Quintic by V. P. Trick Page A

not doing the thing was any indication, she had known the vic a
lot more than she let on.
    Chris sighed. They had ‘ d ated a few
time s’ she had said. Yah right. He had
been around; he was no fucking choir boy, not by a long shot. Yes,
he’d had more than his share of women. He had not discriminated on
types, backgrounds and sizes. He fucked a dancer (not ballet), a
doctor, all sorts in between, shy women, wild, sweet, bitchy, and
all shades in between. His youth had been reckless. Before becoming
a cop he had stood on the other side, angry at the world, and had
excelled at being bad.
    Back then,
h e didn’t have any physical preferences
as long as he fucked often enough, fast enough, and out the door he
left. Women he dated, women he fucked, women he hung around with,
even one he got engaged to, in a strictly business arrangement. His
early thirties had been a weird period. The only time he had aimed
to do what everyone expected of him and shut the MacLaren clan up.
He had settled for a woman he didn’t like. Simpler that way. The
engagement lasted less than a month. After that, he had passing
lady friends and mistresses; he frequented a few concurrently if
not assiduously. Simpler that way.
    He was at a
loss to describe what Patricia was. His girlfriend assuredly, and
his lover. Simultaneously his mistress and girlfriend. A friend
too, his best friend. Someone he admired. He desired. He liked, as
his current unrelenting attention betrayed. And still, she was more
than that. It. Her. The woman. All of that and more.
Fucking corny. The woman of his life. Lemieux used prostitutes for
kinky fucks in cheap motels. The thought of her dating the loser
while the jerk could have had her pissed Chris off. Mine .
    He had lunch
over at Central; an interminable string
of meetings with the Brass followed. When he got back well past
three, Bridget was on the phone, the guys were out, and Patricia
was busy typing at her computer, her back to him. On her first day,
she had pushed her desk at the farther corner of the room, and
positioning it so she faced the wall. Her way of showing that,
unlike them cops, she was not afraid of sitting with her back to
the entrance.
    Chris often
sneaked up behind her to peek over her shoulder at what she was
doing. She would make as if she had not seen him coming even though
that big shiny kettle pot decorating her desk was her mirror to the
room. This time, though, he didn’t sidle up to her; he fucking knew
what she was doing or, more precisely, what she was not
doing.
    Words filled her screen, not short lines of text or
columns but long sentences. The damn woman did not kiss and tell
(it had taken him weeks just to pry Joshua’s name out of her), so
whatever she was typing, it wasn’t the fucking report. I don’t want to force you, Angel,
but I will if we don’t get a handle on your guy soon.
    Hamilton and
Charles got back before Chris had decided if he was going to give
her extra time or start pushing. Or take her to dinner. Or straight
to his place. The guys motioned to him, and they locked themselves
in the conference room. Recap of their first day together? Nothing.
Plan for tonight? Push. Dinner. His place.
    The
f irst thing he noticed coming out was
Patricia’s empty desk.
    “ Patricia
already left for the evening,” Bridget informed him. Four-thirty, closer to an after-work
drink than coffee, Princess. You should have waited for
me . “She mentioned a prior engagement and
said she wasn’t sure if she was going to be in
tomorrow.”
    So fucking
t ypical! Running off was an old habit of
hers. Whenever he was getting too close to her past, she took off.
His mistake, he should have seen it coming. Should have sat her
down in his office and locked the door. He sighed. Cursed.
Whatever. For sure she hadn’t left to go to her place. Or
his.
    He stayed at
the office until seven. No point in rushing. He tried calling her a
couple of times but got no answer. Knowing he had guessed right