Quintic (51 page)

Lucy seemed
lonely. Patricia endured her rambles on the cafeteria’s daily menus
before bringing her back to the dead girl. “If you don’t want to
talk about it, I’ll understand. It must have been a traumatic
experience.”

“
Oh, it’s
OK, Patricia, I don’t mind now. But I must admit I had trouble
sleeping for a while after. Imagine if I had been working at the
time, or found Cindy’s body.”

“
I
think it’s better not to personalise,” she
replied. Lucy looked at her funny, so she explained further.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to speak of a diner girl than instead
of
Cindy
?”

“Cindy was the diner girl.”

“
I
know.”
Depersonalisation,
I
pretend
not to know the names of the
deceased, especially those I have found
.
“Sorry. Carry on.”

“
Can you
imagine how it would feel to find a stiff?”
I don’t have to imagine, I
know
,
and back to the
depersonalisation
. “Can you imagine it
happening again?”

Patricia shuddered at the
thought.

“
So you’re a
writer, Patricia? I think that’s great. I’m a writer
too!”

“
Are
you
truly?”
Damn
. “How interesting.” No
wonder the woman had agreed so quickly to their meeting.

“
I’m
working
on my second book. The first’s
about a cat on the trail − trail, tail, get it? − of his ancestors.
I haven’t finished it yet; the end eludes me.”
It happens to the best and worst of us
alike
. Cats were elusive by nature after
all. “I don’t have much time to work on it, mind you. And I had
trouble with the laptop at the folks’ home. Can’t borrow it often.
This second book is about a dog.”
Fascinating
.

They ended
up talking more about writing than about the girl.
Exhausting. Patricia didn’t talk about being a
writer; she wrote, end of story.

The meal
dragged on. The diner’s décor was gloomier than she remembered. The
food was ordinary, the fries not crispy enough, the pie not as
sweet. Not a complete waste of time, though, for she did get the
name of the victim’s waitress-friend.

“
I don’t
remember Cindy and Bea being tight even if they were at the same
college. I think they hung out from time to time for a film or a
snack like college kids do. Cindy lived in the dorm, Bea by her own
in a small apartment not far from the restaurant.”

“Were they the same age?”

“
Bea was a
bit older and more of a city girl, if you
catch my drift, rougher around the edges. I bumped into her
a while ago; she’s working at some office in the downtown area.
Wears a suit and everything now. You think she’d make a good
character? She ain’t that cute, though.”

Patricia
didn’t care for Lucy’s suggestion on book
character
s, but the woman had a phone
number a couple of months old. “Do you think it would be OK if I
called her, maybe take her out for a coffee? Does she drink coffee?
I don’t want to traumatise her or anything.” Would a complete
stranger calling regarding the three-year-old murder of a college
friend traumatise Beatrice? Patricia figured it might be depending
on how close the two girls had been.

“
Good idea.
I’ll go with you if you want. Make the introduction. I know this
diner three blocks−”

“
That’s very
kind of you, but I think it’s better if I meet her alone.” Noting
the disappointment in Lucy’s face, Patricia hurriedly added, “but
I’ll keep you posted. I’ll document that book character for
you.”

“
That’d be
gre
at. Maybe we can write together. I
hear writers do that sometimes.”

“
Ah. You’re
not really, ah. I mean,
I
’m not writing much these days.
Do you know about writer’s block?”

“
Do
I ever! You know what might help? A visit to the
scene of the crime. Come on, let’s leave through the back alley.
Feel the vibe.”

Damn.
She had absolutely no interest in the
vibe
back
there, but she couldn’t let Lucy go outside alone now, could
she?

It was dark.
It was raining. The dumpster was there. The gloom was there.
Patricia didn’t know who was craziest, the ex-waitress or
her
. She wanted to cry but didn’t. Even
though they didn’t stay out back long, when she came back in, she
was soaked through and through, her hair plastered to her hair, her
jacket clinging to her back. Even her t-shirt felt damp. Luckily
she had her knee-high boots on or else her toes might be swimming
in her shoes.

To keep her
mind off things while she waited for her ride, she called
Beatrice, the diner girl’s college friend turned
working girl.

She
introduced herself, going with the research thing again, but kept
the writing part under wrap in case the Bea woman was another
wannabe writer. As it turned out, Beatrice was not a writer but a
technical accounting assistant, whatever that was.

“
I work all
day all week, but if you want, I can squeeze you in during my lunch
hour tomorrow. You have to meet me at work, though, because of
security and the elevator ride, the thing is older than me, I’ll be
late otherwise. I only have forty-five minutes of
break.”

“
No
problem.
I’ll be downstairs at your
office at noon sharp. Thank again, Bea.” She hung up before
Beatrice could change her mind and watched for her ride by the
diner’s front door.

She didn’t
wait long
, and as soon as the truck
pulled to the front of the restaurant, before the driver had time
to get out, she ran to it. Getting him wet on top of the rest would
impair her chances of a quiet evening.

“
Hi, Big
guy.”

“Hi.” He didn’t start the
car.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“
No
probl
em, Princess.” Still not moving.
“You’re wet.”

“It’s raining.”

“
You’re
fucking wet.” A curse
escaped his thinned lips then a growled, “Damn it, Patricia!” He
looked straight ahead, started the car and turned on the heaters.
“My place. No discussion.”

Maybe not
now but
an argument was coming, she could
see it boiling in the line of his jaw. Damn, she should have called
a cab. She should have gone straight to bed.

“
Have you
been smoking?” Stupid question, the truck smelled of
cigarette
s.

He kept his
dark e
yes on the road. “I smoked a
cigarette on the way over.”

“Ah.”

They rode in silence after
that.

She was
still shivering in the elevator. Her clothes and hair had gone for
dripping wet to uncomfortably clingy to more than damp during the
ride; they felt
mildewy
as they parked in the
garage. Her hair must be a disaster.

The
discussion
began in the
elevator.

“
What have
you done today?” He prompted softly, voice level. His I’m-in-charge
voice.

“
I took a
walk. Ate. You know.”

He glared at
her.
“What were you doing at the
diner?”

“
Eating.” Oh
boy, that didn’t go over well. His jams clamped even tighter. “I
may have talked to some of the staff. To, ah, see how they were
doing.”

“
You went
there to see how they were doing?”

He sounded
astonished.
Surprised was good, way
better than angry. “Yup.”

And it
wasn’t entirely a lie, was it? She had indeed spoken to the staff,
enquired on how they were holding up. Not that she’d had a choice,
they had recognised her. She had not.

His face was
blank, nothing showing. But the
tight set
of his chin told he wasn’t buying it. Damn. “OK. How about I went
to talk to them to see if I could get new ideas? Research for my
new character.” She might have seen him roll his eyes at the
r-word. She went on, “I’m kind of in a stump. I’ve decided not to
wait but to make it up, and so I wanted to get a feel of it.”
A
vibe
.

“
I see. Is
‘a feel of it’ more than the sensation you had the last
time?”

She shrugged.

His nostrils
flared as he took a long deep breath. “And to help you
feel
, did
you talk to anyone?”

“Some of the staff.”

“And did you learn
anything?”

“Nothing.”

Her
nothing
,
Chris couldn’t tell yet, might or might not be true. The damn woman
rarely full-on lied intentionally, but she might have heard
something that, once on that backburner of hers, would boil and go
bang! In three days, two weeks, a month, she would start looking
for trouble because of that fucking something.

Hands on her
hips, c
hin up, eyes straight at him, she
did look defensive. What had she done all day to get a feel? At the
fucking diner?! And what was that in her eyes? The faintest speck
of green. Shit.

“Have you been crying?”

“
No. Of
course not, Big guy. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I
have?”

A double
nega
tion followed by a question indicated
trouble. And green clouded the blues, a sure telltale. Dark blue au
naturel, green for crying, dark grey for anger or fright (one
always followed the other,
always
), and stormy blue, his
favourite, for desire and pleasure.

If
Christopher had pursued his questioning, she might have cried for
real. That back alley had been horrible. Next time she visited, she
would have to go with him, she caught herself thinking. Damn her,
why should she ever go back?
Mental note to self, repeat after me, you are never going
back there
. Even as she was scolding
herself, deep down, way deep down, she already knew she was going
to go back. Imagination was a curse, but when in doubt, go for
it.

“
O
K, so I went out back. A
therapeutic visit. Turns out I wasn’t ready. I might go again,
though.” When all else failed, offensives were easier to survive
than any defences. “And perhaps, if you’re nice, just maybe, I will
tell you, and it’s conceivable I’ll even let you tag
along.”

Her
confession got a
grin out of him.
Finally.

“
You said
you were going to stay out, remember
,
Pussycat?”

She smiled
back, a somewhat wavering smirk but a smile nonetheless. “I said I
was going to stay out of Lemieux’s case. That’s solely of what I’m
keeping out.”

“
Better than
nothing I guess.
” He grew serious again.
“No snooping around in back alleys or unknown places alone.
Whatever time of the day or night. Whatever idea you have. Got
it?”

What was
she, a child? “Got it.
Boss
.”

He sighed,
loudly, to make a point, and shook his head. “It doesn’t mean I’ve
rehired you.”

“
No, of
course not.
It means I’ve un-resigned.”
She gave him a tight hug.

Fuck was she
wet. Shivering. And holding tight. She had been crying all right.
He cursed himself. “Let’s get you in the shower,
Princess.”

She held on
to him.
“No, please, not yet.” Small,
shaky voice. “Let’s just stay like that for a while,
please?”

Anything you want, Angel of mine
.
He held her until she stopped shivering, but the knot in his
stomach didn’t go away.

PI Unlimited: Your Type
in the Past

“N
ice hair,” he
commented as she came out of the shower.

Their first night together. Wanting
to see what he’d make of her crazy curls and blue strands, she had
foregone the wig tonight.
Ready or now, here
I am.

He was sprawled over the covers. Naked.
He had a gorgeous face, almost feminine, and a glorious body, both
lean and strong, almost scary. He had been coming to the diner for
a while before she had agreed to a date.

He was gruff yet always polite,
although he had a way of looking her over that made her feel
self-conscious. And pretty. He kept calling her all those silly
names. Doll. Cake. As if he couldn’t read the name tag on her
outfit.

The date led to another date. Gruff but
funny and courteous in a dangerous kind of way.

Until now, she had hid her hair
under a dark-brown hair wig (her natural colour). The diner was
located in a working-class neighbourhood, the blue strands wouldn’t
have helped with her tips. She was used to that type of reaction
hence her wearing the wig at school too. Blue hair had not helped
her grades but it had caught the attention of her male teachers.
Some men were colour-blind.
Blue doesn’t mean
easy, assholes.