Quintic (47 page)

“
We’ll check
it out tomorrow, Chris.”

Chris
had
n’t mentioned Charles; let the fucking
kids sort it out. The rookie would tag along if Ham decided to call
him. His case, his decision. For now.

Christopher
wasn’t very talkative; he had reverted to his usual monosyllabic
repertoire of
y
e
s
, no,
hum, Angel, Princess
. She eyed him
discreetly. One arm stretched on the back of the couch, the other
loosely holding his empty coffee mug; he appeared peaceful. But his
jaw was clenched tight, and he looked angry, which for him meant he
was worried. Not much troubled him, so she surmised it had
something to do with her. Since he had no way of knowing she
intended to interrogate a distrustful cook tomorrow, his
apprehensions had to be about Lemieux.

S
he was getting sick of the guy.
Yes, she had liked him a lot. Hum. Maybe more than liked, and yes,
she had slept with him a couple of times, but that was a long time
ago. She had not seen him in years, damn it! Christopher knew
everything he needed to know about that relationship, what more did
he want?

On the other
hand, the Big guy quite obviously didn’t understand her interest in
those guys. To be honest, calling her feelings mere interest was an
understatement. Joshua and his knights had utterly and thoroughly
fascinated her. Joshua especially had ensnared her totally as she
had equally enthralled him. They were of twin minds, their thought
process working in the same crazy way. Although, as it had turned
out, he had been way crazier than her. And in the end, she had
walked away.

Less than a
few months later, he killed himself in a motorcycle accident. Could
one be angry at a dead guy? Anger and love were two very different
things, weren’t they? The man had been an excellent driver. The
roads weren’t bad that day, no way could he have lost control of
his bike like the cops had said.

Fortunately
, they had not been
together at the time of his death (she had broken up with him for
the third time weeks earlier and hadn’t seen him in days)`; the
guilt might have devastated her. As it was, she barely survived his
death. She cut all ties with his friends and moved on. Well, most
of his friends, Mario needed to have someone.

Writing
The
J-man
book had been her therapy. She had
spewed out all her demons, settled the score with him and forgiven
herself. End of story.

“
I’m going
to take a bath,”
Patricia announced,
slipping off the couch without waiting for his reaction. Hence, he
kept his eyes closed and weakly nodded.

He heard her
go into the bathroom and locked the door. Her declaration clearly
did not equate an invitation. Was she sulking because he had
stopped watching the movie? The woman wasn’t moody. Besides, that
film was lousy. They had guessed the end within the first ten
minutes. He sighed as he wondered if it was too macho to crash the
door. It was his door after all. But then, bye-bye soft sex on the
bed, him on top.

His butt
didn’t leave the couch; his eyes stayed closed. She turned on the
shower. A minute later, the shower radio crackled before she
adjusted the volume to a low hum.
I hope you won’t stay in there too long, Angel. I don’t
want you
too
sleepy.

Patricia had
taken her bag with her in the bathroom. Had Christopher kept his
eyes open, he might have got suspicious. Men thought women kept all
types of mysterious things in their bags. Even intelligent as heck
top detectives didn’t dare venture a guess at what was in a woman’s
purse. He commented on her taking the said bag everywhere. Tonight
wouldn’t have been an exemption, especially seeing as she carried
it into his fully stocked bathroom. Admittedly, the Big guy had
seen her take some indeed very strange, sometimes illegal, objects
out of her purse in the past.

They had
been dating for a while now, and she had slept over many, many
times
. Even if she didn’t want to leave
too much of her stuff in his place, she did keep the basic
toiletries items such as a brush, a toothbrush, makeup, perfume
samples and other feminine products in a drawer in the bathroom
vanity.

He might
have questioned what she needed from her bag. She wasn’t a purse or
bag person, but she needed to carry something. She considered the
bag a stage accessories, a disguise of a sort for when she went on
her little investigative pretences.

The
bag content usually fit in her pants pocket.
Three tissues. A red lipstick. A small wallet that contained enough
money for a three-day escape, including the cost of hotel nights.
Two credit cards, Amex and Master Card, both fakes, unless he took
the ones with Ingrid’s publishing house name on them and a fuzzy
picture of her so she wouldn’t need to show another ID. A passport
or two (a fake name or fake names here too). And her mobile phone,
sometimes. She was trying to cut back on the cell, wasn’t she?
Trying
excruciatingly
hard. That was it. No legit ID, no driver
licence.

She had all
the legal paperwork but preferred to leave them in her hotel safe.
Besides, she rarely drove, and when she did, well, she was an
excellent driver. Hence, cops never arrested her. And if they did,
she weaselled her way out of a speeding ticket by any means
necessary, any means she deemed proper at least. Thankfully, cops
were easy, or maybe police officers, young and not-so-young alike
were simply receptive to her charms. Unless they pissed her off in
which case, she was bad. Anyway, only once had a cop arrested her
for real, and Christopher had taken care of that. It wasn’t worth
carrying the licence around for that one time, was it? Besides, now
she knew better, and no way would she mentioned his
name.

Her Night with
Lemieux

T
onight, she carried her bag into
the bathroom because her phone was somewhere within the damn
thing.

Christopher
liked to listen to the news in the morning while he showered hence
the radio in the
shower. Sometimes, she
thought him as peculiar as she was. Tonight, the radio quirk very
conveniently provided background noises. It was already past
eleven, but she made the call nonetheless.

Whatever
they were doing, C
hristopher’s guys kept
an ear on their phone’s very-urgent numbers, and Christopher had
made damn sure she had all of the team’s numbers. Another
peculiarity, Christopher had three mobile phone numbers:
I’m-not-answering-it’s-only-Brass-calling, friends-and-team,
life-or-death. Whatever the number, she rarely called his mobile
for he had the bad habit of answering.

“
Baby
Doll Darling.” Hamilton’s voice rasped over the
line, more so than usual, as if he was out of breath. “I was just
thinking about you.”

She froze at
a loss for a comeback. She had evidently interrupted him. The man
should have turned off his phone, really! Or damn him, if he
weren’t available right at this minute, he should have checked the
caller ID (she had unblocked it for once to make sure he knew who
was calling) and let the call go to voice mail. She was taking a
bath; she could have called back in five minutes. That gave him
plenty of time to finish whatever.

“
Patricia,
everything
OK?” He sounded worried
now.

“
Yes,
yes
, everything’s fine. I, hum, sorry to
interrupt. Ah. Well.” Now she was embarrassed. Hamilton might tease
her a lot, but he was a friend, and she had not meant to worry him.
“Sorry I’m calling so late.” She paused for a steadying breath.
“Would you rather I call you back later, like in ten minutes?” Five
minutes suddenly seemed a bit short; would ten minutes be enough?
Maybe she had cut his momentum or the girl’s, whoever she was.
Luckily, he couldn’t see how red she was, or she would never hear
the end of it.

“
No
, Pussycat. It’s always good to
hear from you, even at this late hour. I was done anyway. After
five hits, a guy needs a rest.”

“
Hamilton,
you’re a
rude, pretentious prick. I hope
that whoever you’re with tonight shoots you in the
foot.”

“
Tsk-tsk
, Baby Doll. You have such
a dirty mind. I was working out.”

“
Ah.
Sorry.” She heard him laugh. She should have
called Charles instead, but him she had been afraid to
wake.

“
No prob’,
Dollface. What’s up? Need a shoulder to cry on? Something
else?”

“Hamilton, cut it out, I don’t
have much time.” It was difficult to scowl at the guy and keep her
voice down at the same time.

“
Just so
we’re clear, Patricia Baby. You know it’s just talk, right? You
belong to the boss, and until he dies, you’re his. Then we can
continue that kiss you gave me.”

She
categorically should have called Charles. And damn Hamilton, it
hadn’t really been a kiss! Only a very light brush of her lips to
trap an asshole. “Hamilton−” She stopped. What could she say that
he didn’t already know? He was teasing, and she was falling for it,
again, because she worried he was still mad at her, just like
Christopher.

“
It’s
OK, Baby. He knows. I told him so just
today.”

“Told him what exactly?” Why
had she called Hamilton again?

“Told him, and Charles, I
respect you. Told him I know you belong to him.”

“
What? That
has to be one of the most macho things you ever said, and that says
a lot, you talk macho crap all the time! And he agreed with you?
You guys are impossible! I don’t belong to anybody.” Christopher
was impossible! Was he flattered when Hamilton had said
that?
They’re worse than
apes! Neanderthals, the whole bunch of them
.

“I would respect you as much
naked.”

“Hamilton!”

“
I take it
Chris hadn’t told you?”

What kind of
a stupid question was that? The guys knew Christopher hardly told
her anything, at least not right
away,
particularly when it related to current cases he might think she
was interested in. He did tell her all the important stuff at some
point. Maybe that investigation wasn’t important. Maybe
she
wasn’t. “No, he did not speak to me. What exactly should he
have said to me? I mean, besides that nonsense you just
said?”

She heard
him curse at the other end.
“Look,
Patricia, you’re a doll, and the minute you and Mac are over, I’m
there. But you know I can’t tell you anything.” Damn. “Unless
you’re naked. Are you naked? Please tell me you’re naked. Or with
that bra you had that time on the roof.”

What came
before the
Neanderthals again?
“Oh come on,
Joseph
chéri
.” Christopher wasn’t the
only one who appreciated French.

“
Fuck, not
fair, you know I can’t tell you anything.”

“If you could, would you?”

He didn’t
answer right away.
“Yes. I think I
would.”

She let out
her breath. “Good. So everything is OK then?” Without telling her
anything, he had let her know that whatever it was, it wasn’t too
serious. Nobody else had died; they hadn’t found some disturbing
information about Lemieux, and the cops had not suspected or
arrested anyone she knew for murder, nobody she cared about at
least. “Nothing to worry about?” No answer. “Right,
Joseph?”

“I like it when you talk to me
like that, all sweet. When we hit the sheets, remember to call me
Joseph. Big turn on.”

“Hamilton!”

She heard
him laugh again. Then he stopped. “Why did you call,
Pussycat?”

She cursed,
almost, and paused. If she told Hamilton, he would tell
Christopher. She thought about it. The water had been running for
over five minutes now, she had left the plug half-opened, so the
bath didn’t spill over, but Christopher would be getting suspicious
soon. And Hamilton would tell him she’d called. No pain, no gain.
“Christopher’s angry about something. Which means he’s worried. Or
vice-versa. He spent the day with you and Charles. He wouldn’t
worry about you two bickering like preschool kids. Thus, it has to
be about Lemieux.”

“
You’re a
sweet woman, Pattycake. Too smart for a girl but I love you all the
same. And when we−”

She cut him
off; she couldn’t stop herself. “Damn it, Hamilton, I hate that
name.” Pattycake. Like in Joshua’s Court.

Hamilton
laughed it off and went on, “We don’t have anything solid on the
case yet, but we have a lead on something that may or may not be
related. Still some work to do.”

“
Nothing
that worries you, though, right?” Hence, nothing that could worry
Christopher.

Another
pause.
“No.” Too long a silence. “Nothing
that worries me.”

What, did
they think they were the only ones noticing those
kind
s of details? “Damn it, Hamilton! If
you don’t tell me, I will find somebody that will.”