Quintic (24 page)

She
had
trouble breathing. The place was too
busy, too loud, too
smelly
. A knot formed in her
belly. Her lungs burned. The back of her neck sweat. She took her
jacket off, lowered her head and, rolling her shoulders, willed
herself to relax. She tried to block out the music, voices, cheers,
images of the dancer. Of Christopher contemplating a naked woman
that wasn’t her.

Chris was
concentrating on keeping his eyes on the stage while focusing on
her with his peripheral vision. He didn’t react fast enough when
the damn woman decided to take her jacket off.
Fuck me!
If she wants to show off in a place like this, the hell
with her
. He stared back at the
dancer.

The
stripper had breasts twice the size of hers.
With the top Patricia had on, he hoped the clientele was more into
quantity than quality. His knuckles were white from holding the
beer. His jaws were clamped so tight he wasn’t drinking anymore.
Another ten minutes passed. The dancer changed again. A black woman
with even bigger tits.

Patricia
stopped looking at the table top. She timed it so that at the
dancer’s grand
final
, she slipped off her chair
and, eyes to the floor, scooted to the toilets. She expected the
women’s toilets to be empty, but they weren’t. Two women,
prostitutes her prejudiced mind whispered after taking in their
stretchy tops, flashy bras, overflowing bosom, impossibly high
stilettos and too-big hair.

The
women
glared, she scowled back before
retreating into a stall. Once her bladder was under control, her
mind started working again, and she realised her outfit was
identical to theirs albeit without the bra and the generous
breasts.

The girls
came to stand right next to her, one on each side
, as she washed her hands in the dirty sink.

“
What you
doing, girly girl?” Hooker A, plump, busty and fake red-haired,
asked.

“
I’m with my
boyfriend.”
Please, let
Christopher be there when I come out.

“
Boyfriend.
Right. I got me one of those too,” Hooker B, plump, busty and fake
red-haired, brawled. Did boyfriend mean pimp in slang? Damn, she
felt old.

“What you want here?” A.

“Nothing. We were just
leaving.”

“
You better.
This ain’t your turf.” B.

“
Sure thing.
On my way now.” She
ran out of the
bathroom.

Only to
s
lam straight into some guy who wasn’t
looking where he was going. “Sorry, Sir,” she apologised, as she
retreated from him.

A
b
ig piece of man. Ugly. Drunk. Tattooed.
Today, after the punk, she found she had developed a dislike for
tattooed guys. Tattoo grabbed her arm and jerked her closer. She
kicked him. Reflex.

“
Enough with
the grabbing already!” What was it, the fourth, fifth
today?

Tattoo threw
her against the wall while his buddies got closer. She kicked
again.

Chris
impatiently waited for her to return from the fucking toilet. Her
fucking jacket too waited for her return, on the back of her
fucking chair! He had had enough. As soon as the damn woman came
out, he was going to grab her, by the arm or the neck he hadn’t
decided yet, and throw her into a cab.

But she had
to run straight into some jerk’s beer gut. Fists had been keeping
him company since he had stepped into this hellhole; it was more
than the time he put them to good use.

He
stomped to the back, and without wasting a beat,
grabbing the jerk by the shoulder and swung him into the wall. The
guy hit the buffet head first (it slowed down his fall somewhat)
before crashing to the floor. Chris put in a bonus knee-kick. Fuck
that felt good. He caught the jerk’s buddy swinging one at him,
ducked, felt the fist grazed his ear and retaliated by throwing a
punch. Square under the chin. Buddy’s head snapped backward. Into
the wall, no buffet table to cushion the blow. Buddy to the floor.
No time for celebration, a third jerk wanted some attention. He
grabbed Third by the collar and jabbed him in the ribs. The guy
fell to his knees.

With the
three out of his way, Chris saw
no point
in sticking around. His hand clawed around Patricia’s arm, and he
dragged her to the door, snatching her jacket on the way. A
three-minute fight. The doorman tried to stop him, but Chris
flashed the badge and kept on walking, fingers digging into her
flesh.

“
Christopher, slow down.” She squeezed his arm to loosen his
grip, but he was on an adrenaline rush and wasn’t listening.
Wouldn’t slow down.
Couldn’t
. “Christopher, damn it,
stop it, I’m wearing heels,” she panted.

She managed
to drop one shoe, and then the other and half-walked, half-ran next
to him for a block. Two blocks. “Christopher!”

They passed
by a cab station. He wrenched a cab door open, threw some money at
the driver, growled Patricia’s address and pushed her inside,
slamming the door behind her. “Get the fuck out of my sight,
Patricia.”

The taxi took off.

He was
t
oo fucking mad to be with her. His anger
was one of the very few things that scared him. Knowing it didn’t
scare her scared him even more.

He
walked. Ran. It started to rain. He kept on
running. He ran for an hour, more, in his dress shoes. When he got
back to his place, much later, his shoes ruined.

He
dropped down on the couch soaking wet and fell
asleep right away. Slept like a log until he crashed to the floor
next to the coffee table. A two-hour nap. He stumbled to his bed,
leaving a trail of wrinkled, damp clothes on the wooden floor on
the way, and tried to go back to sleep. Nope, done for the
night.
Fuck this!

He climbed
into the shower and, the showerhead set to energising massage,
stood under the hot water a long time. His hands pulsed, his feet
throbbed, his temples pounded yet he felt numb. He washed and
shampooed. Thought of her. Got angry.
Fuck her.
He turned the
water to cold. Thought of her. Jerked off. Rinsed off, turned the
water off and put on pants.

J
eans, a
sweatshirt, running shoes, and he was ready for another fucking
day. He poured himself a double espresso and drank it standing up,
staring at nothing. Then he called Ham.

“
Shit,
Chris. It’s not even five-thirty yet. Can’t a guy sleep in on a
Saturday?”

Chris heard
a female voice in the background. “Just pick me up when you’re
done, Ham.”

Ham showed
up at six o’clock sharp. He must have booted out his bootie call
right after hanging up. Chris had done nothing in the meantime,
nothing except drank coffee.

They went to
pick Charles up and were at the car
pound
a good half hour before opening time. They sat in the car and
waited. Lemieux’s alleged black car awaited, sleek from the rain,
behind the wire fence. The fucking car had been waiting for weeks;
it could stand waiting for another thirty minutes.

He should
have been all over that car already. Woul
d have too had she not looked so lost at the precinct
yesterday. He had figured a quiet evening was what she needed, him
all over her for comfort, then, as soon as she fell asleep, he
would have been all over that car. Would have done it too had she
not been so damn … so fucking ... crazy. Brash. Spontaneous.
Unpredictable. Herself.

The owner
showed up at seven, a short fat guy with greasy grey hair and a
ridiculously small moustache bundled in overalls; its fabric might
have been blue when he bought the pants, but it was now a dull,
muddy-brown shade from decades of unwashed grim. The fat guy talked
slow and moved even slower. It took him over twenty minutes to
understand what they wanted. Another fifteen to agree he had no
need for paperwork for a mere cursory search. Ham was doing the
talking and losing his calm fast. Chris just stood there looking at
the car. Charles stood there, just not helping.

They finally
got to the car, Charles saying, “OK, let’s see if we can find a
spare key hidden under that piece of junk.”

“
Roger
rookie trying to impress the boss,” Ham mumbled under his
breath.

Charles
palmed under the car, beginning at the front bumper, to the right
headlights, to the front tire wing, to the− Ham looked at Chris.
Chris returned the look with a nod. − driver door, to the back
passenger door.

H
am pulled a wire string for his
coat and picked the passenger front door’s lock while Charles was
probing the rear of the car, caressing the left wing by
then.

“
Hey, kiddo,
the door’s unlocked. Stop looking.”

They put on
gloves and began their search. Spacious interior, black leather
seats that went on forever and plenty of leg room front and back.
Nothing in the pockets and side compartments. The glove compartment
contained Lemieux’s driver licence, nothing else.

“
Want me to
call the plate in?” Charles asked.

“
Don’t ask,
jerk, just do it,” Ham retorted impatiently.

The plate
turned out to be a fake; the car was not registered.

Because of
the rain, t
hey kept the trunk for last.
Charles pulled the release lever while Chris stood in the rain and,
when the trunk door popped open, made sure it stayed down so that
the rain wouldn’t drench its content (if any).

He threw
a
quick peek inside. Cardboard boxes
filled the trunk almost to the top. He counted four rows of boxes.
He groped at one, opening the cover. Clothes, neatly folded, jeans
and sweatpants. He blind-searched another, t-shirts, folded. A
third. Toiletries, shampoo bottles, shaving cream. Not wonder they
hadn’t found Lemieux’s address, the jerk had been living in his
fucking car.

Chris
made a dozen calls to locate a judge friendly
enough to complete the requisite paperwork. Once the car was towed
to the South District’s garage, they spent the rest of the day
going through the trunk’s content. Nothing of any value. Plenty of
personal items yet nothing unique to Lemieux. No letters, address
books, computers, pictures, books. Nothing insightful as to what
the guy was doing. If Lemieux rented a locker or a bank safety box
somewhere, they didn’t find the key. The only thing they did find,
buried under some of the boxes, were two match folders. One from
the motel where he was killed.

On a
subsequent conversation, the motel manager would finally remember
this if nothing else. “Your guy took a room the Sunday before the
murder. Paid cash. Asked for matches.”

The other
booklet had the logo of a strip club in the same neighbourhood as
the club Patricia had taken Chris.

“
The green
and I’ll go and check it out after we’re done here boss,” Ham
volunteered.

Chris went
home, stopping on the way for two bottles of scotch. He made a
start on the first bottle while waiting for his food delivery. Had
more with his food, and then polished off the bottle watching
football. Damning his ability to drink without getting drunk.
Training, desensitisation from his reckless twenties. He had been a
bum, a biker, a doorman and a loose cannon. His cop life might give
him an appearance of respectability but a facade it was; some
things never changed. He opened the other bottle watching a boxing
tournament. Maybe his eyes got smaller, but his stride remained
straight, his hands steady and his thoughts clear if somewhat
slower.

Hitting the
jerks at the club might have taken a bit of the edge off, but given
in to the rage made him feel hollow. For Chris, control was safer.
He dipped into the second half of the bottle in front of an X-rated
flick. Lame. Who wanted a woman that just stayed flat on her back
doing what she was told? Fucking lame. He liked spunk. Feisty.
Brainy. Unpredictable. He fell asleep in front of the
screen.

The
n
ext day, he headed to the office early.
He had nothing else to do except work on the cases. Since he was in
a shitty mood, the weather suited him fine. He reviewed all of the
team’s cases, including Lemieux’s,
especially
Lemieux’s, nursing his
anger. They had shit to go on, only clothes and dry food, generic
brands, nothing fancy, all untraceable except for the matchbooks.
Their new fucking leads? Hair samples, partial fingerprints, so
far, all from Lemieux as per the lab guys.

The guy had
kept his car clean.
If he had been living
in his car, sleeping in it, he had been doing it alone. The lab
guys had yet to find something of the hooker. The leg work, he let
to the guys.

It
had rained all day Saturday. It rained all day
Sunday. Chris didn’t call Patricia; she didn’t call him either. He
gave explicit instructions to prevent her from seeing Lemieux’s
car. Not that she came near the precinct.