Quintic (71 page)

Beatrice
agreed to meet for a d
rink around five
after her workday.

“
Perhaps we
can meet for an early supper?” Patricia suggested. “I’m meeting an
old friend later. I’ll have to leave around seven.”

The schedule
was tight. She needed to arrive at the rental before the
nine-thirty closing time. In theory, she had enough time. From the
rental place, it was a half-hour drive to the shop. Once on
location, she would need a moment to survey the area and confirm
the creep was alone.

Locked
d
oors were not her forte, but, if she
recalled correctly, the two-storey concrete-block building had
plenty of windows. She double-checked on Google
Street View. Indeed, lots of windows on the second floor.
As a bonus, the carport made for an easy climb from the truck’s
rooftop to the garage roof. From there, she’d slip in through an
upper-floor window.

She
took a stroll to an art craft store and bought a
glass cutting blade; she found the knife in a stained-glass kit.
Her steps were clear: truck’s roof to the carport in through the
window thanks to the glass cutting knife. A piece of
cake.

She had
already half-killed the creep with her gunshot two years ago, had
beaten him severely (or at least she hoped) at the club, and since
he was unsuspecting, arrogant and stupid, he wouldn’t anticipate
her appearance. The stun gun. The handcuffs. Rope for his feet.
Mover blankets. Once she had secured the creep, they would chat.
She did not prepare a formal speech, though; she had no desire of
speaking to him but felt she should exchange on her thoughts for
the future nonetheless if only to make sure he didn’t try anything
again with anyone.

Maybe if
she
stared him down? Let him sweat. Then
she would give him another five seconds with the stun gun before
dragging him down the stairs. Packed in the covers, he wouldn’t get
hurt, at least not too much. Then again, did she care if he
did?
No
siree
. She would roll him into the trunk,
drive to the police station, dump him off at the back door, call
Steve anonymously, and ride into the sunset, or in this instance,
sunrise, or even earlier if all went without a glitch. Target
return time was three o’clock before Christopher got
back.

The
hotel’s night clerk was to tell whoever asked
for her that she had returned to her suite. When the A-team came
looking for her (sooner or later, they would hunt her down at her
hotel), the clerk was the first person they would question. She had
left the television on in her room to make it look as if she was
indeed back and enjoying a quiet evening in. If they called, she
could always claim not to have heard the phone because she had
fallen asleep in front of some lame film. The A-team wouldn’t break
in, not if she came back before Christopher.

Did she
know
her plan was crazy? In the back of
her mind, yes, of course, she did. Absolutely. Too many things
might go wrong, yet she had to do it. Putting her wild idea in
motion was better than waiting. And it was a heck of a lot better
than Christopher finding the creep and getting hurt. The Big guy
thought he was a big man, and he was, with training, muscles,
brains and all, but the creep wouldn’t give a damn. If the
salopard
saw Christopher coming, he would make the Big guy for a cop
and shoot him on sight, and then Christopher would be
dead.

Police
officers
were unsuspecting of fellow
officers. Even if Christopher knew what a creep the guy was, even
after the quartet and the murder accusation, the Big guy still
thought of the creep as a cop. Hence, he would follow procedures.
He’d assume the creep had some honour and thus, take the time to
read the creep his right, and that might be the Big guy’s fatal
mistake. Her way was so much safer for Christopher.

C
hris received the
first call at six fifty-two.

“
They’re at
the ex-waitress’s place now,” Frankke duly informed him.

Patricia and
the waitress with the raincoat had gone for a drink
at a pub earlier, but apparently the damn woman
hadn’t completed her socialising and, most probably, research on
her case.

Chris had
added Frankke to the shadowing the day before.
Since Patricia had gone back to work on the diner cases,
the man was the appropriate choice. And considering Frankke had
never followed Patricia before, Chris hoped she wouldn’t notice the
big black man on her trail. Despite his size and skin colour,
Frankke was discreet. Moreover, his man knew the diner cases inside
and out, the neighbourhoods, the locals hence, he might be able to
anticipate her moves.

So far,
Patricia had hiked around plenty, talked to one and another at both
places. She had gone to a post office back in Mario’s old
neighbourhood.
Why the post
office, Angel?
The A-team didn’t have an
answer to that one. Chris had yet to search her place to see what
she had retrieved there. If he questioned her directly, she might
have told him some nonsense about buying stamps.

The hunt had
made him restless. The three dirty cops possible IDs came with so
much fucking red tapes that he hadn’t been able to go through the
personnel files the way he needed. He had called the toothless guy
at Archives, Patricia’s old coworker, for complete copies. The old
man’s uncooperative stubbornness convinced Chris the damn woman had
placed a call to warm her old pal off.

He
had
Fredrick break into the
system.
I too have hacker
friends, Princess.
Fred’s search turned
up seven new possibles, four of which were already under
surveillance. He stretched his team to the limit. Reid and Shapiro.
Hamilton and DesForges. LeRoy and Charles. He was one guy short; he
might as well use Charles for, after all, the rookie had some
responsibility in this mess. The pairs kept around the clock
surveillance, each guy doing twelve-hour shifts. Which still left
four ex-cops unaccounted for. He needed more manpower and a change
of tactics.

H
e couldn’t wait to pick her up
and put her away someplace safe. He kept postponing it, though,
because she knew something, and he wanted to find out what. As soon
as he secured her, she’s become mad as hell; no way was he going to
get anything out of her then, not for a while at least, a
long,
long
while. Thus, he needed to find the missing cops and pick
the right one. He was working on that full-time, day and
night.

Thankfully,
they had finished the clubs’ tour; that had been a hell of a
depressing job for everyone. Even Ham had grown bored midway. They
found zilch, nothing but anecdotal information. They talked to over
a hundred strippers but had nothing to work on. Some of the girls
might have recognised him but maybe not. The creep was clearly not
the only customer to be fat and ugly. And the scar wasn’t all that
visible. One girl mentioned a port-wine stain on the right side of
some jerk’s jaw and neck, another acne scars, another a no-neck
guy. Shit. If he had more time and resources, he would go back over
and over and wait it out.

But he
didn’
t want to wait. He had three victims
that might be related to the fat creep; three stiffs that might be
connected to Patricia. Was the sicko pissed at her for before?
Chris (
no more than you,
Pussycat
), could be sure the creep hadn’t
identified her. She had seen the asshole twice; the jerk might have
seen her too. Even if she was convinced the creep hadn’t, Chris
wasn’t about to chance it, not with a potential killer. Two
Patricia lookalikes and a man that had saved her were dead; no way
in hell they were coincidences.

If she
hadn’t been who she was, he might have taken her to the clubs and
used her as bait. He couldn’t risk it.
I cannot
. He had to find
another way. Letting her walk around freely and snoop her fill was
dangerous but much less so than luring a killer with her as the
decoy.

Too bad one
couldn’t use truth serum on one’s girlf
riend. Wine might do it, though, wine and other stuff he
knew from experience that lessened her defences. He was good at
those
things
, wasn’t he? He liked them
immensely with her. Listening to her moan. Watching her. He even
found her silly geezer outfit sexy.
I know what you’re hiding under all those thick layers of
clothes, Darling of mine
.

If possible,
his
stripper overdose had made him crave
her more.
Each fucking night,
Angelface
. He was sick and tired of strip
joints and way too old for the job. He barely glanced at the girls.
He clenched his jaw so tight that he tasted blood. Fuck, he wanted
the sonofabitch. He knew what to do with him too. The creep was his
opportunity for a thorough immersion in her past. Chris wanted to
know about Joshua and the lot of them. He
needed
to know what the jerk
had done to her.

He had to
find out
what she was up to. Right now,
she was rationalising whatever the hell she was doing. Each night,
he went back to her to make sure she was safe. She felt damn
fucking good against him, even with her lithe body cloaked in long
pyjama pants and a long-sleeve pyjama top. Each night as he took
her in his arms, fell asleep his face in her hair, he knew she was
safe. How he wanted to wake her and
take
her!
You. Are. Mine.

What was
Patricia doing up in the ex-waitress’s apartment? She wasn’t
supposed to be alone in a secluded or private place with anyone
related to the cases, any of them.

“
I can’t see
any movement through the windows,” Frankke reported from his post
on the street. “Want me to move surveillance closer?”

“
Hell yes,
go closer. Move into the building.” He wanted Frankke to listen in
if possible.

Hanging up
with Frankke, Chris called MacCarmick. “Know what she’s up
to?”

“
No clue.
I’m parked at the corner. I’ve got eyes on both the front entrance
and the back alley.”

Any which
way Patricia got out
, Mac was going to
see her. Hence, all Chris had to do for now was wait.

Frankke
called again at seven-twelve. “I’m in the staircase. I can hear
voices from the corridor but can’t make out words. Shall I return
to the car and wait there? Don’t want her to open the door on her
way out and surprise me eavesdropping.”

His guys
were good officers
. Once upon a time,
they wouldn’t have called him to ask about such trivial detail, but
apparently, following one boss’s woman was a highly explosive
job.

Frankke was
unsure
of what to do next. “Look, Chris,
I get the keeping-her-safe part. It’s the how-far-can-I-go-to-do-it
part that’s puzzling to me.”

“
I’ve got
your ass.”
Whatever goes
down, I’m the only one she’s going to be mad at anyway.
“Do whatever the hell you feel is
needed.”

Chris tried
her phone, but, of course, the damn woman didn’t answer. He called
MacCarmick again. “Be prepared. She might rush out of the place.”
If she indeed made out Frankke, she was going to be out in a flash
and try to lose him.

Frankke
called again at seven-forty-four. “Get the hell over
here.”

“
Where’s
she?” Chris growled over the phone as he headed for his
car.

“
They had a
fight; the girl knocked out Patricia. She’s stunned and slightly
bleeding but otherwise unarmed. The girl’s neutralised.”

Bleeding but otherwise
OK?!
His mind went blank. What
the fuck? “Call a fucking ambulance!”

“
Already on
its way. As soon as we hang up, I’ll call it in and wait for police
backup. Sure we need some local prick butting in on our
case?”

“
For now, we
do this by the book. I want that waitress in the
slammer.”

Chris
drove on automatic pilot, pedal to the floor,
red lights flashing, sirens blasting. He probably broke a world
record, but it still took fucking forever. MacCarmick was guarding
the front door when he arrived. The ambulance was already there.
Chris climbed the steps three at a time and burst into the
apartment just as Patricia was getting settled on the
stretcher.

She had
blood in her hair
, and drops had dripped
on her face. She looked dizzy, didn’t smile when she saw him. She
wasn’t complaining about being taking care of; it must have been a
hell of a blow.

The medics
were prepping the ex-waitress
on a
gurney, her cuffed hands complicating the process. The left side of
her face was swollen.

“
I might
have punched her,” right-handed Frankke admitted under his breath.
“Just doing ‘what was needed.’”