?”
Christopher’s thigh muscles clenched under her, his entire body
tensing. She was onto something.

He narrowed
his eyes at her. “Patricia.
Stay. The.
Fuck. Out.”

She had a
lead;
she kept with it. What else had
Hamilton said? “It’s about Lemieux going out with me over and
over.” Whatever that meant. Christopher looked angry, thus worried.
Was it because of Lemieux going out with
her
?

She tried
to
recall the motel hooker. She had not
seen her body at the scene, had barely skimmed the pictures Charles
had brought. She had not seen the woman in the club’s basement;
nobody had bothered to show her those photos. Not that she wanted
to see them. “Christopher, what did the dead dancer, the one
Hamilton found look like?”

“
Patricia.”
His voice came out as a growl, barely controlled. He was
furious.

She couldn’t
let it go.
“Did she look like the hooker
at the motel?” His hands dug into her thighs painfully. She vaguely
remembered brown waves, a slim frame. “Did she look like me?”
Judging from how tightly he clamped his jaw and fists, the answer
was yes. What was that about?

That
certainly explained why he was unsettled. And now, she was upset
too, not to mention maybe a little freaked. She had had it with
this crap. She was never again leaving the library. “Fine, I’ll
stay out.”

She
leaned into him, lowered her head to his
shoulder. Her heart was beating so fast, she had trouble
breathing.

Chris felt
her lips brush his skin, caressing, settling on the throbbing vein
at the base of his neck. It took him a while to calm down. She had
said she was going to stay out, and she would. She
should
.
She was always true to her word. He just had to make sure nothing
or no one dragged her back in.

After a
while, when the anger left him, he whispered into her hair, “It’s
getting late, Darling of mine, let’s go to bed.”

He
let
her escape to the bathroom while he
turned off the television and lights. She settled into bed, clad in
the damn fucking robe, and pulled the covers up to her
chin.

With a
disappointed headshake, he went back to the living room to check
the locks and get his mobile phone, setting it on the night table
as he slipped into the bed next to her.

She
slithered on top of him, the bathrobe nowhere to be seen. “It’s my
turn to be on top,
mon
chéri
,” she cooed.

No way, Angel, you’re mine.

S
he slept
divinely. She had fallen asleep right after their bout of
lovemaking, a warm and heavy Christopher atop of her. She lingered
under the covers, listening drowsily as pots and pans clattered in
the kitchen; the Big guy was cooking breakfast.

In
moments
like these, she could move in
with him. Marry him all over again. The instants never lasted long
enough for her to confess her yearnings. What if he said no? What
if he said yes? Scary. Which one was worse? Truly terrifying. That
one time he had asked her to live with him, had he asked solely
because he already knew she would turn him down? He was a very
independent man. She was independent too, and delusional. Not to
mention a little screwed up.

They fought
too much, didn’t they? Well, she argued while he
discussed
.
Last night had not been any different. He never raised his voice,
but he still got what he wanted. She was out of Lemieux’s case. But
of Lemieux’s case only, she told herself silently with a smile. The
Big guy was going to work today, and so was she. At the
diner.

Christopher
marched into the bedroom shortly after, probably to check if she
was awake yet. She stayed immobile as if she was asleep. So
childish. Didn’t she deserve to sleep late on a Sunday morning? She
could have used him next to her, though, literally
used
him.
She sighed from under the covers, her sigh going unnoticed when the
doorbell rang announcing Hamilton. No way was she getting up now;
she cowardly elected to stay hidden in case Hamilton disclosed her
late-night call to his boss.

She heard
Christopher
strolled back into the room,
listened as he picked up his things, opened and closed the closet
door (taking a jacket?), then silence returned. She didn’t move.
The infuriating man could be anywhere; he was so stealthy when he
wanted. She strained to detect voices, footsteps or, even better,
the front door closing when suddenly his palm pressed on her
stomach.

“
Good
morning, Princess,” he growled gruffly. “I’m going to work now. It
would be lovely if you waited for me. In bed.” No chance of that.
“Or we can meet here later for supper. It’s your turn to eat
naked.” No possibility of that either.

He started
to laugh. “I know what you’re thinking. And both will happen.
Eventually.”

Damn
, he was arrogant! He kissed
the top of her head as if she was a child. Really, a woman her
age!

She heard
the front door
close. She took a deep
breath. He had smelled great; she loved the scent of his
aftershave. She would have
used
him had Hamilton came just a
little later.

After
lingering in bed for way too long, she took a quick shower and ate
Christopher’s French toasts. Anticipating she wasn’t going to get
up early, he had left her meal in the oven; she ate warm and fluffy
toasts, with real maple syrup (he had stocked his fridge with jars
of the stuff). If he wasn’t already so damn arrogant, she might
praise his near perfection.

She thought
about making herself a latte but decided to gra
b one on her walk to the diner instead. Drinking coffee
alone was not her thing; she believed coffee consumption needed to
be a shared experience. Sipping a latte surrounded by complete
strangers in a coffee shop who ignored her was almost a spiritual
experience. Well, maybe not but it did make for a pleasant research
interlude. Funny how people thought her borderline-alcoholic
because she sometimes had a glass of red wine alone in her suite
but were themselves closet coffee
holic
since they ingested the
drug anywhere.

Using his
home phone line, she dialled Christopher’s mobile. He answered on
the first ring.

“
Hi
, Angel.”

“
Hi, Big
guy.”

“Miss me?”

“
No.”
S
he sighed breathily before confessing.
“Yes. I missed you this morning.”

“I was there this morning.”

“
No, you
weren’t. You weren’t here. You know. In me.” She heard him catch
his breath and laughed at his reaction. “Just thought I’d call to
say hi and thank you for breakfast.”

“
You’re very
welcomed. I’ll be there later. You know. There.
In you
.” His voice had
taken that deep husky tone.

She pressed
her thighs together. How was it that every time she wanted to turn
him on, she
became aroused too? “I’ll let
you go now, Big guy. Have a good day.”

“
I will,
Darling of mine. Please do what I’ve said.”

How could he
know? Had she talked about the diner in her sleep? “What did you
say again?”

“
Supper.
” Oh,
that
. No way was she
eating naked; her face flamed at the thought. “You’re blushing now,
aren’t you?” Raspy voice. “Damn it, Princess. I have to work
today!”

“You started it!”

“
I fucking
did not, Pussycat. But I will finish it; you can count on it.
Supper. Later.”

Mercifully
, he hung up after
that. The man was infuriating. Her sex throbbed. His better be
disturbing his concentration too.

From
Christopher’s place, the walk took almost three hours including the
coffee stop. She didn’t mind, she was in no hurry, she had good
boots on, and it wasn’t raining today. The walk cleared both her
head and her body. The sky was cement-grey; the cold and humid air
turned her soft waves to an exuberantly unruly curly do. She was
used to it, no point fighting it, she never won.

The streets
were almost empty; the coffee shop was mostly empty. Hopefully, she
hoped for a vacant restaurant too. She had taken her time at
Christopher’s place and left only a little past noon. She had even
done the dishes since Anna wouldn’t be in to clean the place until
Tuesday. For whatever reason, he was barely ever there, Christopher
had the cleaning lady come twice a week, but hey, his place was
always spotless, and he never had dirty socks lying
around.

The
din
er wasn’t full. Three o’clock on a
dull Sunday afternoon, who wanted a club sandwich? The cook was
just starting his shift, and so were his helper and the two
waitresses.

Patricia sat
at the counter and ordered a piece of pie, a lemony
creation that tempted her from the pie plate. It
looked delicious when the young waitress set the plate in front of
her. The sweet and bitter
tarte
was even more scrumptious
than it looked. She got lost in its taste. When she got back to
reality, three customers had joined her at the counter. A young
couple and a man. From the looks of his clothes, haircut, personal
hygiene, the man was single from way back. Could he be the
killer?

With only
the four of them as
patrons, the
waitresses kept busy chatting amongst themselves. The couple held
hands, eating their pies in blissful silence. The single guy stared
at the two waitresses behind the counter, looking at one then the
other; his stare was not level on their faces. He, or someone like
him, might truly be her killer.

A
customer went
unnoticed by the girl waitress; he ogled and admired her day after
day
. The waitress was friendly. Sometimes
she placed a hand on his shoulder as she removed his empty plate,
maybe he took it as an encouragement. But he was a little too old
for her, wasn’t he? If the girl had seen him in the back alley that
night, surely she would have become suspicious right away. Patricia
knew she would have been distrustful of an older man had it been
her in that alley. Or maybe not, since, in her case, the
older-men-are-less-trouble mantra had started early.

Hum. If not
him, maybe someone like him? Someone overlooked, a man the waitress
knew but not really. Someone she was familiar with. The cook still
looked good for the crime. So what if he was married; some married
men were sleazebags, as she knew first hand. Married men could be
murderers too. Except for the cook appreciating compliments on his
wife’s pies, he could be a killer.

She asked to
talk to the cook again, “Just for a little while, until the place
gets busy.”

He
remembered her from
her last visit. She
stayed with the friendly writer doing research approach and
questioned the cook for almost an hour, the waitresses cutting in
from time to time, the helper not saying much.

“
The cops
came back twice. Last week and the week before,” one of the
waitresses informed her.

“Did they now? What did they
want?”

“
Not sure,”
said the cook. He seemed uneasy about it. “Might be about that
murder down Thirteen Street, at that diner. You heard about
it?”

“The cops told you that?”

“
The police
didn’t say shit. Some college kids told us. We asked the cops after
for details, but you know how those guys are.”
I sure do
. “They
better not try to put it on us again.” And by
us
, Patricia
understood he meant him. Was he afraid getting caught, or was he
traumatised by his previous experience as a suspect? Funny, when
Christopher had suspected her of Bozniak’s murder, she had been
mad, not traumatised. Perhaps the cook’s reaction was more
reasonable?