 
# Duet

Copyright 2015 V. P. Trick

Published by V. P. Trick

A lot of time and care (as well as coffee and wine) went into the preparation of this book.

Any and all characters, events, and locations are fictional. I only write fiction, after all.

Any mistakes made are mine alone.

Please note that this ebook is for your eyes only.

Do not resell or give it away.

To share this story, please visit your favorite retailer for another copy.
Even if I'm getting too old for the job,

I'll do the same when I retire

# Table of Contents

Patricia's prologue

Chris

Patricia shows herself a good time

Yours or mine Chris?

Patricia makes small talk

The cop and the trainee

Bridget's team

Reid

MacLaren at the Cabaret

Reacquainted

His hacking buddy

Frankke

MacLaren's deal

Her dealings

He's no beginner

That same old song he's hearing

Her best of friends

MacLaren in overtime

Fredrick

She's calling it

Patricia, Chris and the runner up

Patricia under the pouring rain

His dance

A woman's night snack

Too many trails for MacLaren

Her lunch break

His set-up

Her plan

Done yet Patricia?

Last thoughts

About the author

Excerpt from Trois

# Patricia's prologue

How dare he locked her in the car! "Christopher James MacLaren!"

He glared down at her from outside the truck and mouthed, "Stay put."

She jiggled the handle again. Still locked. Why had the damn man put a child safety lock device on the truck's front passenger door? Infuriating! And as if it wasn't insulting enough, he ordered some big-bellied cop to babysit the car. "You are impossible!" She growled through clenched teeth. Not that he heard, his back was already receding toward the decrepit apartment building twenty steps away. The scene of the crime.

The man was an arrogant jerk. What did he think she was going to do? Go in and take pictures? Hum. Ok, so she might have. She had never seen a live police search before, so understandably she was curious, who wouldn't be, but the building was an abandoned wrecked, dirty and surely full of rat, rickety place. Six floors of it, not very tempting.

She fumed angrily in the car for a short while, but fuming got boring fast. She rapped on the windshield to motion Big belly cop over. He seemed like a nice gentleman and looked as bored as she was. She briefly considered climbing out the car's window. Although, with the clothes she was wearing, there was no way she could make a ladylike exit, not without tearing her sheer black stocking or showing too much bare skin. Not tempting, not yet anyway. Besides, Christopher had left his keys with Softening Belly, so the old copper was the decent way to go.

She pleaded with a smile, not above flirting a little when desperate enough as she was beginning to be, "You think you could let me out? My legs are going numb. Would you like a piece of gum?" Whatever he heard or saw through the window seemed to satisfy him because he unlocked and opened her door. "Is it ok if I walk around a little?" Big smile to Belly, who smiled back.

Years of trial and errors had thought her men were handled best when she held their arm delicately; maybe it made them feel strong and manly her hand barely wrinkling the fabric of their shirt. She took Belly's arm, and together they strolled around the car. Once she had an arm, all she needed to do was stir the man in the right direction. Even Christopher fell for it the first time. Unfortunately, the infuriating jerk was a fast learner and now he covered her hand with his thus ensuring she couldn't let go when she wanted to. Most infuriating really. Nonetheless, he had been perfect tonight. Delicious meal, entertaining club, perfect evening right until the damn car locking thing.

She sighed and marched on with Belly, daydreaming as she rested her hand on his sleeve. Had they lived a hundred years back, her hand would have been gloved. The club was the perfect setting for a murder. Turn of the twentieth century, a club hostess found murdered, the club as background décor. Maybe if she worked at the club for a while, as an ambiance immersion of sort. To add the smell of Cuban cigars to her story, one of the men in the cigar room should do the killing.

Her musing half-drowned Belly's antics. "I've been on the force for so long, I can't remember joining. I'm getting too old for all-nighters like tonight."

Christopher too, complained of being too old and yet, there he was, on the job in the middle of their date, and there she was, with Belly in tow. Her anger came back.

The street was gloom. Not one recent construction on that block. All she saw were abandoned apartment buildings. Seven six-floor buildings in a row on one side of the street, all closed-down; and opposite, ancient two-storey Victorian cottages, she counted ten, of which eight were inhabited she assumed from the lights peeking through their greasy windows. Inhabited but not proudly tended to. The grass was burned to a crust, the flowerings, nonexistent, and the fancy window dressings unwashed for the last fifty years. Not a pleasant area to live in. The houses might have been tidy during the decade they were built, but now the wood trimmings were flaking, and none of the roofs had a complete set of tiles.

The apartment building Christopher and his cop buddies were searching was busily noisy with the comings and goings of crime scene investigation. The house directly opposite on the other side of the street was dark. Belly cop in tow, she walked to house's front porch. Another perfect setting for a murder. Police flashing lights illuminated the neighbourhood and yet, there were no onlookers, not one soul standing around behind the police tape. That no one had the curiosity to come out of his house to gawk was rare. Not one neighbour with a clear enough conscience perhaps? Or might be they were all too drunk. Or dead. This was one creepy street.

It had seemed so simple a couple of days ago, asking Christopher for a date. Typical. How could such an innocent suggestion bring her to this dump? All she wanted was one normal date, damn it, was it that much to ask?! Christopher's fault entirely.

# Chris

Two weeks ago.

Damn woman. How did she come up with those ideas! He never saw it coming. Was caught totally unprepared. Again.

The week had been going nicely. The murder scene was quiet this month; he had almost all his evenings free, evenings he spent with her, eating out, eating in, making out, making love. Evenings and mornings. Lovely times. He'd come to her hotel, and they'd improvised, often not making it out until morning. Or she'd meet him someplace for dinner and a movie, and he'd take her back to his place. Fuck he liked having her at his place. Talking, showering, breakfasting at the table when she agreed, more often sitting on the kitchen counter as he cooked breakfast, watching movies, reading, sleeping. He liked having her next to him in bed. Liked it a lot.

They had yet to talk about where the relationship was going, about how they felt about each other, about how serious their thing was, about being exclusive. They had yet to talk about those things normal couples talked about. Not that he needed to. Damn obvious to him she drove him crazy. Even more fucking obvious he was crazy about her. Forty-two-year-old cop, as cynical as can be and then some, and yet he had fallen for her, delusional as she was. Fallen hard as in, I'm hers, and she's mine. The fucking love thing. He should have known better, but he loved her and every damn minute they spent together and had no intention of slowing down. He wasn't quite sure how she felt, though. She liked him for sure, might even love him. If he was so lucky. He made her smile and laugh and sigh, got her aroused and got her relaxed yet he wasn't sure. If he pushed, she would run, that he knew. She had done it before and would do it again. Not a problem, Angelface, you have no idea how patient I can be.

So the relationship was treated like an affair. Casual. Light. An affair between two strong-willed, independent adults very attracted to one another, each pretending those nights they spent together were just that, light and casual. And if the nights turned into days, it was ok, all light and casual, an it-just-kind-of-happened thing, let's-not-make-something-out-of-it fling. And if he made her breath catch just by looking at her a certain way, well, that was just physical, wasn't it? Or so she said. Him getting a boner merely from the sight of her walking into a room, that too was light and casual. A man his age! He damn well knew it wasn't just physical, but he kept it slow, fucking pretended, for now enjoying the ride and postponing the moment he was going to make it official. Confront her. Marriage had never been on his list, not with his job, not with his temperament, but he would, with her. I'll let play along and let you pretend all you want, Princess, but like it or not, the I'm yours and you're mine, is happening.

"Christopher, I've been thinking..."

Everyone called him Chris, except her. He liked any and all ways she said his name. Softly, teasingly, laughing, angrily, breathy. Fucking liked breathy, and husky, especially when followed by a please. She had said his name softly.

"Yes, Princess, what's up?"

The princess often got a reaction out of her. And sure enough, she jumped out of the bed. Reacting to the princess and the casual tone, or was it the laughter audible in his voice? A second before she had been laying naked on her stomach watching him get ready for work, the covers up to her lower back, but now stood naked in front of him, hands in fists on her hips, frowning at him. Fuck she looked good. He had a meeting with the Brass at Central this morning, but he could spare a few minutes. Hell, the state he was in, he wouldn't need much time anyway.

She caught him lowering his gaze to her breasts. "Christopher! I'm trying to have a conversation here." The angry-sounding Christopher, maybe with a hint of breathy Christopher. Easy for her to guess what he was thinking. She ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

He smiled. Like a locked door had ever stopped him from getting to her. He knocked on the bathroom door just to let her know he was willing to wait. For tonight. Tomorrow. The weekend. Plenty of time. "Breakfast in ten, Angel."

He finished getting ready and headed for the kitchen to prepare the announced breakfast. Coffee was first, double espresso for him, hers would wait until she came out. On the menu today, toasts, patés, cheese and jams, and maple butter for her, she was a maple-addict. For the nth time, he thought of dipping himself in the stuff and letting her lick it off. That got him smiling, big time, but didn't help lessen his erection.

She came out of the bedroom fully dressed, light makeup on, hair done in a ponytail. Same message as the locked door. Ignoring the kitchen counter, she headed straight to the table. He sighed. No fooling around this morning, and no maple-dipped dick.

# I've been thinking

They sat down to eat. More precisely, he ate and she played with her food. She watched him with her head slightly crooked to the side, a pose he had come to decipher as either her precarious I'm-thinking-hard pose or the perilous I'm-up-to-something pose. Either way, it meant he was about to be tricked. Big time.

"Christopher, I've been thinking. I don't think we should do this again."

What the fuck? Keeping his voice low, his tone casual, noncommittal but brain working hard, he scanned his memories of the last days. What the hell had they done? Have breakfast? "Do what again, Angel?" It seemed to him they had been pretty quiet lately. No hiding, no arguing, no fighting, no shootings, no running. Perfect.

"This. All of this. Breakfast."

He was taken aback. Breakfast was her favourite meal. And it wasn't like he had her slaving at the oven, he was always the one cooking. Neither of them enjoyed cooking, but breakfast he liked. She was slim, not much fat on her; she was usually starving when she awoke. Considering her weight, she was a surprisingly sturdy eater in the morning. Breakfast gave her a lot of energy, she once told him. If he had plans for later, he liked her having energy.

"Don't worry about it, Dollface. I like making breakfast. I make it for all of my women." A blatant lie, of course, and a damn macho thing to say, but he was aiming at casual here. He had not made breakfast for a woman in years, decades really. He hadn't brought any woman home to spend the night since he had gotten his place years ago. Back when he was into casual fucking, he preferred visiting his mistresses at their places, way easier to leave after. Except with her, her he didn't want to leave.

She frowned at him. "You don't understand. I don't think we should do this," she gestured with her arms, encompassing the dining table, his place or the fucking universe? "not just breakfast, all of it. See each other. Sleep together. Have sex. All of it."

The fucking universe it was. Where the hell was that coming from? She liked breakfast, and she liked seeing him and sleeping with him. She had a way of rubbing her face against him, her mouth to his skin, before falling asleep. And she liked sex with him, he fucking made sure she did. He liked it too. Immensely. "I thought you liked it. Liked it all. I know I do. I like it a lot. All of it," he teased and then paused. Proceed carefully, he warned himself silently. "Why? Any reason in particular?"

"Yes. Plenty of reasons. We argue all the time, and we hate each other's guts. I think you're an arrogant jerk of a cop, and you think I'm sassy and crazy."

She was right of course, but it had never stopped them before. In more ways than he could count, they were perfect for each other. "Patricia Darling, that doesn't change anything. I still like it all. I like you. A lot. And I think you like me too."

"There you go again! The arrogance of you! What makes you think I like you so?" Her voice was getting angry. Looking for a fight, was she? One of her defence mechanisms. Once they started to fight, he wouldn't get to the bottom of this.

He smiled. A half smile, a little crooked, cocky. "Would you like me to show you exactly how much you like me?"

"No! Stay away from me! That doesn't mean anything! It's just physical. You have more mileage thus more techniques. Big deal. I'm not talking about sex!"

He kept on smiling, knowing he probably shouldn't yet he couldn't help himself. That a woman with her looks and character could be so naïve was, well, fucking sexy. Yes, he had been with a lot of women. Women liked cops, they liked men with money. More than that, they liked bums, smart men and guys with an attitude problem. He had been all. Still was. Adding funny and damn charming and protective since he had met her, he was all. For her only. She had had her share of men too. While he might have had hundred of fucks, she had had a dozen of loves. And love in his opinions, made it worse. The worst was the Joshua guy; fuck he hated that jerk. Bottom line, they both had been around, granted him a lot more than her, but for sure she knew what they did was more than sex. Lust. Desire. Love.

"What the hell are you talking about, Pussycat?" Losing his patience now. Thoughts of the Joshua asshole did that.

"Don't call me that!" He smirked when she let out a heavy sigh. "I'm talking about this, Big guy. This is not right."

"What's not right? We like each other; we see each other. What's wrong with that?"

She sighed. Another big heavy sigh, theatrics, like he wasn't getting something obvious. "What's wrong is we did it all backward. We started fighting even before we knew each other. You kissed me, and I didn't even know for sure you were a cop. We had sex on your kitchen counter before you were even sure I wasn't a killer! Damn it, Christopher, we've never even gone on a first date!"

He couldn't hold back a laugh. Damn woman. She liked him, she fucking liked him! Her trying to back out only showed how much she fucking liked him. Good, he knew how to be patient.

"Christopher James MacLaren, this is not funny!"

She sharply pushed her chair away from the table, but he caught her by the arms before she could get away. "I'm sorry, Angel. You're right, this is not funny. Look, we may have skipped a few steps, but that's ok. It's really ok. We can still do it. Do it right."

She looked unsure. "You're going to ask me out on a date?"

"Yes, I will ask you out. On a first date."

"Properly?"

Yes, fucking properly. Whatever the hell she meant. He nodded.

"We will go out on a good old-fashioned date?"

"Absolutely. A regular old-fashioned date like you want, Angel."

"A date like we don't know each other and you're taking me out for the first time?"

"Yes. Our first official date ever."

"A no touching, no kissing, no sex kind of date?"

Fuck! "Yes. A first date like that. If it's what you want." He might work on changing her mind, old-fashioned guys did that back in the days, didn't they?

"Ok then. I guess we can try. Just one simple, old-fashioned rendezvous to see how it goes. And you're going to bring me back to my place and leave, no kissing or anything. Promise?"

"Promise." Damn, damn, damn.

"You do know what will happen, don't you, Christopher?"

Yes, you're going to be too damn smart and lively and funny and sexy, but I won't spend the night and make you breakfast because you made me promise. But he didn't say that. "We're going to have such a good time, you'll want to move in with me?"

"Non! No, of course not. It's going to be a disaster." Damn woman.

# Patricia

Christopher was picking her up at six. A bit early for a first date, when she thought about it. But she had turned him down three times already, and he had sounded tired on the phone. Murders were picking up again. Hence, he was working overtime. She had not said yes out of pity for his tired voice, though, Christopher was not a man that needed sympathy. The truth was, she missed him. Two measly weeks and she missed him a lot. Damn unsettling.

In later years, she had made it a rule only to go out with jerks, younger guys or older men, men with whom she basically had nothing in common. They were so much easier to deal with; she did whatever she wanted without giving a damn. There had only been two exceptions. Joshua, who turned out to be somewhat crazy like her. Too much like her. Joshua was dead now, and she had moved on. And Christopher, who was a jerk, sometimes, and a dangerously smart and funny and tender guy some other times. If only he were a jerk more often, her life would be so much easier. Even if she did like the jerk part sometimes too.

He was coming in less than an hour, and she still wasn't dressed. What did one wear on a first date? A first date with a man she knew very well from having seen him play and sleep and think and cook and smile and fight and shop. A man she had seen happy and angry and sad and naked more than a few times already? A rendezvous with a man who drove her crazy? A man she might be crazy about, but didn't dare admit so even to herself? She wanted to be sexy yet subdue. After all, this was to be an old-fashioned first date.

He had not told her where they were going. "Miss Patricia," he's dais when he called, "if you would do me the honour, I'd like to invite you to an old-fashioned dinner and a show."

Did it mean pizza and a movie or a five-course fancy meal and opera? She smiled. Knowing him, he probably planned a little of both, hence no jeans but no fancy dress either. She finally settled on a classic little black dress. Black cashmere, very soft, with a scooped neck that fell just above the edge of her bra, front and back. Its three-quarter sleeves and no-frill cut had given it a plain look on the hanger, but on her, with its neckline leaving a hint of breasts and shoulders bare, it was very flattering. Christopher was going to like it. The dress followed her curves to an inch of her knees. If she wore the dress with flats, a scarf and a jeans jacket, she could almost pass for a college student. For afar. With her hair untied and waving all over, the jeans jacket, the scarf and a pair of black high-heeled pumps, she was first date material. Ok, maybe more like fourth or fifth date material, when you want him to know you're ready for him, but what the heck, this was no ordinary first date. Besides, she needn't worry about being too sexy since he had promised to behave. From experience, she knew it was safer for her modesty not be left alone with him in her room, she waited for him in the downstairs lobby.

He walked in at six o'clock sharp, showered, neatly shaved, freshly trimmed hair, not that his hair was ever long. He smelled of that sexy aftershave from Chanel she liked, soap, and him. She caught the scent as he took her hand and bent to kiss it. The man came no closer. Old-fashioned all the way, damn him. He looked her over, crinkles of laugher at the corner of his eyes. Maybe the date wasn't such a good idea after all; she did find him dangerously interesting right now.

His truck had been washed too. He got the door for her, like he always did, and helped her in like he always did, before walking around to the driver side. She stole glances at him while he drove; he was so obviously at ease and relaxed. Casual and in control. So far. She only caught him once looking at her knees when he was downshifting. Just wait, Big guy, you haven't really seen the dress yet. Although maybe the dress was a bit much, after all wasn't the point of this date to make sure they break off, him being a jerk and her being crazy? Such was her plan for Christopher scared the hell out of her emotionally.

Part one, dinner, was flawless. He chose well. She had an entrée of duck confit and a dish of lamb, and red wine, surely too much of it, but he kept pouring it and smiling. Perfect. When they left the restaurant for part two of the date, the show, her plan had shifted to can I seduce him? As in can I seduce him before he seduces me? He had been charming, funny and gentlemen-ly if there was such a thing. Exemplary. Dangerously perfect. He obviously liked the dress, liked it a lot. She got warm and tingly from him looking at her. The man was infuriating!

For part two, he took her to a club in an unfamiliar part of town. Struggling lower-class neighbourhood in the west. He parked in front of a two-storey building with blacked-out windows, a doorman at the door and a short line-up along the front of the building. The word Cabaret flashed in purple and red neon letterings.

Please, let this not be a strip club! She hated it when men brought her to strip clubs. Been there, done that.

The front parking spot had been reserved for Christopher. The doorman let them in right away, giving her legs an approving glance along the way as Christopher helped her out of the car. Christopher frowned at the man. Door guy probably didn't get as big a tip as he would have had he been more discreet. She smiled sweetly at him. She liked seeing poker-faced Christopher react.

# Old-fashioned club

The inside of the club was a romantic's dream. It wasn't a strip club. A hostess in a black dress and sporting old-fashioned wavy hairdo guided sharply dressed patrons, men and women, to a sprinkling of small round tables and chairs clad in red velvet. There were about forty tables and eighty chairs she rapidly estimated. In the back, along the wall opposite the entrance, a stage lined with black velvet drapes was currently occupied by a jazz band. The musicians, piano, cello, and guitar, played for a jazz singer, a wonderfully voluptuous black woman held tight in a long velvety red gown. Walking back and forth between the tables and the bar, situated on the left side of the entrance, waitresses, just as sultry as the hostess, brought drinks to the patrons enjoying the show. Further left of the bar were glass doors behind which she glimpsed a scatter of big comfy-looking leather chairs, puffing men sitting in them. Cigar room. The men and ladies rooms were hidden between the stage and the cigar room.

Coup de foudre. She loved the place. She took it all in. The perfect mix of the twenties and fifties with the female personnel, short, tall, slim, round, good looking and smiling. The Italian-looking barman was a short guy, a shrunken version of the doorman.

There was a cover charge to get in, but she hadn't seen how much Christopher had slipped the doorman, and he probably had made an additional donation to cover the parking space. A cop paying off for privileges, and yet it didn't make him a bad cop in her eyes. Peculiar man. She noticed him looking at her. From the grin on his face, the half crooked smile he had when he knew he had her, he must have been studying her since they were seated. Si sexy! With that look in his eyes, the one that said I want you, I want you now. She smiled. Yes, he had her. Just as she had him, for she was going to make him come back on his word.

He ordered the drinks, red wine for her, scotch for him, and they sat and watched and listened to the singer and, during the pauses between songs, made small talk and teased. They had been given one of the last empty tables. In the center of the room, at equal distance from the front room and the stage. A great table. She had an unobstructed view of everything, the entrance, the bar, the cigar room door, people going to the restrooms. Strangely most were men, she noticed. Maybe the place had some heavy drinkers as clients? She observed the waitresses disappearing in turns for ten-fifteen minutes through a door next to the restrooms, there must be another room next to the toilets, a separate restroom for the employees perhaps?

Christopher had his back to the right wall. From their perfect cop table, he too could survey everything. He was controlling to the last details; she had no trouble imagining the Big guy reserving this very table in advance.

After a short ten-minute intermission, the band came back on. Christopher's arm rested on the back of her chair, brushing against her back and shoulders. He leaned in every few minutes to whisper nonsense about the band, the décor and the clientele. Each time she caught small touches of his cologne, of his heat, of his lips brushing against her skin. She was getting dizzy. From the noise, from the wine, from desire.

# MacLaren's old-fashioned woman

Patricia gently brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck as if she was feeling hot, and rubbed at the exposed skin distractedly. An innocent yet so sexy gesture that said it all. He knew she was ready to leave now. He had successfully avoided her foretold disaster date, and he intended to end this by-the-book, old-fashioned date the old-fashioned way, without even so much as a kiss on her cheek. He didn't dare kiss her even lightly, for fear he wouldn't be able to stop with just one cheek. She so looked the part tonight. Without having tried to, she was a superb old-fashioned tease. Her usual self with him. He might need to put an icepack in his shorts later if he wanted to sleep. Damn woman.

His phone rang as they were about to leave. He had three numbers directed to his cell phone. The official number only Brass and strangers called; an emergency all-hell-broke-loose number; a something-has-happened-but-nobody-you know-is-dead number. The last two numbers he had given only to his team and her. So what if something had happened, he was a fucking date! He let it ring.

Once, twice, three times.

She looked him over and, smiling, grabbed the phone from his back pocket. "Chief Officer MacLaren's cell phone. May I take a message?" She listened intently. "I see." Listened some more. "We're on our way." She hung up and gave him his phone back. "Let's go, Big guy. Duty calls."

"What was the fucking we about, Angel?"

"That was someone called DesForges," she explained, her arm hooked with his, as they walked out to the car. "It seems some local police station received an anonymous tip regarding a missing person case. Your DesForges guy seems to think there might be a connection with a case your team is working on. He gave us the address so we could meet him there."

"Us?" Don't even think about it Princess.

"Yes. Us. It's a ten-minute ride from here. If you bring me back to the hotel, and then drive back, you'll waste an hour and the locals are already at the place. From the comments you've made, I know how little faith you have in local police squads. They're just waiting for the go from their chief. You'll be missing all the fun," she teased him. "And surely you don't want to put me in a cab, do you? Not the way I'm dressed and feeling a little tipsy."

He couldn't tell exactly how drunk she was, but, smiling and bright-eyed, she was indeed tipsy. She was so soft when she was tipsy. She had taken her jacket off to remind him how sexy she looked. Damn it, as irrational as it was, he couldn't put her in a cab, not in this neighbourhood. What if she decided to stop some place or change the old-fashioned date to a girls-on-the-town evening? If she called that Ingrid woman, her editor-agent-best friend-drinking buddy, who the fuck knew where they might end up? So against his better judgement, he took her with him.

The trip took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes he spent planning what he was going to do with her. To her. First, he was going to lock her up in the truck. And to make sure she didn't get out, as an extra precaution, he was going to put a policeman in uniform to watch over her. Then, after he had survey the place and seen whatever the hell there was to be seen, he was going to take her home. Get her naked. But no kissing, not even on the cheek. He planned on licking her all over but without getting licked or kissed in return. Just a regular old-fashioned date. Surely licking was allowed. Hell, he wasn't even going to take the damn dress off, she looked too sexy in it. He was going to lick from the top, lowering the dress a little, and from the bottom, hiking it a little more. Was licking on his part to be considered sex? For sure old-fashioned guys had done major licking back in the days.

# Patricia shows herself a good time

Perfect end to a perfect night. Now if only she could find a way to convince herself she didn't want to see him anymore. Such a simple plan: divide and conquer, starting with a fight. That was where the date should have led them. A mega-giga-fight to end it all. Albeit there was still time. She turned to face the old house again. Why not? Christopher was busy doing his police thing; she might as well do her writer thing. Research. A creepy place like this, she might have use of it in some future story. Perhaps if she asked Belly nicely, she could take a look inside.

"Look, the window's broken." Lucky break for both front and back doors were locked, and Belly kept insisting he didn't know how to pick locks. Probably didn't know how to break doors down either.

She peeked into the back window. "There isn't one single glass shards left hanging on the frame. Not a fresh break then, wouldn't you say?" Cops usually liked playing cops, but Belly shrugged noncommittally. Okeydokey.

"Maybe there was a break-in," she suggested. Someone had cleared the shards for sure. "Maybe we should check it out." No way was he coming in with her; the belly didn't fit into the window." Maybe you can check the backyard while I take a look inside?" Belly smirked as he glanced at the bare backyard. Ok, it was a lame excuse but she went in anyway, climbing in barefoot, her high heels discarded along the outside wall. "I'll be right back. Please, don't go anywhere." Going into an abandoned house alone in a shitty neighbourhood was easy when one had a cop standing guard. Thanks, Christopher. She showed some skin climbing in, but the guy probably didn't noticed. Besides, he was married.

Belly's wife being a fan, she had learned that much pacing in front of the (forbidden) apartment building housing the (even more forbidden crime scene) with the old copper in tow. Hence, she had little trouble convincing him to let her in alone. "This will be great research material. As a writer, I need to breathe in the atmosphere alone before you can follow me." People really did believe anything about writers, didn't they? Unless Belly was indeed getting too old for the job. Or maybe it was her promise to write in the name of his wife in a future story that did the trick. Whatever, she went in alone.

Dusty interior, the perfect décor if she ever wanted to write a Halloween or a fright novel. She walked on. She crossed through the kitchen, dining room, small bathroom, study, living room, and, hidden behind a closet door, a small wooden staircase leading to the basement. She closed the door back and moved on. The mice could have it, no way was she going down there. Mice and rats probably. A subtle pungent odour filled the house. A second staircase stood in the front hall, curving along the wall of the living room up to the second floor. The pieces of furniture left behind hinted to a hurried departure. A bashed-in leather chair that must have been some burgundy color but was now a faded pinkish grey. A small table missing a leg that laid on the floor in the study. And the smell! For sure she was going to need a shower when she got back home.

The lights blazing from the police cars illuminated up the hall well enough for her to climb the stairs to the second floor. From there she had a clear view of the front door and part of the study and living room. She could have sworn the smell was coming from vermin in the basement, but strangely the stink was worse on the second floor. Maybe a rat was decomposing in the wall somewhere. She felt nauseous. Too much wine surely. She breathed through her mouth.

Footprints marked the dusty floors, hers with the small indents of her toes, plus some bigger shoe marks. The house being quiet and so visibly abandoned, she didn't give it a second thought. Also, she had Belly standing guard by the kitchen window.

Four closed doors awaited her on the second floor. Bedrooms or bathrooms most probably. All the doors had been left slightly ajar. A light push with her elbow and the doors swivelled open without her having to touch the door handle. An old habit left over from hanging around Joshua and his paranoid friends, she never left fingerprints when she could prevent it.

She started with the first room at the front. Large, empty and dusty bedroom. The room had three small windows overlooking the street and the apartments buildings. She watched police officers at work behind windows on the other side of the street and tried to find Christopher but couldn't. Hum. If I can see him, then he can see me. She smiled to herself, thinking how seeing her might not have made him happy. She exited the room and tried door number two. Master bedroom. Except for a bare mattress on the floor in a corner next to the communicating bathroom door, the room was empty. If someone had been sleeping in the house, that someone wasn't here anymore. There were no traces of the someone anywhere; no blankets crumpled on the mattress, no wrappers on the floor, no signs of life.

She inspected the bathroom next. Dust on the sink, dust in the tub, dust on the toilet bowl, no seat, no water. Not a nice place to live in, no wonder the squatter had left. The bathroom had two doors, the one she had walked in through, a second door facing the first. Closet or communicating door for the next room? She extended her arm to open the door but paused midway, afraid of leaving fingerprints. Silly. Who cares about fingerprints anyway? It had been one of Joshua's quirks, but Joshua was long dead. Besides, she wasn't doing anything illegal now, was she? Nonetheless, she wrapped her hand in her jacket before gripping the door knob and opening the door slowly. Just from the smell she should have known what she was going to find. She should have known right when she climbed through that kitchen window and took her first breath inside the house, the nauseating feeling washing over her. Breathing in the atmosphere, my ass! Hanging on the door handle, she stood frozen on the spot. Poor woman.

Patricia never got to door number four.

# Alternate Series: The woman

T _ypical. He_ was the first detective on the scene. Not the team's youngest, not the fastest and yet, as always, he was the first on the scene.

For once, the local flatfoots had not screwed it up.

" _Can you confirm you searched the place without running over the prints." Two sets of footprint marks were visible on the dusty floor. The footprints told of a methodical search, the path never crossing on itself._

Plenty of time later to go through the house, he went straight up to the room. For now, he wanted some time alone with the woman. See if she would tell him something. Corpses did talk sometimes, when one knew how to listen. He considered himself a good listener. Patient. Infuriatingly patient some said. Not that he gave a damn.

The woman lay on her back. Barefoot, naked to her waist, her legs a flat ghostly white, nor shiny or waxy like skin could be but dull white. She was facing away from him so he couldn't see her face as he walked in, only the long plain brownish hair covering her side. Her arms were crossed over her chest, tied together at the wrists with a sturdy boating rope. She was wearing a long sleeve V-neck shirt. No coat. A length of rope peeked through her hair and curved loosely on the floor next to her shoulder. The corpse's way of telling him, if he pulled the hair away and followed the rope, he was going to find it wrapped around her neck.

He didn't touch her hair, didn't touch anything. Later he might. After the technicians had searched the scene, after the woman had been given her own space at the morgue. Then he might touch her, then again, he might not. It all depended on the questions he had, but mostly on the answers he needed.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Her date's definitely over

She walked out the room through door number three. Walked slowly down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Clambered out the window. Nodded to Belly. Walked to the farthest end of the backyard. Threw up. Some date.

"Here, girl. Take my handkerchief," Belly offered, showing up at her side. Cotton, very old-fashioned, very gallant.

"Thank you." She took a shallow breath. "If you would be so kind, could you maybe get my bag from the car?" She carried a toothbrush in it. "And perhaps, some water?"

When Belly returned a couple of minutes later with both purse and water she didn't ask where he had gotten the water, hopefully not from any of the street buildings. Her mind a blank, she brushed her teeth for a while. She stopped when she tasted blood. What old Belly thought while watching her brush, she didn't know, didn't care. Hum. Not true, she did care a little, his wife had read her books after all. What Belly would now tell the wifey!

She took his arm, to steady herself this time. Belly was the one to lead them back to the street. They reached the car as Christopher strolled out of the building. Damn. The Big guy had left her for less than thirty minutes and to find her out of the car was going to anger him, especially when he learned of how she had spent her time. Don't tell him. It's not like I had anything to do with the woman. None of my business. Do not tell him. For a fraction of a second, the thought flashed through her mind. Do not tell him anything, let him take you home and tuck you in. Hadn't she changed the plan? Seduce him and forget the rest. But how could she forget the woman?

"Well, Patricia?"

"Well what, Big guy?" Her voice sounded edgy to her ears.

"Couldn't stay put, could you? A fucking half hour!" He was looking both at her and at babysitter cop Belly, hard to tell at whom he was angrier.

"Christopher−"

He cut her off, "Don't! I've asked you a very simple thing. Why was she let out?" Turning his anger on Belly.

"I let her out. She looked tired of sitting," Belly answered without apologising. Wow, a cop Christopher didn't intimidate. If she weren't suddenly so tired, she would have enjoyed the standoff between the two men.

"Christopher," she repeated, interposing herself to cut the argument short.

"Don't! Damn it, Patricia! This is not the kind of place to go wandering off!"

"She didn't go wandering off, I stayed with her the whole time." Belly, her new hero.

"With or without you, she shouldn't have gone anywhere. You were given a direct order."

Boy, already with the order thing. "Christopher James MacLaren, leave him out of this!"

"As far as I was told, she isn't in police custody. Not under arrest, is she?" Belly, taking her defence again. Good thing she had a chat with him earlier, telling him she was a writer helped for sure. Such a nice guy that Roger belly guy, she would have to send something to his wife, Irma. What was she to do with a character named Irma?

The throbbing vein on Christopher's neck brought her back to the present situation. The throbbing was never a good sign; he was looking to pick a fight. Fine, she was ready. Fighting had been her plan all along in any case. And this was clearly and without a doubt entirely his fault. "Christopher James MacLaren, stop being a jerk!"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Princess, you were supposed to wait for me in the truck. The FUCKING truck. But no, you went ahead to do whatever fucking research you always want to do, and I'm the jerk for not wanting you to stay put? Fuck, it's my job to snoop around, not yours!"

"Your job?!" She smirked at him. "Let me get this straight. Your job is to search for some missing person while my job is to stay in the car, expectantly awaiting the return of the big man, mission accomplished, is that it?" Such a perfect date! Such an infuriating man!

"Yes! Finally! Why is that so hard to do?"

She was now officially pissed. Expectantly waiting for a man was NOT her thing. Head tilted, she looked him over. "And how did the job go, Big guy?"

"Complete waste of time all around." Her included no doubt.

"Now that's just too bad. Would it be too much to ask to have officer Roger here drive me home? Since I assume you don't want me to take a cab, and there is no way in hell you are driving me home."

He threw his arms up in response as if he felt she was acting unreasonably. The hell with him. Wait for him? No chance in hell. He turned to Roger, but the cop had already taken her elbow, stirring her toward one of the police cars.

She only remembered about the dead woman as she was being driven away, seated in the back of a squad car like a damn prisoner. Damn! What if the woman was the one Christopher had been looking for? Patricia was so mad at the Big guy, she didn't want to talk to him, but she couldn't leave the poor woman unattended. She called his cell. Generally, when she had news to tell him, bad news, any news, she left messages on his answering machine at his place. Tonight though, anticipating he might not get home anytime soon, as a show of good faith she called his cell's serious-but-not-urgent number.

Probably having considered not answering at all, he did not answer until the fourth ring. "Calling to apologise, Princess?" The arrogance of the man!

"Non. No way. Never. You're the one who should apologise."

"Patricia!"

"Stop! I'm just calling to let you know that, while you were wasting your time and taxpayers' money on that apartment building, Roger and I found something interesting in the house in front. You might want to take a look. If you have the time, of course."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I want you to go have a look. Good night."

"Patricia!"

"Good night." She paused briefly. "And I was right, wasn't I? It did turn out to be a disaster." She hung up on her now possibly ex-lover. The man was just impossible!

# Working girl

She did as she had planned. For research purposes, she got herself a job at the Cabaret. Hostess-ing, wearing heels all evening, smiling and being nice to everybody ended up to be hard work. The day after her perfect and disastrous date with Christopher, she went to the Cabaret. The owner, who turned out to be the Italian-looking barman, was utterly unimpressed by her lack of experience.

"How about trying me out, free of charge, for a one-night test?"

She showed up late afternoon, all dressed up, or more accurately all dolled up for the part. Hair tied in an impeccable bun. Classy black dress, not the one she had worn on her date but another that showed less of her legs and shoulders but more cleavage, thanks to the help of a black push-up bra. A pair of short Mary Poppins boot-type shoes with sturdy square high heels. Sensible shoes despites the heels. She didn't regret wearing them. She did a lot of walking that night, a damn lot. The finishing touch was her face painted like a retro glam actress with black eye-liner, three coats of mascara and shiny red lipstick. All around a very boudoir-like fifties look.

When first she knocked on the front door, nobody answered. But with the time invested in the hair and makeup job, no way was she turning back. She circled the building and found the doorman smoking by the side door.

"Hello Sir, I'm new. I'm starting the hostess thing tonight."

"Hey, Sugar." The guy looked her up and down. "You were here last night, weren't you?" He added as he held the door for her. Funny, she didn't remember him looking at her face. Probably the fact Christopher had paid for the parking space, the fast entrance and the table was what got her in.

"I visited the place, yes, but now I'm here to work."

Before the seven o'clock opening, she had dinner with the four waitresses working that night. For her test drive, the boss put her in charge of the reception. When clients came in, she was to find them a table, evening the placement between the four hostesses' respective section (apparently waitresses did not like being referred to as waitresses). Easy at first since the night started slowly, but it soon picked up, the place filling up. But later, as people started leaving and new ones came in, she had to keep track of how much occupied tables each hostess had.

By eleven the place was packed, and Bossman decided she could take the row farthest from the stage, six tables in all, all to herself. So much fun! She had an all-men crowd. And she was a success, all smiles and delicate curves and loose locks of hair falling on her sultry eyes. Since she succeeded in keeping the other sections busy, none of the working girls resented her. When the place closed at three, she stayed a while to talk to Bossman and her new colleagues.

She particularly liked one of the women, a mid-thirties stunning petite blonde who talked like a truck driver. The others she found to be cold and unfriendly.

"Don't worry about them," Blondy told her. "Those two," she added pointing at two tall and thin hostesses lounging at the bar, "are ok most of the time. They do their thing; you do yours. The other one," chin nod to the third, tallish, thinnish, curvy, "can be a real bitch so you should just ignore her."

The two tall and thin hostesses, Patricia nicknamed Twiggy and Reedy. The bitch was to be Bitchy for now.

Bossman disregarded her few mix-ups with the drinks because the clientele, a couple of regulars amongst her row of men, had liked her. "They stayed longer, and you brought in good money, so you're in, kiddo."

She had no idea what good money was for Bossman, but tonight's work sure had brought her good tips. With only her six tables, for only half the night, she had earned nearly enough to pay an average sized apartment's monthly rent. Not that she needed it, having no actual rent to pay. Had Christopher spent as much money the night before? Not that she was worried. No way was the Big guy about to be short on cash.

"Ok, listen, kiddo. The place's opened three nights a week. So you work again tomorrow, then you're off until next Thursday," Bossman explained.

Hostessing might just be the perfect job. It gave her plenty of time to write and do research. After she'd worked for a couple of days, she planned on formally asking Bossman for his permission to snoop around the place, make sketches and take pictures. Maybe she could even convince him to let her work in the cigar room for a night. A big silent guy, a smaller copy of the doorman, attended to the cigar room. He was the clientèle's cigar advisor. The men usually went in carrying their drinks, but Silent guy could also take orders if needed. Another guy, copy number four, brought the drinks. The male hosts were dressed in expensive-looking black Mafiosi type suits with black shiny leather shoes. None of the four had a beard, piercings or visible tattoos. Even Bossman wore the suit, without the jacket but with dressy suspenders. Classy.

"You'll have to buy or borrow, no difference to me, a couple of black dresses. Some of the clients come twice on the same weekend, and I don't want you wearing the same shit twice during the same weekend or even two weeks in a row. We're running a classy operation here."

She doubt the patrons remembered the dresses but hey, Bossman was the boss, so she didn't argue. She would need six black dresses. Expensive job uniforms but with the kind of tips they made, it was not surprising none of the waitresses seemed to mind.

"You can borrow some of mine," Blondy offered in a whisper. "I have lots." She cast a glance at Bossman. "The boss and the clients don't mind seeing the same dress two nights in a row as long as it's on two different bodies." There again, more likely they didn't even noticed.

She was still angry at Christopher thus, naturally, she didn't see him during her first weekend at the club. Besides, weren't they off now? She didn't know how to make the break-up official without actually talking to him. Seeing him. Smelling him. He did leave a message saying he had to work all weekend on the dead woman case. He hadn't sounded happy. Was he going to scowl her on hindering the justice process or something? She had told him about the woman, what more did he want? If it hadn't been for her, he might not have found the body at all so it must mean that, technically, he owned her, non?

There she was, unable to decide what she truly wanted. I should stop acting like a teenager. A woman her age! Damn, she liked him. Damn, the man was dangerous. Not that she was afraid of him, never had been, never will be, but the cop in him was overprotective and controlling. She was afraid of where the whole affair was going. If he asked her to move in, she might perhaps, possibly, say yes. Maybe. Scary. This relationship was in complete contradiction of her vows of the last decade. Stay off men or date only jerks. It had been the perfect way to go until she had mistaken Christopher for a real jerk. Which he was, big time, but he was so much more. Most infuriating.

# Her real job

Monday, her first day off. Since she now had a job, she now had days off. Perfect. She went over to Ingrid's, her editor-friend-drinking partner extraordinaire. Whenever she had some soul searching to do and wanted to delay it, like forever, she visited Ingrid and had the equivalent of a grown women pyjama party. Excellent meals, fine wine, male bashing, bar crawling, in a tasteful, classy womanly sort of way. Ingrid had a liver of steel, if such a thing existed, she could drink all through the night, then have a martini at breakfast without anyone being able to call her a drunk. As opposed to Patricia, who felt tipsy after two glasses of red wine. But she kept on practicing, she so loved the taste of red wine. Men went very well with red wine but not this time. In fact, not since the beginning of her thing-fling-affair-whatever with Christopher. Now if he had been a full-time real jerk, she wouldn't have cared. She sighed.

She regretted the message she had left on Christopher's home machine before heading to Ingrid. Impulsive call since really, they weren't together now.

"Hey, Big guy. It's me. Just to let you know." So you don't call the cavalry. Not that he could since they weren't dating or anything now. "I'm spending the week at Ingrid's. You know, for a book." He would know it meant sleepless drinking nights, her échappatoire, her escape when she was angry. And angry she still was.

She left a second message on his machine Wednesday. Impulse again.

"Hey, Big guy. It's me." It had been almost a week since the break-up, had other women started calling him? "Hum. Me, Patricia. I'm busy tonight but perhaps if you're not working this weekend," thoughts of the other women crept in, "or busy with, ah, well, you know... Hum. Anyway. If you have an hour to spare, maybe we could go for coffee." She thought she had managed casual well on the phone, but damn she was starting to miss him.

She went with Ingrid to her friend Johnny's place, the most classy wine bar she knew, and it wasn't only because of the gorgeous Johnny watching over them. Both the place itself and its clientele were interesting. Ingrid had her eyes set on a mid-thirties blond man, way too young for the woman, but Ingrid never looked for anything long-term.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, fillette," Ingrid scowled. "I already have plenty of male friends and companionship. Tonight I'm just looking to get laid. Or get you laid." Or both, as was often the case with Ingrid.

Younger wasn't sitting alone. Two gentlemen, barely older, were sitting with him and smiling at them. Perhaps they were simply smiling back from the staring Ingrid was doing. Ingrid was not being subtle, but the woman was decisive and funny and sexy in a predatory way, so she often got her man, even much younger man. At the end of the evening, Younger ditched his friends to drive them back to Ingrid's place. He stayed for a last drink with Ingrid, drink Patricia chose to skip to go to bed.

When she woke, Younger was gone and Ingrid, looking rested and content, was finishing her breakfast.

"I'm very thankful you weren't noisy, but I do hope you didn't keep him past his bedtime."

"He was not that young, Patricia dear. He was almost your age."

"Exactly. My age is too young for your age."

"You're just jealous."

"No, I'm not."

"When's the last time you got laid, sweetie? Heard from that MacLaren jerk lately?"

"It's complicated."

"You only say that when you like a guy. Is that why you're hiding at my place?" Sometimes Ingrid was a most annoying woman.

She went shopping all morning, looking for black dresses and brought a pair of shiny black heels to go with the dresses. Too much writing, Ingrid having her reworked passages of her up-coming book, and too much partying, she only went back to her place on the Thursday afternoon after her shopping spree. Exhausted.

That evening, she dressed thinking of Christopher and let her hair loose and curly. Not very old-fashioned but sexy nonetheless, she even got compliments from Bossman and Cigar guy.

Her three-day working weekend was crazy. The house was packed. Bossman had them doing the reception in turn. Thus, she had more tables that night than the previous week, and by the Friday, she had the same as the other girls. Bitchy complained a little, but the woman was too busy to ask for more tables anyway.

She caught Bitchy and Twiggy taking a lot of breaks. Short ten-minute pauses here and there to the toilet, smokers no doubt, too bad for them. Reedy, Blondy, and her covered for them and kept the tips. In any case, she didn't have much time to dwell on it. She made an indecent amount of money during those nights. Money earned in pain, her face hurting from the fake smiling, her feet and legs hurting from the walking and her entire body aching from being looked at, drooled on, patted, grabbed and pawed. She scrubbed herself from head to toes each night before crashing into bed. More than she wanted to admit it, even to herself, she was looking forward to her Sunday coffee date with Christopher.

"Hey, Angel," his message said. "I'll be spending the morning in my office so how about we meet at Vitto's? It's the Italian coffee shop just around the block from the precinct."

Their rendezvous? date? meeting started nicely. Christopher was waiting for her in front of the place. When she walked up to him, he pulled her by the front of her jacket and gave her one of his special kiss, the I-want-you-bad-and-I-want-you-now kiss, a classic of his. He looked good, smelled good and felt good. Strong and warm. They went inside to get coffees without either of them asking the other where they wanted to sit. This was so obviously going to be a grab-and-go coffee date, let's move on to other things.

Vitto's son was in charge during the weekend and her latte was perfect.

"My double espresso's good but not great," the Big guy complained. "Vitto's son's no barista compared to his father. I'll bring you back during the week to try Vitto's real latte."

She had barely taken two sips of her great latte (and Christopher, his not-so-good espresso) when his cell rang.

Unlike what she had done at the Cabaret, she left the phone in his pocket and let it ring. He locked eyes with her and let it ring, his hands balled up in tight fists on the counter. The ringing stopped. She almost smiled. The phone rang again. Cursing, he answered it on the third ring, listening intently before hanging up with another curse.

"Come on, Angel of mine, I'll drive you home."

She didn't ask to go with him, and he didn't offer. He parked in front of the hotel and got out to open her door. How she liked those old-fashioned attentions of his. When he was going to open the door and help her out, he was going to kiss her again, or she was going to kiss him, whoever was faster. Of course, it turned out he was. Another one of his special kisses, with a beware-there-won't-even-be-coffee-next-time edge to it. She didn't have time to ask about their dating status but based on the kiss, she'd say they were still dating, damn him. She didn't have time to tell him about her new job either.

# Yours or mine, Chris?

They found the woman's body in the basement of an old apartment building in the Irish borough. At first glance, it looked like another killed-by-a-loved-one murder. With the exception of the strangulation marks on the neck, the corpse showed no signs of trauma.

William was the local cop in charge. "At first glance, the boyfriend looks good for it," he informed Chris as they walked the scene together.

William was one local Chris got along fine with so after working the scene, they went out for a beer. Two off-duty cops talking about crimes. Crimes and old times and sports. Mostly sports. Mostly sports and women.

"I'll keep the case," William said. "Nothing complicated here after all. We've got the boyfriend in interrogation. He's already told about having sex with our vic earlier. Looked damn nervous when we questioned him too. If he keeps it up, by morning he'll have confessed to everything."

"We'll see. Keep me posted." Something was off with the woman Chris's gut was telling him; it might not be such a simple case.

The corpse was talking, but its language for now remained foreign. She was found fully dressed, no hair out of place, without any hand jewellery.

"What about that wax covering her hands?"

"It's hardened paraffin," William informed him. "Boyfriend said she had arthritis and dipping her hands in warm paraffin helped to loosen the joints in her fingers and eased the pain."

"Weird." Perfectly manicured hands with girlish pinkish nail color. Not that there were striking similarities, but for some unknown reason, the vic reminded him of the dead woman Patricia had found.

He frowned as he did every fucking time he thought of Patricia. Fuck he was pissed. No way could he make the damn woman listen. The date had gone so well; he had been sure she'd want to wait for him expectantly. The old-fashioned way, that had been the plan. So much for the fucking plan.

His talk to Roger the old cop had been enlightening. She had lied outright, that old copper was too big to fit through the broken window, and hence hadn't been inside when she found the body.

"Could have jimmied the lock or broken down the door," Chris had pointed out. Or stay in the fucking car!

"Why for, the Miss wasn't in any danger, was she?" No, she wasn't, not yet anyway. "She was simply doing research, MacLaren, for her writing," Roger had explained. "I didn't want to mess up her writing stuff."

The name of the wife for crying out loud! People, and that included old coppers apparently, really did believe anything. Damn woman.

"You know, she didn't ran out of the house or anything. No, Sir. She walked out casually, not a care in the world. Damn surprised me when she retched in the backyard. I thought nothing of it at first. So her eyes were kind of misty. You know, she was smiling a lot, and I've seen a few drunk lassies in my time, not many as pretty mind you, so I could tell she was somewhat tipsy." Obviously the old copper had a soft spot for inebriated, beautiful female writers.

As William's, Patricia's woman hadn't been beaten or raped. She had been found half naked though, with her bared legs weirdly white, a fine dust of what looked like baby powder on them. Two dead women, two weird things in two different cases. Not the same substance yet he couldn't help thinking there was an odd connexion between the two dead women. He didn't like coincidences, didn't believe in them.

"I changed my mind, I want the case," Chris said when William called with an update.

"No way, MacLaren. The boyfriend still looks good for it. No alibi. Easy job. That case's going to look good for my statistics."

Solved cases were the bottom line in their line of work. He had to made a deal with Will to get the damn case back − Years ago, for his own enjoyment, and as a treat for the guys on his team (and girls if he counted Reid and Bridget), but mostly for trade-offs, he had brought baseball, basketball, hockey and football season tickets − William being a basketball fan, the jerk asked for four tickets for four games, but Chris planted enough doubt on the boyfriend's guilt that they agreed on two games. For a guy's statistics, catching the wrong guy was worse than not catching any. Not to mention the hassle with Central.

That was his thing. The chase. Closing a case. Cases sometimes bugged him for months. Some never got solved. As hard as he tried and he tried hard, an absolute workaholic, no detective solved every case, not even South district, Homicide division's Chief Detective Officer Christopher James MacLaren. Sometimes he was outsmarted or just plain unlucky. Sometimes but not often. He didn't like it, could live with it but fucking didn't like it. He didn't close cases by himself, he had a team, his team, to put to the job, each member carefully handpicked, thanks to Lou his Captain. Some years ago, following a bad case, Chris was a local then, Lou faced the choice of suspend him or promote him. The bear man had done both, once and in that order.

Since his suspension-promotion, Chris had worked at getting results. And since then, he played poker with Lou, cops on his team, couple of Brass from Central. The police officials he played poker with were of the no-nonsense type. As long as it all stayed discreet, City official were politicians after all thus not ones to be trusted entirely, as long as he kept a low profile and got results, Brass, Central, the Captain, nobody cared how he did his job.

# Alternate Series: Cigar

"Would you care for a drink?"

The woman smiling down at him was ravishing. Tall and slender with shoulder-length dark hair and blue eyes so dark they looked like slate. As she arched a delicate eyebrow and repeated her question, he realized he had been holding his breath.

" _Yes, I would, Darling." She flinched at the endearment. "What would you recommend?"_

" _It depends on what you like."_

I like you. A lot. _Damn, he hoped she was on the menu. Would it be unethical? Right now, he didn't give a fuck. Her smile looked forced, had she caught him staring? "Sorry. I'm kind of out of my depth here."_

" _Ah. It is your first time at the Club, sir?"_

Yes, Dollface, but hopefully not my last. _"Yes, it is. But I already like it."_ A lot. _He smiled wider. "I'll have a scotch, no ice. Whichever single malt you have."_

" _Very well, sir. I'll be right back. Please enjoy the show."_

" _Don't be too long, Love," he whispered as she left._

He didn't look at the band, the back of her was so much better. He should have thought about it before.

The dead woman had worked at the club a couple of months before her death. "That's where we met," the boyfriend had said. The boyfriend had been nervous during the interview, but hadn't given anything away.

He had pressed on. "Her legs were covered with baby powder, were you guys into kinky stuff?"

The boyfriend couldn't explain the powder. Even now the corpse was unintelligible, so he had done some legwork all over the woman's history, going further and further back into her life until finally reaching this place. Fancy jazz club. He could have waited for daytime, but had wanted to get a feel of the place. Not really undercover work, just a feel and a drink. Damn, he was getting too old for the job.

" _Here you go, sir."_

" _Thank you, Angel." He caught her frowning again, not the Angel type either then. "I see you have a private room in the back."_ Jazz club my ass.

" _Yes, we do. There are no available seats in our cigar lounge right now, but if you like, I can tell you when a seat becomes available."_

Cigar room was it? No problem, he liked to blow cigars, would like it even more with the little black dress doing the blowing. "I would appreciate it, Princess." The Princess earned him more of the frowning. She really had the most expressive face. Damn, if he wasn't looking forward to seeing that face work on him later. "Maybe you can join me then."

She seemed taken aback, "I'm sorry, sir. I do not smoke." And with that, she turned on her heels and went to care for another table.

What the hell? Could she have made him? Impossible. Nobody made him for he had the posture and the suit to look completely innocuous, and the cut hid his service piece perfectly.

He sipped his drink listening to the jazz band. He sipped watching the room. Watching her. Her black dress clung to her every move, and she handled her clients so smoothly, very few managed to touch her, and with never more than a fleeting hand, as she smiled. And frowned.

Another hostess escorted him to the cigar lounge and a cigar lounge it turned out to be. Good thing he liked cigars.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# MacLaren claims mine

Monday arrived and with it came the mandatory Monday meeting. Murder season was picking up hence no matter who Chris dropped the new case on, everyone was already overworked. LeRoy, his second-in-command, was already working five cases, two of which required close collaboration with locals. Not good.

DesForges and Hamilton, the terrible two, were busy with what looked like serial sadistic gang killings. Gang killings the team didn't usually do, but he owed someone at Central a favor. Besides. the vicious part was right up the two bad boys' alley. Reid was working with Shapiro on two of his cases and was lead on one herself, plenty for her. With only three years with the team, she was still the team's rookie. Wiseman Shapiro needed free time to give a hand and advice the others. Hence, Chris couldn't give the case to the old copper either, not on top of the two he had with Reid plus the two he was working lead. That left Frankke. The big black detective might have trouble relating to middle-working-class white females, but he wouldn't be put off. Frankke was to have both women cases then.

Frankke was the big strong silent type. Patricia's kind of guy. Hopefully, his guy would manage to get an official statement from her on how she had found the body. Not that it was absolutely necessary, he was sure she had not touched or moved anything. Still a statement would be nice, almost like a signed confession of her admitting she had snooped around where she wasn't supposed to. He didn't need her to admit to getting sick. Her admitting she had been wrong would be grand enough. Not that he had much hope but trying was more than half the fun.

Fuck he missed her. Almost a week at Ingrid, partying and drinking, that was never a good sign. Her avoiding him over the weekend couldn't be just about the date. Damn, did he want to know what she was up to. Fists and Knot had made a comeback, his instincts telling him she had gotten another of her unique ideas and had set herself working on it. He loved her originality but with his controlling issues, it sure was a challenge.

"So, Mac, what'd you do this weekend?" Le wanted to know.

He had yet to introduce Patricia to the team. Regular dating was so out of character for him, and with her wanting fucking casual, no one had noticed a thing these last few months. "Work, what else?"

Catching up on paperwork. William's crime scene. If it hadn't been for his ten-minute coffee-date with Patricia, it would have been a lousy weekend.

He had parked in front of her hotel at three in the morning last night, clearly too early for her and too late for him. Had stayed in his truck thinking and smoking, waving the night doorman away, only to drive away after a half an hour. On nights like these, when he spent way too many hours with a corpse, flashing police lights, forensics, and tired, overworked men like him, he felt like grabbing her. Force her to move in with him. But then, how was he to keep her from running away? Lock her up? He had resisted so far but fuck how he wished for it. Wished she would let him.

Funny how before, on nights just like these, he used to yearn for solitude, a hot shower, a half bottle of scotch and a pack of smokes. Alone. He still did the same, but her naked in his bed was now at the top of the list. And it wasn't about sex. Ok, maybe it was, but not only sex. It was about her softness, her warmth, her smile, her wits, her hesitations, her recklessness and her naïveté all at the same time. Damnedest woman.

"Wanna join us for a beer, Boss?" Ham asked at the end of the day.

"Sorry, got plans."

"Yah? Like what, work or pussy?" Ham, ever the classy guy.

"Neither. Catching up on my weekend."

That Monday night, he showed up at her hotel. She smelled nice and felt even better. They barely made it to the couch, a mere five steps away from her suite door. Five excruciatingly long steps before he had her all to himself. Before meeting her, he had never acted out the expression ripped her clothes off literally. He liked control, but he did rip her clothes off during those five agonising steps to her couch. Her blouse, her skirt, her panties. Not a first with her at that. That Monday night, he never made it to her bra.

He fell on top of her on the couch, caressing her, rubbing her with his cock until she demanded. Pleaded. "Now, Christopher mon chéri."

He sunk into her as she climaxed.

They laid on the couch half asleep for a while.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you straight away about the dead woman. She deserved better."

As close to an apology as he was ever going to get. Don't think I haven't noticed your apology didn't include you going into that damn old house alone, Princess. "Next time, I'll try to be more considerate when I have someone look over you." That was sort of almost apologising for locking her in the car, wasn't it?

Neither of them took those half-apologies too seriously. Giving a similar occasion he would act exactly the same and so would she.

They had breakfast in her suite the following morning, breakfast he cooked in the hotel's downstairs kitchen. Only later did he realise he hadn't asked for her statement on the discovery of the woman's body. Worse, he still didn't know what she was up to.

# MacLaren's working girl

Chris could have gotten there sooner had he used the sirens, but he thought better to cool off instead. Driving always relaxed him, even in traffic, even in the rain. Rainy Thursday evening in the city. William had called while he was having a very late after-work beer with LeRoy. Solicitation William had called it. Fucking shit. He should have locked her up in his place when he first thought of it. Had he, he wouldn't be dealing with some fucking asshole local brandishing prostitution charges right now. He smoked two cigarettes during the drive over. The fuck if the damn woman wasn't making a real smoker out of him. What the hell was she doing there? Fuck. FUCK.

"So, who are we going to see?" LeRoy had tagged along for the fun of it.

"Patricia."

"Cool." LeRoy had only met Patricia a couple of times and always very briefly but for some reason, he thought she was fun. If LeRoy was worried about his reactions, the guy wisely chose to keep his mouth shut and watched him smoke up the truck. Or not. "Does your babe know you're a smoker?"

"Shut up, Le." Damn right he was smoking. It was his FUCKING truck! The damn woman better have one hell of an explanation. Not that he thought for one minute she had done prostitution. Even for her fucking research, she wouldn't. Only one thing prevented him from losing it. She had asked William to call him. He focused on that during his not so relaxing drive over. She would owe him. Big time.

She was waiting, walking back and forth in an interrogation room, when he arrived and didn't look one bit grateful. Quite the opposite. "What are you doing? Go away, Big guy."

What the fuck?

"I recognised her from the description you gave me," Will informed him at that point. "Good you were so precise too, because there's no way I would have recognised her solely from the picture at the back of her book."

Patricia's official writer look was dull. A beige or white blouse buttoned up to the neck. A long sweater that engulfed her, effectively hiding her delicate curves. A straight A-shape skirt to mask her long sleek legs. Makeup purposely giving her a muddy complexion and tired expression. Glasses hiding her dark blue eyes. Limp, flat hair with old maid's barrettes without one lock of hair waving out of place. Since Chris had never actually seen her look anything close to that, he thought it was a pretty damn good cover. Made up as she was, she couldn't have been more unlike her writer persona tonight. Wide sultry eyes. Dark red lips. Tight short sleeved v-neck black dress. A pair of black high heels and black stocking a man's eyes wanted to follow all the way up her legs and thighs and right under the too-short dress. The dress was new to him, so were the shoes. He had seen her wear similar stockings before, and she had not worn them long.

"I checked out her books," William was saying. "Why the fuck did the editor put such a bad picture of her on the back?"

"Patricia's idea." Ingrid had confided that much. From the start the editor woman had wanted to market her writer friend's sex appeal, but Patricia had gotten her way. She still sold books. She did write good stories.

"Anyway, think she might give me an autograph? I only read the one book so far and fuck, Mac, The J man was a piece of work." The J man was about a hacker and a crazy girl, a book supposedly not about Joshua and her. I want to kill Joshua.

"Just tell me what the fuck happened."

"Relax man, I'm sure it's all a big misunderstanding," Will sneered at him. "One dude, two waitressessss," the jerk stretched the word, "and the barman were arrested. Plus your girl, of course." Another smirk. "They're all waiting in holding cells. I waited around for your arrival. I don't usually work so late, but you can thank the City's cutbacks for my overload. I was around when they brought that merry bunch in, so I decided to partake in the fun." The jerk was grinning from ear to ear.

Between Will and Le, Chris was beginning to feel like the comedian of the week. Was it his punishment for being crazy about the woman? He really should have locked her up. Or at the very least, tried handcuffing her.

"Mac." Will's tone of voice told him the fun was over. "She's facing assault and battery." Fuck, as if the arrest wasn't enough. "She's kicked the arresting officer." Shit. Despite the seriousness in his voice, William had trouble keeping a straight face. LeRoy didn't make the effort and laughed out loud.

"I want to talk to your arresting officer."

"I thought you might."

The arresting officer turned out to be a beef a head taller than him. And Patricia had kicked him! Not that he should be surprised, she had a very unique way of dealing with law enforcement personnel. She had tried kicking him too at the beginning, but he had quickly learned how to turn it into foreplay.

"It might have been a girly move, Chief, but it's clearly assault. The woman's crazy for sure."

"How about telling MacLaren here how it went down?"

"Well, we had the place under watch for a while now, suspecting the hostesses were more than hostesses and the barman more than a barman, if you get my drift."

"And?" Chris's patience was running thin.

"Well, the woman in question and another waitress propositioned my partner and me."

Chris strongly suspected Patricia had never propositioned anyone in her life. She wouldn't have started with the Beef cop jerk. His cop face remained grimly set as he waited for the rest of Beef's report. "My partner was then taken by said hostess to the employees' lounge next to the ladies room. Said waitress then proceeded to, first ask for money, then provide certain services such as undoing the pants, getting ready to whistle his manhood, if you get my drift." Nothing more annoying than listening to a local trying to liven up a report. "As my partner was making an on-the-point arrest, another hostess walked in with a client, so we arrested them too." Fuck that Beef jerk looked smug. If it hadn't been for LeRoy having one hand on his left shoulder and William standing by his right side, he might have punched the jerk. It wouldn't have been a girly move like her kick either.

Since they had processed the arrest, and the papers were being completed as they spoke, getting her out quickly was a problem. Adding to it Beefy's apparent dislike of her, she did have that effect on some persons, namely those she insulted or kicked in this instance, Chris fucking hoped his buddy's chief was up for more basketball games.

# MacLaren on overtime

Even if it had been a girly kick, without the slightest bruising on Beefy, she had assaulted a beefy plainclothes policeman officer, damn it. Yeah right, like that would stick in court. She was going to waltz into that courtroom, all cutesy dress and innocent blue eyes, sweet talked the judge and out she would be. Chris already knew how good she was at pretending, and she might even say she enjoyed the experience, research purposes or some other fucking excuses. Her nervous pacing betrayed her current lack enjoyment, though.

"This better be good, Patricia," he growled as he entered the interrogation room.

"I'm not talking to you." She had on her you're-impossible-Big-guy face. Cute. Fucking infuriating.

"Wrong answer, Pussycat. I'm here to clean up your mess, so you better talk and be real nice."

"Wrong, Big guy, this is your mess! What kind of man takes his girlfriend to a whore house?" She asked accusingly. "You had to have known, but you took me there anyway!"

Of course, he had known about the place. Will's wife was a fan of the twenties, and they had played the couple on a night out once or twice there. Will the cop had noticed the coming and going and had reported it back to his Captain. Didn't mean the place wasn't a good date place for Will the husband and Chris the boyfriend. As long as he stayed with her, which he had, and as long as she wasn't mistaken for one of the whores, Chris knew she would love it. Had he made sure it was safe the night they went by checking out the place first? Damn right, he had. But the fuck if, despites his precautions, it was his damn fault! "You liked the place, did you not, Princess?"

"That's not the point! You had me work in a place full of hookers. You shouldn't have taken me there. I wouldn't have gone to work there if you had not. Me, the clueless dim-witted! I saw Bitchy and Twiggy take breaks. I saw the comings and goings in the restroom area, but the dolt, dimwitted, moronic, simpleminded, imbécile that I am was too busy writing up scenes in her head and serving booze to figure it out!"

Work? "That explains what the hell you were doing there tonight. Work! Damn it, Patricia, if you needed money, you should have told me." Fuck, of course, this wasn't about money. It was about research! Fucking research again!

"Money? Why the hell do you think I need money?" She narrowed her eyes at him angrily. The blue of her eyes got very stormy as she became insulted in retrospect.

I'm going to toy with you, Angel of mine. "I guess hostessing doesn't pay much compared to being a professional. I know a lot of men that would be willing to pay good money for a woman like you." She clenched her fists on her hips angrily and glared at his insinuation. Very arousing. "I know I would," he added, a smile creeping on his lips.

"Forget it, Big guy. I'm way out of your league."

Laughing, he pulled her into his arms. "I'm sure we can work out an arrangement. How about I get you out of here, and I get a free demo?"

She kicked him, the girly kick in the leg becoming her move of the night. She kicked again and tried pulling away.

Holding her by the shoulders, he held her at arm's length, and lowered his face to hers. "Patricia, this is serious. You've been arrested for prostitution and assault on an officer.

"I'm too old to be a prostitute. Besides, it's not fair, that stupid cop's the one who should be charged with solicitation, he's the one who propositioned me, not the other way around. I turned him down politely, but when I told him it wasn't proper behaviour for a cop, he got mad. Even when the beefy cop propositioned me, I didn't put two and two together. Because really, how could I have thought that you−"

The reason she was so angry became clear. It wasn't because of the arrest, or him taking her there, but her not figuring it out. "You made him out as a cop?"

"Of course I did. I mean, have you seen him? It's clear he's a cop."

"You sure you told him off right away?"

"What's that supposed to mean? You think I played with him? Of course, I told him off. He's a damn cop!" Like it explained it all. Then again, maybe for her it did. "I told him off right after he suggested taking me on the backseat of his car for some extra money. That's when I told him I didn't do cops, and that he could be suspended for entrapment."

"And the kicking?"

She sighed. "I only kicked him the once, after he placed us under arrest. Christopher, you should have seen him, he was acting so proud of himself, it was embarrassing. When he patted Twiggy's butt, I threatened to report him. Surely cops are not allowed to pat a suspect's behind in a patronising fashion, are they? The bâtard laughed it off, said it was my word against his. I think the idiot really believes I'm a hooker." She sounded insulted. "I got a tad angry so my foot might have slipped up his shin."

"I see." She was frowning hard, but he had trouble keeping himself from laughing. It was indeed Beefy's words against hers, but the poor guy had picked the wrong woman to mess with, with the wrong boyfriend too. And yes, she was going to owe him. Nice.

"Really Christopher, I don't understand what's wrong with the guy. Perhaps he's having trouble at home. Perhaps his wife left him and now he thinks women are all hookers. Really. My breasts aren't big enough for the job. And I'm not blonde." No doubt her comment came from the two hostesses under arrest being busty blondes. Fuck she was sexy when she was naïve.

"You know, Angel, it's not mandatory requirements for whores to be busty and blonde. I'd take blue-eyed wavy brunette with attitude over busty blonds anytime." As far as he was concerned, her breasts were perfect. Cupped in his hands, they fit perfectly, the slightness touch made them react, the nipples hardening against his palms. More than perfect. As for the blonde thing, while he found her natural dark brown shoulder-length waves fucking sexy, he might be willing to try her in blonde if she insisted. "But if you have a blonde wig hidden somewhere in your closet as part of your many disguises that you want to try out, I'm your guy. Anything for research, Pussycat."

"Pff." Very incisive for a writer, Darling of mine.

"Ok, Princess. Here's the plan. I'm going to have the charges drop. Then I'm going to take you home. But I have one condition." He waited to make sure he had her full attention. "There is no way you're going back to work there."

"What? Why not? The arrests were a mistake! You can't decide where I work!"

"That's the condition. Fuck, Patricia, it's a mistake for you but not for the others. You know that, don't you? You can't be angry at me for taking you to such a place if you went back to work there of your own accord."

"And if I don't agree?"

She had to ask, didn't she? Ever the curious one, always wanting to know how far he was willing to go. "If you don't agree, I'm leaving you here to spend the night." He waited for her to think it over but frankly, she was thinking a little too long. Maybe she was tempted by the night in a cell, research, damn research! "And I'm going to ask you be put with the drunks and disorderly on the men's side." Not that he could. Or would.

"You wouldn't but fine, I'll quit. But I'm warning you, I'm thinking about an old-fashioned murder mystery novel, and I need material. The Cabaret was the perfect place to do the killing, so I'm going to have to look for other ways of doing research."

"Fine. As long at it's not the Cabaret or any similar dumps."

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and patted her butt, patronising as hell, to see the blues flare at him. Spectacular. He left her waiting while he went to straighten everything with Will, his Captain and the beef. It took another three pairs of basketball tickets, one for Will and two for the Captain, but nothing for the beef. As it turned out, the guy did have problems at home. Damn woman.

He drove LeRoy back to his car. He loved the guy but frankly tonight, he was getting fucking annoyed at the jerk for enjoying himself way too much and taking Patricia's side.

"I'm proud of you, Doll," the guy actually said.

Like she needed encouragements! Ok, so maybe one shouldn't take one's girlfriend to a place where one knows some hookers might work. But they were under control hookers, or so he had thought. And Patricia had loved the place, had fucking loved the date almost up to the end.

In case he felt the urge to lock her up for real, he took her to his place.

"I need a shower. I'm not going to sleep without cleansing myself. I can feel the smell of the Cabaret's crowd and the police station odours on me."

He had not noticed any peculiar stink, but he indulged her. Taking it upon himself, he helped her undress, very slowly, keeping the black stocking for last, before helping her in the shower. Using a soft facecloth, he slowly and thoroughly washed every single pore of her skin. Her eyes closed. She leaned on him and let him work the soap all over. She had looked damn good in that little black dress but looked even better without it. He washed every fucking fold of her skin.

"So, Darling of mine, I thought maybe I could convince you to do a cop." But, as he whispered in her ear, he realised he wanted to do her more. He dropped the facecloth and did the soap layering by hands, every mount, every fold, all over again, until she came. Then he rinsed her off and dried her up so he could put her to bed, his bed. Amazing how fast the damn woman fell asleep. Amazing how he couldn't. Her panting turned soft against his chest. Fuck he enjoyed listening to her breathing even if it didn't help any with the sleeping part. His mind wandered.

She hadn't been joking about wanting a job. At times for a story, she worked longer hours than he did, but she also liked working with people.

"It gets laborious when I spent too much time just writing," she had once explained. "An outside job, an ordinary job, helps me focus."

Probably prevented her from overthinking everything too. He had seen it happened and her looking so edgy, so lost, he had not liked. Unfortunately for him, she didn't find coffee shops and publics libraries (not that she ever wrote there, damn it) distracting enough hence her doing other odd occupations. Could be anything really, as long at it was interesting, challenging, might even be physically demanding, and totally different from writing.

That was how it had started with the Joshua jerk, that much he knew. Joshua. She had met one of Joshua's friends at a book signing and had seen the friend a few times. Then the friend had taken her to some arcades, and she had fallen both for the games and for the guy's friend.

"My twin soul, Big guy, but not my soul mate," she had let slip. Strange at it was, she believed had she been a guy, a hacker and crazy for real, she would have been just like Joshua. Fucked-up sonofabitch. "Joshua was the same with his computers as I am with writing. Or as you are with your job." Only fucking thing Chris had in common with the jerk. That and her.

Lucky Joshua was dead. Lucky for Joshua but unlucky for him because fuck, he would he have so enjoyed killing the jerk. Chris had killed before, in the line of duty and in self-defence. Those kills had been necessary but Joshua would have been different. He would have fucking enjoyed killing Joshua, immensely, for all the wrongs the jerk had done her.

"Joshua treated me like a damn porcelain doll, stop making him out as a vilain." The jerk was an overachiever hacker thief, Princess. "Joshua didn't ask me to do anything I didn't want to do. Didn't ask me for anything for that matter. It was awesome." Like that was reassuring.

Thank fucking god, she had left the jerk before his death. She had survived Joshua, written a book about their affair, fiction of course since she only wrote fiction (or so she pretended), and moved on with her life. Still doing her damn fucking research she always took a step too close. He pulled her closer and finally fell asleep smelling her freshly washed skin. Same smell as always. Hers.

# Alternate Series: The Public room

The cigar room was packed, mostly men his age, without a single women in the room. Granted he'd never actually seen a woman smoke a cigar but still, they could have sent a woman to take care of the room. Sent the one he liked.

Did she know the dead girl? He might have to ask her in private. But then, she'd know he was a cop. Good or bad? Women liked cops. For the uniform? He was plainclothes. For the edge of danger? He hadn't shot anybody in months.

" _It's for the glamour of the job," one silly one night stand had once told him._

Glamour my ass. _Where was the glamour in listening to dead people's body language?_

Another had said, "Women look forward to the pension plan. Grieving widows make a bundle, don't they?"

_If his little black dress sweetheart was turning tricks, she might like the idea of retirement money. Plus doing a cop brought legal advantages to a working girl. When he was a rookie, one of his buddies had dated a hooker. At the time, he couldn't understand why._ So fucking wiser now _. Maybe his buddy's girl had been a dark-blue-eyed, little-black-dress type._

He sipped his scotch, smoked his cigar and went back out to the show and the little black dresses, one in particular. She superbly ignored him while some other waitress served him. Fine by him, he had a murder to solve.

Taking mental notes as he studied the staff, he planned his next moves. He watched as two little black dresses showed clients to another back room. For sure the place didn't have two cigar rooms.

He came back the following nights. Busy nights, slow nights, he wanted to learn the staff's every quirk. He wanted to learn hers in her little black dress.

_They made the raid two weekends after his first visit. Not his department, but Vice was nice enough to let him tag along._ Showtime, Angel.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Patricia makes small talk

Why do I want to write a murder-mystery novel so much? Although none of her books were mystery detective novels per se, characters had died her books before. So why now? She needed a murder. She only wrote fiction yet she needed facts. I already have the setting; the Cabaret is perfect. She had the dead woman. And the detective was easy enough to imagine. All I need is a murderer, a murder weapon, and a case. She wanted her main character to be a woman. A murderess but a likable murderess and the bad guys would be cops, mean and dirty and bad. Obviously. A sexy murderess woman outsmarting the cops. How many provocative murderess had Christopher encountered during his career? Probably not that many. Perhaps she could ask him. Then again, perhaps not.

And what about the murder weapon? Not a gun, too easy, nor drugs, not hands-on enough, yet something that didn't require a lot of muscles. If the murderess were to be average size and built, or tallish and lithe like her, she couldn't have the woman kill someone with her bare hands. Her purse? Ridiculous. Unless it were really heavy, hiding a blunt object of some sort, then maybe she could swing it hard enough to kill someone. She needed the perfect murder for her serial killer to stay one step ahead of the cops and get away with it. And she wanted readers to approve of her character. The murder had to appear gruesome at first, and the murderess despicable but the killer was to roam free with the blessings of the readers in the end. After a shaky first murder, her murderess would kill men and not women. After all, wasn't it far worse yet more noble for a woman to kill men? How does a woman kill a man? Perhaps if she had access to real cases? Hum. Undoubtedly, she needed a look at some murder files. A fictitious real case?

For research purposes, she did ask Christopher but it didn't help much. Perhaps she didn't ask properly. They were having dinner at that nice little Italian restaurant they both liked at the end of a very nice weekend. They had helped LeRoy settled into his new apartment after what she learned was yet another break-up, and Christopher's phone hadn't rang once. By keeping busy, they avoided the subject of the prostitution thing, still too fresh. And the disastrous date. And a talk about their relationship such at it was. She needed to do something about that, but for now had no idea what. Some sort of new plan perhaps? She decided that came Monday, she would look for new places of employment and research.

The bottle of wine was almost empty when she remembered her research questions for Christopher. "If I want to kill someone, how do you recommend I went about it?" Her murderess resembled her in height, weight and strength, thus if she could commit the murder so could her character.

"Anyone I know?" He teased, smiling.

"I don't think so." She didn't know whom herself yet. "A man." Definitely a man.

"Just any man?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"It might. How tall is he? How strong? Is he some lab rat or does he have some training? And what is your relation with this man? Will he see you coming? Will he fight back?"

Good points. "Ah." Who was the victim? She wanted a worthy opponent, so the victim had to be smart for it to be a challenge. Her serial wouldn't be wasting her time killing some random stupid bozo, would she? "Let's just say he's taller than me. Smart. And he knows me. Well, he knows me enough." With a random killing, no one would cheer for the murderess. "But no, I don't think he would see me coming. Not the first one." As soon as she said it, she knew her murderess would kill more than once. Serial killer indeed. One would be a fluke, a temporary insanity, more than once was a serial thus hardly justifiable and more of a challenge.

"Not the first? Angel, just how many people do you intend to kill exactly?"

"I don't know. That's not important now. How would you do it?"

"Gun."

"Too easy."

"Easy, Princess? Shooting someone is not easy. First you have to get the gun, the right gun, and then aim it right, not be heard or seen, and finally, dispose of it without getting traced. I assume you want to get away with it. Guns are not easy, but they are fast."

"Guns are bloody. I don't like guns." She hated guns.

"Poison then, Dollface." She could tell he was having fun with this.

"Also too easy."

"Easy? What type of poison will you get? Where will you get it? And how will you have your guy take it?"

"Ok, not easy but, hum, a little boring. Not personal enough. How else?" She wanted something original, out of the ordinary. A signature kill of some sort.

"Bomb. Hit and run. Knife. By hands."

"I can't use a bomb, it might kill innocent people. Same with hit and run, and it's only doable on the streets, so it limits the opportunities. As for knives and bare hands, do you really see me killing someone like that?"

# She wants access

"I don't see you killing anyone, Angel of mine."

"Because I'm a woman?" The man was a patronising jerk.

"Because you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk; I barely had a couple of glasses of wine."

"You're tipsy after two glasses; you had almost four."

"You're counting?"

"No, Darling, but I'm the one pouring the drinks. I like when you're tipsy. I like it a lot." He had that sexy crooked smile of his. It was too early for her, she hadn't had dessert yet. And she didn't have a murder, but she felt herself blush a little. More.

"Christopher, I need help here. If I want to kill a man, there must be ways I can do it and get away with it."

"As long as one has motives, means and opportunity, anyone can kill and anyone can get caught."

"But you don't catch everyone, do you? Surely there are unsolved cases."

"Yes, unfortunately, there are. Too many."

"Why? What do those killers have that the ones you catch don't have?"

"Either they're lucky. Or we're not good enough."

"Luck and bad work, that's it?"

"Yes, that's it."

"How about the way the killings are done? Does it help with the luck?"

"It might help a little but if your killing ways are too sophisticated or peculiar, it might do just the opposite."

"Ok. So there is no way you can guarantee I can kill a man and get away with it. No perfect murder."

"No, no guarantee. I'll do my damn best to catch you. Like always." Clearly he was not talking about catching her for murder but catching her period. She pretended not to understand the hint.

"But I could get lucky, right? And you wouldn't catch me. So then what? What do you do with those?"

"What do you mean, what do I do with what?"

"The cases. Your cases. The ones you haven't caught. What have you done with them?"

"Nothing. I keep them."

"Forever?"

"Forever is a long time but yes, forever. They turn cold. Someone else might start looking into them in the near or distant future, but we keep copies. Maybe something will come up, maybe some detail we missed the first time around will turn up, or someone might talk, or the killer might kill again and not be so lucky."

"So you still have a lot of unsolved murders in your files?"

"Not a lot. Not compared to most other teams, but yes I have some." He had a matter-of-factly tone like it was obvious he was better and had less unresolved cases than other guys. Always so sure of himself. And maybe he deserved to be since he was smart, dedicated, stubborn, and a damn workaholic.

"Can I have them?" She hadn't thought about asking for unsolved cases, cold cases as Christopher called them, before but it seemed like an excellent idea, plenty of research material in them for sure.

"Have them? The cold cases?" He looked stunned. "No way, Pussycat."

Always with the nicknames! "Why not? You're not working on them, are you? And I won't keep them forever. I just want to look at them."

"Why the hell for?"

"Research."

"Research? Fuck, Patricia. You have no idea what's in those files."

"No I don't. That's why I want to look at them."

"No. They contain very graphic pictures and descriptions. No fucking way."

"I'm sure I can handle it." Maybe. "I've seen dead people before, you know. Pictures can't be worse that the real thing." And I'll stay close to a toilet, just in case. Bring a toothbrush. Maybe some mint. Wine.

"No." He wasn't smiling anymore.

"No?" Him saying no more than twice in a conversation got her every time. "Why not, Big guy? It's not like those files belong to you. They are police properties. And the police belongs to the citizens. And since I'm a citizen..."

"Bullshit. As long as those files are in my office, they belong to me. And I say no."

"Who else has access to the files? You did assign each case to one of your guys initially, didn't you? And some cases must be from before you were chief."

"No."

"No? You can say no for yours, Christopher, but you can't say no for all the files. I only want to look at them; that's all. It will only take a few days, a week, tops. Really."

"No."

Damn he was infuriating! "Christopher! You can not say no! You had me quit my job, damn it. All I'm asking for in exchange is a little help for some research."

"You want to do research, go to the fucking library! As for your job, we both know that's crap! Your job is writing, not being arrested for prostitution."

How insulting. "You took me there!" This conversation wasn't going anywhere. "Fine. I'll ask someone else then. I'm sure I can find someone a little more cooperative than you."

"No way in hell. Those files are not for public access. Nobody will let you see them. And if they do, they'll get fired." He was talking about his team, but she didn't intend on asking them. She didn't know any of them anyway.

"Ah." You shall wait and see, mon chéri.

# MacLaren at the office

He dropped Patricia at her hotel Monday morning on his way to work. Didn't hear from her for the next two days. Not good. Tuesday night, last day of the month, was poker night. He came home late and so, Wednesday morning, he got to the office an hour later than his usual early seven o'clock start. Not one of his guys was in yet, except for Bridget his secretary, and Patricia.

"Hi, Big guy."

Damn she looked good, a dream right out of the sixties. He ogled her from head to toe and up again. Dark grey high heels with girly little bows on the heels. Sheer stockings. Steel grey curve-hugging pencil skirt. Matching jacket worn unbuttoned over a pale silky blouse. Hair tied in a loose bun. Red lipstick, black eyeliner and mascara on long eyelashes that brought out the blues. Sleek and sexy, her eyes laughing and full of mischief. She patiently smiled while he leered at her. Something was up. "Hi to you, Princess." She let the Princess slide. Yup, something was up. "Nice surprise." Sexy as hell. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

From the corner of his eye, he caught Bridget looking indulgently at them. With Patricia avoiding his office at all costs − she wasn't one to rub shoulders with cops − the two woman had never met. And yet, here she was. Had she missed him? No way, something was up. Bridget, his ever suspicious secretary-slash-dragon lady, despised civilians intruding at the office as much as Patricia despised cops. And yet, Bridget was smiling at them both. Especially at Patricia.

"Do you have two minutes? There's something I want to talk to you about."

"Sure, Angel, let's go into my office." Fuck this better not be about the dating thing. Leaving out the taking her on a case, locking her up in his truck, letting her stumbled upon a corpse and unknowingly encouraging her to work at the prostitution Cabaret, hadn't he given her the perfect first date already? He let her lead the way to his office, admiring her sway in her tight skirt and high heels as he followed. Fucking nice.

He refrained himself from closing the blinds of his office's big bay window overlooking the main room. Locking himself in with his too delicious clandestine girlfriend with the blinds down could fuel a lot of office talk. And knowing his team, it wouldn't take much more to turn the whispers into salacious gossip. But fuck was he tempted. Oblivious to his inner struggle, there she stood, looking his office over. Nothing had changed since her last and only visit in the dead of night some months ago. Same old wood desk, same leather chair for him, same straight back chairs for his guests, small leather couch nobody sat on except for the Brass. File cabinets along three of the four walls, two five-drawer tall ones between his desk and the couch opposite the door, four tall ones on the left wall and three two-drawer ones under the window. A backboard he used to scribble thoughts on and list key information on active cases took most of the right wall. As often, the board was currently covered by chalk writings.

Patricia wasn't looking at the board, though, she was studying the files cabinets. "So. Hum. Where do you keep those cold cases we talked about?"

Straight to the point, Darling of mine. I like. He smiled. Surely she didn't think he was that easy? "Doesn't matter, Princess, you're not getting near them."

Her head bend to the side, she smiled as she walked along the cabinets, her forefinger slightly trailing on their top edges. The cabinets were labelled in alphabetical order, A starting left of the door, Z ending next to the couch. "Please, Christopher, don't be like that." She stopped at the last one and tried pulling open a drawer. It was locked, of course, they all were. "Tsk, tsk, mon chéri. You are one untrusting fellow. What if one of your guys needs a file?"

The French thing should have told him something. "Those who need access have keys."

"Ah. So if I need access, you will give me a key?" Clearly toying with him. What the hell was she up to?

"No. There's no way I'll ever give you a key, I already told you that."

"Yes, you did. I just wanted to see if, perhaps, you had changed your mind."

"I haven't."

She sighed dramatically, but she kept on smiling. So totally toying with him. "That's ok, I understand. I mean, after all, those are cases the police hasn't been able to solve, that you haven't been, shall we say, smart enough to puzzle out. I understand."

Playing coy now, was she? "Patricia−"

She cut him off. "Christopher, it's ok. Really. I understand. That's why I'm not going to go through your files. I'll get someone else's files."

# MacLaren and the other guy

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She flashed him the biggest smile. "I now have access to cold cases! Anything older than three years that is."

Fuck. "What?!"

She took her sweet fucking time explaining, taking off her jacket, draping it on the back of one of his guest chairs first. By the time she was done, she was half laughing. "I have access to any file I want!" Speaking exultantly, like she meant it. Like it was true. But how could it be? The only ones that had access were the police, the justice department, maybe some lawyers, nobody else. Nobody was stupid enough to grant access to the public, her included.

"No way! Not my files!" Fucking childish reaction on his part. Fuck he hated surprises. Not that it was a complete surprise, was it? He should have anticipated disaster when he hadn't heard anything further on her crazy idea.

"Don't worry, Big guy, I won't touch your files. I can have all the files I want, why would I come here and have you disgruntled?" She tried dampening her grin behind a stern look, but only managed a mischievous smirk. "Truly, mon chéri, you don't have to worry. I already made arrangements with the North District's Captain, who, contrary to you, was most obliging. I'm starting next week."

FUCK. "Is that so?" He knew the fucking captain. The jerk had gotten the job following a political nomination. Unlike the South precinct's Captain Lou, who came from the academy, from the force, North's captain had no field experience. Furthermore, if Chris remembered correctly, and he was sure he did, Captain North was an overweight, oversexed womanising weasel. No fucking way you're going to work with the jerk, Angel of mine. "Have you met the guy, Patricia?"

"I did meet him at some shindig a while ago. When I made the arrangement with him over the phone, he was most helpful. Apparently he remembers me from that one time. If he's as charming in person, maybe I can convince him to lend me an office."

He had no doubt the jerk remembered her well, especially if she was dressed like today or in one of her little black dresses. Without her jacket, the soft curves of her breasts moving under the silk blouse were mesmerising. If he got her naked on his couch, she might forget about her stupid idea. Fuck! If she ever wore that outfit at North's, the jerk was going find her a place for sure, in his office, in his fucking lap. How the hell had she convinced the looser to do such a thing? Not that it mattered, he intended to put a stop to the nonsense. A phone call to the right Brass and no way was she ever going to get near the asshole's office. "Patricia, I don't know how you convinced him to let you in, but there is no way this is going to happen. By the end of the week, he'll have cancelled everything. I'm sorry you got your hopes up."

"Don't be silly, Big guy. Of course, it's going to happen. I didn't have to convince him of anything; he said yes right away. Unlike you, I might add."

"Princess, even if I wanted too," which he absolutely didn't, no fucking way, "I couldn't grant you access. That's out of my hands, and that captain should have told you so."

"Out of your hands mon oeil! Bullshit!" The smile had gone as she worked herself up for a fight. "If you wanted to, you could give me access."

"No, I couldn't." Damn stubborn woman. "The files are police properties, you need proper authorization to look at them, that's the rule."

"Christopher James MacLaren, since when do you follow the rules? Proper authorization my ass. You're doing your overprotecting thing again. You think I can't handle it."

Her using his full name was a sure sign she was angry. Good. Maybe he was getting through to her. "No, you can't handle it as you say. There is no way I'm letting you read those files, and you can bet that sweet fucking tush of yours, no captains will grant you access, however sexy you dress."

"What? You think I got access because I seduced him? Damn it, Christopher! Is that what it would take for you? Sex against the files?" Not just angry but pissed now, eyes a sexy stormy blue that so turned him on (like he hadn't been already worked up). Not that it was what he had meant.

"Calm down, Angel, I didn't mean you, I was talking about him. Him. The guy likes anything with a skirt. He will receive you and take his chance with you, but he won't grant you access. No one will, not even him. It's way out of his league."

"No one? Really, Officer MacLaren, if I weren't so angry at you already, I would get angry at how little faith you have in my capabilities."

"I have plenty of confidence in you and your fucking abilities at doing research. You're one stubborn cookie but not this time, no."

"But why? Why not? Surely people other than cops have looked at those files. They're old and unsolved; it's not like I will be interfering with anything."

"Patricia, I already told you why. Go to the library, damn it!"

"Libraries are boring; I need more." Again she tilted her head to the side and paused. Here again, he should have recognised the signs. "What if I can convince someone? I don't know, someone in charge, then what? I can go work there, right?" She placed her hand on his arm. "Right? And you won't interfere, oui?" French thing again.

By now he knew it was a trick, and yet he fell for it. Curiosity perhaps. Or perhaps she had been right, there was no way he could have foreseen it, no way he could have believed she had actually managed to convince someone. "Ok, Princess, whatever. If someone in charge's crazy enough to grant you access, you can look at the files all you want." It wasn't a promise hard to keep, Lou would never allow her entry. "But it has to be proper official access, Patricia."

"Ok then. Hum." The smile she had had trouble keeping off her lips earlier came back full blast, telling him she was back to toying with him. "Might a signed letter from Central's Human Resources be enough, mon chéri? A written permission signed by the Chief of Police. They hired me! Great, isn't it?"

Ok, so the damn letter was standard-issued once you got a job in the force, it was still official paper. She was fucking in.

# The basics of MacLaren

Fuck them all. He was speechless. Why on earth would they give in to her? He knew why he gave in when he did. Simple enough, she was his. But them? It was a crazy idea, he knew it, they had to know it, they were supposed to check everyone's credentials. Yet, there she was. That woman was too damn smart. He had trouble thinking straight. Get back to the basics. He cursed himself. Understand, then control the damage, then control her. Like that was ever going to happen.

"Why? How? How the hell did you convince the RH?"

"It's not really important, is it?"

"The fuck it's not. Call it curiosity." Peace of mind. Reason to kill. He was not going to let it happen twice.

"Well actually, I didn't have much convincing to do, I was already cleared since I've worked for the Archives for a while." She had worked at Archives during her Joshua period; he didn't know how she had gotten that job either. He suspected fake IDs, fake resume, hacking job by Joshua and his fucking henchmen.

"And?"

"I befriended a couple of guys over there then, and we stayed in touch. You know, coffee and stuff. They like my writing."

Secretive as she was, that some people, whoever they were, knew about her books was something in itself. "Ok, Princess, I'll play along. Who?" Considering the precinct's HR people hadn't thrown a fit at being bypassed by Central, it had to be someone high up. High up and suicidal. If he had any say, the incompetent jerk was out of a job. "Tell me his name." So I can make his life miserable.

"It's not so much his name as, hum, hers."

It dawn on him. Her, as in the Mayor's wife. The wife was a big fan, wasn't she, a friend and a big supporter of the cultural scene in the city. The two women had a lot in common, starting with stubbornness. It would be simple enough for the wife to convince the Mayor, using the same leverage on the Mayor as Patricia had on him. "And the Chief?"

"I'm not sure he knows. Let's just say I took advantage of the bureaucracy you so often complained about." Now he was puzzled. "With the proper credentials, it's amazing the kind of job one can get."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, since I was highly recommended by Archives, thus Central, I'm officially the new temp. I don't know why you're so angry; I did it your way. I traded." Fuck his way, she had probably dealt the job against a public appearance at one of the wife's events. Unfortunately, she was right about his way and for now, he didn't have anything big enough to trade to get her fired. "I'm on loan from Archives so for now I'm going to help Bridget with the filing of old cases. Bridget or the North District's secretary, it doesn't much matter to anyone." Biggest grin on her face. "I'm pretty much to do what I think will help. I think the guys who did the interviews liked me."

"I'm sure they did. Fuck! This is not good. Patricia, I don't want you on the job."

"I kind of figured that out by myself but, mon chéri, really, you worry too much. Everything will be okay. You'll see. At the end of the day, we'll meet at a restaurant or a wine bar midway to our respective precincts and talk shop, you know, like normal couples do." Damn was the woman naïve. Adorable. Way too smart. Sexy as hell. And trouble. A hell lot of trouble.

# The cop and the trainee

"No." She frowned at him.

"Fuck yes, Princess."

"Why?"

"It'll be easier in terms of organisation." In terms of watching over you, Darling of mine. Since he couldn't prevent her looking at the files, he was going to control what files she researched. North district no fucking way, he wanted her in his office.

"Two minutes ago, you didn't want me anywhere near those files and now that you know I have the authorisation, suddenly it's ok? I don't trust you; you're up to something."

"Angel, have a little faith. You know I'm trustworthy. Now that I see how important it is to you, I want to help."

Trust, faith, damn him, he was using her words back on her. No way did she trust him; he had been so against her idea from the start. Although, to be honest, she would rather work in his office than at North's. She remembered the North Captain better than she had let on to Christopher. At the soirée, the man had gone from staring down her décolleté to trying to put his arm around her waist and back to the cleavage. She wouldn't do much research if she had to spend her days fending off the guy. Granted he had been more discreet once they had walked back into the crowd, so perhaps he wouldn't make advances at her in the precinct? On the other end, would Christopher lent her his files, real files for her to read? "I won't be working for you, Big guy. I work for Archives, not the precinct."

"Yes, I understand." He was acting too lenient for her not to be suspicious.

"You will let me read files and take notes as I want?"

"Absolutely." He was charming when he wanted to be, wasn't he, and he did seem to have made up his mind about letting her do her researches. Not that she was convinced working in his office was such a good thing. What if she liked him at work? Didn't she already like him too much? If she had gotten her way, all of her ways, she would have been allowed to take the files home but HR had said no, absolutely nonnegotiable. "And I won't fetch you coffee."

"Of course not."

Lucky she wasn't a mind reader because damn if he wasn't thinking of ways of changing her mind. If on such an occasion she happened to be wearing that outfit with the skirt and heels, or any one of the many other sexy outfits she had waiting in her closet, well, it would make it all worth it. Not that he intended to have her around long, that wasn't part of his new emergency plan.

"And I want a desk. I am not working sitting on the couch in your office."

Sprawled on it perhaps, Pussycat? Skilled strategist, he kept his thoughts to himself. "I'll see you have a desk in the back corner so you can read the files without being disrupted."

A bureau would be nice. She might want to observe the team at work, study him, see how good he indeed was. "What will you tell your team?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Damn it, Christopher, I can't just show up out of the blue one morning and start going through your files without them asking questions. What do I say?"

"If I tell them not to ask questions, they won't."

"You're so damn arrogant. Of course, they'll ask questions. And if some of them find out we've, hum, seen each other a couple of times, they might find my working here peculiar."

ʻSeen each other a couple of times' was one hell of a euphemism, even for her. They had been all over each other for months, driving each other crazy and liking each other more each day. LeRoy suspected some of it, only a friendly acquaintance she had told the guy when first introduced. Fucking friendly. Even if the others hadn't met her yet, they probably noticed a change in his disposition, for both the worse and the better probably.

"Ok fine, Pussycat, what do you want me to say?"

"How should I know! They're your guys. And girls. How about Bridget, your secretary? Aren't secretaries supposed to know everything that goes on in an office? She might not like it."

"Bridget won't like it no matter what, she's very protective of the team. The office is her territory; she doesn't like civilians messing her stretch, but I'll talk to her. Don't worry, she will let you do your research."

"I'm not worried, she seemed like such a lovely woman. Perhaps you could tell them I'm researching some of the files for literary purposes. It's the truth after all."

"Darling, even if I tell them the truth, I don't think they'll believe me. They'll think I made it up so I can bang you in my office."

"Christopher! Not everybody has a filthy mind like yours... And you won't, will you?"

"I won't what?"

"Hum. Bang me in the office."

"You'd let me?"

"Non! Of course not. Never."

"Then I won't. It's a shame, though. I've yet to bag anyone in my office. We should at least try out the couch, don't you think?"

"No way. You're impossible. Like I could ever have sex in a police station of all places. I hated police stations; they're always crawling with cops. Damn it, Christopher, that's not why you're giving your files, is it? For sex?"

"Darling of mine, I can have sex with you without giving you the files. I think it will be fun working together, don't you?" Fun, and sexy. Watching her write was fascinating and arousing. "I'm looking forward to having you at the office." Very temporarily.

"We won't be working together, though. Technically, I won't be part of your team, will I?"

"You want to be part of the team? You think it's going to make it easier? No prob', I'll introduce you as an assistant or a trainee doing research, how's that?" Anything to get her in the office and keep her safely between office walls for as short a period as he could. If, by the end of the week, she was bored or discontent and moved on to another type of research, at the fucking library, for example, it would mean he had played his hand well. Poker and chess, he was a good at both, and she was quite a queen, wasn't she, well worth the trouble.

# The office

The square, five-storey building that housed the South special division also housed the local precinct, traffic, holding, and such. Hence, policemen in blue uniforms populated the first three floors. The special part of the building was on the fourth floor, crimes, be it murders or vice and domestics (including economics). The fifth floor, supposedly dedicated to the precinct current archiving, also held the offices of the Captain, his advisers and his staff and other such un-useful offices. The fifth floor was thus called the Brass floor, in reference to the big Brass from Central often visiting and the old brass handles on the files cabinets in the archives room. All shiny things that rattled and came loose at the slightness pull, the locals joked. The precinct's basement was for yet more archives, yet more holding cells and interrogation rooms, plus a small infirmary, technical and computer rooms and a gloomy cafeteria. If the fire department had their say, the building would be closed down. Fire exit definitely not as per fire prevention code.

The layout of the floors was simple. The square form was cut by a T-shaped corridor that divided the floors. The top line of the T made one long, narrow, not-often-traveled hallway at the back of the building. The trunk of the T, wider, cut the building in two and came up to the street. The staircase stood at the center of the floors, breaking the T leg in two, with elevators nobody seemed to use at the juncture of leg and top at the back of the building. Ladies' and men's rooms were located at the T's top right tip, the left tip being a dead end.

Coming out of the staircase on the fourth floor (or the elevator if one dared take it), one had two choices. The door to the left was Domestics-slash-Economics-slash-Morality, those crimes went hand in hand nowadays, while the door to the right was Homicides. Left for breathing victims, right for non-breathing. Chief Officer C. J. MacLaren's rectangular half of the fourth floor was on the right.

One large room with desks placed at random occupying most of the space. The desk of the South Homicide division's administrative assistant was at the back. From her vantage point, Bridget overlooked her boys (and girl), answered the phone, did research and filing. One might notice her desk strategically faced the main entrance, surveyed the room and the detectives' desks (including the Chief's, through the office window when the blinds were opened) and glared at incoming civilians entering uninvited. The Reception sign on her desk invited (dared?) unsuspected civilians wandering in to cross the vast room for an introduction. The team suspected it was to give the innocents one last opportunity to flee. Behind Bridget's desk, along the wall, stood a row of file cabinets and on the left (the right back corner of the main room) sat the printer and stationary station.

The Chief's private office was on the right side of the main room, close to the main door. Said office was barely large enough for the desk, the two guests chairs, the couch, the file cabinets, and blackboard. It had no windows to the outside but for the one large bay window overlooking the main room. Opposite Chris's office, a conference room overlooked the street. A large, wood table with ten chairs, cushy but worn. Facing the street and the park on the other side, a wall of windows, somewhat grimy. One bay window opposite, of the same size as the one in the Chris's office and sparkling clean, overlooking the main room. A blackboard on the left wall and television (rarely used) on the right. Despite the sooty windows, the conference room was very sunny in the morning.

The only other way out of the main room was through a back door, discreetly tucked in between the stationary corner and the Chief's office wall by Bridget's desk. That door opened on the left leg of the T. The fire department had made it clear it was not to be considered an emergency exit.

# Her first day

Patricia arrived so very early on her first Monday that Christopher was not in yet. Once Christopher had agreed to her researching his files, he hadn't wasted time setting up everything in his usual rapid and efficient manner. He was such a take-charge times ten kind of man and had been so efficient he had her worried of how indelicately if at all, he had explained her arrivée to his secretary. What if Bridget thought she was going after her job? Hence, Sunday late afternoon, as soon as Christopher had left, she had called Bridget, and they had ended up chatting for over an hour.

Bridget had described her years on the job, the force, her late husband, and Christopher's team. "Don't you worry about them, sweetie, they are good men. Perhaps a bit peculiar, but they are devoted to Chief MacLaren." That might not be such a good thing, Patricia thought. "Have you met any of them yet?"

"Only LeRoy."

"Yes, Officer Leroy. You would know about him then."

"Hum. Christopher somehow forgot to give me LeRoy's pedigree."

"Yes, I suspect he has. Well, Officer LeRoy can tell it to you in more details but Sir MacLaren," Bridget's use of quaint prefixes when referring to Christopher and his men made Patricia like her more, "befriended Officer LeRoy, then a drop-out, when the Chief, then a patrolman in uniform, during a murder investigation. You see, Officer LeRoy's grandfather had been killed, and the detective in charge was ʻtoo lazy and incompetent,' the Chief's words, to do a proper job." Bridget's giggle came over the phone. "Lou, the Captain, suspended the Chief then, of course. But Lou was wise enough to promote him upon his return. That was all many years ago and since then, Officer LeRoy has turned himself into a smooth talking, goofy cop and eventually became the Chief's right-hand man. Now if only his good nature didn't make him such an easy prey for light-skirts in search of a husband. Mercifully, he is now single again."

"So LeRoy's a good detective?"

"Of course. The Chief wouldn't have it any other way. He handpicked all of them, did you know? Don't you worry about Officer LeRoy. Under his laid-back attitude, he's a solid officer. Although neither one might admit to it, Officer LeRoy sometimes acts as the Chief's conscience, keeping his friend within limits."

"Do I detect a touch of disapprobation, Bridget dear?" Patricia teased.

"Oh no, Patricia darling. I'm quite fond of Officer MacLaren, but I'm somewhat old school, and I can't help thinking my Chief is a little, how can I say..."

"Christopher is a bit outlandish in his interpretation of the end justifies the means, isn't he?"

"You have such a way with words; that's exactly it! Never has my dear late husband acted that much in the margin of the law."

"Doesn't make him a bad cop, though, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. He is truly the best."

Patricia wished he wasn't; it was so much easier to hate bad cops, but she couldn't help but smile at the comment. Bridget was obviously very devoted of her Chief. "How long have you worked for the police and Christopher?"

"I have spent all my adult life working around cops. I was married to one for over thirty years, dear, and I learned to trust my instincts, my gut feeling as men say. And of course, I've been with Officer MacLaren since his beginnings as a Chief. I saw him built his team; he chose them all so carefully! They are so dedicated to him and one another! We all believed, we know the Chief is the best. One might comment on, discuss or even challenge him, but none dares disobey him. None except you, Patricia darling, so mark my word, you are exactly what he and the team need. Have you been married before, dear?"

"Ah. Hum. No."

"Have you seen the movie The Lady and the Tramp? It is a favorite of mine. You two remind me of−"

"Ah. Well. Might the lady be Reid? Must be tough being the only female cop amongst the team, don't you think?"

If Bridget thought her rude for changing the subject so abruptly, she didn't show it, and from there the conversation remained on the team. "Officer Reid is not exactly a lady."

"Christopher is not exactly a tramp, is he?" Ok, dangerous subject. Back to the team. "Who's the oldest on the team?"

"Officer Shapiro is. He is the oldest and the wisest. He's Italian and married." Was being a married Italian what made Shapiro wise in Bridget's eyes? "And he's one of the two senior officers on the team, with Frankke. Officer Shapiro and the Chief partnered together when the Chief came out of the academy years ago. After the late Officer Bozniak whom you knew."

Yes, Bozniak. She swallowed her sadness like each time she thought of the old copper. "And the Frankey guy?"

"Not Frankey, you have such a lovely accent," I do not have an accent, "but Frankke, with two Ks, don't ask me why. Although Frankey suits him well. Officer Frankke is straight to the point yet very low key. Perhaps being the only officer of African descent leads him to keep to himself? He's never shared personal details about his life with me, almost as if he has no personal life outside of the force."

"So you don't know how he and Christopher met?"

"Of course I do, dear, since it is work related. Years ago, the Chief and Officer Frankke patrolled together. During that period, the Chief saved Officer Frankke from being shot by a robber and Officer Frankke prevented the Chief from being stabbed during a bar brawl."

"Let me guess. The two have been friends ever since."

"Exactly." Bridget's Chief was turning out to be very loyal to his friends and partners. "Now Officer Hamilton and Officer DesForges are something else. They are both ex-army men." Easy to guess where Christopher had met those two. Christopher was ex-army too, albeit his army career had been somewhat short. Big surprise, apparently the Big guy hadn't liked following orders. "The Officers come in a pair and spend a lot of time together."

"They're a couple?"

"Dear Lord no! But they often team together and outside work they, well, they hang."

"My, Bridget, I didn't know you spoke slang."

"Silly girl. Now where was I? Ah yes, Officers Hamilton and DesForges. Both like to fight; they're bulldogs, especially Officer DesForges, he's the huge silent type, very protective of his coworkers but mean to anyone from the outside. They're both loyal. Both macho. Officer DesForges a little, Officer Hamilton a lot. Officer Hamilton is crude, rude even but delivers on the job and, like all the others has the Chief's full trust." Great, a set of macho cops, like she had not met enough of those.

In turn, Patricia talked about her life (a little), but mostly of the research she intended to do, which eventually lead to the real reason behind her research. Revealing her writer persona was something she rarely did. For always her interlocutor turned into one of the followings. Critics, many without having read a single book of hers. Groupies, also often without having read one book of hers. Pseudo-shrinks, those had read and disliked her book or had heard about her book and loathed it. Instant friends, or so they thought from her characters. Wannabe writers, wannabe writers were not writers, writers wrote, period; being published was just icing on the cake (granted very scrumptious icing). A combination of two of more of the above. Or worse, readers that they had indeed read and genuinely liked her books, shyness submerged her on those occasions turning her into a blushing spinster then, momentarily and quite involuntary resembling her writer persona. Or finally, with open-minded or artist-at-heart, her revelation sometimes helped alleviate difficulties, It had with Big belly, and it also did with Bridget.

By the end of their conversation, she liked Bridget a lot. And thanks to Bridget, she was ready for her fist day of work. She was dressed for the role and ready to act the part. She was damn good at pretending. Her first day at the office. The office, what an understatement. It was a police precinct, damn it!

# Bridget's team

What Patricia had not realised on her first brief encounter with Bridget, and later during their phone conversation, was how much Bridget liked her. Seeing the slim woman stood up to the Chief had made the old woman's day.

"You know, dear girl, when you first met the Chief, he suspected you of murder." Bridget had watched the story unfold from the sidelines. Not that the Chief confided in her, the Chief did not confide in anyone. But he had needed help at some point, help she and LeRoy had in part provided. Thus, she had seen and learned. Even then, Patricia had not been afraid of the Chief; she had not backed down under his threats, and certainly had not followed any of his orders. "Murder, of all things!"

"I know. Christopher and Bozniak were very close."

"Yes, they were. Officer Bozniak was probably the closest to a mentor Chief Officer MacLaren ever had. Not that he needed one per se."

"I doubt Christopher has ever needed anyone, mentor or not, to show him the way."

"Well, as I've learned from my dear late husband. If he is man enough, he does need something." Someone. Bridget had seen her composed Chief, severe and harsh at work, fall for the peculiar woman, fall hard at that. Years amongst police officers and yet Bridget remained a bit of a romantic at heart. A modern version of Lady and the Tramp, she thought. Except the lady didn't want help from the tramp. Except both the lady and the tramp were independent and set in their ways, not to mention exceedingly stubborn. All those months since the tramp had fallen for the lady, Bridget kept hoping to meet said lady in person. And now that they had been officially introduced, Bridget felt the lady was a kindred spirit. "If there is anything I can do to help in your research, dear, please let me know. I will gladly contribute. I'm so happy for the team. A female presence amongst them will perhaps soften their edges."

They were an odd bunch, the lot of them. The Chief had picked trustworthy men that resembled him on different levels. Bridget predicted the older Officer Shapiro would be the first to come in that Monday morning, and he was.

"Don't you worry, Patricia dear, I will introduce you."

"Shouldn't we wait from Christopher?"

"Let's not. Our Chief said so very little late Friday. ʻA new trainee for research'" Bridget was too prim and proper to make quotation marks with her fingers, but they could be heard in her voice.

"Ah. Christopher is a man of few words."

"All the best men are. My dear husband was too." Bridget patted Patricia's arm soothingly. "I shall build on what the Chief told the team on Friday." Pulling Patricia over gently, Bridget made the presentations. "Good morning, Officer Shapiro. May I introduce Patricia, the new trainee? She will help me with filing and research, mostly reviewing the cold cases' classification and codification." Bridget was proud of her explanation; it sounded very credible. Patricia had confided some people tended to get weird around writers, either wanting to be in her stories or dreading it. Hence, Bridget decided it wouldn't do to tell the team every detail of Patricia's tasks.

"Chief Officer MacLaren had a desk brought in," Bridget said, pointing at a desk in the back left corner. The old metal desk, barely a ding or two on it, was close to Bridget's own desk and overlooked the room and the team's desks as Bridget's desk did. A police-propriety computer was already set on it. "Could you perhaps turn Patricia's desk around? I think it might be better if she didn't have to stare at the team her first day. We don't want your colleges to feel under examination. Don't you agree, dearest?"

By the time the Chief arrived, Patricia had settled at her desk. Shapiro was sitting next to her and showing her the precinct's Intranet. Bridget watched her Chief come to a stop as his eyes fell on Patricia's back. He then watched and smiled, and Bridget liked Patricia even more. Finally something, someone to unsettle the Chief's control. Best thing that could happen to him Bridget believed.

Officer LeRoy walked in a bit after. He already knew Patricia and, like Bridget, already liked her. He grinned as soon as he caught sight of her and joined her and Shapiro readily.

"Mac forgot to mention you were going to be the new guy, Sweetheart. Splendid surprise!" LeRoy thought the woman sexy and funny. What she said, the way she thought, how she acted, he found it all amusing. "Since I'm not like Chris, don't worry about doing your things. However crazy they are, I won't flip."

"My things? I'm here to sort out the cold files."

"Whatever, Cupcake. I'll be here to cheer you on if you need anything." He wasn't worried about her craziness, not even a little; that woman was a doll.

Le noticed Bridget was sitting at her desk with her chair half turned, still looking at the door like her usual, but also leaning toward the right, to Patricia and Shapiro. The old woman was smiling. Le also caught Chris smiling at Patricia's and Shapiro's back through his office window. It was all going to be amusing indeed.

Two down, five to go, Bridget thought, and now came the hard ones. Officers Hamilton and DesForges walked in at eight-thirty, a tad early by their standards, them usually not showing up until the meeting. They had learned of the trainee with the rest of the team, of course, but by their attitude, neither of them had expected such a trainee. If asked, Bridget might have described their reaction as shock, a pleasant shock but a shock nonetheless. Since they didn't know about the Chief and Patricia's history, they weren't shy about showing their interest. Although, Hamilton being Hamilton, Bridget suspected it wouldn't have made much difference had they known. Even if all he saw of Patricia was her back, as soon as Officer Hamilton's eyes fell on her, he went over with the obvious intent to see and touch.

By then Officer Shapiro and Officer LeRoy had gone back to their desk, and Patricia was browsing on her computer. Officer Hamilton sat on Patricia's desk facing her, soon leaning closer to her. Bridget couldn't hear what he was telling Patricia. Not that she needed to, she could easily guess. The man had no manners and a much too big ego.

Officer Hamilton laughed. Patricia laughed back, so thankfully her girl was not intimidated by such language. The Chief was still at his window, talking on the phone but looking out like he often did. He was still smiling. Good thing he couldn't hear either what was being said, he might not have been smiling so much.

Officer Hamilton was still working on Patricia when senior Officer Frankke walked in discreetly. New trainee or not, a polite nod was all anyone got from him on Mondays. Like with Officer Hamilton and Officer DesForges, Bridget wouldn't be able to tell for days what Officer Frankke thought of the trainee.

# Work-in-progress

When the Chief came out of his office five minutes before ten for the meeting, he had yet to go to Patricia's desk as Bridget expected. Had he decided to follow the same rule with her as he did with the others? On mornings of meetings, he did greet them all but unless there was something urgent, he spend the first hours of his day returning phone calls, following up on leads and preparing for the meeting.

Once a week, the Chief sat his team in the conference room for a detailed review of the cases. Each team member was assigned some cases, according to their experience, seniors having more obviously. Detectives worked in pairs, pairing varying upon peculiarities such as murder weapon, victim profile, neighbourhood, etc. The Chief rarely assigned himself cases, not officially anyway. Monday meetings were mandatory. and even Bridget sometimes attended, mostly when the case load was heavy or when she was expected to do follow-ups on leads for the team.

Today's case load was reasonable as murder season was not yet in full force, but Bridget transferred the department's phone lines to the main reception and followed the team in, bringing Patricia along with her. "Get a pad from your desk drawer, sweetie, and follow me."

Patricia obeyed promptly.

Noting her eager expression, Bridget got a hint then at just how curious writers were. "The Chief did say you were to be part of the team, did he not, hence clearly you need to attend the meeting. I think your research should start in there." Bridget didn't know much about how writers wrote books, but she imagined Patricia needed to know how the files came to be files and the Monday meetings were a good place to start.

With everyone attending the meeting this week, he mustn't really have expected Bridget to leave Patricia out. But at the Chief frowning, Bridget understood Patricia joining the meeting hadn't been part of her job description (not part of ʻthe plan,' as the Chief had mumbled through clenched teeth the previous week when announcing Patricia's hiring).

Chris watched Patricia walk in with Bridget. Interesting view. Low-heeled boots, sleek jeans, black jacket falling short of her tight little ass, a white v-neck t-shirt showcasing a hint of cleavage. His officers too wore jeans, tees and jackets, but none looked like her. Adding the wavy hair sleeked in a neat little bun, pink eyeshadow and a hint of lip gloss, she was exquisite. Sitting at her desk with her back to the room, glasses hiding the blue of her eyes, she might have thought herself easy to overlook. Walking tall and slender into the conference room with rosy cheeks framing her mischievous smile, she so wasn't.

Officer Reid entered on their heels and judging by the shadows under her eyes, Bridget guessed it had been a tough weekend for the female officer. Officer Reid had been with the team for close to three years now, but Bridget was not yet sure the Chief had made a good choice. Nonetheless, Bridget tried to be very supportive of Officer Reid, helping her when possible, keeping her out of the men's way when the officer was acting like a rookie. Bridget had not befriended Officer Reid, but they were professional and thus worked in a professional manner. Officer Reid's behaviour with Patricia remained to be seen. At least, the outfit Bridget had suggested Patricia wore on her first day, the same type of outfit Officer Reid and the male officers wore, helped Patricia blend in. Officer Reid was sometimes susceptible to the strangest things.

Chris watched in amusement as Bridget glared disapprovingly at Des and Ham. They sure were sizing Patricia up and down quite openly. For now, he intended to remain standing at his end of the table. Le sat door side, at the right of his empty seat, and Des, Ham, Frankke and Shapiro on his left, their backs to the windows. Was it to show him her support or because she wanted to be visible in case shameless civilians ventured into the main room? In any case, Bridget stayed by the door and motioned Patricia to sit next to Reid at the end of the table opposite him. Patricia and Reid sitting side by side made quite a sight. They were the same height, but shaped differently with Reid, tanned and toned, somewhat pretty but hard-looking, and Patricia, slender, paler, friendlier, more innocent. Knowing how smart and reckless Patricia was, Chris couldn't help but frown. Appearances were deceiving in the women's case, very few would pick Patricia as the toughest of the two and that made it even more dangerous for her.

Fedrick the computer kid, the last member of the Chief's team, walked in just as the meeting started. Head down so he didn't have to look at anyone, Fedrick went straight to his usual seat. Two chairs down from both Reid and Shapiro, an empty seat on each side, at the exact opposite end of the table from the Chief. But today, since Bridget's seating arrangement had made Patricia sit next to Reid, Fred was missing an empty seat. Bridget had given Patricia little insights on everyone on the team, how she felt was best to approach each one of them and where to expect difficulties. Of Fredrick, she hadn't told Patricia much since there wasn't much to tell. The kid barely interacted with anyone except the Chief, and he was worse with women. Bridget couldn't recall a single time the kid had talked to her or simply looked straight at her.

"It is best simply to ignore him, sweetie. And if you find you need something from him, well, you can go through the Chief for help."

When Fredrick, walking up to his chair head down, came across Patricia's chair, said chair being usually empty, the kid stopped dead on his track and peeked up. Nothing unusual yet, the kid often peeked up to assess threatening situations. His eyes would then crawl back to the floor, and he would move on, detour or reverse course, in effect ignoring whatever the disruption had been. This time, he didn't. This time, he looked up and froze. Bridget considered herself patient and no-nonsense, and she was, but for the life of her, she couldn't relate to the kid. She did not have a clue as to what was going on in the kid's mind. She was about to revise her judgement.

Patricia smiled at Fred and started to raise. "Am I sitting in your chair? I'm sorry, I didn't know the seating arrangement. You can have it back if you want."

"No," the kid said.

Bridget heard him. The kid had talked while staring straight at Patricia! As he lowered himself into his chair, he was staring still. Bridget knew then what he was thinking or rather, knew he wasn't thinking. Open-mouthed and drooling.

Officer LeRoy started to laugh; Officer DesForges whistled; Officer Hamilton made disgraceful smooching sounds. Patricia blushed but kept on smiling softly at Fredrick. And Bridget saw Chief Officer MacLaren, the man in charge, clenched his fists as he let out a sigh. Having Patricia around was indeed going to be interesting. How she would have liked to be able to tell her long-gone husband all about the woman! No doubt he too would have liked her a lot.

# Alternate Series: Setting up

The Vice team went in casually. Ten officers dressed in suits and ties, just like the other patrons. They had a drink. Single men at the bar, a pair at a table, a couple at a table further back, just ordinary people on a night out. They ordered drinks, smiled at the black dresses, listened to the band, Blues tonight.

_His girl was here. Different little black dress, same wide blue eyes. Not once during his self-appointed undercover investigation had he been seated in her section. For some reason or another, her section changed every night. For some reason, his table was never in it, but tonight when he walked, she was playing hostess._ Hard avoiding talking to me right now, isn't it, Princess.

" _Good evening, Princess." Princess still not a winner. She smiled and frowned. Lovely._

" _Good evening, sir. A table for one?"_

" _Would you like to join me?" He asked, not remembering just then if he had tried the direct approach yet._

_The smile disappeared. She didn't answer and led him to a table up front on the left side. She couldn't have seated him farther from the door and its lovely hostess._ Not the direct approach, then, Princess.

An hour later, the team started betraying signs of anticipation. Empty drinks in front of them all. Eyes scanning the room. The place was packed, and some Italian Mafia jerk had replaced his black dress at the door.

" _Here Miss," he offered his assigned waitress a stack of bills. "I'll double your tip if you send me that little black dress over there," he said, pointing at his black dress angel now serving the right half of the back area._

_His angel magically appeared fifteen minutes later, but not before he had watched with amusement her arguing with his official waitress._ Damn flattering.

" _Yes, sir?"_

" _I was wondering," he began as he watched her clench her jaw, "if you would be interested," blue eyes narrowing and darkening, "in earning a nice tip," delicate hands bunched into fists squarely on her hips, "by being nice to me," crimson tinting her face. Simply magnificent. "I'd like a scotch, please. No ice."_

He admired as she braced herself for a reply, already half turning on her heels. She froze and turned back. "I beg your pardon?"

Beg, yes, begging is good. "Scotch," he repeated. "I'd like a scotch."

" _Scotch? Just a scotch?"_

" _Scotch. For now. Yes."_ Let's start with the scotch, but later I'll make you beg for more, Princess.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Patricia in training

Thanks to Bridget, she was ready for her first day of work. She had dressed for the role and intended to act the part, but frankly, if anyone had cared to ask, she couldn't have explained why she wanted the files. Whatever she would do with the cold cases, the mere fact that she had successfully gone around Christopher's back made it worth her while. Here again, not sure why. Or rather, not sure she wanted to think about why. Typical.

And the team! Bridget the kind mother figure, a lioness. Shapiro, the wise uncle, the sane. Frankke, the dark eldest, the oak. The twins DesForges and Hamilton, the rudest, and the baddest. Reid, the overlooked, the tomboy. LeRoy, the good son, the wounded. The last child, Fredrick, the weakest. And Christopher, the gifted one, the favourite, the one that got away with anything. Including her.

She studied and admired as he led the meeting. The way he talked to his team, the way they answered him, respect and trust, both ways. Challenges too. She watched and listened but didn't talk, didn't dare too. His team, his meeting. She couldn't get over how good Bridget had played it. The meeting was better that the files, and the files were riveting. The file, singular, since Christopher had given her just the one.

"Come, sweetie, I'll give a tour of the precinct then we'll have lunch downstairs," Bridget offered after the meeting.

No wonder Christopher could eat anything anywhere. After years of exposition to food from the basement's cafeteria from hell, his system was immune to all. What was the special of the day, cardboard? Wet mushy cardboard. She barely ate half of her plate. The coffee was worse. Brownish waste water. It explained why there were so many bad cops, there was something in the food.

"Tell me about Frédéric, I think you skipped a few details when you briefed me on him."

"Not that you needed it, you handled him very well, dear. As you saw, Fredrick is, well, how can I say this? He is not really on the team. Not really out either." No surprise there, misfit geeks often lived on the fringes of society. "Fredrick is still a kid even though he is over twenty now. He truly is a genius with an I.Q. over the top. But he has the maturity of a sixteen-year-old on a good day, thirteen on a bad. And, dear, I'm afraid most days are bad."

"How did he end up with the team?" Bridget smiled and shook her head at the same time. "Let me guess. Christopher found him on the street somewhere."

"Yes. Officer MacLaren did take the kid off the street. He is slightly autistic, somewhat asocial, but he does help with delicate technological matters when needed."

"The team's geek squad all by himself."

"Indeed. Fredrick works mostly alone from the technical and computer rooms you saw next to the cafeteria. One has to know how to talk to him to get the work done and frankly, except for the Chief, nobody knows how to talk to him, but all things considered, he is helping."

Patricia had found the file waiting on her desk when she returned after lunch. Thick folder. Three-year-old case. She browsed through the documents, stopping on the pictures. Two bodies. A horribly lacerated man and a horribly lacerated woman. Unpleasant death to say the least. She forced herself to look. After only the sixth picture, she slowly rose from her chair. Slowly walked to the door, not the main door all the way at the other end of the room next to Christopher's office but the one closest to Bridget's desk. Walked, faster, down the back hallway to the ladies' room that turned out to be the men's also. Two doors, one room. She checked the room was empty before locking herself in the stall in the farthest corner. Then she threw up. It must be the damn cardboard food. If only she were so lucky.

The vomiting was her visceral reaction to stress and dead bodies. She rinsed her mouth as best as she could, pasted a smile on her face, pinched her cheeks a few times to get some colour back before going back. She nodded at Bridget and hoped nobody suspected the reason for her toilet trip. She looked at Reid, smiling at little and the woman turned back to her computer, no smile. She finger-waved at LeRoy standing in Christopher's door frame. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading the file without looking at a single picture.

She left at four thirty, same time as Bridget. Perfect first day (heaving excluded). Although she was comfortable with Bridget's affection and Shapiro's fatherly attitude, she wasn't sure yet how she felt about Reid, Hamilton and DesForges. Frankke seemed ok; she liked silent guys. As for Fredrick, well, he was like some of Joshua's weird friends, and she liked weird, she so easily related. The kid was a cutie, with the way he had stared at her. Hopefully, Christopher had noticed. He probably had, seeing as he was angry at her. Unless it was about her attending the meeting? In any case, she wouldn't call him tonight and neither would he.

"I don't want to be the Chief's mistress," she had explained over the weekend.

"And I don't want you NOT to be."

Another conversation that had gone very smoothly.

Like any regular working gal, she stuck to the same routine every day. She wore the same basic outfit, only changing the cut of the jeans, the colour of the jacket, a t-shirt for a shirt or vice-versa. The boots, hair and the glasses were the same all week. In at eight-thirty, a little chatting with Bridget and whoever else was in. She kept her conversations with Christopher to a minimum as she feared anyone seeing them together would know. He was a sexy Chief but thankfully, he wasn't in much and neither were the guys. They stopped by, one or two at a time, made calls or worked on their computers for a couple of hours and left. Some came in early, some stayed late, some came to chat at her desk, some didn't. And all day, she worked on the file, read it, re-read it, made notes, re-read part of it again, copied out some passages. Christopher had only given her a paper version of the file, no doubt some computerised version existed somewhere in the police database but she wasn't given access. She could have made a few calls − she had friends who knew their ways around computers, did she not? − but considering all she had gone through to get that one file, she chose to stay quiet for now.

Daydreaming, thinking up worlds and characters and plots, sitting in her chair or swivelling it help her writing process. She did so often, in coffee shops, in bars, at her hotel, and now at the office. Staring at the wall helped the researcher in her but was a pain for the rest of her. How was she to know who came in and out? But if she turned the desk the other way, she'd miss her wall. Worse, imagining Christopher's face, the ironic smile tilting the corner of his mouth, was enough to dissuade her. Besides, some people were uncomfortable, especially women, when she did the daydreaming thing. Worse, some men thought her dreamy gaze was a come-on. She wasted time on the Web in search of a mirror that didn't look like a mirror, something to spy on the going-ons in the large room without being obvious about it. It turned out mirrors looked like mirrors. She considered hanging a large frame with a dark coloured image and a glossy protective glass but decided it would be too obvious. She settled instead on a (extremely) large and very shiny kettle pot.

Her new working woman routine, out of the office at four, back home at well after five, damn bus, damn traffic, included a stop at her hotel's bar. She appreciated her after-work glass of red wine and her chat with her bartender friend. Truth be told, she had had a pleasant short-lived (as in three-night) little fling with the man (after Joshua, before Christopher). They both liked more the talking with the bar between them thing than the naked in a bed thing. Well, at least she did. Now they were friends.

The hotel bar had a row of decorative antiques on a shelf behind the counter. "Look at this thing," her bartender friend suggested, taking a ginormous antique kettle pot polished to a shine from the shelf and holding it in front of her. She must have looked confused because he added, 'Look with it, babe."

The bar's small armchairs and tables. The piano in the corner. The door on her right. The guy sitting on the far end to the left. They all came back distorted but the roundness of the kettle revealed a wider angle than a mirror could. A perfectly inconspicuous decoration hence her new office kettle pot.

Her working woman routine grew old rapidly. Thursday night, she went for a night out with Ingrid. She stayed out (too) late and awoke (too) late the next morning. Friday. Finally! With barely enough time to shower, she rushed off to work with her hair au naturel, her evening purse in lieu of her makeup case and no glasses. Red lipstick, black eyeliner and mascara were overly striking for the office, but she was too pale from her hangover to forego makeup and too tired to do subtle. To make matters worse, the wind was more storm than light breeze. By the time she reached the office, her hair had been wind-dried in curls over the place. And did her damn fancy purse contain a single headband or elastic? Of course not! She was in at eight-thirty sharp.

# Patricia's lunch date

Damn, what are they all doing here? In she entered, cheeks burning from her moment in the spotlight. In she walked, breathless for her sprint up the stairs. In she marched, wind-blown hair and bus ride's sultry make-up. The two minutes it took her to cross the infinite room ended her week-long effort of keeping a low profile. She avoided looking at Christopher, smiled tightly at Hamilton and DesForges, nodded at Frankke, and Reid glared at her. The kettle pot reflected not the composed cop look-alike trainee but a woman on a wild night out. Also visible in the magic kettle were the four pairs of eyes studying her. Christopher was hidden in his office. Which she did not take as a good sign.

Feeling vulnerable made her feel defensive and like always, defensiveness led to offensiveness thus a plan of attack. What was there to attack but the file? She wanted more but more what? More files? More of the file? What more was there? Hum. So she had yet to look at all of the pictures. Who knew pictures of bleeding bodily parts could put a damper on a writer's imagination? No laws said she couldn't visit the scene of the crime and the lieu de residence of the victims before going through the pictures.

By the end of the morning, she had her tour planned out. Unfortunately, the terrible twos were still in. Maybe I should get to know the team, she thought. Have the guys come out to lunch with me.

"Like your new look, Patricia babe," Hamilton commented.

The guy was a sleaze. Did any of his lines work with real women? Hopefully not. DesForges wasn't much better, but he was content to sit and grin.

She was good at being nice, good at faking it anyway. Flattery and smiles worked wonders even on macho cops. Especially on macho cops. Not that they needed much convincing. "How about showing me a good place, one you two like," she suggested. Her mistake for asking.

Their tastes in food were as bad, if not worse, than their choice of pick-up lines. Smelly diner, greasy fried food and waitresses with big breasts. She had a combo of hot dogs, oil-soaked fries and lame sexist jokes. Those guys can't be for real, for sure Christopher put them up to it. Or else she wondered, what side of Christopher she hadn't seen yet. Nonetheless, she kept on smiling, kept on talking, even kept on flirting a little. By the end of their two-hour lunch hour, she had heard all of their pickup lines. Please, let there not be more. Their répertoire was a success, though, for the duo gathered five phone numbers and lewd invitations.

To top it off, she also learned some disturbingly intimate details on the two's mating habits and preferences, details she intended to forget for all eternity.

"Fun lunch, Pussycat." Pussycat? "We'll have to do it again. Drinks later?"

"Fuck, Ham, we have a date, remember?" Thank you, Officer DesForges.

"Some other time then, Puss. We'll ask Frankke to join."

"Not many black cops around, but Frankke does the job so don't hold it up against him. He's a mute at the table, but he picks up the tabs."

"He did it only the once," DesForges interjected. "Le does it more often."

"More often than you, asshole, but the guy won't shut up. He's a fucking comedian. Better we take Shapiro. He's known all over and can get us extras in restaurants, and not just Italian places."

"Shapiro won't let us ogle Italian chicks. You're not Italian, Babydoll, are you?" Wish I was. "Unless we take Reid. Would you like that, Doll?" For that one, Hamilton smirked at her. "The two of you looked good at the meeting." Was it a ménage à trois or a lesbian show Hamilton was hoping for?

"Does she pick up the tab?" And let you ogle Italian women. Damn. Was Reid Latino heritage the same as Italian for those guys?

"Reid doesn't pick up anything."

"Roger that. The woman's a bitch...in' rookie."

"How long as she been with the team?" How long did one stay a rookie?

"Being a cop's a state of mind." Scary statement considering what she had seen of their minds over lunch. "I was never a rookie. We did the army, Des and me." Roger army, Officer Hamilton. "Let's forget Reid. She's a pain anyway."

"How about Christo...Chief MacLaren?"

"MacLaren's the man."

"Fucking A."

That's it? Damn. She would have appreciated some dirt on the Big guy but all in all, it had not been a bad lunch. The duo seemed to think she was a somewhat entertaining babe they could take out hence no threat to them. A threat to her perhaps, with Hamilton putting his arm around her shoulders during dessert, some brownish jelly for him, none for her. By the time they got back, his arm had taken into the habit. Jerk.

She was so cranked up after lunch, she went through every damn picture in her file, only throwing up twice. Not a problem, nobody was in, not even Bridget, the woman was off on Fridays afternoon. Again she blamed the food. She was so good at pretending.

# Patricia's partner

"Hey, Big guy! I have plans this weekend with Ingrid. Don't work too hard! See you soon." Very casual. Had she been honest with herself, she might have admitted her weekend at Ingrid was to hide from him in case he wanted to change his mind about the files or wanted to change her mind.

Came Monday she tried out a modified routine. The waves having done their official coming-out on Friday, she saw no point in fussing with her hair. She clipped only a small barrette in her wavy locks to keep her hair out of her face.

For the same no-fuss reason, the glasses were out. She kept the jeans, boot cut and thighs-and-ass hugging. The heeled boots stayed too because they made her legs look even longer, more trimmed she believed (more athletic, she hoped mostly). She retained the jacket but wore it now over a fitted black turtleneck under it. Green eyeshadow that made her blue eyes bluer. Pink lipstick made her look very professional (here again, hopeful thinking). As if she had momentarily forgotten she wanted to blend in with the guys, she didn't realise her re-interpretation of the plainclothes policewoman no more resembled Reid's. Without the hard edge and the street wear, she looked sleek, delicate and very feminine.

Temporary insanity she reflected as she waltzed into the precinct's front entrance. Every male policeman she crossed looked her over, two even whistled. Monday morning, eight-twenty, inside a police station, and she was whistled at! Cops were rude! With the team already in, her entrance in the homicide room didn't go any better. They all stared or so it felt. Hamilton came up to her and put his arm around her shoulders. Monday, eight-thirty and she was hit on. This was going to be a long week.

She hid in her corner as discreetly as possible. She researched her file's neighbourhood. Found a restaurant very close to the crime scene. So close in fact, she might be able to see the apartment building where the couple was found from her seat in the restaurant. Not the safest neighbourhood, though. Perhaps she could convince the dysfunctional duo to take her there? If last Friday's lunch had been a test, wasn't it time she gave them a test of her own?

The meeting was the highlight of her day. How was it she was the only one noticing how sexy Christopher looked in his plainclothes cop outfit? The tailor-cut dark brown suit, the crisp white shirt, the dark blue tie, and the cop face made him look too damn sexy. He always looked in control, wherever he was, whatever he was wearing, whatever he was doing and so much so in the office. He was such a good boss, tough but fair, demanding but appreciative. Not that she would ever have agreed to him being her boss, the guy was a hard-ass arrogant, controlling jerk. Officially she was Central's employee. Although, the term employee was far from accurate since she was barely getting paid anything. Nevertheless, she had an employee pass for the police station and an ID card from Central. Hence, she acted as a trainee research clerk and attended the Monday meeting.

A complete review of the team's cases under investigation! Christopher's frowns made it clear she didn't have the right to speak but just sitting in to observe and listen made her day. To see the team's minds at work was enlightening. It even gave her a little respect for the twins. A little. Until Hamilton put his arm around her shoulders again as they were leaving the conference room.

He got called to Christopher's office and left soon after, leaving her to wonder what Christopher had told him. The Big guy wouldn't order Hamilton to back off, would he? Surely he wouldn't dare, that would be like telling the entire team they had a thing. The man was impossible.

As on Monday, she avoided Christopher on Tuesday and Wednesday but her luck ran out on Thursday when she found him sitting on her desk when she walked in. The Big guy wasn't smiling.

She put her best smile on. "Good morning, Bridget, good morning, Chief!"

"Good morning, Patricia," Bridget answered back. "Did you have a pleasant evening? How was your ride this morning? It is a bit chilly today, isn't it?"

All too soon, Bridget turned to answer the phone, leaving her to stand in front of the not-speaking, not-smiling chief.

"Soooo...What's up?" That only got her a raised eyebrow. "Busy week?" Still no smile. She could use a kiss just about now, but he wouldn't of course, and neither would she, not here, no way! "I like the file you've given me." Damn it, that file was about two dead people, what was wrong with her? But she did like it. "It's very, hum, inspirational. Really." She kept on smiling. "So are the Monday meetings. I like those. Thank you. I'm very happy to work here." Smiling still, even if it killed her. "I like everything so far. Well, ah. Except the cafeteria food, that's horrible. I'm almost tempted to bring a lunch, can you imagine? Maybe I can have someone at the hotel make me a sandwich every morning. Or I could bring some leftover soup. I haven't been to that coffee shop Bridget told me about. Do you know it? Of course you do, we went there when−" she blushed and glanced around. Nobody to witness her blunder. "Hum. Anyway. Bridget said the whole station goes there from time to time and−"

"You're babbling, Patricia."<

Of course she was! He was making her nervous. She didn't know what he was up to and instead of chancing it being about her file, she was trying to fill the void. She took a deep breath, unconsciously straightening herself, raised her chin and put her hands on her hips. Ready for a fight Big guy.

"I just wanted to know how everything was going," he said. "Is the file interesting? When you're done with it, come see me and I'll get you another one, ok?"

"Ok Chief."

"So everything's fine then?"

"Yes, yes, everything's perfect, thank you."

"Don't mention it. Have a nice day then."

"Ah, hum, thanks. You too." No kiss, damn him. The man was infuriating!

She spent her morning staring at the damn file being angry. First, she got angry at Christopher. Then at herself for acting like a love-sick teenager AND an insecure spoil brat, a woman her age! Then she got angry at the jerk duo. To sum it up, she was somewhat angry at herself but mostly at the men in her life. The man.

She was still feeling like a bitch when Reid showed up around lunch time.

"Come on, Reid, I'm taking you to lunch." The woman had not once answered her salutation, and Patricia was fed up of being ignored. "I'll pay. And you do have to eat, you won't even have to talk."

She pulled Reid out of her chair.

# Reid

If truth be told, since Reid was after all a lot stronger than Patricia, if she had not wanted to go, Patricia couldn't have made her, but Reid was curious. The new trainee looked like the annoying women Reid saw in bars, at the gym, at the shopping center. Light, flirty, stupid. Except the woman had managed to keep her mouth shut at the meetings, had ignored the team's rude remarks with a smile, and had gone so far as being kind to the weirdo kid.

The woman. Reid was pissed. Why was Bridget so fond of the woman, taking her under her wings and forgetting all about her? Bridget was nicer to the woman than she had been to her in her first weeks. The old secretary had always been polite and supportive of her but big difference, she was... nice to Patricia. I have worked too hard to be part this team to be overshadowed by some pretty face walking off the street. And what was up with the Chief? Reid had caught MacLaren looking strangely at the woman. Not that she was jealous, she wasn't in love with the man, but he was the best fucking boss she has ever had. No need for the Chief to shout or make crude or suggestive remarks. From the start, MacLaren had expected the same from her as from his guys, and that in itself told Reid MacLaren respected her.

Fine, she admitted to being curious about the woman. Nobody had much information on her, except for Bridget and the Chief. And LeRoy, LeRoy seemed to know the woman somehow, to know of her but he wouldn't say anything. The guy acted like a loud mouth but when it came to the boss, he was as close as an oyster. Reid didn't like that Le seemed to appreciate Patricia. Didn't like it one fucking bit.

They went to Vitto's coffee shop. Reid knew the place already, it was close, and food was food.

Patricia made a fuss about the place. "I like your place. It's so very Italian," Patricia complimented Vitto, the short Italian guy that owned the place. "I love Italian coffee! And the wine! Did you do the decoration?" The woman went on to ask Marina, Vitto's wife. "It is so welcoming and cosy. Are you from the Tuscan region? The bells..."

Patricia and Marina went on and on about the little ceramic bells adorning the front door and by the time Reid and the woman ordered and got their sandwiches and coffees, the two Italians were smitten. How had she done that? The woman seemed genuinely pleased with the place. Peculiar woman. Reid flattered herself in being able to tell a phoney within the first five minutes yet she didn't know what to make of the woman.

All through their conversation, Reid kept asking questions. "Any brother or sister?"

Patricia kept answering back with questions of her own. "Strange that you should ask, I didn't figure you for the family type. I heard you trained a lot?"

At the end of the meal, they were at a stand still, each having put the other through their personal interrogation techniques, each realising the other had withstood the test.

Patricia broke the tie with an offensive move. "So, what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Seems to me you have two choices. You can keep ignoring me or we can be friends."

"So nice of you to give me a choice. What makes you think I need friends?"

"You get a choice because it's your office. And because I'm polite. And you do need friends because you said need and not want."

"Don't try to psychobabble me." Fuck that Patricia woman was weird. One moment she fitted right in, with Italians, with cops, with geeky weirdo kid and secretaries, then the next minute she turned into a jack-in-the-box. Like now. "I choose to ignore you."

"Being somewhat crazy myself, I think I'm highly qualified to psychoanalyse anyone," Patricia went on as she rested her hand softly on Reid's arm. "As for ignoring me, it's a little too late. We just did the lunch thing and soon you'll find that when I put myself to it, I'm a magnificent friend."

"A crazy friend, no doubt."

"It's the best kind! Besides, how many other screwy friends do you have?"

Reid had a couple of close male friends. She didn't relate to women all that much, her mother, some of her cousins, that was about it. As for female colleagues on the force, she worked with them fine but didn't hang out with them. The Chief's all-men team, with its in-your-face ways, was perfect for her. She didn't want a female friend, especially some weird, classy spirited friend like Patricia, but Reid was curious still. So she let herself be convinced to go for a drive.

The woman was a good story teller and having read the file over and over for the last eight days, she had apparently learned it by heart. "The male victim, let's call him Pierre. Or Pedro. Pedro's Spanish for Peter as you know. Pedro lived in the apartment building. So did the female victim, shall we call her Eva?"

Why the fuck would the woman want to change their names?

"Pedro and Eva weren't an item or anything. One lived on the third floor, the other on the first, with the woman on top. As it should be."

I'll agree with you on that one, girl. Although, from Patricia's smirk, she might have meant it as a joke.

"Eva had a regular nine-to-five job, Pedro worked nights. Nobody remembers seeing them together even once before the fatidic, or is it fatidical?... Albeit fatal might be better, the fatal day when they were found in the basement, dead. Top's and Bottom's apartments were not burglarised. None of their respective families and friends knew of the other. The police found no common acquaintances and absolutely no signs of a previous encounter between the two, sexual or otherwise. In fact, the only thing they had in common was their deaths. Bottom Pedro was stabbed squarely in the back, and so was Top Eva. Then both in turn or one after the other, sometimes it's more interesting not to know all the details, don't you think?"

What the hell did the woman mean?

"Their mixed blood oozing gently from dozens of knife gashes slowly stained the laundry room the colour of crimson love."

Reid couldn't help the smile at Patricia's description.

"A tad overly dramatic? Shall I try gruesome? Dead found them with arms and torso hacked in a dozen places, larva festering in the lacerations, for the bodies were found twelve hours after their deaths on a hot morning. Blood thicken by the heat radiating from the drier machine made the white tile floor sticky and oddly beautiful. By accident or was it the killer's intention, Pedro's and Eva's body lay dead on either side of the floor drain. Between them, veins of pink, red and purple crisscrossed the floor, intertwining the wrinkles of male and female blood. I imagine the room was filled with a patchwork of the smells. The clean scent of soap and the lavender of the fabric softener overpowered by that of blood and urine. Pedro and Eva were defiled post mortem. The killer used a medium-sized cylindrical object still to be found. It's not in the file, but I will make it a lint roller."

Weirdest report Reid had ever heard.

With Reid's badge and Patricia's smile, the janitor, a Mister Chum the woman kept calling Monnamee to the man's apparent pleasure.

"Not Monanamee, Reid. Mon ami. My pal. Mi amiguete. Mi amigo."

Mister Chum gave them a tour of both apartments, rented to others since the murders, and the basement with Patricia getting a resume of the janitor's testimony from the man himself. Weird as the woman's report had been, it was technically accurate.

"This was so much better than the file," the woman went into raptures after their visit. "I remember Chum's transcripts from the file. He was thoroughly and profusely interrogated by the police at the time. One of the cops noted Mister Chum was, with the building, the only thing the two victims had in common." She felt silent for a block before adding, "You know, Reid. You have an interesting job. You get to met the actors in person, the characters from the file. I just might do this again."

What was the damn woman about?

In retrospect, the visit was a small revelation for Reid. As soft and sexy looking as she was, Patricia was fucking stubborn and sneaky when it came to getting what she wanted. Replaying the visit in her mind, Reid realised it was Patricia's antics that had convinced the janitor to give them a tour. Chum had first clamped up seeing the badge, seeing her, the Latino woman cop, but he had gone along with the badge-less woman. No need to threaten, no need to push, no need for a warrant, the woman had charmed the pants off of him. Reid would remember the lesson. Lethal and useful. Not that she thought herself capable of pulling it off. She didn't have the dreamy yet eager air about her that Patricia had gotten visiting the building, but she might take the woman with her sometimes if she needed to get in somewhere discreetly.

"Nothing's bothering you about the file?"

"I haven't read your file, girl. It was before my time."

"Right. Maybe you should read it. There's something off. I can't put my finger on it." Patricia lapsed into silence after that, staring at the dashboard and frowning.

As Reid was parking the car, Patricia reviewed the case again out loud, more to herself than for Reid's benefit but Reid listened and found herself getting caught up in the story again. Patricia had such a peculiar way of looking at things. She wasn't only going through the facts as Reid did. Victims. Weapons. Means. Opportunities. She was reviewing all possible scenarios, all the little plots she had made up during their afternoon, adding them up, filling the holes, making things up when needed. Like the lint roller. By the end, just like that, the woman had decided that Eva's ex-husband was the killer.

"Where the fuck did you get that from?"

"It does explain the murder." The fact that it came out of nowhere didn't seem to bother Patricia one fucking bit.

"You don't explain murders; you solve them."

"Yes, but what if−"

"No fucking what if. You can't go around making false accusations or inventing husbands and lint roller!" Undocumented. Absolutely impossible to prove. Reid was appalled yet fascinated. How could someone working for the police, even if only as a temp-clerk, be so delusional?

# Alternate Series: Showtime

The man was totally infuriating! Did he think she didn't know what he was up to? Did he think he was the first one to try?

She liked the music; she liked the ambiance; she liked the clientele. Well, most of the clientele, the couples, mainly (although she had been propositioned by couples too, just not as much). Mostly she liked the money. Indecent really, the amount of money she earned in a night. Indecent really, how little she had to work for it. Yes, she had to wear black dresses, no big deal she liked wearing dresses. Yes, she had to smile and be nice, not so hard since she was naturally nice, and she did smile a lot naturally. Yes, she was propositioned. Then again, so was she in restaurants and coffee shops and on the subway. Not always, just when she had the make-up-hair-wild-short-tight-dress going. Not so much propositioned as looked at, stared at, groped or grabbed.

She really liked the money. Three nights of work against the rest of the week free to do as she pleased. She used to work in an office, filing and stuff. Long hours, small wages, no time and energy left to do her things after. Shorter hours, bigger pay, plenty of time and energy left. Working at the club was physically tiring, but whatever she did there, whoever she met, her mind was free to wander. Body doing one thing, mind somewhere else, not that hard a job, nothing she had not done before. She liked the money now. Even with the man around. Not that he was that bad, not worst than most of the others. Almost handsome, politely arrogant, but damn it, she just couldn't stand cops.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Patricia's perfect place

On the same day she befriended Reid, the police found another dead woman. Well, if one was punctilious about such details, Blondy and the staff at the Cabaret found the woman and in a subsidiary manner, so did she.

"Hi, Patricia? It's me." Had Blondy's voice always been so high-pitched? "Are you busy? Please come over as soon as possible. I'm at the Club."

She briefly thought of asking Reid to drive her but didn't, her still non-existent friendship with Reid being, well, non-existent. Beginning maybe but not to be counted on for now so a cab it was. She found a jumpy Blondy smoking by the side door.

With all the lights on, the Cabaret looked old and out-of-date. The ashtray on the bar was overspilling.

"I can't stand this, Patricia. I don't want to see the police."

Not a good start. "Of course not." She wrapped her arm around Blondy's shoulders soothingly. "Any reason you should, hum, need to see the police again?" Blondy being a fille de joie, it went without saying cops weren't Blondy's favourite people.

"You understand, don't you, Pattie? I do not want to see cops!"

"An entirely understandable sentiment as far as I'm concerned, yet it doesn't explain what's going on. Where is everybody?"

"Nobody's in," Blondy said. "I was the first one to come in today." She inhaled deeply and blew a puff of smoke from her cigarette. "I took it easy, had myself a drink before getting ready." The woman's puff of smoke was followed by a nervous glance around. "I used to the ladies' room. Had to refresh my makeup and all." A puff of smoke following a puff of smoke. "There was no hand paper towels left. The bitch hadn't filled them up yesterday; she never does her job right."

Although Patricia wasn't clear on which bitch Blondy was referring to, she kept on nodding like she understood.

"Every time! You know how she pisses me off! It's not like we're paid extra for filling up the dispensers, right?" A puff of smoke. "I went up to get some towels from the storage room." Blondy momentarily interrupted her storytelling as a new smoke was lighted up with the end of the still burning butt. Puffs of smoke. "That's where I had found her." What?! "In the corner." I don't want to hear this. "I thought she was sleeping. Fucking sleeping! But she's not." Cloud of smoke. "So I called you." Thanks for nothing. "You know some cops, right? So you can help." Help with what? I'm lousy with dead bodies.

Having said all that, Blondy stopped talking, put her head in her hands and started crying.

What? Patricia's mind was blank. What? Who? "Are you sure? Who is it? Maybe she's sick or unconscious? An epileptic attack perhaps? " Stupid of her, each time she had, hum, met a dead corpse she had known right away the dead was dead, Blondy would have known too. Only one way to be sure, though. Damn. "Here, have a cigarette, I'll be right back."

She headed for the stairs. She didn't run or anything, heck no, but took the stairs one by one, slowly, breathing in and out, in and out. Preparing herself. Bracing herself.

Reedy, the other woman she had almost liked, was sitting on the floor in the corner, her back to the wall, and her slim legs stretched out in front of her. With her head leaned propped on the corner wall, eyes closed and a serene expression on her face, it was easy to think she was sleeping. She sat undisturbed except for the unbuttoned blouse exposing her breasts. White skin. Too white. Even her nipples were white. Patricia crept closer and lightly brushed the girl's skin above her right breast where the skin was the palest, with the tip of her forefinger. The skin was cold, soft, powdery. The tip of her finger came back white. Think!

Did the other woman have powder on her skin like this one? She should have asked Christopher about it on their dreadful date instead of running away. It suddenly felt vital to know. Panic came and with it came panting. The pants made her breathe again, a first breath since coming up the steps. Unfortunately, breathing was followed by smelling, horrible dead flesh peculiar stink. Nausea followed. She ran back downstairs and threw up in the men's room. It took her a few minutes to brush her teeth with her fingers and calm herself before returning to Blondy. The woman hadn't moved from the bar, but the crying had stopped and she was back to smoking again, her face a lifeless mask.

"When did you see her last?" No answer. "Did you move her? Was she like that when you found her?" No answer. "It's going to be ok. You're safe. The others will be in soon, and we'll take care of everything." Her voice had a high pitch she didn't recognise. Finding a dead body when one was alone wasn't exactly the same as finding one when one knew Christopher was nearby, was it? Christopher's going to be so mad.

She went around the bar and poured herself a drink, first bottle she laid her hand on, a big glass, and drank the amber liquid in one sharp gulp. Scotch, Christopher's drink, how damn appropriate. Only then did she notice two other glasses on the counter. Blondy hadn't been alone after all. Had they all run off? Action-reaction and her offensive mode kicked in. She went back to Blondy and started shaking her, firing questions with each shake.

"Where are the others? Who exactly found the body? How long since somebody went into the storage room?" The Cabaret was closed Sunday to Wednesday so the girl might have been there since then. Must have, if she had deciphered the smell right. Damn.

"The doorman and the boss were in, but I found the girl. The men went up to take a look but left." Italian mafia boys running off after seeing a corpse, how ironic (Future investigation would show that both men had a history with the woman. Friendly staff, nothing more).

"Ok. Hum." her next step should be simple enough. "You have to call the police. Don't worry, I'll stay with you as long as you need. You don't have anything to worry about, sweetie." After all, the woman hadn't done anything, right? "You haven't done anything, right? Right?"

"No! Not today but I... you see... A small rap sheet, nothing really. Misdemeanours. Tricks. What if they put this on me? I... We... you know what a bitch she could be and... Anyway, there was this guy. Big tipper. Quick job. He asked for me, you know? She made a fuss. Her john, my john, it's the same to the Club, right?" Blondy implored. "Right?"

Patricia stared back, speechless. She had naïvely thought Blondy and Reedy didn't do that type of clients, at least not anymore.

"So you understand, no way can I call the cops. I was counting on you to take care of it." What? "You know what, It's better if I leave. It'll go easier with your cop friends if you handle it alone."

"Shush, it's going to be ok. It is going to be all ok," she whispered to Blondy, but her mind was stuck on the What. What do I do. What the hell do I do? "I'm going to call a policeman I know." Good plan. He's going to be so mad. "You'll see, he'll take care of everything," including me. "He'll see you don't have any problems, you haven't done anything wrong here, right? Right?"

"No, no, of course not," Blondy swore again. "For sure I ain't got nothing to do with her death.

Okeydokey then. Good plan. Patricia picked up the Club's phone to call the soon-to-be mad policeman but stopped. She couldn't possibly leave the dead woman half naked as she was. Macho cops like Hamilton probably wouldn't refrain from staring at the woman's breasts even if she was dead. Dead women shouldn't be stared at. She had ran off on her previous naked woman, but she wouldn't this time. Surely she could cover Reedy up without touching anything.

She ran back upstairs only to run back down just as fast. The smell was terrible. Not worse than before, but now that she knew it was there, it suffocated her. Beauty products were kept in the private lounge for reasons now obvious. She chose a bottle of cheap, strong perfume and headed back the stairs. She sprayed perfume in front of her face all the way up the stairs, all the way in the corridor, around the small storage space and kept on spraying while she looked around the shelves. She found a pile of folded tablecloths and delicately draped one over the woman's chest. When she came back downstairs, Blondy was nowhere to be seen. So predictable.

Now, what? If she told Christopher over the phone, he might have Blondy arrested. If she called the local police, they might arrest Blondy and her. She couldn't, wouldn't leave Reedy alone for someone else to find. She could wait for Blondy to come back or someone else to show up... Right. Like that was going to happen. Any way she went about it, Christopher was going to know and get mad, hence better to deal with him directly.

# MacLaren at the Cabaret

Mad didn't come close to describing his feelings. He knew something was up as soon as he picked up his cell phone and saw Patricia's number displayed on the screen. She wasn't calling his life-and-death number. But then again, she hadn't simply left a message on his damn answering machine as was her habit. Just her calling him direct on his cell a weekday knowing full well he would answer hinted that the something about to fall on him was going to be big.

"Speak."

"Hi, Big guy! It's me! How are you? Are you alone? Am I interrupting something?" Of course he was alone, as he had been ever since she started the damn fucking filing job.

"I'm good for now. Yes to being alone. No to interrupting. Damn it, Patricia, speak already!"

"Yes. Ah. Hum. Are you busy? Do you think you could come and pick me up?"

"Not busy." Never too busy for you. "Sure. Where?"

"You're sure you're alone?"

"Yes. Where at, Princess?"

"At the Cabaret. Thanks." And the damn woman hung up!

It took forever to drive to the damn club. If she ever wanted another first date, he was going to take her to his place. Maybe she might show up there more often! He didn't have any fucking smoke left in the car. Not that he smoked on regular days, he kept telling himself. A cigar during his poker games. A cigarette on his terrace after a arduous sequence of murders. Truth be told, he barely smoked at all before. Before. He was smoking more these days; it relaxed him when he couldn't go running or hit something. Having her naked against him worked even better, but he wasn't getting much of that lately, probably wouldn't be getting any today either. He spent the ride cursing, making himself angry to keep from worrying. The Cabaret! What the hell kind of excuse was she going to come up with this time? It better not be about some fucking research!

His mind was reeling. Had she wanted to go back to the Cabaret, she would have simply gone, no need to tell him. Better not to let him know. Something was very wrong. Otherwise, she wouldn't have called him. He had a massive knot in the pit of his stomach.

She was waiting for him by the side door, chin raised, blue eyes wide in a pale unsmiling face. They stood face to face for the briefest moment, stiff and gauging before she came to him. Putting her arms around his waist, she nestled her face into his neck, soft lips against his skin. His arms closed around her instinctively, holding her close, pulling her closer. He smelled alcohol on her breath and cheap perfume in her hair, not one of her usual perfumes. He knew how to interpret her moods from those. The cheapo stink didn't tell him anything good.

He waited a beat, enjoying the feel on her in his arms, before coaxing softly, "Speak."

She let out a long sigh before pulling herself back enough to look up at him. "Promise me you won't get mad."

She wasn't afraid of him behind mad, his anger she usually handled with some of her on. She was merely stalling. "Too late for that, Angel. Speak."

"Ok. Here it is. You know how I'm friend with some of the women here?" Merely acquaintances, Angels shouldn't befriend hookers. "And visiting isn't the same as working, is it? I came to visit Blondy, you know, the blond that was... hum, the girl I worked with? We met up here because she was working tonight." Was? The knot in the pit of his stomach grew heavier. Where is Blondy now, Angel of mine? "We went in and had a drink, and maybe a smoke. Well, she did, I don't smoke now, do I? When I went to the ladies' room, I noticed it was missing some paper towels. Blondy said she was going to get some upstairs, but I offered to do it for her. After all, I know where they're kept, right? When I went to the storage room, ah, hum, well, when I went to the storage room, I sort of found one of the women there. I think she is somewhat... deceased." Somewhat deceased, as in dead? "So I ran back downstairs to call the police but when I told Blondy, she freaked. You know, because of the prostitution charges, I think she's afraid of the police, n'est-ce pas? So I thought it would be easier if I handled it alone. That's why I sent her home and called you."

She stopped talking. Waiting, hoping for more, he didn't speak right away. Nope, she was done talking. "Where's the body now? You didn't touch anything, did you?"

"Upstairs, in the storage room. Certainly you're not implying I moved it?" Angry voice. She was getting ready. Good. He was getting angrier by the second.

"Stay."

He went to see for himself. Sure enough, there was a dead woman in the storage room. And that cheap perfume smell. He had smelled it in the staircase some. In the small room the stench almost hid the smell of the body. Back downstairs he found Patricia behind the bar having a drink. Red wine. She probably thought the worst was over.

"So. What do you think?"

"Murder."

"Are you sure?"

Of course, he was sure! What the hell did she think he did for a living? "Yes."

"Ok. That's what I thought too. Did you notice how white her skin is?" He sat at the bar in front of her. "Like the woman in the house Belly Roger found." The love of his life was a sharp observer.

"Yes. A coincidence probably."

"You don't believe in coincidences. So it's probably the same guy." No doubt about it, she was smart. It wasn't so much as he didn't believe in coincidences, as that he had yet to come across a real coincidence in a case.

"We'll see."

"So, what's next? Who do we call first?"

"We don't call anyone. Not yet."

"Why not? We can't leave her there!"

"I won't. But first, tell me again how you found her."

"Why? You don't think I had anything to do with it? Really, Big guy. I liked her! Besides, I'm no specialist but from the smell, I think she's been there a while." Thus, she indirectly justified the overpowering smell of cheap perfume in the room; Pussycats had sensitive noses.

"Indulge me. Tell me again, Angel."

She did. Same story, same lies. He had to give it to her, she knew how to lie. Considering she probably got stuck with the body less than an hour ago, it was a good story. She retold her story with an impressive precision of details. The fucking devil was in the details and angels had it down to an art. From Bridget he knew she had left around four. It was only a little after six. Hence, counting the drive over and the spraying of perfume and the covering of the body, it meant she had had about half an hour of spare time. To do what? To spent with whom? He joined her behind the bar as she was wrapping up her act.

"Would you like a drink, Big guy?"

"No." He wanted a scotch, but the drink would have to wait. The bar was spotless, and the ashtrays were cleaned.

She watched him look around and smiled. "A cigarette then?"

"No." He wanted a scotch and a smoke.

"Ok. What then?"

Damn woman. "I want a drink and a smoke and a fuck, needless to say, with you. But that has to wait. For now. Now, I want the truth." She started to speak, but he pulled her by the waist before covering her mouth with his hand. She frowned and tried to push him away. He didn't move. "Spare me, Pussycat. I know you're lying. I can always tell." Too many question marks when she told a story was one of the signs. "Try again."

He uncovered her mouth. Too soon. "You are infuriating! What makes you so sure I'm lying? And really, what difference does it make? The important thing is, you have the body now. Get to work, damn it!"

He put his hand back over her mouth. "Wrong. Try again." He held her tight, feeling her warmth, her thigh between his, her breasts brushing against his chest, her lips against his palm, her hands resting on his arm. When she stopped trying to push him away and shrugged ever so slightly, he let go. Too bad. He had gone from a half-cock to a full hard-on in the minute it had taken her. She rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. She was right, he was impossible. But it was entirely her fault.

# Her job assignment

She told him of course. She had to. She told him everything. How scared Blondy had been. The perfume and the tablecloths (not that he hadn't already figured it out). She also told about the other two she suspected had been in before her. She might have switched the full ashtray by a clean one, but she had placed the dirty ashtray and glasses in a plastic bag. The damn woman knew had to protect a scene (and he'd bet a month's pay the damn woman hadn't left a single fingerprint doing so). He made calls never taking his eyes off her. And soon after, the place became crowded. Cops in uniforms, forensics, technicians, some of the team. Then Blondy, the doorman. Then the owner.

She spent the rest of the evening by Christopher's side or not too far away. Listening and watching was fun now that she didn't have to look or smell the body. She did catch a whiff when they took it out but nothing too distressing. It helped that by then she was on her third or fourth glass of wine on an empty stomach. The wine numbed her. Feeling numb was much easier than feeling sad. Christopher had sent for food, but she had not been able to eat a bite. She liked being on the case, mostly she liked watching Christopher work. He was in his element and had perfect control of the scene, seemingly knowing what everybody was doing where and to whom. Even her. Especially her.

Blondy insisted she stayed with her while the police interrogated her. Which in turn made the boss man demand the same. And the others that had showed up one by one. Being neither the interviewer nor the interviewee was grand. She wanted to take notes for her stories but, noting Christopher narrowing his eyes at her, decided against it. From the looks of him, the Big guy was still angry because of her lying. What did it matter who had found the body? Nobody from the Cabaret had anything to do with it, and the crime scene had not been contaminated (for sure the table cloth was clean).

Chris kept an eye on Patricia at all times. He was angry at the staff, particularly at the blond woman for running out on her. As a boyfriend, as a cop, as a friend, he found it unacceptable. The blond bitch didn't deserve Patricia's comfort, let alone her friendship. It pissed him off he had no fucking way of preventing his damn girlfriend from holding the hooker's hand during the interrogation. Having Patricia dragged in the case made him even angrier.

As she had learned when listening in on the team's and the staff's preliminary information on Reedy, her dead colleague had a lot in common with the dead woman found in the old abandoned house. Both were (had been?) single. No boyfriend, no close family in the city. Both were found partly naked. Both with some white powder stuff on them. Was it a serial killer? She tried to sneak up as the tech guys were upstairs working. And, thanks to a sweet but somewhat wobbly smile and a soft hand on one's arm, they would have let her in, but Christopher stopped her before she reached the landing. Impossible man!

Woozy from the lack of food, the lack of sleep, and the emotions of the day, she finished her evening curled up in one of the cigar room armchairs. Christopher drove her home well past after two. Tomorrow is a workday, he better not be thinking of staying over. She was too tired to argue when he escorted her to the hotel's front door, to the elevator, to her door, to her bed. She really needed a shower; she stunk of perfume and stale cigar yet she crawled right into bed, fully dressed. Thankfully Christopher removed her shoes. She dreamt more than felt Christopher slide in next to her.

Six o'clock sharp. Shaking her until she opened an eye, he woke her up enough to do his cop thing. "I expect you in at nine sharp. We're going to go over last night, and you are going to review the staff's testimonies with the team."

"Get lost," she mumbled and rolled over.

"I'm serious, Patricia."

"So am I. You don't need me there."

She went back to sleep. For a whole ten minutes. Then she started thinking. What had that been about? Unlike him, she wasn't a damn machine and wasn't functional with only three hours of sleep. Was he making her pay for holding hands and listening in on the interrogations? Or for being on a case? Could be for lying. That seemed unfair, she did have good reasons to lie. Surely, he wasn't expecting her to be there for real, was he, since there was no way he was going to let her in on the case. Not that it wouldn't be fun to try, a serial murderer loose in the city would be fascinating research! She had already met two of the victims... Damn! The two women had another thing in common. Her. Damn again. Entirely coincidental yet the thought completely woke her up. No way was she going to miss that meeting now.

She hurried to the shower where she scrubbed herself hard before smearing herself with expensive cream. Going for a sophisticated and polished look, she took her time putting on her makeup. Blush, red lipstick, mauve eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara. Sophisticated and refined for her clothes also, hence no cop disguise but a pair of high heels, dark blue below-the-knee pencil skirt, matching silky tank top and slim-fitting jacket. Very professional, she could pass herself off as a lawyer.

She timed the cab ride to walk into the office at nine sharp. A nod to the guys, a whistle back from Hamilton. A nod and a smile to Bridget, a smile back. A nod and a smile to Reid, nothing back in return. Held back a smile and a nod to the Big guy, a pair of raised eyebrows in return. She dropped her purse on her dinged desk and walked in the conference room with Frankke, Christopher and Reid.

"Frankke's in charge of the case," the Big guy announced right off. "With Reid as his right-hand man."

Frankke had joined them in the evening the night before, but Reid hadn't so Christopher spend some time going over the case with them. From Reid's sullen expression, anyone could tell the policewoman didn't like being the last one to know, maybe especially after her? A first test for their new yet inexistent friendship.

Needless to say, the friendship failed the test. Reid stormed out after the meeting, completely ignoring her. So much for that. What was Reid's problem, it wasn't like she had stolen the spotlight in the meeting?! The guys hadn't asked her anything, and all she had volunteered were nods in agreement of whatever the men were saying. Not that she would have had anything pertinent to say. The damn infuriating man was just toying with her! A complete waste of time from her point of view.

The night had been too short, and her patience was running thin. Sleep deprived, she often went bitchy. Hence, she figured it was the perfect time to take the boys out to lunch.

"My turn to choose, guys." She was going to take them to the restaurant across her cold case's apartment building. "You guys don't mind the drive, do you?" She didn't wait for their answer. "It's a little off center, in a rough neighbourhood. I wouldn't dare go there by myself, but it's supposed to be good. With two tough guys like you, I feel safe already." Subdue flattery wrapped in a smile, hair falling over her eyes, and a soft hand on the weakest arm, Hamilton's, they fell for it. And why wouldn't they, they didn't know the details of her cold case.

Sleepless nights weren't the best of advisors. She was now sitting opposite them in a small diner across from the apartment building and, as she had realised somewhere along DesForges's useless shortcuts, a mere five blocks from the old house. She reconsidered her next moves as she chewed her fries. Since she had already visited her file's murder location, there was no point in going back there until she had something new to check up. But Pedro's family lived in this part of town, perhaps she could take a cab after lunch? And stop by the old house on the way? To soak in the neighbourhood and take pictures, she told herself. It wasn't a big detour, was it? Bright daylight, a breeze, perfect plan. She had been too freaked out that night to do much besides be angry at Christopher, find the body and throw up but today she was in splendidly bitchy form. Too bad she had not thought of it earlier, she would have dressed differently.

Lawyer outfit was too much for house calls and over-the-top for the creepy house tour, but it was perfect for the infernal duo, big softies that they were. Because they said good things about Christopher and because they were easy enough to handle, she was starting to like them. Keep at a distance and play ditsy. Also, because the two had been friends a long time, male bonding she liked, and two of the city's toughest teasing each other like an old couple, she found their dynamic oddly sweet. To outsiders, she might look like a very expensive uptown lawyer sitting with her clients, drugs dealers from the looks of them, but their laughers, theirs and hers, broke the scene. They had such a nice relaxing lunch that she was taken completely off guard when on their way out, Hamilton's hand landed her butt.

She swivelled around fast and slapped his arm away. "Back off, asshole," she snapped between her teeth and walked out mad. Damn men, there was always one to mistake friendly for easy.

She stomped down the front porch only to bump into some jerk. Her mistake. Too busy thinking about how much she hated men, she hadn't been watching where she was going. The guy was big and smelly and visibly liked what he felt because he didn't stand aside. She tried backing away, but he only sneered. Strong smell of alcohol on his breath.

"How about a kiss, little missy?"

# A lesson in self-defence

What was with men today? Did Breath-man here think he was going to get a damn kiss? She kicked him. But he was holding her too close and with her ridiculous skirt, she didn't have enough room for her leg to gather momentum. Breath-man didn't even blink. She pushed back with her arms, but again he wouldn't budge. Hamilton and DesForges finally recovered from her walking out on them and walked out of the restaurant. They came to stand next to the guy, one on each side.

"So, Babydoll. Need a hand?" Hamilton wasn't helping his case.

"What do you think, genius?" She turned her face away for Breath in a vain attempt not to breathe in his fumes.

"I don't know, you kind of told me to back off." Hamilton the jerk was smiling at her. So was DesForges. The hell with them.

She might not be skilled in self-defence techniques, but she could do a couple of moves when she took her time. Apparently Breath wasn't going anywhere, and, hence she had plenty of time to concentrate. Her tough guys were useless anyway. She lightly stepped on Breath's foot, first feeling her way with the tip of her shoe, positioning her heel where the bone was closest to the skin. Once correctly positioned, she dug her heel in Breath's foot putting all her weight on it. The nanosecond Breath started to release his grip, she kicked him on the inside of the leg with her other heel. She freed herself. Such a sharp point, it must have hurt, but Breath wouldn't sustain any permanent damage.

When the tough guys started laughing, Breath got mad and threw a punch with his right hand. Difficult to say who the fist was aimed at, Patricia for kicking him, or one of the guys for making fun of him? In any case, by some bad luck, it caught DesForges on the side of the mouth, crushing his lower lip to his teeth. Blood dribbled. Rightfully deserved, you were laughing too earnestly. To the enfants terribles, the drunk jerk must have looked harmless. As they were focused on her, the guys were taken by surprise. Serves them right.

Breath tried to pound again with his left hand, but she punched him in the ribs. A hard blow that sent pain up her arm, brought tears to her eyes, and possibly bruised her knuckles (she chose not to look). Breath only slightly shuddered under the impact, but since his paw ended hitting thin air instead of flesh, hers wasn't a bad punch altogether. She rarely if ever got to hit anyone. It felt damn good.

After that, the tough guys finally caught on. Hamilton's jab to the Breath's ribs sent the jerk to his knees. Then DesForges put a foot on his back, bringing him face down on the sidewalk where he handcuffed him.

"Hum. Tough guy." Tough guys my ass. Those two got distracted way too easily; no way was she going to count on them in the future. "Not a good idea," she chastened softly.

"Stay out of it, Pussycat. It's assault on an officer."

Whatever. The guy's pride is hurt, poor baby. "No, it's not. He was assaulting me, not you, and I'm not pressing charges. He's drunk."

"He assaulted me too. I'm bringing him in."

"Really? And how are you going to explain that? You let him grab me. He's pissed drunk and still he managed to hit you." I had to save you guys. She didn't have to spell it out.

Hamilton decided on his own it was best to give Breath another hard blow before sitting him on a bus bench. They left him to rest. She discreetly slipped him her emergency tube of toothpaste before going back to the car. She had decided to postpone her plans until next week. For now she wanted ice.

They didn't talk much on the way back. No way was she going to admit to the two tough guys sitting up front that she had hurt her hand. Better to sit on it in a silly attempt to numb it.

They got back at three o'clock. Frankke and Reid had returned from their visit to the club with Christopher. Needless to say, what with DesForges's cut lip, her swollen hand and Hamilton's sulky attitude, they were subjected to the grand inquisition.

Hamilton and DesForges had known the boss for years, from before coming to work on his team, and before that, they knew of him. One couldn't do the type of jobs they did without getting to know one another well. When working a case, they sometimes needed to give each other information without talking, so nods, frowns, smirks were part of the team's dialect. Walking into the large office and catching the boss studying them, they knew. Finally! Patricia had been right thinking they got distracted too easily. They had been for the last two weeks, but the moment they walked in MacLaren's office, they realised the woman they had been toying with, the new trainee they liked maybe too much was off-limits. Sensing their chief's mood perhaps? In any case, they felt it in their guts.

A working MacLaren was perpetually on the hunt, either impatient, stoic, mad or fleetingly calm but always in control. MacLaren was the man. But at the moment, glaring at them three, the boss man looked beyond pissed. Controlled anger, the worst, clenched fists, clamped jaws, standing tall as if ready to pounce.

"My office," Chris's low voice ordered them. No need to add now, no need to yell.

They had no time to prepare yet following her lead they gave similar explanations.

"We had lunch," she started to explain. "Clumsy me, I caught my hand on the car door getting off. DesForges was too busy ogling a D-cup waitress and walked straight into the diner's door. Serves him right if you ask me."

Bottom line, the too sexy trainee lied to MacLaren. She looked the boss man straight in the eyes and fucking lied, not looking one bit scared at that. Bottom line, she covered their asses. Roger cover their asses. They knew most of it was their fault. Simply put, whatever happened, whatever she did, she wasn't trained. Therefore, they were in charge. Therefore, they were responsible. Guilty of the hand on ass. Guilty of leaving her in the arms of the drunk guy. They had seen it unfold from the inside of the diner and taken their sweet fucking time getting out.

Hence, belatedly, they did what gentlemen did. They followed her lead and lied too. They wouldn't have lost their jobs or anything, they had stepped out of line before and had taken the deserved punishments like men. But from MacLaren's reaction, both Hamilton and DesForges knew the trainee was something else, not sure what yet but for sure in a class by herself. The way she had tried to protect DesForges from Breath! The woman was kind of tall, but she wasn't heavy, not muscular like Reid, and yet she had taken three times her weight of drunk! Tough cookie, reckless and smart. And sexy. Lethal combination. Their kind of girl.

Patricia left mad as hell at him. He knew she was lying; she knew he knew; he knew she knew he knew, yet neither was ready to back down. A battle of wills as their fights often started. He hated that she had gotten hurt. Not that she had been in any real danger, not with Ham and Des at her side. The mood she was in, he wasn't expecting her home tonight. Better he planned on catching up on paperwork.

The guys lingered around, shuffling papers and shit around on their desks, probably waiting for him to calm down before they came into his office for a more thorough report. By standing up to him, Patricia had gotten two new allies. Ham and Des confessed to everything and took the blame. Fuck.

"Didn't you guys realise she took you to lunch near the crime scene of her file and the house where the white leg woman was found?" She had those two wrapped around her little finger now, he could tell by how they told the story. They took the all of the blame and covered for her.

Only good thing about the fucking incident, she had punched a guy. Given she only kicked, and only when she wasn't scared, punching the jerk was quite an exploit, close to a breakthrough. Perhaps he might finally convince her to take martial arts or self-defence lessons. He'd gladly volunteer to be her punching bag. Rolling around was something he always enjoyed with her.

But for now, what the fuck was he going to say to Ham? He couldn't let the guy grab his girlfriend yet he couldn't tell him about the relationship, such as it was. Best to keep it simple. "Back off of her."

Ham took the hint. Something in the chief's eyes. Dollface was way off-limits, and it was personal.

"And guys? From now on, you don't take her anywhere without letting me know beforehand. Discreetly."

# Alternate series: The arrest

Ok Princess, showtime.

Vice closed the place down. It took hours to search the place. They took the names and addresses of all of the clients in attendance, keeping the staff for last.

Quite an easy trick. You let them simmer for a while, and the tension builds. Get them ready for you, most of them anyway. The small change. Professionals were something else. She was something else.

Waitresses, hookers, pimps, even pimps dressed as Italian mafiosos, were small change. Once one started getting nervous, one started talking. Not much, but the first step was the toughest. The others followed.

She didn't. Hence his problem. Why didn't she talk? Why didn't she confess? Either she didn't have a clue, but how could she not, she was right next to the rest of them? She wore the fucking black dress every fucking night. Clueless or professional? She had the coolness of a top dog, but how top dog remained to be seen. Top dog enough to kill? Fuck, it would have been so much easier if she had simply agreed to the fucking cigar room.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Reacquainted

Chris called Patricia on Saturday afternoon. Getting her answering machine, he left a message that started nice but ended somewhat sharply. "Hi, Angel. Sunny day out, you out for a walk? If you don't have plans for later," you better not have plans for later, "how about we get together? And Patricia, do call back. I'll leave my cell open." He always had his cell open, not that it made one bit of difference to his damn girlfriend. "You know we have a few things we need to talk about." The fucking filing job. The Cabaret. The impromptu lunch with the guys. "As soon as you get back, not matter the time, just fucking call me."

Patricia called Christopher back on Sunday morning when she returned from Ingrid's. She didn't apologise, of course not; she only called to say hello. Since she had started working with the team, she was seeing less of him.. less and more. More of the cop, less of the lover. She missed him.

She didn't admit to missing him, though. But since she called him on his home phone knowing he would be home (hoping he would be?), it would tell she really wanted to talk to him.

"How about we meet after lunch?" Knowing he liked espressos, she suggested a coffee shop. Neutral territory. "Coffee shop near the park around one?"

Knowing she liked to walk, he suggested once there, "How about we take our coffees on a stroll?"

So they walked, talking about this and that. He liked walking with her holding his arm. He didn't ask about the lunch with the guys.

She didn't tell. "You don't have to know every single detail about every little thing, do you? Knowing everything's ok is enough, isn't it, Big guy?"

"It is." And everything was ok. So he let it be. Besides, he already knew.

Since she didn't know that he knew, she appreciated that he didn't push, a sign he was letting go of the overprotecting thing she thought.

"How about some pasta? I'll make my famous homemade sauce just for you, Dollface." The sauce, the only cooking he did besides breakfast, and breakfast he only did for her. Fuck he liked her in his place. He knew she was avoiding him and thought it was cute. At first. But not being able to touch her and talk to her was getting to him. His first tete-a-tete with his damn filing clerk in ages! He was not going to give her any place to run. Not that dinner would be enough, he wanted her back like before, only to himself. No fucking sharing.

Seeing as she had worked quietly in her first days, he had put the plan aside but the end of the week had clearly showed he needed to reactivate it. If he wanted her back in his bed soon, he had to get rid of her in the office. And since he couldn't fire her, the only way out was getting her to quit. He anticipated it wasn't going to be an easy task.

Christopher looked handsome as he pushed her down on the couch right when they got back to his place after the park. The day having gone so nicely, she agreed to spend the night at his place.

He looked sexy still, sitting at the table, his hard face softened by his crooked smile.

"I won't ride to work with you tomorrow, though. I don't have my things. I'll get to the office on my own."

"No prob'. Whatever you think is best, Princess. I can drop you off if you want."

"You know, Big guy, I've been thinking about the job." Hopefully about quitting, Angel? No such luck. "With the hours I'm working, I barely had time to write in the last weeks." Think library job, Darling of mine. "So maybe I could work part time? I don't know, maybe four days a week?" Then three, then two, then− "And shorter hours?"

"No prob'. Whatever you want, Angelface."

"Great. I was thinking nine-to-five on Mondays, since it's the first day of the week and all." More like you want to be sure not to miss the Monday meetings. "Then Tuesdays to Thursdays, nine-thirty-to-three, so I'll have time for coffee after." She did most of her writings in coffee shops. And this way, the guys will be out when she was in, he thought.

"I'm good with those hours but in exchange, you have to tell me when you want to go out for some research."

They agreed as in he demanded and she caved in. "What? But... Whatever. Fine. You really are impossible sometimes. What kind of research can I do anyway?"

Her agreeing to it without more arguing told him she was going to talk to his answering machine quite often in the upcoming days. Until he got her to quit. Then she might stop calling altogether for a while. Addendum to the plan. Have her quit without her getting angry at me. He took a mental note to have his home calls transferred to his cell phone when she was working.

He didn't bother demanding she not go out with the team; that wouldn't have worked. Besides, his revised plan called for her to go out once, maybe twice. If all went well, she wouldn't want to go out ever again but would quit altogether. She might even consider going to the fucking library, although, at this point, he would settle for a coffee shop.

After doing the dishes, splashing around unnecessarily since he had a dishwasher, they settled to watch a movie. The movie watching thing didn't last long. He didn't even pretend to look at the screen as he slipped his hand under her top within the first five minutes.

"But it's an action movie, Christopher," she teased. "With guns and everything."

"I like guns and everything. Especially the everything. Do you like everything, Angel of mine?" He whispered in her hair, as he circled a taut nipple through the fabric of her bra. He hid his smile in her hair when she let out the softest sigh.

He slipped his hand in her pants within the first ten minutes of the movie. By then, he had unhooked her bra and teasingly palmed her breasts in turn. "The dude with the biggest gun is aiming his piece at some Mexican jerk with a small gun. The Mexican dude is staring at the door. I don't think he's going to make it," he related since, as her eyes were closed, she was missing the movie.

"Shut up, mon chéri. Please."

His tongue found her mouth soon after. Then his lips bit softly along her jaw, her neck. He paused briefly to help her out of her top and loose bra, but quickly returned to the swell of her breasts. Finally, his tongue found a hard nipple to nibble and suck on. By then, her right hand was fisting his erection. His right hand returned the favor by massaging her tongue-free breast. Then his tongue went south to help the left hand busy exploring between her legs. It was entirely her fault they were missing the movie since she smiled and laughed. She even kissed back. Touched back.

"Want to see the dude with the big gun, Pussycat?"

"So not funny, mon chéri," she sighed, but nonetheless fumbled around to free him.

"Movie synopsis, Pussycat. Forty-two-year-old cop about to die from a hand job. Culprit? His way too sexy thirty-seven-year-old writer-filing clerk girlfriend. Maybe we should stop the movie and read a book or something."

"Don't. You. Dare," she stuttered when he rolled her sensitive wet bud between two fingers.

Her long fingers slid on his hard bare length and clutched the throbbing head when she came.

# Male job

Monday again. They arrived at the office separately and at different hours, Patricia two hours later than him.

"Shapiro, come here a minute," Chris called from his office. Shapiro was the best man for the plan, possibly the only man for it. Patricia might get suspicious if he sent either Ham or Des with her. Moreover, he wasn't ready yet to let her alone with those two again. Reid, he still considered too new to the team (he doubt of her success in this peculiar circumstance anyway). LeRoy, Patricia knew well enough to see coming. Frankke, he had briefly considered, but the guy was in the same range as the ex-military duo, same age, same experience. More wisdom, though, but probably not enough to prevent her from fooling him like she had the other two. Hence, Shapiro.

"How's Nadia? Busy with Lili I expect?" Shapiro and his wife had three boys, all grown up and living away, and an adopted, pre-teen daughter. Patricia wouldn't suspect the old Italian family man in a million years.

Once the civilities were done (those included a dinner invitation to the Shapiros), Chris explained his revised plan.

"Piece of cake, Mac." Near retirement, Shapiro had stayed in when MacLaren was put in charge. Shapiro had been fond of the rookie kid he had worked with years ago. He was even more proud of the Doberman cop that had learned self-control and did so well as a detective. "May I ask why?"

Chris shrugged derisively. "Take your pick."

Shapiro was no fool. The boss had been harsh as a rookie and had grown tougher over the years. Nothing seemed to surprise Mac, embarrass, upset or unsettle him. Sure, the guy got mad, especially at incompetents, but even his anger stayed under tight control.

"He needs a woman," Nadia often said when they talked about MacLaren. "Someone special to take the hard edge off."

"Ain't going to happen, Nana, the guy's a lone wolf." Not many women smart enough to keep up with the man in any case. Not many men either.

Her first day in, Shapiro had noticed with interest the wolf's eyes turn gentle as they lingered on the new girl. That woman is no trainee, Shapiro had thought, she doesn't look like a cop and doesn't act like one. He liked the woman nonetheless.

"We got this new kid at the office today," he had told the wife when he was setting the table that night. "Peculiar woman. She got the geek to talk, imagine that. Wasn't such a success with Reid, though."

"Is she Italian? Married? Pretty?"

"Don't know if she's Italian or married." As for pretty, Shapiro had been married long enough to know when not to answer.

Patricia had been with the team for two weeks now and, even though his wife had not met the woman yet, every night she asked about the trainee. Every night Shapiro found there was something new to say about her. It wasn't just that Patricia was a beautiful woman in a men's world. Reid was a woman, and kind of pretty in her own way too, yet his wife never asked about Reid. That trainee wasn't just lovely, she was lively, that was for sure.

"Imagine, she got Bridget to laugh out loud. No old maid giggle between her hand shit but real laughter."

"You can't call Bridget an old maid, Daddy, she's a widow." Lili's irrefutable logic. "Is Reid old enough to be considered an old maid? Does Reid giggle, Daddy?"

"Don't know, don't care." The trainee was a long way from making Reid laugh. "The team's no place for a softly classy chick like Patricia."

Back in Mac's office the two men were pondering about the plan. How to go about it.

"We have to find a safe way to do it, Shapiro. She's not to get hurt, only scared." Scared enough to quit.

"Got it, Boss. But how?"

They were still brainstorming when she walked in. Sleek jeans and motorcycle leather jacket, makeup free face, hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She looked like a damn college ingenue, not the plainclothes cop she'd been was aiming for her previous workdays.

What do women hate, Shapiro wondered. "There was this one time," he reminisced with MacLaren. "I took Nana out to the countryside. She wanted a picnic; you reckon how she gets. Anyway, I had this piece of shit for a car then, and it broke down. Middle of nowhere, night had fallen, and we ended up spending the night in the field on an old blanket we found in the trunk. She found it plenty romantic, we were in our twenties, married for only two years, everything was damn romantic then. Anyway, came morning, some farmer took his cows for a walk and crossed our patch of grass. D'you know about cows? Well, let me tell you, cows make a mess. It's not their fault, they're cows, but the wife freaked. Said she had cow dung on her shoes, on her legs, on her skirt, man she managed to smear some in her hair trying to clean herself up. The farmer was nice and everything. He helped us get the car fixed, but when we got home, Nadia took a shower every hour that day and the next, can you imagine? She complained the car stank, and boy did it! I had to sell the damn thing. For years, she refused to go back to the country. Cow dung might not work on the trainee, but some other type of shit might."

The cases were discreetly shuffled. Frankke was in charge of the cases of the coated women (one waxed, two whites), with Shapiro now his assistant.

"I don't want you lead," Chris told Shapiro. "You'll need time and leeway to dumb cow dung on Patricia." Figuratively speaking of course.

Other than the shuffling, the Monday meeting went per its habitual. As their two-week old routine dictated, Patricia did not speak but listened way too attentively, Ham and Des played tough but with a nearly respectful edge, Fred stared at her instead of at the floor. Fuck was his team turning into a zoo. Not that they were all that sane before.

# Her case

There was something in her file that bothered her (yes, she now considered it to be her file). She waited until everyone had left before slipping out. As far as the police could tell, the murders hadn't been a robbery gone bad. Neither Pedro nor Eva had a lot of money to leave as inheritance, no spouse or children to leave it to, and no life insurance. If it was a personal vendetta on one of them, why kill both? Surely the killer could have waited for the innocent to go away before doing his killing.

Both had been downstairs doing laundry. Fortuitously at the same time or purposely together? The neighbours' testimonies pointed to at the same time because the two were never seen together but really, what did that proved? After all, wasn't she kind of with Christopher without anybody on the team knowing about it? LeRoy knew they knew each other of course, but that was all he knew for sure. It could have been the same for Pedro and Eva.

In her story (her file, her case, hence her story), him being so obviously a total jerk, she intended to make Eva's ex-husband the killer. Not that she had met the guy, but the interrogation transcripts clearly hinted he was arrogant and full of himself. He insisted he was the one to leave Eva. From her file, Patricia believed Eva to be lovely, but the ex made her out to be a whining, demanding bitch who was never satisfied. Pictures taken at Eva's apartment told of a woman who liked classical music, earth tone colours, and Rice Krispies cereals. Her apartment was neat without being anal. She took baths by candle lights (as the ten candles and the three bottles of bath salt in a wicker basket on a shelf next of Eva's bath indicated). When Patricia thought about it (plainly the cops hadn't), Pedro and Eva were well suited. Their choices in colouring, music and cereals were identical. So what if the police hadn't found any clue that corroborated her love match, Patricia was into fiction.

Her first stop that Monday afternoon was to Eva's parents. Lovely people, and the only family Eva had in the city. Two talkers, though, the visit took the rest of the day.

The next morning, she went to see Pedro's mother, a widow. Not lovely, not a talker, but they did have a small if somewhat awkward conversation.

"That boy wetted his bed until the age of six." Completely irrelevant.

Patricia then visited a lonesome uncle, a cousin, three college friends, two work friends, half a dozen acquaintances and, lastly, the ex-husband.

"The bitch's dead. Let it be, girl. Want to go have a drink?"

She liked him even less in person, but she was nowhere closer after her visits to explaining the murders. With no unidentified fingerprints found in the apartments, on the bodies or in the basement, no witnesses coming forward, no murder weapons found belatedly, none of her visits lead to new, ground-breaking information. Her case was turning cold. But did it matter? Nope. All she had to do was imagine why the ex-husband had killed them both, and she had herself a story. Her job wasn't to solve the case, was it? Her job was making stories up. Pedro and Eva's secret affair was a classic and tragic love story, thus giving motive to the ex-husband. The file was opportunity written down; the means were details she could make up as she went along; the motives thus remained the missing twist in her story.

Eva and the ex had almost been married. Despite what everyone else in their entourage thought, as far as Patricia was concerned, almost was the same as not at all. They had been engaged for almost a year, with the wedding set for the coming spring, when the ex had called it off blaming Eva. At the time of Eva's death fours years later, they weren't in contact. Nobody could tell Patricia why the wedding was cancelled, not the parents, not the friends, but everyone agreed the jerk was the one who ended it.

"Shit happens," "That's life," they said. "Better before than after," they said. "Neither seemed devastated about it," some adding discreetly.

Had the separation made the ex more bitter than he let on? Although, she had doubts about the ex's ability to care. The almost-husband had married after only to divorce a year later. Eva had had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing serious or so her parents and friends said.

"How about going out for a drink?" She asked Reid that Thursday, without telling her where they were going. She wanted to see the ex again and have Reid tag along. Two birds with one stone, picking Ex's brain for a motive while working on the inexistent friendship thing. "It's Thursday night, the perfect night for a drink with a colleague." Why Reid went along, she didn't know and didn't ask. Curiosity she hoped, albeit she suspected it had more to do with Reid wanting to tell her off in a public place. "There's this bar we might try out," Patricia suggested. "I heard good reviews." As in she had noticed the matchbook at the ex's place and he had raved about it. A ʻmeat market free-drinks-for-the-ladies' joint. If Reid didn't storm out in the middle of the evening, they better become friends.

The dump stood up to Patricia's expectation. Loud music, crude lights, guys in tight jeans and boots, women in skimpy outfits with too much makeup and too big hairdos. With their sleek jeans and jackets, she and Reid looked au naturel in comparison. From the male point of view, they were a success. For their point of view, the night was a disaster. They were hit on, badly and repeatedly.

"Hello, ladies, up for a drink?" "Mind if I join you?" "Come here often?" Some guys thinking the two women were into girls, "You two an item? Fucking A," and wanting to try them out as a pair. "How about going for a ride? You can ride me."

Not a fun experience. Her opinion of the male species took a sharp nose dive, so they got drunk, she more than Reid. Same amount of liquid into less body mass. With neither one sober enough to drive Reid's car, they decided to wait it out in an open-all-night diner.

They talked. Well, she talked. Hum. For the first hour, more like babbled. Anecdotes of her life in the city, books she read, drunk didn't mean she couldn't lie still, people she met, the characters they inspired, all nonsense really. Although she wasn't a big talker, she could talk about nothing for hours when she had to. After a time, Reid started asking questions, personal questions as she had done on their lunch. Reid got nowhere on that. Patricia might have been drunk, but it didn't change a thing to her secret ways. Friendly on the surface, discreetly clammed up underneath.

Be it tiredness, drunkenness, loneliness but Reid ended up letting her in a little. They kept on talking even after they had sobered up. A first baby step toward friendship between two very different women?

Patricia woke the next morning with a hangover, hair all over the place (that barely agreed to be smoothed down) and dark circles under her eyes from the lack of sleep. She woke with a smile, though, from all the girl talk. The smile turned into a frown at the nagging feeling Almost-ex had said something important. For now, though, she was a little fuzzy on what. Damn. Ex had been her reason for taking Reid to the dump in the first place, but she had hardly listened to the insignificant jerk.

So what was it? Something about the marriage perhaps? No, nothing that obvious. Something about two-timing sluts? Had he been talking about his real ex-wife or Eva his almost ex-wife? Eva hadn't seemed like the cheating type (albeit with a fiancé like Ex, surely she would have been justified).

"How do you feel about marriage?" She had asked the jerk. "You being divorced and all." No edifying answer recalled itself to her memory this morning. Ex was not what one might call a memorable fellow.

# Her filing system

What personality traits did the average joe expected of female writers? Mousy, innocent, distracted, dreamy, awkward, shy. When she acted accordingly, Patricia found joe and his people didn't take her seriously, but most times their gross underestimation of her mental capacities suited her just fine. Ex had been no different. One delicate hand lightly resting on his arm, wide blue glass-free eyes looking up demurely at him, not listening attentively but reeling him in out of habit, just in case. What was it the jerk had said? Damn drinking! And it had not even been good wine!

Maybe there was nothing to remember per se. The guy was a jerk after all; it was doubtful cheap wine had made him appeared interesting. Was it more like an impression? What was the vibe when she thought of him? The jerk was resentful, as if he thought he had been had. But in what way? He had killed not just Eva but both Eva and Pedro. Had he known both victims?

When she wrote, she had a game she played with herself. The Hows of the What if, she called her game of imagined scenarios. What if it was Almost-ex, what if he had indeed known Pedro, how could she make it believable? Motives were the heart of it. The killer had been enraged, the numerous knife cuts told that much. And as far as she knew, he had not killed since. A unique circumstance.

"Hi, Frédéric! It's Patricia. Am I calling at a bad time?" ... "I was wondering if you could do me a favour? It's for my case, hum, the cold case file Christo− MacLaren gave me to work on." Hard to tell if the kid was listening but since she did hear him breathe, she pressed on, "Can you run a check for other similar killings that might have happened since then?" Maybe someone somewhere in the police department had kept an eye out for similar killings. Not having the highest opinion of the police in general, she had no hesitation asking the kid to recheck.

What if the guys, Pedro and Ex, had an affair? No how came to mind so probably too far fetch. What if Ex and Eva had restarted their relationship? Possible but the how was highly improbable. A jerk was not a suitable match for a likeable classical music loving, cereal-eating, not-a-neat-freak. Eva could have done so much better. What if Eva and Pedro were having an affair and Ex had found out about it somehow? Before the how came the so what. It wasn't Eva's first lover since the break-up, why would this one have been different?

"And Frédéric, I haven't tracked down all of the female victim's old boyfriends, think you can run a search to make sure they're all accounted for, you know, as in they're all alive? Call me back when you're done."

"Done."

"I'll be right there." She headed to the precinct's basement, to Frédéric's office where he hid to do whatever jobs Christopher gave him. To her civilian eyes, the kid seemed to be browsing a porn site when she walked in but then, what did she know about police work? Besides, wasn't he too young? Cheeks flushed, he quickly moved to another Web site. Not that she had minded (although the kid wasn't the only one to be blushing). Mario, one of Joshua's knights, visited the same type of websites from time to time. It was the closest Mario came to female stimulation unless she provided the bodily services personally or hired someone for him. Lately, as in since Christopher, Mario had only been with professionals.

She briefly wondered if her obese genius hacker friend Mario and Frédéric the police kid knew each other. The hacking world was a small one, and age difference not a consideration. She would ask Mario next time she visited. How long had it been since she had seen him? Too long assuredly but visiting was complicated. Maybe, when they knew each other better, and she had learned about his tastes, she could arrange the same professional services for Frédéric. Better if she didn't tell Christopher about it, though.

Seeing as he so obviously liked the French version of his name, she kept with it, but since the hand on the arm thing seemed to overwhelm him, she went easy with that. And as just staring at her breasts appeared to do it for him, she took pity and pretended not to notice (he was discreet about it too). Such a maladjusted misfit, where the hell had Christopher found him? Not that it mattered, for some reason she was good with geeks.

"No. Alive."

Translation? Frédéric had not found anywhere in the police records killings with similar MO, "modus operandi," as Frédéric spelled out for her. "Stab wounds like your couple have endured is a unique MO." A quick peek at her breasts. Okeydokey, moving on.

"It might indicate the crime was personal then, no?" With the kid, ʻAlive', she had confirmation all boyfriends were living and kicking so she was back to the love triangle. "Can you search for any connexion between the victims, both male and female, and the victim's old fiancé? I don't mind waiting. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Frédéric found nothing in the police files, nothing in the city's data banks, nothing in the district's and national's data banks. Nothing in any other database, Christopher sure had provided his geek with top-of-the-line equipment. Working in the police department sure was neat.

As long as she was here, and Frédéric was so collaborative, she asked for additional help. It was Frédéric that gave her the idea, Christopher too since he had given her the paper file. "Could you, perhaps, if it's not too much to ask." She hesitated. The police Intranet's electronic version of her cold case file was but a click away for Frédéric but did the kid understand he probably wasn't supposed to help her? "And if it won't get you in trouble, perhaps you could show me the electronic file."

She watched it appeared simultaneously on six screens, her file, yet somewhat different than the paper version. All the pictures were there of course. Even though she had seen them before, seeing them now plastered on the screens in real size brought such a strong wave of nausea, she had to excuse herself. When she returned from the ladies' room, the average genius geek not being a very clear-sighted person, the pictures were still on the screen.

"Frédéric, sweetie, could you please take those damn pictures off the screens?"

They proceeded with the rest of the file in silence, her nodding and him changing the pages. The electronic file contained information missing from the paper file and vice-versa.

"How come neither file is complete? Shouldn't there be at least one version that has all the information? Most of the missing information was police gibberish but still. The files should be checked by someone, don't you think?" Frédéric couldn't explain it but having worked at Archives for a time, suddenly her next step became clear. "Archives."

"Archives," the kid echoed. Geeks did not ask questions; they merely repeated corrupted data.

"Documents like detective notes, handwritten comments, receipts, paper documentation are not always scanned," she explained. "That would be too time-consuming, especially when cases don't call for court preparation, but the files, that is the complete boxed documents, are kept at Archives." Her friend Maurice, the toothless man in charge at Archives, frequently affirmed he was the only one in all of the force to have access to the entire story. Apparently he was right.

# Trainee working the system

So, if the police didn't put everything into electronic format, maybe other organisations didn't either? Her what if led her to the city's Archives. While she had easy access to the Police Archives through Maurice, City Archives were something else, especially on a Friday afternoon.

"Devonshire's residence. Joyce speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hello, may I speak to Laura, please?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Hum." The eternal question. What name should she give? "It's Patricia. Is Laura in?"

"Miss Patricia... I'm sorry, what did you say your last name is?" I didn't. Either Laura was sitting in the same room as her assistant, Joyce was it this week, and she would take the call. Or Laura was out and couldn't be of immediate help with Archives anyway.

"Hello, Patricia! How are you, sweetie?"

"Hello, Madame Maire, I'm fine. I'm working now, as you know. That's why I'm calling but first things first, how's everything?"

"I already have over two hundred guests who confirmed for the charity auction ball on the first of next month, which you're attending, remember?" Although she hated such snobby political shindigs, it was a small price to pay for the filing job. "Thanks for your painting by the way. I intend to buy it personally. Barry's up in the polls, my new assistant has lasted over seven days so far, so everything's peachy. How about you? The job ok? Have you written anything yet?"

"The job's fine and no, I haven't done anything with it yet." Altough Pedro and Eva are coming along nicely. "But enough about that. I was wondering if perhaps you knew someone at the city's Archives? It's almost closing time, and I haven't finished my research. I guess I could go Monday but−"

"But Monday's in days." Laura laughed. "And whatever you're researching will haunt you until you find it.

"Something like that."

Hence it was Patricia spent her Friday evening with the night guard, him at his desk, her looking through the records. The archivist was most helpful before leaving. Most might not take writers seriously, but the few who did were of great help. Patricia found what she was looking for at seven-thirty-three.

She wasted an hour deciding what to do with the licence. The simplest would be to go directly to Christopher. Yes, the Big man would get pissed with her having, hum, borrowed Frédéric's expertise, but Christopher was more into results than means and surely would be pacified by her breakthrough. Strange how working around him made her miss him more. Strange and unsettling. Her getting him angry was neither unusual nor worrisome, but she would much rather spend a romantic weekend with him than spend it arguing. Hence better not tell him.

Choice number two then, wait until Monday? What if the jerk ran off? Highly improbable. After all he had gone on with his life during the last three years. Then again, he had gotten away with it for three years; it didn't seem right for him to get away with it for three additional days.

Number three? Hum.

What about Reid? Were they friends yet? Would they ever be? Hum. Reid was a lone woman in a men's world and had to prove herself constantly, giving her the bad guy would enhance her reputation, wouldn't it? Reid could have asked Frédéric. For sure the kid wouldn't tell. Why would he, geeks didn't care about such details as who had found what? The mayor's wife surely wouldn't say anything, however discreet, however good the cause, her instructions to Archives' personnel clearly being an abuse of power. And Reid had interviewed the landlord and met Almost-ex. Yes, very credible.

Patricia had to put on a big show to convince Reid. "Damn it, Reid, Christo− MacLaren is going to have my head if he finds out what I've done. I'm only a trainee, remember? What if he sees it as insubordination?" Dramatic sigh on her part, sceptical brows on Reid's. "And I'm a woman, you know how guys are about women, right? It will make it worse, don't you think?" Why or how it would, she did not specify. Reid seemed to believe her anyway, so she kept at it, pulling on everything string she could think of. "I was just trying to fit in. Do as you would." Ok, that last line was a big obvious but Reid fell for it.

"Ok, fine, stop whining. I'll take the fucking document to MacLaren without mentioning you." Perfect.

Perhaps they were going to be friends after all, Patricia thought on her way back to her hotel very late that Friday.

Little did she know that Reid called her boss right after her departure, so fast that probably Patricia's cab had crossed Christopher's truck that Friday night. A plan was etched during the late hours and warrant obtained early the next morning.

Patricia had found the license amongst file cabinets dedicated to incomplete documents, awaiting for the last twenty-five years or less, for a judge's signature.

"Isn't twenty-five years a long time to wait for the bride and groom to finalise marriage proceedings?" Patricia had wondered.

Her new archivist friend had only nodded with a pragmatic shrug. "The City must have its reasons."

Pedro and Eva must have backed out just before the judge's signature. An almost-marriage, for scholarship purposes maybe? And although they had never told their respective parents, neither had requested the license to be un-filed (as in destroyed). Had they rekindled their almost-union when, by some weird coincidence, they had moved in the same apartment building? Had Ex found out about the marriage then?

"The bitch thought she could marry some college kid and then play me? She said there was nothing between the two of them, and then I find they're living together? How stupid did they think I am?"

The killer's confession was added to both paper and electronic files. Unfortunately, the confession obtained that Sunday night after a fourteen-hour interrogation did not permit to close the file. Hearsay and harassment, the killer's lawyer said. Proof on the thin side, the team conceded amongst themselves. Hence, Reid was put in charge of the case, officially to document the case for the court (unofficially to look for hard evidence so they wouldn't have to cut a deal with the jerk).

Between Reid's call to her boss, him then going after search warrants and leading the arrest and the interrogation, Patricia didn't get her romantic weekend. She didn't even hear from him. And came Monday morning, she did not have a cold case file on her desk anymore.

# His hacking buddy

His weekend was shit. Granted Patricia had been brilliant and hard-working. Thorough. Deceptive. Reckless. She had manipulated Fred and Reid. Granted the two had been only too happy to follow. The both of them even took her fucking defence! The kid, he could understand. The geek had taken to thinking with his dick when she was around, but Reid? Reid didn't like women, didn't trust them, didn't befriend them. Chris thanked the fuck she had ratted Patricia out.

"I considered the alternatives, boss. Since she left, I've been... Well, fuck, I... If I could have done... You know, without her getting in trouble... She's just a trainee; she didn't mean anything by it. She's stubborn as hell and... Anyway..."

Had he not cut Reid's mumbling short, they might still be at it.

What the fuck do I do now? He knew what he wanted to do. Fire her ass, drag her to his place, handcuff her to his bedpost. Handcuff her to the kitchen table. That table was the perfect height. So was the kitchen counter (different thrusting angle, she liked variety and so did he). Hell, she didn't even need to be handcuffed as long as he had her word she wouldn't set foot outside. Such was it in his macho, Neanderthal fantasy world. He didn't use to have such a fucked up world, never one to daydream, until her. Damndest woman. Clearly he couldn't fucking do any of it, not without her consent at least.

As it turned out, he couldn't even fire her either. Only Central could. And since Madam Mayor had indirectly contributed, and a killer had been caught, no firing was going to be done. So, now more than ever, he had to have her quit. Can't leave it to chance or time anymore. She wouldn't be easy to discourage, not with that success. Should he leave it as if he didn't know her part in it? Having her believed she got away with it would only encourage her. On the other hand, punishing her meant the team would know her part in it...

Who was he kidding? Reid and Fred might not be the chatty type but his team was good, and this was too big for them not to figure out. It wasn't like they weren't already suspicious. No ordinary trainee. Did they suspect he had a thing for her? Fuck, him having more than a thing was part of the problem. For no one else had he ever spent a weekend with a knot in the worried pit of his stomach from worrying and fists clenched from anger. The damn woman had been to a bar to talk to a murderer!

"She told me this strange theory when we went to lunch. Fuck, I thought it weird at the time, but when we went to that bar? It's like Patricia already knew."

Nonetheless, the damn woman had gone to see the jerk! So what if she had taken Reid along − he guessed she was just trying to charm Reid. Catch a killer and make a new friend over a glass of red wine, two hits with one stone, damn her! − he strongly suspected she would have gone with or without Reid. What if the guy had grown suspicious, then what?

He smoked two packs over the weekend and his throat was sore. His thighs burned from his two-hour jog of late Saturday night, plus the additional hour and a half of Sunday evening. Trying to work out the anger, Darling of mine. Both times he had ran to her hotel and back non-stop. Her lights were on, but he wasn't sure what he might do if he had her in front of him so both times he had ran back with his problem. Her. Go to the fucking library, Angel. She spent a lot of time at the damn boring, safe library in his fantasy world. Any way he looked at it, it came down to two choices. Stop caring or have her quit. No way could he stop caring, he had only begun getting to know her, and he was years away from even getting close to seeing all the sides of her. Where the hell had Shapiro been, he was supposed to keep an eye on her!? Not that he blamed the old guy, he couldn't expect Shapiro to do something he couldn't do himself. He had given her way too much leeway. Time for you to quit, Princess.

Fred resolved his dilemma during the meeting. Patricia had arrived just before the meeting and Chris hadn't talked to her yet. At per his orders, information control he called it, Reid had not come in early either. Hence, the team had gathered in the conference room for the cases review without any prior gossiping. He kept the cold case for last. Technically, it was now a new case.

"Ok. New case came in this weekend, Reid's the lead on this one. How about giving everyone a run through, Reid?"

As soon as Reid mentioned an old case had been reactivated, the guys glanced at him in surprise, then at Patricia, then back at him and only then, at Reid. Cheeks flushed, Patricia stared at the table. Good, let her wonder if I know. Of course, he fucking knew! That she could even think she could get away with it brought a new wave of anger.

At some point during Reid's monologue and his anger management silent self-scolding, Fred woke up. The kid had been staring at Patricia, but he suddenly slapped the table, glaring at Reid. "That's not your case. She already did research on it," the kid said pointing at Patricia. "We researched it."

Patricia went from pink to red. She tried to stop Fred by putting her hand on his arm. "It's ok, Frédéric, sweetie." What was that damn Freydeyreek shit? You talk French, you talk to me, Pussycat. "Reid has the case now," Patricia was explaining softly. "You did well. Calm down. It's ok."

It didn't stop the kid one bit. Fred was having one of his fits, and if anything, it made it worse. It was the first time a fit got started by defending someone, though (usually the kid freaked about some gizmo or other). Things tended to degenerate rapidly with Fred, so Chris butted in, "Fred, enough. Reid's in charge. It's not open for discussion."

"It's not fair. We did research. We did research together. We did do research together." Fred looked pleadingly at Patricia, and she smiled at him. "I was good, wasn't I? You said I was good."

She was patting Fred's hand by then. "You're the best. You sure helped break that case. Really. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't−" She stopped mid-sentence and visibly swallowed before starting again. "You were the best. You truly were. Thank you." She took the kid's hands in hers. Fred wasn't a big guy, tall but skinny, and their hands were the same size. They sat in silence holding hands, Fred staring at her.

I fucking need to get this kid psychological help, he thought, watching them. Not sure Patricia's indulgent attitude was improving the kid's already fragile mental state.

"Ok. Patricia, Fred. Thank you both. Anyone want to add something?" He waited, looking at each in turn, "No? You're sure?" Seeing the two of them still holding hands raised his already high anger up a notch. "No? Patricia, perhaps? Nothing to add? You're sure?" She locked eyes with him, wide blue eyes unsure, but kept silent. "Why don't you share with us how you spent your weekend. So we'll get to know you better, you know, you being the new trainee and all. How about Friday night, did anything special?"

# The boss

She frowned at him then glanced at Reid, just a quick peek, strictly eyes movement, at Reid, who was now staring at the table. Good. He had regained control of the room.

"No need to look at Reid, Princess. Reid already knows how you spend your Friday night. Hell, she even knows how you spent your Thursday night." Calling her Princess in front of everyone was a sure way to provoke a reaction out of her. She didn't disappoint.

"It's not any of your business, Big guy. I don't work nights. What I do during my free time is my business, not yours."

"Wrong. When you work on my case during your free time, it becomes my business. So tell us what the fuck you did with my case during your free time."

"I don't know what you're getting at. What difference does it make really? I thought only results were important."

He wasn't above bending the rules once in a while, more than bending when needed (ok, a lot more than bending), but he was trained, prepared, ready. She didn't have a clue what she was doing! He kept his voice low and level, but his entire body was tensed. He sensed the guys looking between the two of them, questioning, curious, amused, fucking amused with her! "Wrong again, Dollface. Results are good but not if you put yourself on the line to get them."

"What? I didn't put myself on the line. I went to City Archives. You should be happy, it's like a damn library!"

"A big empty library! Quite a Friday night. Quite a Thursday night too, having a drink with a killer."

She looked at him, looked at Reid again. "I went to have a drink with a co-worker. We just happened to run into him. I'd like to remind you he hadn't confessed to the crime at the time."

"He may not have confessed, but you already believed he was guilty, and you went anyway. Putting yourself on the line."

"Come on, it was a public place, and I had backup, didn't I? Reid was there."

"Yes, she was at the fucking bar, but what would have happened after? If he had gotten suspicious of you, then what?"

She frowned pensively, but she held her chin up. "Why would he have suspected a thing? Really. I was very subtle." Meaning, she had lied and smiled and flirted with him. Fuck, the woman was impulsive!

"Enough. You are not to get involved in this case in any way anymore. Understood?"

"What? Why?"

"Understood?"

It seemed to him she took forever before answering. "Yes. Yes, I understand, but−"

"No buts. You are completely and permanently off the case."

"Ok. Fine." Not such a big punishment since the case was all in her head now.

"You've also earned yourself a two-week suspension." That way, she was safe for the next two weeks, and he was going to have her all to himself. Once she cooled off. Once he cooled off.

"What? That's not fair! I kind of helped solve the case."

"You're still suspended. The ends do not justify the means."

"Look who's talking!"

"Patricia. It's not open for discussion. Two-week suspension. Then maybe I'll give you a new cold case."

"The hell with it!" She narrowed her eyes at him, "Besides, Big guy, you can't suspend me, remember? You're not the boss of me. Did you call Central about this? Laura will not like that, she for one is very happy with my means and ends."

There it was. After trying so much to fit in with the team, she had let it slip. What would they think now? Maybe she should have been honest with them from the start. For now, none of them would trust her. How perfect for him. He smiled. "You're right. Should I call Laura directly? The mayor's wife might need to be reminded of such things as abuses of power." He paused. Why bother? They both knew the wife wouldn't let Central suspend her. "You're one of her secret public relation card for next year's upcoming election, aren't you? What did you promise her, a character named after her, a painting for one of her charitable causes, what? Do tell, Princess."

"Fuck you."

"So good with words. And what about us, Pussycat? Have you decided which one of us will become characters in your next work?"

"Count on being in it. I'm thinking of an irascible, arrogant, controlling jerk who tries to run the show!" And she stormed out. Fred followed her. Fucking zoo.

Maybe he had gone a little too far. He sighed. Before hearing Ham laugh. And LeRoy. He glared at them.

"Fuck, boss. That sure explains a lot. A fucking artist? How'd she pull that off? And on you! The woman's good." Ham smiled at him. "And sexy as hell, did you notice?" Shit.

"It had to come out eventually," LeRoy added. "This makes things simpler. For us at least." The two guys left laughing.

Shapiro asked walking out, "A writer? Is she any good?"

"Yes, she is." She was a good writer. Very imaginative and somewhat crazy but good.

"Ok. That sure explains why the wife likes her already." Shapiro's wife was a real bookworm.

DesForges and Frankke left without saying anything, leaving him with Reid to settle things.

"Reid. You are in charge of closing this case."

"Yes, Sir."

"But, Reid, you are not to talk to Patricia about it, understood? You do, I will fire you. And you, I can fire."

"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Ok. And Reid? I'm not sure I told you then, but I'm glad you told me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok. You can go now." Reid left him alone in the conference room.

The sun was blazing, it was a beautiful day outside.

When he turned back to leave, he found Reid was back, waiting for him at the door.

"Boss?"

"Yes, Reid?"

"I'm not to talk to her about the case?"

"Right."

"But I can still talk to her?"

He grinned. "Yes, of course, you can still talk to her. Go to bars. Get drunk. Do whatever. Just not with killers and just not to talk about cases."

"Ok, good. Thanks, boss."

"Reid? You do know you had to told me, right? I would have found out eventually."

"I know, but I'm not sure she does. She's pissed."

"Of course she is. At us both. But she lied, there again, at us both."

"Yes, she did."

"So maybe that makes it even?"

That made her smile a little. Reid's smiles were rare and always little. "We'll see." And she left again.

Damn right, we'll see.

# Alternate series: The dog

"Name?"

" _None of your business."_

" _I think you're smart enough to know I already have it, Princess. Your name, address and all. Thanks to your boss. Why not make it easy on yourself and play along."_ For once, damn you.

" _I don't play with cops."_

" _I've noticed." He paused. She looked tired and fragile and yet she was sitting with her back straight, frowning at him. "Who do you like to play with?"_

She tilted her head to the side. "Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?" Perfectly mastered outraged reaction. If she weren't a professional, he'd marry her.

" _That's precisely what I'm asking. Do you turn tricks?"_

As he admired her eyes grew wider. She bit her lips. She took a deep breath. Another one. She looked at the floor before rubbing her palms against her thighs, smoothing the little black dress.

" _I'd like to make a phone call."_

" _You will. Later. For now, I'm trying to make it easy on you."_

" _Are you really?" Looking at him with innocent blue eyes. Hopeful. Damn sexy._

" _Of course, Pussycat. I could make this so easy if you'd let me."_

" _I see. Is that why you wanted to take me to the lounge? To make it easier for me?"_

_He had only wanted to know if she'd take him. She didn't do cops, he didn't do hookers. Ever. Yeah, right. He was always so fucking straight forward and honest, even with himself._ I would have done you without an instant of hesitation. _"You'll never know now, will you." He wasn't about to confess to lusting after a professional._

" _I already do. You're a cop."_

" _So?"_

" _You're a dog. Worst, an ape."_

Ok, no more Mister Nice guy. "Guys?" He called to Vice. "Take her in."

He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the closest Vice guy. Let us see how much nicer she became after some cooling off time at the precinct.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# MacLaren in the dog house

How could he have let it happen? Not even three days down on her two-week suspension, too damn fucking soon! And this time, the fucking case was far from being cold! She had been ignoring him since the meeting for that?!

"We need to talk," she had declared after knocking at his office door. Never a good start.

"What's up, Angel?" Giving her endearments at the office wasn't professional but what the hell, there had to be some perks to being the boss. Honestly, he had been expecting some grand explanation for her past behaviour, maybe a bit of pleading or grovelling. Would have been so fucking sweet to her upon accepting her resignation. He got shit instead. Fuck. His girlfriend sure kept very strange company.

She looked good back there on the back seat, sitting next to Frankke. She was fine-boned and slim but athletic, and Frankke's bulk made her look even more delicate. Where Frankke was muscular, she was lean, where he was black, she was white. They made a stunning couple, and Chris expected they were going to be quite a sight in the little country town where they were headed, him, Frankke, Shapiro, and her. Her. His fucking trainee on suspension doing leg work on the coated women cases out in the countryside. What the hell had happened to his fucking plan!

She had showed up for the fucking field trip wearing sturdy walking boots, tight ski pants, and a black turtleneck top. Plus, she carried in her arms some sort of big, red duffle coat she had gotten someplace. Obviously, the guys had made fun of her.

"What the hell are you wearing, sweetie?" Shapiro had asked. "We ain't going to the North Pole, yah know."

"What the hell are you doing, babe?" Frankke had asked during the flight. She had the armrests of her seat in a dead grip on.

"I hate flying. Carry on, officer," was her answer, giving between sips of wine. She hated flying and always got drunk before boarding and during the trip, one of her many coping mechanisms, so again the guys had teased.

Two hours later, they packed themselves into the rental truck, him in the driver seat, Shapiro next to him, and Frankke and Patricia in the back. They had barely driven ten minutes when it started to snow. Snow, this time of year! Except for her, none of them was dressed for snow, how the fuck had she known? He caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. Looking mighty sexy, Angel. Happy with herself and somewhat drunk. Damn woman.

Damndest of woman, really. They had yet to talk about the cold case. She had come in to work yesterday only to remain at her desk all day doing he had no fucking clue what, he sure as hell hadn't given her any file to research.

"You remember you're on suspension, right?"

"Whatever, Big guy."

"Suspended employees usually stay at home."

"How can I make you regret your decision if I stay home?"

Then this morning, she came in only to leave soon after. Getting bored, Princess? Apparently not for she dropped the we-need-to-talk shit on her way back from lunch. For some, the line might be a caricature of the female half of a couple wanting to talk about the relationship, marriage or kids. No such thing for him. When Patricia wanted to talk, one thing he could count on was her not talking about their relationship ever. He sighed. "Ok, let's talk, Princess." He missed her. Missed her in his bed, at breakfast, for breakfast. The first girlfriend he thoroughly enjoyed talking to was also the first to avoid him purposefully when they did need to talk. "Ready to talk about the cold case?"

"Nope." He should have been suspicious then. In retrospect, it wasn't surprising she had caved in pretty fast at the meeting, her scheming mind was already engaged on something else. "I'm thinking of doing short stories. I've never done shorts before, and the cases are great research material." Her fucking research would be the death of him! If she didn't get herself fucking killed before. "When I realised how... incomplete the paper file was, it made me think of the two white powder women I found. What if the information I have on them is incomplete also?" You're not supposed to have any fucking information on them, damn it, Princess! "I haven't asked Frédéric this time," she went on, unaware of his building anger, "since the kid, as all your team, worships you and rightfully so. Besides, I'm sure you had already thought about it."

Bold flattery to butter him up. He made no comments, but yes, he had thought about it. There were no prior killings with the white powder MO.

"Without your authorisation, I don't have access to the police databases, so I forgot about that," she pointed out.

"Glad you didn't travel around the country in the pointless attempt to get into various security databases."

"Cute. It would have taken me months." So she had considered it? "Instead, I decided to ask a friend."

FUCK. He knew what friend she had asked. Mario, one of Joshua's little buddies. He didn't like any of Joshua's guys, not that he had met any of them in person. It wouldn't change anything, he'd still despise them all. Joshua, he hated. Good thing for Joshua he was dead. Fuck, he wished he had had the chance, the opportunity, the fucking honour to kill the jerk himself. As for the others, they were all crazy. From what little she had said about them and from what loonies characters she had created in her best-seller hacker story, one was a rat calling himself the kid, one was a sexual pervert, handy with his hands or so the story went, one was an arrogant jerk who went by the name of the king, and Mario was the morbidly obese recluse going by the cutesy name Super Mario. They referred to themselves as Joshua's knights, Those jerks were not merely maladjusted, dysfunctional misfits like Fred, but real fucking crazies. She was trying her best to keep her relationship with them fuzzy. Of her relationship with Joshua, he knew squat but guessed some, so very little, from her books and the tidbits she let slipped. The official story, the only one she had told him, was they had fallen for each other, but it had been a toxic relationship that had ended by her walking out. Joshua had died accidentally a short time after. The Knights had been part of the package, but she had not kept in touch. Or so she said. Except for Mario. He knew Mario helped her out from time to time. She helped out the jerk too. How, he didn't know, but she would have found a way, she was damn protective of her friends, even the crazy ones. But Chris was patient, eventually he was going to learn the entire story. "What did Mario do?"

"Mario? What makes you think Mario−" A growl might have escaped him because she rolled her eyes and changed tactics. "It doesn't matter. I did some data mining on the Web. Not too sophisticated."

Meaning his damn girlfriend had Super Mario launch a search amongst his fellow internet crazies of the geeky, nerdy hacker community. The launch must have happened on Monday afternoon, she had left early that day. And him the fool, he had blamed it on the meeting and her suspension.

"I used ʻDead woman', ʻNaked parts', and ʻWhite powder' as keywords." To which no doubt, Mario had added a dozen of variances. "I spend all of yesterday checking out the results. Do you have any idea how strange some people out there are?" And you know quite a few of the weirder ones, Angel of mine. "This morning, one came in that looked promising. A kid said a girl from his town was found two years ago, in a barn, kill dead naked, his exact words, with some white stuff on her body. I called the local police to confirm, no point bothering you if the kid turned out to be another wacko, n'est-ce pas?" French won't softened me up, Pussycat. Since we've met, I've found I can be turned on and pissed at the same time. "The case's still active, but the locals are not sure the girl was murdered. Apparently she might have broken her neck falling." At that, Patricia made a major eye roll and a smirk, in case he hadn't noticed her derogatory tone when speaking about the locals. Dating him hadn't improved her opinion of cops. He didn't take it personal. Wasn't he dating a writer yet still firmly believed writers should be confined to libraries?

"How do they explain the powder? Assuming she had powder."

"Of course she had powder, have you been listening, that was one of the keywords." The way she glared at him, she might have momentarily put his brains in with the locals. "They think someone has defiled the body post mortem, defiled but without there being signs of sexual assault."

"Why isn't the file in any of the databases?"

"Ah. Well. Hum. I'm not sure, they didn't ask how I'd heard about it and with the kid... I didn't press the issue." Incompetence from the locals most likely. Fucking great.

To get cooperation from the locals, he had to go. Frankke being in charge of the coated women case, he was coming. Apparently she had made damn sure the locals were expecting her hence she was going too, making his going all the more essential. Shapiro was going as Frankke's backup or Patricia's sitter, he wasn't sure yet. Mostly she had to go because the internet kid would only talk to her.

"He's somewhat like Fred. He doesn't trust cops. He seems to know a lot of details of the girl's, hum, accidental neck breaking, though. And well, Mar− my friend vouched for me, so he has agreed to meet with me." Fucking crazies. "The locals don't know who he is." And you sure as hell haven't told them, have you, Pussycat?

The plan thus was, while Patricia and her sitter went looking for the kid, Frankke and he would get the story from the locals. Then somehow, he would get her to complete her suspension and quit. Truth be told, he had no objection on her quitting before the end of her suspension.

# MacLaren's supper with the guys

Now hopefully they would get into town before being completely snowed in. What was that fucking weather anyway? They were all traveling light, the suit they wore, a change of underwear, a clean shirt, shaving kit and a toothbrush. Patricia only had one small bag too, not bigger than a big purse, but he knew from experience how deceiving the size of her bags could be. The woman carried the strangest things and it turned out, she had a damn scarf and a pair of gloves in there.

"Ok Princess, since you're the only one that's dressed, why don't you go and get the rooms at the hotel? You can catch up with us at the station when you're done."

"Yes, Sir." Smart ass.

He dropped her off in front of the hotel. Let her walk back to the police's station in the snow.

He circled the plaza. The hotel, the only one in town, was in one quadrant of the circular plaza, the police station at the opposite. School, drugstore, cemetery, a couple of stores made for the rest of the circle. It was late, none of them had eaten, and they were freezing their asses off. They forewent the view and rushed into the station.

Where they were greeted with a very frosty reception.

"Officer MacLaren. Gentlemen." The chief wasn't happy to see them. Chris wasn't surprised, the chief had been less than collaborative when Chris had called earlier to announce their visit.

"Sir." Barely a nod from the chief's guy standing behind the front desk. Fuck he hated locals sometimes. Nothing personal, he hated Central and the state guys too (them, mostly because he couldn't stand power trips, his team was too busy for that shit).

"Thanks for seeing us." The chief didn't acknowledge his effort at politeness. "I appreciate it, especially seeing as it's getting late, and the weather is turning to shit." There again, no appreciation for his efforts and fuck, he wasn't usually all that patient with civilities.

After twenty-seven minutes of not getting anywhere closer to the case, Chris was ready to call it a night. The chief had admitted to a girl being found dead with white powder on her, but that little, they had known before landing. After twenty-seven excruciating minutes of getting pissed off, Chris decided they'd get something to eat and head to the hotel. They would come back rested and fit (and fucking cooled off) in the morning.

"What d'you mean there's nothing open? It's hardly eight!" Shapiro's big Italian belly talked back to the local chief.

"It's late, folks. And it's snowing. Everything's closed."

Patricia was going to pay for this, taking him on a wild goose chase for some hypothetical serial killer's victim in the middle of fucking snow county! Like usual, Frankke wasn't saying anything. The locals wouldn't have listened to him anyway, they were stealing glances at the guy, a black man in white red-neck hillbillies town.

"Surely, Chief, there is a diner or something, somewhere in town, or a coffee shop that's open still?" He'd settled for stale sandwiches from the school vending machine if he had to.

The chief didn't want to collaborate. "Nope. All closed."

"Grocery store then?" Not that he had seen any on their way into town. Not one fucking neon signs. His shoes were soggy from the ten-step walk between the car to the police door. Shapiro was mumbling to himself, getting annoyed with him. How could this be possible? One more reason to hate the countryside. Hopefully, the hotel would have some peanuts he could throw at Shapiro. He stared outside at the deserted town square and took deep breaths. Sometimes he hated his job. He watched Patricia coming across the plaza. He couldn't see her face, hidden by her coat's big hooded cap. Her big coat. And her scarf. Her boots. Dressed for the weather. Damn she was going to pay. I'm going to keep you up awhile, Princess.

She waltzed in, stamping her feet to remove the snow stuck to her boots. Oblivious to everyone's eyes on her, she proceeded to untie the scarf, pull off the hood, shake her hair loose, unzip the big coat, remove the big coat and shake the snow off. Only then did she looked up.

"Oh. Hello. Gorgeous night, isn't it?" Gorgeous she was indeed. She smiled around, walked up to the counter, pulled out her hand to the chief, looking at him with big eyes, big smile, big curly hair. "Hello, I'm Patricia. The, hum, trainee-writer. You must be the chief, we spoke on the phone earlier. It's nice to meet you in person finally." The chief did not smile back, but he did take her hand. "It is so nice of you to see us. Sorry we got here so late. It has not been too much trouble, has it? The plane ride was terrible. Quite frankly, I don't like flying. I get a little scared." He frowned at his damn girlfriend's hand still holding the old chief's hand. She wrapped her other hand over it. The guy didn't stand a chance. "I just came by to introduce myself. I'll come back tomorrow for the case. It is getting awfully late, and I'm sure you all have nice families to go back to. In this weather, they must be getting worried about you."

"Yes. That would be a good thing, ma'am. Like I told your chief, you all should have come tomorrow. It's late now."

"You are so absolutely right! But the man doesn't listen. You know how it is with those city guys, always trying to prove themselves. Did he tell you we didn't even take the time to eat? I'm starving. I hope you were more sensible and didn't wait for after our arrival to eat. Oui?" She had no French accent to speak of except when she was tired or upset or wanted something. He wasn't sure which was the case right now, but her French accent was clearly perceptible. That oui thing always worked on him, and it seemed to work on the two locals also.

"Yes, we've eaten already, but it's sweet of you to ask, girl." The chief smiled at her, and she smiled back at the chief.

Fuck, better he took the lead back before this all got out of hand. He rather she kept the French thing for him. "Great, that's settled then. We'll go now and see you all tomorrow. Eight, good for you? Great. Good night, Officers." And thanks for nothing, assholes. He nodded to his guys, got hold of Patricia's coat and grabbed her by the arm. But it took more than that to stop the damn woman.

"On se voit demain alors. Good night, gentlemen," she said, while he was helping her get back in that big comfy thing she got to wear. "Ah oui, one last thing. Where would you recommend we go to get a late supper? Something fast if possible. I'm both hungry and tired."

Eyes, smile, hair, French, the chief and his cop took pity, and the local called his brother-in-law at the diner. Who had closed just before them reaching town but hadn't left yet. Who agreed to open up and make them sandwiches. Patricia got a big bowl of homemade vegetable soup to go with hers, kindness from the local's sister, the owner's wife, who was also a reader. And for her promising to autograph the wife's copy, the three city men all got a big piece of homemade apple pie and coffee. Damn women. The snow had not stopped; they ran from the car to the hotel.

The town's single hotel was not big. Three floors, six tiny rooms on the second and third floor, with lobby, manager's office and some old-fashioned boudoir occupying the first floor. They were the only clients in, and the manager-owner had given them rooms next to one another. Patricia handed him the four keys. He gave her one back, for the room at the end of the hall. He kept the key for the next room, and gave Frankke and Shapiro the other two, thus assuring himself of one empty room, his, between Patricia's room and the guys'.

He waited ten minutes before going to scrap on her door softly. He felt more like pounding impatiently on it, but Frankke had good hearing. He didn't hear her walk to the door, but a moment later she opened the door a crack.

"Nice outfit, Princess." She had on her usual nightwear attire of lacy top with silky string straps and a pair of panties. Clearly her room was cold. Nice. He closed the door back behind him before leaning on it, and gave her a more thorough look-over. Messy hair, long bare legs, white panties with a little pink bow on the front. Areolas taut. Icy room indeed. "Better than nice, Angel, sexy as hell." And tired.

He pulled her to him, one hand at the nape of her neck, one hand around her waist. He bent and kissed her. Hard. Demanding. He sure had missed the feel of her. She kissed back, no argument, putting her arms around his waist and holding on to him. Fucking nice. Kissing still, he lowered her panties while she untied his belt and pants. He pushed her toward the bed, holding, kissing, pulling, fumbling, and lowered her to the bed.

"Miss me, Pussycat?" Without waiting for a reply, he positioned himself between her knees, sliding between her thighs, slowly thrusting into her. The hand around her waist slid to her ass, holding firmly, pushing himself against her, holding himself inside of her.

"Tell me you missed me." He cupped her cheek briefly before caressing the side of her face, her neck down to her shoulder. Fuck he liked the fell of her! Down to her breast, pinching the already erect nipple with his fingers. Slowly thrusting. Deeply in. Almost out. Kissing her lips. Her neck. Her breast. Nibbling the skin next to the areola without touching it. Teasing.

She was panting under him. "Christopher, please," she moaned, her hands on his ass. Holding. Massaging. Kneading. Squeezing. "Faster." Getting impatient, Pussycat? She did have to pay. All the snow. The fucking countryside. Ignoring him because of the suspension. Ok, probably he was the one to pay for that one. He teased her nipple through the fabric with his tongue. Sucked it slowly. Hard. Her hands on his ass. Between his butt cheeks. Trying to get to his balls, was she? Rubbing. Trying to make him go faster. Getting so impatient, Darling of mine. He liked immensely. Tonight was a night to spend in a snowy county after all. He wanted slow. Make her beg.

"Mon chéri, s'il te plait," she pleaded. Close enough, Angel.

"I missed you too, Angel." Hands on the bed, his eyes locked on her face, he started thrusting faster. It was raw, harsh, both of them impatient. It was good. Better than good.

They crawled under the covers and settled in a spooning position. His thighs against hers. Her butt nestling his groin. His lips in her hair. One of her hand under her head, the other on his thigh. One of his arm folded under his head, the other resting against her with his hand under her breast, on her heart. Her body relaxed against his, and as she slept, he listened to her soft breathing for a long time, Knot and Fists temporarily at rest.

# Frankke

He slept fine. He always did. Whenever, wherever. Training.

He did not like the town. Ignorant folks. His hypothesis: they had not seen a black guy in years. If ever. Did they not watch television some?

Chris seemed in a better mood this morning. Less anger. His prediction, the anger would come back when they talked to the locals. When he was working a case, hunting a killer, the chief had no patience for lack of collaboration.

Breakfast was ok. Back at the diner. Hearty meal. Amazing how such a willowy female could eat so much food. The chief had been amused. His prediction, before long Chris would be doing her. Not a bad choice for the chief. Good the man was a patient man, though; he predicted it would take the guy a while to get it on, she was stubborn. The woman talked a bit much to his taste, but then all women did, and she was far from chatty. At times, talking women were not unhelpful, it had gotten them supper with pie. Extra ham, sausages and refills of coffee for breakfast. Shapiro liked her also. Between the two of them, there had not been a second of silence all through the meal. Mostly Shapiro, though, being Italian and all. Him, he liked women who didn't talk. He had his regulars. Nice, solid women that came to visit from time to time. Spend a few days, never longer. Silence he liked. Breakfast was ok nonetheless.

His life was in perfect order. A job he liked and was good at. Membership at the gym where he worked out long hours, uninterrupted, unbothered. Women that came and went. Not demanding but nice. Neat apartment, cable television, hard bed. No plants. Orderly. He did his own vacuuming. He did not like disorder.

She argued with the chief; the woman was smart but argumentative. Him, he never argued with the chief. The man had saved his life. He had not argued before. He had not since. They had been young cops then. There had been an inquiry. Chris had not backed down. For years now, they were back working together. He had not hesitated when Chris had asked him to join his new team. He knew how the man worked and was ok with it. He lived easily with any of the calls the chief made.

She was not close to living with the chief's calls, far from it. She argued when Chris designated him to tag along when she went meet the Internet kid, and her arguments were to the point. "I thought it was Frankke's case. He should stay with you. Besides, the local kid won't come forward with a big, mean looking, black guy at my side." Correct. But neither would the local officers hence the boss choosing the locals over the kid.

"An old Italian copper represents less of a threat for the locals than a black guy does. Moreover, the Internet kid might never show up regardless of who you're with."

Chris and Shapiro left the restaurant for the station while he followed Patricia to the owner's house. "I have to sign the autograph I promised." Whatever.

They were offered a cup of something hot to warm themselves up. Something hot and alcoholised. The women talked. The owner's wife called the aunt of the dead girl.

He followed the women to the aunt's house. Learned the dead girl's parents had separated and moved away. Over a hot cup of something warm and alcoholised, the aunt told them about the barn where the girl had been found. Patricia drew a map of the barn and the neighbourhood while the wife and the aunt were describing the scene.

He followed Patricia to the barn. The walk to the barn took too long. He was cold. The snow had stopped, been plowed off the streets, and their steps made crisp sounds in the morning air. Not much traffic in this little town. Silence. Patricia walked with her hands in her coat. She was not talking. Her cheeks were red from the cold. They walked for a half hour. They should have taken the car.

"The country morning air will do us good," she had said.

He shouldn't have listened. He did not need country morning air; he was black.

The owner of the barn was waiting for them by the side of the road. He offered to drive them the rest of the way down the small path into the woods. Not much to see after two years.

"I thought of having it taken down," the barn guy said. "But I let it be." Irrelevant fact.

The girl had been found by one of the neighbours' kid. The Internet kid? To be verified. The owner took them back to his place, where he offered them a cup of something hot and alcoholised. Patricia let the barn guy rambled on for an hour. Her cup was refilled twice. She did not finish her last cup. The guy offered to drive them to the neighbours to meet the kid. Patricia's cheeks were red when they left. He had to help her up into the guy's truck cab.

The neighbours weren't in. The barn guy then remembered the parents working all day. Irrelevant. The kid worked in the hardware store in the next town. The barn guy drove them back to the police station. The barn guy was drunk, and he shouldn't have been driving. She too was drunk.

At the police station, Chris and Shapiro were going over the case's file, taking notes. The file was thin. They both looked up when they came in.

"Found anything?" The chief asked.

"No. Hearsay from the aunt and the barn guy. To be checked against the file. We came to get the car keys. To see a kid in the next town's hardware store."

"Ok. How about you, Princess? Any wild thoughts?" The chief asked Patricia.

"Nope. It's cold but nice. We took a walk. I like the snow. Of course, you will all catch a cold. I don't think the girl killed herself or fell. No female in her right mind would go into that barn, it's full of spider webs. And it smells of rats."

"I see." Chris smirked.

Illogical reasoning from the woman, yet Frankke agreed with her nonetheless. "She might be right. No girly girl would go to the barn without a reason."

"Ok. We'll go see the barn with the local chief later on," said the chief.

The local police officer, the same as the night before, the diner's owner brother-in-law or something, came to see how they were doing. "How about taking a break? Our chief would like to offer you all coffee."

Chris looked at the local guy, who was smiling at Patricia, and Frankke saw the boss's fists clenched. Anger was back. His prediction was getting closer to being proven; those two would be shacking up soon.

They all trod back to the front desk where the local chief, the local officer plus the local policeman tending the front desk were waiting for them. The locals seemed to stay in a lot. His hypothesis: the weather. Luckily it rarely snowed in the city. The coffee was hot. Sweeten by something alcoholised. The town's citizens were alcoholics. His hypothesis: the weather and boredom.

Patricia received the biggest cup. She got a tour of the station from the local officer. The local chief shook his head at his guy, as he watched him walk down the hall with Patricia, murmuring something that sounded like, "Damn rookie."

When they came back, her cheeks were red again, her eyes shiny and she was smiling. So much so that the boss man clenched his fists again and clamped his jaws. He should bring the team up to date with his predictions. Get a pool going and make some money out of it.

"Back to work," Chris said.

"Yes, Sir." Impertinent she was. The chief raised an eyebrow at her.

"She's drunk, boss." He had noticed her drinking all of her cup, to be added to the one at the wife, the one at the aunt, the two and a half at the barn. "She's been drinking every place we went. At least five shots."

She frowned, Shapiro laughed, the boss sighed. "How about you, Frankke? You ok to drive?"

"Of course."

"How far is the hardware store?"

"The barn guy said forty minutes."

"Ok. Let her sleep it off in the car. Take her to lunch. Then go see the kid."

"Ok."

"And, Frankke? If she's still drunk after lunch, handcuff her to the car and go see the kid alone."

"Hey!"

"Have a nice drive, Princess," said the chief, laughing.

Frankke proceeded as ordered. If she did not sleep exactly, she did nod off once or twice. He welcomed the silence. They had chips and cookies from the gas station near the hardware store. He did not tie her to the car. Not because he thought the chief had been joking, but simply because she looked sober enough.

They found some scrawny rural overgrown kid at the hardware store. Upon closer inspection, said kid turned out to be a twenty-four years old adult living with mom and pop. The kid needed to grow up and get a life. Frankke had no patience for spineless people. The owner permitted them the utilisation of the back office for a talk with the kid.

"I'll try talking to him, I think you scared him," Patricia whispered to him behind the kid's back.

"I haven't talked to him yet."

"My point exactly. You growled at his boss and glared at him. Not your best people face, Frankke."

"I don't have a people face."

"Find one."

Women.

"We heard you're the one who found the girl that died in the barn a couple of years ago," was the woman's opening line to the kid.

"Nah, wasn't me."

"But the owner said−"

"Nay. Not me."

Ten minutes of denying later. "Perhaps you could leave us, please, Frankke?"

"No."

"Please, Frankke. Why don't you go shop for pliers or a wrench." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll wait here with our new friend. You don't mind, sweetie, do you?" She smiled at the kid.

"No. Not possible." Mac had given specific orders; he was not to let her out of his sight.

"Please, Frankke. Just for a couple of minutes. Guys love hardware store, don't they? Go knock yourself out," she insisted.

Still impossible. "I'll talk to the kid."

"No!"

His way was usually effective. He pushed the kid once.

"Frankke, really. He's just a kid," Patricia intervened, putting herself between him and the kid.

He delicately pushed her aside. The kid stormed out. They both ran after him, catching up with him outside in the back parking lot, following the kid's run to a brown beaten-up pickup. When they came levelled with the kid, the jerk had a weapon in his hands. Long barrel. Hunting rifle. They stopped moving. Frankke already had his gun out, pointing at the kid.

"Enough. Put that down. Both of you," Patricia ordered without yelling.

He didn't lower his gun. Neither did the kid.

Patricia shifted between them, coming to stand in their line of fire. He took a step sideways; she took a step; the kid took a step. Same line of fire, just a step to the left. Stand still.

"Enough," she snapped. "Damn it, this is not the damn Far West! What is it with men and their guns!" He heard her taking a sharp breath. She turned to face the kid.

Could he grab her by the arm or the waist to push her away from the kid, and then fire? Risky. If he was not fast enough, the kid might try a shot.

"Listen to me, sweetie. You don't need to do this. I'm sorry he scared you. Cops have no manners. Forget about him. How about we go sit in your car, and you tell me what happened? What you saw. I know you're Mario's friend, I can tell. Did he send you a picture of me? He will have if he trusted you. Only if he trusted you."

"Yes." The kid's voice was shaky.

Good girl. Distract him. Distract yourself. Move to the left. Give me a clear line of sight.

"He sent me a picture. A real one. Not one of them auntie looking ones from your website. A sexy one. In a bikini."

Who was Mario? A bikini shot? Patricia didn't seem surprised.

Her voice went soft. "Of course he sent you a real picture. Because you're his friend. All of Mario's friends are smart, aren't they? So you're smart, right? I bet there's stuff you can tell me about that girl. She was pretty, wasn't she?"

"I didn't do nothing!"

"I know you didn't. Not then. But maybe after? You saw her after, didn't you? Maybe you tried to help her after?" She must have seen something in the kid's face because she quickly added, "Yes. I'm sure you tried to help. But how? How did you?"

"I tried, I really tried. The cops wouldn't help. They thought I was making stuff up. She sure was pretty. She wanted to get her nose fixed. Get bigger boobs, you know, to go work in the city. Her boobs were fine. I liked her boobs."

"Were you two dating?"

"Nah. Friends, you know. She was younger than me. It wouldn't have been proper. I didn't touch her. But her boobs were fine. I saw them after. In the barn. They were fine."

Frankke had read part of the file while having his coffee but did not remember any information about a kid seeing the dead body. The kid was not in the file.

"You saw her in the barn? That's ok, sweetie, you can tell me. What else did you see? Was someone there? Was she seeing anyone?"

"Nah-ah, I didn't see no one. No boyfriends, she was too good for the boys in town. She deserved better. She was going to be a success. A big city success, you know. She had a man at the hotel. She worked there part time. She met a man at the hotel, a doctor. He was going to fix her up real good for the city. I liked her fine like she was."

"That doctor. Do you know his name?"

"Nah. Never saw him."

He would have to get the records from the hotel two years back. Long shot.

"Did you tell the police about it?" Patricia insisted. "The man at the hotel?"

"Yah. Nay. I tried. They didn't listen. They said I was making stuff up. I...I did that sometimes. When I was a kid. Not now. Not anymore. For sure it's true now. But they didn't listen. So I kept it to myself."

"It's ok, sweetie, it's ok. We have it now. You did good. We have the case now. It's ok. You were the best. You helped. We'll break that case, you'll see. Really. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. You are the best. Truly you are. Thank you." Taking a step forward, she put her hand on the barrel of the gun, lowering it toward the ground. The kid let go of it, and she took his hand in hers. Their hands were the same size. The kid wasn't a big guy, tall but skinny just like Fred. She had used the same voice, the same words as with Fred. Had gotten the same result. As soon as the barrel was low enough not to cause mortal injury, he lunged for it, jerked it from the kid's hand. He meant to handcuff the kid, but she pulled the kid by the waist and held him close to her, keeping his hand between hers.

"Patricia. Let him go."

Shaking and crying, the kid put his face in her hair. "Hush, sweetie," she whispered softly in the kid's ear. Frankke could not hear everything she said.

"Patricia. Let him go. Now."

"It's ok, Frankke. It's ok now. He's going to take us to his place. N'est-ce pas, petit?"

"No. I'm taking him to the station," Frankke said, putting the handcuff around one of the guy's wrist as he spoke.

She pushed him back softly. "Not yet, Frankke." She rubbed the kid's back with her free hand. "Give him a moment to calm down." She kept the kid's handcuff-free hand in hers.

She had left her big coat in the back room and by now, she was shaking. So was the kid but the kid was irrelevant. The kid had spent too much time denying, too much time speaking about the dead girl's breasts. Not convinced your kid is all that innocent, woman. Frankke wanted to end the nonsense and take the kid in. Stop her from comforting the kid. Better to let him sweat out alone, girl. For sure that kid had more to say.

The kid made a strange gurgling sound and started to cry again.

"Damn! Ah, damn, hum, oh, ah. Ok. It's, ah, ok," Patricia mumbled, pushing away. "Hum, Frankke? Would you mind getting me my coat?"

"No."

"Frankke. I do. need my coat. Now!"

"No."

"Damn it, Frankke, please!" She sounded a little panicky now.

He grabbed and pulled the kid away, turning him around as he went and finished handcuffing him. He pushed the kid forward. "Now we get your coat."

He reached the back door before realising Patricia wasn't following. He turned around to find her bracing herself next to the kid's truck. Then she threw up. The kid was still sobbing, so he shook him a little to shut him up. He waited. After a few minutes, Patricia walked back toward them, her hands covering the lower part of her abdomen. He figured alcohol damage.

She gave her coat to the kid, putting it around him, back on the front, because of the handcuffs. He, himself, wouldn't have bothered, but the woman was a softie. They rode back in silence, the handcuffed kid in the back, her coat a blanket.

"Think we could stop?" She asked when they were rounding near the kid's house. "He needs to get his coat."

Illogical. "The kid's going to jail, won't need a coat."

"He's cold now."

"The heater's on, Patricia. Are you cold? Want your coat back?"

"We'll just be a couple of minutes. I really want to brush my teeth before we get to the station."

She had tears in her eyes. He stopped. It was only when he got the kid out, her in his sight at all time as ordered, that he noticed the stain on the kid's pants. The kid pied in his pants, he first thought, what a coward. But it wasn't urine. Wrong smell, wrong liquid dispersion. Disgusting. No wonder she threw up. He punched the kid square in the stomach. The kid had no abdominal muscle to stop the blow; he fell to his knees. Only then did Frankke notice Patricia had a wet spot on her clothes too.

"Frankke!"

"He tried to run."

"No, he didn't. That was totally out of line."

"He came on you." The kid deserved the punch.

She stared at him, tears in her eyes. "It's ok. No need to make a big deal out of it. He was scared, that's all."

"I don't get hard when I'm scared. He shouldn't either."

"How would you know? You're never scared!"

She had a point there. But his mother, God rest her soul, had taught him women were sacred and should never be defiled.

Once in the house, Patricia went to brush her teeth while they waited for her next to the bathroom door. It seemed to him she took an unusually long time to brush her teeth.

"Perhaps the kid could change his pants," she suggested when she got out.

"No." Let the kid live with the shame. She frowned at him. "No," he said again. He was not un-cuffing the kid.

"It will only take a minute. I'll go up to his room and grab a pair of pants. We'll help him change right here and be on our way. Two minutes top."

"No."

"Damn you're dense, Frankke. If Christopher sees it, he'll want an explanation, and I'd rather not give him one, ok?" Stubborn woman.

"Two minutes top. Where's your room, kid?"

"Top of the stair, on the right."

Patricia was already running up the stairs. She took way longer than two minutes. More like ten. He could hear her fumbling around. "What are you doing, woman?"

She came back down with a pair of cargo pants. They both looked at the kid. Someone needed to unzip him.

"It's you that has him in handcuffs; you undo the pants."

"No."

"Frankke my friend, you need to learn new words. All those Nos! Damn it, you're worse than−" She did not finish her sentence, but he had a feeling he knew whose name she wanted to say. "Ok. Let's do this as a team. You pull the pants off; I'll put the clean ones on. Ok? Ok, Frankke?"

He pulled the pants down. One sharp movement, not bothering untying them first. The kid yelled out, but Frankke didn't care. "Take off your shoes, asshole." The kid took off the shoes using his heels. "Your turn, girl."

"Ok, sweetie, let's start with the right leg." She held the pants open in front of the kid without looking. Not at the kid's face, not his body, and twice the kid almost lost his balance and fell. "Frankke. Help him out. Hold him."

He grabbed the kid's arm, holding him steady. The kid managed to put his foot, then his leg in the right leg of the pants. Then they did the same for the left. To raise the pants all the way up around the kid's waist, Patricia leaned in closer to the kid. The kid had his eyes closed by then. She did it slower than he had, making sure there was clearance in the front when she pulled up.

She started tying the waist cord, still without looking at the kid, but Frankke pushed her away. The kid's dick was straining against his soiled briefs. Not a big dick for a kid this tall, though. That kid was one sick sicko. Frankke couldn't tell if she noticed the dick. Did not ask.

"Let's go."

"No."

Now what? "Patricia. Let's go."

"No, Frankke. I want to show you something first."

"No."

"Yes." And she ran back upstairs. Stubborn.

He dragged the kid upstairs.

The kid's room was neat, bed made. The kid's desk had a big computer sitting on it. The kid's bookshelves held no books, but three cameras sat on them. The kid's walls were covered with photographs. The kid took pictures. The kid's closet door was open, revealing it had been hastily searched. The kid was looking at Patricia. She might have been the first real woman, besides his mother, to come into his room. The kid had a tiny boner again.

"Did you take pictures of her?" Patricia asked the kid softly. "In the barn? After?"

The kid did not say anything. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then the kid nodded, barely a nod really, a slight lift of the chin.

She smiled sadly at the kid. "Show me."

The kid did.

Frankke called the chief at the station. "We found the kid, alive and kicking. Get the hell out here."

# Alternate series: Cooling off

"What do you mean, you let her go?" _Fuck, he was pissed. What kind of show were Vice running?_

So what if he had taken his time, he was letting let her simmer. He had gone home, slept a couple of hours and come back early morning. He figured, by then she was going to be ready. Ready to confess. Ready to deal. Ready.

" _Don't give me crap, she's only a waitress." Or a hooker. How could she have gotten herself a hotshot lawyer? One no cop wanted to mess with. Circumstantial evidence, they had to let her go._

" _How the fuck can she afford the guy?" Rhetorical question. Who the fuck knew? Could be she was working for the mob. A real professional._

Good news, he had a name and address.

Bad news, when he got there, it was the lawyer's residence. Very upscale.

It took him hours of talking, threatening, arguing first with the security guy, then with the lawyer's personal assistant, "Is she working here, living here? What the fuck is she doing at her lawyer's personal residence?"

Ultimately, he argued with the lawyer himself. "I'd like to talk to your client. You know, the angel in the little black dress that got busted last night on prostitution charges."

" _No."_

He got nowhere.

The lawyer was not considered one of the bests for nothing; the jerk remained unshakable. "Save it for the court, officer. My client has not been charged with anything."

" _How about you call and ask her if she'll‒"_

" _No."_

Dead end.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Chris's on a cold trail

Chris took charge the moment he walked through the door, Shapiro on his heels and the locals in tow. He found Frankke and some kid sitting in front of a computer in an upstairs bedroom while Patricia was locked up in the upstairs bathroom.

"The kid came forward, reluctantly, as Patricia's Internet kid. After much convincing on Patricia's part, the kid confessed to taking some pictures. Dead girl in a barn's the theme. The kid has shown her the pictures."

Hence leading to Patricia locking herself in the bathroom to throw up. "How many and how bad are the pictures?"

"Numerous and graphic. She's been in there since right after I called you."

Fuck.

She came back to the bedroom just in time to catch the local chief cursing at the kid, accusing him of killing the girl.

Her eyes were red, her face white, but she managed to raise her chin and snap at the old guy. "Hey! He didn't do anything! If you hadn't done such a good job at ignoring him, we might not be here today. You screwed up, Officer!" She was right. She was always right about such thing.

Botched job big time. Another thing Chris had no patience for. No fucking excuse for it.

The kid's little bedroom was crowded with the four of them and the three locals, so he backed the locals out and escorted them downstairs.

"Wait a minute, MacLaren, this is my turf, you can't just show up and start barking orders−"

He just ignored the old guy; the chief had screwed up, and they both knew it. "Shapiro, help those guys secure the premises, however the fuck they do it here when there's really nothing left to secure except a kid's computer."

When he got back up to the kid's room, Frankke was standing guard in the middle of the place. His guy had positioned himself between Patricia's chair and the kid's as the two stared at the computer screen. Every time the kid pointed at something on the screen, Patricia leaned in, the kid leaned toward her, and Frankke pulled the kid back. The action-reaction that gave him a flash of Patricia and Fred sitting next to each other at the meeting. Since that kid acted like Fred, he would proceed accordingly.

Kid was still in cuffs. Frankke was playing bad cop, his lifetime role. Should he play the good cop then? Wasn't Patricia already playing that part? Although, based on Kid's body language, the jerk was not thinking of her as a cop. More like he was trying fucking hard to show off to her. With pictures of a dead girl's naked body, that kid was fucking sick!

Something was way off with her, though. The two of them sitting next to one another might resemble when she was with Fred, but she sure wasn't acting the same as with Fred. Not once did he see her touch the kid, none of that feather-light touch of her hand on the kid's sleeve. He studied them from the doorframe with puzzlement. That angel touch was her trademark when she wanted information, why wasn't she using it with Kid?

"Patricia?" Her hair shielding her face, she did not turn to look at him. She was hunched over, eyes intent on the screen, arms folded over her lap, partly covering her belly.

Frankke pushed the kid's chair further away, leaving a three-step gap between the kid's chair and hers. Keeping his eyes on them, Frankke stepped back and whispered in his ear. Patricia looked up briefly with a frown before returning to the screen. As Frankke talked, Chris felt Knot and Fists return with a vengeance. Blazing cold anger. Burning worry. At one point, had he been closer to the kid, he would have thrown him into the wall. Frankke stood in front of him, a firm hand on his shoulder, ready to stop him if he moved. His eyes burned into her, willing her to turn. Show me your face, Angel, show me you're ok. Frankke finally stopped talking.

"Get him downstairs. Now." Chris's voice was sharp.

When Frankke hustled the kid out of his chair and out of the room, Chris backed up in the alleyway, far enough so he couldn't reach out and throw a punch. He waited for the kid to be downstairs to go back into the bedroom. Patricia didn't look up when he entered. He sat in the kid's chair, pulling it right against hers before sitting. Their thighs were touching, so were their arms. He was so mad, he couldn't talk. He leaned in and kissed her neck softly. She let out a sob, just one, and then a long sigh before lowering her head to his shoulder, eyes closed. He listened as her breathing slowly calmed.

After a while, she got up and walked to the window, her back to the screen. She kept her back to him while he looked at the pictures.

The kid must have taken over a hundred pictures. A couple of wide angles showing the empty barn and the girl laying at the right of the door. More pictures, taken closer, showing her full body. Her clothes had not been torn, her blouse was open but was not missing a single button, neither was her wrapped-around skirt, laid out on the ground under her. She still had her socks and shoes on. There was no sign of her panties or her bra, maybe she had not been wearing any. Her long blond hair was tied in a neat ponytail. Her small brown eyes were opened in those pictures. From her ankles to her forehead, she was the color of white snow, skin, nipples, pubic hair, everything white like baby powder but more coarse. More pictures, taken closer, showed her pubis, her breasts, her lips, her eyes. Eyes open, eyes closed. He went through the pictures one by one slowly. Then he looked at them again one after the other, faster. From the numbering, he knew which were taken first and which last. The girl's arms had been moved a little between the firsts and the lasts. So had her legs. Her skin was whiter in the firsts than the lasts, some areas having almost no white at all in the end. Lips, nipples and part of her breasts, pubic area, inside of her thighs and waist, where the kid had held on to the body probably.

"I think he found the body right after." Gazing out the window, she spoke softly without turning her head. "He often went to the barn in his four-wheel bike. Maybe the killer heard the motor approaching and took off. He said the body was still warm when he walked in."

How much had she figured out?

# Chris is hot

He came to stand next to her. Outside, the cops had somehow driven wooden posts into the frozen ground and stretched yellow tape between them to encircle the house.

"Ridiculous, aren't they?"

"Keeps them busy, Angel. Out of my way."

She smiled at that, finally turning around, forcing him to take a step back. Out of sight to the cops outside. When she took another step forward, he didn't move and she came to stand right in front of him, almost touching him. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips. Her lips parted and his kiss deepened. He kept hold of her face with his hands.

"You know I'm mad as hell, don't you, Darling of mine?"

"Yes, I do know. But you have to help him, he's a very sick kid. Two years he's lived with those pictures he took, not able to tell or show anyone, that must have been terrible!"

"Patricia, it's not only pictures he took."

"What? What do you mean? Surely you can't believe he killed her. The girl had white stuff all over like the other women. The kid never set foot in the city."

"I don't think he killed her, but I do believe he did other things to her."

"What are you talking about? The girl wasn't raped. That's what the chief told me. The kid said he got there after her death."

How naïve she was sometimes. "He touched her post mortem." She looked at him blankly. "He probably didn't rape her but he sure as hell played with her a lot." Still the blank look. "Patricia, did you look at the pictures?"

"Well, I tried. I looked at some. But, hum, the beverages from this morning have kind of been sitting in my stomach and well, ah, you know."

He smiled at her, shaking his head. "Beverages my ass. You got sick looking at the pictures. Like you always do. Well, Princess, if you had kept on looking, you would have noticed the girl wasn't so white toward the end of the show."

"You're not saying what I think you're saying, are you?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. He touched the body, touched it all over. From the looks of it, he might have rubbed himself on it."

"Why?"

"Why?! Come on, Angel, use that imagination of yours."

"You don't think he actually...? With a dead body? That's sick! Do you think he, ah, hum, you know?"

"Yes, I think he, hum, you know," he teased. She had written steamy love scenes, kinky sex interludes and some crude fucks in her books, but when it came to dealing with perverts, he was always surprised at how innocent she was in real life. "Only way to be sure, since the locals screwed the investigation, is to ask the kid. But I already know what he's going to tell us. And the answer is yes, he came. It wouldn't have taken him long. I guess taking the pictures must have took him around fifteen-twenty minutes. He probably got hard doing it. After that, when he started rubbing himself, I'm sure it went very fast." He paused, teasing still. Fuck he liked talking to her and watch her react. "And we both know he's a quick shooter with his gun, don't we? I heard you've learned that first hand."

He started to laugh when she took her offended air. "Christopher James MacLaren! It is nothing to laugh about!"

"You're right, it's not funny. You do know I'm mad as hell, don't you?"

"Yes, I know, you told me already. But he's sick, you have to get him treatment."

Treatment? The sicko had dry fucked his girlfriend, not to mention a dead girl. No way, the jerk was lucky not to get beaten up. "No."

"Christopher! You have to promise me you'll get him help."

"No. Did you notice how stiff he was showing you the pictures?"

"What? Christopher, damn it, stop! He needs help."

"No."

"But you have too. If only because the locals screwed up with him."

"No."

"Damn it! You have to help him!"

"No."

"Christopher, I'm asking you to help him. Please."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Not good enough. No."

"Because... because that could be Fred. They're the same. You know they're the same. And you helped Fred."

Fred wasn't like that kid. Fred was sick but not anything like that kid. That kid was more like the crazies she used to hang with. Joshua's knights. "If I help him, and I can't promise I can, what are you offering in exchange?"

"Christopher James MacLaren, you're a jerk!"

"I know, Pussycat. What's your offer?"

"You are the most arrogant, manipulative jerk I've−"

He cut her off with a smile, "I know, you say that every time." And yet every time, you make me an irresistible offer, Angel of mine. "So, what do I get?"

Fists on hips, chin high, standing tall, she was magnificent. He started to laugh. A low, deep laugh. He had her. He knew he had her because she had not stormed out of the room. She knew he knew. "Fine, Big guy, what do you want?"

Now there was an interesting question. What did he want? Her. All of her for sure. Her to quit. But if he asked, would she? He had to ask for something big but feasible. Something they could both live with without him getting back into the dog house, without her getting hurt or him making her sad, or her going to work someplace else, or taking off to yoga or Italy. He knew exactly what to ask, something for both of them. He came out on top, but he would make it worth her while. He told. She argued. A lot. But in the end, she agreed.

# MacLaren's deal

He let the locals, carefully supervised by Shapiro, searched Kid's house. He personally seized Kid's computer and all the hard drives, backup disks, USB keys, compact disks, and cameras. Kid would later be charged for the pictures, and improper use of a cadaver. Due to the botched up investigation and autopsy, and the lack of fingerprints, fibers or traces of semen, Kid would be cleared of the defilement charges. Incompetents.

They went to eat with the locals at the diner late that night. The brother-in-law-and-coffee cop was there, with the other cop they had seen tending the front desk that morning and two others they knew from the kid's house, but the chief had gone home. Chris had the desk cop and the coffee cop on his sides, with the house cops at each end of the table. Patricia sat in front of him, Shapiro and Frankke at her flanks. Well past your bedtime, Darling of mine. She sat pale face and quiet, looking beat. They all did. Had she not been so tired, she might have noticed the strange sitting arrangement. It might look as if everyone had grabbed a seat randomly, but Chris had made sure she was encircled.

Oblivious to her security detail, Patricia sat elbows on the table, chin in her hand, and played with her half-eaten food. Around her, the guys made small talk on the weather, Shapiro's way of being his polite self and chatting up the locals.

She gazed absently somewhere around Chris's left pectoral and sighed heavily. "You guys have a heck of a job. I'm beat. I couldn't do this every day."

Stunned silence from the locals, hell of a grin from Frankke, and laughers from him and Shapiro, that pulled her from her daze with a frown.

"Angel, we don't do this every day. In fact, the day you've had, I've never had, not even close."

"Hey!"

"The chief's right, girly girl," Frankke agreed. "Walking in the snow. Getting drunk before lunch. Standing in front of a crazy kid with a loaded rifle. Hugging him so hard he came. Throwing up. Playing with his pants to make him hard again. Looking at a dead girl's pornographic pictures. Throwing up again. A whole year of work in just this one day." Longest speech Chris had heard so far on this trip from Frankke. "Hell, I was with you the entire time, and I only got to do the walking in the snow and the pictures shit." Frankke winked at her. Fucking zoo.

"Well, you know what, Frankke dear, next time, it's your turn."

"Woman, a perp would be dead before he came on me."

That left her speechless. Chris laughed harder.

He called it a night shortly after and the four of them retired to the hotel. Patricia and Frankke were going back the next morning while he and Shapiro needed to stay a couple of days more. It should have been Frankke that stayed, but the guy volunteered to escort her back.

"I'm starting to get the hang of it," Frankke had said with a smile. "Babysitting her's never boring. Besides, black guys aren't the country type. I'll work on the pictures, there's a couple of new angles I can look into. The fucking rest the locals have ruined anyway." Fucking incompetents.

The sleeping arrangement stayed the same although this time she didn't get up when he came knocking; he had to pick the lock. She was asleep even before he slide in under the covers. For some reason, she slept fully dressed.

Chris would keep his end of the deal. To get Kid evaluation and treatments in a mental facility, he cut a deal with the locals. He kept the computer. The locals gave him the records from the hotel. A Doctor Smith had stayed over two years ago for a three-night stay, ending the morning of the girl's body discovery. The doc had paid cash.

In exchange, Chris agreed not to have the chief's investigation of the dead girl investigated. For the eleven months remaining before the chief's retirement, another officer would take the lead, the chief only keeping up appearances. Couldn't be worse than the actual chief, could it? All the interim chief, coffee-brother-in-law cop it was, had to do was show half as much interest in the job as he had for Patricia, and he would do ok.

Leading the locals, he and Shapiro stayed to interview the town residents regarding that doctor. One of the advantages of small towns, the hotel's owner had plenty of time to take notes and reminisce. Not much information was obtained, though, besides a very vague physical description. Average height, average weight, dark graying hair, glasses. The doctor hadn't talked much and hadn't eaten in town, he had come in late and left early in an unknown car. They pushed the locals, getting them to contact businesses in the environing towns to find where the doctor had spent his days during his visit. A long shot, a very long shot as in a two-years after the fact shot.

# His winning hand

He spent the fucking weekend in the countryside tying up loose ends with the locals, whatever he could tie. The old chief could only be described as a fucking incompetent. Luckily there didn't seem to be a lot of murders in their neck of the woods but still, the new guy had quite a job in front of him, getting that department running straight again.

"I won't go as far as saying I'd hire him but for a local he ain't half bad," he told Shapiro in confidence.

"Yah. Just as long as there's no woman around to distract him," Shapiro replied, adding as an afterthought, "He asked about our trainee."

"He asked me earlier too."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Same as you, I guess. She's a city woman and very busy at that." And off limits, jerk. For sure he could have been more polite but he was getting tired of everyone in this fucking village wanting to get close to the woman writer. His woman writer. Very mature, MacLaren. No way would he tell her about his chat with the new guy, she might not appreciate his lack of cooperation with a fellow officer. The thought made him smile. That and his return home.

They took the earliest flight back on Monday morning, both fed up with the country air. It was not that he wasn't the outdoorsy type because he was. He had a small cabin down by a lake way off west. It was a four-hour drive to get there, and twenty minutes from the nearest town. It wasn't a town really, more like a village and a small one at that. He had built the cabin by himself in his younger years. A generator provided electricity for the fridge and stove. When needed, heat for the square one-room cabin was given by a fireplace. He had put in a small kitchen area, stove, fridge, counter and some shelves, a living area, two sofas at an angle facing the windows, one who opened up as a bed. The cabin had windows on only one side, large bay windows to the lake (a small lake but all his as were the surrounding woods). The bathroom and shower were outside to the side. Not a big priority since he had always gone there alone. His place away from everything. Funny, when he had built the place and all those years after, going three-four times a year, he could never imagine taking a woman with him. His place. Except for her. Damn her. He was going to take her there soon, the two of them alone. Nobody to share her with, nowhere for her to run. They would spend their days naked, damn that would be nice. He sighed. Fucking nice. Until then, he had a problem to solve, namely her working with the team.

Where the fuck had come from, her wanting to work in his office? She didn't like cops to start with, despised them really, but now she wanted to spend her fucking days in a place full of them! She better not show up for the meeting. Fuck he was in a bad mood. He might have shot someone over in snow county without his old buddy Shapiro to smooth things over. He considered himself a patient man, and he was indeed very patient, in control might be a better way to describe him, but incompetence and laziness he had no patience for.

He calmed down somewhat before the meeting and was now in a relatively good mood since she hadn't shown up.

"How about taking over this morning, Le?" LeRoy being his second-in-command, he made sure to let the guy take the lead once in a while. If the time came when he wasn't there, he wanted LeRoy to be ready no matter what.

It was a long meeting. Reid had worked with DesForges on Patricia's old case, as the team had gotten into the habit of calling it. Ham and Des had a few other cases going. So did Frankke but he worked mostly on the white women murders, as he was calling them. Frankke's strange type of humour. Shapiro detailed what they had done up in the countryside and what they had achieved.

"You guys should have seen the chief they have up there. What an asshole. Still nothing on the Smith doctor guy, the locals are covering that angle. The Interim seems to know his job, I called before the meeting, his guys are still on it."

LeRoy having reviewed his cases first and Fredrick never having anything to share, the meeting would have been adjourned without incident if it wasn't for Patricia. Not her exactly, more the absence of her. As was his usual, Chris had given no explanation. It was Ham who asked, Ham the braggart, and the guy knew just what to say, didn't he?

"So, boss, where's that sexy trainee of ours?" The jerk asked. "Did she fall for the North country?"

"More the other way around," Shapiro interjected before Chris could answer. "They fell for her the hard way. You should have seen the Internet kid she dug up." The old guy started laughing, telling them about the kid's erectile problems or his lack thereof. Which led to Shapiro telling about her standing in front of a loaded gun.

"Shapiro, enough." He did try to shut the guy up but when the Italian mouth started going, he was unstoppable. Fuck, keep the guy away from his wife for a few days and he becomes a blabber mouth.

"Frankke, you dog. Next time I'm babysitting." Now, if even LeRoy couldn't keep some professional distance.

"Guys. Enough!" He had to repeat it twice. "Guys. Damn it. Enough." Second time yelling. The fucking place was turning into a zoo! They finally shut up. Well, Shapiro did, the others kept on laughing, Reid too, fucking feminine solidarity for you. Luckily, or unluckily, Bridget had not stayed until the end, she would for sure have slapped some of them behind the head.

"Ok, Boss. So where is she? You didn't fire her, did you?" Frankke asked without laughing, looking somewhat worried.

"She's on suspension. Still has a week of it."

He had suspended her two weeks but no matter she had spent the better part of one looking into the white women case, she was still suspended. Part of their deal for Kid.

LeRoy stopped by his office later that afternoon. "So Mac, how'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How'd you get her to obey?"

Obey? He shrugged. She had not obeyed, she had cut a deal, big fucking difference. She would never obey, and he didn't want her to. Not often anyway.

Just as a reminder, he called her cell phone and got her voice mail. "Hey Angel, I'm back in town. I shall see you later."

# His prize

By five-thirty, almost two hours before his usual departure time, Chris was out the door. He stopped by the Italian place they liked and bought supper to go. Homemade-style vegetable soup, a big salad, veal parmesan and lasagna. He made a stop at the bakery for cream puffs and croissants, respectively dessert and breakfast. As for the wine, he already had plenty of bottles in storage. The building was quiet when he got home, one of the many advantages of living in an office building in an industrial area, nobody was in when he was.

From the faintest of scent in the air the moment the elevator doors opened, he knew. When he opened his door, he saw her sitting at the end of the kitchen table, legs somewhat hidden under the table, arms folded across her front, hair curling around her face. Naked. He smiled but said nothing. He took his time coming in, putting the food in the oven to keep it warm, in the fridge to keep it fresh, all the while looking at her.

He couldn't see all of her. Her breasts were hidden by her arms, her thighs and sexy vee hidden by the table. She had chosen a good seat, only watching her at an angle from the kitchen could he see her curves. He liked. She watched him as he studied her, a half-smile on her lips, her blue eyes dark and her cheeks red.

He came to stand behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, then bend to kiss her neck softly. Was she shivering? Since he had been gone for the last five days, his place was somewhat cool; he should turn the heat up. Later. His hands dropped from her shoulders to her breasts. As he cupped the firm, soft mounts, she put her arms around his neck. He liked. His right hand stayed, his left slid further down. Her legs parted. She was wet.

"Been waiting long, Pussycat?" He teased against her skin. Not long enough though, he thought. He pulled her chair further from the table and kneeled in front of her.

"Nice view." He opened her thighs wider, pulling her legs on each side of the chair. "There. Even better. Fuck you are gorgeous." She looked at him under long eyelashes. She knew this was to be his show. Damn good.

"Hands on the chair's back, Princess." She frowned but did as told. "Hold on, no moving."

"Christopher..."

"Hush, Princess. I'll make sure you like it."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Her deep blue eyes, so damn dark now, observed him. He smiled. Indeed, he was going to make sure she liked it. He would too. Immensely.

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"So you don't know what I'm doing."

"Christopher, mon chéri."

"Do I need blindfold and ropes?" They had yet to use props. She was a thousand toys in herself.

"You're impossible," she argued yet again she did as told. She didn't have much choice, did she? She was a woman of her word, and they did have a deal.

For a good minute, he didn't move. He just gazed at her, enjoying the view. She was frowning still. He brushed a kiss on her forehead, heard her sigh, before gently putting his hands back on her shoulders. She tensed again. "Hush, Angel of mine." He waited without removing his hands, taking her in until she relaxed once more.

Only then did he slowly slid his hands over her front. Over her breasts. Waited only for her to catch her breath before moving lower. Sliding over her ribcage. Her nipples contracted. Sliding his hands over her belly. Around her waist. On the top of her thighs. To her knees. Over the inside of her thighs. Her folds. Her breath caught. His fingers playfully brushed over every damn fold of her. So wet. He stared as she bit her lips. Trying not to moan, was she? His hands glided back up. To her waist, her belly, her ribcage, her breasts, her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks, her eyes, her hair, her eyes, her lips. He rubbed teasingly with his forefinger to release her lower lip. He traced the contour of her mouth with the tip of his finger. When her lips parted, he slid his finger in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered.

"Eyes closed, Angel," he coaxed softly. She sighed, relaxing again as she sucked his finger gently. He liked.

"My show, Angel of mine, you don't get to do anything," he whispered and pulled his finger out. With his now wet finger, he brushed a nipple. Blew on it. She stopped breathing. He fucking liked. He pinched the hardened bud between forefinger and thumb. Pulled. She leaned forward. He let go.

"No moving."

"Mon chéri, I want..."

"I know."

Making sure not to touch her but for his tongue, he licked the other nipple. Fast, small licks. Felt it become harder. Harder. Her arms stiffened as she held on to the chair. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his face. So fucking nice. He paused to admire. So damn enjoying the view. He waited for her breathing to calm down. A little.

"Christopher, I don't want you to tease."

"I know. Hush."

He covered both breasts with his hands. Damn he loved her breasts. Her breathing accelerated. He liked the feel of them. She thought them average size-wise, but he didn't. The feel of them, the shape, the perkiness, the tenderness, the sensitivity, how could she not know how spectacular her breasts were? He opened his fingers, watching the erect nipples appear. He closed his fingers back. Opened them again. Closed them back. Squeezing the buds between his fingers. Like the nipples were in the way. An almost casual pinch. But fuck, there was nothing casual about how he felt when he played with her breasts. He was hard and ready. His show.

He covered her left breast, his hand cupped and immobile. His left hand journeyed once again over her ribcage, her belly, her waist, the top of her thigh, her knee, the inside of her thigh. She pushed against his sliding hand and tried to close her thigh. He removed his hands.

"No moving," he warned, and waited.

The panting slowed. A little.

He changed hands, now resting the previously moving hand on her ribcage. Thumb on her nipple he waited. Rubbed with his thumb. Her breath caught. His show. He did the same with his other hand. So nice. He lowered his thumbs. Encircled the underside of her breasts with his thumbs and forefingers. He leaned closer to her chair, the heat of her thighs on his sides, and flicked his tongue over her left nipple. Once. Twice. Flicked his tongue over her right nipple. Once. Twice. Left nipple. Once. Right nipple. Once. Twice. Three times. Left. Once. Twice. Randomly. Left. Right. Never the same. She moaned and tried to close her thighs into his sides. He stopped.

"My show, Darling of mine."

She sobbed. So impatient. He softly tugged her thighs apart. Sat on his heels to admire the view. So, so nice. He put his hands on her knees. Up the inside of her thighs. Lazily. He slowed when he reached the apex. Felt her pulse, so fucking fast. Slid his thumbs in her sex, between her lips. So wet. Brushed the hidden bud with his thumb. Her hips rocked slowly following his rhythm.

"Mon chéri, more, s'il te plait."

"Soon, Darling." He stopped, she stiffened. "Very soon."

He wouldn't hold himself for much longer. He pulled at one nipple with his teeth. She moaned. He smiled. Very soon. He sucked at the other. Both so hard. She arched her back more. So very soon. He caressed her offered thighs. They started to shake. Both hands resting on the inside of her thighs to steady her, he rubbed the wet hardened bud with his thumbs. So, so wet.

"Your show now, Princess."

He rubbed and she rocked. She leaned her head back, her breasts offered as she arched her back. When she climaxed, he pushed his thumb inside her.

Before her breathing had slowed, he licked her slowly, teasing the swollen nub until she tried closing her thighs and came in a sob.

"Second time is always more painful, isn't it, Angel?"

"Can I touch you now?"

She had kept her part of the deal. You can do whatever you want, Darling of mine. No handcuffs, maybe some other time if he was lucky. He was patient. His.

# Alternate series: The break

He had given it some thoughts. What could she do next? With the staff awaiting trial, some of them at least, the place was closed for now.

He put pressure on the mafia boys and little black dresses he had at hand.

" _Any info you can give me, I'm willing to deal."_

They kept their mouth shut. At first. But they didn't have the same lawyer she had. The other girls, they gave it some thoughts. Not that they knew her well, but they knew her well enough.

He learned her real last name and got if not an address, at least a neighbourhood. So she was not in the database, no prior arrest, he was patient. He had a sketch made. He asked around. Local shops, women always shopped, and he figured she was hard to miss. Sure enough, someone called. Grocery shopping. Delivery.

He showered. He shaved. He showed up at her door.

She didn't look surprised to see him yet pretended not to recognize him. "Hello there, what can I do for you, hon'"

_He tried to talk to her. Her eyes were hard. For the first time, he did not like her. When she threatened to call the cops, he left._ Professional for sure, Angel. _But he couldn't imagine what her motives for murder were. Jealousy over a client?_

He worked harder. Longer hours. He started to smoke. He was getting damn too old for the job. They found another woman. White breasts. Then another. White feet.

Then her. White face. Good choice.

He was pissed. More than he had ever been. Her death was on him.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# A fair deal for both

Keeping her part of the deal, she stayed the week. Christopher was impossible. Since there was no point in arguing, after all she had agreed to the damn deal, she enjoyed her stay-over week even more. While Christopher did his job thing during the day, she did her things but waited for him at his place every night.

"Damn, you're macho."

"Only with you, Pussycat."

He did come back to her every night by six, very early by his workaholic standards, like he wanted to show her she could live with him on a more permanent basis. Not that she thought the week was for real. In real life, murders happened at all hours and in real life, he would have left, be it the middle of the night, during supper, maybe during sex (or more likely, knowing him, right after). The man was dedicated. She smiled. So was she when she had an idea. Whatever the moment, she got up and wrote but not during sex, not with Christopher at least.

They often argued, albeit not this week. Again, what was the point? As per the deal, he was in charge, and hence had the upper hand no matter what. Had they fought, she was to stay. Again, nothing like real life. Her defence mechanisms were more into storming out and running away, as opposed to the Big guy's, which were just to stand his grounds and try to seduce her. Take care of it for her, with her, despite her. He was good at taking care of it, a little too good. Dangerous. So much more so after this week. Highly dangerous. She had promised herself she wouldn't fall for a jerk again, and there she was spending the week, and liking it, with a cop!

He was sweet about it too. He could have gloated, teased, provoked but he didn't. He treated her like a queen. Brought supper, took her out, and made breakfast. Left not too early, and came back not too late. Made love to her every night, or morning, or both. She liked. He didn't once mention the county events or her cold case. She liked even more. They acted like a regular couple. Ordinary. Almost. She went out every day to write, staying away from libraries and police precincts alike. Cafés were her favourite writing place, but she kept clear of Vitto's, too near Christopher's office. She did talk to Bridget, who had called worried, and to Reid, who had called pretending not to be, even to Frankke, who had just called, and Frédéric, whom she had called.

Came Sunday, it felt like she had gained a little weight from all the food Christopher had fed her. Good thing considering she had lost more since starting with the team. Throwing up sure was annoying. She felt relaxed and content, but surely it couldn't be because of the Big guy's attentions and care, the regular meals and the sex. Christopher was an accomplished cook and a very attentive (and determined) lover, too much so, she thought sometimes. She too had a few tricks of her own he seemed to like a lot. The truth was she dreaded going back to the office. Not good. And she wasn't looking forward to going back to her place. Not good at all.

Chris watched Patricia as, stretched on the couch, she smiled softly at some nonsense on the television, a glass of wine in her hand.

"Damn you look good on my couch, Princess, even if you have your clothes on." For now. Only a few hours left on the deal and fuck did he want more. A permanent arrangement. But she wasn't ready yet.

Once again, he thought about that guy, Joshua. Too bad the jerk was dead, the urge to kill the sonofabitch was forever present. Patience, MacLaren, a step at a time. Hell, he had made a lot of progress since they'd met. She had stayed with him, a cop, an entire week! He had made sure she liked her week. He sure had liked it too. Immensely. She was smart, delicate, funny, attentive, soft, sexy, a bit of a lunatic yes, but damn if it didn't turn him on (some said he was borderline crazy himself too), challenging, feminine, brave, nice, distracting, and so much more. Different and unique. All of her, his. Now all he had to do was find a way to make her quit so she'd be safe. The damn woman was proud, and she was stubborn. If he let on he wanted her to resign, she wouldn't quit just to spite him. And you say I'm pigheaded, Angel. Having her back was going to make his life complicated as hell. Again.

When Monday came, they showed up for work separately (her fucking idea). Everybody was in, on time, for the meeting, and all were in a pleasant enough mood. He had given her a new cold file, colder than her first and more gruesome. Having her throwing up was one of the ways he intended to make her sick of the job.

"Since I'm back on the job," she had warned him during the weekend, "no visiting during weeknights."

"Yes, ma'am," he had readily agreed, thinking he'd see to changing her mind after she had had a night off.

He worked late on Monday, no point in leaving early, was there? There wasn't anybody waiting for him anymore. He intended to finish early the next day but did not. New murder, new case. That one was for Frankke with Shapiro; it had been a while since the two of them had worked closely together. The county thing with Shapiro tidying the mess and Frankke babysitting, Chris didn't consider as working together.

"Patricia has stayed working at her desk all day so far," Bridget reported three days in a row.

If she just stayed put, he thought, maybe he wouldn't have to make her quit. Yeah right, like that was going to last.

# Patricia's deal breaker

Indeed, she didn't last. Damn this file is boring. Horrible pictures, a victim she didn't care for. Judging from the description in the file, the dead guy had been a real jerk hence her lack of motivation to search any further. Not that she was supposed to search further. Hum. Maybe if she used the victim for the bad guy?

She had an idea for a killer. Her first case had been so much more interesting. Cool how it had turned out Ex was the guilty one. Cool but freaky. Did it mean she had a gift for the job? Same for the country kid thing although next time, she might let Christopher handle it. No wonder Christopher worked so much, this was fun. Well, part of it.

What now? If she gave the file back so soon, would she get another one? She had carefully avoided talking to Christopher about anything related to work. She wasn't sure he had gotten used to her working with the team yet; she hoped he had, suspected he hadn't. She wasn't sure she had herself. So now what? Reid had made it very clear she wouldn't talk about the old file. Not that Patricia was all that interested, she had gotten all the ideas she needed from that file already. Besides, Reid had snitched her out to Christopher. Granted Christopher could get anything out of just about anybody, he did with her often enough. Hence, she could hardly blame Reid for it, especially since Reid had asked her out for a beer to apologise. The woman had taken her to some place where men were bulky and muscular, and the beers were icy cold. She didn't like either (ok fine, maybe she liked the muscular men a little but only a little). They stayed out way too late for a weeknight, and she had to drag herself to work the next morning.

So there she was, tired and staring at her computer screen. Maybe if she got Frédéric to show her the electronic version of her new old file, she might see something new. In a somewhat half-felt attempt to appreciate the dead guy, she thought about visiting his family. It was something to do, and it might ease her guilty conscience about not liking a dead murder victim. Shouldn't she had least pitied him?

Procrastination. Damn, she hated that word. And yet she spent some time talking to Bridget. Went down to that horrible cafeteria and chatted with the two women working there. Procrastination was by then the theme of her day for next she visited Frédéric for a chat, her doing all of the talking, remembering about the file only once she was back at her desk. She stopped by the big boss's office, Lou, the precinct's Captain, and did a little gossiping with his secretary. She went to Vitto's to get real coffees for Bridget and herself, staying well over an hour. Such lovely people. The son was charming, strong and muscular. She tried to pick him up for Reid and might have overdone it. On her way back she made a mental note never to go to Vitto's with Christopher when the son was working.

Thursday by ten, she was bored out of her mind. And she had only been in, what, an hour or so? Without anyone in, the place was worse than a library. That wouldn't do. To write, she needed ambiance, music, voices, noise! She sat at her desk and stared at her kettle pot wishing someone would appear in it. It took another hour for it to work. Frankke and Shapiro.

"You have to go to lunch with me, take me somewhere. Anywhere. Please."

They started with lunch at some restaurant across town. Classier than both the one the terrible two had taken her and the one she had taken them, classier but not by much.

"You guys need to find new eating spots. DesForges and Hamilton, I can understand, they're, hum, rough around the edges, but you two have more class. And damn it, Shapiro, you're Italian! Does your wife know what you're eating? She must be appalled, offended even."

# Her dealings

She managed to tag along with the two men after lunch.

"We got to see some guy."

"Okeydokey."

When they stopped to see said some guy, they left her on the back seat of the car, doors locked. Whoever invented the damn child safety lock should have designed an adult bypass other than her climbing over the front seat. For now, her dignity kept her fuming in insulted silence in the back.

They made another stop at a pound shop, mercifully letting her out on the sidewalk while they went in. Another stop at some auto-part store. Again she was allowed outside. By the fourth stop, she was bored. During the drives in between, Frankke didn't talk much, and Shapiro chatted too much. Quite a pair. Then again, quite a team. What was Christopher thinking, putting those two together? Just showed even the Big guy made mistakes. Neither men bothered telling her what they were doing.

By the fifth stop, she was on observation mode watching them. Not what they were doing so much as just them. The way they glanced at each other, the way one went in, the other following, the way one leaned on the counter seemingly relaxed, the other standing watch by the door. She caught each looking at her from time to time, relaxed yet watchful. She stayed outside. By the ninth stop, she had come up with two new characters, their outlines sketchy but their cores clear in her mind. Bad characters thus good thus not cops. For some reasons, her cop characters always turned up either dumb or dirty, often both. That her two new characters might be mercenaries or salesmen was not important for now, they were to be put in her bank of characters with the others to be given life in a story eventually.

At the tenth stop, she stood close to the shop's door.

"Back to the car, girly girl."

"With the sun shining in the windshield, I can't see from inside the car."

She stood near for the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth halts. What the guys were asking or looking for, she had yet to be told, and she wasn't about to ask for fear of reminding them she wasn't supposed to be there to begin with.

On the fourteenth stop, she got tired and bored. They were doing the same thing over and over and over. Go in, wait around, ask whatever, wait around some more, talk again, hand out business cards, get out, drive to some other place, repeat. Three doors down, around the corner, three blocks down, all of the same.

"I timed you guys. You spent between ten and fifteen minutes per place; we'll average it to twelve minutes. There's an eleven minutes and thirty seconds drive in between, the shortest drive having been three minutes and the longest, twenty-five, you had trouble finding the place near the gas station, remember? Don't you guys ever use a GPS?"

"What's your point, Patricia sweetie?"

"Don't you guys get bored?" The men kept the same role on each visit, Shapiro relaxed, Frankke watchful. "The routine you go through, is it typical for Italians and Blacks?" Probably not, all those Mafia Italian mobsters she had seen in the movies, they had been watchful, while Blacks were often portrayed walking around relaxed, nonchalant even. "I would grow tired of always playing the same part in the play, you guys should try switching. How about watchful, relaxed, charming, menacing, friendly, aggressive, sexy, pushy? There are so many possible variations."

"No." Apparently cops lacked imagination.

So for the fourteenth stop, she remained in the car. "How about leaving the keys for the radio?"

The guys were kind enough to agree.

She remained seated for the fifteenth also, wondering when they planned on going back to the station. It was passed her quitting time now; she had missed her afternoon coffee, and she was getting hungry.

They stayed for a long time at the sixteenth. Auto-part shop again. Big front windows again. The building stood alone far from the street in an empty parking lot, where they waited, her, her empty stomach and the car. After watching the guys walk out to the side of the building then around to the back, she got out to stretch and wait. It was all she had done that afternoon, wait. Damn boring yet better than staring at her kettle pot. She was back sitting when she noticed the guys returning but, instead of coming to the car, they went back inside through the front door without a wave or a nod. This was taking forever! The guys were gone long enough for her to get out again. Back in again, in the driver seat this time, and why not?

Driver seat in a police car (granted unmarked), was not a place she had sat in before so she researched it by taking pictures with her cell phone. Plain interior, regular automatic transmission (she liked manual transmission better, but that was just her), cop-style radio transmitter, laptop in a bulky docking platform. It was an ordinary old sedan of some sort without the entire typical police equipment like the protective netting between the front and the back seat. Still, the view was much better from the front. As she stretched on the front seats to explore under the seats, the gloves compartment, she became invisible to the outside world. Maybe the guys will worry at my disappearance and finally come back to the car. Maybe the guys need some help with their case, a more feminine touch.

She was smiling at the thought when she heard the first shots. Not that she recognised the sound right away, she had to peek up and see one of the store windows burst for that. Her eyes registered the guys jumping behind the counter, but her mind refused to analyse. She couldn't see squat from the car, only the counter and a car pulling up slowly next to her on the passenger side. She sat paralysed for seconds, minutes, a decade maybe, before instinct took over. The two men in the shooting car hadn't seen her yet (or so she assumed since they had not shot at her). She put the car in Drive and hit the gas. To shield the counter from the outside shooters, she crashed the car into the front window, what was left of it.

Most people might have driven away from the shooting car. Surely she would have done the same had she had been thinking clearly, or she would have hidden in the car, doors locked. Did I lock the doors, she stupidly wondered for a second. But her only clear thought was, Frankke and Shapiro are inside, I don't have a gun, all I have is the stupid car. Perhaps trashing the car into the shooting car would have been a better move. As it was, her car stopped by the side of a display racking along the left wall, less than half a car's length before hitting the counter. The safety bag inflated knocking the air out of her. In her daze, she didn't hear anyone approaching nor saw the car door opening before she felt hands grabbing and pulling her to the floor. Something heavy landed on her and held her down. Had there been more shots? She laid quietly, her mind a blank. After a time, seconds or centuries she couldn't say, she heard sirens. The massive thing remained steady on top of her, but she didn't mind. Had she fainted? In any case, it was better than throwing up.

# MacLaren and his sure control

Damn woman. The thing was turning out to be a bad idea, one of the fucking worst he had had ever.

"Fuck, Shapiro, the plan was to make her see some of the worse parts of town. Don't you remember me saying to bore her with footwork?" With Frankke and Shapiro keeping her safely in sight, and, visits after visits ultimately bore her to dead. Fucking bad luck. "You sure you guys are ok?"

"Nothing serious."

Nothing serious but a slightly damaged girlfriend. Bruised chin and sore wrists from the airbag, small cuts by the dozens from the broken windows, and scratches on her arms and cheek from being dragged to the floor by Frankke. The guy had been fast but not gentle. For sure now Chris was going to get what he wanted but after that mess, he anticipated she was going to be angry for weeks.

"Sorry, Boss."

"My fault, not yours." Chris took the blame. "I agreed to you guys taking her along on your visits." His men were searching auto-parts dealers for their new case. "Regrettable you found the place so rapidly." Unfortunate too they had stayed long enough for someone to make a panicked call for backup.

"Bad guys and shotguns at dawn like a damn fucking western!"

"Fucking right, Frankke. Hell of a way to find out our stiff had gang ties."

"Our mistake, Mac."

"Hence mine." He now had a big mess to clean up.

Neither of the guys could explain what she was doing in the driver seat. "Last we saw of her, she was sitting in the back seat like she had been told. Ordered."

"Were the doors locked?"

"No."

"Fucking mistake. You guys should have known better."

If she had stayed quietly in the back seat and dropped to the floor at the first shot, nobody would have noticed her. Probably. But she had not, had she? Who the fuck deliberately rides a car into a window? What went through that woman's mind sometimes?! Real life's not like one of your fucking books, Pussycat! She better not talk about some damn research again. After the call, the drive over, seeing her dazed, he needed venting. Smoking. Barking orders around. Yelling. He was letting off steam.

Patricia's car trip had provided his guys the necessary distraction to take down the shooters, now en route to the hospital. He had a good team but now came the dilemma. Normally he should have suspended Shapiro and Frankke for taking a civilian around but he couldn't, could he? Some fucking great plan! Now came the problems, not the least being the unmarked police car driven by a civilian into a window. Central, Archives, Internal, the Mayor's wife too hopefully, also had that same problem.

"You guys think I should let the Brass take care of the mess?" It was their mess to start with, let everyone see how they spin it. Not that letting others take care of things was his style, alas. As with everything, he preferred taking care of it himself, meaning they'd arrange the facts.

"When have they ever taken care of anything?"

"Think firing her would help?"

"Can you do that?"

"Assholes." His guys just grinned. "Ok. First scenario, Patricia was locked up in the back seat, and someone else drove the car then shot the shooters. Second scenario, Patricia was locked up in the back seat, climbed into the front seat and in a panic, instead of reversing the car, put it to Drive."

"Third scenario, Boss, she wasn't here at all. Before you got here, she suggested we made something up," Shapiro explained. "Anything. She said she was going to take the blame since it was her idea."

Her idea, was it? His team, his plan, his mistake, his choice of spin. Five police cruisers were on the scene, two ambulances that left shortly after, escorted by two more police cruisers. News vans followed.

Chris called the rest of the cavalry: technical squad and Central. The case was taken out of his hands as soon as the gang angle was agreed on. His team didn't do gangs. Thus, they shouldn't have had it in the first place; obviously the triage had not been done properly to begin with. Mistake, part his team, part the gang specialists team. On the plus side, he now had one less case to worry about. On the downside, he now had two guys up to undergo internal investigations. Their entire afternoon was going to be looked into.

"Don't worry guys, I don't expect problems. You guys did a good job. We made a few mistakes but overall it was a clean job." He was the boss. Although it hadn't been his idea, he had agreed nonetheless, because of the fucking plan. "I'm to blame for her presence."

"The plan could have turned out great," Shapiro offered. "Still might."

His priority had been to make sure that she was unarmed, well taken care of, and safe. She was sitting in one of the police cars while a paramedic bandaged her hands and face. Without thinking, he had gone straight to her, taking her in his arms, kissing her hair. Alive. Safe. She looked shaken but ok. She had yet to say a word to him, only nodding when he examined her. Yes, she was fine. No, she wasn't hurt. The real questions would come later when she was feeling better, and he was less angry. Only after had he gone to Frankke and Shapiro, hugging them both as he always did when something bad happened to any of them on his watch. His team.

He now had a more personal dilemma. He had not kissed Frankke's or Shapiro's hair, never had, but they might have seen him kiss hers. The fact that she was a woman did not justify his move. They knew now, if they hadn't already, that he cared for her a lot. He now had a dilemma that might become a problem for her.

"The ambulance will take you to the hospital for a thorough evaluation."

She looked shaken, her skin too pale, her eyes too wide and worse, she didn't argue. He called Reid and sent her to the hospital. Like he would any of his team, he told himself. A feminine presence would do her good. The evening dragged on.

The three men left the scene well past midnight. His guys wanted to stop at the hospital before going home. They all drove in his car since their car was evidence now.

# Can you say control, MacLaren?

"I'm sorry, Sir. Miss Patricia left about two hours ago. We tried to have her stay the night. It's better to remain in observation after a concussion, but she declined."

"Declined?" The anger came back. "Like it's a fucking dinner invitation! You should have handcuffed her to the bed."

"She left taking her prescription. It's only a mild sedative." No surprise there, she never took any drugs and medications she considered drugs. Funny girl. Why the hell hadn't Reid called him? "Are you family?"

Chris flashed the badge. Fucking right I am, she's mine. By the time he arrived at her place he hoped she wouldn't be in too much pain, yet he hoped she would be in a little pain just to teach her a lesson. He took the meds for her.

He dropped the guys at the station, basic courtesy, before going to her hotel. Finding her sitting with Reid at the bar in front of a glass of wine did not help Fist and Knots. Either she was shaken, or she was in pain or else she was getting herself ready for a fight.

"Ladies."

"'night Boss," Reid greeted him.

Patricia looked up at him over the rim of her glass but gave no salutation except for a smile before taking a sip of her wine.

"Why did you leave the hospital?"

"They said I could go." Her voice was slow but steady, obviously not scared anymore.

"No, they did not." She took another sip. Her movements were stiff, in pain then. She did not argue. "I was expecting a call, Reid."

Patricia answered for Reid, "I called."

Knowing her, it could only mean he had a message waiting on his answering machine at home. He took a deep breath. "Ok, thanks for your help, Reid. You can go now."

"Ok Chief. See you girl." Reid started to leave but turned back and gave Patricia a hug. "I'll stop by tomorrow. Check if you're still alive or something." And she left. Unbelievable! His car-crash girlfriend had gotten through to Reid.

He looked her over from head to toes. Her clothes were a mess, and so was her hair. He usually liked it that way. Liked when it got that way because of him. It often did (he liked messing up her waves among other things), but tonight's messed up hair made him sad. She looked like she had fallen down a flight of stairs. By the time he took to look back up from her feet to her face, she was frowning.

Another long sip. "Enjoying the view, Big guy?"

"You're messed up and have too many clothes on but other than that, yes, I love the looks."

"Not funny." Another sip.

"Not funny?! Damn right not funny! I'm taking you back to the hospital."

"No." Another sip.

"No?"

"No. Christopher, I won't. But you won't suspend them, will you?" Just like her to change the subject. "Christopher?" When she signalled the barman for another glass, it was his time to frown. "You won't, will you?"

Dilemma. "No."

"Ok good. I'm glad." She paused for the last sip of her glass. "How come?"

"How come what?"

"How come they don't get suspended? I got suspended."

"Rightfully so."

"No, not rightfully so, you jerk. You suspended me so why not them?"

"They didn't drive the fucking car through the window."

"They had guys shooting at them; I was only trying to help. Besides, they're the ones who took me there in the first place!" She had not tried to run away like any normal being but had tried to help by driving a car straight at them! Surely there was some logic to it, she was after all a rational woman behind all of her nonsense, but he couldn't see the fucking logic of it right now. She could have hit something. Gotten herself shot or killed. Apparently he took a little too long to answer. "You knew they had taken me with them."

Dilemma. "Yes."

"So damn perfect. You know, seems to me every time I go with one of your guys, it's a mess."

"And why do you think that is?" Here we go, I have her, he thought.

"I don't know but next time, I'm going with Reid."

What? Not at all what he was expecting or wanted. Fuck. "There won't be a next time."

"Why not? The car thing was just bad timing. Bad luck."

"No."

"No? No! That's all you say. No. But you agreed. You knew I was with the guys therefore, implicitly, you agreed."

She was right of course, he had agreed but not for that, not for real. To get her to quit, only to get her to quit and have her go to the fucking library! But he couldn't tell her that, could he? He sighed. "We'll see, Princess."

She got another glass of wine and drank some. Silence. She looked exhausted.

"Next time. If there is a next time, and that's a big if. Next time, it will be with me."

"What? No. You're going to be a jerk about it and lock me in the car." Another sip.

"We'll see. I won't if you behave." Fuck he was looking forward to having her behave. Again, he saw no need to share his thoughts.

"See? You're doing it already! You are impossible! I'm tired; I'm going to bed." Another sip.

"Ok."

"Alone." Another sip.

"Ok."

"Alone, Christopher!"

"If you insist, I'll sleep on the couch."

Another sip. She looked at him thoughtfully. "You never stay on the couch. Go."

"No. I want to make sure you're ok. I'll tuck you in, and then I'll go."

"No, non, no way. You never do that either."

Big grin on his face now. Her arguing with him meant she was ok. "You know I won't do anything you don't want me to do, Angel." And he leaned to her, barely touching, only his lips brushing her neck. Breathing her smell slowly.

"Christopher James MacLaren." She tried a severe look, but her voice was soft. He didn't stop the breathing. "Mon chéri, please. I was in a car accident."

He started to laugh. A car accident? A euphemism if he had ever heard one. "So...?" He took the glass from her hand and lowered his lips.

"You're not playing fair." Playing? Was he playing? He didn't stop. "Mon chéri, please, I can't take it like I normally can." Leaning into him, sliding a knee between his legs, putting her arms around his waist, head tilt backward. Offered.

He groaned. "Darling of mine, you're taking it just like you always do."

"Christopher, really," she whispered eyes closed, slipping her hands under his shirt.

"Princess, just how much wine did you have?"

"Hum...don't know. Not much. Enough to wash down the stuff."

"What stuff?" So soft against him.

"Hum...you know. At the hospital...Don't stop."

But he did fucking stop. Not only was she drunk, she was probably drugged too, high on painkillers since she was supposed to stay the night. Damn woman. He took her to her suite and put her to bed fully clothed. He didn't trust himself with her so damn soft and almost docile.

# Bad hand for her

Friday morning, Christopher woke her up before leaving for work. "I left your breakfast in the microwave." The best place to keep food warm since she didn't have an oven.

She had an upset stomach, from the pain killers assuredly, and didn't eat a bite. Mid-morning, she managed to drag herself up to the bathroom where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was still in yesterday's clothes hence Christopher had behaved himself. Not that she doubted him, but she was a little fuzzy on what she had done before going to bed. She remembered kissing him. Remembered how so good and warm and strong and solid and sexy and so incredibly masculine and safe he had felt. A sexless overnight visit from the Big guy suited her just fine, though. She felt like she had been run over by a train.

Tears filled her eyes. No, damn it! That filing job was beginning to annoy her big time. Not once had she been out without some crazy incidents occurring. She went back to bed and hid under the covers until her stomach started to growl. Had she had supper? She couldn't remember. Probably she hadn't. At some point after the shootout, between the third and fourth squad car arrival, she had vomited her lunch. Christopher's breakfast waited on a plate (microwaves great for reheating but not so good at keeping everything crisp). She eyed the pile of rubbery scrambled eggs, greasy-looking bacon, dried-up sausages, mushy buttered toasts, tepid not-so-freshly squeezed glass of orange juice and slices of hardened cheese. She was too famished to be picky. After engulfing half the plate, she felt a tad better, well enough to face herself in the mirror.

Her wrists hadn't felt so bad when eating but now they were swollen and ached with a dull throbbing numbness. And damn she looked terrible. Dark circles under her eyes, a sprinkle of tiny cuts all over and a big bruise under her chin to the left side, like the shadow of a beard. Maybe if she kept her head to the side, her hair would hide the bruise? Where was that bottle of foundation? Was the creamy liquid thick enough to conceal the cuts? Unless she went into hiding until it all faded. How long could it take really, a day, maybe two? Merely brushing her finger over the bruise made her flinch. Hum, probably closer to four or five days. Her clothes were crumpled and dirty, pants and jacket torn. Under the fabric, her left side was in ruins or so it felt. Frankke had a strong grip, no way near delicate. Good reflexes, though. She made a mental note to buy him a thank-you gift, one for Shapiro too.

The shower did some good. She stood under the water a long time; the hot spray soothed her sore muscles. She washed her hair, or tried to, damn her hands hurt. Computer work was out of the question for a few days. She put on short yoga pants and one of Christopher 's comfy oversized sweatshirt he had forgotten in her closet. Hair, makeup and lotion were too much of a hassle. For now, all she wanted was ice for her wrists. Her left shoulder. Her chin. Her left cheek. Maybe her left hip. Damn if she wasn't feeling lousy all over. She shuffled into slippers (not that she was above going barefoot to the downstairs lobby for ice if she had to), and got as far as the door. A couple of notes had been tapped on the wood panel.

Glad you're feeling better. C, the first one said. She smiled. The next one said I'll be back later. She sighed and pulled the sweatshirt tighter around her with a dreamy smile. The third paper was the hospital's painkillers prescription. She crumpled that one. The one under was written in bold, DO NOT GO ANYWHERE. Really, where did he think she would go? She was about eighty years old today. The last one said You are suspended. Three weeks. Starting now. What?! Who the hell did he think he was! Frankke and Shapiro were not getting suspended but she was? Totally unfair!

She spent the next hour cursing him and working herself up, which didn't help any with the pain. Eventually, she did calm down enough to get ice in a civilised manner. She nodded, explained and smiled. By the time she got back to her suite, her entire left side was pulsing, her wrists were throbbing and the pain was distracting her from her anger.

She fell asleep on the couch watching some horrible afternoon soap show. What if she wrote a story like that? Research would need to be done somewhere warm where men and women lived in mansions tended by a staff of young, firm and hairless bodies busying themselves by seducing one another. Obviously nobody got suspended there, nobody got shot at, nobody had young guys rubbing themselves and− Hum. Well, That they probably got. Although with hunks, maybe it wasn't as bad. She didn't mind when Christopher did the rubbing. Not that it changed anything, the man was a jerk! Frankly, the job was getting to her, but that was no reason to have her suspended! She should just quit, that would show him! Show him what, she wasn't sure, but she was making a point here, damn it!

# Her new deal

When he woke her up later, the nap had not lessened her anger by much. She had fallen asleep snuggling half a dozen ice packs but the rested feeling didn't last, and as soon as the throbbing spiked up, so did the anger.

"What the fuck were you doing in the driver seat? Think maybe staying hidden in the back would have been so hard?"

He might be right but damn it, she was not going to admit to it. "You're infuriating." She didn't tell him about the pictures she had taken of the interior of his men's car. Christopher was appreciative of her writing but to say he was not a big fan of her research project would be an understatement. She was going to send the pictures to Mario. He liked that kind of stuff, and since her big friend never went out, he would never get close enough to have any such images. Besides, her sending Mario some pictures was irrelevant to her damn suspension, wasn't it? Why didn't Christopher understand three weeks was too long? What if something new happened in the white women cases? She strongly doubted Christopher was going to keep her posted on the team's investigations, past or current.

The Big guy had brought supper. Soup and salad for her, with dessert and painkillers. She looked at him funny. He knew she wouldn't take the pills.

He smiled back. "Just thought you might want to feel, you know, friendly."

She had been way too friendly last night, that, she remembered. Mixing red wine with those pills had not been a good idea. Had he not brought her upstairs, she would have let him do whatever he wanted in the bar. She blushed. He laughed. Supper was lovely.

"I don't think it's fair."

"What's that, Pussycat?"

He knew what! He was doing this on purpose. "You know exactly what. Suspending me. I was just back."

"I have to suspend you, you know you shouldn't have been there." He smiled, looking very relaxed albeit maybe a bit smug? "It's been a hell of a day, hasn't it, Princess? And I need to work again tomorrow. Clean up the mess. You're to stay." Jerk.

"You said you knew."

"I knew because the guys told me. You didn't."

"What difference does it make?"

"You know it's not the same."

Wasn't it? No, of course it wasn't. His authority. Even if his guys close to worship him, he had to be fair, he would have suspended any of them. "But three weeks! You gave me two for the other thing and it was much worse. This time I was only trying to help!"

"Maybe. But you could have gotten seriously hurt."

Right again, the man was infuriating! "Three weeks! Can I do less and, I don't know, do community work for the remaining time and get off on good behaviour?"

"Community work?"

"Yes. Like filing. Surely Bridget has plenty of filings to do. Or research maybe. You know I'm good at research."

"Yes, you're good at research. But then again, Darling of mine, you're good at a lot of things, ain't you?" His voice had gone deeper, a sure sign. Soon he was going to be very distracted from work, but so would she.

"Christopher, I'm serious. We could do like last time." He grinned from ear to ear. He had such a one track mind sometimes! She rolled her eyes at him. "I mean a week off like last time and the next, I help Bridget. Or I work only three days instead of five."

He sure took his time to think about it. "Ok. A full two-week suspension. You're not to go anywhere near the station. And after, you only work three days a week. Showing good behaviour."

Damn, he had gone for both offers. "Ok, deal."

"Showing good behaviour, Patricia. You can't go anywhere without telling me and I have to agree to it. And I will only agree if I'm to be there, got it?"

"I said ok, deal, Big guy." We'll see, mon chéri.

"Patricia, good behaviour or you're out."

"Out?"

"Out. Back to the library." They both knew she wouldn't last a day there.

"Deal."

He smiled at her. "How about some community services?"

"What kind? Research?"

"Research. Yes. You can research me. All you want. Everywhere."

The man was impossible. "Not funny. I can't. My hands are a little sore." Throbbing like hell.

"Ok. No prob'. I'll get you some more ice."

He got ice packs from downstairs and set them on her wrists. She felt moderately better. Her shoulder was sore, but if she didn't move, it was ok. So was her chin if she rested her head against the back of the couch. Maybe they could watch a movie or something.

"Better?"

"Yes, much better. Thank you."

"Ok then. Let's get back to that research thing, Pussycat."

"Christopher, you're impossible. I just barely had the ice, it still hurts when I move."

"Then don't move. I'll do the research, I've noticed you're not wearing a bra, that needs some research. You're not wearing panties either. More research there."

It turned out she could move, not much but just enough.

# Alternate series: Another beginning

She had not been raped. The techs found sleeping pills in her, but not enough to kill her. He hoped she had not been awake. There was no signs of struggle. Death by strangulation was not a peaceful death when awake.

He listened to her body. She had bleached her hair since he had last seen her. He should have arrested her when she was alive. Not such a professional after all. He looked at her for the longest time. He asked the tech to keep the sheet over her body. He only wanted to see her face for now. Just her face.

Same white powder as the others. Made her eyes looked smaller and her nose longer. Most of her beauty must have come from her lively expressions rather than her features, he realized. She was merely pretty.

_Somehow he felt detached. Not unusual. Autopsies never intimidated him, but he had thought,_ hoped _hers would be different. He nodded to the medical examiner to proceed._

Her legs were muscular. So were her arms. How could he have thought her lithe?

" _Puncture marks on the inside of her arms," the ME dictated into a recording device. "Old marks badly healed. Was she a recovering drug addict?"_

A fairy spreading its wings covered the left side of her back. Delicate and complicated work. Strange, he hadn't figured her for the tattoo type. The fairy's face resembled hers.

Eventually, with the body came dental records and DNA. He now officially had a name, address, and a complete police file. How could they have missed it that night so long ago it seemed now? Had the lawyer arrived so quickly that the system hadn't had time to complete the search? The arrest had long been erased from the system. Had the lawyer taken the file? Best lawyer in town. She must have been quite a professional.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# He is back to the beginning

The damn woman simply picked up and left town. Not that he should be surprised, taking off was her usual way of dealing with things. He considered it a significant improvement this time, though, since she had told him she was leaving.

"I don't intend to sit and wait around for you to get back from work every day." Understandable. "And with my wrists, I can't write or do computer research." And the damn woman didn't like cooking (couldn't have with her injuries), didn't do housework (here again, couldn't have had she wanted do), so what else was she to do? She had spent the weekend walking around town, going to coffee shops, exhibits and museums. She even visited him at work on Sunday! He wasn't sure if it was because she missed him, because she was bored or because she was curious. All three probably, albeit she admitted to none. Fuck he was crazy about the damn woman.

Chris was convinced she had all but quit but no, a week after her little yoga trip out in the desert, she was coming to be back to work. To him. How had she done any yoga with her sore wrists, he had no idea. Then again, he didn't know much about yoga. He had only been to the yoga center once. The best thing about yoga was her stretching and breathing hard, barefoot in stretchy yoga pants, tight tank top, and hair mussed. His type of looks. As far as he was concerned, the most important were that she enjoyed the place, she was appreciated there, and well-taken care off. For a week, he had no clenched fists, no knot in his stomach. Which in return meant no warm, firmly soft, loving body in his bed. The week had been fucking long, but thankfully he had plenty of work to do.

The white women case wasn't going anywhere fast. Reid was about done with her case so maybe he could put her with the guys. A threesome. Shit, they might share Patricia's stories over lunch.

"We have a pool going," Shapiro told him. "Wanna bet on how long our trainee's going to stick around?"

"I think you'd prefer our other pool, boss," Ham chirped in. "How long before you do her."

"Get back to work, assholes." Some team he had. Should he be happy for Patricia's sake they didn't know about their dating, or disappointed by their lack of perspicacity?

He sometimes clenched his fists, without the knot in the pit of the stomach or the smoking addiction, though, for matters entirely unrelated to her too. Internal investigation was one of them.

"For the zillionth time! No, you can't talk to her, she's away on business. How about her lawyer? I'm sure he gave you guys a call or two. And how is Mister Mayor these days? I heard his wife was in splendid form."

"Give us a break, MacLaren. We're just doing our jobs."

"This ain't working, it's you guys jerking around and wasting my time. Stop harassing my guys. I take full responsibility for anything they did. You jerks don't have much cause for a case anyway, the shooting was self-defence pure and simple, and so was the car crashing."

Even without the trip out of town, the investigators wouldn't have gotten anything from her. As Chris knew from personal experience, Patricia being secretive and independent didn't mean she didn't have powerful allies. Ingrid, her publisher-friend, watched over her like a mother hawk would her most beloved chick. One of the top defence attorney in the country represented her whenever needed. Although there were no traces of the Joshua jerk (or her) in police files, Chris suspected she had inherited the lawyer dude from her Joshua period. Plus a Mayor's wife who thought most highly of that classy yet sassy unusual woman and a Mayor would couldn't say no to his wife. Chris counted himself as the most protective (overprotective she called him) of all her allies. In the end, Ingrid and the lawyer weren't called because he stonewalled Internals. Not his first dance with the jerks.

"Shapiro, Frankke, give me an update on the white women. Start from the top."

"Looking to get Internals out of your mind?"

"Something like that."

"Ok, counting the county girl, we might have five women so far," Frankke started.

"We still keeping the one by the piers?" Shapiro asked rhetorically. That first victim Chris had not told Patricia about. The body was found in a back alley near the piers, two days after her death and two weeks before Patricia became a clerk. The body had been chewed on by a small animal, a stray dog the medical examiner had said.

"For now, yes. Even though she looks rushed, a practice shot maybe? Considering she had traces of white powder under her nails, some missing clothing, and no indications of sexual abuse, the similarities outweigh the differences. We'll keep her part of the package for now."

"How about the one you got from your buddy, the wax job?"

"White powder and wax are too unusual for us not to keep them together for now. What else?"

"County we might never know," Frankke chided.

"Yeah, that investigation was so badly done, we might never be able to tie her in with the others. But here again, the similarities outweigh the differences, so we keep her in."

"ME found semen on the clothing of two women. That woman at the jazz club and the one up the abandoned house. We're focusing on those two. Excellent job there."

"Not for the dead women obviously, but for our case." Frankke's humour.

"Traces are a match; the techs are positive it's the same guy. It gives us DNA too."

"The techs rechecked to be sure. Semen was found on the left hands and hair only. The women's sexual organs were clean; there were no sexual encounters prior to death."

"On both, semen was found only on their left hand and their hair. What had the guy done? Jerked himself watching them die then coming in their hair? Forced them to jerk him? Before killing them or after, holding their hands with his?"

"Hard to tell if the fingers were wrapped in a death grip when the women died." Frankke's humour at its best.

"I want the country kid's semen tested for a match. It doesn't make sense for him to have done all the women, but I want the kid's spunk and DNA in the system for future reference in any case."

"We shouldn't have problems getting a sample, right, Boss? Fuck, we should have kept Patricia's clothes, some of it there, enough for the tech guys for sure." Shapiro's wit. His guys were assholes. That was the problem with having the woman of your life working at a job like his, she screwed his thoroughness. Too much of a distraction, too much of a worry.

"Back to the job, guys. Since there were no bruising on the bodies, the asshole might have jerked himself after finishing the women. Or the women weren't struggling much but might not have been dead yet." Chris kneeled and mimed, the guys on their knees at his side. "With his right hand the killer held the vic's left hand around his cock, only way to have a good position for the woman's arm to reach and the guy not to fall over." Chris re-acted the scene once more. "A right-handed guy then. Had he been a lefty, we would have found semen on their right hands."

"Could be. And no semen on the vic's bodies suggests the guy was using cotton gloves or some kind of cloth to contain the squirts."

"Not sure. The techs didn't found traceable fibers under the women's fingernails."

"We're missing pieces of information there, guys, it doesn't add up."

"I get you. It's weird, the women not struggling during strangulation or jerking. Wouldn't you struggle if a guy were jerking off of you?" Frankke asked no one in particular. "He has to be a fast shooter if he wants them alive but not kicking. The state between not struggling but not dead yet doesn't last long, and the women's hands don't show signs of damage."

"Hence the jerk had not held tight," Shapiro concluded.

"And the hair? Did he wipe himself after or did he come twice?" Some sicko.

"We'll recheck the Cabaret's clientele and the old house's neighbourhood for any suspicious looking guy or any ordinary looking guy, right-handed, a doctor maybe."

"Not much to go on but with five potential victims so far, this is your top priority. And before you say anything, yes I know, it goes on top of your other top priorities. Sickos, all of them." His team was good at it, great in fact. Patient. Thorough. "We'll get the jerk eventually." Hopefully, before he killed again.

# He's no beginner

Unfortunately, they didn't. The next day, a dead woman was found partly hidden in small bushes under a bridge in a park. Strangled. Lying face down, butt in the air, no clothing on it. White butt. Their luck? She had been lying there almost a day, but it hadn't rained, so there was plenty of white powder on her. She had a couple of bite marks, some small animal like First but less chewing.

"Maybe she didn't taste as good."

"Frankke, you're an asshole."

"Come on, Shapiro, tell me you didn't think it."

Semen was found on her hair and right hand. But since she was face-down, they made the killer to be right-handed still.

"The park has some old surveillance cameras around," Shapiro reported. "None is aimed at the bridge, but part of the pathway might be visible. Something to look into."

A psychological profile of the killer was made. "Perhaps the man is obsessed by female parts," was the shrink's professional opinion.

To which the techs added theirs. "The white stuff is a mixture of baby powder and plaster with traces of other chemicals used in moulding."

"The jerk is mouldings female parts?"

"And it turns him on enough to ejaculate but not enough to go further. If he were that turned on," the expert went on, "he should be moving further, to a more complete possession."

"But he has not." That last woman had not been sexually assaulted either, her butt upturned yet left untouched.

"Not yet." Fucking great.

Semen analysis suggested a young guy. "Mid-twenties, to keep it safe," the tech said. "Make the jerk's age between early twenties to mid-thirties."

"Medium height," stated the ME, before explaining, "He was crunching next to the women to get his kicks so medium height. If he's a short guy, he'll need to lean on them. We would have seen it by the footprints. If he's too tall, the vics' arms won't reach. Their bodies would have been twisted." Sicko for sure.

Arrival at the office Monday morning was gloom. Like always, Chris was in early and watched his team come in, one by one or in pairs. Some had worked right through the weekend like he had. Des, Ham, Frankke. LeRoy some. Even Shapiro. Reid had been off, his orders, she had worked hard on the cold case.

Patricia showed up fifteen minutes before the meeting. She looked rested, and only a light bluish shadow under her chin remained. She waved at him. Good to know, her wrists seemed in good working condition. Thinking of a few things he'd like her to do with those wrists put a grin on his face. That crooked grin he sometimes got that she found so sexy. She caught it and blushed. I know you know what I've been thinking about, Pussycat. It might gave her some ideas of her own, and hopefully when he'd caught up with her tonight, she was going to be ready. And I will catch up with you later, Angel of mine, whatever happens, whatever the time.

He spied on her as she went to her desk, stopping here to chat with Shapiro, stopping there to say hello to Reid, Ham and DesForges coming up behind her to ruffle her hair. Great hair she had this morning. The soft waves were teasing her face, falling on her shoulders. Her cop disguise was on yet she looked less and less like the guys. Jeans, top and jacket but with heels in the form of red suede pumps that made her legs longer. Sleek jeans worn with a silky dark blue blouse unbuttoned low at the top. Fucking lucky she had on the jacket, slim-fitting dark blue thing as it was, it helped hold the collar of her blouse in place. Too bad she wore the damn jacket unbuttoned, the covering only held if she didn't move too much, or talk. He liked that she talked a lot with her arms and hands, but her clothes tended to follow her movements. He had seen her in that damn blouse before, the fucking collar opened and closed with her every move, giving glimpses of her breasts. Distracting as hell in the office. He didn't have a thing for big breasts, didn't have a thing for small breasts either, so hers were fucking perfect. Firm and perky, delicately sized for his hands, so very reactive to his touch. Distracting as hell anywhere. Especially with her nipples hinting through the fucking fabric of her blouse. She better keep the damn jacket on.

His luck ran out five minutes later when she took off the jacket. You are killing me, Pussycat.

Fred showed up five minutes before the meeting. Chris glared as the kid walked up to her and stood too close without saying a word. The jerk was drooling. She smiled at Fred, put her hand on the kid's arm and said something. From his office, as he was seeing her slightly from the side, he couldn't read her lips. Fred shook his head. She froze, barely a fraction of a second before smiling. She said something again and went back to her desk to put her jacket back on. Finally!

"Meeting, guys," he called and waited for everyone to settle in the conference room. The guys fooling around, in a better mood than earlier, Reid almost smiling, Fred following Patricia, walking funny, exactly like the county sicko. No doubt the kid had noticed the nipples. Fuck, he should ask Bridget to dress her up. No-frill dress, sensible shoes, now that was adequate clothing.

The meeting went smoothly up until Ham decided to go at it. Everybody got a chance to go over their cases, including Reid's file (that everyone still referred to as Patricia's file, even Reid). Frankke and Shapiro reviewed Internals' review, which was being talked about as the car incident, Patricia's car incident.

Ham's contribution started innocently enough. Frankke was going on about the white women cases and the new evidence, semen, rightie, and such, as pictures were passed around. Pictures Chris noticed with a faint smile, that Patricia avoided looking at with great care.

"Great butt," Ham pointed out casually, looking at Reid and Patricia sitting side by side. The guy had no class. "One of the best I've seen. Almost as good as yours, ladies."

"Get lost, Ham," Reid answered back without smiling. Reid took any crap from Ham seriously. Chris had not once seen her laugh it out to brush it off like Patricia sometimes did or snapped back at the jerk like Patricia did most of the times.

"Hey, you ladies should be flattered, I was paying you a compliment. Look at her butt, it's magnificent. That makes yours natural treasures."

"Thank you, Hamilton. Coming from you, it really means something. You must have seen what, at least a thousand butts in your life, women's and men's, no doubt. From what I've heard, army men like to keep in shape. You must have enjoyed your service time." Patricia's first words of the meeting, spoken in a soft voice, and with a killer smile. His girl. Sexy as hell.

She had aimed right. Ham had been an army guy. He had seen plenty of naked men during his military service. And the guy's masculinity was no laughing matter. Retaliation was coming.

# Chris, from start to finish

The problem with Ham, he liked being noticed. He also liked Patricia, that much was obvious. Hence, the jerk kept at it. "Yes, Pussycat, I saw plenty. Yours is at the top. How high, I'll need to see it naked to decide. But in my professional opinion, top five percent. Smaller and less muscular than our vic, but softer no doubt. And you gain points for the legs, Sleek."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You need butt and legs? What did you do in your previous career?" Referring to the army again.

Ham just laughed.

Chris cut in before the conversation degenerated, "Enough you two, let's move on." Sharp voice. No smile.

He thought he had settled the matter but the guys didn't let it go. They waited a couple of beats, let the women settled back, then DesForges, forever the faithful sidekick, added, "Let's not forget the breasts. Top rating there too. Butt, legs and breasts. Smaller, softer but a hell of a pair with the buds there, Puss. You have my vote."

That damn jacket! He was going to buy her an overcoat to be worn over a fucking bulletproof vest. No sexy there.

"Leave her alone." Fred was standing up for his girl. Literally. Arms at his side with his fists clenched, the kid stood at half-mast but facing Des and Ham. What the hell for? The guys to apologise? Everyone stared at the kid. Hard not to notice the state he was in. Mercifully, for once, Ham and the others had the decency not to say anything, not in front of him at least. For sure Patricia was going to be hearing about it for weeks to come. Damn zoo. Or maybe it was just him. Might be he was getting too old for the job. I must make her quit.

"Ok, Fred. You can sit down now. Guys, cut it out, I mean it."

Everybody settled down, and he resumed the meeting. For about three minutes. Until Patricia took her turn to add to the show. She was staring at one of the pictures. A body shot of the last victim, face slightly turned to the side with part of her features visible. One eye, a cheek, the side of her nose, part of her mouth and chin, her back and legs, one elbow pointing upward, the side of her chest partially visible. She barely had any breast.

"He's right, you know," Patricia said. "DesForges I mean, about the butt, the legs and the breasts."

Ham whistled, Des roared and Reid stared at Patricia opened-mouthed.

"Oh for crying out loud, I don't mean me. You guys are jerks. Really. Even for cops, you're jerks!" What the hell was she talking about? She might have been addressing his men, but Chris knew she was talking mostly to him. He was the only one to know what a low opinion she had of cops. Apes. "No, really. Look at her, Christopher." She stared at the picture again. "She really had a great butt, didn't she?"

He had seen Patricia naked. She had a great everything, but this wasn't about her or about what the guys had said. She wasn't pretentious or conceited about her looks, nor was she self-conscious or insecure. Confident, like only a sexy women her age could be, yet ingenious like only a naïve and romanticising, romantic writer could be. A fucking lethal combination as far as he was concerned. He looked at the picture again. The woman did have a good butt, so what?

"Christopher, look at it. If I were to describe that woman, I would say she was average height, had a regular, somewhat pretty face, no breasts to speak of but one hell of a butt, oui?" If she started speaking French, for sure she had him. But she wasn't doing it on purpose. She was thinking out loud, frowning as she collected her thoughts. "And the one at the house, she had great legs, non? Her best features for sure." She would know; she had seen the woman not just in pictures but also in the flesh. "Nice regular face, medium-sized breasts like mine, short arms for her height, at least compared to her legs. She had long, sleek legs. Longer than mine, even when I'm in heels. Men like long legs wrapped around them, n'est-ce pas? Très sexy legs, oui?"

Tress fucking sexy indeed. He'd rather have hers wrapped around him, but he was beginning to see where she was going. "Yes she did," he agreed softly.

The guys were quiet now, intent on following her trail of thoughts as he was. Great team.

"And what about the girl at the Cabaret? Reedy was pretty, wasn't she? Prettier than the two but not as nice a butt. Nice but not extraordinary legs. I know, I've seen them. But her breasts, they were spectaculaires, oui? I mean, they were big, men like big breasts, don't they? But firm. With large, very dark, perfectly round and centered nipples. Like guys like, oui? A mouth full. Dark and big like they were, surely even with clothes on, her nipples were showing, n'est-ce pas? Even with clothes on, I bet guys stared at her breasts all the times."

Even if their work environment wasn't supposed to be sexy, his fucking team had noticed and stared at Patricia's delicate curves with her jacket on. So, yes, guys would have looked twice at Reedy's rack. Even more so guys in a bar known to offer hookers-waitresses. Same thing with a woman's sleek legs. A woman's great but. "Yes, he would have."

She looked up at him unsure. Unsettled. "That country girl was great all over, wasn't she? Young, fresh, firm, curvy all over. Oui?" Her voice became unsteady by the end.

"Yes." And so was the woman in the alley. Great feet. Small, delicate, smooth, but the rest ordinary. "Yes," he said again.

She looked at the picture again. "It's not so random then, is it?" Looked back at him. "He chooses parts."

"Yes." The killer was fucking hand picking the best female parts.

# The beauty in his eyes

Beauty is a strange thing. The common belief that what someone found beautiful might not be the same as what another reacted to was true but incomplete. Some very few were breathtaking, no matter who was doing the looking. If many were pretty, at least to their spouse or their mother, most were between ordinary and nice, Chris reflected. Patricia changed her looks depending on contexts and moods. She had her very plain writer disguise, her cocky girl disguise, her tough bum disguise, numerous others to make herself look ordinary or silly or old or tough or shy. She might have fooled him a couple of times when they first met, but he was on to her now and doubt she could fool him again. When she went as herself, he found her stunning.

He spent the night Wednesday at her place. Third worknight yet their first night together since her return. Even though he had worked like hell in her absence, he still pulled long hours at work this week. She was sleeping already. Having returned tired from her yoga trip, since her return she went to bed early.

"I didn't know yoga was tiring."

"The yoga thing is a retreat, once you're signed in, you have to stay in, almost like a boot camp."

"Boot camp yoga, all to get away from a suspension."

"Cute."

She was in the habit of jumping the fence and going to the nearby town, to the ice cream parlor or the local karaoke bar, for the fun of it. He hadn't worried; there was always a couple of willing participants to go with her and the old yogi to keep a discreet yet vigilant eye on his participants. If her wrists had been hurting, she might have drunk a little. Even if they had not. The wrists seemed fine now, as she held on to him, one hand grabbing his ass, one in his hair. He sunk slowly into her, his front plastered to her back, her still half asleep.

She was fully awake the next morning, as she went back and forth between her bathroom and her closet. He sat on the bed, legs outstretched, arms folded behind his head, enjoying the intimacy and the quietness of her suite. He was ready for work; she wasn't. So far she had showered. Put on a very virginal white pair of panties with a little red bow on the front. Donned the matching bra with the same damn little red bow between her breasts. She had blow-dried her hair some which for her meant putting the blasting blow-dryer next to her hair and waiting. As a result, her hair was now waving all over, a very sexy full head of it. No makeup on yet. No jewellery. No clothes on except for the virginal whites with the red bows. And her. She was beautiful. She couldn't have fool anyone right now. Stunning to him and probably to most. Beauty was a strange thing, he mused again. If she wore a ball cap, a pair of glasses, some loose fitting clothes, work boots, buried her hands in pockets, eyes cast to the floor, everyone would overlook her. The damn woman knew it, and she used it too. Sneaky girl. But not this morning. She was into her morning routine, relaxed, trusting, confident, happy. Only the two of them. Intimacy.

She didn't talk as she went about her preparations, seemingly unaware of him. He could have made her notice him. All he had to do was stop staring, get up, walk up to her and touch her. Action-reaction. But he kept on staring. He liked watching her. She'd eaten her breakfast already, always the first thing she did. He had gotten breakfast from the hotel's kitchen, no cooking for him to do unless he chose to do some. At her place, breakfast was eaten either on the couch, at the small round table or standing in the bathroom while getting ready. It had been the table this morning, an official breakfast time for an official day off, for her at least. She had done her three days with Bridget thus she was off until the next Monday. Or not at all if he was lucky.

She stood in front of the big bathroom mirror, trying to tame her hair, but her waves didn't want to be so disciplined. She eventually stopped fighting and let the waves curl around her face. He heard a vexed sigh. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, quickly glanced at him before returning her gaze to the mirror.

"What would you choose?"

"Choose? Choose what, Dollface?"

"If you were the killer. What body parts would you pick?" Funny girl, she was looking at herself and trying to decide what the killer would choose.

Trick question. Needless to say, he didn't answer.

"No really. You have to choose one part. Which is it? Supposing there's one part worth taking." He liked the entire package. Liked it a lot. "Pretend you don't have a choice. Pick one."

The damn woman was stubborn; she was not going to let him off the hook until she had her answer. He got up and came to stand next to her. Looked her over in the mirror. Sexy wide dark blue eyes he knew how to make darker still. Soft curly hair he could mess up. Lips a natural soft pinkish mauve, same tint as her nipples, that turned dark pink when kissed, sucked or bitten. Plump bottom lip and well defined provoking cupid's bow that taunted him to do exactly that, kiss, suck and bit. Naturally rosy cheeks that blushed so easily. Long, slim, for now relaxed arms, hands and fingers that often groped, grabbed, teased, provoked and enthralled him. Perfectly-shaped breasts that offered themselves to his eyes awaiting his touch, his mouth. Belly, flat but with that slight roundest so much better than any younger woman's concave belly and protruding hip bones. Dark v-shaped pubic patch of hair hiding the folds and the deep heat of her. Her butt Ham had so very accurately described, that rubbed against him softly when he held her from behind. Sleek legs that locked themselves around him. Slim feet planted firmly in the world, even if her head too full of that imagination of hers wasn't always. And that was only the exterior. The inside was even more captivating. Sexy.

"I can only choose one?"

"Yes. Only one. Like the killer does."

"Hard choice. Let's see." He took his time studying her over, brushing a light finger over her ribs. "Maybe if you were naked..."

"Christopher!"

"No really, some of your best features are hidden."

"You have to go to work! Besides, he doesn't get to the naked part until after." She frowned to the mirror. "Doesn't he? Maybe he saw them before, naked I mean. Maybe he has seen all of them naked before."

According to the sicko kid, the country girl had seen a doctor at the hotel days before being killed. No signs of that doctor for now, though. He had his guys checked for any possible medical appointments the dead women might have had days or weeks prior to their murders. Nothing had come from it yet. "It's possible."

"Ok. The doctor thing, right?" Smart girl. High on his list of her best features.

He smiled to her. His sexy crooked grin as she called it. She smiled back. Her hands went behind her back, then on her hips, and next thing he knew she was naked. Dark blue eyes provoking him in the mirror. Enticing smile daring him. Breathtaking. "Ok, Big guy. What do you choose?"

"What do you recommend? If you were me, what do you think you'd choose on you?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on what you want to do with that part."

# Beauty and the beast

A clear provocation if he had ever heard one. Her eyes were so dark, as deep as the deepest sea. He couldn't stop staring at her in the mirror. Her eyes were his first choice. Had he said so then, it might have saved him Fists and Knot later. He held her gaze for a while. Grinning. He had her full attention now. From her eyes, he moved on lower. Standing front to her back, he took in all of her. While last night had been soft spooning, this morning, he had a full view. Standing behind her, barely touching her back, he cupped her breasts in his hands, weighted them, teased her nipples. She leaned against him, rubbing against his thighs, her butt to his groin. He put his hands on her belly, on her hips, on her thighs, between her legs. Teasing. Acting undecided. Her hands, loose at her sides before, now gripped his hips, pushing him tighter against her. All he had to do was unzipped his pants, let them drop with his briefs, and he would be inside her.

Eyes glued to her reflection, his pants-clad shaft nestled tight between her butt cheeks, he pushed himself harder against her. One hand massaging her breast hard, tugging, pinching her nipple between his fingers. One hand covering her pubis, pressing her hard against his shaft, the heel of his palm massaging her clit, his fingers digging in her folds, tempting, caressing. She was so warm, so soft, so wet.

"Ok, Princess. Your turn. What do you choose?" Magnificent. Looking at him between half-closed lids, eyes so dark. "Your turn, Angel," he urged softly. Voice low, so low in her ear. "Choose one. My left hand," playing with her breast. "My right hand," caressing between her legs, two fingers teasing in and out, in and out softly, slowly. "My cock," pushing, rubbing hard between her ass.

"Christopher." Out of breath, a little pleading. The way she said his name! He'd do anything to get her to say his name like that again and again. Spectacular. Leaving hands and cock in position as offered, everything moving, everything rubbing and thrusting, he chose for her and watched in the mirror as she climaxed, her eyes locked on his. He soiled his pants. The dry-cleaner was going to look at him funny. Again.

She rested her back against him, catching her breath. He kept his eyes on her. He kept everything on her, but immobile for now. Eyes closed, slack against him, skin flushed, lips partly parted, she was his. A shiver ran through her, giving her goose bumps. Her nipples hardened. So did his cock. She smiled softly before pushing herself away from him. Turning, she buried her face against his torso and gave him a hard hug.

"You're late, mon chéri."

"The boss is never late. He's the king."

"Arrogant man," she murmured. He had a full view of her back, her slim waist, her hips, her ass. Exciting. He was getting hard again.

"Christopher, you're late."

"Plenty of time. Two minutes and you'll be yelling out my name again."

"Damn, you're presumptuous."

"No. Confident," he laughed, holding her to him as she tried to push away. He kissed her neck before finally letting go. She was right, he was late.

She looked him over, head to the side, and smiled. Cocky. "Lucky Frankke and Shapiro are not around." She stared at his pants, at the spot in front. "It might ruin your reputation."

He laughed at that. "Or yours, Princess. I'm not the one having a problem with the team knowing." It would make it easier for him if they knew. They'd understand why he ordered them all to try to make her quit.

She sighed and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before running off to the bedroom. He couldn't catch her. Damn. He rinsed himself clean. She was dressed when he headed back to the bedroom. She might take a shower again when he was gone, and it was safe for her to get naked again. Not that her clothes had ever stopped him. She knew it too.

"I haven't decided the part yet, Angel. Neither have you. We'll have to do this again." She started to say something, some smart remark no doubt, but stopped herself. He laughed softly, "But not now, I do have to go to work. Want me to drop you off somewhere?" Like the library. Or my place. The thought of her waiting naked in his bed, all day, made his dick hurt.

"Christopher, stop it! You're not twenty anymore." Like it had anything to do with age. Bottom line, he was crazy about her, which in turn made him attracted to her like crazy. And vice-versa.

"And neither are you. Isn't a woman's sex drive supposed to improve with age?"

"I don't know. Either way I'm too young or too old to keep up with you, Big guy."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit, Pussycat."

"Hey, you're the one with the hormonal problem, not me! I'm just..."

"You're just what?"

"I'm, hum, nothing. Maybe you should see a doctor about it," she suggested with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Don't need to. I know what it is." He had fucked a lot of women, some with stunning parts but none he lusted for as much as her. She turned him on big time. "It comes from you, too much oestrogen or something oozing from you."

"I'm not oozing anything. This is all your fault. I'm not like that. I don't get hot having just any man standing next to me!" She stopped. "Oh! You're impossible!" Her way to end a discussion.

He laughed. He liked those little heart-to-hearts with her. Teasing or arguing or whatever, in the heat of it, she let slip little bits of facts she didn't typically reveal. Like that getting hot thing. "I already knew, but it's nice to hear." On top of the morning sex, her confession quite made his day. "Do tell, Angel of mine. How close do I have to stand for you to get hot?"

"Christopher, damn it, just go!"

"I'd rather you tell me to come."

"Christopher James MacLaren, this is not funny."

"No, it's not. It's perfect. Makes us even in a way."

"Even?"

"Fucking right. You get hot next to me." She rolled her eyes at him. "And I get a hard-on just seeing you walk into the room."

She looked at him with the tilted head thing, the waves brushing her shoulder. "You do?" Playing coy.

"You know I do."

"Ah." Theatrical pout. "Do you have one now?"

He launched at her, finally catching her in his arms. "Now see, Pussycat, you're the problem. I was just about to leave, and then you ask a thing like that. What am I supposed to do?"

"Take a cold shower and go to work?"

"Nice try."

The boss was very late that morning, but he was fucking happy. He even got to drop her off at a coffee shop. Barely one block from the library.

# That same old song he's hearing

"No."

"Come on, Big guy, it'll be fun."

"Patricia, we're not going."

Saturday late afternoon, the weather was lousy. His fucking job was lousy. He had worked like crazy since his late start on Thursday morning. Internals were breathing down his neck. The cases were going nowhere. He was tired and overworked and all he could think of was her next to him in the shower, on the couch, at the kitchen table. On the kitchen table. They hadn't seen each other since that perfect morning and he still had the part choosing on his mind. He just couldn't pick her best part, inside or out. But her stubbornness he damn well could do without right about now. "No," he said again. Arguing with her over the phone was never a good idea.

She had called on his home phone, probably hoping he wasn't in yet. Too fucking bad for her, he had just arrived and had picked up. His plan for the next hour was simple enough: take a quick shower, then pick her up at whichever coffee place she was spending her free days working on her book. Maybe she was bored?

"Come on, Big guy, it'll be fun," she coaxed again. "I'll dress up. You could too."

More in the mood of dressing you down right now, Princess. "No."

"Christopher, please. I have to go. It was my idea!"

Shit. "What'd you mean, your idea?"

"Well, not all my idea but still kind of my idea. I stopped by last week before going to the yoga place, you know, to see how they were doing."

He cut her off, "You went there alone?"

"Of course not, Ingrid was with me."

Ingrid was a hawk, but she was over fifty, smoked and drank too much. The woman was shorter than Patricia, rounder, without an ounce of real muscles; she wouldn't have been much help in that kind of neighbourhood. Why had Ingrid agreed to take her there? A stupid question he already knew the answer of. Anytime Patricia told one of her clever little stories, lies really, Ingrid went along. Hence, unless the woman felt Patricia's life was on the line, Ingrid never said no to Patricia. Shit. "So you went alone with Ingrid."

"Christopher, stop it. We weren't alone; the guys were there."

"The guys?" The asshole barman who owned the place, his muscle boys, all accomplices to the prostitution ring, maybe to a murder.

"Yes. And the waitress too. Blondy, the nice one."

"The nice one? Would that be the one that set you up?"

"Christopher, she just panicked. The owner was worried he was going to lose his business, with the place closing and all. He has everything invested in it. And so do two of the guys. Not as much, five percent I think. Anyway, they didn't know what to do, so I suggested they reopen."

"Fucking bad idea."

"That's what they thought too. They were afraid they had lost all their clientele. But I convinced them otherwise. The place is going to be full for sure."

"Why?"

"Because people are sick! They'll come to see the place. The prostitution thing was in the papers some and with the murder on top of it, think about it. It's the same curiosity as people slowing down on the highway when there's an accident. Sick, isn't it?" She was right, the place was going to be packed.

"And you want to go why?" He knew for sure it wasn't curiosity. She was one of the most curious persons he knew, worse than a cat, but morbid curiosity she didn't have. If they went, she wouldn't even look up toward the second floor.

"Well. For support of course."

"Support? No way, try again."

"Christopher!"

"Patricia, the hell with support! Why?"

"Please, Christopher. I already told them I was going. They're keeping a table for us. Think about it, it's going to be like a second first date."

Like hell! She was up to something. He knew it, felt the knot in the pit of his stomach growing by the minute. "Why?"

"Vraiment, Christopher, why do you−"

"Why? Tell me why and we'll go."

"For sure?"

"For sure. Why?"

"Ok. I'll tell you when you pick me up. Around eight?" What, no supper first? It must be a hell of a why!

"Patricia, I swear I'll−"

"Ok. Gotta go. The bus is coming. See you then." And she hung up. Damn, damn, damn.

He took a quick shower. Alone and pissed. He dressed up, cursing, looking at the couch, looking at the kitchen table longingly. Fuck she would have looked lovely on it. Barely an hour after Patricia's call, he was out the door. He got to her place before her. She had probably decided to walk over. He waited at the bar, nursing his first scotch of an evening that he anticipated would be as long as his day.

He surprised her in the lobby when she walked in. They rode the elevator in silence. He waited for her to shower and change before saying anything. No little black dress for their second first date. She put on a cream coloured sequin loose-sleeved top that fell low on her butt, a short dark blue skirt that barely fell to mid-thigh, matching stockings and pumps. Was she trying to match her outfit with his dark blue suit and off-white shirt? Her hair waved loosely. Her lips were painted fire engine red (to match his red tie?) and her eyes rimmed by black charcoal. She finished her preparation with big looped earrings, and a couple of silver looped bracelets that tinkled when she moved. He smiled. She looked amazing, all that in less than fifty minutes. She came to face him when she was done, arms crossed in front of her. Ready.

"I realise you must be exhausted. Would you rather stay in?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Maybe we can go eat, I'm famished! Aren't you?"

"We could eat here. Order in, you know, since it's a fucking hotel."

"Ah, yes. But we're already all dressed up, aren't we?" She was leading him somewhere. He didn't say anything. Wait and see. "Besides, if we go out, maybe you can drive me over after? That way you'll know I'm safe. You could come back wait for me here, or at your place if you prefer. I won't stay long."

Knot grew tighter; Fists joined the party. "Why?"

"Christopher, I told them−"

Here we go again. "Why?"

"You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"Of course I have to! You're up to who fucking knows what!"

"What do you mean? Big guy, really. What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

Too many questions. She was up to something all right, and ready to lie about it. He pulled her close, holding her against him gently but firmly. Looked straight at her. "Why? Why are we even arguing about this?"

"We're not arguing, you're obviously tired, and I'm just saying if you don't want−"

"Patricia, damn it."

"Ok fine but I'm going!"

Damn woman. "Just fucking say it." Tell me that crazy idea of yours, Princess of mine. I'm sure it will make perfect sense. I'm also fucking convinced it's going to be hell!

# MacLaren and his dinner date

"Promise you won't get mad."

"I'm already mad."

She smirked. "You know you're infuriating, right? I mean, I could have just gone. I thought it would be fun to go together, but I could have gone alone."

"Princess of mine." He took a deep breath. "Don't."

"Ok, fine. You know how they say killers often return to the scene of the crime? I thought maybe, you know, hum, since it's the grand reopening and all..."

Fuck. "You think maybe the killer might show up?"

"Well, yes, it's a possibility, isn't it?"

Perfect sense and hell in a nutshell: she wanted to go because she thought a fucking killer was going be there! "And how will you know if the killer shows up?"

"Well, that's where you come in, you're the cop here."

"You think I can tell a killer just by looking at him?"

"Of course not. But there might be signs. Surely you can pick up on little details. After all, you do it all the times with me."

"You I know, you I like to look at, and you I worry about. There's an interest here." Interest, passion, borderline obsession.

"You're not interested in catching a killer?"

"Yes, I am. But statistically, the possibility of your idea leading anywhere is infinitesimal. At the most."

"But still worth a try, don't you think? And it will be fun even if he doesn't show. The Cabaret's a fun place."

It was a fun place. And she looked great. "So you think it's worth a try?" He let out a big sigh. He was mimicking her antics. "Ok, Pussycat, how much is it worth?"

"Christopher, damn it, not again."

"You bet your ass again, Darling of mine, and I mean it literally. What's it worth?"

"Christopher James MacLaren, you're a jerk! You know, I can go alone."

"Then go."

"Really? You'd let me go alone?"

"Like you often remind me, you're a grown, independent woman who's lived long before me and can do anything she wants. So go."

"Ok then, I'm going."

He settled on the couch and turned on the television.

"What are you going to eat for dinner?"

"I'll call take-out later."

"Ok good. Well then, I guess I'll get my things and go."

"You want to borrow my truck?"

"No, I don't need your car. I might have a drink or two, and I wouldn't want to be arrested driving your car drunk."

"Ok then."

She went back to her bedroom, fumbled around in her walk-in for a while and came back with a jacket and a big purse. The damn fucking jacket was no longer than the skirt!

"If you think you're going anywhere alone in that outfit, you're crazy."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "I said I was going, Big guy, and−"

"And you're going, I know. I'm going with you."

"I don't want you to come anymore."

"Really, Pussycat? Seems to me you don't have a choice. Either that or I'm going to stand so close to you, you'll get too hot and want to rip your damn outfit off."

"You know, that macho attitude is very unbecoming. Fine, you can come! Let's go." And out she went. More like ran out. He followed.

Once in the car, she asked, innocently looking out the window, "Christopher? It's like you're undercover tonight, isn't it?"

"No. It's like I've been set up by my girlfriend."

"I didn't force you," she snapped back and fell silent.

He drove for a couple of blocks.

She tried again. "Christopher, you'll be acting a little like a cop tonight, won't you?"

"I thought you hated it when I acted like a cop?"

"I do. But sometimes you just can't help it, can you?"

"You know I can control myself pretty well."

"Of course you can, but not always. And in a place like that, anything could happen, right?"

"Patricia, is there something else I should know?"

"No, of course not."

No question mark hence nothing else. But she was worried about something. "Why don't you just say it straight out? See, we're almost in front of the restaurant? We can sit in the car arguing, miss the late service and get to the Cabaret rudely late, or you can tell me everything right away so we can have a pleasant evening."

"You're going to be nice at the Cabaret?"

"I'm always nice."

"No, you're not!"

"Yes I am, I'm always nice to you. Even when you think I'm not, even when you call me a jerk, even when you say I'm acting like a cop, I'm fucking nice to you."

"Hum. Ok, let's say you are. Most of the time. But I want you to be nice to others too."

"Ok. I'll be nice to the others. If they're nice to us. Is that all?"

"Yes. For now. Thank you."

For now? "What else?" By now, he had parked the truck and half-turned to look straight at her. His hand had moved from the car's stick shift to her knee, and he was slowly working his way up. He moved closer and kissed her neck. "What else, Angel?" Leaning toward him, she let his hand slid between her legs, while putting her hand on his torso. She rested her hand on his chest for a beat then moved it to his side. He covered her hand with his when she reached his holster, his other hand still between her legs. "Looking for something, Angel?"

"Hum, no. It's ok. Maybe we should go now. It's getting late." She sighed when he didn't move. She looked at him before brushing her lips softly against his. "I don't think you'll need it in the restaurant, but it's ok with me if you keep it for the Cabaret." It. The gun. She hated guns. For her to say such a thing meant she was scared a little.

"We don't have to go, Patricia. You don't have to go. You can wait for me at my place while I'll go if you want." Wait on the couch, Angel, in the bed, on the kitchen table, whichever place you like, for sure I'll be real quick.

"No, I think I should go. I know the place and some of the clients, I might see something."

So she intended to hunt for the killer. Damn woman. She had set him up good. He thought of driving her back and distracting her for the night but then what? She would go tomorrow, the day after or next week. He'd rather she go with him and his weapon. Weapons actually, his service piece in his holster, the knife at his ankle, the unofficial gun hidden under his shirt in the small of his back. She had told him to dress up and so he had, accordingly with the knot in his guts.

# Alternate series: Sunny day

He listened to her corpse, but like the others he couldn't understand yet what she was saying; hers less so than the others. There was something different, she was different. Odd, wasn't it? Twenty years on the job and he had never realised how different one was when dead.

He searched her apartment. The place was nothing like he would have thought. Cheap furniture. Trashy music. X-rated films. Nothing personal. No pictures. Nothing of her mom and dad or her family, nothing of a boyfriend. She seemed to be alone. He did not find any black dress in her closets. Not that he looked for them.

They found another woman. Ass.

The club reopened.

He moved on.

The case lost precedence. Fuck, he was getting too old for the job. Too old for sickos.

He made a deal with himself to get a regular girlfriend. Someone nice.

He did. It didn't work out. He knew it wouldn't. As usual. His fault. His hours were shit. He talked to corpses. Time passed.

" _We're planning an evening at that club, Jo's retirement party. You coming?" Some guy from Vice offered._

" _Ain't the place closed again?"_

" _It reopened, Again," the guy said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Same music." Cops weren't above being contradictory._

Blues music tonight. He remembered the smell. Cigar. Alcohol. Women's perfume. Little black dresses.

The hostesses and waitresses and doormen looked exactly the same as before the arrest. Before the murder too, probably. Some places were like that, out of time. He looked around the room. He needed to get laid. Surely he could find a nice enough lady to end the night with. Preferably not one of the waitresses. Little black dresses weren't his thing after all.

He scanned the room. Not blonde. Not skinny. Not busty. Not short. Being difficult. Maybe not needing a laid so much. Scotch might be enough.

His eyes rested on her. She had her back to him. Dark wavy hair barely grazing her shoulders. Blue locks in them. Red top. Some fat guy sitting next to her. The fat guy looked familiar. Lawyer man. With his hand on the red back. Another professional no doubt. Until she turned around. Smiling at the waitress. Glass of red wine. Liveliest face. Not a trace of white on it tonight. How could that be?

Somehow she must have felt his eyes on her because she turned around and looked at him. Eyes so wide. No way he was taking a chance this time. He was on her before she had time to move.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Patricia on any given Sunday

Such a grand idea! Not that they got the killer, not even close, but Christopher was perfect! Damn how she lov− she caught herself just in time. Even to herself, she didn't dare admit to it −damn how she liked the man. Liked him a lot. Yes, he was an infuriatingly macho overprotective jerk. Sometimes. But as he had said, he was also nice to her. Charming at the restaurant, charming during the drive over to the Cabaret, charming at the Cabaret, charming all through the evening. Especially charming on the way back and excruciatingly charming at his place. The man was dangerous. She needed to plan a trip overseas or something before this got too serious. She was fooling herself, of course, but pretending, she was good at and so, for now, she chose to pretend this was casual, a girlfriend-boyfriend thing like in college. Nothing serious.

He was charming. A jerk really, and a cop, but so charming. Watching him work was the best part of working with his team. The gory details, the graphic photographs, the sad life stories were getting her down, and quite frankly she didn't need any of it to write. Unless she intended to write a book from a cop angle, which she didn't, couldn't. Cops in her books were jerks, crooks, molesters, and dirty, so there was no point in learning to like some of them, no sense from the creative process' point of view. But she did like some of them. She liked the way they respected and looked up to him. Liked the way he treated them. Fair. Honest. Demanding. Direct. Confident. Trusting. Was he all that with her too? Yes. No. Maybe. How about her, was she all that with him? No. Yes. Most of the time. But no. She trusted him completely but she wasn't always honest, she had lied (not that half-truths were exactly like lies in her book), and hid some things from him. It was quite upsetting. What was she going to do about work?

Quit? She was not a quitter. But she wasn't a cop either. Go someplace else? Stay? What was the point in going to some other station when the biggest part of her fun came from watching him? She didn't have to decide right away, did she? With the deal they had made, she now had an entire week off. Show good will and best behaviour crap, how had it come to that? Ingrid was thrilled.

"Every time you get a new job, I worry you'll stop writing," Ingrid liked to say every time Patricia got a new job.

"You should know by now that the imitation-jobs are a big comfort to me," she always answered back. "Remember when I tried to write full time after we published my first book?" She had been an engineer in a previous life. Competent yes quite odd. She liked the technical stuff well enough but had shown little interest for the corporate ladder. "Remember how big a mess I was?" She knew she was smart, way smarter than average, but she lacked interest for all the political bullshit. What she liked were the offbeat underground crazy oddities. Since forever, she'd daydream long, complicated stories. She had only picked up writing in her twenties, though, writing about anything and everything. Not a personal journal like some did, writing the events of her life was of no interest, she had already lived them. Ingrid published her first book for her thirtieth birthday, and she had been at it ever since.

"I know, Patricia, sweetie, but your books and the publishing house bring in enough money, you don't have to do anything else."

"I like the normality of it. Knowing I'm odd is one thing, living with it is quite another." Working with seemingly normal people helped her pretend she too was normal. She sighed.

"Who the hell goes out hunting for a killer on a Saturday night wearing sequin, satin, and heels?" Christopher had said. Strange considering he had too. Not with heels, sequin and all but he had nonetheless, with guns.

"You're hunting for the killer too," she had pointed out. "I'm merely hunting for the killer character. The jerk stole my story."

Wisely enough, Christopher had not pursued that conversation. How could he have understood how perfect the Cabaret was for murder? And Reedy's killer had ruined it. The set-up was wrong. The back room, really, of all places. In her story, the murder took place in the women's lounge with the killer killing a client. She had seen some patrons go into that room while their wives were having a drink in the theater. Wait here, little wifey, while I go have a cigar. Some cigar. One or two of those creeps deserved to be killed, and one of the hostesses deserved to kill. Now, that was a story.

Writing was magic, why everyone wasn't doing it was beyond her. When she wrote, she had the entire world to herself. She could be powerful, sexy, shy, old, young, a man or a cat. Perfect invincibility. Complete invisibility. When she wrote, be it in the most crowded of cafés, the world around disappear until she was ready to be part of it again. And damn if the world had stayed the same while she had traveled elsewhere, been another, lived an entire lifetime in one afternoon. So often she wanted to step through the mirror and lived in the story as it unfolded but, even crazy as she was, she knew it wasn't possible. And some mirrors she didn't want to step through ever again.

The morning after the Cabaret, she lingered under Christopher's covers.

"I'm going for a quick run."

Fine by her, she had the bed all to herself. "Man your age, I'm surprised you still have the energy." They had gone to sleep late last night and she for one, was enjoying sleeping late.

"I have some knot to work at."

Whatever that meant. Suspecting it had something to do with her, she let it pass. The bed was way too comfy to start an argument anyway.

Anticipating he might not let her out of bed if he found her there when he got back, she was showered and dressed an hour later when he returned from ʻworking his knot'.

Two minutes later his cell phone rang, the urgent but not vital ring. She would not have answered it, but the Big man being a workaholic, he did. Too bad for him because she had her skirt and top on but had forgone the underwear, nowhere to be found.

"Duty calls?"

"Yup. I'll shower and go. Wait for me, it might not be long."

"Liar, you're going to be gone all day."

"Maybe. Probably. All the same. Stay."

"I don't have any change of clothes or my computer. I don't want to waste the day watching television so I'd rather you drop me off. Or I can take a cab."

"I'll drop you off." He headed for the shower without another word, but she could tell he was angry.

"You should have ran longer," she whispered to his back. "You would have missed the call."

He got dressed in his usual work clothes. Dress pants, jacket, shirt and a tie. Damn he looked good. She had a thing for men in suits, but not all men mind you, Christopher's type of a man. But then again, Christopher's type she had a thing for in pyjamas, in jeans, naked or in any and all outfits in between. Hum. She definitely needed to find her underwear. She looked around discreetly. Not in the living room; last night had started on the couch. Not in the dining area; they had moved onto the kitchen table. And not in the bed where they had ended up, not that she had any clothes left on her by then. Somewhere between the living room and the kitchen? After a stealth but thorough search, she gave up and covered herself with her coat. Too short to be much help. Good thing Christopher was driving her back, she would have been uncomfortable getting into a cab with that skirt. Had the skirt been that short yesterday? The lack of panties made it worse, no big surprise there.

"Ready to go, Dollface?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"You're sure you don't want to stay? It's kind of chilly out there."

"I'm sure. And your car's in the garage."

"Suit yourself. Let's go then."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Patricia?"

"Sir?"

"Don't be sassy."

"Sassy? Who, me?" She flashed him a big smile. "I'm just preparing you for when you get to the scene, you know, with all them officers so obedient and obsequious."

"They could give you lessons."

"No way, Sir!"

He shook his head, but he was smiling. She looped her arm around his. "Come on, Big guy. Let's go before those too complying cops screw up your crime scene."

He sighed and followed her out.

# Rest of her day

On the ride down to the garage, she foresaw climbing into the car was going to be somewhat of a challenge. When they first met, Christopher was driving a ridiculous sports car. After an unsuccessful attempt at seducing her in it, he had changed it for a sports utility vehicle, bigger, roomier, sturdier, and higher ground clearance. As in knee-raised-to-hip-level-or-so-it-seemed-from-the-draft ground clearance. Her skirt was that ridiculously short.

As he always did, such a gentleman, Christopher held the passenger door open for her. Damn. Maybe if she went in butt first, and raised both knees at the same time, she wouldn't make too big a show?

"Here you go, Princess. Get in." Did he have to lean on the door like that?

"Yes, Sir."

"Sassy again."

"No, Sir! I wouldn't dare, Sir!"

"Really, Pussycat. Considering your position, you think you can afford to be cheeky?" What position was he talking about? Smiling at her, he caressed her thigh with the tip of his fingers, rising ever so slightly the hem of her skirt.

She pushed his hand away. "How did you know?"

He started to laugh. "How did you know, Sir," he teased before kissing her. A possessive kiss, his body hard against hers, his hands fisting her butt under the skirt. "Cheeky indeed," he cursed under his breath as he let her go. "Get in before I change my mind."

He walked around the car, a wide, full circle allowing her to climb in without spectator. By the time he had his butt in the driver seat, she was sitting modestly in her seat, the skirt pulled as low as she could, which barely covered a third of her thighs. With panties on and stockings, she hadn't realised how short the skirt was. He sat and studied her knees pressed tight together for a beat before he started the car.

"Would you have gotten into a taxi dressed like that?"

"Of course." Big lie.

He put the radio on and drove in silence. Every time he shifted, his hand brushed against her knee. She liked. Getting out was going to be a major problem.

"How did you know?"

"You're not wearing your bra either."

"How can you possibly know that, you barely looked at me when you came back?"

"I barely looked because we didn't have the time for me to look! Too bad the phone rang."

"It wouldn't have change anything, you know." Big fat lie again. "For your information, it wasn't an invitation. I couldn't find my underwear."

"ʻYou couldn't find your underwear.' Wow. You're usually so much better at lying. Was I standing a little too close and got you hot?"

"Christopher!" The man was impossible!

A block before they reached the hotel, he pulled over the sidewalk. Windy Sunday morning, the streets were mostly empty. "Christopher?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"You stopped a block short."

"I know."

Damn. "You want me to walk over there?" Short skirt, high heels and everything in the wind?

"If we were alone, yes I would love to watch you strut over there. But since there might be some decent folks strolling back from church, I think it's best you don't." Thank you. "I just thought you might want to put those on before I drop you off," he said pulling out her panties from his pocket.

"Christopher, damn it! Where did you find them?" She asked, grabbing them. He just smiled at her. "Wait a minute! You had them all along?"

"I took them jogging." Damn. "For my defence, may I say I wasn't expecting a phone call this morning." Big crooked grin on his face. So sexy.

"Where's my bra?"

"That I'm keeping, you don't need it to walk into the lobby."

"You're impossible!"

"Yes, I am." He didn't resume driving.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. I'm waiting for you to put them on." The truck was roomy, but she might still flash some skin pulling the panties up. "Need a hand, Pussycat?"

"No."

"Need two hands?"

"No."

"Dick?"

"No."

"Fingers?"

"No."

"Tongue?"

"No!" All the while she was looking outside for onlookers, wiggling in her seat trying to pull the panties up without spreading her knees, taking her butt off the seat or lifting her skirt too high. By the time her underwear were securely in place, she was feeling hot and bothered. From all the wiggling no doubt, because surely it couldn't be because of the fingers and tongue talk. "Ok. All set, Big guy. Let's go." Even to her ears, her voice sounded a little husky.

"Patricia Darling."

"No, you have to go." She didn't look at him. No doubt he was smiling that damn sexy grin of his!

He bent and kissed her thigh. The softest of kiss just below the hem of her too-short skirt. He sighed and restarted the car. "Your loss."

"Yours too, mon chéri."

"Talk French again and I'm stopping in a back alley."

They drove to the front of the hotel in silence. "You better get out before I change my mind."

"What, no door service this morning?"

"Nope."

"Well, that's guys for you. When you thought you'd get a show," she pretended to be offended, "you came to my door but now that my panties are back−"

"I can take those panties off in a flash. I can make you take those off almost as fast. The only reason I'm not opening your door is because I'd rather not walk just now. You might get embarrassed."

She looked him over and smiled. She wasn't the only one hot and bothered, his erection was apparent as it pushed against the fabric. With one arm resting on the armrest of the door and one on the gearbox, he made no attempt to hide it. If she asked, he would get out, tumescence and all, walk around the car and open the door for her without, for one second, being the least embarrassed. She sighed. He wouldn't, but she would. Ok then, opening her own door like she had done lots of time.

"Understood, Sir." She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, sucking his lower lip ever so slightly. Without breaking the kiss, she pushed the door opened with one hand while resting the other on his thigh. "Have a nice day, mon chéri." She caressed his thigh to his crotch and groped until she had a hand-full, then squeezed hard. "Have fun with the boys." She heard him curse when she ran out.

# Ears and MacLaren

Fuck he had a crappy job. Long hours, dealing with scum day in and day out, and average pay (not that he needed money, but his guys sure could earn more). Always some sicko to ruin his days. Or nights. Or both. He was working for the greater good or so they said, by catching murderers, bringing them to justice and setting an example. Catching as many assholes as possible was exactly what he was doing, but sometimes he wished he could do it himself. Vigilante. Not for the honour of it but for justice, plain and simple. You do harm, you get removed. Simple. Gang member offed by another gang. Simple. A wife beater killed by his molested wife. Justice. Plain and simple.

Driving to a crime scene a while ago, he heard some jerk asked on an open line radio show, "But who got to decide?"

Middle of the night, empty street, and some jerk had nothing better to do than to start a discussion on the justice system. Shit. Not you, my friend, sitting in your small apartment with time enough to waste calling that crummy radio show in the middle of the night. Maybe once you've come down with us to see a victim's body lying in the gutter, maybe then you get to ask. There weren't that many cases where the line between good or bad was fuzzy; those few could be sent to the system. He'd gladly take care of the rest. Plain and simple. But nothing was ever plain and simple.

The night was dragging on in an already long week. The weather was bleak, had been for days. So was the moral. Before arguing on ʻwho got to decide' what to do to the jerk, he needed to catch the white women's killer. When they did, would the killer be the only guilty party? Wouldn't him and his team be also, for not getting the creep sooner, for allowing the killings to continue? He didn't carry any guilt over his cases, some regrets yes, but no remorse. He had a job to do, and he did it the best way he knew how. Stepping out of line was, as far as he was concerned, a necessary process. And if they didn't agree, they could all go to hell. Plain and simple.

If someone had ask Chris who were those they he was thinking of, he couldn't have answered. All of them politicians and tacticians and right-minded people, all of them sleeping at this hour, unaware that a child had just been found dead. Killed. The victim was still a child, damn it! He didn't have children, but for sure thirteen-year-old kids were children. The kid barely had three hairs on his upper lip, not even close to being a man. A boy, fully dressed, lying in a back alley. Prior to his death, the kid had been tagging the back walls of buildings. No signs of struggle or violence except for a slit neck. A very precise cut that had severed all the major arteries. He had died within minutes probably. A tenant out for a smoke had found the body. So here he was. Again.

He had just wasted days doing politics and smooching with the Brass, the part of the job he hated the most. It was an exercise he performed every month or so, to make Central happy, all reassured by his seeming obedience and good collaboration. He was game for anything to ensure his team could keep their ways. His ways. When Lou had first approached him for the job, he had declined. Not his ways of doing things. His old captain had known him well and managed to convince him he could play it both ways. Years as chief, it was working still, but the price was high. Excruciatingly long days spent with excruciatingly incompetents telling him how to do his job. Typically, by the end of his monthly show, Chris was tired, somewhat depressed and totally pissed. Just once, he should wake one of the jerks up in the middle of a rainy night and dragged him down to a crime scene. With the noise, the smell, the horror of it. But he didn't. Part of the fucking job.

Luckily Patricia hadn't been in the office this week. What could he have done with her, she was hard to hide from the Brass, wasn't she? Especially if she decided to wear one of her sexy cop outfits, which she wore so innocently. She might have brightened the team's mood, though, his for sure. Fuck, she was probably going to be asleep when he was done. He still had the sight of her legs in that damn skirt imprinted in his mind. How many days since he had dropped her off?

"Hey, Mac, over here," LeRoy called at him. Le was the officer on call tonight but since they had been having a beer together, Chris had tagged along. LeRoy was sitting on his heels, close to the body. "Look." He aimed the beam of his penlight to the kid's head. Sandy blonde, same fine texture as baby hair, cut short but curling a little over the kid's ears. White ears. Very white ears. Powder white. Shit.

"Get a tech to take a sample."

"You think it's related?"

"It would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn't." Experience told him there were no such things as coincidences, not in their line of work.

"Change of ways. Male."

"Could be. Or maybe not. Would you say the kid had cute ears?" LeRoy looked at him in puzzlement, "Think about it, Le. We think the jerk is collecting body parts, right? Female so far. But are the boy's ears good? Could they be female?"

"I see your point. Men's ears are the same as women's ears. Maybe bigger and hairier but the same."

"Right. Maybe our guy likes small hairless ears, and this kid had a pair."

"Fuck."

"You got that right."

"I'll have the techs look for semen."

They talked to the tenant, watched the techs do their things and waited around for a preliminary report. They both looked the kid over very carefully, one on each side, Chris taking the right, Le the left, starting with the sole of the shoes. The kid laid on his back on the concrete, arms and legs spread-eagled like an angel. His head was turned to the left, facing the brick wall of the apartment building he had been spray painting. His backpack and spray paint cans were a short distance to his right. His hands were empty, but he had a spot of blue paint on his right forefinger, same blue as on the wall, same blue as one of the cans. He and LeRoy examined the body over section by section, the thorough inspection taking them over half an hour. They did not found any other white powder besides the ears. And they did not found any traces indicative of semen.

"First impressions?"

"Same but different."

"Yes. But why?"

"It's a guy."

"Obviously." A kid really, but a male not a female kid. Not a woman. Not a country girl.

"More of a mess too."

"Right." A lot more. The others had been strangled or had their necks broken, the kid had his slit. More blood.

"He's getting bolder?"

"Killing a male instead of a female could explain it. He changed because the victim changed."

"Ok. Did we check for males before?"

"Yes we did, we'll check again but I think this is the first."

# His salvation

"Hell of a pair of ears," Le commented. "Not that I'm an ear man myself."

"Right."

"So he liked the ears but they didn't turn him on."

"Apparently. We'll know for sure after we get the techs and autopsy report. It could be it's not the killing that turns him on. Or strictly women's murders that does."

"Right."

They talked it over some more. But for now, they had gotten all they were going to get from the body. The kid didn't have any IDs on him, and no teenager fitting his description had been reported missing.

"I'll work on identification," Le said. "Hopefully it won't hit the news before we've notified the family."

Informing the family was the worse part of the job. It was hard enough when the victim was crooked. Telling the family when the victim was innocent was hell. Notifying the family when it was a kid was beyond all.

After the body was bagged and removed by the ME, policemen started canvassing the neighbourhood. Middle of the night, they weren't getting much cooperation.

"I'll return early in the morning to oversee their progress," LeRoy told Chris.

"Come on then, Le. I'll drive you back to the station so you can get your car. I think we can both use a couple of hours sleep."

After dropping LeRoy off, Chris headed to his place. Truly, that was where he meant to go. He reeked of beer, cigarettes, garbage from the alley, perspiration, was wet from the rain and utterly pissed. He needed to catch the guy. Fast. No fucking way was he going to let the creep get all the body parts. He drove around to calm down and ended up parked in front of her hotel. He stayed sitting in his truck until the night valet helped him make up his mind by getting his door.

"It's quite alright, Sir, I'll park it if you want." The doorman, the entire staff really, knew him by now. Miss Patricia's gentleman friend. The Miss thing was one of the reasons she liked living in an hotel, the title was old-fashioned enough to appeal to her. That, plus never coming home to an empty place and everyone always being nice to her. She pretended to believe it was because they were paid to be nice, but he could see it was more than that. She was liked and looked after. No one questioned him showing up in the middle of the night; he had done it before. Her liking him, the staff was affable to him by association. He gave the guy his truck key.

At this hour, she was sleeping of course, and smiling to herself. The covers had dropped away in her sleep, and she laid exposed on her back, wearing her usual combination of feminine panties and lacy top with delicate straps, the left one now down her shoulder. Her breasts raised slightly with her every breath. Sexy as hell. Fuck he wanted to wake her up and make love to her. Let her wake up while he was making love to her. Take her in the shower and wake her up there. Or lay next to her and see what happened. Or watch her sleep, fucking watch her sleep, smiling to herself. He opted to shower first. She was a sound sleeper, he might have to wait 'till morning but that was ok, he was already feeling better. Calmer. Damndest thing how he got both so mad at her and so calm because of her. Damndest woman.

He set the water hot first to loosen the muscles, then cold to chase the tensions and lessen the muscle aches. Without him hearing her, she climbed into the shower with him. The cold water was good on her, it hardened some spectacular parts of hers, highlighted since her top was now plastered to her skin. When she started shivering, he turned the water back to hot. She wrapped her arms around his neck and bit his lower lip. Fuck it felt good.

Grabbing her butt, he lifted her to him. "Wrap your legs around me, Angel."

Legs around his waist, she bit his shoulder. He held her up against the wall, fumbled with her panties, tearing them as he pushed the fabric aside.

"Now, Christopher."

He thrusted into her. She closed her eyes and held tighter. He rocked urgently, banging into her. She pressed her cheek against his, her breathing so fast. He pushed himself deeper and came holding her still. Her arms tightened around his neck as she brushed her lips on his cheek. He held her close.

After a beat, she unwrapped her legs but he kept one hand on her butt and one on her back, preventing her from pushing back. When she tried to let go of his neck, he pressed her back against the wall and kissed her hard. She licked her lips after the kiss. He smiled. She smiled.

"I want to return the favour, Princess." Fuck he wanted to touch and taste her all over.

"It's late, I rather you didn't."

"Hush, Darling, tell me what's your pleasure." Anything.

"Call it a gift. Want to sleep with me now?" Anything you want, Darling of mine.

They rinsed off and went to bed naked and wet. She laid next to him, head cradled against his neck, her hand stroking him, his torso mostly although her hand did wander lower once in a while, teasing softly.

"Tu vas bien, mon chéri?" Was all she asked. ʻAre you ok, my Darling?' He didn't know much French but that much he knew.

"Yes, Angel of mine, I'm fine."

"Liar." She kissed his neck but did not insist.

He really was ok now. Damn woman. She fell asleep stroking him, her hand resting on his stomach, too low for comfort, so he laid awake. Not that he didn't like the sensation. Liked it enough not to remove her hand, sleep was overrated anyway.

# Her best of friends

She was awakened by Christopher's urgent-but-not-life-threatening phone ring. By the time he found his phone in his inside pocket, the ringing had stopped and started again. The all-hell-broke-loose ringing now.

"Speak." The Big guy listened. "Ok." ... "Where?" He started getting dressed as he listened. "Be right there. Don't do anything."

"What is it?" She asked, barely awake.

"It's ok, nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep, Patricia."

Twice in the same night. So typical. "Christopher?"

He looked her over and smiled. She pulled the sheet over her naked body, and his grin widened.

"It's LeRoy; he has car trouble. I'm going to pick him up. Don't move, I'll be right back. You look nice."

"Christopher, it's four in the morning."

"So?"

"You are impossible." She smiled at him, still half asleep but already teasing. "Why can't you let him take a cab?" The best way to know how serious this really was? Easy. Would sex win? She dropped the sheet.

Sex didn't win. "It won't take long. Please don't get dressed."

"Nice try, Big guy, but I'm going with you."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"Patricia, no."

"Christopher. It's late, or early. From the looks of you, you haven't slept, you're in no position to win this. I'm going." She grabbed a pair of leggings, a small top, a sweater and a pair of slippers, and dressed while she walked. She got to the door before he had even moved. "Ok. I'm ready. Let's go."

"You're not wearing underwear."

"Jeez, Big guy. It's the middle of the night, who's going to know?" Besides you, she meant. She flashed him a big smile and got out.

They met up with LeRoy a couple of blocks from the station. He had crashed his car against a cement block delimiting a construction site. He was sitting on the car, arms crossed. Next to him and his wreck were two police cruisers, one on each side, their lights flashing. Four police officers cordoned him. The little gathering didn't seem cordial. Christopher parked three cars down the cruisers.

"What happened?"

"He had a car accident."

"Obviously. And? What's with the police?"

"Stay in the car."

"Why?" She pouted at him before leaning to kiss him on the cheek. "Talk or I'm out of here."

"I can lock you in the trunk."

"In front of those angry-looking police officers? I don't think so. Besides, I thought you wanted me naked after?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "Smart ass. Ok. Fine. He trashed the car, may have gotten a little angry when some locals showed up and now he's under arrest. They're waiting for me."

She started to laugh. "Really? Wow. Now what? You're going to flash your badge and make it all better?"

"I'm just going to talk to them. Showing my badge might not solve anything, he showed his, and it didn't."

"Yes. But he's not a big guy chief like you."

"Way too cocky. Now, Angel, can you stay in the car? Please?"

"Ok for now. Call me if you need help."

He shook his head, kissed her hair and got out. She watched as he went over. He did show his badge and started to talk to one of the officers, probably the one in charge. LeRoy remained obstinately seated on his hood, but he was talking too, arguing from the looks of it. So was Christopher, she could see him shaking his head, pointing at the car, at LeRoy.

For ten minutes, she watched LeRoy, now standing on his car's bumper, yelling. Watched Christopher trying to calm him down but clenching his fists at the same time. Ten minutes before she felt they were ready for a much needed feminine approach. She let herself out and walked over to them.

"Get back in the car."

She ignored him, of course. "Hi, LeRoy. Are you ok?"

"Sure am, Doll. At least I was before those creeps showed up and arrested me."

"I know the feeling."

The cops were standing hands on hips watching at her. She smiled at in-charge-man. He frowned, and his hand rested somewhat too close to his hip holster for her peace of mind but other than that, he seemed ok. A nice family man, she told herself. "Good evening, Officers." Or was it morning? "Is there a problem here?" She asked, earning herself some nice replies.

"Who the hell are you?" and "Patricia! Get back in the fucking car!"

In her experience, most cops were easy; they liked to be played. She focused on man-in-charge. She put a small, trembling smile on her face. "I'm with him," she informed cop-in-charge without pointing to anyone. The cop looked between Christopher and LeRoy and back to her, undecided. "I'm really sorry about all of this, Officer. You guys have better things to do than look after some hotshot detective, don't you?" Charge-man nodded, barely, but enough for her to know she had something there. "Really, he's impossible, isn't he? Showing his badge around like that." There again, hard to tell whom of LeRoy or Christopher she was talking about. "Using the shield to make the troubles go away! Really, who does he think he is, I ask you."

Again according to her experience, just about every policeman used the badge to get out of trouble at one time or another. Cop-in-charge wouldn't be different. She gave more of the shy smile. Charge-Man might be putting on a show, but she was better at the game than he was. All she needed was to give him a way out. "Really, you should arrest him. Make an example out of him." No worry there. If Man-in-charge had really wanted to book LeRoy, he would have done so already. She figured he was just showing off to the big shot detectives and making them sweat. Both LeRoy and Christopher were frowning at her, LeRoy because he obviously believed her, Christopher, because she still wasn't in the car.

Cop-in-charge gave in a little. "Look, Miss. This is really serious; we believe him to have been drinking."

That little comment was all she needed. She started to cry (pretended to anyway, she really should have been an actress), hands covering her face, shoulders slumped, voice trembling. "This is all my fault. We had a terrible argument, and he wouldn't listen. You see I was with him, then with him, and again with him." Vague hand movements again, she could have been pointing at LeRoy then Christopher or the other way around. Heck, she could even have been pointing at one of the other cops standing guard watching the show. "We went out, and I was the designated driver and...and," dramatic pause, audible breath, "and I took off. With the car! So he came to get me, he shouldn't have, of course, but I guess he was worried." She looked at Charge-Man with her most pitiful frown. "I'm terrible sorry; I suppose you're going to arrest me too now?"

She scored a hat trick. More precisely, her performance had left six copmen speechless simultaneously. No small feat, especially considering one of the six was the Big guy.

Carefully avoiding looking at Christopher, she ran to LeRoy and threw her arms around him. "I'm so sorry, LeRoy, I'll go with you, we'll be ok." The grand finale of her subtle rendition of a basket case.

While clutching a stunned LeRoy, she threw a glance at Christopher. He was getting angrier by the seconds. Mercifully, Charge-man saved them all. "I guess it will be ok for tonight. Don't you cry, little missy." Little missy? How patronising! Who the hell does he think he is?! She remained focused. "It's not your fault the guy's an asshole. I'll let it pass this time, but Missy? You could do better than this jerk."

She smiled up at Charge-man. "You are such a sweet man!" She ran to Charge-man, hugged him and, feeling very, very silly, kissed him on the cheek. All in all, not her worse performance.

# Patricia in a threesome

"Thank you, Officers, we appreciate it. We'll have the car towed right away. Let's go." Christopher had taken over. The show was over.

He didn't have to call a towing company for a tow truck had showed up at the end of her performance. The officers left and the three of them went back to the car. They sat in silence for a beat, her in the back having thought it wiser not to sit next to Christopher (and the angry vein pulsing on his neck). She caught him studying her in the rear view mirror. She retreated quietly into the corner, partially hidden behind LeRoy's seat. Oblivious to Christopher's throbbing vein, LeRoy slumped in his seat. The Big guy finally started the car.

"I'm hungry," she announced. "How about you guys?"

Christopher frowned at her in the mirror but LeRoy agreed, "Me too. Let me buy you lunch."

"Breakfast, LeRoy. At this hour, I feel like breakfast." Christopher always got her breakfast when they were together and they were, weren't they? Even if he was mad. She smiled at LeRoy. "But don't think buying me breakfast makes us even. You owe me. Big time."

"I sure do, Doll. I sure do." Big pause. "So anyway, Babe, how come you're here?" She blushed. "Lucky guy."

Christopher cursed, "Fuck!"

LeRoy laughed.

"It's not what you think," she mumbled even though it was what LeRoy was thinking. Probably even worse than what he was thinking.

"For sure it is. Two hours ago, he was with me, looking a kid over for traces of baby powder and semen. If I could have come on some lovely piece of skin, I would have too."

Way too graphic for so early in the day but it did explain Christopher's visit. They locked eyes in the mirror. She winked at him. "Ah. I'm not so big on threesomes, LeRoy."

Christopher shook his head and sighed, LeRoy laughed again. "Really, Dollface? That's not what that jerk officer understood. Hell, you almost had me convinced we had a thing. That was some act out there."

"Thank you."

"Shit Le, don't encourage her."

"Don't listen to him, LeRoy, the Big guy's just worried you'll do what I want." Big dramatic pause, she was still in playing mode. "And you will, won't you?"

"Patricia!"

"He now owes me a favour but don't be upset, Big guy, LeRoy will have to pay up only once. Isn't it what you do all the time, Christopher? You like having people owe you and calling in favours. I promise I'll choose carefully."

"Shit. That's even scarier."

She pretended to get offended. But they were enjoying themselves now, the vein's throbbing had slowed and LeRoy was sitting straight, straight in his usual nonchalant way in any case.

Breakfast was good. Christopher took them to some diner where they had pancakes and real maple syrup, her favourite breakfast, with sausages. And bacon. A piece of ham. Orange slices.

"How can you eat all that stuff?"

"What do you mean? You had the exact same breakfast I had, LeRoy."

"Yah but I'm a man."

"And your point is? A woman can do exactly the same things as a man. Same breakfast. Same job. Same everything."

"You're not a cop." Christopher, never missing one.

"Of course not. And I don't want to be. But take Reid. She's a woman. And she's a cop, and a good one too, right?" She looked at them both sitting in front of her in the booth, looking tired yet looking strong if somewhat scary with their hair cut short, their guns, their scars.

"Yes, she is."

"I don't want to be a cop. But there are other things I can do. Just like a man. Even better."

"Like what, Princess?" Christopher's mood was becoming teasing, she could see it in his eyes, in that sexy crooked grin of his that was his smile for her. Even though they had a witness, she let the Princess slide.

"Well. I can get drunk. And driving drunk, I can trash a car. Just like a man." LeRoy might think it was a cheap shot but she wanted to know. "Where you drunk?"

"Probably, yes."

"It was that bad?"

"Yes."

"Ah." She paused. Strong but not insensible, were they? "What do you usually do then? Besides the car thing I mean. Surely you don't wreck a car every time a crime scene gets to you."

"We get drunk."

"We?"

"The guys and I."

Meaning whoever from the team was there. Christopher had been there but he had come to her this time. "I'm sorry, LeRoy."

"Don't be, Doll. It takes him forever." Christopher didn't get drunk, a side effect of his past life as a muscle guy in shitty bars. "It's faster when I'm alone." Fast perhaps but so sad.

"Ok." She smiled at them both. Tough guys, tough job. "Call me next time, we'll go to some bar and get drunk together, and since Christopher can't, him being a machine and all, he'll drive us home."

"Sounds like a plan, Babe."

"And maybe I can found you some, hum, skin."

"Pussycat, you're not offering we sleep with him, are you?"

We? What did he mean we? "Christopher! Damn it. Nobody is sleeping with anybody." He was unbelievable. She frowned at him. "Besides, I couldn't do a threesome with you. You're friends."

"So?"

"So. It wouldn't be proper."

"It wouldn't be proper because we're friends? Fuck, let me get this straight. A threesome is ok but not with friends?"

"Yes. No. Christopher, damn it, you know what I mean!"

"No, Darling of mine, I don't. I honestly don't but I'm damn well interested."

"Everyone knows you don't want a conflict of interest in a threesome." Christopher seemed perplexed so she explained, "Let's say LeRoy has a threesome with some women. Two women." She turned to LeRoy. "And the women start paying more attention to each other than to you, how would you feel, LeRoy?"

"I'd watched."

"I bet you would but I wouldn't."

"How about if the other woman and I promise to make you the centre of attention?"

"LeRoy! I have no intention of sleeping with another woman." Jeez. She looked at Christopher from the corner of her eyes. Grinning from ear to ear. He had made it very clear from the start that he didn't share, but perhaps he had only meant sharing with a man? Maybe sharing with a woman was different for him? When she frowned, she saw his smile turn predatory. Following her thoughts again, damn him.

"Two men then," LeRoy was saying, "I'm willing to share you with another man as long as I don't have to touch the guy."

"No way in hell is LeRoy sleeping with you, Angel." The big macho marking his territory.

She smiled at Christopher as she murmured, "You can't decide who I sleep with, can you? Sir." That got the vein pulsing again. Ok, maybe a little too sassy. "I was just suggesting that maybe I could, you know, introduce him to some single women I know. That's all."

"How about me? Are you going to introduce me too? To a single woman you know?"

"You are impossible."

She fell asleep on the way back to LeRoy's place. She was slightly relieved LeRoy had offered not to spread unfounded rumours around the office. Partly worried, not knowing if the Christopher-her-another woman was in Christopher's tastes. She hoped not, she wasn't up to sharing either.

# Alternate series: Three best of friends

"You're under arrest."

He flashed the badge then pulled her to her feet without listening to the lawyer's theatrics. He had her in handcuffs before they reached the club's door, him half-pushing half-carrying her. She tried to free her arm, but too late. Not that she was strong enough. She kicked him. Not precise enough.

" _Red looks good on you, Princess." As good if not better than black. Blue jeans and a sleeveless top. Soft skin. He was very aware of her bare arm under his hand. Her slim waist in the proximity of his hip. Frowning pale face so close to his. Red cheeks flaming under his gaze._

Lawyer man tried to follow. Too bad he had gotten himself fat, he wouldn't be on time.

His little black dress was a fighter. Surprising. He liked. Getting her into the car was not easy. Plenty of experience in getting perpetrators into the back of service cars. Not a problem when you didn't give a damn. Her, he wanted unarmed, but damn she was not cooperating. To open the back door, he pushed her against the car door and held her steady using his body to hold her steady. She didn't like and showed so by raising a knee between his legs.

" _Fuck!" Precise enough, but thankfully not strong enough. He didn't double over, but caught her knee between his thighs and leaned hard against her. It still hurt like hell._

Fuck did she smell good.

She froze against him. She must have felt his boner.

He pushed away a little. "I'm not going to hurt you. We need to talk."

She shook her head no. Lawyer man was getting closer.

When he lowered her head to get her into the car, she tried to resist. "I have no objection to you riding in the trunk if you'd prefer, Princess."

She stopped struggling. Her face was white, whiter than with the powder.

Wanting to reassure her, he drove up to lawyer man. "Meet us at the station." Not that he intended to go.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# MacLaren taking charge

"You're suspended. A week." Hard to give Le more, Patricia had only done a week herself. "And you seek help for the drinking and the womanising."

Chris recognised the pattern. When cases were getting to LeRoy like now, the guy usually managed to find himself a woman, have her moved in or marry her. The relationship never lasted, LeRoy breaking it up or getting a divorce within months to find himself out on the street again. Better have him seek professional help than him dating some cheap floozy. Where Le found his women was a mystery to Chris. The team had a pool going, two wagers to take. Profession, usually hairdresser, barmaid, waitress, none of the classy kind (he was engaged to a masseuse for a while). Run-time, in days, weeks or months. Bets went between eight to ten weeks, none over three months.

"This isn't a good time for the suspension, so I'm postponing it until the white killer's caught. But not the counselling, that's effective immediately." Before Patricia decided to find a woman for LeRoy for real. Not that Patricia was the meddling kind, but if she decided to research the damn matchmaking shit, there would be no stopping her.

It was back to business as usual, less a car for LeRoy. The guy would replace it within days, he was even faster with his cars than with his women. Patricia was busying herself doing whatever at her desk. He had given her a new file, cold, very cold and gory, very gory. She was pretending to work on it, not putting up a good act, though, for she was spending a lot of her time away from her desk. Talking to Reid. Talking to Bridget. Downstairs doing whatever with Fred. This week so far, she had lunch once with Shapiro, a cafeteria coffee with Ham and Des, left at the end of the day with Reid on Monday, with Bridget on Tuesday, and she even managed to grab a sandwich with Frankke.

Chris was feeling a little left out. Not that she totally ignored him. She stopped by his office a couple of times with questions about her file. Not actually in his office, though, but by the door frame. Afraid I won't let you out, Pussycat? Now if he could just have her alone in the office to test drive either or both the couch and his desk before she quit...

She called LeRoy on Thursday, calling in her favour. LeRoy came to clear it with him.

"She wants what?"

"Look, Mac, she didn't tell me why. Just said she wanted a quick tour of the legs woman's apartment. I'm to meet her there.

Chris agreed but tagged along uninvited.

Legs's place was in a middle-class part of town. The apartment building was a plain four-storey brick building, with four apartments per floor and no elevator. The stairs were outside, opening unto large balconies covering the width of the façade on each floor. Ground floor only had two apartments, to allow for storage spaces and laundry room, accessible only from the outside. Not the most practical configuration but the place, although faded, looked clean enough, and a couple of tenants had flower boxes along the balconies. As on their previous visits, there were no garbage lying on the balconies, no graffiti on the outside walls.

When they arrived, Patricia was already engaged in a friendly conversation with the landlord. The old man lived next to the storage unit in one of the downstairs apartments. A short stubby man, half deaf, with beady eyes and a yellow moustache. The leathery skin told he spent most of his days outside. The team had already interviewed him.

"I called ahead; I wanted to notify the old geezer of our unofficial visit," LeRoy informed Chris, wiggling his eyebrows at him. Jerk.

Patricia had not been mentioned explicitly during Le's call to the old geezer yet there she was with the old guy chatting her up. A key in his hand, he was slowly climbing the stairs with her at his arm. They reached the third floor before noticing them. Patricia waved but didn't smile.

"Here, sweetie. You return it to me when you're finished," the landlord said, wrapping the key in her hand after he had let them in. Apparently Patricia wasn't the only one who didn't trust cops. The last time the team had been in the place, the old guy had followed at their heels the entire time.

She waited for the old man's departure to face them. "LeRoy, we are not even, not even close."

"Sure we are, Doll. I got you in."

"You most certainly did not. I could have gotten in all by myself. And you brought him!" She accused glaring at Chris and LeRoy equally.

"What did you expect, Princess? I told you your only way out is with me. And you were supposed to call."

"I obviously didn't have to, did I?"

"I had no choice, Doll. He's the boss," LeRoy tried to defend himself. Fuck.

"Of course you had a choice. There is absolutely no risk for me here. None, nada, niet. Aucun." She was clearly angry now.

"Patricia, Le's right, he didn't have a choice. If he hadn't, I could have fired him." Not that he would have but still, he could have.

"Why? Don't you trust his judgement?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then why?"

He didn't bother answering. It wasn't Le's judgement that was in question here. The truth was she was reckless, and a little delusional but that was her. The truth was, he was a fool. He shouldn't let her get close to any of this. So here he was, needing to watch over her because there was no way in hell he wanted to delegate that responsibility, the price might be too dire. Too precious to loose.

"Ok fine, Big guy, have it your way, but I'm staying. You can't make me leave, I'm on my own time now, not in the office."

"Then stay." Like he had a choice. If he made her leave now, she'd only come back later, and from what he had seen of the landlord, for sure the guy was going to let her in alone. Maybe that time, the jerk would even stay with her. He'd rather have her in sight while she did her research thing.

"Fine."

"Fine." This was ridiculous. At his side, LeRoy was rocking back and forth on his heels, grinning. The jerk was having fun. "We'll be around if you need anything."

"Pff!" A shrug and she was off to the left bedroom.

# His search

Legs didn't have a big place so hopefully this wouldn't take long. Unless Patricia intended to go through every single drawer, cupboard and storage boxes. The apartment's superficies was about half the size of Patricia's suite. Patricia's three-room hotel suite was bright, airy, and sparsely furnished rooms. Her large bedroom had an inviting king-sized bed, two small bed tables and a pile of hat boxes. Large windows opened on a quiet back street. Her luxurious blue and gold bathroom, the long walk-in closet between it and the bedroom, and her spacious living room with its comfy couch, armchairs, and bistro table set, had all been tasteful organised and decorated. Classy yet spunky like the woman herself. Legs' apartment was gloomy and cluttered. Two small side by side bedrooms on one side, the bathroom and kitchen on the opposite side. The square living room where he was standing was crowded with furniture, magazines, and knick-knacks. Nestled between its neighbours, the apartment only had a small bay window overlooking the balcony in the living room, a small window per bedroom and one above the sink in the kitchen in the back. The lack of natural lighting added to its stuffiness.

Patricia spent a good half hour in the first bedroom. Chris sat on the bed, legs stretched, back resting on the headboard, arms crossed behind his head. Relaxed. He watched her walked around, picking things up, putting them back. Even though the place had already been checked by the tech team, he had given her gloves. She was surprisingly methodical, starting on her left next to the door and going through the room clockwise following the walls and searching everything there was to search. She spent some time in the woman's closet, came out a little dishevelled. He liked. Since the bed was set on the right side of the door, the last piece of furniture before the door, she reached it last. Unfortunately for him, she didn't want to search under the covers. She did look under the bed but from the other side, too far for him to grab.

They moved on to the next room, which she searched the same. Fast but thorough. She had a hell of a memory; for all he knew, she could have been taking an inventory overview of everything the legs woman owned. She did the kitchen next, saving the living room for last. All the while he sat in the rooms with her, on the single bed in the spare bedroom, on the toilet seat in the bathroom, in a chair at the table in the kitchen, watching, enjoying the view but keeping silent. LeRoy stayed in the living room to watch some lame late-afternoon talk show, today's subject being twins who hadn't spoken to each other in years. Like him, LeRoy didn't have any siblings, and he doubted Le actually knew any twins, but then again, maybe he did, female twins, the professional kind.

When Patricia reached the living room, Chris stood to lean on the wall next to the outside door. The couch had its back to the front door. Sitting with Le wouldn't do for he wouldn't have a direct view of her looking over the bookcases lining the wall on both sides of the front door. Like with the other rooms, she began on her right entering the room. Hence, the first place she looked through was the television unit. With Patricia hiding his twins, LeRoy turned off the television.

"Sorry, LeRoy, this will only take a minute."

"No prob', Doll. I'd rather be watching you." And the jerk did.

Fuck. He was working with a bunch of somewhat obsessed jerks, maybe not fixated on sex, but at least with women. Granted she was something special but she was off limits, that at least should have been clear.

"What's that you're looking for, Pattie?" LeRoy wanted to know after a couple of minutes of ogling. Chris had asked her the same question in the first bedroom without getting a definite explication answer. Hopefully, LeRoy would get a better answer than he had.

"Nothing." Nope. Same fucking answer.

"Nothing like what?"

"Nothing like nothing. You know. Something."

All the while she was searching, and by then she had reached the front wall and its bookcases. She looked at every damn shelve, her hands and fingers trailing over where her eyes were looking. So far she had not taken any notes or pictures. She was big on pictures for her research. He had seen her take pictures of just about anything: staircases, old women, kids, cats, streets, cars, men, garbage cans, store windows, fucking anything. Research. He had seen some of those pictures on her computer. Unusual angles. Unlike the crude, hard, overexposed crime scene pictures, hers were eye-catching, often rendered in soft hues. Maybe that explained why she reacted so much to the files, they were too much in contrast to hers.

"Nothing like something like what?"

"I don't know. I'll know when I find it."

"You know, Doll, you're actually supposed to know what you're searching for before you start."

She turned and looked at LeRoy with interest, "Really? Does it work for everybody?"

"Yup. You decide what then you search. Best way to find."

"Does it work for you? Woman-wise I mean? You know what you're searching then you search?"

Point taken. She flashed the guy a big smile and went back to her bookcase. He started to laugh; LeRoy sulked on the couch for a while, but he was Mister Happy and he liked women too much to take offence. And the jerk obviously liked her. He had caught LeRoy teasing Patricia, pushing her around like he did his niece Abigail, a shy twenty-six years old woman whom he didn't see often. Like him with Abi, LeRoy was playing the role of the big condescending brother with Patricia. He suspected that explained why LeRoy had snitched about Patricia's request, not wanting her to get in trouble but not stopping her either from doing it. That and the fact LeRoy probably didn't want to be alone with her since he knew his boss and friend had a thing for her. Fucking right he had a thing for her. Big time.

When she reached the bookcase next to where he was standing, he caught a hint of her perfume. She looked the shelves over just like she had the others. A lock of hair fell over her eye. He couldn't stop himself from gently tucking it behind her ear. A yearning, barely touching, very intimate. She blushed, her eyes fluttered, but she didn't look at him. She didn't push him away either. He noticed her hand went back to the beginning of the shelve as she looked it over again. Was he standing too close? He smiled. She had a thing for him too, didn't she?

# His research

By the time she was done, it was dinner time. It being the first time her being out hadn't turned into a disaster, he secretly congratulated himself.

"Let's met up with the others for a beer," he offered. The team was already at the cop bar they invaded when company and beer were needed, or wine in her case.

She had not found anything, he had not expected her to, but it was still worth the try (couldn't have stopped her anyway). Now he hoped the search had bored her enough to clean the urge out of her system.

"Now that was depressing," LeRoy mumbled over his third beer.

"What's that?"

"That woman place. You in it. Shit, Doll, you need to find yourself a better hobby." Fucking right she did.

"Why was it depressing?"

"Just was, that's all."

"You're depressed because you screwed me. You thought you were out of debt, but you're not yet."

"Who screwed you?" Ham, adding with his usual delicacy, "I want a turn."

"Oh shut up!" She replied, which only served to make it worse.

"Could you put your tongue in my mouth to shut me up, please?"

After another five minutes of listening to his guys make suggestive propositions to her and her challenging them back, he was close to telling them all off. She'd get mad, but she'd get over it. Fuck was he tired of listening to those assholes. His fucking team. Granted if it hadn't been about her, he might have enjoyed the talking match. It was nowhere near classy or innocent, but it was friendly and witty. But fuck, even the most patient and stoic guy was allowed irrational reactions from time to time.

"Attention everyone!" LeRoy again, clinging on his glass. "I have an announcement to make."

That earned Le a few laughs and some rude comments, but eventually everyone settled down to a degree. LeRoy looked at Patricia and she looked back with a frown before throwing him a quick glance and a worriedly whispered, "Christopher...?"

He shrugged. "Sit, Patricia. The guy has an announcement." Whatever happens happens, Angel of mine. Maybe it wouldn't be him she was going to get mad at after all.

"Doll. Listen." Visibly unsettled, holding her breath, she looked back at LeRoy. "You save my butt this weekend, and I owe you. I sure do." LeRoy took a sip, taking his time now that he had everyone's attention. Good showman. Different type of show than hers but effective enough. LeRoy sure had her; Chris caught her gripping the table. "I learn a few things this weekend." Here we go, Chris thought. "Like how good you can be." Sexual innuendos again, those guys never let up. "And I'm not just talking about sex." Big grin from the guys there, grimaces from her and Reid. "I learned how good a seemingly honest woman can be at manipulating the unsuspecting man." LeRoy wasn't only referring to the cop-in-charge, but perhaps also to himself. "Doll, I shall not fall prey to your scheming." LeRoy toasted, standing tall, glass high in the air.

"Ah. Hum. Ok," she said, evidently relieved. "If you say so," she added softly. She bit her lips and mischief flashed in her eyes. "Yes, you're right, you shall not. Not you."

"Damn right, not me. Not that it wasn't a great performance because it was. But I'm on to you." The poor guy so wasn't. She was going get LeRoy, Chris was sure of it. She was going to get the unsuspecting asshole just for the fun of it. She liked acting. Would never do it on stage but she did it in real life for the challenge of nobody finding out. And to get out of trouble. She was so damn good at it, LeRoy really didn't stand a chance. "A toast to you. The writer-slash-crazy trainee. You are truly making my job funnier. Crazier but funnier."

"Ah. Well. Thank you... I think?"

"You're welcome, Doll."

Shit, the guy was drunk. Unlike most, LeRoy got straighter the more he drank, and he had been standing pretty damn straight during his whole announcement shit.

"Le, how about easing up on the beer?" They had yet to get their food.

"Yes, boss," Le saluted army type and sat back down only to stand again. He cleared his throat. "One last thing. Seeing that I'm now drunk." Everyone looked up again. Patricia wasn't the only one who made the job funnier, so was LeRoy tonight. "Doll. Drink up."

"What?"

"You offered to get drunk with me. This is it."

"It is?" She had been sipping her wine slowly, more hungry than thirsty. "Can't I wait for the food?"

"Forget the food. We're getting drunk."

"Ok. No problem. It's not like either of us is going to be driving, right?"

"No fucking way, Babe. The boss's driving us tonight. Right, boss? You'll drive us both home later?" Le sat back down laughing his ass off at his secret joke.

Patricia shrugged and emptied her glass. "Ok then, LeRoy, sweetie. You should get me another. It seems I have some catching up to do."

Shit.

When the food came, she was tipsy, well on her way to getting drunk but had not caught up with LeRoy yet. When Chris took them home, she still had not caught up. Which didn't mean she wasn't drunk for she was. But she was a hell of a sexy drunk. She behaved herself in the bar, barely flirting with him. Flirting with everyone else, though, it seemed to him. She behaved herself in the car, chatting all the way over to LeRoy's place and on the way home, the babbling distracting her from the fact that he was taken her to his place. When she did notice, they had reached his underground garage.

She stopped talking abruptly, looked around and finally smiled at him. She leaned in and kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth, licking his lower lip ever so slightly. While she kissed, she managed to push open the door with one hand while her other hand rested on his thigh. Memories of the car trip with the fucking short skirt came to mind.

Her hand dropped to his crotch, and she squeezed his cock teasingly. "Come on, Big guy. I think we have some unfinished business." She laughed as she climbed out of the car.

They rode the elevator kissing, and by the time they reached his door, he had her top off, and her pants unzipped. Damn he liked being the only live-in tenant in the building. Damn he liked owning the fucking building. She had succeeded with persistent if somewhat uncoordinated hands to get him in the same state of undress. He unlocked the door and pushed her in. She was not making this easy.

"Tell me, Princess, just how fucking drunk are you?"

"Very," she whispered, rubbing herself against him. Shit. "But who cares?"

He liked her drunk. He preferred her sober, but tipsy or a little drunk was sexy as hell too. Her really drunk was probably fun too, but he wouldn't know since when she was that drunk, he didn't touch her, not too much anyway, as in not all the way. It didn't feel right. Funny, wasn't it? He had slept with plenty of women in his life, some of them drunk or high, and he had not given a fuck. When offered, if he liked, he took, no remorse, no regret. And there she was, offering. And he liked, liked fucking immensely, liked it more with her than he had with any other and yet he wouldn't take her. Not about to presume that since she had consented before, she was going to again.

"Not going to happen, Angel of mine."

"Why, don't you want me?"

"Fuck do I want you. Bad. But I want more." So much more than her drunk for one night. "And I forgot to ask when you were sober."

"Oups."

"Fucking right, Oops, Darling of mine. Come on, I'll tuck you in." He led her to his bed, kissing, groping (that she did), caressing. They fell on the bed, still kissing, still caressing, but with him fighting like hell to keep it under control. So damn very close of being out of control. He turned her over flat on her stomach, massaging her back, trying to slow things down. She fell asleep. He should have been insulted, but he was relieved. Barely, just barely but enough. He took a cold shower. Imagining her hands on him, he jerked himself. There was always tomorrow.

# Patricia's report

For once getting drunk had not been her idea. Not that it made a difference this morning. She felt tired, and weirdly her hair hurt. She hadn't heard Christopher leave earlier. Or had he left last night? No, it had to be this morning, she remembered the warmth of him next to her. Mercifully he had left breakfast. A bowl of oatmeal, a cup of plain yogurt, a small handful of dry cranberries on the side, a tall glass of orange juice, and next to it all, a bottle of aspirin. Funny guy. She didn't do drugs (and yes, aspirin were drugs); alcohol was much better. She never got a headache from drinking. It might have help if she had, though. She did like red wine a tad too much.

She took a cab back to her place and spent her morning rearranging her closets, a sure sign something was bothering her. The white women. She couldn't stop thinking about Legs' apartment. So clustered, yet no clear sense of the type of woman Legs had emerged from her thorough search. Did Legs like music? Probably not, she only had a few compact disks and an inexpensive player. Did Legs like reading? Some books waited on shelves, but half were brand new. Books to be read in the future that would never be. Barely half a dozen of pictures of friends and family, twice as much of commercial palm trees, beaches and snowy mountains. Legs' kitchen offered the basic generic food of rice, potatoes, frozen meals and cereals. The same could be said about Legs' clothes, magazines, furniture and co. Clustered but neat, and so ordinary. The apartment and the police file hinted the same: the woman had an ordinary job, led an ordinary life, the only extraordinary having been her legs.

Patricia looked at her place critically. What might a police report say about her place? Ordinary? Not quite. It was hers, as much as a hotel suite could be hers but hers nonetheless. Since she owned shares in the hotel and paid fees for the hotel's amenities, she was making a profit as a shareholder, go figure.

She liked both the friendliness of the hotel and the anonymity of it. And she loved her suite. She had chosen it meticulously. Fourth floor, not too close to the lobby, not too high, and four was her lucky number (not that it meant anything special in itself, she just liked the shape of the number itself). The rooms were large, giving the space a luxurious feeling. She didn't have a lot of furniture. Sober living room with its large comfortable couch long enough for her to stretch and fall asleep on, large enough for someone to join her, and someone had stretched on it with her regularly these last months. Feminine armchairs next to the couch and a low coffee table in front of it. Close to the wall cabinets she liked to refer to as her kitchen, sat a lovely petite dining table with two matching chairs. The antique set was a gift from Ingrid. She had little use of them before meeting Christopher; now it was their breakfast spot. The kitchen area was hidden in the wall closet. She couldn't remember cooking in it, didn't have food in the small refrigerator, just cereal boxes in the cupboard for emergencies.

She liked to eat, she especially liked Italian food, salads, steaks, duck, and pancakes with maple syrup. But a police report wouldn't say so, would it? There was no such food in her suite She didn't keep a lot of wine either, only five or six bottles of red wine in a small wine cellier hidden in the closet. Plus, since a couple of months ago, one of two bottles of some single malt scotch or other. Fully stocked yet small enough for the report not to say she was a drinker.

The walls were painted a soft shell color, not quite white, not quite corn. Warm. Three large paintings covered the width of two walls. The first, a woman sitting half naked seen from the back. Her shoulders were bare, her bathrobe loosened at the hips. Only the hint of the curve of a cheek showed as her head was turned, as if the model was looking at a point far away into the painting. She had been. It was a self-portrait she had done a year ago; she had been looking at a set of mirrors to get the classical pose just right. That portrait hung on the wall opposite her front door, as she liked to call the door leading to the hotel's hallway. Under it, she had her small writing desk. A dainty piece of furniture she barely ever wrote anything on as she did most of her writings in coffee shops. But she was a writer damn it, the desk was there to stay. She liked the feminine look of it and she needed a place to keep her keys, didn't she? Or Christopher's keys since her door had a keypad lock.

The other two paintings were of half naked men. The first of a hip-hop dancer, big, muscular, head shaved, Mexican-looking guy. The décor resembled a dancing studio, with lights coming in through the full-length windows behind the dancer. She had painted it in her studio. Damn she had loved that place. It had burned down a couple of months ago and she was still mourning the lost. The second portrait was of a black man sitting on a wooden floor with his legs outstretched, back against a brick wall. Her studio again. He was playing the violin. So the report would say she liked art. But it wouldn't say she was a painter for none of the paintings were signed in her name. She had made up a painter name just like she had made up her writer names. And with the names came outfits, disguises some might say, but she liked it that way, mostly she liked not having to explain doing both.

The two male paintings hung side by side on the back wall. The door wall had no painting. She hadn't decided what to put on it yet. Two years and still nothing. For now, a long, narrow high table ran the length of the wall. Its only usefulness? The bellboy put her mail on it. A high-quality flat screen television combined with an equally high-quality disc player with surround sound were the only other furniture in her living room. So she liked movies and music. None was visible now, but a police report would mention her heteroclite collection of CDs and DVDs in the walk-in.

She didn't have many books around either. She loved books and read a lot, but once she'd read it, she gave it away for others to read. Unless she intended to re-read the book again in the future, then she kept it. She didn't have any of her novels on display; there weren't any shelves in the living room to put them on anyway. Of course she had copies of all of them on a shelve in her walk-in closet, next to her clothes, jewellery and all. But in all the content of her walk-in closet (her closet was almost the size of her bathroom, and her bathroom was huge), it contained nothing she couldn't live without. It was stuff, not memories. No big albums showing her life so far, no correspondence letters, nothing personal at all. She kept all truly personal items in a bank safety box, and that box wasn't all that big, and it wasn't in her name, so no report there. Did the dead woman have such a place? Probably not, since Patricia had seen some personal letters in one of the storage boxes and kinky pictures of the woman in another. No hidden treasures then.

The passage to Patricia's bedroom (a door frame without a door, why would she need a door, she lived alone?) was by the couch's end. Her bedroom was in the same not corn-not white color hue. Her large bed was inviting, its base, wider than the mattress, had a leather-covered step on three sides and a cushioned leather headboard in the same color as the walls. Two small bed stood by the bed's sides, both with a lamp, one with an alarm, neither with drawers. The bed was on the right, the walk-in to the left. The walk-in was the only way to the bathroom, no other entry even from the living room.

She had the suite slightly modified to enlarge the walk-in so all her worldly possession could be hidden. She had to compromise on the bathroom access. It turned out to be perfect; she could shower and go right into the walk-in. Tiles identical to the bathroom's made half of the walk-in's floor while the other half was wood, a dark rich honey tint like the rest of her suite. She had paid for the renovations, with a signed agreement that the suite was to be hers for the next five years, renewable at the end of the term. Quite a long commitment, but she didn't anticipate needing to run away from the place. Places she didn't run away from, just people.

# Her deport

If one studied at the hotel's fourth-floor layout, they would notice the room next to her suite had the same L-shape as hers, but upside down. Her bathroom and part on her walk-in had been taken from the back part of what used to be the next-door suite and the front part given to the suite second-next, in effect making two suites with the previous three. The re-dimensioned suite next to hers was reserved for hotel executives for short-term visits (hence very rarely occupied). She believed she had gotten the best L-shape since the leg of her L was side-street thus large windows cut along her bedroom and bathroom walls.

The light coming from the windows fell on her bath while her long vanity with its twin sinks ran along the side wall. But for its dark blue ceiling, the entire bathroom was tiled with small squares of different blues and gold. Towels and such were in the same dark blue as the ceiling (the hotel charged an extra she paid for gladly). At night with only a small light on, the bathroom turned into an under-the-sea womb. With the curtains opened and the sun shining in, the room brightened and became incredibly luminous. Surely the report would say she liked taking baths and loved her bathroom, wouldn't it? Except for intricately shaped soaps, exotic perfumes, and beauty products, there were no decorations in the bathroom. The only interior door in her suite separated the bathroom and the walk-in. She did have company sometimes, and it would have been awkward not to have at least one door for privacy. She never used it when she was alone of course.

An enormous mirror with a wooden frame, in the same rich color as the floors, was propped against the walk-in wall bedroom side. On the opposite wall in the bedroom, three large paintings (her the painter) of men sitting on a backrest-less bench park illustrated the stages of life. In the first, the man had his head held high, back upright, like a gymnast. The second was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, head held up. The last had his shoulders and back bent, hands and chin resting on a cane, the lower tip of it visible under the bench between the man's legs. The surroundings sceneries were fuzzy, not showing details of the benches' locations. The hues varied from greens in the first painting to blues in the second to yellows in the third. The men in the paintings, the man actually, an old friend of hers, was now dead. The report might conclude she appreciated the male shape but wouldn't say she liked some particular males in a special way. It certainly wouldn't mention there was one in particular she liked one a lot. She did not have any paintings of Christopher.

The only out-of-place objects the report might note were the tower of large old-fashioned cylindrical hat boxes of various sizes stacked next to the mirror. A decoration in themselves, they added spots of bright colours in an otherwise very soft décor. Their contents were unusual, though. Pictures, snapshots, business cards, matchbooks, ribbons, wine labels, cheap plastic souvenirs, fake police badge, and not a bad fake at that but for the smeared badge number. The close-to-perfect fake she had, one with all the shield's digit numbers engraved crisply in the brass metal surface, she keep in her safety box at the bank. Better to be prepared, she might need a cop's disguise at some point.

The hat boxes were an oddity in the suite. It was as if all the clutter and messiness not seen anywhere else in the suite had ended up stuffed in the boxes. Five boxes of odd thingamajigs that had given her ideas were kept safely for future references. Whatever a book needed. Her researches were obviously not of the library type. Any of those things she could tell about: was it given or did she find it, where, when, by whom and why, why she had kept it, what she could do with it, what character it might belong to, a kid, a killer, a wolf. But the report would not say any of that. Bunch of junks in boxes. Little did reports know.

That was why she had wanted to see the woman's place. To see what the report didn't say. And now, although she had not seen anything at Legs, she wanted to see the other white women's places. The easiest would be Reedy, or now that she was dead, Breasts.

Piece of cake. "Hello, it's Patricia. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Whatever the time of day, hookers stayed busy, right? "I need a favour. I have to go, hum, visit, Breas−" She stopped herself just in time. Blondy wouldn't know she had stripped Breasts of her previous nickname. "I have to visit Reedy's place for research."

"You working for the police now, girl?"

"No! Hum. Well, actually. Kind of. Anyway... Think you can ask your boss for her address?"

"Don't the cops have it?" Yes, but they are not sharing. "Silly me, guess they don't have the keys. I'll meet you there, I know where she kept her spare."

They arrived early in the afternoon. The day was so sunny, they didn't need to turn on any lights.

"This is kinda boring, girl."

"We've only been here fifteen minutes."

"Whatever. Mind if I take off?"

"Not at all. Thanks for your help."

"Talk to you soon, girlfriend."

Without Blondy's incessant chatter, the place felt empty but Patricia found it easier to concentrate. She proceeded pretty much the same as she had at Legs' place. The apartment had less furniture and bibelots, but clothes and dirty plates in every room clustered it just as much. With only one bedroom, an open plan kitchen-living room and a small bathroom to search, she was done quickly enough. Nothing peculiar jumped out at her. She found a couple of pictures of men, two of which she thought she recognised from the club. She debated taking the pictures but finally decided against it in case they led somewhere. Instead, she took close-up pictures of the pictures with her phone. She would give them to Frankke (as soon as she thought of a way to do so without anyone else knowing).

By five, she was back at her place, freshly showered and hungry. Two places to go, namely Ass woman and Ear guy. It was so much easier to think of them as body parts rather than people. Maybe that was how they did it, Christopher and his team. Or maybe one got used to it after a while. How long did it take one to get used to it she wondered, hoping it would never happen to her. She'd rather vomit than go cold inside. Although Christopher wasn't doing either, so possibly there was another way. Maybe that was taught in police school? Surely talking about guns and shooting them off couldn't be all cops were taught.

Getting into places uninvited might be another class in the police school curriculum. Unfortunately, she didn't master that skill either (yet). Hence, for Ass and Ears she needed some help. She knew for a peek at the file where Ass lived. She had a great memory, even better than Christopher suspected. If he knew, she might never get within twenty feet of a file. Any file. But knowing the address was only the first step, next came getting access. On Ears, she didn't have anything. Yet. Could she get someone from the team there? Did she need to? She hadn't for Breasts. Not that anyone could call what she was doing police work, could they? Surely not even Christopher. She was merely researching characters resembling Ass and Ears, and could do so alone, she half-convinced herself. The old guy at Legs had been ready to let her in; maybe she could lure Ass's landlord the same. And if she were successful, she could approach Ears's place later once she had the address. See Big guy, not police work, more like a visit from a stranger. Cops had persons of interest in their investigations. Writers, she decided, were allowed to be persons interested.

# Her police work

Ass's place turned out to be a condo. No landlord, no one to talk to, no one to lure and no hidden keys. She checked, more out of thoroughness than real hope. Why people hid keys under mats or flower pots was a mystery. Didn't they read detective novels? Didn't everyone know how stupid those hiding places were?

The easiest way in would be to call Christopher and ask him to come over. Right. No chance of that ever happening, she thought. Besides, tonight was guys' night. Plus, she didn't want him to know. What could she say to explain being here? Hi, Big guy! I want to break into Ass's place, mind giving me a hand? She couldn't explain it to herself, yet alone to him.

She should have checked the area before coming over. Had she known it was a condominium complex, she would have made other arrangements. As in brought a friend, someone who knew how to open locked doors and who wasn't a cop (or didn't know about the case). Since that pretty much ruled out the entire team, she called Mario.

Calling Mario didn't mean phoning Mario. Calling Mario entailed calling an answering service and, once she'd entered her fake code name, asking for a passkey. Mario was such a paranoid. To make said call, she had to use a public phone. She had to walk back three blocks before she found a payphone in a shabby coffee shop.

"You can't use your cell, Cake, unless it's an emergency," Mario had explained a long time ago. Her fake name, given to her by Joshua and his guys, had stuck to this day. Cake. Because when they first met, Joshua had warned he was going to eat her all. Pattie Cake. Piece of cake. Joshua had sure liked cakes, and he had eaten her often. Had gnawed at her sanity too in the end.

The code was simple. Passkey meant she needed someone who could be used as a passkey ergo who could open any door. Since breaking into Ass's place wasn't an emergency, she indulged Mario's paranoia and did the no-traceable-number thing.

"Public phone are ok," Mario had added back then. "Not the best, but ok."

"Who has the resources and energy?" Not to mention the interest.

"They are plenty, kitten, better not to take any chances, however small." Mario's they included cops, politicians, rival hackers, terrorists, governments, and such.

"Even if they have time to waste on such things," she had argued, "locating the phone doesn't equate to locating the caller or the callee."

"They can locate the callee from the call."

"But you'll have moved by then."

"Just don't call me direct from your cell, Patricia." Hence at Mario's request, she had been communicating with him via answering services, her writer blogs, secret email addresses and other cloak-and-dagger subtleties. She had such fascinating friends.

Lucky today she was dressed in casual attire. Discreet, anonymous, forgettable. She didn't talk to anyone in the shop, didn't order anything, and went to wait at a nearby bus stop after the call. Old habits Joshua and his guys had taught her. It had served them well; they were never caught (never charged in any case). The set-up was simple enough in a megalopolis like this one, there was always a phone around somewhere nearby, a bus stop, a park bench.

The key showed up on foot forty minutes later. A small, bald, wiry man in his late fifties, with a face covered with freckles. Where did Mario found them? Whatever she needed, all she had to do was ask. Scary in an interesting way. She did not ask often, and this was such an insignificant demand, wasn't it? Key-guy didn't talk, he merely stood next to her and waited, probably checking her out. How had Mario described her? He couldn't have known how she was dressed, could he? Hum. No way to tell with Mario. Her friend never left his apartment but had access to any and all of the thousands of surveillance cameras installed all over the city, the country (maybe the world?). Not as scary as it sounded because Mario was a good guy. An asocial morbidly obese hermit good guy. Was he watching her right now? She almost waved.

The man decided she was the one because he gave her a key. An old useless key but it was the perfect business card. She started walking; he followed. She waited by the door while he worked. It took precisely three minutes and twenty-two seconds. Hard for her to appreciate if it was quick work or not, but the guy didn't break a sweat. Once the door was unlocked, he left. To make sure he was gone, she watched him walk away before entering. Silly considering the guy opened locks for a living, but she felt better anyway.

The apartment was spacious but empty. Wall-to-wall carpeting, a single chair, a table, clothes thrown in a pile in one corner, a small television on the kitchen counter, a mattress on the floor, nothing much else. The place had the pretension of a loft, all open space, making its emptiness sadder. No books, no pictures on the walls, no nothing. Was Ass moving in or out? Was she broke? Recently divorced? Patricia couldn't remember the team mentioning anything personal about Ass's life during the meeting. Maybe the guys (thus the file or vice-versa) had not done an in-depth research of her life?

A pint of milk sat alone in the fridge. Nothing in the cupboards, not even dishes, the woman must have drunk straight from the cart. The only lived-in room was the bathroom. Fancy makeup case bursting with expensive cosmetics, perfume bottles on the counter, creams and shampoos and gels next to the bath. Based on the arsenal in here, the woman must have had quite a beauty routine. The room had freshly been painted, its colour a bright sunny orange, giving it an energising and happy feel. Probably the woman had been moving in then.

Even with the place being almost empty, Patricia stayed a good ninety minutes, although most of her time was spent looking out the windows. The back of the loft looked out onto a small neighbourhood with rows of small single-family houses. End of rush hour on a Friday night, she watched as people came back to their homes. By cars or by buses, one by one, in pairs or small clusters they returned home. Single parents, little kids, teenagers with friends in a long, nearly continuous line, they returned. She day-dreamed as she spied on them. A normal, ordinary night, for a normal, ordinary family, in a normal, ordinary life. She envied them immensely. It must be damn peaceful in such a life. She couldn't have that, couldn't do that. She'd go crazy (had nearly made herself mad trying).

Thinking of Christopher in such a life broke the spell. She could almost see him in such a life. Not with her of course, they would kill each other within the first month. But still it would be nice. Just for a day. The weekend maybe? Surely they could do the family, normal, regular life for two days? She sighed. Probably not. His phone would ring, or she'd need to write something or they would argue. About Joshua. Her research. His over-protectiveness. She needed to do something about Christopher soon, but what? Another big sigh. She did like him a lot. That was as far as she was willing to admit to her feelings for him right now. Maybe forever. She locked the door back when she left, taking one last look around to make sure everything was as she had found it. She had barely touched anything, there was so little to touch.

Now, what? Eat first then see. She walked back to the bus stop, took a bus first to the metro station, the metro to a bus station, one last bus to her hotel. Into the shower. Ass's place had been tidy, but damn if she didn't feel like she needed a shower. Guilty conscience? Of course not, she smiled to herself in the mirror. Ok, maybe a little. What she wouldn't do for research, she loved the stuff! She should have been a thief! Or a seductress perhaps? A crook? No... A copycat painter! Stealing and copying all the world's greatest masterpieces, like she'd seen in a movie once. She could have written memoirs about her grand coups. She could write a book about that, couldn't she? Another note was jotted down into her already too-full notebook. Just in case.

Getting Ears's address was going to be complicated and it was late. She had eaten, had had a little glass of wine and was not looking forward to going out again. Her last visits had led to a big nothing. For the ambiance and the décor, she didn't need to go anywhere, she could find it in her head. Subconsciously she might have been looking for a little something to add to her hat boxes. No address and no keys. Did she need one? At his age, surely Ears had lived with his parents. She couldn't show up there at this already late hour on a Friday night, that would not be proper, rude even. And the forecast called for rain, wind and colder temperature. As much as she was trying to rationalise, her mind was already made up. No way was she going back out, the kid's place would have to wait for next week or the one after. If she had the address. Ah. When she had the address. She never left things half-done, even if said things had been a big waste of time.

By nine she was all tucked in, wrapped a big comfy comforter on her big cozy couch. A ginormous bowl of sweet-and-salty popcorn and a not-so-big glass of red wine within arm's reach, she watched some girly movie that had her crying within the first ten minutes. The actor was gorgeous. So was the actress but who cared? The actor's friend was handsome too. And funny. And the other actor's friend was muscular and badass. Popcorn, red wine, a movie full of sexy men, what could be better? By ten, she was asleep on the couch and missed the end of the film.

# Her police report

The phone woke her up around ten the next morning. She had spent the night (slept like a baby too), sprawled on the couch with popcorn in her hair. She was a little disoriented at first, and it took five or six rings for her to locate her phone.

"Hi, Patricia, it's me. I kind of need your help." Damn it, not again, was her first coherent thought at Blondy's announcement, but the woman quickly reassured her. "Relax, girl, no dead body. Remember I told the re-opening was a success? The place's packed every night but I need to go see my nouna." What's a nouna? "It's bad..."

Had the nouna suddenly become sick, fallen or been attacked remained unclear, Blondy sure was incoherent when nervous. And the woman sounded very nervous. "You know Saturdays are always the biggest nights. I need a replacement so can you fill in for me? Please. Pretty please."

Blondy begged, cried, cursed and pleaded so much, Patricia ended up agreeing just to get ride of her. "Ok fine, I'll fill in for you but just this once." Not a big sacrifice, she did like the Cabaret.

Not until she was done ordering breakfast from downstairs, taking a shower while waiting for the food, eating the food while chatting with Dimples, the weekend bellboy, rummaging a good ten minutes through her closest for something to wear for her walk (it had turned cold overnight, damn city) and another twenty for something to wear for her work night at the Cabaret, not until she was done with all of that did she consider Christopher's reaction. A few hookers and one single dead body, and the Big guy got angry. Cops really. The man was infuriating. To tell or not to tell became the question. It was not that she was afraid of Christopher, because she wasn't, but she anticipated the argument and truth be told, she wanted him to tag along, him and his gun. She so liked him in that ambiance but did her liking outweigh the possibility of a full-blown fight? Clearly.

Since this was no emergency, she called his home phone. She hoped he was still out running or perhaps sleeping. She smiled at that last thought. There was no chance the Big guy was enjoying a lie-in.

Unlike normal, polite people did, the man didn't say hello. "MacLaren." A little out of breath, just back from a run then probably.

"Hi, MacLaren! Patricia here!"

"Hi, Darling. Miss me already?"

The smile in his voice she liked. She chose to improve on it before confessing. "Only a little. Mostly in the shower, I couldn't rub my back."

"I'll have to do something about that. Can't let you walk around with a dirty back."

"Funny, that's what Dimples said."

"Cute. I'll have to do something about that too."

"Silly... Sooo. How was your night with the guys?"

"Good. How was yours?"

"Nice. Quiet. I fell asleep in front of a movie and woke up with popcorn in my hair."

"Sexy. I like popcorn. Any left that I can come over and nibble on?"

So not talking about popcorn now. "Maybe some, maybe later. I thought we might go out tonight."

"Anything for popcorn. Where do you want to go?"

"The Cabaret." She held her breath.

Silence. "I see." More of the silence. "Anything dead there?"

"Nope."

"Any hookers around?"

"Hum. I wouldn't know about that." Who did he think she was?

"Too bad."

"Hey!"

"That was for the bellboy thing."

"Silly. So it's ok?"

"I know I'll regret asking but why do you want to go again?"

"Blondy called."

"Not a good start, Princess."

"Christopher, let me finish. She has some big family drama happening so she can't work tonight."

"So we are not going out. I'm going out; you're working."

"Well, you'll get to see me work."

"I see." Another silence. Did she hear a sigh or was it a laugh? "I'm not sure I want to sit and watch you. Watch other men watch you."

"How is that different from when you took me there the first time?"

"The first time, you were with me. Other men could see that you were with me."

"That is incredibly macho."

"Of course it is but it doesn't change anything." He sighed, a big theatrical sigh that carried over the phone. The Big guy was using her antics on her. "Well, if it gets too annoying, there might still be hookers around."

"You're a jerk!" But she heard him laughing. "So you'll pick me up? Blondy said if I got there by eight, it'll be fine."

"I'll be there at five-thirty, we'll have supper first. Don't dress sexy."

"I don't have any non-sexy black dress."

"Go shopping."

"Silly."

"I'm serious, Princess."

"Tell you what, Big guy. If you're nice, you'll get to take it off after."

"Doesn't change anything. Don't dress sexy. Even if I'm not nice, I guarantee I'll get to take it off."

He was probably right. "Ok then. You had your run, time for my walk."

"Darling of mine, after such a call, I might need another run."

Surely he was joking. "Christopher..."

"Between all the running and the smoking, I'm not sure if you're improving my health or just slowly killing me."

"Christopher, you're not all that easy to keep up with either, you know."

"I know, Angel, I know. I'll see you later then. In your new, plain and boring black dress."

"Of course. And Christopher?"

"Yes, Angel?"

Could she ask him again? "Hum, dress nice."

"Ok. Should I wear a red tie or a blue one to match my gun?"

"Not funny!"

"Ok. I'll bring both."

"Ah, really. Just pick one."

"No. I'll bring both. A gun in my holster for the club and a gun in my pants for after. For the taking-the-dress-off part."

"So cheesy. You really are impossible."

"So are you, Darling of mine. You better go now before I change my mind."

"Ok. See you later. And Christopher?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Thank you."

"You can thank me later. After."

"Christopher!"

# Alternate series: Overtime

As he drove, she squirmed around, trying to grip the door handle with her handcuffed hands. Did she intend to jump? She couldn't, the back doors opened from the outside only. Still, he feared her hurting herself.

" _I should have put you in the trunk."_

He stopped four blocks down. Far enough to lose the lawyer. He drove in reverse into a back alley, parked the car, turned off the engine and killed the lights. The streetlights gave enough light for him to see. Her in the rear view mirror. Her sitting very still holding her breath.

He lowered his window to let in the cool night air. He smoked a cigarette, careful to blow the smoke out. He didn't offer her one for fear she might try to burn him or set fire to the car or smoke it. Not healthy.

" _I don't care if you're a hooker. That's not what I'm after." He paused._ What the fuck am I after? Besides her?

He looked her over. She had calmed down and sat with her back against the door, as far away from him as possible. So much prettier, livelier than her dead self.

He told her the story of the white women. Legs. Face. Ass.

She kept silent for a long time. "Why are you telling me this?"

" _I thought you were dead."_

" _You thought I was dead?" She repeated, frowning. "Why?" She batted her eyes and blanched. "I want to see her."_

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# MacLaren in overtime

The Cabaret was as always glamorously gloomy and packed.

"You haven't gone shopping, Pussycat." Not that he had expected her to. "Most unfortunate you look so fucking good." She looked classy and glam in a too sexy simple black dress, black stockings, black heels. "I thought you had brought your flats."

"I forgot them in the car." Purposely, Angel of mine? "Don't look so grim, Big guy. My hair's in a slick bun, and I'm wearing my studious glasses. I'm the plainest waitress here."

Yeah right. Like it made a difference in the way men looked at her. The pulled-back hair only showed off her face more; the glasses were not hiding it enough. Some men seeing a woman wearing glasses from afar might tell themselves, now there's bookish woman, and overlook her. Stupid men. She would have had to be old, morbidly obese and wearing some old rags for the glasses to work. The little black dress was no rags, and it fitted her too well. Worse, men were not looking from afar tonight, were they? She had a dozen tables in the front middle section and kept going back and forth between the bar and her tables. Not from afar at all. He sighted. It was going to be one fucking long evening. That she had agreed to this told him she would do a lot to help a friend. Like he hadn't already known.

He liked how she had babbled all through supper; she was funny and smart even when babbling. However, babbling was a sure sign of nervousness for her. So why the fuck had he agreed? No mystery there, she would have come either way, better if he was here. Fucking better to be here than waiting at home for you, Pussycat. He caught himself smiling.

ʻI don't want to wait for you,' she kept telling him when she was over at his place, and he was called to a crime scene. Our waitings aren't quite the same, Angel Doll. She would be waiting while he did his job, awaiting his return from something he was trained for and paid to do. He would be waiting while she did what? Whatever the hell she was doing! Fucking research.

He needed another scotch. Contrary to his usual habit, sitting with his back to the wall, tonight he had a table in the middle of the fucking place. No way was he sitting anywhere except right smack in her section. He was getting a neck ache, sitting half-turned, keeping an eye on the entrance and the bar and another on her and her tables. He hardly looked at the stage at all. Same black singer Patricia had liked so much the first time. That orchestra needed a piano. Piano he liked. Since apparently he couldn't stop her from coming here, maybe he should ask to play with the band next time. Could he play and watch her at the same time? Hookers and murderers, some clientele. Adding to that an overprotective cop and a distractedly dreamy writer posing as a waitress and who knew the shit about to happen.

While he was watching over her, she was keeping an eye on him too so he didn't have to motion to her. "Anything I can get you, Big guy?"

"How much for the whole of you?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. It's not that kind of place."

"That's not what I've heard. Maybe I'm in the wrong section."

"Not funny." She frowned with a smile. "How about another drink?"

"Ok, Dollface, just a drink. For now."

He kept his eyes on her back as she headed for the bar. She chatted the fake Italian barman as the man poured his scotch. Chris kept on admiring, the front now, as she brought his drink to him smiling all along. Playing her part as the shy glasses-wearing waitress, oblivious to the men looking at her. It wasn't an act, though. She was in fact somewhat shy and often oblivious to her surroundings. He found that side of her very attractive. Immensely so.

"Here you go, Sir."

He gave her about five times the cost of the drink. "Thank you, Angelface. Keep the change. Plenty more if you're interested."

She pretended to think about it. "How much more?"

"Now you're talking. How much do you want?"

"It depends. What would I have to do?"

"Be nice. Real nice."

"That's easy; I'm always nice. That's it?"

"You'll need to be extra nice. You know. Do as I ask."

"Ah. Do what specifically?" Bright eyes, big smile, cooing, leaning close to him. Nobody could tell he was talking dirty to the sexy waitress. Not that he cared, nothing embarrassing about getting turned on by his girlfriend. And she was his waitress, wasn't she? Having her waiting on him, he liked. Liked a lot. Would do the same for her afterward in his own way.

"Anything and everything, Pussycat."

"More precisely?"

"You have to be nice while I strip you naked, lay gently on your back, legs spread wide. And moan when I lick your−"

"Christopher!" Her cheeks turned red. He might not get embarrassed, but she did. Not that she was always shy with him. He did like it when she clawed him.

"What? It'll be worth it, you'll see."

"Big guy, you can't afford it." With that, she walked away to her other tables. Damn.

# Anything else, Big guy?

He drank his scotch and ordered another for the pleasure of having her close again. He was enjoying being her client, talking and making suggestive propositions. She had such an expressive face. For this new imaginary scene, she had her mouth on him, and she was to be naked of course, but he wasn't, or barely, just a small part of him.

"Well, not so small really, and always bigger when you're around, Pussycat."

"And what shall I do with it?"

"My dick?"

"No, my mouth."

"Your mouth?"

"Yes. Shall it be kissing, licking, biting? Shall it be closed or opened?" Her turn to tease him now. What the hell time was it? He couldn't remember if she was getting off earlier or if she had to stay until closing.

"Anything you want. All of that. As long as, at some point my dick's in it."

"Christopher!" Red cheeks and faked outrage again. He hoped she was getting turned on because he fucking was.

Within a half hour, with still half the night to go, he ordered another scotch.

"Christopher, no more proposition please."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm working."

"Exactly, Angel."

"Are you trying to get drunk?"

He never got drunk. A fourth scotch wouldn't get him drunk and neither would a fifth or a sixth. Two bottles might. Long way to go. "I don't get drunk, Pussycat."

"I know. What are you doing then? Are you bored?"

"Bored?"

"Yes, bored. I know you didn't want to come so you can go if you want to. I'll be fine. Really. I feel ok now, with the place busy like it is."

"No way I'm going. And I'm not bored, I'm turned on."

"What about?" She had looked worried but was now frowning. "You're not thinking of hiring someone, are you? While I work, that would be just... Just!" Getting herself worked up now. He liked that side of her too. Big time.

"Of course I want to hire someone. What do you think I've been doing for the last two hours? I'm trying to hire you."

"Hire me? I thought you were joking."

"I was not."

For a fraction of second, he thought she was going to throw his drink in his face. "You're a jerk!"

He caught her by the wrist before she turned away. Him laughing probably made her angrier. He liked enormously. "I was kidding about hiring you. Of course I was, paying you would be totally unethical, but I wasn't joking about what I said. Those were fucking propositions. And I'm really turned on. So... what about it?"

"Christopher James MacLaren! You're impossible."

He let her go. Back to her other damn tables. He finished his drink in twenty minutes; she ignored him for about forty. It seemed to him she was particularly friendly with the two tables on his right, one with two guys and a woman, the other with three guys and a woman. Way too many men at those tables.

When she decided he had been punished enough, she brought him another scotch and placed a Reserved sign on his table.

"I got you a chair in the lounge, and the cigar guy is waiting for you. I'll hold your table while you're there."

Not that he didn't like a good cigar once in a while, but he wouldn't be able to watch her from there. Although, from the look she gave him, might be she wanted a break from him.

"That's nice, Dollface. Thank you." She took a step back motioning him to go first, but he stayed put, pointing out with a mellow voice and a smile, "Shouldn't you bring my drink?" The female staff carried the patron's drink on a tray and led the way to the cigar room. Not only did it give class to the place, but it also gave the patron a good rear view of the waitress. He wanted his rear view.

"You're impossible."

He waited for her to comply with the procedure. She took his glass from the table and put it on her tray, crossed the tables to the cigar room door with him following. Very nice view. Was it just his imagination or were her hips swaying a little more than usual? Fucking sexy.

Waitresses did not go in. Cigar-smelling waitresses were not classy. She waited at the door for Cigar guy to come and take over, which the guy did within seconds. Perfect service. Perfect waitress. "See you later, Sleek."

"Only if you're lucky, Big guy."

"Oh, and Princess?" She looked up at him. "You sure you don't want to go next door first?" The room next door was what she demurely referred to as the waitresses' private resting area, but it was more the hookers' working place.

"Fuck you, MacLaren."

"With you, Pussycat, anytime, anywhere, any which way you want." Cigar guy now had his scotch, saving him from a drink in the face. At least she would be thinking of him while he was relaxing with his cigar. And she wouldn't leave, that much he was sure of. She might have if they had only been out on a date, but she was doing a friend a favour and was stuck for the night.

# Cigar, MacLaren?

Cigar guy gave him a huge leather chair in the right back corner with an excellent view of the room and the door. When the door opened, he caught glimpses of the Cabaret's main room. He couldn't have picked a better vantage point himself. The place offered a vast selection of cigars, but Cigar guy only presented him with seven choices from South and Central American. He picked a Cuban cigar, a classic, very expensive because very rare, contraband most probably. For long minutes he simply smoked, trying to bring down the throbbing in his pants. She was just outside the door, and his propositioning had gotten him at a ready. Half-cocked was the smallest he was going to be for now.

He distracted himself by watching the smokers. One cigar guy, sixteen seats, all occupied, male only. Some obviously regulars, seated comfortably, they were offered a specific cigar. Some new at smoking, to them Cigar guy explained the different types and offered two or three choices. Cigar guy was damn efficient, everyone seemingly pleased with their choice and puffing in content reverence.

He waited as everyone was settled, then motioned the guy over. Nice looking kind of fellow Patricia had said of him. ʻExquisitely old Italian' had been her exact fucking words. "It's my first time here, how does it work?"

"What do you mean, Sir?" Very polite, with a slight Italian accent. The guy had smiled at Patricia when she had brought him in, but Chris had yet to see the dude smile at the other waitresses-hookers bringing patrons to the room. Classy guy.

"How do you assign places? Do some have reserved seats?" Always the detective.

"Some of the regulars have preferences, and I try to accommodate as much as I can. Don't you like yours?"

"Yes, I do. It's an excellent spot, thank you."

"You're welcome. Miss Patricia said you would like this one. It was her favorite amongst the three she suggested for you." Damn woman.

"What were the other two?"

Cigar pointed at the chair next to him. The farthest in the back. A strategic position too, if somewhat cornered. Cigar then indicated the one armchair opposite, on the other side of the room. Good also for keeping watch of the cigar room, but not as good a view through the door. The three best places, with his being the best of all.

"And how do you know which cigar to offer?"

"I go with the personality of the patrons, of course."

Cigar had had a pre-selection for him ready in a humidor on a table next to his chair when he had seated him. "How do you do it? Watch the room from the door? Go with the sort of drinks?"

"Drinks. Clothing. What the patrons themselves tell me. All of that. Except for first timers, most patrons already know the type of cigars they like. I offer a choice accordingly."

The guy had not asked him anything. "My cigar's perfect. You offered me a superb selection."

"Our best choices. With expensive scotch, expensive cigar. That's what Miss Patricia said you'd like." A smile again when Cigar said her name. "She insisted I offered you our most exclusive selection." Yup, definitely smoking illegal stuff.

"Well, thank you. It's a fine choice indeed."

"You are most welcome, Sir. Miss Patricia will be pleased." Cigar guy seemed pleased about her being pleased. Chris himself was not so happy about that, though, and when the cigar and scotch thing was done, he went back to his table. No waitress to lead his way.

Patricia was busy chatting with another waitress and some stiff looking guy at the bar. As the guy offered them each a card, he saw her say no with her head. The other woman took one card. The old guy put Patricia's unwanted card back into the breast pocket of his suit. He shook their hands and left. The other waitress went back to her section, big smile on her face. Patricia said something to the barman, shaking her head, he shrugged and made yes movements with his head. She laughed and turned around, finally noticing him, and smiled before turning back to the barman. After a moment, the guy handed her a glass, and she walked up to his table.

"Here you go, Sir."

"Another one? Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Cute. How was the cigar?"

"Excellent. Prostitution. Murder. Contraband. What's next?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Yeah, right.

"What was that about? With the old guy," he asked pointing at the bar.

"Photographer. He was here before. Tried to give me his card again. Wanted to do some portrait. Said I could be famous." Looking over the rim of her glasses, she batted her eyes at him teasingly.

"Aren't you already?"

"Nah. I'm just a mousy writer. He said he could make me a goddess."

"A fucking goddess, no less, Wow. Tempted?"

"No way. I know all about photographers. First they want your eyes and next thing you know, they want you all naked."

"Really? How do you know?"

"Well, painters are the same." She smiled, head crooked to the side, and winked.

He had seen her work, lots of naked men there. "Speaking of which, Angelface. How much for posing?"

"You want to pose for me?" He had not offered yet, still waiting for her to ask. He wasn't an exhibitionist but her studying him he had a feeling he would enjoy immensely. Although right now, that was not what he wanted.

"No. I want you to pose for me."

"You can't draw."

"So? I'll just watch."

"No."

"Ok. I'll pose then."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

He was missing something. "Why not?"

"Because."

Because was not a good answer, not from her. Because was the same as a no but a no she didn't want him to know the reasons for. Intriguing. "We'll see."

The rest of the evening went without incident. She closed the place with the others, but they didn't stay for a last drink with the staff. She was obviously tired, but he hoped she had some energy left. She only needed a little; he intended to do most of the work, but he did want her at least half awake. He drove fast and kept her talking all the way back. Owning a building where all the tenants were small businesses meant the place was empty during the weekend. It also meant only his car slept in the underground parking. Having waited all evening, he didn't want to delay her further by taking the elevator. As soon as he parked, he reclined her seat back and leaned his head towards her. Her unique scent still lingered on her skin, but her clothes also smelled of alcohol and strange perfume and cigar smoke. He knew of a place, though, where the scent of her would have remained pure.

Over the stick shift, he kissed her thigh just below her dress. His mouth followed his hand as he lifted the dress to her belly.

"I intend to get drunk now, Angelface, the only way I can." Mouth and hand slid down, taking her panties off. The scent was there, all hers. Steadying himself on the seat with his right hand, he slid his left along the inside of her thighs. She spread her thighs apart for him. Damn he liked when she offered.

"I thought I was to be nice to you," she whispered throatily before closing her eyes.

"Thrust me, Pussycat, you are."

He slid his tongue into her folds and took her delicate bud between his lips. He licked and teased and suckled her. Listening to her panting, feeling her hips rocked, sensing her thighs tensing. When he aroused her so with his mouth, sometimes at the very last moment, she tried to press her knees together. As if she didn't want to give in to the pleasure, or to him, or maybe anticipating the sensations were going to be too intense. When she fisted his hair with both hands, arched her back in demand, her thighs quivering under his hand, he grabbed both her knees. Holding her legs firmly apart, he pushed his tongue inside her. Her moans were the perfect ending for the night.

# Patricia deals with family affairs

Christopher dropped her off early Sunday morning on his way to pick up some Eli cousin at the airport. Family was one thing she did not do and hence had decided years ago never to get involved with any lover's family and never to introduce hers. Not that there were any introductions to be done on her side. In the last twelve years, she had not broken that rule once. Well, maybe once with Joshua's brother but estranged half-siblings didn't count. Oh, and Joshua's father, but Joshua was an illegitimate son, so it didn't count either, did it? In any case, Joshua was dead now so enforcing the no family rule with him wasn't problematic. Thus, Christopher dropped her off at her hotel on his way to the airport.

A three-hour sleep was not her idea of a full night. Christopher could survive on a nap, but she couldn't. Lack of sleep was worse than a hangover; her stomach refused to eat breakfast, she nibbled at a toast. Christopher ended up eating all the scrambled eggs he had prepared. He was impossible. And nice. He had the tactfulness not to ask her to go with him. At least she hoped that was his excuse. Not that she would have gone had he asked. Mercifully, Christopher didn't have all that many relatives. Orphan since grade-school, aunts and uncles that lived overseas, a couple of cousins and that was it. Little chance of running into any of them by accident. Perfect.

"My cousin Eli called earlier," he had announced last night over supper. "Always fucking at the last minute."

Nervous as she was about her upcoming night at the Cabaret she had a third glass of wine and had not listened all that good to the details of Eli's visit. And frankly, after hearing the words ʻcousin', ʻvisit' and ʻtomorrow' in the same phrase, she had experienced a mental block. Now she couldn't remember what he had said about the visit. How long was the Eli cousin supposed to stay? More importantly, where was the Eli cousin supposed to stay? And who was Eli? She couldn't even remember if Eli was a woman or a man, nor could she remember her/his age. Was Christopher going to be pushing a wheelchair or babysit? No way was she going to ask, no way was she even going to call, better to wait it out and look at the bright side. If the cousin kept the Big guy busy, she might be able to get Ears's address out of someone.

Indeed, the cousin kept Christopher busy all week, but unfortunately not from work. As far as she knew, from Bridget and Reid and Hamilton and Vitto, he was in and out every day. Not that she asked, but for some reason, they all felt she might want to know. And he did call to say hi, and to invite her to dinner, and to a play. A play? The cousin was still around for sure. She declined.

"Hi, Angel. How about a short trip up North this Friday?"

"How far North?"

"North-ish. We'll be checking out real estate up there."

North-ish sounded damn close; she hoped it was for him and not the cousin. "I can't, I'm at a turning point in my story." On the upside, he was going to be out of the office all day. Time to start researching her murder-mystery-private investigator-detective cop story.

Research began on Ears address. She stopped by the precinct before lunch, going directly down to Frédéric's cave. Batman had his cave, why couldn't the kid? Not that Frédéric looked anything like Batman, but the caves were similar if not in the décor, at least in their utilization. Fight crimes. Do undercover research. Right in a police precinct, for the greater good or Christopher's. Some of those research were most probably illegal (she wouldn't ask the kid about it, though, no point, he wouldn't have known how to answer). Christopher was a peculiar man. He crossed the line of the law back and forth and yet she never considered him dirty. Closer to a vigilante, an extremely pissed off, detached and arrogant one. Not that he viewed himself as such, just a cop doing his job. A damn good cop doing whatever needed to be done to get the job done. It was also what she was doing to get her book done. She was doing whatever research were needed, and that included finishing what she had started.

Frédéric was a sweetie, screwed up and somewhat dysfunctional but sweet nonetheless. She related easily to dysfunctional. In her case, the nice packaging helped her get away with it most of the time, but Frédéric wasn't as lucky. He was male, oddness in females was easier because they were less threatening. He was skinny, she was slim, but there again slim in a woman was good. She had great features, he did not, too long a nose and too short a chin. The list went on. Soft wavy dark brown hair against limp and dirty somewhat sandy hair. Narrow waist, curvy hips, long legs and perky breasts as opposed to not strong nor muscular gawky frame. A talent for acting, pretending and lying in contrast with awkwardness and obsessive. Her pleasing exterior made her oddness less striking but she was just as dysfunctional and probably Frédéric recognised it in her. Just like Joshua, his knights, and more recently the county kid have too.

Frédéric didn't go so far as smile when she showed up, but he did stand and, after a beat, took her arm to push her in the chair. She smiled big enough for both of them. He truly was a sweetie.

"How have you been, Frédéric?" She asked. "Anything interesting you're working on?"

He explained some of his work, showed her more, some obviously unrelated to any of the cases she knew about. Christopher had confided he kept a loose leash on Frédéric, and this afternoon it showed. From what she saw, the kid had all types of personal projects going on in that computer system of his including, she suspected, a bit of hacking too. Joshua would have liked him.

Ears had no identification papers when he was found, but he was reported missing two days later by the family, and thus identified. Getting an address out of Frédéric was not much of a challenge. "Do you know Ears's address?"

Without asking questions, Frédéric opened the electronic file for her to see. "I can't print it out because MacLaren told me not to," he said as she jotted down the address on her notepad. "MacLaren said not to give you any printouts of anything in the police database."

Unfortunately (but very lucky for her), Frédéric took the man in charge's instructions literally. Christopher had not been precise enough in his orders, forgetting no printouts was not the same as no showing. She read through the file, focusing on Ears's family description. Single mother, four other kids, one older, dropout, and three younger, another dropout and the other two barely in school. Ears had been thirteen, how young was too damn young to drop out? She let out a sigh at the end of her reading. She was so not looking forward to meeting the family.

Frédéric watched her the entire time she read. Hard to tell what he was thinking. Even with him staring, she did not feel crowded or threatened. Sweet kid. Besides, if one counted the hair, she was bigger than him. She gave him his chair back, sat him in it like he had her (more delicately though) and gave him a soft peck on the forehead before leaving. Maybe if she went right away, she might be done before the kids (the two that still went) were back from school. She thought about inviting Reid along but from time to time like now, she did recognise a bad idea when she had one. Alone, she took a cab.

"Good afternoon. I'm a writer." Writer, reporter, people often confused the two. "I'm doing a story on taggers. Graffiti artists. Your late son, may I offer my condolences for your lost, was a known artist."

The woman didn't seem impressed but let her in nonetheless.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything? Are you busy with the kids?"

"Out somewhere doing no good," was the mother's only answer.

Patricia was relieved to find the woman alone, without the two dropouts clinging to her skirts. She offered her condolences again, more formally, but the woman didn't seem distressed.

"He wasn't mine," the mother said. "My ex left the kid with me, him and the kid we had together. The jerk didn't leave me nothing but the two boys when he split." The half-brother was the younger dropout. "My eldest's from my first husband; the last two are from husband two and boyfriend ninety-nine if you get my meaning." No, I do not. "The guy was a looker, but he only stuck around long enough to make the boy."

Which boy would that be, ma'an? Patricia listened in puzzlement, amazed at how rapidly the woman was confiding in her. And she had not asked the woman a single question yet.

"He stayed only a fucking week, can you believe it?" Amazing. Why the heck was the woman telling her all this? How was it some people had no problem telling their life story to complete strangers, Patricia wondered listening to Ears' mother. Then again, Patricia was the woman's complete opposite. She had only told Ingrid about Joshua after his death and even then, she had not told Ingrid everything. And Ingrid was the one she confided to the most. Well, maybe except for Christopher of late, damn infuriating. She sat dumbfounded in a grieving mother's kitchen while said mother apparently not grieving at all shared intimidate details with her.

# Her family ties

She sat for over sixty torturously long minutes, smoke blown to her face, as the chain-smoking woman rambled on about her exes and their sexual prowess or lack thereof, before the woman finally offered to show her the kid's room.

"He shared the room with his half-brother. Made a mess." Indeed. "Got to check the kids. When they come back from school, I got to feed them, or they chew on the furniture."

Patricia closed the door quietly after the woman's departure. Damn lucky she wasn't doing a real research on taggers because the woman hadn't said a word about her adopted son.

Poor kid. It saddened her to realise his life hadn't been that great. His room wasn't either. Door to the center, a bed on each side, identical comforter on them, identical metal linen-desk at their end. No school desks, no school books either. For that matter, no books at all. One bed was undone, showing off the not-so-freshly cleaned sheets, while the other, Ears's bed taken over by the living brother, disappeared under heaps of clothes, dirty or clean it was hard to tell. Ears's small three-drawers desk had also been requisitioned. Facing the door was a closet, all the clothes in it the same size. Had both boys been the same height and weight or had Ears's side been emptied already? She checked the drawers. Empty too. For now. No doubt the half-brother was going to invade them soon.

The wall above the bed on one side sported posters of trucks and bimbos. How old was the half-brother again? Younger than Ears's thirteen years, hence way too young for bimbos. What age was appropriate for bimbos anyway? She would have to ask Christopher. Hum. Christopher wasn't the bimbo type; she doubt he ever had half naked women pinned to his walls, the man was more of a go-getter. Impossible really! Better if she asked Hamilton, although she strongly suspected the guy might have started pretty damn young on the bimbo thing too.

The only signs of Ears ever living in that room were the graffiti drawings on the wall on his side of the room. He seemed to like blue, all shades of blues on the wall, and he had some on his fingers when he was found. She stared at the drawings for a long time, but they didn't tell her anything besides the boy being depressed and angry. And not particularly talented, nothing readily visible in any case.

Time to go. She took a deep breath, set her shoulders straight and headed back to the kitchen area. Her only way out was through the clouds, the woman still chain-smoking at the table. The woman didn't get up but blew smoke her way in acknowledgment. The two school kids had returned and so had the two dropouts. The foursome of boys turned her way briefly. Older kid rapidly returned to the television. Younger dropout was a big kid, and from what she remembered of Ears's file, bigger than his older dead brother. He stared at her breasts, somewhat explaining the bimbos. Hormones were raging. The mother didn't say anything, probably didn't even noticed. She was cursing at her younger kids arguing over some cookies. Nice bunch.

"Do you know of some notepads your son might have kept?" She asked without much hope. She always kept a small notebook in her purse, just in case she wanted to sketch something or make a note. Maybe the kid did the same, after all he too had been an artist. "Drawings, notebooks, anything?"

"I needed space; I threw everything away."

Damn it, the boy was barely dead, how could she have! Patricia left feeling depressed. She didn't ask if she could wait inside, and the mother didn't offer. Patricia decided to take a cab back; no way was she up for a walk after this depressing visit. She called from the side porch. Young dropout came outside with her to smoke and stare. She did have the most stupid ideas sometimes. When she got into the cab, she wasn't sure if she wanted to throw up or cry, both probably.

"The Wine Bar, on Main, please."

"Which on, Miss?" Like she hadn't heard that one before.

"The Wine Bar, that's the name of the place."

When feeling miserable, drink, was amongst the personal life rules she followed, but before, do something, anything as long as it changes something about whatever had her feeling that way. To make peace with the rule, she went into a bookstore two blocks from the wine place, picked half a dozen children books, brightly coloured, big writings, funny stories. She enlisted the saleswoman's help for the most popular and age appropriate books for boys. She also picked three (somewhat explicit the clerk said) novels for the woman. The clerk packaged them to be delivered to Ears's home (such at it was) the next day with a note thanking her for her time.

Now she was almost ready for her drink. When feeling miserable, drink, but before, do something, and, the rest of her motto stipulated, make damn sure not to drink alone. Who to call then? Christopher was her first choice. She wouldn't have to tell him why but he would go along and make sure she drank undisturbed, take her home after and, if she was so lucky, make love to her softly to help her sleep blissfully. But before the machine finished playing the message, she hung up. What if Cousin was still in town? Getting drunk in front of strangers was not in her motto, especially strange family members. Ingrid was out of town. She was not in the habit of getting drunk with just anybody but getting drunk alone in the wine place was not a good idea. Last time she had done that, nearly got engaged to the owner. They were friends now, in fact, had never been lovers nor in love. He had made it clear his partnership offer remained on the table, though. Hence, either she went someplace else, or she found herself a chaperone. Damn it, she liked that place, and she felt safe (as long as marriage proposal wasn't on the menu). She could always go back and get drunk in the hotel's bar, it wouldn't be the first time.

The more she debated, the more depressed she felt. She finally decided to call Reid and see. If the woman came, she'd stay, if not, she'd go home and cry herself to sleep. Reid came. It took the woman an hour to get to the bar, though, and by then, Patricia was already a little drunk. The place was warm, or maybe it was the wine, in any case she had taken her jacket off, and the plain white t-shirt showcased her delicate curves. Sitting at the counter close to the friendly owner, many walking in looked twice at the sleek legs and red pumps before staring at the white top and the curls framing the rosy cheeks. If she had not been dispirited, she might have noticed them looking her over. Then again, probably not.

She had skipped lunch and, if it wasn't for her friend feeding her a baguette and pâtés, she would have skipped dinner altogether. Reid didn't seem to be in a better mood, so they drank and laughed and cried, or at least she blinked the moisture away while Reid patted her hand. Not a single tear fell, she wasn't the sobbing drinking time, but her eyes grew moist for Ears, for a house without books, for her stupid ideas. If Christopher had been there, he would have seen the green in her eyes and known what it meant but since he wasn't, she drank some more to drown the green. By midnight, both women were very drunk, laughing and flirting with the gentlemen, Reid anyway, while she watched and smiled and said no. By one, the owner put them in a cab and sent them home. Since he only knew her address, and they were laughing too much to talk, Reid came over and slept in her bed while she slept on the couch. Surprisingly they both slept fine and woke up late.

# Alternate series: Family business

"She looked a lot like you."

Less pretty, though. Way less. How could he have mistaken the dead woman for her? He should have noticed the difference. The dead had a wider nose, recessed eyes, harder features. They were sisters, but not twins. The family had not claimed the body, but how could she not have known?

She remained silent the entire time it took to drive to the morgue. He had helped her out. As a goodwill gesture, he removed the handcuffs and sat her up front

The elevator ride was silent, and so was the walk down the long basement corridor. He watched as she crinkled her nose and put her hand over her face.

When the drawer was opened, she blinked a few times, drew a deep breath and stared. She kept staring. The smell, the light, it did not seem to bother her. She stared still.

" _Were you two close?" He hoped the hell not._

" _No."_

Good. "When did you see her last?"

" _She came to visit at the Cabaret a couple of weeks ago." She swallowed. Adding without looking at him, "Two or three days before you closed the place down."_

" _I see." Could it be just a coincidence? After all, the other woman had worked there months ago. Thin. "Social visit or was there a specific reason?"_

She finally pulled her eyes off her dead sister and rested them on him. Her eyes were glossy, but she was not crying. Not yet. "She came to borrow money, what else."

" _Did you give her some?"_

" _No."_

" _Then what?"_

She shrugged. "I think she tried to get a job." Sad smile. "She would have been good too." Not good. "You would have liked her. She was a real pro." Fuck.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Chris and his girly fun

"Thanks for having me, James," Eli said kissing his cheek. "It was good to see you again."

"You too, Eli." Chris gave his cousin a last hug. If Eli didn't hurry with the mushiness, she was going to miss her plane. The airline clerk was frowning impatiently at Eli. Fuck the woman was hard work. Not that she was demanding, but she was a snob. Working for a women's magazine, editor or some shit or other, she traveled a lot, she wore expensive clothes and expected the fanciest hotels, the finest restaurants. He found it all superficial and frankly, quite boring, but Eli seemed to need it. She was a lot like their aunt Maggie. Although every time he mentioned it, Eli got mad and insisted she was nothing like Margaret. Yeah, right. Fucking controlling, arrogant snobs. Maybe arrogance was a family thing. "You gonna be ok?"

"Ain't I always?" Eli had dragged him to snobby restaurants and a fucking play, trying to forget she was going through yet another break-up, surgeon guy this time.

"Yah. I have trouble keeping up you know. Ever thought of taking a break?"

"Look who's talking." Eli was right, he had been as bad at relationships as she was. Worse considering he had given up on relationships decades ago, preferring casual lovers. Until Patricia. Fuck had she taken him completely by surprise. As rational and cynical as he was, it had taken him about thirty seconds to know she was it. Who the fuck would have thought? Eli had gone another way, always being in one serious relationship after the other, committing to it from the start. Her after-break-up visits weren't something new, but the real estate thing was. "Anyway, thanks for helping me with the houses." Having no siblings, only cousins, and not that many, had Eli feeling a little depressed. Being older than him by only twenty months, both orphans since childhood, both left to uncles and aunts, they had been close in their early teens. Eli, the studious, perfect child taking his defence, him the rambunctious one, causing mayhem, never listening to anybody, confronting authority, fighting anyone and everyone. Things hadn't changed much, only the way they went about it. "Maybe next time, I'll get to meet your mystery woman."

"We'll see."

"If I move to the city, we'll double-date. That'd be a first for us."

He wasn't worried about Eli moving to the city. She would be busy most of the time working or dating. And he was confident he could get Patricia to meet her eventually, wasn't above lying when necessary. Plenty of opportunities for the two women to meet by accident. He wasn't above taking Patricia out to some fancy restaurant and inviting Eli for the ride. Although, dinner at his place might be better if he was going to have a drink thrown in his face. Plenty of time for that. The real estate thing had him thinking, though. Maybe he should buy a bigger place. A place where Patricia could have a writing room. With a pool, she liked swimming. Well, not so much swimming as floating. Fuck he enjoyed watching her float on her back. Naked. They could entertain. After they finally tell the team of course. They could even have family over... Ok, maybe a house was too early but no harm in looking, right? The damn woman couldn't live in that fucking hotel forever.

After Eli finally crossed the gate, Chris drove straight to Patricia's hotel. From the looks of her spread out on her couch, dead to the outside world, the damn woman wasn't up to waking up anytime soon, not even for breakfast. Her sleeping on the couch didn't mean much by itself. If she had watched a late movie, she might have fallen asleep in the middle. The brilliant detective noted the television was off, and she was fully clothed. She always slept half naked, panties and string-strap top, he liked that look, not as much as her naked but close. The detective kept on investigating. Her being fully dressed could only mean three things: exhaustion, sadness, drunk. Since she still had one red pump on, he ruled out fatigue. Even dead tired she would have taken her shoes off. Sad or drunk? In either case, she would have buried herself under the covers. He did a fast walk-through of her place and found Reid sleeping in her bed. Case closed.

Good thing he hadn't found the two women in bed, that might have been awkward, for them at least. He, for one, didn't give a fuck as long as they weren't naked. He didn't have any sexual inclination toward Reid and Patricia wasn't bisexual. Then again who the fuck knows what she's capable of for research or to help a friend. He dismissed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. Patricia might be reckless, but she had hard limits and intimacy with someone she wasn't attracted to was one. She'd never force herself or pretend, even for a friend. Might give a hand, though, if she thinks the friend needs it. But with her still fully dressed (but without her shoes), he wasn't worried about improprieties.

Reid's presence did explain why Patricia hadn't called him back last night; probably she hadn't even checked her messages. He might have to put a tracking device on her at some point. Maybe in that messenger bag she called a purse, bag where she kept her laptop, notebooks, money, makeup, an assortment of fake IDs and her toothbrush. At least she hadn't been drinking alone. No way in hell am I getting breakfast for Reid too, Pussycat.

He went downstairs and had a coffee with the day guy. Small talk. Got briefed on their return from the man who had heard it from the night valet.

"The ladies came home quite late, quite happy, quite drunk. They were laughing a lot and enlightened the lobby by their arrival."

He had never seen Reid laughing, less alone laughing a lot, Patricia must have done a good number on her. Fuck, maybe the women were starting to like each other. He wasn't sure he liked it, not up to doing the double-dating thing with Reid yet.

"The ladies had one last drink at the bar. Not to worry, Philip rode the elevator with them and showed Miss Patricia and her friend to her door."

Would she think the hotel staff overprotective too? He could hear her arguing. They're only doing their jobs, Big guy, while you're being impossible.

He stopped by the hotel's kitchen to get breakfast. For her, plain toasts, juice, yogurt, nothing heavy, and an egg-and-ham sandwich for him. After all, he hadn't gotten drunk. All was quiet when he got back. Patricia was now laying face down, buried in the couch, one hand on the floor, one foot hanging in the air, red pump still on. Her butt was half up in the air as if she had tried getting up but had gone back down. Damn he liked her butt. Not fully round and generous like Ass but some roundness to it, and softness. If Reid hadn't been sleeping in the bedroom, he knew how he would have woken Patricia up. Patricia was a sound sleeper; he might have gotten her half naked before she woke. But not this morning.

He gave her butt a small slap. She grumbled but didn't wake. He sat on the coffee table and lowered his face to hers, pushing her hair away. Sleek jeans, white v-neck t-shirt, a curve-hugging jacket and the hair. Her cop outfit. He liked. Not that there were a lot of her outfits that he didn't like, none really except her guy disguises, those were too damn inconspicuous.

He slid an arm under her belly and turned her to her side whispering in her ear, "Time to wake up, sleeping beauty."

"Hum." No movements, not even the blink of an eye.

"Patricia, wake up, it's late."

Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning wasn't late for most, but he was used to getting up by five, so for him it was mid-morning already. She looked lovely on her side like that. The swell of a breast spilling over the v-neck collar, offering pale silky skin. He took a bite, more of a kiss really. She moaned. Still no movements. He bit again.

# Guy fun

Searching with his lips, he bit closer to the nipple. She moaned again and fluttered her eyelids, looked up at him for a brief instant, smiled and closed her eyes. Not awake yet was she? He pushed her shirt and bra up to take her nipple between his lips. He nibbled it, softly at first then harder, suckling and teasing it with his tongue. She fisted his hair and pulled him closer with a sigh.

"Reid," she moaned.

"Hum," he commented, his mouth too full to talk.

"Stop."

"Why?" He asked against the erect bud.

"Reid."

"Threesome?"

"Christopher!" She yelled in a whisper.

"What?"

"No. You're impossible!"

"Indeed I am." He continued with what he was doing. Reid was sound asleep in the next room; he hadn't heard her moved yet, so there was no point in stopping yet.

"Stop!"

"Not yet."

"Christopher... please." Breathy voice. He knew she liked it. A lot. Her pleading he liked. "Stop, please."

Because she had asked, he stopped, not without a curse, though. "Fuck Darling, she's still sleeping."

"She's going to wake up."

"Be quiet then."

"Christopher."

"What?" An innocent look on his face. Like he really wasn't seeing the problem. Then a smile. A big grin. Her hair was a mess; her cheeks rosy, and she was panting. "Just a quick one." He bit her nipple softly.

"Christopher," He licked, and she moaned, "Please, mon chéri."

"Why?" She looked so fucking great. He slid a hand under her t-shirt in the back and tried to undo her bra.

That got her up, fully awake now. "Christopher. Really. I have company."

Indeed, you do. Me. All of me. And I'm ready. "So?"

"So? How would you feel if she walked in on us?"

He shrugged. "I don't fucking care." Actually he kind of hoped Reid would. He should never have agreed to sneak around and keep his relationship with Patricia secret, they weren't fucking kids anymore. The damn woman was driving him crazy.

"Oh come on! If Reid walked in on us naked, it would be embarrassing for everyone, including you."

"Nope. Besides, I have no intention of getting naked."

"Christopher!" The conversation had been done in a soft voice for him, whispers on her part but that last ʻChristopher' had volume to it. He laughed and tried to grab her, but she jumped off the couch and retreated to her bedroom. Probably to make sure Reid would wake up.

He heard soft voices, bathroom door opening and closing a few times then the two women came back to the living room together, Reid looking tired and embarrassed, Patricia looking tired and defiant. He smiled at them both. Wherever they had gone drinking, they must have been popular, the two of them together. One dark, athletic and sporty looking, pretty in a menacing kind of way, the other delicate, classy looking, stunning and sexy as hell in a shy yet cocky way. Looks were deceiving, weren't they? What one might not appreciate by just watching them was how tough and resilient they both were. But of the two, even without the guns and the training, Patricia was the most dangerous, reckless, fearless even, when it came to protecting her friends. Reid, he didn't know to have friends. Hell, he didn't know her to have any intimate relationships with men either (not that he had asked, not his business). Knowing Reid was good and loyal was good enough for him.

"Tough night, ladies?"

"'morning chief."

Although Reid seemed surprised to see him, she did not ask why he was there. Smart girl. Patricia just looked at him frowning, probably worried about what he was going to do next.

"So, what have you two been up to?" None of his business, his team could do whatever the hell they wanted on their free time. And that went double for Patricia.

"We went out to some wine bar. Had a few drink." Still only Reid talking.

Only a few drinks? Sure. "So I heard." Big smile. This conversation was fun. "You girls hungry?"

The toasts would be stale but too bad, that was what they were getting. They both sat on the couch and ate it all. Had the juice. The yogurt. They were feeling better than he had anticipated. He watched from an armchair as the women ate and sneaked glances at each other, smiling. Those two were genuinely liking each other; soon they were going to start giggling like school girls. Fuck the woman was adorable.

"So ladies, what's the plan for today?"

"We were going shopping, want to come?" Patricia speaking for once.

Jugging from the look of horror on Reid's face, his officer had not been told about the day's plan and hated shopping. Might be she was terrified her boss was going to tag along. He went with option number two and had fun with it. "Shopping? Where at?"

"The mall probably." An non-answer. A megalopolis as big as this one, there were dozens of malls within a twenty-minute drive.

"What are we going to shop for?" Noticed the ʻwe' the cunning detective put in his answer, he though to himself. Fun.

"Shoes, what else?" Patricia liked shoes. He liked her choices of shoes. She had left the red pumps on the floor and was now barefoot, some dark pink coloured her toenails, fuchsia she said it was called. Sexy feet she had.

"Shoes. Great. And lingerie perhaps?"

"Christopher James MacLaren!" Patricia looked outraged. At her side, Reid now showed signs of shear terror.

"Reid, you ok? You look kind of sick," he teased.

Patricia turned her attention to Reid. "He's right, sweetie." Reid, a sweetie? "You sure you're ok? Maybe we shouldn't have had that last drink at the bar..."

That last drink was not the problem, nor were all the others they had drank before. Reid was built stronger than Patricia, and he had seen her empty bottles before. She could keep going long after Patricia had stopped. No, drinking was not her problem, shopping was. Reid excused herself from shopping. That was just too bad, wasn't it?

"Considering Reid's not feeling well, you should drive her home, Christopher." Fuck.

So leaving Patricia at her hotel, his hopes torn between her going back to sleep and her waiting up for him, he drove Reid to her place. They didn't talk much.

"You feeling better?" He did ask. There was a small possibility Reid's sudden sickness had nothing to do with shopping or him. An infinitesimal probability, though, as she looked better in the car.

"So you girls are getting along?"

"Yes." Reid was about as talkative as he was. But she did add, "I like her. She's nice." Indeed she was. "And smart." That too, a little too much sometimes, but that was just him complaining, trying to keep up with her. Luckily he was a hell of a smart guy. "She's not at all what I had expected."

Whatever did that mean? He was curious now. "Like what?" What exactly had Reid imagined?

"You know. Slim, delicate, very pretty, you're expecting bitchy, pretentious, prissy. A snob. She's not."

"No, she's not."

"She's very smart," Reid repeated.

"I know."

"Crazy, though."

"Peculiar." Patricia might be a little off the charts sometimes, but she wasn't crazy. Or if she was, so was he.

"Delusional."

"Different." Ok. Different and delusional. Especially during those damn research phases.

"Definitely different but I like her." Wow. Reid admitting to liking something. Someone. Maybe she was gay.

"I like her too," he said just to say something. And mark his territory perhaps?

"I know." He smiled at her. Hard not to notice your boss showing up early on a Saturday morning in your new friend's place, wasn't it? Respecting Patricia's wish for secrecy, he didn't add anything more, didn't tell Reid anything. But he was smiling big time. "Does she like you, Chief?"

Bigger smile. "Yes, I think she does."

"Yes, I think she does too." Reid smiled back. "That's good. I think you'd be good together."

"I think so too." I fucking know so.

They didn't speak the rest of the way.

It had been the longest personal conversation he had ever had with Reid. They had done small talk over drinks at the precinct's hangout bar and at Shapiro's when the guy invited them all over for barbecues. And of course, he spoke with her on the job plenty, but he knew very little about her. Funny, her liking Patricia made him like Reid more. It was nice to know he had her approval. He smiled. Not that he really cared about anyone's approval but Patricia's, but it was sort of nice nonetheless.

Patricia was waiting for him in the lobby when he got back. Showered, changed, perfumed− the works. Hell, she really was going to take him shopping. They walked, talked, drank coffee and teased each other but didn't buy anything. A nice day. A nice weekend.

They went back to work on Monday smiling. His phone hadn't rung all weekend. She had not asked about any of the cases. He should have found that peculiar, but he didn't. No team, no cousins in the way, having her all to himself he liked too much to think about anything else.

# Patricia visiting the kid

The Monday meeting was a great way to kick off the week but after, with everyone out on their cases, Patricia found herself alone with her an uninspiring new old cold case. Work got boring fast so to pass the time, she wrote a short story, helped Bridget with typing and filing, chatted with the cafeteria ladies downstairs, did the same with a police officer in uniform. Working with Christopher's team did wonders for her reputation amongst the precinct's rookies.

"As soon as I get my own squad car, I'll take you for a ride."

"I look forward to it, Danny. I'll help you chase speed offenders, and we'll give out tickets," or convince you to forgive the gifted speeders. Why did cops always equate fast driving with unsafe driving?

She gossiped with Lou, the precinct's Captain. Hard to think of Christopher answering to anyone but he did have a boss. She almost asked Lou how that was going but decided against it. For all she knew, those two could be smoking cigars or playing poker together.

She spent some time with Frédéric. Since she refused to take his chair, he stole one from the cafeteria and set it next to his so she could watch him work. He was a lot like Mario, not in size, of course, Mario being enormously fat, Frédéric a twig, but both spent their days staring transfixed at those screens, typing away. No way to tell what they were thinking. Their concentration level impressed her, although she was the same when she wrote, painted or did research. Christopher had it too, pretty much all the time. Frédéric explained some of his work at the beginning but frankly, he wasn't very clear in his explications.

"It's ok, sweetie, you don't have to explain everything, it'll slow you down. I'll just admire from the side while you work your magic."

His magic turned out to be a lot of snooping. And games. She played a couple of hands of race car games; she was unbeatable at that one. She didn't own a car but if she did, she would impress the hell out of the team. She liked driving fast and was good at it. Speeding-ticket fast and hot-pursuit good. Frédéric did not once show her porn sites. Good for him.

# Fredrick

She was sitting next to him. He smelled her when he stopped typing. He smelled her perfume. He smelled the scent of her soap. He smelled the scent of her shampoo. He smelled the scent of her skin. He wished he could smell her closer. He wished he could smell the scent of her womanhood. He had read women had a different smell when they were sexually aroused. She was sitting next to him. He could not smell the scent of her womanhood. He liked looking at her. Her breasts were smaller than the women on the screens. The women on the Web had big breasts. The women had big dark nipples. The women had no smell. He did not like the women on the screen. He looked at them once a day. He looked at them only once a day. He had work to do. The boss wanted to know names and addresses and family history. The boss wanted a report every day on what he had done. He wrote everything in a small notebook. The boss had brought a small notebook for him. He had filled seventy-seven notebooks for the boss. He had written a page every day. He wrote small. The day fitted in the page. The pages were full. The pages were not full. He wrote in his notebook every day. He wrote every single thing he did. The boss wanted to know what he did. He did not need to put the details of what he had found. The details of what he had found were written in the files. He was good at filling his notebooks. He was good at filling the files. He was good at doing the searches for the boss. The boss was smelling her womanhood. He wished he could be like the boss. He had seen the boss look at her. The cock of the boss tented his pants. His cock swelled in his pants. He wished he was the boss. The boss was smelling her womanhood. The boss had said ʻDo not give her anything.' The boss had repeated ʻDo not give her anything' four times. ʻDo not give her anything.' ʻDo not give her anything.' ʻDo not give her a single piece of paper or anything.' ʻDo not give her one fucking single anything.' He followed the orders of the boss. He did not give her any piece of paper. She smelled of raspberry and lemon and peach and sugar and soap and roses and magnolias and grass and rain. She had smaller breasts. Her breasts moved when she talked. Her nipples were small. He wanted small nipples. A woman on the screen had taken the penis of a man in her mouth. His penis was not big. Her eyes were blue. His penis would fit in her mouth. His penis would fit in her smiling mouth. Her hair was wavy brown. He felt warm inside when she touched him. She was a woman. She made him warm inside. His mother had made him warm inside when he was small. His mother had died when he was thirteen. His mother had not had any money. The boss was his friend. The boss had said ʻI am your friend, Fred.' He helped the boss. The boss helped him. The boss had given him a place to live. The boss had found him a safe place to play. He did not understand the boss. He did not understand her. He did not understand anybody. He liked her. She was sitting next to him. She was smiling at him. She was watching him work. He felt warm inside. He liked the warm feeling. His penis was hurting. He did not want to move. He liked the warm feeling. He liked the hard swelling. He wanted to take her with him. He wanted her to serve him macaroni and cheese. His mother served him macaroni and cheese. His penis had not hardened with his mother. He wanted to smell her womanhood. He wanted macaroni and cheese. She came to visit him today. She had come to visit him on Monday. He had taken a chair from the cafeteria. He had written it in his notebook at the end of the day. He had shown it to the boss Tuesday morning. He had not written about her smell. He had written, ʻPatricia, visit, 10:31-11:03." She had stayed thirty-two minutes. She had sat in the cafeteria chair. He had not given her anything. She had come to visit Tuesday afternoon. She had stayed fifty-five minutes. They had played the car racing game. They had played three games. She had won three times. She had the highest scores. Frankke played the car racing game. He never won. Hamilton played the car racing game. He never won. Shapiro did not play the car racing game. DesForges did not come downstairs. Reid did not talk to him. The boss played the car racing game. The boss won two times. He had played fifty-three games with Frankke. He had played seventy-four games with Hamilton. He has played forty-one games with the boss. He had won one hundred and sixty-eight games. He had played one hundred and seventy-three hands of the car racing game. He wrote about playing the car racing game in his notebook. The boss asked about the car racing game. He asked about who won the car racing game. He asked about who won the three car racing games. Patricia had won the car racing game. She came to visit on Wednesday. She sat in the cafeteria chair. The chair had a cushion. The chair had a new cushion. The chair had a cushion from his home. He had brought a cushion from his home. She sat on the cushion from his home. He wrote, ʻPatricia sat on the cushion on the chair from the cafeteria.' He asked her for macaroni and cheese. She said she did not have any. She smiled at him. She said she was going to ask the boss for macaroni and cheese. He did not want the macaroni and cheese of the boss. The cushion smelled of raspberry and lemon and peach and sugar and soap and roses and magnolias and grass and rain. The cushion was warm after she left. He put the cushion on his lap after she left. He cried with the cushion on his lap after she left.

# Her friend Frédéric

"Do you think I should stop visiting Frédéric?" Patricia asked Bridget that week.

"Why, dear? Has he been improper?"

"No, not at all. It's just, I don't know, I'm not sure my visits are helping him." At peace with the world, no less, Mario said when prompted on how her visits made him feel. Apparently it didn't work on every screwed-up hacker that came along. What was that macaroni and cheese thing?

From what she gathered from Bridget (Christopher she had yet to interrogate), the kid had a difficult childhood. "Penniless family, sick mother, no father. The kid is a tad weird, so he gets teased a lot."

"Where exactly did Christopher found him?"

"Nobody knows. One day, a couple of years ago, Chief MacLaren showed up with him. Let me see, I think the Chief had only been in charge for three years then."

"And you never peeked in the kid's file to−"

"Dear God no! Privacy is something we value in the team." Ah. "Chief MacLaren keeps all the team members' personal files in his office." Locked up no doubt. "Why don't you ask him about Fredrick directly, I'm sure he'll give you all the reassurance you need regarding the boy." Like the Big guy was going to tell her anything. If she wanted to know more, she had to go through Archives or have Mario hacked into the system. Since she had promised Christopher she wouldn't ask Mario about the team's files without telling him, her curiosity wasn't about to be satisfied. But there was a story there, she could feel it. What to do? Let see. She had never promised not to break into his office, had she? Hum. Way over the line, even for her. Besides, did she really want to get involved in yet another hacker story? Non. No way. No way in hell. Jamais plus. Never again. So either she let go of the macaroni and cheese mystery, or she asked Christopher.

Would telling him of her visits to Frédéric get the kid into trouble? How could it, they hadn't talked about any of the cases. In fact they hadn't talked much, the kid was something of the big silent type. She smiled, or more like the thin, silent type. He needed to have friends, and a girlfriend, as in a real flesh and blood girlfriend. She had caught a glimpse of a lush naked female on the screen this afternoon. Unfortunately, she didn't know of any geeky dysfunctional woman his age she could introduce him to. Maybe she could hire one? Then again maybe not, that was what had gotten her into trouble with Mario the last time. Hum. Maybe they could share?

Damn, she needed to find something better to do with her time than fixing up her strange hacker friends with hookers posing as girlfriends. Since, after all, Frédéric was Christopher's responsibility, maybe she should have the Big guy set it up. Or not.

She was bored damn it! Her next job was going to be in a real office with people staying behind their desks all day. People arguing, fighting, bitching each other, then going for lunch at the cafeteria. That police office thing was either boring or sick, nothing in between. When the bookstore called Wednesday afternoon, she was in the middle of a daydream about the library, how sad was that?

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"I apologise for calling in the middle of the day," the clerk said. "We only have your cell phone number marked down next in your delivery request. I hope it won't be inconvenient for your work?" What work?

"I can assure you it is of no inconvenience at all."

"This won't take long. I'm calling to let you know your recipient dropped off a package for you." Damn! It could only be Ears's chain-smoking mother returning the books (the woman had not asked for any identification or her home address during her visit, and Patricia had not volunteered such information). "When can you come and pick it up?" The clerk asked.

"I can absolutely come right away."

Depressing as it was to get the books back, it gave Patricia something to do. She walked over; walking one of her remedies of choice for soothing both anger and sadness. It took her a damn hour and a half, long enough for her to consider stopping at the wine bar for a drink but she chose not to, afraid she might get drunk altogether. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other until she reached the bookstore.

The package was not at all what she had expected. The mother, rather the half-brother, had kept Ears's notebooks after all. And they, the mother and son, were given them to her as a thank-you gift for the books. Their note was full of spelling mistakes, and the syntax was all over the place but damn it, they could almost write. She had tears in her eyes when she came out of the store, the two precious notebooks in her messenger bag. Good thing she wasn't working tomorrow because she was going to spend the evening and most of the night reading those notebooks.

# MacLaren in the countryside

The damn woman seemed distracted. He had that feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a knot. She was up to something. His suspicions first fell on Fred. She had spent quite some time with the kid lately. Had the kid made a move? The kid was screwed up, but he was harmless, had been so far at least. Then again, had the kid ever been physically close to any woman besides his late mother? Fred sure didn't go near Reid like he did Patricia. Chris had caught Fred smelling her, fucking breathing her! She had not seemed to mind at the time but could be she had not noticed then. Had she caught on later and was now bothered by it? Patricia was used to strange, it didn't threaten her like it did most people. Chris suspected she even was attracted to it. Her liking Fred hadn't been a big surprise, the kid liking her hadn't been either, kindred spirit of sort. But the kid coming on to her was another story. Was it what had unsettled her?

On the other hand, Fred coming from the same background, the wonderful world of computer geeks and hackers, it might be about Joshua. In his time, Joshua had been somewhat of a legend in his field. Thankfuckingfully Joshua was no more. The guy was dead and buried, so Chris didn't have to bother with him. At least not in this world. Big sigh, fists clenched as always when he thought of the asshole. Patricia was over the jerk, had been before his dead or so she said. With what little she had told about her relationship with the jerk (more accurately, the little he had managed to drag out of her), their relationship had been toxic. Not soul mates but twin souls, one bright and lively, one sick and dark.

"More utter fascination than love on my part, Big guy."

He believed her. Still the sonofabitch, his ways and his little geeky friends tended to creep up too often in her life. Chris, for one, did not like what they had done to her, did not like it one fucking bit. As he did not like not knowing what she was up to. Yes, he wanted her to quit but at least when she was in the office, he could keep an eye on her and enjoy the view. Damn distracting. That woman was screwing with his peace of mind; he had not done that much soul researching for decades, if ever. Damn he loved the relationship, the friendship, the lovemaking, the arguing, the teasing, but Fists and Knot not so much. Maybe it was just a reaction after spending his Friday night alone.

"Sorry, Christopher," the fucking message on his answering machine said, "I'm exhausted. I'm retiring early tonight. Talk to you soon." Stubborn woman. I would have let you sleep in tomorrow, Princess.

Interim called with a potential info on the doctor. The county cops had criss-crossed the neighbouring towns talking to the residents asking about the girl, finally doing the fucking leg work that should have been done years ago. Following the info from the sicko kid, they asked about a possible doctor. Sicko kid had not been believed then but he sure was now, they couldn't afford not to with Chris breathing down their necks.

"A woman in the next town thought she might have met with the doctor. He might have stopped at her farm for some direction. He might have been driving a brownish-greyish midsize sedan, not a very memorable car but in truck-county, it was. The man was polite, that she remembers."

Lots of might in Interim's report but worth checking out nonetheless. He flew north with Frankke to do the public relation shit with the police force.

Chris had worked long hours over the week, Brass shit again, all a fucking waste of his time as usual. "North county's better than the Brass assholes," he confided to Frankke during the flight.

"I hear you, Mac."

The interim chief sent a car to pick them up at the airport. Later, when it became evident they weren't going to finish on time for the last flight out, the guy booked hotel rooms for them. The snow had gone.

"It never stays long," their local police escort informed them. "You guys were lucky last time." Right. Some fucking luck.

"And how's Patricia doing? She couldn't make it with you guys this time?" Interim asked Frankke. As did the guy at the diner and his wife. Damn woman. He caught Frankke smiling at him when the second person asked. He had the smile for the third too, broader. Shit. Even his team was turning into her fan club. But since he suspected they were treated well because of her, he didn't complain out loud.

Interim took them to meet the woman that might have talked to the doctor who might know something about the dead white country girl. She received them in her kitchen, serving them strong coffee and freshly baked chocolate coffee cake. The woman was wearing a dress and had put on makeup. Chris didn't know much about county farm stay-at-home wives, but he could tell this was not her usual attire. She kept pulling on the hem of her dress to make it look longer even if it was already knee length, and touched her ears when she spoke, checking her earrings. She drank her coffee with her lips barely touching the rim of the cup, in a clear smudge-lipstick preventive pout.

Glowing skin, not a freckle on it, she was pretty in a wholesome way. How she managed the porcelain skin living on a farm was out of Chris's comprehension, but then again he didn't much follow women's technical advances on skin and beauty products. Maybe she just had good genes.

"I was working on my flower beds when the car stopped." The woman went on to explain, "I have flowers all along the farm's front fences. White lilies and blue violets because as you saw, our farmhouse is painted white and blue. The man wanted sightseeing suggestions. Covered bridges and such that's all tourists want to see in the country. There is none around these parts, of course, but we have plenty of typical farm lands with green meadows, small springs and old barns tourists like. I told the man where the prettiest places were."

"Did you tell him about the barn in the woods?"

"I don't remember speaking specifically about the barn where the girl was found. I never went there myself, but I know it's supposed to be really pretty so I might have, or not. It's been a long time."

# Male incognito

Chris let Frankke do most of the talking, and the woman sure was talking. She appeared both scared and fascinated by Frankke, not many bulky black cops around. And Frankke had a way to stare at people that made them confess to the weirdest things, innocent people at that. To tugs and crooks, Frankke's staring was perceived as a provocation and as a result, many had tried to take him down. Professional hazard some might say.

The countrywoman remembered what the guy looked like. "He was lean, but not thin. He seemed a bit older than me." Chris guessed the woman's age to be about forty so he figured the man to be anywhere between forty and sixty. "He had brownish hair with some grey hair." Fuck if the guy's physique wasn't as nondescript as his car had been.

"Average height for a man," she said of the missing doctor.

Chris had Interim and Frankke line up beside him in the farm's kitchen. Frankke was about Patricia's height, but his width made him look short. Frankke was bulky, not as big as DesForges, who was as thick as he was wide, but heavier. Interim was tallish and athletic, with a cat-like frame. Using them as reference, the farm wife made the doctor as shorter than him, taller than Frankke and thinner than Interim. Great, they were now looking for a nondescript medium-tall lean man.

They spent well over three hours with her. At some point, she let slipped a first name for Nondescript. Gunther. No way she could have made that up. Gunther sounded German although she said she didn't remember an accent.

"How'd you know Gunther was a doctor?" Frankke asked.

"Well, he told me. He said he was a city doctor, looking for places to bring his son on picnics. His son would love the country air, that's what he said."

There was only one big city within driving distance, and it wasn't close. He and Frankke had flown from the capital, a short flight, but the drive took half a day. Had the good doctor driven up or had he flown like them? If so, the plain car was a rental. The local airport had been checked at the time, but it was worth checking again. A brown-grey sedan, potentially a rental for the nondescript doctor named Gunther. Some lead.

Chris mentally reviewed the info the woman had given them. A couple of things were bothering him. First one was easy enough. "Why haven't you come forward before?" He wanted to know.

"Nobody asked. I didn't see a connection at the time, and I'm very busy, I haven't thought about it since then. Now that someone has asked, I'm telling." He felt Interim stiffened at her answer. Incompetents they had been. Maybe not anymore but it was fucking late with a dead toll up by four. "Like I told the local chief, I'm not sure about the date, but weather permitting, I always work on my flowers during the same weekend. I've planted my flowers on the same weekend for the last three years."

Secondly, Chris was somewhat suspicious of her remembering the doctor at all. As she had pointed out earlier, lots of city folks came around asking about the county. Why had she remembered Gunther and his generic car and forgettable appearance? When asked, she couldn't give him a satisfactory answer.

"Well, I was doing my flowers, that's how I remember. And he was a doctor, not many doctors in these parts," she kept saying.

Seemingly letting it go, Chris went at her another way. Putting on the charm, he smiled, talked softly, leaned closer, pretended to be fascinated by her life, complemented her. The farm, the kids, the husband. Even when he thought he understood, he kept at it to be sure. Take a countryside housewife who spends her days tending to the family farm, taking care of her husband who's gone most of the day somewhere on the big family land. He's near but not close. The kids are at school. She washes and cooks and gardens. She socialises with the other wives at church. She's content with her life, content enough in any case. Then one day, one sunny day, a man stops by asking for direction. He's older, classier, polished and charming. In plain English, she's infatuated. The man tells her she has beautiful skin. She has and she knows it, her husband tells her all the time. But this is a city man, a doctor, a plastic surgeon who sees beautiful women every day, makes beautiful women every day. This man told her she was beautiful with her perfect, flawless skin, he even asked if she perhaps would let him take a picture of her. For his son, to show the son the wholesome beauty of the county.

"His son was depressed, he said, you know how teenagers are. He's a widow, so the son's an orphan."

He, Frankke and Interim attentively listened as she explained in great details about the man and his poor son. They heard what she did not say, that maybe she had dreamed about the man coming back to see her perfect, flawless face with his motherless son. The big plastic surgeon from the big city coming back to see her. They heard what she could not say. Because of the farm, the kids, the husband. They did not push her to say it for Chris was now satisfied her story was true, maybe distorted and embellished by her hopes but basically true enough.

"Her description of the doctor and his name, that's what we'll work on now."

If the doctor was indeed the killer, charming the county wife might have been his first mistake. These days, being charming was noticeable, he thought to himself, even more so than being a jerk, especially for a man. That was why Chris used the charm so sparingly. Not many were worth the efforts anyway.

# Alternate series: Game

"Were you two close?" He repeated softly, wanting to be positively certain.

" _No," she smirked. "We... we didn't have anything in common." She started to laugh, "Well, except for the fact we looked the same obviously. She used to say we could have made a fortune with that in her field."_

" _Glad you didn't."_

" _She would have done you," she whispered matter-of-factly._

He didn't like the glossy eyes. "I don't do hookers, Princess." She stared at him insulted. Her outrage was much easier on him than her sadness. "I would have done you, though."

She stormed out of the room. He let her, anything not to have her cry. Caught up with her down the hall. "Wait. Let me buy you coffee."

" _Coffee? My sister is dead, and you're offering me coffee?"_

_Ok, coffee might not be strong enough. "You said you two weren't close. Besides, it's better, it's her than you." She frowned at him. "I'm not coming on to you."_ I fucking am, but I hope to hell you don't see it. _"I don't think you should be alone right now." You should be with me._

He took her gently by the elbow stirring her slowly toward the elevator. Up and out of the building. Walked her to a place a block down. The bar would be quiet at this hour. She followed him without a word. He found a table in the back and sat her in the corner against the wall. He ordered for both of them, scotch and red wine. She looked like the red wine type. Classy.

" _Tell me about her."_

She sipped her wine, downing half of it before answering. She told about the sister. "She considered herself a businesswoman. Freelance. Escort. Party girl. Whatever." Everything the body had told was retold.

" _Why the fairy?" He asked somewhere in her third drink._

" _I draw," she explained blushing. Lovely. "I used to draw fairies when I was a teenager. She stole one of my drawing books and had it done."_

" _I'm sorry."_

She pouted before smiling sadly. "It's ok. I don't do fairies anymore."

" _What do you do now?"_

" _Mostly naked men." Fuck._

" _Including naked cop?"_

She crooked her head to the side. "No. I don't do cops, period."

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Her race game

The notebook contained more than the expected sketches. She intended to return the books to his family as soon as she had gone through them. Not that she believed they were going to read them, had they wanted to, they would have done so already. And had they done so, they would never have given them to her in the first place. Scribbled in the notebooks she found phone numbers, appointments, school exam dates, not so endearing messages to his family members − So few loving moments in Ears's life − the half-brother's masturbation schedule, the mother's sexual encounters.

The notebooks went back two years, with Ears eleven at the beginning, not yet a teenager but growing fast. Through the pages, she sensed the hormones at work. At age eleven, his sketches were of cartoons characters and lettering and superheroes and aliens. The aliens morphed throughout the pages, sprouting enlarged breasts, changing into tighter outfits, anatomically incorrect even for species from outer space yet it was obvious he had put a lot of work into them. Cars slowly replaced cartoons characters, and if the superheroes remained, they now carried caricatural weapons. A psychologist could probably explain the transformation Ears had undergone from the first pages of the first notebook to the last pages of his second notebook, days before his death at the tender age of almost thirteen. Typical boy development probably.

Feeling like a voyeur, Patricia was fascinated by this glimpse inside a teenage boy's mind. She did feel bad spying on him at first, but if not for her, who else? His memory lived on through his notebooks and although he surely hadn't done the notebooks for anyone to read, didn't he deserve to be put to rest? Like her through her books. She wrote for herself alone, because she wanted to, needed to, but since Ears wasn't here anymore to do his own reading, she would read his notebooks for him in memory of him. If she wanted (she had a friend who owned an art gallery), she could turn the notebooks into little frames and stories and build an exhibit around the kid's sketches, like a memorial. But really, it would only taint his legacy. Ears had been honest in his artistic process but not all that good at drawing, better she returned the books untouched.

Five pages before the end of the second notebook, she found a number, one of many that were sprinkled throughout the pages, but this one had been circled over and over with a red marker. And a date was written next to it in blue ink as if the date had been jotted down later. Under the number, in small lettering, were the words telent agent. What was a telent agent? If Ears was anything like his family, it was a spelling mistake. Talent agent.

"Did the kid have a cell phone?" She asked the mother over the phone. Nope, he didn't. "Had he contacted a talent agent for his sketches?" The mother didn't know anything about no agent. How surprising. "Or maybe a talent agent called him?" That seemed implausible, he truly wasn't gifted. And no serious talent agent would meet with a thirteen-year-old kid without the mother present.

But still the note bothered her. The date was that of his death. Coincidence? Christopher would say no way. She should give him the books. Thinking of Ears's notebooks being looked at by some cops made her sad for the kid. So what if they were good cops, they were rough around the edges. Besides, it probably was nothing, only her imagination getting ahead of her again. Christopher was nowhere to be seen anyway.

She tried the number (out of habit, from a phone booth).

"Please leave a message at the tone," came the answering service without giving any name or identification.

She hung up and did a quick search in the Internet phone registry. The number wasn't listed. Did she want to know more? Hum. She was fascinated by the notebooks so yes, she most certainly did want to know. Hence, she needed professional help.

Christopher having yet to return from wherever, she stopped to see Frédéric at the station. Not that the Big guy being around would have made any difference, she told herself, again fooling herself (but such was life, hers anyway). She even convinced herself she was saving the Big guy time by having his kiddie hacker look for the number. If Frédéric turned up anything, Christopher would get the information readily. She suspected he had Frédéric report to him on a regular basis. If the phone number turned out to be a wild goose chase, then hopefully kiddie here would leave it out of his report. Since there was a possibility Christopher returned surreptitiously, to make absolutely certain she too would get the information readily, she also asked Mario, in their usual if complicated fashion. Unbeknownst to them both so as not to bruise their egos, she and she alone would know the winner of this friendly race between her two geeky friends. Experience against youth. Experience against youth and the police ways. Who she was rooting for was clear even if she liked them both. In any case, she expected to know soon enough.

Less than four hours later, Mario came through. As she had anticipated, he was first. Her obese friend was good, better now than ever, probably even better than Joshua had he still been alive. Brains without the attitude, the recklessness and the sickness thus better focus. No distractions except for herself and professional women a couple of times a year. An aesthetic sort of life. Like every time she thought of Mario, she sent a prayer to the universe hoping he was happy. He probably was today; she had needed him.

The answering service had a string of numbers for a name and a postal box as a head office. Mario put a name on the registration's string of numbers, Medphone, a service agency, a broker of sort specialised in providing telephonic services for medical agencies. Medphone's Website explained their mission: To provide the most advanced technologies to medical agencies. Hum. Simply put, Medphone rented phones. It had a ʻpool of thousand of fancy conveniently pre-programmed intuitive multi-functions phones,' as per the Website again. A pool of one thousand, non s, of disposable phones they lent for a small fee to their clients. Client then assigned them to their personnel, the multi-functions being local calls only, pictures (medium resolution), and answering services. No text messages, no Internet access, no roaming, no games, no frills. Too much paperwork, the phones were not guaranteed. When malfunctioning or lost, they were merely debited, scratched off the books and another from the one thousand was handed out. Agencies were billed a monthly fee per phone, regardless of minutes of utilisation. Surely bureaucrats were amongst Medphone's board of directors. Even if the useless company was an unnecessary and expensive intermédiaire between the disposable phone carrier and the agencies, it had a dozen of public-service agencies as clientele.

After the number, Mario tracked the carrier. One-time deal three years ago. The carrier provided the minutes but phones and the pool of numbers were under the sole control of Medphone. Then Mario got hold of Medphone's list of clients.

"Did I ever tell you how good I think you are?"

"Job wasn't hard, Pattie Cake, their electronic security is shit. Firewall's three years out of date."

In short, the company's accounting books stated each agency rented between ten to one hundred and two phones. "I can get my hands on the agencies' personnel lists if you want, kitten. But from the quick browsing I did, I doubt I can find out which of the ten thousands or so employees of those client-agencies have gotten which of the thousand phones if any. There are no records in the Medphone database. They have phones in stock; they rent the phones and they billed for the phones, but as with the case with any disposable phone, who uses which phone is not of concern to them. Idiots."

"So how do I find out who has the phone with the phone number I'm interested in?"

"Currently two hundred and fifty-seven of the phones are accounted for, waiting unused on shelves or so Medphone's records stipulate. If you want a more thorough investigation, someone's going to have to track the rest manually." She knew for a fact that was not going to be her. Not her type of research. "Or I can trace the thousands of employees first and set up a computerised message phoning each one of them asking about disposable phones."

She foresaw it might get boring after the tenth or eleventh call, not to mentioned meeting the renters of every of the seven hundred and forty-three phones. The thorough investigation, if needed, should be done by cops, she decided. After all, like the Big guy had pointed out once or twice in the past, cops were trained for such overwhelming investigations. "Thank you, Mario, sweetie, but I think we can forget about the computerised message for now." Not very professional but then again, she wasn't really working. And deep down, she was hoping Frédéric had already started on that. Damn her silly curiosity that had made her want to see where the notebook number lead.

Now, what? Hum. What if she tried it from the other end. "The kid might have called the mystery number from his mother's house. Perhaps if we went through Ears's home phone records?" She hinted to Mario. She would never ask Mario to do anything illegal but Mario didn't need to be asked.

"How far back you want?"

"A two-week period should be enough, don't you think?"

Assuming the talent agent had called Ears back, Mario went through the phone calls received at Ears's house, sorting them out to identify the callers as family or friends. Chain-smoking mother was unknowingly contributing to the investigations.

"Would you mind identifying a couple of numbers I found in your son's notebooks? I'm looking for the agent your son might have called."

There was only one number the mother couldn't pinpoint. Tadam! Agent's return call or so Patricia chose to assume.

Mario located that number to its genesis, or as he put it, "With the number and the call imprint," whatever that was, "I tracked back to the service provider, then the phone builder through the phone serial number," or vice-versa.

"So?"

"The phone's a pay-and-go, time card with no billing to an identified client but of a newer model than the disposables thus with a GPS." Amazing what Mario could do. Damn lucky for her he didn't work for the cops. She was almost certain Christopher would have felt otherwise had he known of Mario's involvement. All the more reasons not to tell the Big guy.

"And?"

"And, kitten, with the serial and phone number, tracking said phone GPS system led me to locate the phone."

"Locate? You know where the phone is, as in the solid hand-held device, the one that might ring if I call it? Mario, you are the greatest!" She might not know yet who Ears had called to meet the day of his murder but now, not only did she know on which phone the possible phone call back had been made from (granted the usefulness of this new information was doubtful for now but the research process was so fascinating), she also knew the phone's precise location! "Now, to call or not to call? Hum. It might be better to see first, don't you think?" Mario always silently agreed with her; she did not make the call. "Hum." Dilemma. Again. The phone was not in such a safe neighbourhood. "I never went to that part of town on my walks; you think the neighbourhood's reputation is exaggerated?"

Mario found her some unhelpful statistics. "The building where the phone's at is in a shitty neighbourhood. Do you know the lower district is amongst the ten worse districts in the city? It alternates between the eighth and ninth spots on the most dangerous districts list for the last five years."

"Fascinating. I would so have preferred you not telling me that."

She wasn't totally reckless so now she couldn't knowingly go alone, could she? The day was bright and sunny; maybe if she took a cab and remained in the vehicle at all times?

# She's calling it

She might be a master at rationalising and fooling herself but, despite what she sometimes led others to believe, she was not crazy. And she knew herself well. If she drove by the location and the place looked intriguing or interesting, she would end up taking a closer look no matter what.

According to Mario's calculation, the city's directory and Google, the phone was in a three-storey industrial condo complex. The first two condos at the north end were rented to a small plastic moulding business. The middle two were empty. The next one was used as storage for the construction material supplier located across the street. And a chemical supplier rented the one at the southern end. Mario located the phone in the empty condo in the middle of the block next to the storage.

"There's no way to know how long the phone has been there. Probably not too long since the GPS's still working."

"How long does the battery last?"

"That model has an emergency battery," Mario told her. "The phone might be useless now as a phone but keeps running on the emergency battery." For emergency calls maybe? "GPS are cool, kitten, but they only go so far," Mario pointed out. "There's no way for me to know whose pocket the phone's in."

With as much body weight to carry as three persons put together and an agoraphobia disorder, she had never asked Mario to accompany her anywhere, and he did not offer. He did say, "I have arranged for two muscles guys to escort you."

Mario too was a tad overprotective, but contrary to Christopher, he never tried to stop her from doing anything. For example, he had not asked why she wanted to know about the phone in the first place, simply taking it for what it was, a writer's fad. Asking Mario to track a phone, break a few laws and hack into security systems along the way, was one thing, but tugs escorting her was taking the fad to an entirely different level. No doubt the tugs would watch over her very carefully, Mario only hired the best, but he did hire people from his side of the world. Crazies, lunatics and outsiders. Mario was just a hacker, no real harm done, but walking around with what would probably turn out to be two confirmed criminals was different. Was it worse than the key guy, she asked herself, trying to convince herself it wasn't? But it was. She would have to speak to the thugs, get to know them a little if only to take the lead. The key-man had only broken locks; those thugs could break, well, people. Too real for her.

Jason, Joshua's half-brother, used muscles guys as bodyguards. Surely he would gladly lend her one or two, but she didn't ask, ambivalent still about how she felt about Jason. Angry too. He had made advances at her, his damn brother ex-girlfriend, how weird was that? She could never date or sleep with an ex-lover's brother or friends. Ok, so she had broken that rule twice, first dating Joshua after having been with his friend Lemieux − In her defence, Lemieux had been ok with it, and she had fallen for Joshua hard. Besides, Lemieux and her weren't a couple at the time − then she had done it backward with Lemieux after Joshua. But that had been out of necessity, to get Joshua out of her life for good. That was it. Not counting Mario of course, because she had not slept with him, only given him a hand (a very quick one at that), out of friendship and pity, so no, it was not the same.

Too bad Lemieux was not around. Out of Joshua's knights he was the one in charge of the physical stuff, for sure she could have asked him. The kid was too small, and she had never been comfortable with the king, but Lemieux she liked, liked a lot. They had been very comfortable with one another. She sighed. After Joshua, she had run away from all of them. Except for Mario, his fault, he had kept her on his radar.

"I'm not crazy," she said more to herself than to Mario. "I know I can't go alone not knowing what I might find." Really, on this one, she would have asked Christopher to come, him and his gun and his macho attitude and his overprotective ways. Christopher with his shrewdness and his self-confidence and his experience and his training and his instinct. Granted he probably would have said no and gone without her but just the same, had he been back she would have asked him. She could have waited for his return but for some reason, she did not think of it.

So if not Christopher, then who? She had male friends at the hotel, but she saw no point in asking them such a thing, them being under the impression that she was this delicate writer thing, surely they would refuse. Ingrid? Ingrid was not afraid of anything, including breaking-and-entering if that was what it took to keep her safe, but Ingrid was not discreet and not all that strong.

She could hire Christopher's buddies, Lonzo and McCarmick, his friends from when he was a bum, before his police days (his A-team as she referred to them secretly). They were arms-for-hire after all, doing security at bars and private parties. Christopher hired them unofficially on special jobs from time to time, and they were not above doing illegal work. She did not have their number, not that she couldn't get it, but there again, what would be the point? They only took contracts with references and even if they knew her − Christopher had hired them in the past to follow her when she had been a suspect, they liked her and knew Christopher wanted her safe at any cost − they might lock her up and tell on her.

She sighed big. Breaking in had been easy with Joshua. He liked hacking computers on site, so he broke in all the times with Lemieux as his handyman. Contracts. At first, she believed Joshua was righting the wrongs like Robin Hood, and indeed he was doing a little of that, but mostly he was just stealing and getting a kick out of it. And she had too the few times she had tagged along. Not that she had stolen anything, she had enough money to last her a lifetime, but breaking-and-entering was fun. Snooping around was the best. While Joshua worked away on the systems, she would stroll around, imagining people's life from the objects she found on their desks. When those places had public-access, she would go back in the following days to see what her characters looked like for real. Joshua had never worried about her safety nor about getting caught. Maybe he should have, it had cost him dearly, not their lives but for sure their relationship. That was all in the past, she chastened herself, and this was totally different.

"I don't see what the big deal is. I'm just going to look for a phone, damn it, no risk in that."

Wisely Mario kept silent.

It occurred to her that, like Joshua had his wingmen in Mario, the kid, the king and Lemieux, so did Christopher in LeRoy, Shapiro, Frankke, Hamilton, DesForges and Reid. Bridget and Frédéric were part of his team but, important as they were, they would not be of any help to her. So which one if any could she ask? LeRoy was in charge when Christopher was out so no way would he agree. Reid had told her he took the job very seriously when Christopher was away, barely cracking a joke. Shapiro was way too wise to accede to anything she'd ask. She might have picked Frankke as her Christopher's substitute but he had gone with Christopher, or so Bridget said when she called for him. She could have waited, Bridget saying Christopher's and Frankke's plane from wherever had just landed, but there again she didn't. Which left Hamilton, DesForges and Reid. Maybe not Reid, since they were officially drinking buddies and maybe friends. Or maybe her because they were? No. Reid had gotten her into trouble the last time and had ratted on her.

# Patricia's phone call

She completely forgot what her first intention had been, namely asking Christopher, and was now looking for a way to go without telling him. Childish as it was, a woman her age really, doing things without him knowing was part of the fun. Of the terrible two, she picked Hamilton because he seemed easier to control. He was easy enough to convince.

"Hi, it's me, Patricia," she said over the phone. "I was wondering, if you're not too busy, perhaps you'd like to visit some place with me, you know, for my cold case file." She didn't give details, but briefly wondered if Christopher had given Hamilton instructions about what she was allowed to do. Here again, she didn't ask. Always better not to know. Hamilton apparently agreed with her philosophy because he didn't ask for the particulars.

"You cleared it with the boss, Pussycat?"

She understood the question as, had she told Christopher. "Yes, I have." Indeed, she had. In her usual fashion via a message on his home answering machine.

Hamilton was ex-army and macho, but she had learned to appreciate him. Somewhat. She would like him better if he'd stop making passes at her, but then again, she told herself, he made passes at every woman within his field of vision. And the guy had perfect vision. He picked her up at the subway station nearest her targeted neighbourhood. She had dressed commando-style for her expedition. Black flat boots, black cargo pants, black long-sleeve T-shirt and black windbreaker. Her only concession was to her hair she had left curling around her face, hoping to hide it perhaps?

Hamilton made it clear he liked the outfit. "Wow, Puss! I'd take you anywhere dressed like that." He was dressed the same except he had short hair, scars, tattoos, bulging muscles and more jewellery than her.

As he was big and carrying a gun, he was perfect for the neighbourhood. And he did make her laugh, the whole thing seeming all a little silly now that she was sitting in the car with him.

"We're just going to see some guy at an industrial condo," she fibbed. "I got his name from my file. The guy's willing to talk about the victim." More lies. What choice did she have? No way would he have agreed to come along had he known the truth. Not that her lies were such big lies. Driving up to the place and taking a look around some, all in all, an hour of Hamilton's time tops. She might have gotten the address confused. The guy might have stood her up. Whatever. Hamilton had told her he was done for the day hence a simple trip without any cost whatsoever to the taxpayers.

The condos all looked the same. A steel door on the left, a wide window, then a door, and so forth. No windows on the second and third floors. Maybe they weren't any actual floors but just very high ceilings. The windows were tinted, but lights were visible in the occupied condos. She smiled at the doors. Why bother with steel doors when the walls greyed with time were built of cheap clapboard? Anyone wanting to break in had only to cut the walls with an electrical nibbler.

Of course, the condo was empty when they got there. Of course, both the plastic place and the chemical supplier said the middle condo had been empty for months. Of course, no one answered when Hamilton insisted on calling the guy she was supposed to meet, her given him the notebook number. Of course, he did not leave a message. But she thought she heard a phone ring somewhere in the building when Hamilton made the call. Hamilton insisted on going around the block to take a look at the back. Thorough guy, his boss would have been proud.

"We're driving around?" How could the guy be both so muscular and so lazy was a mystery.

"Look, Puss, no way I'm walking all the way around, no way you're walking alone so hop on."

The condos' façades were narrow, but the building was long. Because of four pedestrians, one stop sign and too many potholes to count, it took Hamilton almost five minutes to drive around. Such a gloomy building. Except for the twelve doors and six windows cut around the four exterior walls, uninterrupted clapboard all around. The back wall of the compound was bland; no steel doors this side, just plain wood. No windows, no staircases, no ladders this side of the world. With the lack of windows and all that wood in the construction, no doubt the place housed plenty of spiders and rats. It would be a good murdering spot but frankly, she liked the Cabaret better. It had more style.

By now she suspected Hamilton did not believe a thing she had told him but still he worked on the back door. Persistent, he somehow got the door opened.

"Go wait in the car, Puss, while I take a quick look."

He watched her get in the car before going in, gun drawn. Hum. The Big guy would have been proud of Hamilton's breaking-and-entering skills but less impressed with his guy's ingenuousness. She gave Hamilton a thumbs-up from the passenger seat. Men really, what was he thinking? After giving him a short four-minute head start she sneaked in. Hamilton had thoughtfully wedged the latch before going in so the door would stay unlocked.

The inside was illuminated by overhead spots switched on by Hamilton no doubt. No need for a search of the ground floor, the walls were bare and the place completely empty but for an old wooden staircase along the wall on her right leading to a closed third-floor mezzanine. Offices probably. But for a thriving colony of spider webs hanging from the ceiling, the place looked cleaned, way better that she had expected. Hamilton was nowhere to be seen. Upstairs already. Not that she heard him or anything. Good sound-proofing, she couldn't hear the outside traffic either or noises from the adjoining businesses. The silence was eerie. As noiselessly as possible considering the damn creaky staircase, she slowly crept upstairs.

# MacLaren is burning hot

"Hi, Big guy!"

"Hi, Darling. You ok?" A first, Patricia had called his cell phone urgent number! Something was up.

"Are you busy?"

"Just on my way back from the airport with Frankke." They had laid out their next steps on the plane, and now enjoying the drive back he had been somewhat relaxed. Until a moment ago. Without surprise, at the first ring, Knot had made a comeback. "Not busy right now, Princess, why? Need a lift?"

"Yes please."

Something in her voice. "Where are you?" He had not checked his home messages yet, intending to do so after dropping Frankke off. He had gotten the call from Hamilton, though, something about one of her cold cases. Ham didn't know Chris had only given her one file. Easier for Chris to keep track of her that way.

"We're at the warehouse. The one Hamilton told you about."

"Where's Ham now?"

"Right next to me."

"Can't he drive you?"

"Hum. He might need a lift too. When do you think you'll get here?" Coming from the airport, they were about forty minutes away from the station but barely fifteen from that warehouse place, ten if he drove fast.

"Let me talk to Ham."

"Ah. Well, hum, he's kind of busy. He'll call you back."

"Patricia, let me talk to him now." His voice had dropped two octaves, never a good sign, yet like often she chose to ignore it.

"It's better you don't." He heard Ham's voice muffled in the background. "Ok. Gotta go. We're kind of in a hurry now."

"Fuck, Patricia."

"Come soon."

He heard shouting but couldn't make out the words, then the line went dead. He stepped on the gas and tried to call her back. No answer. He tried calling Ham, someone answered, but he only heard indistinct words before the communication was cut off. Frankke was looking at him inquiringly.

"Patricia. She wants us to pick her and Ham up some place." Frankke having overheard that part already, he added, "They seemed to be in a hurry."

That got Frankke smiling. "I bet they are. Specially Ham. He thinks she's hot, maybe the guy's on fire."

A fire truck passed them sirens blasting. Chris was already driving too fast, but he pulled in behind the truck and followed its lead with Fists and Knot. They were approaching the warehouse when they noticed smoke in the sky, and as they got closer, they smelled it. He followed the fire truck up to the warehouse. The fucking place was on fire!

He stopped behind the truck and flashing his badge, ran after the fireman chief.

"The call came in about fifteen minutes ago," the fireman said, shouting at his men as they were deploying. "From someone inside a smoke-filled condo. Turns out it's not only smoke and it's not only one condo." By now, the flames had spread to the entire complex.

He couldn't see Patricia or Ham, nor Ham's car in the street.

"Call the station and get details on the building's layouts," he ordered Frankke while he tried calling Patricia and Ham again. Still no answers.

The men working at the construction lumber site were coming out of the yard to watch the fire. Their storage space was going up in flames, and they were enjoying the view! A salesman from the chemical place was there too. The fireman chief was barking orders about safety perimeter. No one could say yet where the fire had started and if there was anybody still inside.

Chris ran down the front of the complex to the north corner. A dozen or so workers from the plastic place were gathered on the sidewalk on the opposite side on the street, them too enjoying the view of their jobs going up in flames. They heard a small explosion from inside.

"Gas container," Chris heard one of the workers say as the others nodded. They went on watching.

"Have you seen a woman and a man pass by here?" He asked the workers.

"Badass brunette and a cop?" Badass? "They stopped by our plant asking about the middle condo."

When asked further, none of the plastic guys had seen them since. Shit.

Knowing the two, he figured they had taken a closer look. Fuck, fuck, fuck. When he got his hands on that woman, he was going to... he didn't know what the fuck he was going to do! Right now he was too damn angry and too fucking worried to think straight.

Ok smart guy, think. THINK. If they are not out front, then maybe they are out back. He ran to the back street. By now both ends had been closed off by the local police. Running down the side to the back corner, the wind blowing smoke his way, he barely made out Ham's car parked on the street toward the middle of the block. Some debris had fallen over it. Was one of the complex doors somewhat ajar? Like it had been left slightly opened. Going in or out? He flashed his badge at the cops as he ran to Ham's car. Empty. No way could he go in the open door, too much smoke pouring out now. He needed to get some gear from the fire guys. He ran back to the South side where the fire truck was parked. He had two of the local cops running after him by then, they were younger, but they still didn't catch up to him. He needed a firefighter suit and an oxygen mask.

He saw the two when he turned the corner. Their hands propped on the fire truck, chests heaving out of breath, with Frankke standing next to them, phone in hand. He heard his phone rang but didn't answer. He fucking knew who was calling! Only when he noticed Frankke's fucking enormous smile did his brain register what his eyes were seeing. Patricia was wearing Frankke's jacket but other than that, both she and Ham were in their underwear. What the fuck?! was the only thought he could formulate.

# MacLaren is burning mad

He was about to reach them when the flash of a camera went off. A news guy had come around the fire truck and was snapping pictures at them.

"Christopher!" She ran to him. So much for keeping it a secret, Angel of mine. About fucking time too. He hugged her tight. "Do something!" Seems to me you have already done it all, the place is up in flames for Christ's sake. "I don't want to be in the newspapers half-naked!"

Oh, that. He had run with fists clenched in worry, his anger building up, so he turned around and lunged at the guy. She wanted him to do something? He did the only fucking thing that came to his mind. He punched News-guy and damn, it felt fucking good. It shouldn't have, but it did. When the guy fell, he snapped the camera out of the jerk's hands and kicked it hard.

Frankke was not all that tall. Big, muscular but about as tall as she was. And he had been wearing one of those sports jacket cut at the waist. Hence there she was, shoeless, clothes-less, in her black socks, black thong and camouflage bra with satin ribbons laced on the side, with Frankke's jacket stopping short below her ass. Ham was no better with only a pair of black briefs and matching black socks. Chris couldn't think of any plausible explanation for their attire. Frankke's earlier remark played in a loop in his head. Hers and Ham's pants. He punched Ham too, a swift sequence of movements. Punched, kicked, punched. He would have punched again, but Frankke had caught on by then and, grabbing him by the shoulders, stopped him. For once, Patricia was too stunned to say anything. But he could see her mind racing and she started to frown.

"Fucking don't, Princess!"

"But−"

"Don't even try." Hands on hips, he stared down at her.

She shrugged, "Your call, Big guy."

"Damn right it is. No talking."

"Fine! Do the I'm-in-charge thing. See if I care. Damn you make me so angry!"

Angry? At him? What the fuck?! That woman was the most, the worse, the−

"Easy, Boss." Frankke, trying to calm him down.

"Chief, let me explain." Ham had gotten up and was standing on shaky legs, hand on the truck for stability. His bottom lip was cut.

Chris walked away. Not far, only a couple of steps away with his back to them. He had been so fucking worried! He looked to the street. At the people running. The news guy had been dragged off by Frankke, not without being shown Frankke's police badge first, and threatened with obstruction of justice and breaking the public peace and shit. FUCK.

So what if he had found her half-naked, she was safe, wasn't she? He listened to her as she murmured softly to Ham and fussed about the guy's lip. He took three deep steadying breaths before facing them. She had her back to him now. He glared as she raised her arm to touch Ham's head, the already too short jacket rising with her arm, revealing a soft, pale butt cheek. FUCKING SHIT! He turned his back, again, and tried to calm himself, again. Deep breaths. Three firemen were eyeing them, with two more moving closer. Fucking time to end the show. He straightened himself and took off his jacket. Handed it to her without a word. She wrapped it around her waist and tightened it using the sleeves, then buttoned Frankke's jacket at the front.

"Ok. Let's go."

"Shouldn't we report to the fire chief?" Frankke, playing the voice of reason.

"Go. You've got two minutes." Frankke hesitated markedly, looking between him and the other two. "Go. It's ok. They're safe. For now."

Frankke took off in a run. The three of them watched him go in silence. Still watching Frankke, who was now talking to the chief guy, Chris drew out his arm and pulled her to him. Close. She kept her arms wrapped around her middle, but rested her head on his shoulder.

After a while (and some additional deep breaths), he asked, without turning his head, "Ham? You ok?"

"Yes, boss."

"I meant about the fire."

"I know."

She pushed him back without looking up at him. Taking Ham's side. Shit.

They waited for Frankke, observing the fire, the three of them now shoulders to shoulders, Patricia in the middle. The fire guys were at work making sure the building, as it started to collapse, fell on itself instead of on the neighbouring buildings and streets.

"Should have moved your car," Chris remarked at one point.

"Couldn't," Ham answered back when he looked at him. "Didn't have time to jump it." When he frowned at Ham's cryptic answer, Ham smirked. "Didn't have the key."

The jerk's answer brought a smile on Patricia's somewhat smeared face. She started to laugh, looked at him, head half tilted to the side. "Want to know why Hamilton didn't have his keys, Big guy?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Because smarty-pants here left them in his pants!" Such a short phrase but by the end of it, she was laughing so hard, she was crying and holding her sides.

She's in shock, he thought. Then Ham was laughing too, and his anger came back. He stood fists clenched on his hips staring at them and frowning hard. Again.

"Patricia. Hamilton." Low voice but not menacing. Cold as steel.

Ham stopped laughing. Patricia didn't. Chris glared at her with a worried frown, Ham looked at her with a worried smirk. Maybe she really was breaking down. It took her a good two minutes to calm down.

"It's not all that funny, Baby Doll," Ham finally said.

"Come on. Sure it is. Really, it is," she said a big smile on her face, gleaming at Ham. Turning to him, she asked, "Don't you think it's funny, Big guy?"

"No."

She looked between the two of them. "I'm not losing it. I feel fine. It was funny!"

He didn't have a clue what she could find so funny about all of this. He looked her up and down before asking, "Ok. Explain, Princess."

She stared back. "Nooooow you want to listen? But what if I don't want to anymore?" Damn woman.

"Ham?"

"Yes, boss?"

Chris kept his eyes on her but snapped his finger at Ham. Both Ham and her were acting crazy.

"Roger that, MacLaren Sir. Explain. Ok. The fire."

"Start at the beginning. Like why the hell you came here."

"She asked me to. Something in one of her cold cases."

"And you believed her?"

"Hell no but I thought it might be fun."

"Hey!"

"Not your turn to talk, Princess. Go on Ham."

# Is MacLaren burned out?

"Ok. When we got here, the place was empty. Unoccupied for months according to the clerk we talked to at the plastic place. Since we were already here, I decided to take a look at the back, so we drove there." Chris almost smiled at Ham's recounting. The guy had a couple of lazy habits, not walking if he could drive being one of them. "The door at the back was one of those shitty wooden ones with a regular lock. I decided to take a look inside." He had to give Ham credit; the guy told it like it was, not pretending the door had somehow already been unlocked.

"And?" None of his men were idiots. Ham wouldn't have let her go in with him, even if he was trying to impress her, even if she begged, even if he wanted to get in her pants, even if she had promised he could.

"Patricia was supposed to wait in the car," Ham frowned at her. She looked back, a small innocent smile on her lips. Chris had seen that smile before. Too often. "Anyway. The place was completely empty. As in nothing in it. Concrete floor, bare wood walls. High ceiling beams. Electricity was functioning, though. I decided to go upstairs, thinking her still in the car." Another disapproving stare from Ham, the fake innocent smile on her lips did not waver. "Upstairs was empty. There was a row of thin partition walls, five small cubicles, all empty. In the last one, I found an access trap to the roof." Ham stopped and looked at his feet. So did Patricia.

Now came the interesting stuff. "And?"

"And we went up."

"We?"

Ham cursed under his breath before locking eyes with him. "Roger we. When I came out of the last cubicle, she was up the stairs. Since the place was empty, I let her. She went through the cubicles like I had. Then we climbed the ladder to the roof."

Chris was thorough, and it was something he had imparted to his team, yet as infuriatingly meticulous as he was, he wouldn't have gone up to the roof unless he had been looking for something. Were they? "Any particular reason you went up there?" At this point, he still didn't know why the hell they had been there in the first place and he suspected, neither did Ham. Ham wouldn't have gone up not knowing why.

Patricia answered for Ham, "It was my idea. I wanted to see the view."

"She told you she wanted to see the scenery, and you agreed?" He asked in disbelief albeit he already knew the answer. Of course, Ham had.

"Yes, I did."

"And how was it?"

"What?"

"The view."

"Shit, boss. It was just roof tops. You know."

"So not much worth the visit?" No answer. "You didn't see anything interesting up there?" Besides my fucking girlfriend naked?

"No."

"Didn't do anything interesting up there?" Like, try to do my fucking naked girlfriend?

"No."

"If you did not see, do nor find anything interesting, why the hell did you go up there?"

"Ah, but we did find something. Patricia found a phone."

"A phone?" Patricia was now looking at the dying fire. Staring at it like it was the most fascinating spectacle she had ever seen. He knew that look. "Where's the phone now, Ham?"

"In my pocket."

"You don't have a single fucking pocket on you." Some anger might have crept in his voice. Patricia was frowning. He didn't get an answer. She had laughed at Ham's leaving his keys in his pants pocket but not at him leaving the phone in them. Interesting. "Ok Ham. One tough question. Did you at any point have the impression that Patricia was looking for that phone?" He didn't expect Ham to have noticed anything but, had she indeed been looking for that phone, her reaction would betray her now. And indeed Chris saw a reaction alright. She stiffened and looked sideways at him, a very quick glance but not quick enough. Fuck. "So you found the phone and put it in your pants..."

"Jacket."

"Jacket? Ok, whatever. Keys in pants, phone in jacket. Check. Then what?"

"We wanted to go back down but by then, we smelled smoke. Saw that some was coming from the hatch. I tried going down, but the fire was already on the walls. I mean, flames were literally on the walls! So I called the fire truck. And we looked for a way down. We tried going to another hatch; there was one over the chemical place, but the roof seemed soft, you know, like it was melting so we backed up."

"How did you get down?"

"I wanted to jump, but Patricia said it was way too high." Damn right. Three storeys high, falling on concrete, major injuries... if they had survived. "We could have aimed for the top of the car, it might have softened the fall." Or not. The guy was willing to jump three floors down but not walk around one block, go figure. "So we climbed down, using our clothes as a rope. Spandex's great, man." Of course. Simple explanation. Fuck. Lucky it hadn't been four-storey-high. They would have had to use their socks and their fucking underwear.

"And when she called?"

"I was finishing the rope."

"And when I called back?"

"I was going down, and I dropped the phone."

"And your clothes?" He had not seen any clothes hanging from the roof on his run around the block.

"I think they burned." With the keys and the mysterious phone.

"And your phone?" He asked turning to her. She was looking at her feet now, probably thinking up a story.

"I left it in my jacket," she said with a sad face.

"Phone gone in flame with the jacket and the rest of their clothes. Check." Not a big lost, her little friend Mario provided extra phones she kept in her desk drawers.

"I was sure Ham had the phone, he had one in his hand, I was sure it was the one." She turned on Ham. "We should have tucked it somewhere!"

That made him grin along with Ham. Like where, Angel? In Ham's shorts or your bra? Surely not in your thong.

"I was thinking Ham's socks, you jerks!"

"Looking at you, Princess, socks's not the first place I want to tuck something in."

"Chief Officer Christopher James MacLaren, you are out of line!"

Was he? Well, maybe a little. Fuck she looked good right now. Damn fucking good. Safe.

# Alternate series: Cooling off

She returned to the club. Now she had something to do. Avenge her sister. It was the least she could do. Even if they had not been close, wasn't vengeance what family was for?

She acted friendlier with the patrons. Looking for something, a clue, a sign. She talked to all. Two women that were now dead had been to the club. It had to mean something.

He stopped by one night. She had not returned any of his phone calls. How could she, he was a cop! Her sister did the cops. The way she spoke of them, the things they asked for, how could she? Her sister too had been seduced by a man. He had made her as she was. She was not becoming her sister. Not wanting to end up like her sister, she had cut all ties. No sisters, no family.

And yet, the cop had been soft. He had been strong. Still, she had ran.

She liked men. Men that were soft and strong. She drew men that were soft and strong. Fucked men that were soft and strong, but she did not fall for men.

What she should look for was a man that was soft and strong but older. Less needy hence more patient and she needed patience. She should look for an older man then. Plenty of older men in the club. Good. She would look for an older man. After she found her sister's killer.

Meanwhile, perhaps, she could let the soft and strong cop do her again. One last time. Better yet, she could do him.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# A Cooled off Chris

Upon Frankke's return, Chris motioned the three to the car. Leaving the driving to Frankke, he sat in the passenger seat, with Ham in the back with her, her on the driver's side. From his post, it was the easiest place to survey them. Plus, with the child safety device on, she had no way to go.

In a sitting position, she had trouble keeping his wrapped-around jacket over her scratched knees. As he had stared mostly at her face (and her butt for the briefest of moment), he had not looked her over in details yet. Too damn distracting. Not to mentioned infuriating. But he sure was looking now. She pretended to look out the window, but the night had fallen, and he caught her reflection looking at him. She looked away. The car smelled of smoke but for her knees, the smudges on her face and holes in her socks she appeared unharmed. She sat slumped, her bruised knees pressed tight together, her cupped hands resting palms up on her lap. Strange. He turned to look at Ham. The guy too was slouching. His lip was cut but that was all the jerk's fucking fault.

"How are your hands, Ham?"

"Burning like hell." So would hers then.

"How'd you two got down? How'd you do it?" Chris had done rock climbing a couple times in his youth. He had gears, ropes, gloves and all kind of safety gizmos. He remembered some of the technical stuff, like going down jumping off the wall with the rope wrapped around his waist, the rope-wrapping saving the hands and giving control over the speed of the descent.

"She went first. I didn't want to leave her up there, and I wasn't sure the thing would last. If the rope gave after one descent, I thought better if I jump than her. It was tough, the clothes weren't long enough. We had to hold the string between our legs and slide down it, stopping the speed with our hands." Hands and thighs burning, check.

The car felt silent.

Ten blocks further down, Ham added, "You were quite a sight from up there, Dollface, I can't imagine how good you looked from the ground."

Fuck. Chris got a mental image of exactly how fucking good she must have looked, with her thong and the rope between her legs. Jane.

She glared at Ham. "Hamilton, shut the hell up."

"It was a compliment, Pussycat. Spectacular it must have been!"

"Christopher, do something!"

"You're on your own, Baby Doll, Chris's job is done, he's already punched me."

"What about I punch you?"

"From what I've seen, and, Puss, I've seen a lot, you've got more sweet curves than real muscles, it'll be like foreplay."

"Hamilton!"

"Yes, ma'am."

Fucking shit. They had barely escaped a fire yet there they were, bickering on the back seat and acting like fucking kids, kids at their sexual peak but kids nonetheless. Since he figured they were just letting out steam, he let them go on without interference. And seeing as they were distracted, he made a brief call, to the point as his usual. "It's Mac. You at the clinic right now?"

"I'll be here for another hour or so," Jud answered not one bit flustered by his bluntness.

"Ok, good. We're on our way over; I have two I want you to take a look at."

"Gunshot?"

"No. Skin burns mostly. And maybe a concussion."

"I'll have an examination room ready."

"Ok. See you in ten."

The two kids had stopped talking.

"The clinic? What clinic? Why? We're fine!" He smiled at her without saying anything. "Ok. I can understand Hamilton. You did punch him pretty hard; you might have broken his jaw or something."

"Ham's done most of the talking, Angel, no way the jerk has a broken jaw."

He had Frankke park in the no parking zone right out front the clinic. It was late, and he was getting impatient. He had things to do as in find out what the fuck she had been doing at the damn warehouse. He opened Ham's door while Frankke did the same for her.

"You know, Chief Officer MacLaren, Sir." Fuck he hated it when she called him that. He started clenching his fists but thought better of it and put them in his pockets. As deep as he could. She went on unruffled, "They might file a report against you if Hamilton's injured. Maybe it's better if you wait out here."

"Nice try. Let's go."

She didn't like doctors. She didn't like cops either, even hated a couple deeply, but that had not stopped her from falling for him. He had seen to it. As he would see to it that a doctor examined her and made sure she was ok. That they were both ok.

Judy was waiting for them at the clinic's reception desk. Judy was his age and had been running her private clinic with a couple of other doctors for a decade now. Judy was also an ex-lover of his from a long, long time ago. He had met Judy right after doing some time in the army and before the police academy. They had kept in touch over the years, mostly through common acquaintances. They didn't have much chemistry then, had none now, but he trusted her professionally. For severe injuries, he sent his guys to the hospital, but when there was little bleeding (Ham wasn't really bleeding now, was he), the clinic was faster. And he figured a female doctor might be easier for Patricia. Yeah, right.

From the smell and the smudges and the way they were dressed, Frankke having found an old pair of handyman pants at the lumberyard place for Ham, it was easy for Judy to guess who needed to be doctored.

"Your guy can go in there," Jud said motioning Ham to a small examination room. "I'll have you Miss in here," she directed Patricia to the one room next to Ham's. Judy was going to check on Patricia first; women always came first for the good doctor.

When he tried to follow, both women yelled resounding ʻNo!' so he went with Ham instead, who didn't say anything. Neither did the young doctor who showed up within minutes to look Ham over. Young but thorough, the doctor poked and felt and palpated Ham just about everywhere before sending him to the x-ray room for his jaw. They got back before Judy was out. Which didn't help calm Chris's impatience nor his fists clenching, worry now taking over anger. What the fuck was taking so damn long? The doctor gave Ham his ok. Rest, cream for the skin burns and a paper with concussion symptoms and details for the signs to look for over the next seventy-two hours.

An hour after their arrival, Patricia and Judy finally came out of the examination room. Judy had lent Patricia some gym clothes, but Judy being bigger everywhere, the shirt was loose on Patricia's shoulders and falling a tad low at the front. The top of the sweatpants were rolled up to keep them from sliding down. It was a similar outfit as she sometimes had on when she slept over at his loft, but at his place, he would make sure she didn't find her bra. Judy had cleaned her up because he now had a smudge-free girlfriend. Damn she looked good. Her hair was held back with a head thingy women used for such thing. She had on gleaming white socks, no holes in them. No bandages on her hands, which was good, and she was smiling, which was even better.

"Everything's ok?"

"Yes, Sir!" Patricia gave him a military salute. Fuck. Had the ladies been talking?

"What's the diagnostic, Jud?"

"Are you a next of kin?" Judy tried to tease. Fuck her. He looked back severely, making her straightened herself. "Ok. Don't get all worked up, MacLaren. She's fine. She's got−"

Patricia cut her short, "You heard the doctor, I'm fine. Where's Hamilton? Is he ok?" Ham nodded at her. "Ok. Let's go then. Thanks, Judy. Bye." And out the door she was. So much for fraternising with doctors.

He shook his head and nodded to the guys, Frankke and Ham went after her. Wanting to be sure, he asked Judy again, "So she's ok?"

"Scratches on her feet, knees, elbows and a cheek as you saw. Minute patches of second-degree burns on her hands and the inside of her thighs. I gave her cream to apply every four hours for the first two days, then every eight hours for as long as she needs it. I should have bandaged her hands but she wouldn't let me. Stubborn woman. You have to lay off her for a couple of days at least."

"What makes you think I lay on her to start with?"

"Come on, MacLaren, I'm a doctor, not an idiot. I've never seen you look at a woman like I saw you look at her."

He sighed. "No, I guess you haven't." He had picked a hell of a woman to look at that way, hadn't he?

"She's your first." Judy didn't have to spell it out; he knew she was referring to the L word. Fucking right. My first and only. "Funny. I never thought there was ever going to be one for you, Mac." Neither had he.

"Thanks, Judy. Just send me the bill."

"This one's on me. I like her." That makes two of us. "She can keep the clothes, she looks better in them than I do. Think you'll get her off men like you did me?"

# His wait off

Back in the car, Frankke still driving. "Drop us off at the station, Frankke. I'll pick my car up and drive Patricia home. You get Ham since the guy burned his car today."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Hey, any of you guys hungry? I feel like barbecued chicken. How about it? My treat." Big grin on his face. Getting even sure was fun. I too can act like a fucking kid, Pussycat. "I know this chicken place, it's on the way."

Friday late evening, the place was busy, but they spotted a couple of seats at the counter. Three empty stools then an old guy then another empty stool.

"Mind sliding down a seat, Sir?" Frankke asked.

"I was here first. I'm not moving."

Patricia sat on the one lone stool.

The old man looked at her, Frankke, Ham and him before turning back to her. "They with you? Want me to scoot over, sweet thing?"

She turned the old man down with a shrug and a tired, "Not really but thanks anyway."

Chris accepted the offer for her. They ate side by side, her between him and the old guy, Frankke next to him and Ham at the end. Not the greatest conversationalists, Ham and Frankke together but Frankke sacrificed himself for the safety of Ham. At her end, Patricia avoided him by making small talk with the old guy. The chicken was good, and it turned out everyone was hungry. He noticed how Patricia flinched at her fork and knife, but he resisted cutting her chicken. She wouldn't have let him in any case; the damn woman was proud as hell.

They headed to the station right after their meal. Technically the station never closed, but they were between shifts and despites a nearly-packed parking lot, they were the only ones around. Frankke parked next to his car and turned off the engine. Chris made no move to get out, and following his cue, Frankke remained seated. The kids too, since they were locked in.

"Ok. Let's run it again," he ordered after a beat. "Ham?"

Ham told again. About the warehouse, the plastic place, the back door, the roof, the rope. And the phone, the fucking phone.

The more Chris ran it in his head, the more he was convinced she had gone there for the phone. "Ok. Your turn, Princess."

"Whatever. It's like Hamilton said. When we didn't find any lights in the warehouse−"

"No, not that. Your version." She looked unsure. "You know. Your story. Why you wanted to go there." She made to talk, but he interrupted her by raising his hand, "Patricia, I know the cold case I gave you."

"I know you know." Big sigh. She looked out the window lost in thoughts. He waited. A relationship made of sighs and waiting. "It's from Ears's notebooks. I meant to tell you, but you were out. And well, I figure I could just go have a look."

"What notebooks?"

It took some waiting on his part, some sighs on her part, but she did tell him. About her visits and the books she had sent, the notebooks she had received in exchange.

"We searched the kid's room. There were no notebooks. The mother didn't mention any notebooks."

"Did you ask for them?" How could he ask for something he didn't know existed?

She told about the sadness of the notebooks. Trying to make him understand how she felt. "That's all that's left of him. He was barely thirteen, Christopher!" I know, Angel of mine. "Those notebooks are his legacy, but no one took any interest in them." Except you.

"And the warehouse was in there how?"

She told about the date and the circles. How it was a strange coincidence. How he never liked coincidence. And she was right, he didn't. It was worth looking into, there again he understood.

"So you called Ham, and he took you to the address you'd found?" Simple enough yet she didn't answer right away. Not good.

"Not exactly. In the notebook, it's not an address, only a phone number."

Still simple. She looked up the address on the Internet. But if it were indeed that simple, they wouldn't be having that conversation now, would they? "And?"

"I couldn't trace it. Couldn't find it." She paused. "I had to ask someone."

She had gone through Fred. Ok, not a total lost. He was curious to see what the kid had to say about her request in his diary. This little incident might tell Chris exactly how much the kid was putting down about her in his daily reports. His mind was already made up, though. From now on no matter what, he was going to forbid private visits from her to the kid. "Ok. Don't worry. I won't suspend Fred. Not this time."

"It's not that." Big sigh again, more dramatic. "I, hum, kind of asked someone else too."

Who could she asked? If Fred couldn't find the address, no one on the team could either. Then it dawned on him. Super Mario. He was going to arrest the guy, dragged his fat fucking ass to jail in a cell full of people and let the jerk sweat for a long, long time. "Mario," was all he managed to say between clenched jaws. Frankke and Ham were looking between him and her. They didn't know Mario, didn't even know about Mario, didn't have that fucking honour!

"It's all my fault." Damn fucking right it's your fault, Pussycat. "Spending that much time with Frédéric, I got to see how good he is. And how strange. So like Mario and the others. I wanted to see who was faster. So I asked both."

"Who answered first?"

"Mario. But he didn't have all the information. Too tedious. I'm sure Frédéric has found more details by now."

"But Mario found something, didn't he?"

"Yes. He located the phone."

"And when you say located, you mean, he literally, physically located it?"

"Yes. In the warehouse."

So naturally, following whatever fucking story she had imagined, she had gone after it. Fuck. He was going to kill the fatso. "Did Mario inquire as to why you wanted to know about the fucking phone?"

"Of course not." Of course not! Damn woman. Mario, the fucking idiot, let her do whatever the hell she wanted. "It's just a phone, Christopher, it doesn't mean anything. I'm sure it'll turn out not to have anything to do with the murder. Mario knows−"

"Mario knows shit! Surely he must have known what you would do next." It wasn't really a question, more talking to himself. Trying to figure how the guy could not have known she was going to run head first into trouble.

"It doesn't make a difference."

"Like hell it doesn't! He just sends you after a fucking phone in one of the worse parts of town."

"He offered to send some guys with me!" What the hell was she talking about? Guys? What kind of guys? She seemed to realise what she had just said because she hurriedly added, "I didn't say yes. I wouldn't have gone with them, I mean, they were probably thugs or ex-con anyway."

"Not making me feel better, Princess."

"That came out wrong. What I meant to say was, I called Hamilton. I did not go alone; I called Hamilton. And I did call you. Twice."

"Fuck, Patricia. You called me at home when you knew too fucking well I was hours away, and then you called from a burning rooftop!"

"I know. But it's an improvement, right? And Hamilton called you too, right? So he's ok, right? Right?" He was speechless. "Christopher?"

"I'm too angry to talk."

"I can understand you being a little angry, but really, the bottom line is, we did not start the fire. All is not my fault."

Neither of them had raised their voice. It was more a duel of words through clenched teeth. Even now he kept his voice even. "Fucking perfect! You didn't start the fire. Hurrah! It's a damn miracle!"

"Don't be sarcastic. Aren't you happy we're ok?" Playing offended now, was she?

"Ok? Ok? Finding you two butt naked on the side street next to a burning warehouse is not my idea of ok! You were in your fucking underwear."

"Do you think I liked it? Why do you keep bringing it up?" She had her eyes into small slits. "What's really bothering you here? The phone, the fire or the undies?"

He had been so fucking worried during his run around the burning building, seeing her in her underwear had nearly finished him. He answered without thinking, "All of it!". Fuck, he should have known better.

# His trade off

"All of it?! Damn you, Big guy! Why doesn't it bother you Hamilton was naked? I mean, he's the cop here, it won't look good for the team, him standing naked on the street like that." Her frown intensified as she spoke and glared equally at him and Ham. She eventually figured it out. "What the heck reason did you think we'd have for being in our underwear?"

Chris was no fool; there were no good answers to that question. He couldn't admit to thinking even for the briefest of second, Sorry, Angel of mine, I just thought Ham had seduced you. That the two of you were doing it, or anything along those lines.

"Christopher James MacLaren, you're a jerk! I didn't sign up for this. I can do whatever I want, even go after a damn phone in my underwear if I damn choose to and who the hell do you think you are anyway? You are, by far, the most arrogant, controlling, dominating, distrustful, pig-headed suspicious asshole I have ever met!" Now she was clearly exaggerating. He'd heard about a few of the jerks she had encountered, starting with that Joshua sonofanassholejerk, but he let it passed. She was clearly angry now, not playing her usual offensive position but downright pissed at him.

Nobody spoke for a good five minutes. She stared hard at the window and his guys stared at their hands. It was without a doubt the first time they had heard a woman speak to him like that, anyone for that matter, without being arrested or hit. But she was right, he was a jerk for thinking it. And even if she had done the deed with Ham, he would not have done anything about it. Except for the hitting thing obviously, but it wasn't her he would have beaten up. In any case, he had only thrown the one punch. Barely a bump at that. "I'm sorry, Angel, I shouldn't be jealous but there you go, I am. It's just the way it is. Next time, bring a fucking rope or try wearing more sensible underwear." Like granny panties and a sports bra.

"Was that an apology? Because frankly, it didn't sound like one. I'm still angry."

"Good, Pussycat, that makes two of us."

Stand still.

Sighs and waiting.

"Ok. I'm going to see if Fred's still here." Nobody moved. "Follow or go home, those are your options. As for you, Princess, don't even think of going anywhere, you're stuck with me."

The guys decided to follow. Hence, as a team, they all went to see Fred. The kid wasn't there; he did go home from time to time.

Chris wanted to go and get the kid, the hell if he woke him up, but it was getting late. He was tired, and so was she. Tomorrow then. "Go home, guys. I'll take her."

They walked back to the parking lot. They all shook hands (Patricia got quick hugs on top of her handshakes), and the guys left. It seemed the fight had gone out of her. She didn't talk during the drive home. He took her to her hotel thinking she'd want to shower and change into her things. She barely kept any clothes at his place (though he did have, securely waiting in his safe, a couple of bras and panties from her previous stays). Those times she had not packed clean clothes, she borrowed gym stuff just like the ones she had on now. Since he couldn't borrow anything of hers, he for one, kept clothes at her place (in the trunk of his truck too, old habit from his youth). Clean underwear, one pair of jeans, sweatpants and dress pants, two t-shirts, a brand new shirt still in its wrapping, tie, socks, casual and dressy. Plus, in the trunk, a pair of running shoes. With a pack of smokes. Months ago, he had added women's socks, a pair of her panties (cleaned), a lacy bra (cleaned), yoga pants, white t-shirt and hoodie, all three brand new and never worn, and in her size. The women clothing he had bought the same day he had changed his overly expensive sports car for his SUV, hopeful they would someday try it out. They had had a couple of go at it but nothing up to the truck's full potential yet. No rush, though, he was patient and try as she might, she wasn't going anywhere.

No shower, no changing into on her stuff. Still clad in Judy's clothes, she went straight to bed. Shit. Even if Judy had reassured him some, he knew how good Patricia was at faking, even with doctors. Her crawling in bed meant no thorough physical examination. Knot made itself remembered. He stripped and crawled into bed next to her. Stretched on his back, one arm behind his head, the other spread across her middle, he admired the ceiling. His it's-going-to-be-a-long-sleepless-night posture. She waited for him to settle, her back to him. When he stopped moving, she turned and came to rest her head on his chest.

"I'm sorry, Christopher."

"As you should be, Angel of mine." But his anger was gone too. He rested his hand on her head, softly brushing her hair. She fell asleep almost right after. So did he.

Early morning he went running and returned to find her still in bed but awake and staring at the ceiling in a copy (except for Judy's gym clothes) of his pose of the previous night.

"Hi, Big guy."

"Hi to you too, Darling."

"Went smoking? Or is it me?"

"I went smoking then I went running so it might be me. Could be you too. You were really smoking yesterday." He had brought breakfast and the morning papers, the hotel front desk reserved a copy for him when he slept over. Apparently keeping a better track of her than he did, the hotel staff always knew when he slept over. "I got the papers. Wanna see?"

She looked puzzled. The very first thing she wanted in the morning was to eat. He knew that. She knew he knew. He sometimes managed to delay her eating with sex or cuddling but never for the news. She wasn't big on current events. "No."

"Come on, Angelface, I'll just read you the front headline."

Without warning, she ripped the papers out of his hand.

The city's largest paper had a great front page picture. It showed a burning building. A gleaming red fire truck filled the right side of the frame. The back of a man, him, hands on his hips, standing tall and looking lean, was visible on the left. Another man leaned on the fire truck, Ham, his face partly hidden by a woman's caressing hand, Patricia's. She was standing in front of Ham then, her back to the camera. A great shot. Nobody's face was visible so nobody could be recognised, and nobody could sue. From the angle the picture was taking, the reader clearly saw the guy leaning on the truck was in his underwear and socks. The woman too was wearing socks. She was also wearing a short, oversized man jacket, and since the jacket had inched up with her raised arm, in addition to her bare legs, the picture clearly showed the edge of a thong and one bare cheek butt.

He started to laugh when he saw her shocked expression, he might even have whistled a little. She crumpled the papers, threw it away and went hiding under the covers, crying. He stopped the whistling and the laughing (but couldn't wipe off the grin) and took her in his arms. He held her until she was all cried out and had started to laugh too. They had breakfast and showered before going to see Fred.

"Come on, Pussycat. I'll doctor you in the shower," he offered.

"I want to shower alone. Smoke before sweat, you can go after me."

"Want me to put cream on those burns of yours?"

"What burns?" He took it to mean her burns were very sensitive. "Can you wait in the bedroom, I'd like some privacy?" Meaning I'll tend to my wounds alone, Big guy.

He followed Judy's instructions to the letter, not touching her even if he had one hell of a boner. Just a usual Saturday morning for them. He planned on having that front page framed.

# Patricia, Chris, and the runner up

Christopher had called Frédéric asking him to meet them in the bat cave (not that the Big guy called it such).

"It's good you're letting me see Frédéric with you, I appreciate it." She had not exactly asked if she could, choosing merely to tag along, and he had not said anything either way.

"You're still suspended."

"You do know the suspension thing is getting ridiculous, right?"

"Of course it is. You keep getting in trouble. I keep suspending you."

"Surely we could find another way to do this."

"Tell me, Darling of mine, have you noticed how the getting into trouble always precedes the suspension? That might be another way. Stop getting into trouble."

The man was impossible! She did not get into trouble. It truly wasn't her fault this time. What did he think? That she had started the fire? "The fire was just a coincidence." He glanced at her. He had called the chief firefighter earlier. The cause of the fire was still under investigation. They knew the fire had started in the wall between the storage place and the chemical place but couldn't confirm if it had been accidental or not. "The fire is simply a very unfortunate accident." That got her another stare from the man of her life. "Christopher, coincidence do happen. They happen all the time. The fact that you don't believe in them doesn't prevent their occurrences."

"We'll see."

She signed. A big theatrical sigh that earned her that crooked smile of his she found so sexy. He really was impossible. But it was a nice morning, the sun was out, she felt surprisingly rested, her stomach was full thanks to three freshly baked croissants Christopher had brought back from his run. And she was going to see what Frédéric had found. She sunk into the plush car seat, let out a silent happy sigh and closed her eyes smiling. She heard him laugh.

"Princess, I can almost hear you purr."

"Wanna scratch my back? My belly perhaps?"

The car swerved a little. "Fuck, Patricia."

"Hum. Christopher?"

"Patricia," he warned. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You know what, Pussycat. Don't make offers you can't deliver."

"What makes you think I can't, mon chéri?"

He put on the break at the red light way more abruptly than was necessary. "I should have left you at the hotel."

Her turn to laugh. "Hell no, this is fun." It was fun. Judy had told her not to use her hands for at least two days, the same for her thighs. They were throbbing this morning, no way she wanted anything between them. For now. But maybe she could think of something. Christopher was good with his hands. She glanced at his hands, his left firmly hugging the wheel, his right softly cupping the stick shift. Nice, strong hands. She liked his hands.

"Patricia, look at me." She looked up at him. "Do you want to know what color your eyes are?" Not fair, Big guy. "They're turning that deep blue, you know, the one that says you're aroused. Are you turned on, Angel of mine?"

"Of course not."

"Liar." Luckily the light turned green, and someone honked behind them. Christopher drove on. "Princess, you look at me like that again, I'll give you a tour of the back of the truck."

"Promises."

Chris stepped on the gas, cursing. He drove fast, there wasn't much traffic. His damn girlfriend was killing him. She looked, smelled, and no doubt felt great this morning. She had a blue skirt on, long enough to cover her to her knees, but she was bare-legged under it. He liked the bare-legged her. Even knowing the skirt wasn't meant for him but to lessen friction on her thighs, he still wanted to put his hand up under that skirt.

She noticed him staring at her knees and misunderstood. "They don't hurt anymore."

Both her knees were scrapped like she had fallen off her bicycle. But she looked way too grown up for that, didn't she? More like people would think she had rasped them on a carpet doing whatever. He liked the whatever with her on the carpet. He sighed. The whatever would have to wait a while. At least his anger was returning, distracting him from his boner. He should have brought his smokes.

He had called Frankke before leaving the hotel, Ears was the guy's case after all. Frankke was already there when they arrived. Along with Ham.

"I want to know who the winner is," was the guy's dumb excuse. Right. Lucky it was Saturday or the entire team might have showed up. Damn fucking zoo. At least his men didn't comment on the morning papers (mustn't have seen it). Chris sure as hell didn't want them to remark on it, not in front of her at least.

Fred arrived last, a good ten minutes before his usual half-hour tardiness. He should have went and picked the kid up, but he couldn't, could he, not with Patricia around. He didn't want her anywhere near the kid's place (not sure what he feared would happen but thought it was best to avoid finding out). The kid was barely functioning as it was.

"Bonjour Frédéric." Patricia was sitting in a cafeteria chair next to Fred's chair when the kid arrived. The rest of them were standing around doing small talk.

"Patricia, look." The kid wasn't big on politeness, so Chris didn't take it personal. Fred didn't acknowledge the others either, but sat down on his chair and started typing on one of his keyboards. Within seconds, every screen on the console showed the damn front page picture. Fred typed again, and an enlarged photo filled the screens, each screen showing a section on a one-to-one scale next to the real her. Frankke and Ham started clapping and whistling. She stared at him, and he stared back, a big grin on his face. At least he wasn't clapping like the other two.

"Damn you, you told him!"

"I haven't told anymore anything."

Fred joined the fun. "It is where the phone was. The picture was taken where the phone was. The phone number I tracked for you. The fire was where the phone was. The fire was where you were. I am glad you were not hurt."

Fuck, six phrases in a row with a personal statement at the end, she was getting to the kid for sure. No fucking way was she ever going near the kid's house.

"How'd you know it was her?" He asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. He had not expected an answer, and he did not get one. Fred merely sat and stared at her. The kid had put the picture on the screens but he sure wasn't looking at those fucking screens right now and why would he, he had the real thing sitting within touching distance. Within smelling distance. Chris went to stand between the two of them. "Ok, Freddie boy. Show us what you found."

Patricia seemed relieved when her image went off the screens, and a list of names appeared. Fred did leave the picture on the screen at the lower left corner as if he had forgotten it there. When the kid caught her frowning at it, he typed again. The picture disappeared then came back. Re-framed, the fire truck, the fire and most of him cut off, she and part of Hamilton solely remaining. It was a fantastic picture. If it weren't for the fact that it was Patricia in the image, it would make a great underwear ad. She shook her head, nothing she could do about it now, was there? She turned her attention back to him, more precisely to what he was pulling out of the kid.

The kid had done a good job singling out the phone location (and within hours of the Mario jerk). And he had tracked the medical clinics and their personnel, Mario hadn't. Too tedious Patricia had said, but not for Fred.

"I have a list of the nine thousands plus names of staff people who have access to the phones," the kid told her.

So much for search warrants. It was only a preliminary sorting, they had to do a thorough background check on those people eventually, but it was a start. Chris had the kid bring out the ones that could be a match for what he and Frankke had gathered up north. A doctor or medical staff member forty to sixty years old, widowed, one son. All names for which there wasn't enough information were kept, all names who had only one of those characteristics were also kept. By the end of the morning, they had a list of seventy-seven names that needed to be checked more closely. A good job indeed.

# The winner

Christopher took them all to lunch. The mood was better than on the previous night, and thankfully the guys didn't tease her about the picture (or at least no more than she could handle). Knowing Christopher, she anticipated he was going to start on the names right away, doing it himself if he had to. His guys must have felt the same, their excitement was perceptible. Ah, men and the joy of hunting.

"Go through it, sort it out, then check it with Fred," the Big guy said, surprising her by handing the list to Frankke. "We'll start on it first thing Monday after the meeting."

"How'd you want to go about?" Frankke asked.

"Divide the list in four. I'll put the team in pairs." Giving each pair a list of eighteen or nineteen names she calculated rapidly. "Let me know when you're done." Christopher looked around at his guys before adding, "Ok, that's it, guys. Have a nice weekend. Get some rest. It's going to be a long week."

Damn, she liked it when he played boss to his guys. She liked how he handled them and handled himself. Very sexy. She sighed. Too bad she was going to miss the Monday morning meeting, it truly was her favourite part. Dead bodies, burning buildings and getting naked on roofs, she didn't like so much. Interesting research, though.

In his youth, Chris would have gone through the list right away. These days he was if not wiser, more patient. He thought about asking Frankke and Ham not to call the others but knew they would anyway, if only for the picture. He patted the notebooks in his pocket. Patricia had given them to him earlier at the hotel, pointing out the inscription that had nearly gotten her burned. The date was a hell of a coincidence, one he didn't like. So was the fire. He would read the rest of the notebooks later. After dinner when all was quiet, and he had talked it through with her. They walked back to the station, Ham in tow complaining about his age and the sole of his feet, and they all separated.

Chris figured the best way to go about the lecture was to go for a walk. Patricia was always relaxed when she walked. And the day was gorgeous, sunny and cool, perfect walking weather. He wasn't much of a long distance walker; he preferred running. Faster. But there was no hurry this afternoon, they walked through the park near her hotel. She told him about the notebooks. And her visit to the Ears's place. She didn't mention the others but since she had visited Ears and Legs, he strongly suspected she had visited Ass and Breasts also. She was very methodical when she did research and not matter how crazy the initial research purposes might be, the way she went about it wasn't. Had she gotten in? Had she played the landlord like she had Legs's old man? What about when there were no landlords, how had she gone about it? Had she called Mario again? No point asking, she wouldn't tell.

Sometimes ignorance was bliss if he wanted to be able to sleep. From time to time came nagging urges to handcuff her to his bedposts. Like yesterday, seeing her standing in her underwear knowing she had done something crazy. He had not, of course (as of yet never had), and now the desire was gone, but it would return. He never had fantasies like that before her, but this particular one was becoming fucking recurrent. Not that he didn't like her hands free, the damn woman's hands were pure magic.

They walked for maybe an hour before stopping at a coffee shop that offered free wi-fi access plus two desktops-to-rent. He had chosen the place.

They sat at a table near the window, her with a large latte and Christopher with a double espresso. They were just like any regular couple having coffee on a pleasant Saturday afternoon (she for one liked pretending they were). She enjoyed the view, people walking by the window going about their lives. Christopher was drinking his coffee looking thoughtful, but he had a half grin, so everything was good.

"So tell me, Angel, who won?"

She understood right away what he was asking. "Mario was faster, but Frédéric was more thorough, so I think it's even. Don't you agree?"

"No. I'll take thoroughness over speed anytime. Hence, Fred wins."

"You're just rooting for your guy. I'm more impartial on this one. I say it's even."

"I disagree. It's clearly Fred."

He was teasing surely. "Of course not. If I have to pick a winner, I pick Mario. You have to take into account he had a higher level of difficulty since he didn't have direct access to the police database."

"Damn it, Patricia. Just that is enough for me to arrest the guy. He probably broke into the fucking database!"

The man thought like a damn cop. Infuriating really. "He might not have, you don't know."

Fuck she was very naïve for thinking her Mario had not done anything illegal. Or she was delusional pretending it didn't matter since Mario hadn't done it with malevolence. Probably both. She had a very unique perspective on what was legal and what wasn't. Not that he could argue with her on that, could he? He too had a very personal sense of justice, and it might even be crazier than hers.

"Darling of mine, we both know Mario breaks into systems on a daily basis, which mean I can arrest him." He had this crazy plan to threaten Mario the hacker (not Mario the friend hence nothing personal), so next time she'd think twice before asking Mario the hacker-friend for anything for fear she might get the fatso into trouble.

"Mon darling chéri, you do homicides, not cybercrimes. Besides, for you to arrest him, don't you have to find him first?" Ok, so the crazy plan wasn't totally tweaked yet but it was a start.

Keeping the question hypothetical hence without any mention of her, he had asked Fred once, "How might one go about contacting one's paranoiac hacker friend?" One of the many things Fred didn't get, hypothesis, but Chris was learned how to bypass the kid's quirks. Some possible ways and ideas of how Patricia and Mario's relationship− fuck he hated calling it such − how their thing worked had emerged.

"You're gonna tell Mario who won?"

"What do you mean?"

"You should call and tell him. It will make him happy, won't it? Knowing he beat the police."

"Mario doesn't care about such trivial winnings."

"Of course he does. Everybody likes to win, even loser hackers like him like to win."

"Christopher, he's not a loser. He's just, well, hum, a little maladjusted."

"You're right. I'm sorry. Same as Fred. Maladjusted then. Call him."

"No."

"Why not? Afraid someone might trace the call? Don't be, no one can, not in a place like this." An email sent from a public pool of computers like they had in this place was traceable, like all others, but who had the resources to do it? Not the police. One needed time and money to do that kind of trace. One needed to have the email to start with, and it wasn't on her computer. She was right about him not being able to find Mario; they couldn't trace it from his end.

They studied each other for a beat. To trace Mario, he would need to follow her around and wait for her to email the jerk then seized the computer she had used and sort through all the history. And no doubt they were using some fucking codes, he didn't even know if she had a specific address that she used or if she used a new one each time. Probably a new one, those guys were paranoid to the extreme, and they were good. Joshua had been a genius, and he had the feeling Mario, if not as sexy as his leader, was at least as smart if not more.

One day he would successfully trace Mario − not that he had to for she was right, he was into homicides, not fucking geeks, but one day he was going to find that Mario jerk − one of those jerks had to pay for what Joshua had done to her. But not today. Although Mario had given her the address, the jerk had also offered her goons. If he tracked Mario down, not only would she get mad but she might ask someone else the next time, and that someone might not be as thoughtful. In the end, Mario's offer had not been useless, it had prompted her call Ham.

Chris smiled sweetly. "It's ok, Princess. I won't read the address or the secret codes."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Damn she was sexy when she was lying.

"Ok then. Shall we get back?"

"Would it be ok if we took a cab? My shoes hurt."

Her shoes fitted her fine. He had seen her walk in those shoes many times, but recalling Ham's whining, he grinned. "Sure. No problemo. Come on, lazy woman."

She sat close to him in the cab and rested her head on his shoulder. He liked. Silly how such an innocent gesture could make him fell so fucking strong. Cute couple thing, not that he was anywhere near cute, she alone was responsible for the cute factor. He had not held her hands during their walk afraid they were too sensitive, instead she had wrapped her arm around his, very old-fashioned. He liked.

"When we arrive, we're going to play doctor, Pussycat. Ham was wearing a pair of gloves this morning, no doubt to protect his hands. Now why haven't we thought of that?' Gloves full of ointment, tights full of ointment. Then heat to help speed up the healing.

# Alternate series: On-going affair

He kept a close eye on her, picking her up every night she worked at the damn place. He couldn't understand why the fuck she wanted to work there still. The staff was the same. The place was the same. It was only a matter of time before the services were the same.

They found another woman. He didn't tell her about it. He didn't tell her about any of them. He took her out. The movies. The park. Restaurants. Whatever the fuck she wanted.

She smiled at him. Laughed. Did drawings. Not naked. Naked, they fucked.

She smiled up at him. He smiled down at her. Her under him, him above her, her legs wrapped around him, his arms on each side of her, her hands stroking his shoulders, his cock rocking into her, the black dress somewhere on the floor. She closed her eyes when the wave came. He kept his opened. She fell asleep smiling. He smiled at her sleeping.

Not every day. She worked. He worked. She wanted her independence. He wanted her.

She kept painting other guys. No more naked guys, though.

She started painting some old geezer. "He's such a gentleman. He reminds me of an old family friend."

He waited for her at the restaurant. She liked Italian food. She liked the Italian place he had taken her the first time. He liked her. Weeknight, she was not working at the club tonight. He was waiting for her at the restaurant. He went outside for a smoke while he waited.

She had started a new painting of the old man. He liked the portrait she had just finished. The next one was to be done at the scene. Old man sitting on a park bench. He was waiting for her outside. Twice already he had tried calling her. No answer. Had she run off again?

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# It's Monday again, MacLaren

"Really?"

"Really. You did get us this far, didn't you, Sleek?"

"So I'm not suspended?"

"Of course you are. For three weeks. But it'll start next week."

"Ok. Who do I go with?"

"Reid."

"Reid? Neat. This is going to be fun! Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. It's not supposed to be fun. It's long hours and mostly boring work. Besides, you're very cheap labour."

Chris was using a new tactic. Since having her suspended wouldn't change anything (he had tried it twice already, and the revised plan still failed miserably), he figured it was time for a new plan. Since she had made sure he wasn't her boss, firing her remained a non-possibility. Worse, she would just go another place to piss him off. Research my ass. The fun she was talking about was all at his expenses.

Ok, so he was exaggerating a little. A lot. She was having fun. She had waltzed in the office with a bright smile even though she had not known what to expect. It was her week off after all, and she was in trouble. She knew it; he knew it. By now, the entire team had heard about it either from Frankke or most likely from Ham, could even be from Fred for all Chris cared.

They were at a stand still, him and her. He definitely wanted her in his life, much more than she was now. He'd even admit to liking having her around the office, liking it a lot. But in his fantasies, she was dressed in a tight pencil skirt and high heels, smiling, bringing him coffee, spending times doing filing in his office, trying out the couch, sitting with her knees opened on his desk, things like that. Hell, he'd even let her read some cold files if she insisted. That explained why he had not put up much of a fight at the beginning; obviously his dick had been doing all of the thinking then. Big mistake. And there she was, his fucking fantasy.

They had not talked about the job over the weekend. He had watched her put ointment on her burns and kept his mouth shut, which had been a hell of a fucking hard thing to do. He had made absolutely no comments, not even raising an eyebrow, at least not when she was watching. He had only asked her to come in today before the meeting without telling her why. She had not asked. A stand still and a truce. His mind was not made up yet or so he told himself. Hence, she had come early, but not early enough. All the others were already in with still a half hour to go before the meeting.

She had come expecting a fight and playing on her enemy's weaknesses had foregone her usual cop's disguise. Heels, a tight-fitting grey pencil skirt over bare legs, a loose fitting man shirt, his, with an old-fashioned sleeveless jacket over it, hugging her breasts and waist, subtle make-up showcasing her eyes and lips, and waves, lots of them. She must have moussed and blow-dried for half an hour. Ready for battle. But there wasn't going to be one, him having surrendered even before she'd walk in. Sometimes one needed to lose a battle to win the war.

Thus, he watched her walking in and enjoyed the view. Immensely. Like his dream secretary. He smiled. She might regret the heels later on. He liked. Reid had been a non-choice. He couldn't let Patricia ride with the guys, some he wasn't sure he trusted her with, especially in that outfit, others he preferred not be given opportunities to teach her new tricks. She had too many of her own already. Ham and DesForges fell into the first group (Ham way more than Des), Shapiro and Frankke in the latter. He wasn't sure where LeRoy fell yet. Although there were rumours when Reid had first joined in, Chris didn't believe she was into women so not in the first group. She might have been in the second but giving she had fallen prey to Patricia's tricks before and didn't have that much seniority, he had plenty of leverage on Reid. By rebound, he was going to gain some on Patricia.

"Let's set some ground rules. No improvisation, research, checking out things or other. You are to follow Reid and do what she tells you to the letter. You are there to observe and observe only. Understand?"

"Yes, Chief! Sir!" Damn she was cocky.

"Any misbehaviour and it goes on Reid's head. Understood?"

"Yes, Chief!" A little less sarcastic this time. "Ah. What do you mean exactly?"

"She handles you. You screw up, she's out."

"I won't screw up. Why would I? All I'm going to do is observe and observe only." Big smile and a calculating glance between half-closed eyelids. "What if she gets in trouble? Like if she needs help or something?"

"Then you call me and wait. Observe."

"But what if she's really in trouble?"

"Then you better make sure you have my number on speed dial, Dollface, don't you? The urgent can-reach-me anywhere number. You know. The one I've asked you to use always."

"Did you? I don't think I have that number."

"You used it on the roof."

"Ah yes. That one. Ok."

Thus, it was going to be Shapiro and DesForges. LeRoy and Hamilton. Frankke alone. Reid and Patricia. They would spend the week crossing off names until, hopefully, only one remained that they could tie with Ears and the others. Somehow. Long shot for sure. But Chris trusted his instinct.

He didn't take a list. He'd worked mostly with Frankke, and wanted to be free to check on the others too. On the ladies mostly but also on the guys. And if nothing panned out, at least Patricia would have learned her lesson, the job is shit, Princess, and quit. What I wouldn't do for you, Angel of mine.

# A male on-going training

Chris had gone over the notebooks page by page, texts, sketches, scribbles, shit and all. The kid had glued movie tickets, gum, a condom, unused and still in its wrapper, bus tickets, a cigarette butt squashed to fit between the pages, various mementos of his life, written rude comments about his family, nothing much positive in them. The sketches were done in black and blues, very dark, looking overdone and somehow messy. Chris didn't know much about art, but he knew what he liked and what he didn't. He liked the painters like Klimt, Picasso and the work of that Mexican artist Patricia had shown to him once. He didn't care much for Monet and Renoir, too soft. He liked cartoonists and that Corno woman. He liked Patricia's paintings, had liked them before knowing they were hers. He did not like the kid's. Without knowing about it, he had the same reasoning as Patricia had had. Why would an agent be interested in Ears? Why had the kid contacted an agent? Surely he must have known he wasn't that good.

Chris had known very young what he was gifted for and what he wasn't. Was always surprised other people didn't have the same insight about themselves. Fooling themselves maybe. Or idiots. Either way, he didn't understand. Work with your strength, work on your weaknesses, ask for help when needed was more his motto. He expected the same discernment from people close to him. He didn't often ask, mostly because he didn't have too. Part talent, part hard work, part life experience, having learned to rely on himself first and foremost, and (big) part stubbornness. One of the things, one of the many, many things he liked about Patricia. It wasn't that she didn't have doubts or insecurities, but rather that she kept moving forward in spite of them. Even if sometimes he wished she didn't.

He had seen Patricia's notebooks, quick glances, a page at a time. Had liked what he had seen. He could have peeked when she was in the shower or sleeping yet he never had. Too personal. He didn't want to spy on her, she wasn't his job, she was his life. Her notebooks contained little sketches of places that had caught her fancies for one reason or another. Sometimes he was with her as she drew a scene, and got to see the difference between what he saw and what she made of it in her sketch. Same place, same time but her mind worked in mysterious ways yet whatever the place or the person, her drawings were full of lightness, brightness, softness. Even her most energetic sketches. And the damn woman sketched a lot of heavy, muscular men for Christ's sake. There was none of that lightness in the kid's books. All sharp edges and dark angles not softened by curves or yellows, not even reds. Patricia also used a lot of blues but hers were luminous, like her bathroom, seemingly dark but with an inner glow. Like her eyes. Fuck he was turning soft.

He wondered how long she would last and made a wager with himself. He took into account how stubborn she was, her hands not entirely healed, the heels she had on today but wouldn't wear tomorrow. Added the fact that the women's list was fifty-percent in a good part of town and fifty in an low-end but not too dangerous district. Plus the fact that today was sunny, but the weather was to turn to rain for the next few days, he bet Patricia would last until Thursday early morning.

Stubbornness was the strangest thing. The women would be in the second half of the list by then. She would be tired, so would Reid. She would be getting impatient as would Reid. Patricia's mind would have begun its wanderings since the day before, maybe even earlier if they'd knocked on unwelcoming or unanswered doors hence by Thursday, she would have a couple of ideas going in her head. What ifs and what thens and hows. At that point. Patricia would convince Reid, trick her or go without her, it didn't matter, for either way research would take over. And she would do something, whatever, again it didn't matter, because, as planned, he would have to fire Reid. But in the end he wouldn't because Patricia was going to trade. He was going to have her quit in exchange for Reid's staying. Friends came first, she was that kind of woman, and Reid was her friend. They probably were all her friends by now but with the drinking and all, Reid was the closest. Girl stuff. Reid was a good choice. See, Princess? Perfect plan.

Perfect plan with one single flaw. The wild card, the something I foresee you doing this coming Thursday. I know the when, I don't have a fucking clue as the what. For now. Since he wasn't big on surprises, he added a second layer to his perfect plan. He hired Lonzo and MacCarmick to tail the women. Reid was still a rookie (perhaps not by police standard but certainly by his), and she had a lot of shortcomings one could take advantage of. For example, she had trouble admitting she was not tough (ok, she was tough, but not tough enough) and she couldn't spot a tail. His buddies were good. He made them better by giving them the women's itinerary. Reid, being a good officer, had planned the most effective and convenient route in advance and had given her boss a copy.

While Lonzo covered the spot the women were at, MacCarmick went ahead to the next one and so on and so forth. Even though Chris didn't expect anything to happen before the Thursday, he had his guys follow right from the beginning in case of a miscalculation. After all, his damn girlfriend was not the most predictable woman.

The first day, the guys followed Reid's car at a distance to get to know her speed and rhythm. Each time the women arrived at a new address, one was in position while the other moved to the next. The first days were the trickiest, with a higher possibility of being spotted since the women were rested and attentive. Between the two of them, MacCarmick and Lonzo had six different cars, none registered to their names, cars they left along the route so they could switch during the day. With each pair of officers having to report on their progress as they went, the tail got easier by the hours and days.

The only unknown in his plan was, again, Patricia. His buddies knew her and liked her. If they ever felt she was getting in too deep, they wouldn't hesitate to intervene. Not a weakness in Chris's plan per se since his sole objective here was to keep Patricia safe. A small flaw nonetheless because she knew them. Considering she often walked with her head in the clouds, the damn woman was surprisingly good at spotting a tail. She had spotted the two before. Invariably. Fuck, the woman barely noticed men ogling her from two steps away but could spot someone following her four cars behind or from the other side of the street! Under different circumstances, he might have hired her to give his team some field practice.

Some of her abilities came from Joshua's games; the rest was instinct and natural talent. All could prove lethal for his plan. But the guys had learned first, how smart she was, second, not to underestimate her and third, to recognise some of her gave-away signs. The head tilted to the side. The phoney phone conversation when she'd take her phone in her hand and turn on herself pretending to talk but in reality snapping pictures at her surroundings. To be more inconspicuous, both men had gotten an army-style haircut and a shave. She had never seen Lonzo without hair over his face or Mac without his five-day beard. And they had changed their usual mirror eyeglasses for more sporty models. No way could she recognise them.

"They don't hide the sun enough," Mac complained. "It's gonna cost yah."

"They ruin my style," was Lonzo's only comment.

"Good cover, though, guys. I might have had trouble recognising you myself had I been dead drunk and in a pitched black bar somewhere. Maybe."

"Fucking right, James. Then again, you've known us for decades. And spotting tails you might be even better at than she is." Then again, Chris was trained, and talent and training beat talent alone anytime.

Neither woman (Reid as expected, Patricia as hoped) had spotted the tail so far.

# Patricia under the pouring rain

Fun, entertaining, enjoyable, interesting, fascinating became tedious, tiring, strenuous, tiresome, annoying, depressing before turning into boring, boring, boring. Damn rain at that. Her hair curled all over in this weather. By Thursday, she had adopted the baseball cap look. The cap coupled with a long raincoat, t-shirt underneath, leggings and rain boots. Not sexy but she didn't give a damn.

The rain had started early Tuesday morning and had not stopped. By lunch time that day, they were soaked. An umbrella wasn't enough with all the ins and outs. Some places didn't have an overhead roofing or even a porch. By Wednesday, some places had lakes in front of them. No leather boots had kept their feet dry hence the big black knee-high horrible-looking but comfy rubber boots. She had brought a pair for her and one, slightly larger, for Reid, on her way back the previous night. In truth, she had asked the hotel concierge to take care of it. Living in a hotel had its perks.

She had not asked Christopher over yet this week and despite his offers, had not gone over either. She was beat. How could the Big guy work like that all day and have energy left at nights? Of course, the man didn't exactly do that all day for the infuriating man had no list. None of the team had questioned it. Granted she had not either, him being the boss, he had to supervise, follow up on the other cases and meet with the Brass. But he wasn't going back and forth in the rain either, was he now? He wasn't having doors slammed in his face and rude people making rude comments. Apparently she wasn't the only one not liking cops, especially when the word investigation was mentioned. What was their problem anyway, it was not like they were accusing them of murder? In fact, by the tenth place, they had stopped mentioning the words investigation and murder. Keeping it vague seemed to help for a time.

But when the rain came, and they started getting wet and dressing up like fishermen, the receptions got less friendly. Mostly men on their list and men for some obscure reasons didn't like women officers dressed like fishermen. Good to know, she thought, she might be able to use that in a book at some point. With their new outfits, nobody could tell them apart. With their hair tucked under the cap, even the guys on the team couldn't. Good to know too, if she ever wanted to pretend to be Reid. Or a fisherman.

Her mind started wandering. She and Reid had run out of anecdotes a while ago. She knew all Reid would ever willingly disclosed in a sober state, which wasn't all that much but still volumes more than most people knew about the not-so-rookie only female officer on Christopher's team. And Patricia had told all she wanted to tell, which was even less. But that was ok, they were comfortable enough with each other now that they didn't have to chat all the time. They spent time checking out the anatomy of the male clientele at the different dinners and coffee shops they stopped by during their damn pilgrimage. Patricia had not drunk so much coffee in a long time and even if she was drinking decaf, she was feeling edgy. Reid was as cool as a rock. Like her boss.

Patricia wasn't scouting males for herself, of course, but for Reid. By now, she had a good sense of what Reid liked and didn't, not that she agreed with all of it but hey, that was just her. She could picture Reid with LeRoy, a good match in her opinion, although she wasn't sure Christopher would approve, not sure at all. But did he have to know? After all, they were consenting adults, so it was their goddamn personal business. Or would be. She smiled to herself, watching Reid drive. The woman was an ok driver, smooth but annoyingly slow. For sure, she'd win a car race against Reid, computer game or otherwise. They should all go to the race track and have a friendly competition. Her beating the team might earn her some respect, and someone might even let her drive for a change, and give her something to do. With all the rain, she couldn't spot anything interesting out the side window.

For days she had wanted to drive by the fire site, since the day after the fire really. If they went through the rubbles, could they find the phone? Probably not. If there was a phone to be found, knowing how thorough Christopher was, he would have found it already. Since he had stayed with her all weekend, maybe by the time he got to it, Monday at the earliest, the phone was gone. Not that the phone was all that important, it wasn't even a prop in a story yet but it still bothered her. On the one side, she hoped it would lead to something, anything, so this would not turn out to be a wild goose chase. Even if technically it was her idea, she wasn't the one who had deployed the men power. Christopher's call. He would be disappointed, to say the least, if this turned out to be nothing. On the other end, the Big guy wouldn't have done it if he thought it would lead nowhere, so he had something, a plan of some sort. Out of the little threads those murders had given, he was starting to fit the puzzle. She couldn't see how but he seemed to know.

Hum. If it did lead somewhere, wouldn't that be odd? She had simply been curious about one little note in a dead teenager's notebook. Frankly, if her shenanigans led to the killer, that would be scary. In retrospect, thinking of the possible outcomes was unsettling. What if the killer had had the phone in his pocket or his hands? What then? He might have thought her to be shall we say, hum, a nuisance of sort. He might have wanted to cover his track thus marking her as a potential victim. That was not a role she'd appreciate, not by a long shot. She wasn't particularly strong, didn't carry a weapon and only knew about two self-defence moves, albeit she knew them well and when she focused hard, could execute each perfectly. Two moves weren't a lot, especially in the heat of the moment. Truth be told, she rarely used the moves in a fight since for some reasons, ineffective techniques like thrashing and cursing took over at those times.

Her first move she had done to the drunk at the restaurant. She knew of one variant: elbow to the gut followed with a fist to the chin instead of a heel to the shin. Effective but it hurt her fist. Her second move was tricky and, depending on the guy's weight, sometimes impossible to execute. She had to grab her opponent's arm and shoulder, and kind of roll him over her shoulder. The guy was thrown to the floor in one swift move when she did it right. She learned (the hard way) that she could successfully do the move on a male at least up to Christopher's weight. Christopher had also thought her (him having pinned her down as a result), it was not a move she should do twice in the same fight. Those two moves worked because of a simple fact, guys underestimated her. Had they not she doubt she'd stand a chance. She kept telling herself she needed to learn new moves but somehow never found the time. Luckily the moves worked, long enough anyway. Luckily, she rarely needed the moves.

# As she moves in the rain

Reid had made an arrest on Wednesday, but following Christopher's instructions to the letter Patricia looked on and observed. To be honest, had the arrest taken longer, she doubt she would have been that obedient. As it was, she didn't have time to ponder on the observing thing.

They were at some medical technician's place. The guy being on leave of absence, he was home, and he wasn't happy. He became a bit agitated. They were just there to talk to him about phones, but the jerk acted as if they suspected him of murder.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about a cell you might have received from work," Reid explained flashing the badge.

The tech took it personal, peculiar about his phone or something. "She's a bitch."

"Step out of the house, Sir. Now." Reid, not liking the name calling.

"Fucking bitch called you, didn't she?" Reid was not the bitch then. "She's spying on me..."

As they quickly realised, Tech's leave of absence had more to do with him losing it at work than a medical condition (unless one considered being a total jerk a medical condition). They were standing in the doorway, rain pouring on their faces when he lunged at them. What was his problem anyway, he was warm, dry and cozy at home? Needless to say, he was not well received. Patricia didn't get to use one of her special moves (he was facing her) but she did give him a sharp kick to the knee. It wasn't so much a precise kick as a lucky one, out of pure reflex really. The lunge gave Reid, whose anger had been simmering since the b-word, an opportunity to vent a little. Reid aimed her knee at his belly right under the ribs, pushing and crushing the softer tissues up the ribcage with the right amount of force and speed. The guy doubled over. Another little push from the woman and Tech terminated his descent off the small porch and into the muddy grass.

Reid cuffed him, lifted him back up and pushed him toward the car. Patricia helped Reid with her arrest as best she could without breaking Christopher's stupid rule. "Should I lock the door?" She asked Reid's and Tech's backs as she closed Tech's front door so the rain wouldn't get in. "Do you have your keys, Sir?"

No answer. Hum. Maybe she should call the ex-girlfriend and tell her about Tech's brand new flat screen television, in case the woman didn't have one.

Patricia helped with the car door too, taking her time opening it so Tech got to enjoy the pouring rain. She slammed it hard to show the bitches were in charge. Now that felt good, therapeutic almost. Perhaps she could ask Reid to teach her that move. Too bad they couldn't do the same with all the jerks they talked too. Could she practice Reid's move on them? Research of sort. They only made that one arrest. Assault on an officer.

Later, it would turn out thus: Tech's lawyer cut a deal. Tech agreed to community work and anger management classes.

"Seems to me he got off easy."

"Better that than you having to testify, Dollface. You weren't supposed to be there in the first place. Besides, the trial was scheduled months away; you might not be with the team anymore by then."

"Where else will I be?" Christopher mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. "What did you say, Big guy?"

"We'll see."

Thursday arrived. Nobody had reported any major breakthrough yet. The day dragged on. Since the beginning of the week, between their four pairs, they had found two jerks previously convicted of assault and a thief. They had been physically intimidated or threatened sixteen times (the women only once, an average of five times per male pairs, Ham-LeRoy at a tie for first place with DesForges-Shapiro with six each, Frankke having four and Christopher none. Of course). It should have rained like that the previous Friday, she thought, they would never have gone on the damn roof under pouring rain... Ok, they might have gone up anyway but surely they wouldn't have stayed so long and stripped, they would have just taken the damn phone and gone back, saving everybody three and a half boring days. Rain like that, the fire would have been extinguished before it had even started. One and a half to go.

Her mind wandered. She studied Reid. She was a good officer. She was playing it tough sometimes, a little more than she needed to, but she kept good notes, precise and concise. Facts and gut feelings clearly differentiated. Unlike hers, full of little comments about this and that, sketches of faces and places. There were notes on the weather, the colours, the smells. Precise and concise but, she had no doubt, utterly useless in court. But unlike Reid, she wasn't jotting down notes for the court or Christopher. Her notes were hers and hers only. Research.

She had filled half of her black two-hundred-page notebook. The book was small enough to fit in her purse but big enough for sketching. She had pages on seventeen of the people they had questioned, the others having been either uninteresting or unlovable or too likable. She had twenty-two pages filled with sketches of either the face or parts of Reid, her hand, her profile, her eyes. Thinking she might do a painting of the woman at some point, she was practicing her lines. She rarely used female models; she had herself for that. Besides, she preferred male models. She liked their strength and energy, but Reid had an almost masculine vibe to her. She had not painted Christopher yet, nor sketched him, nor line practiced him either. Not detached enough to draw him, and too damn distracting. Silly.

# To her own rhythm

The rhythm changed that Thursday afternoon. The rain was coming down as hard as ever. The afternoon was dragging on as boring as ever. Next up was some small photographer studio, one of many the clinics sent patients to before they agreed to start treatment, in case pictures were needed later on for court or insurance purposes, as proof of road or work injuries for example. The rhythm changed first as Reid was driving over. The photographer's place was about five or six blocks at the most, from the warehouse.

"How about we drive over to the warehouse and take a look at what's left?" She asked Reid. "No getting out of the car, I swear, observation only."

Indeed, they didn't get out of the car, Reid only doing a slow drive by and around. The place had burned to the ground, and what hadn't turned to ashes the firefighters had destroyed to prevent the fire from spreading. No walls remained standing. Patricia dialled the mystery phone. She got no answer, not even the answering service. So much for that.

Her mood took a nose dive. She had been excited, then bored, then really bored, then really, really bored, now she was just sad. Sadness was followed by anger. Defence mechanism, chain reaction, whatever. First she got angry at herself for starting this whole thing in the first place, then at Christopher for going along with such a ludicrous idea, really the man was infuriating, finally, by the time they reached the photograph's place, she was angry at the killer. This pointless hunt under the rain was all his doing. The sicko country kid, the fire, the damn rain, all of it his fault.

They couldn't find a parking spot in front of the studio. Through the floor-to-ceiling window making the front, they had a clear view inside. Not a soul in sight. The photographer's studio was located between a dry cleaner and an auto parts shop like the ones she had stopped at with the guys. Not fond memories. Close to their parking place, on the left she spotted a small drugstore, a liquor store, some kind of all-night grocery store and an army surplus place. Further down, on the right of the photographer's came a post office, a coffee shop that had seen better days, and a hairdresser salon at the end of the block. On the opposite side of the street sat a row of industrial condos, the structure of the building itself not unlike the one she had seen go up in flames. Again, not pleasant memories. Although the street was busy, it didn't look prosperous, more lower-end middle-class, with people coming and going down the street, running, carrying big umbrellas, some wearing raincoats and rubber boots exactly like hers and Reid's.

Three o'clock and the street lights switched on. Terrific. Christopher had to catch that jerk soon, or she was going to quit the damn job altogether. Her hair was a messy mass of curls. Nothing she could do in weather like this. Even tied up in a ponytail and protected by the baseball cap and her raincoat, humidity still got to it. Maybe she could go to the hairdresser while Reid went to see the photograph. Walking all the way down the block would do her good (either cool her down or drown her).

She was staring at the hairdresser place trying to make up her mind when she noticed the damn car. It was a peculiar car, kind of old but not a classic, not yet anyway. They said it took at least twenty-five years for a car to become a classic. Who were they, she did not know and didn't care really, twenty-five years was a long time. Twenty-five years ago, she didn't have a driver's license and wasn't interested in cars, not then, not now. Unless it was fast, red, and with seats comfy enough for driving and sleeping. New criteria she had added a while ago, roomy enough for her and Christopher. She didn't own a car at the moment, didn't need one really. Not that she couldn't get one if she wanted to; plenty of red roomy sports cars on the market. In any case, she sure wouldn't have picked a bland grey square of a car like the one she was looking at now. A Plymouth Reliant K.

Lemieux, one of Joshua's knights, the sexy one she had slept with first, he was a car guy and knew his classics. Lemieux had had such a car for a week. For Lemieux, there were only two types of cars: one-week-worthy or commitment-classic (he could live a year in those). Car or women he wasn't the commitment type. His girls, hookers, stripper club dancers, one-night stands were all no more than a one-week distractions. All women were de facto in the no-commitment category. Predictably the K car Lemieux had not kept, which hadn't stopped him from telling her all about how the constructors had built the perfect car for the time, how they had surveyed what the average driver wanted in a car and given it to them, building the perfect no-nonsense, no-frills, fully-equipped affordable car.

She had met only one other owner of such a car. Lonzo. On his personal time, Lonzo drove a Porsche, but for work, he drove inconspicuous vehicles. ʻRegular piece of shits' as he called them. He had a pool he chose from depending on the work he had to do. She had not seen him in such a car, but she had seen it parked at their place, the bar he hung at with MacCarmick. With all the rain she couldn't get a good look inside the car, but she could see the shadow of someone sitting in it. Only one way to be sure.

The K-car was parked between the coffee place and the hairdresser. Perfect. "I'm going to go buy shampoo and coffee," she told Reid.

"I'll go with you, I could use some caffeine too."

They ran head down under the rain to the coffee place. They ordered coffee and lingered in the warmth of the shop. Shabby but clean and dry, all she wanted from a coffee place right now. Shabby, clean and dry, with a big bay window in front overlooking the street, giving a good view of the K-car and the man in it talking on the phone, or pretending to be. If she stared, and it was indeed Lonzo (the shadow was too thin to be MacCarmick), Lonzo might spot her. Could be it wasn't him. At first glance, the man in the K had hair too short for Lonzo. She couldn't imagine Lonzo with a buzz cut (or MacCarmick for that matter). If it were indeed Lonzo, it would mean two things. First, the two being a set, McCarmick was not far. Those two were never looking for jobs; the job came looking for them, so second, far more disturbing, only one man could have hired them. Christopher. She took a deep breath. Better to have visual confirmation before hitting the roof. She too could pretend to talk on the phone.

She dialled a phoney number, the one that started her camera. As with any cell phone whatever the model, there was a button to activate the camera manually but her application (thank you Mario), was better. All she had to do now was pretend to listen and slowly turn around while the camera snapped away, a shot every half second. Better than any application on the market, Mario's app was designed for her phone super extra precision camera. Twenty seconds of wide angle shots, then the zoom auto-activated for another twenty seconds, another zoom in, twenty seconds. A total of one hundred and twenty pictures in one minute. If she wanted more, she simply dialled again. Another casual phoney phone call, like she was taking her messages. She didn't have to call again. Within the last ten shots, there was one of the K-car driver looking into the coffee shop. Enlarged, even through the veil of rain, the driver was a short-hair Lonzo twin. She wasn't mad at herself anymore. Now she was equally angry at the killer jerk and Christopher. For sure this tail had nothing to do with Reid. This tail was for her and her only. The rhythm changed again.

She had no idea what to do about it. Should she call and yell at him over the phone? She wasn't big on yelling, not big about calling him on the phone either. What if he denied it? She wouldn't be able to tell if he was lying or not. Could it be a coincidence, Lonzo being here? Contrary to Christopher, she did believe in coincidences. No, she decided, the best was to confront him face to face, that way she would see how he reacted, if he flinched, if his body tensed ever so slightly, if the vein on his neck was throbbing. She wanted, needed to get her hands on him in the flesh. No surprise he always won his monthly poker games, the other players couldn't touch him as she could. Would.

What now? Pretend Lonzo wasn't there? Hum. Not her style to endure a tail. Lose him? Thanks to Joshua's teaching − annoying as it was, being paranoid had been one of his skills − she was damn good at losing a tail. Losing Lonzo would give her something to do, and since he wasn't a threat, it was going to be fun, a game of cat and mouse, him being the mouse of course. She smiled.

The smile lasted thirty-three seconds. She couldn't do it, not with Reid. If she pretended to feel sick, the woman would insist on bringing her home. If she told Reid she thought they were being followed, well, she might as well call Christopher herself because he would hear it from Reid within the next minute. Could she go back to wait in the car and skip when Reid did her thing at the photographer's? Hum, tempting but then she'd have Lonzo and Reid after her, and Christopher too eventually. The more she thought about it, the angrier at him she became. The man was impossible! When Reid decided the break was over, Patricia followed. Back to option number one. Let them keep thinking she didn't know until she decided what to do. Plenty of time to decide how to make the Big guy pay.

# Patricia to another beat

They ran back down the street to the photographer's place. A bell rang when they entered. The small front lobby remained empty. There was a narrow counter on one side of the room and small comfy-looking armchairs, three of them, along the opposite wall. A sign that read ʻPlease take a seat. I am in the dark room' rested on the counter. So they did. Except for a door, closed for now, cutting the back wall, the side and back walls were covered with pictures. Glossy frames of women and men and children, typical of all photographers' studios. The photos weren't bad but they were not even close to the best she had seen. Only a couple she found interesting, their angles and lights original, but they were lost amongst all the more conventional ones.

As an artist, she only exposed what she considered her best work. She was her harshest critic; she had even painted over paintings that her gallery-owner friend wanted to show. That photographer should do the same. Only the interesting pictures should be on the wall. The rest of the walls was best left empty. Unless bland and conventional what the clients with the money wanted, of course, and the photographer was after said clientele's money. He probably was. As she had realised long ago, most people tended not to see things the way she did. Most probably she tended to view life unlike most people did. She sighed but didn't make any comments to Reid about the pictures on the walls.

She paced around while the photographer remained hidden in his dark room, glanced outside to check on the K-car. From the inside, she couldn't see if Lonzo's short-hair twin was still there but she was ready to bet a year's salary that he was. Easy bet since there was nobody to take her wager. Still, with the imaginary money she was confident she had just won, she intended to buy two indecently expensive bottles of red wine and empty them with Reid.

She went back to staring at the frames. The only five she genuinely liked. It was as if they had been taken by a different person altogether. Was there more than one photographer in the place? Or did the one photographer have two personae? Like her public self. The clothes she wore when she did the writer scene weren't the same she'd wear for her art exhibit. In her case, though, her personae changes were only clothes deep. She didn't have different personalities; her writer, her painter and her everyday charactères were one and the same, no hidden Eve complex or whatever the multiple personality thing was called. She was strictly play acting, displaying different sides of her personality depending upon the occasions. But be it the way she acted, the characters in her books or the way she painted a body on a canvas, they were all part of her. If one knew how to look, there was a signature there.

Photographer was something else. There was no cohesion between the everyday work and the five peculiar pictures. There should be some of the same in the other pictures as in those five yet she saw none. She was lost in thought when a young guy came out the back. Tall, slim, plain were the first characteristics that came to her mind when she saw him. Except for his face. Fascinating. Not handsome, far from it, no tan, no hair to speak of, but acne marks all over. And bruises on his left cheek and his chin, plus dark circles under his eyes and a nose that looked swollen. Then he started to talk and the plain came back.

"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was catching up on some old work. You know how it is. Again, I apologise. I was developing some film and some of the steps need to be done without pausing. So sorry for the wait, ladies..."

Patricia zoned out as he rambled on. Boring could have been another way of describing him. "Have you been in a car accident?" She inquired when he paused for breath.

"Not at all. It's work-related. A file cabinet tipped over yesterday. Please do not let my appearance unsettle you. I assure you I am quite fine. The cabinet..."

She was on the roof when the building caught fire. He was under his cabinet when it tipped over. Life's little coincidences. She smiled to express her sympathy.

Reid eventually remembered to flash her badge.

"I can close the place for a ten-minute pause if it is more convenient for you, Officers. Please follow me into the studio, we'll be more comfortable there and can talk uninterrupted."

The studio was as typical as its owner. White screen in a corner, a changing room on the other, a couple of spotlights in the middle with a three-tray trolley holding an array of lenses and cameras. A small table and four chairs for mothers or husband or others, to use as a waiting area during sessions.

"I mostly do family portraits, weddings, models portfolios. I also do passport and clinical shoots for lawsuits and such."

He showed them the set-up he had for those, explaining in details what cameras and lenses and lights he would use then. And no, he did not keep a phone anymore. "I used to in the beginning. The insurance companies, via the clinic, hired me to take pictures at the scenes. I did not like it. I far prefer working from my studio. Since I do not go out anymore, the clinic said I did not need a phone. I might still have one somewhere, I can look for it if you want but it has been a while since I went out and I doubt I will find one."

Patricia agreed. If his entire studio was like the rooms they had seen so far, the guy didn't keep much. There were no magazines out front, none at the guest table. No coffee machine or water cooler either. The studio's white walls were bare and all the scenery screens, winter, summer, fall, countryside, beach, were lined up against the right wall, each neatly and evenly spaced a step from the other. Affected. Plain and affected the guy was. No way he could have taken those five pictures.

She changed the rhythm of the interview. No, she wasn't supposed to talk (had not before), but she wanted to know. How could a guy like him take pictures like those? Reid rose an eyebrow at her but let her speak.

"Do you have an associate, a colleague, another photographer perhaps that works with you sometimes?"

He had none.

"A girlfriend or a mate that does photography with you?"

Nope, he worked alone.

"Ah." She pressed on, "Do you remember when the five pictures out front, you know, the ones you took with the graduated neutral density filter was it, were taken?"

He did remember when and where and with what lenses they had been taken. He explained the technicalities of them without mentioning a thing about what he had seen before that had motivated him to take the damn pictures, didn't mention a thing about the feeling he had had during nor did he say anything about his satisfaction at the result. Obviously not a creative process for the guy. Maybe she was reading too much into those five. Maybe they were just pictures.

"Could I see your dark room?" She asked without looking at a now clearly frowning Reid. They had no warrant, but where was the harm if the guy agreed?

"Like I said, I am in the middle of something and..."

Patricia was stubborn. She smiled. While before she had only undone the zip of her coat, she now took off the lousy fisherman raincoat. She had kept the cap because of her hair, but she took it off too and patted up her curls a little to get them under control, quickly gave up on that end and decided to stick with the smile. "Your work is sooo fascinating. That lens looks intriguing, what is it used for?"

"Ah yes. It is a very specialised tool. I used it for..."

The photographer was taller than her, taller than Christopher too. She had to tilt her chin way up to meet his gaze. But absorbed in his explanation, Photographer wasn't looking at her. Maybe he was more into muscular physiques? The two men and three women in the intriguing pictures were beautiful people. And the three women had fuller breasts than hers. Hum. Reid had full breasts, perhaps if the woman took off the raincoat? She stole a glance at Reid. The woman was sitting stiffly, an unhappy frown on her face. Did she like the guy? Nope. From the pinched lips, it was more Patricia's attitude she didn't agree with. Reid was a bit punctilious sometimes; Patricia anticipated a lecture once they got back to the car. With a shoulder shrug, Patricia continued with her act. Better to make the most of her reproof-free time.

How could she make such a boring character into something more glam, one that could come up with the five? "What about the five pictures we talked about? Did you use the sexy lens for those?"

"Well no. Like I said, for those I used−"

"Fascinating. Where did you say you took the pictures? Do you have others? I might be interesting in purchasing one." Maybe if she saw more, she could understand.

The black room occupied all of the back but for a storage area big enough for storage cabinets. She walked in the lead with the guy pushing her lightly by the elbow, motioning them to the cabinets to explain his filling system. To access the storage room, he led them through the black room, but without stopping near the plates or the equipment.

"I designed the filing system myself..." The guy droned on but his system wasn't rocket science. Basic alphabetical order plus chronological, the most recent pictures occupying the middle drawers, tops being the less than a year and bottoms for older ones. A drawer was reserved for the medical shots. The broken cabinet had already been replaced, the broken parts of the old one piled in a corner. "I'm waiting for garbage day."

At first, he did not open the drawers, but duh, she pretended not to understand how he could keep so many pictures in there. He explained some more, talking to her like she was a child. "I don't keep the actual pictures, only the negatives. I store them here. You see I am a classically-trained photographer." Indeed, she had not seen one single computer. "I only keep prints of the pictures that I have sold or sent to the insurances," he said, "or the special ones."

"Special how?"

"Would that be all, ladies?"

From plain to impatient. Their ten-minute were up since fifteen minutes ago.

Reid began her ʻthank you' speech as she walked out of the room, but Patricia lingered back, taking her time getting out of the black room. Time enough to look at the pictures drying on the cords or pinned to boards. Pictures in a pile waiting to be packaged or labelled. A mix of mug shots, enlargements and reframing that had no unity to them. There must have been over a hundred pictures hanging or laying around in that small room and amongst them she only saw one that could go with the five. She wanted to look at it more closely. Had Reid and the guy not come back to get her, she might have hidden the picture in her pants.

# Alternate series: On her own

He tried calling her again while he waited. No answer.

He was still reflecting upon her disappearance, as he had many times in the last three days when an older man came out the back. Tall, slim, plain was what first that came to mind when he saw the man. The only interesting part was the face. Not handsome, far from it. Acne marks all over. No tan, no hair to speak of, but bruises. On his left cheek, on his chin, A nose that looked swollen. Dark circles under his eyes. Then the man started to talk, and the plain came back, even more apparent.

The man apologized profusely for keeping him waiting. "I was catching up on old work," the man explained. Boring could have been another way of describing the man.

" _Have you been in a car accident," he inquired, pointing at the man's bruises._

" _Oh no, just a stupid work accident. One of my file cabinets tipped over yesterday. Now, what can I do for you, sir?"_

After he had shown the man his badge, the man offered to close the place for a ten-minute break and go into the studio so they could talk uninterrupted.

The apartment was as typical as the old man. White walls, a small table and a couple of chairs placed around, each placed a step off the next. Neatly, evenly spaced. Affected. Plain and affected the old geezer was. There was no way his little black dress angel could have taken to that old man.

The man offered coffee. He declined. "I won't keep you long. I'm investigating a missing person case, and I'd like to know about your days at the park."

" _I rarely ever go out anymore."_

" _Yet, you spend days posing for her at the park. Did she mention a trip? Or leave anything with you?" He was shooting questions at random, looking for any thread that might lead to her._

" _I don't keep much. When you get my age, Officer, you'll understand."_

He insisted, he wanted to know. How could a man like that make her do such a painting? He pushed more.

" _When did you see her last?"_

" _Couple of days ago I think. It was raining so we continue the session at her place," the old man said, giving her address._

So she had taken the old man home.

" _We were working on more than the one painting," the old man added. "The park. And a nude."_

A naked old man? Why couldn't she have picked him instead?

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# His dance

"Let's see if I got this straight. You want me to get a search warrant for the photographer because you saw a picture you think he didn't take himself because you don't find him artsy enough?" He took a deep breath before continuing. "Said picture you saw in the not artsy enough guy's dark room? A picture that might or might not have been taken on the roof of a building that burned down. Which roof you climbed off of in your underwear. Is that it?" Chris scolded at her.

"No! Yes. When you said it like that, it does sound somewhat crazy but−"

Damn woman. "You're the expert here, Pussycat." Always snapping her damn phone around. She hated having her picture taken but had no problem shooting away at everyone else. Research. Fucking research. "If you think the guy didn't take the pictures then most probably the guy didn't take the fucking pictures."

The rain was getting him down. The rain and her damn attitude. She had not quit. Thursday night and here they were arguing again about the fucking case. He had known something was up when she called. First, well, she had called. Middle of the afternoon and she had called him on his cell, not the urgent number but his damn cell nonetheless! Inviting him for a drink with Reid. Was Reid her backup or a witness, he wasn't sure yet. Reid hadn't talked much; she wasn't big on the small talk. He did appreciate that about her. And she was straight, she had admitted right out she couldn't tell if the guy had or not taken the fucking pictures (not that Reid seemed certain of which fucking pictures Patricia was talking to).

"What's your take on this?" He asked Reid.

"I don't think we have enough for a warrant." Straight out, the way he liked it. "But," she went on then stopped.

"Yes?" He waited. No hurry, he had a fine scotch in his glass. Single malt as per his usual, no ice, just a drop of bottled water to bring out the flavour. Small brewery he didn't know, private import probably, that barman sure knew his scotch. The women had chosen the wine bar, stopping by Reid's to change. Patricia's top had been soaked despite the damn fisherman coat she wore as a uniform this week. Her hair was curling all over, the only good thing about that fucking rain as far as he was concerned. The top Patricia was wearing, one of Reid's loose v-neck t-shirt, looked great on her; he didn't remember her owning anything in green camouflage colour. He was not the only one noticing Patricia in the green t-shirt, the barman was looking toward their booth more often than necessary. The barman indeed knew his stuff.

"Reid?" Reid wasn't the most confident about confronting him. It had its ups, way easier to boss her around, but it had its downs, like now. The woman might look fierce, and she was a hell of a lot stronger than Patricia physically, but when it came to taking risks, Patricia was the reckless one. Might be Reid was just too straight. Although, in all fairness, she had reasons to be, she was a trained officer and a good one. Patricia, well, she just doing fucking research or so she said. The problem, as he knew too well by now, was that the damn woman was indeed just doing research, in her mind at least. Absolutely no risk in doing a little research, right? He sighed. "Ok. Spill it out Reid."

"Well. Based on what Patricia saw−"

"Or think she saw," he corrected.

"Hey!"

"Ok. Based on what Patricia thinks she saw, we don't have enough for a warrant but it might be worth looking into more closely."

He already intended to have a car watch the place for a while. Just in case. He sure was doing a lot of things just in case these days. "How?" He wanted Reid to make her own evaluation.

"We could put the guy under surveillance for a while. See what turns up."

"Ok, I'll think about it."

"Ok. Good." Reid looked surprised that he was even considering it. Even Patricia looked a little startled, startled but not happy.

"You're going to have the guy followed?"

Yes, he was, but he wasn't about to let her in on his plans. "Patricia, you said yourself he couldn't have taken the pictures so why should I have him followed? I'll think about it."

"Hum, of course. But you know, just in case."

"Just in case? In case what?" He paused but not long, he wasn't expecting an answer, before grinning at her. "You know, putting a place under surveillance costs money and manpower. Having someone followed is even more expensive."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? How much? Please do tell, I'm curious. Just how much exactly does it cost to put someone under surveillance and have him followed?"

Her voice was neutral, but her eyes were turning dark, the damn stormy blue he liked. Could she have spotted her tail? His guys were good. They had changed looks. They had changed cars. And the rain was the perfect cover. No way. More like she had been hoping he'd barge into the photograph's studio. "Princess, when we have something concrete, I'll gladly splurge on your photographer but until then we sit tight, understood?"

"Yes, boss." Only Reid answered. Patricia contented herself with studying him over the rim of her glass with those dark, sexy blues. He pretended not to notice. He would have to keep a close watch on her.

After their drinks, Patricia had Reid bring her back to her hotel, and he went back to the office to set things up with the photographer's place. Considering the late hour, he could only set up a partial surveillance for the night. A regular squad car drove over the photographer's place to check everything was closed for the night then proceeded to the guy's home address. The cops couldn't visually confirm the guy was indeed home but his car was located, parked on the street near his place. Since Reid had dropped Patricia off around nine, by the time he was done, she was asleep. Assured that everyone was set for the night, he went home.

The phone would have awakened him had he been asleep. As it was, having the feeling that he was missing something, he was sitting on his terrace smoking, in the company of Fists and Knot. Maybe it was the disappointment at not having estimated her quitting time right. Unfulfilled fantasies about her quitting and coming to live with him... Although them living together was not a fantasy, but more a long term plan. Working hard at shortening the timeline here, Angelface, but you're not cooperating much. Damn woman. He wouldn't push her, though. She had a tendency to run when she was overwhelmed. Italy. Spain. Yoga in the desert. She always came back, but sometimes it took her weeks. And people thought him untamed.

It had stopped raining, a respite in the middle of the damn flood, but the rain was expected to start again soon. So there he was smoking and drinking scotch on his terrace when the phone rang. One o'clock, his private home number, it could only be one thing. Her.

"Hi, Big guy."

"Hi, Angel."

"Did I wake you?"

"Nope. Still up."

"Were you smoking?"

He smiled to himself. The woman was quick. "Yup."

"Why?"

His smile grew. She did make him smoke. Since his pulse never going faster than seventy, he needed a way to show the anger. Fist and Knots had been accommodating this evening, but he knew they could and would get more fierce.

"Thinking about you I guess."

"Ah. That's nice."

"Yes, it is. I like thinking about you. How about you, do you like thinking of me?"

"Yes. I was, hum, thinking about you right now."

"Really? Why?" Silence.

"I kind of did something."

# Small change for him

Sure enough, there they were Fists and Knot, up a notch. "Patricia?"

"You need to call your buddy MacCarmick."

"What?"

"Just call him, ok?"

Wishing he had taken his smoke inside, he took a long deep calming breath, exhaling through his nostrils. He never smoked inside, but he sure could use one just about now. "Where is Mac now?" Her talking about MacCarmick meant the guy wasn't far. "Let me talk to him."

"No. Call him on his phone."

What she had on her phone, he had no fucking clue but from the care she took not to let anyone touch it, he was sure he wouldn't like it. "Patricia, just give him the fucking phone." His voice was low in his throat.

Holding the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, he slipped running shoes on and a vest over his sleeveless t-shirt and sweatpants, so much for the smart cop outfit. Somehow he doubted the cop in him was going to like what was coming.

Mac's voice came a couple of seconds later. "Chris?"

"Is she alright?"

"Aye, she's okay. Maybe a cut or two, but she's fine. Crazy but fine. So am I, by the way. Thanks for asking."

"Mac, Christ!"

"I know. Want the short version or the long?"

"Fuck Mac!"

"Ok. Short then. She broke into the photographer's."

"What? Let me talk to her."

"Oui, mon chéri?"

"No French sherry thing tonight, Princess. What the hell are you doing?"

"It was an accident; I was trying to open the door."

"Fucking shit, Patricia!"

"No need to use such language. Really. It's all just a misunderstanding. If MacCarmick had taken my offer, it wouldn't have happened."

"You saying it's Mac's fault?"

"Of course not. Technically it was my idea. But it would have been much simpler if he'd−"

"Stop it! Let me speak to Mac again."

"I wouldn't have called if I had known you'd be like that, Big guy. Just have MacCarmick bring me back and everyone will be happy."

"Mac! I want to talk to Mac!"

"You are infuriating! You want to talk to him? Then call him!" The damn woman hung up on him.

By then Chris was in his car. He headed off to the photographer's place, taking a chance they were still there, and dialled Mac on his cell. "Long version."

"Ok. I saw her leave past midnight in a cab. Followed her, thinking I would get the night off when she got to your place. She had the cab drop her off in front of the photographer's studio. I saw her wait for the cab to leave before she went to the door. She waved at me then." Mac interrupted his recap to whine, "She waved, man! I was parked at the end of the street, and she fucking waved! Knew I was there! She even motioned me over. What was I to do? I drove up to her. Fuck. I must be getting old." Mac wasn't getting old, more like Patricia had already known the guy would be following her from the hotel. Mac let out another couple of swearwords before returning to the long version, "She tried to hire me. Wanted me to break into the place. I declined. We argued a little; I still said no. When she backed off, I thought I had discouraged her. I was about to call you when I heard the window break. She sneaked inside through it."

"Where are you now?"

"Inside. Look, it was a small window, I couldn't get in so I had to pick the lock. Luckily there's no alarm, the way she went in, she would have tripped it."

Luck had nothing to do with it. She'd been to the place, she knew there was no security. "What's she doing now?"

"Backroom. Don't worry, the back door's condemned. Only way out is the front door."

"Don't let her out of your sight. Any signs of the cops?" Funny question considering he was a cop, but there you have it.

"No."

"Close the door and cover the window so there's no traces from outside."

"Already done."

MacCarmick was efficient. Loyal and efficient. "Thanks."

"No prob'. She sure makes the job interesting." Mac's humour.

Having her wait for him in their new place after a long day of her working at the library was going to be paradise. Hell, he wouldn't need to smoke anymore.

MacCarmick let him in when he arrived fifteen minutes later. The window she had broken into was indeed small; only a slim person could sidle through it. Window climbing was getting to be a hobby of hers, he thought derisively. From the outside, thanks to the paper sheets Mac had used to cover it, one would hardly notice the break-in, but on the inside the crushed glass was hard to miss.

A big grin on his face, Mac pointed at her with his chin. She was sitting at a small table next to the lamps and screens and watched his approach, elbows on the table and chin resting on her fists. No smile. He took a chair opposite her and sat astride, elbows on the chair's backrest, chin on fists. Mirror pose, staring contest. They locked eyes for a beat. ʻShe makes the job interesting,' Mac had said. His guy kept on grinning.

She spoke first. "I have something for you." Taking her chin off her hands, she put one arm behind her back, her hand reappearing holding a piece of glossy paper. A fucking picture. Of course. She laid it flat in the center of the table between the two of them. He didn't move, kept his eyes on her. She crooked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "It's interesting. You should look at it."

He already knew what it was. Fucking picture the guy had allegedly taken from the roof of the burned down building where she had stripped to her bra. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"Patricia." That was all he said, more a growl than anything. He couldn't add anything more without exploding. She didn't seem to realise how mad he was.

"There was no risk. MacCarmick complicated the whole thing when he refused to open the door. If I had known, I would−"

"If you had known, what? What the hell would you have done? Call one of Mario's crazy friends? Go to some hellhole and hire someone yourself? Come alone and break a window? No, wait, you did that anyway."

"I don't understand why you're so angry." She must have seen something in his face because she stopped and sighed. "Ok. I do understand. A little. But if MacCarmick had done the job, we would have been in and out in less than five minutes, no harms done."

"If Mac had done the job? Why would Mac have done anything?"

"You know, Big guy, I don't see why you get to hire mercenaries, but I'm not allowed to do the same. After all, he comes highly recommended, the damn infuriating South district's chief of homicide vouches for him!" It suddenly dawned on Chris that she had come knowing Mac was going to follow. She had known about the tail and decided to use it, damn her. She turned to Mac, "By the way, why did you refuse? It was easy money."

"Baby, I don't do illegal." She laughed at that. He watched her smile, angry at her still but Knot and Fists lessening. She had not gone out alone. As with Ham and the fucking roof, she had safely planned her trip. It had not worked out as she intended, though, had it? "And I don't do cheap," Mac added.

She pretended to be insulted. "I said name your price, I was willing to pay good money." She pouted, a smile in her eyes. "What's the street price anyway, for opening the door of a place like here?"

Opening, not breaking or picking, the woman had such a way with words. Chris took the ball and went fishing. "Don't you know? What does it cost you when you break into places?" She blushed. Yup, as he had suspected, she had been to all the victims.

"I don't know, Big guy. I never pay for such services," was her only comment.

Mac found it funny, Chris not so much. He would have preferred not to know, her not paying was more worrisome than her paying too much.

"Tell me, MacCarmick. Isn't a job a job?"

"Wrong. Even us mercenaries have a code of honour."

She looked at his friend. That long, thoughtful stare she sometimes had. She then got up and gave his burly friend a hug, catching both men by surprise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Muscles-for-hire? Hired-cop? What would you like?" Chris thought he saw his guy blush.

"Mac's fine, Babyface."

"MacCarmick it is then. For future reference, can I have your phone number? Just in case I have a job for you. Something that would not be against your code, of course." Mac looked at him. He nodded once, and the guy gave her his cell phone number. She programmed it into her cell with a smile, adding, "You might as well give me Lonzo's too, don't you think?" Mac gave her the number laughing.

"Tell me, Baby, when did you make us?"

"It rained a lot, I was not in a good mood, I didn't pay much attention so only this afternoon."

"How?"

"MacCarmick, really, it's an exchange. You help me; I help you. You don't; I don't."

Mac looked at him, but the only thing he did was shrug. She wouldn't tell him either, not tonight at least.

"There's a phone booth two blocks north, Big guy."

The woman could be hard to follow. "And?" Mac looked as puzzled as he was.

"And one of us should call the cops to report the break-in, we can't leave the place like that." That from the woman who had done said breaking. He rubbed his head with both hands messing up his short hair, a reflex he had when he was taken off-guard and needed the few extra seconds to think. "I think it's better if we called the cops. You wouldn't want to get MacCarmick in trouble, would you?"

She came to him and smoothed his hair down softly. That was when Chris noticed she was wearing gloves. Thin latex gloves that fitted her hands perfectly. Neither he nor Mac was wearing any. "Patricia, where did you get those?"

"Black room, this afternoon. Seems the guy and I have the same hand size, weird isn't it?"

That was when he realised how fucking badly he'd been had. Time to get back on top, MacLaren. "Ok, enough talking, Pussycat, let's roll."

Mac followed him right on cue. They went to the black room and did a quick survey. Nothing out of place.

"Really, guys? There again, you underestimate me. I do not leave traces."

Indeed she didn't, none visible but he checked anyway. Everything seemed perfectly tidy to him. He was tempted to look at the piles of frames and into the drawers but didn't. The hell if he was going to encourage her. They retraced theirs steps, mostly hers, in the studio.

"See. Perfect crime. I think I'm good at this."

He sighed and messed his hair up again. Better to leave before he got totally pissed. He motioned them out front.

When they neared the reception counter, she lost them again. "So, who's taking the money? I thought maybe MacCarmick could? If it's not against your code of honour of course."

Ok, with his patience running thin, his first reflex was to yell out Nobody's taking anything! But she was right. A breaking without a theft would be suspicious. "Help yourself, Pussycat," he offered.

She pushed a couple of buttons on the cash register until the drawer opened. "Should I take it all?" He must have given her a look she did not appreciate because she snapped back at him, "What? You're the expert here! So, should I?" Expert my ass, they were in one of her fucking research right now! He didn't answer. "Ok. Fine, Big guy. I'll leave the small change. We're supposed to be in a hurry here, right, so I'm only taking the paper bills. What do you think?" She asked Mac that time. Mac smiled and nodded. "Ok guys. Deed done. I'm good to go."

Halfway through the door, she stopped again. "What about the cameras?"

"What about them?"

"Shouldn't we take them? They're pretty expensive."

"We're not taking anything else, we're just petty thieves." Better to leave the expensive stuff if we don't want the locals to put too much energy into it, Chris thought, and we don't want the insurance involved. They removed the sheets Mac had put into the window, watched for any sign of blood on the window frame and the floor. Patricia's cuts were small and even if the cops bothered to take samples, he already knew they wouldn't find a match. They wiped the doorknob. The cops would see footprints from their shoes on the floor and glasses but for a small robbery like this, not much energy would be wasted. Another unresolved crime.

She rode to the phone booth two corners away in his car, Mac following in his car.

"I was walking my dog when I heard a noise," Chris said over the phone. "Like glass breaking. I think someone broke into the photographer's place." While he was on the phone, he watched Patricia talk to Mac. Small talk. The guy was smiling, so was she. Just your regular night out.

Some drunk came up to her from a side street. Mac had his arm out, pushing him away from her, but she smiled and lowered his arm. She hid her hand in her pocket, pulling it out with a fist full of money she gave the drunk. Chris laughed. Photographer's money back to the community, Angelface. The drunk would probably drink it all, of course, but he'd be damn if he told her that. She was happy now. She hugged Mac before getting back in the car. The rain started again.

"Still on for tomorrow?" Mac asked.

Chris didn't hesitate. "More than ever."

"Ok. I'll subcontract if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Choose carefully."

"No question about that." Mac walked back to his car shaking his head.

They drove back in silence for a while. She didn't ask where they were going, and he didn't ask where she wanted to go. My call, Pussycat, since I'm the one who got dragged out in the middle of the night. "You do know you're not off the hook, right, Princess?"

"I know but really, what can you do, Big guy? I'm already suspended for like, forever."

He smiled. Three weeks was not forever. Forever was I quit. She would get there eventually. Until then she was right, what could he do? Thoughts of her handcuffed to his bed posts floated through his mind. He really needed to buy a four-poster bed. He tried not to smile, but she noticed and smiled back.

"Thanks for coming."

"My pleasure."

She smirked at that. "Liar."

"Ok. Maybe not the first part. But the second. For sure."

"What's the second part? The robbery? That was fun, wasn't it? You helped me rob a place, wow! We could go into business together the three of us if you ever lose your job." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Ok. You're right. No way. What was I thinking? You're never going to lose your job. I'll go into business with MacCarmick then."

They were up to his floor before they spoke again. By then she looked tired. He noticed she had a scratch on her left forearm and maybe one on her stomach since she kept rubbing her side. She stopped at the door. "We're not going to fight tonight, ok? I think I'm too tired for a fight."

"You know, Pussycat, in the future, please try to remember that I'm not a young man anymore. Going out in the middle of the night is hard. I need my sleep," he scolded, even if she looked far more tired than he felt. He pushed her gently inside and closed the door. "Come on, Angel of mine, let's get you cleaned up."

In the bathroom, she took off her top, or rather Reid's top now ripped in two places. One scratch on her arm, one on her belly and a third at the small of her back, all superficial. She had a big bruise on her left side, hence the rubbing.

"I fell through the window trying to get to the door handle."

He cleaned her scratches and put ointment on them, not because she needed it, more for the pleasure of touching her.

"Thanks again."

"My pleasure." She had been watching his hands rubbing the cream on but looked up, maybe because of something in his voice? "Like I said, Angel, not the first part but the second. This one." Since by then he had a hand behind her back caressing her ass and one on her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers, figuring out what he was up to did not take her long. Especially when he sat her up on the bathroom counter.

"I thought you needed your beauty sleep, Big guy."

"I do, Angel of mine. But not enough not to want you. Never enough to stop me wanting you."

She wrapped her legs around his hips. "What if I need my sleep?"

"Then you'd better make it fast, Sleek." He kissed her below her ear. "Tell me what you want." He kissed her jaw. "Anything." He slid his right hand in the front of her pants, "Be specific." Rubbed the delicate hood with his middle finger. The skin was incredibly smooth; his finger glided back and forth. "Be precise." She lifted her legs to his waist. More, Angel of mine? He slid his left hand down the back of her pants. "Be explicit, Princess." Rubbed the cleft of her butt up and down with his forefinger, lingering on her rosebud. Her hands gripped his right arm, her nails digging into his skin. Damn he wanted to feel her. Be her first. As she would be his first. Mine.

"Be exacting, Princess." He pressed her clit, massaging it in a circular motion, clockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise. She pulled at his wrist, trying to shy away from his touch. That good, is it, Pussycat? "Urge me, my love." He kept his right finger circling, not fast, not slow, and gently, scarcely pressing, rested the pad of his left forefinger against her clenched orifice. "Hasten me." She let out a muted growl, rocking against his hands.

"Maintenant, mon amour," she whispered groping him. He fucking liked when she rushed him.

Time for bed, Darling of mine.

# She's picture perfect

She loved those early mornings with Christopher. Getting up together for a quiet breakfast. Short night, though, what with their getting back late and the sex thing. Not that the sex thing had not been nice. Fast but scrumptious. They had both been tired and angry. At least she had been. She did not like being followed and did not like when things didn't go according to her plans. Maybe the Big guy wasn't the only control freak in their relationship? It had been an excellent idea, and if it hadn't been for her underestimating MacCarmick, it would have been fine. It made her mad when people underestimated her. People often did.

ʻDreamy, distracted woman writer,' ʻhead in the clouds,' ʻnot quite up to speed,' she had heard people say about her. Of course she wasn't up to their speed, she was already two steps ahead, damn it! But it did serve her well. Plus, she was a woman, lithe and pleasant looking, without bulging muscles like Reid. Looking neither like a cop, a celebrity, a politician or a crook, she was often overlooked. In her official writer outfit, with her plain A-skirt, long sweater, white blouse buttoned up to the collar, hair straight and barrettes at her temples, nobody gave her a second glance, often not even a first. In her everyday clothes, she was more noticeable. Men, in particular, tended to look, and more than once, but they still underestimated her. Not invisible anymore but not counted on either. Too bad for them.

Last night, she had done the same to MacCarmick by believing him to be just a hired man. Christopher trusted him too much, she should have known better. But no, she had made sure he saw her leave so she wouldn't go alone. When the taxi had dropped her off, she would have been a tad scared had he not been around the corner. But next time she was going to go with the key-man. He for one would leave her alone after letting her in. Alone and free to take her time with the photos. She had hoped Christopher would propose a search, after all they were already there, but no, he had to take over. Ok, so she had let him. She liked take-charge Christopher. Sometimes. Not a good thing.

She liked that he was making her breakfast this morning instead of arguing with her. Definitely not a good thing. She knew he was going to suspend her. Not that it made a difference in the world, she wasn't part of his team, and it wasn't even a real job. But he was going to suspend her anyway, again, for the principle of it. Even if she was right. Because she was right.

As usual he had gotten up earlier than her, and was already showered and dressed by the time she dragged herself to the bathroom. Since it had been a short night, she was glad he had not awoken her for morning sex. Sort of.

They met at the dining table, both smiling softly. She must have shaken her head or mumbled something while she ate the scrambled eggs her infuriating but no less thoughtful boyfriend had cooked because when she looked up, he was grinning at her with that damn sexy half smile of his.

"Battling with your conscience, Angel?"

Upon engagement, riposte. She smiled back. "Not at all, mon chéri. I was thinking about last night. It was fun, wasn't it?" His grin widened. The man had such one track mind! "The break-in. The snooping around. The robbery. How often did you do things like that in your reckless youth when you were not such an overbearing cop?"

"I didn't get to do any of those things last night, remember?"

Indeed. Big help he had been, standing over fuming. Specially with the snooping. He hadn't even looked at the photo, which wasn't a big problem since she had taken it when the men weren't looking. It was now folded in her coat pocket. As soon as the Big guy was in a better disposition, she was going to show it to him. Or not. Ok, we might as well get this over with. "And what shall I do today?"

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm before putting it down softly on the table without letting go, a soft but firm grip on her wrist. "You could stay here. Relax, write, watch television. We'll have an early supper. Even better if you're naked when I get back."

"Cute. No, really."

"Or I could arrest you for your little escapade and lock you up. In a safe place." From the smile on his face and the way he was looking at her, she had no trouble imagining what the safe place might be. His bed or his office. Depending.

"No can do, Big guy. Aren't you what the law calls an accessory after the fact?"

"Locking you up still sounds go. I'll find a beautiful, comfortable, safe place."

"Then it would be kidnapping."

"Not if you consent, Darling of mine."

This conversation was not leading anywhere. Ok, it was, but not where she wanted it to go, not right now at least. "Christopher, stop it. You know what I mean."

He sighed but kept the smile, "Yes, unfortunately, I do. You mean not now."

"Christopher! We're already all dressed up."

"Who says we have to get undress?"

"Christopher!"

Without loosening the grip, he started rubbing her wrist softly with his thumb. "No undressing. I'll just unzipped your pants a little like I did last night and, or, your choice, you can do the same with mine."

"We don't have time."

"It won't take long. I can make it even shorter than last night."

His thumb was very distracting. So was his other thumb, now brushing softly between her legs while his hand rested on her thigh. Damn he was charming. In an arrogant, infuriating way. If she didn't move within the next two seconds, he was going to have her. She rose and walked to the door. When all else fails, run. Another big sigh from the guy. He probably knew what she was doing. He could have walked up to her and kissed her, and the fight would have been over but he didn't so she figured he wanted to get this over with too.

He rubbed his hair and looked at her. "What was the question again?" Not smiling anymore. "Ah yes. What should you do today? Well, Princess, I believe you have one last day with Reid before your suspension."

Not what she had expected, not at all. "Really?"

"That was the deal."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Ok, now she was puzzled. Way too easy. Had he realised that, if not for the small complication opening the door, last night would have been nothing? No way. He was going to suspend her for a month. Or fire her. That would be a bummer. Not that she liked the job so much. Frankly she could do without. Big time. "And your buddies?"

"They stay."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"What's the point? Since I know they'll be there, I can lose them anytime."

"No, you can't." She smiled at him. For sure she could, she had before, she could again. "You can't, Princess, because I'll know, and then I'll fire Reid for not looking after you."

"That's not fair!"

"That's the rule; nothing's changed."

"Damn you are impossible!"

The sexy grin was back. And something else in his eyes she couldn't name. "Part of my charm, Angel."

"Like hell it is."

But she was not going to win on that one, so she let it go. Riding with Reid was better than she had expected.

# Nothing's perfect in her picture

Christopher dropped her off at her hotel. She changed out of Reid's ripped t-shirt before Reid came to pick her up. The rain was back thus the hated raincoat was de rigueur. Reid was smiling when she arrived. Highly suspicious. Had Christopher called her? If so, what he had said? Could she interrogate Reid without raising her suspicions? After a couple of nights of getting drunk together and a week of closely sharing a car, Reid was beginning to pick up on her quirks. In the last two days, whenever Patricia told a fib or asked a seemingly innocent question too close to the case, Reid had either rolled her eyes or frowned at her or made that weird grin.

The first time Patricia had caught the damn smirk was two days ago. They had been talking about office romances. More precisely she had been talking and Reid had dogged the questions and smirked.

"How about the team? Any of them have mistresses, past or present, on the force?" She was curious about the women Christopher might have dated at the station. She had not mentioned his name yet bam! The smirk had appeared, worrying her for a while. Was she getting too transparent? In retrospect she believed the smirk had been for Reid herself. Maybe the woman had had an office romance of some sort. Or was having one right now. Patricia's mood briefly improved, she loved office romances! There could be a story to tell there.

A female cop, seduced by what? What would be Reid's type? Hopefully not Christopher. She had never seen the two of them laughed when they talked to each other, so probably not. Hamilton was too much and so was DesForges. Frédéric and Shapiro were de facto out, too weird, too married. Not that Reid couldn't do married, but Shapiro couldn't, the man obviously loved his wife. That left Frankke and LeRoy. She liked them both; both had her approval. It would be complicated, of course, with Christopher disapproving and all. She'd have to ask him.

With all the cold rain dripping in her coat collar, she needed warmth so she wagered (strictly with herself) a day at the spa on Reid being interested in one of the two. She would watch carefully next time she saw Reid around either LeRoy or Frankke. Unless Reid was doing someone outside the team? Reid was territorial; it had to be someone from the station. Maybe one of the regular cops? That could work, a couple of them were buff and Reid sure liked buff. A woman shouldn't date a guy that was physically weaker than she was, except if he was smarter. Reid was both muscular and bright, that probably eliminated at least half the local cops. I'll have to watch how Reid acts around the other half. Unless there was no romance at all except for her and Christopher and Reid was on to them? Maybe I should ask Christopher to stay away for a time. Maybe her suspension was a good thing after all. Unless she had everything wrong and a smirk was just a smirk.

No smirk right now. They had been riding in silence half morning. She had tried small talking Reid a few times but gotten monosyllabic answers. Fine by her, she too had a lot of things on her mind. The photo weighed heavy in her pocket. She had transferred it from her night coat to her fisherman tent and she longed to look at it again.

What if it hadn't been taken from the rooftop? What if it had? She liked the landscape from above, the city at her feet as far as the horizon. She had admired the view and taken pictures from the condo complex's rooftop. There was one picture she had emailed herself right on the spot. It was somewhere on her computer now, amongst the numerous photos she took with her phone, filed in the ʻphotographie' file, subdirectory ʻview', sub-sub ʻroof'. The picture itself she had labelled ʻfire warehouse'. Had there not been a fire, she would have labelled it simply ʻphone warehouse'. Hers was a simple classification system but it worked well because all the documents and picture were marked by her and her alone, and sorted by her, to be used by her only. She had a heck of a good memory and could remember the when and where and why behind each picture. Research.

Matching the picture from the photographer with the one she had taken should not take long. When she got the time. If she got the time. It was such a shame she had to leave her previous phone in her jacket on that roof; she could have compared the pictures discreetly as she rode with Reid. She had tried tucking the damn phone in her thong and bra but had chosen decency over Hamilton's ogling. From now on, she should banish cargo pants in favour of carrying a purse. Purses were a good place to keep phones because they could be slung over one's shoulder when sliding down a burning building.

Anyhow. She hadn't had time to compare the shots that morning, not wanting to get Reid fired. For sure she wouldn't have time all day what with this damn tagging along police work. And, knowing Christopher and his patient yet sometime one-track-mind, she might not have time tonight either if he decided to show up for an early supper. If the Big guy suspected something, he wouldn't let her out of his sight for the entire weekend. It would make for a very pleasant weekend but by Monday, she still won't have gotten a chance to compare the pictures. So be it, I just have to be patient, she told herself (knowing full well she was fooling herself). A glass of red wine would have been nice right about now. Seemed she had been overthinking everything lately.

"You know it's your fault," Reid mumbled after some time.

Wow, where had that came from? She stared at Reid. Did the woman know about her night excursion?

"This damn field trip, Patricia. It's all your fault."

She played dumb. Which she was at that very moment. What was Reid talking about? "What field trip?"

"This week. All of us driving around."

"What do you mean? We're trying to find clues about the phone." Ok, so the phone was her fault, and it might turn out to be totally unrelated to Ears's murder. Granted it looked more and more like a total waste of time, but still, her fault?

"Do you think MacLaren needs us to do that?"

"Of course he does. He's the chief. You're his team. The best."

"And you need the best to do what we've been doing?"

All week Patricia had the nagging impression they were wasting their time. She did have one wandering thought earlier on in the week about why some locals weren't put up to the task but rain and boredom had taken over and numbed her mind, at least on that subject.

"Patricia, look, we all like you. But really, the fire thing was a bit much, even for you."

"Come on, I had nothing to do with the fire. And why would he punish you all? Why not just Hamilton?"

"Girl." Reid shook her head. "He did punish each of us separately but did it work?"

Rhetorical question but no, it had not. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you guys in trouble. I just wanted to..." She stopped. What did she want? What the heck did she want? She didn't know. She never knew. It had started with just doing research. Like always. She sighed. "I really, really am sorry. I had not realised. You should have told me before." Why wait until the end of the week?! The team must be so damn angry! Reid had that smirk again. "Ok, what? What am I missing now?"

"What would you have done if I had told you?"

"Same thing I'm going to do now. Call Christopher and have him−"

Reid cut her off, "No."

"What do you mean, no? Look, he shouldn't have you guys−"

"No," Reid said again.

She took a deep breath. "And why not?"

"That's why I didn't tell you. We deserved it. We did the time. Moving on."

"But you didn't deserve it! I'm the one who did it."

"You did what exactly?"

"Well, whatever you're getting punished for, obviously."

"You don't even know! Shit, you're a piece of work. You're getting punished for doing stupid things, and we're getting punished for letting you get away with it."

"But−"

"Girl, it's ok. We had fun. Well, sort of. Ok, not really. Except for Ham, from what I've heard. Thong?" She stared at her. No smirk, just a smile. Reid's humour. Funny. She started to laugh. It was indeed funny in a somewhat pathetic way. Reid laughed too.

"So now everyone's mad at me."

"Probably."

"Maybe they haven't figured it out. Maybe they don't know."

"They all know."

"You can't be sure."

"The chief told us." Reid smirked. Patricia glared back. "On Monday."

Good thing she had not called any of them last night, it would have been damn right embarrassing. She almost made a rude comment about the Big guy but didn't. She'll get her revenge eventually. If he had a problem with her, he should have taken it up with her directly. She tried not to think about the suspensions he had already given her without results. Her upcoming weeks off would be a welcomed break, she might use them to look for another job. What Christopher would say if she quitted? Would he think she was flighty?

# Female body count

Soon after Reid's cell rang.

"Reid." Reid listened, then gave their position and listened some more. "Ok. Right, Chief." Reid looked over at her. "Both of us, you sure?...Ok."

Reid hung up, and while doing an illegal U-turn, pulled out her cherry police light from under her seat, and stuck it on the car's top. "Change of plan. Another body was found. We're going over there. He wants us there."

He, us? Patricia stared at Reid. What the man was thinking, she couldn't figure out right now. Dead bodies and crime scenes were not her forté. Mercifully, she had learned from viewing her cold case's pictures and Breast's discovery. Throwing-up episodes made for unpleasant lessons. She now carried an emergency kit. A small packet of Kleenex, one bottle of water, toothpaste and toothbrush for a discreet post-episode clean-up, and very tasty-smelly eucalyptus lozenges, still to be tested in the field, to prevent a corpse's smells from getting into her mouth.

The drive took about twenty minutes with Reid cursing at incoming traffic.

"You really should let me drive. I'm an excellent driver." And I need a distraction from the upcoming decaying flesh stink.

As Reid parked next to the squad cars parked with their lights flashing, Patricia put a lozenge in her mouth, then another one just in case. Hoping someone would stop her, she reluctantly followed Reid across the crime scene tape.

Regrettably, being with Reid, the woman flashing her badge and telling anyone who looked at them too long, "she's with me," nobody barred her from the crime scene.

She first thought they were heading for the school, and then the school's playground, but they kept on walking, up to the baseball field at the back. The field's spotlights were already on, blazing away in the rain.

She dreaded stumbling on the corpse unprepared. A twenty-minute drive was not preparation enough! To avoid unsightly dead bodies, she kept her head down but couldn't help notice all the action appeared to be at the tiers. She had sucked on her lozenges so much, she had to take two more. For some reason, she was feeling queasy. Maybe eucalyptus was not her thing? It sure smelled strong, though, maybe too much, and her nausea worsened. Eyes glued to her feet, she followed Reid closely, so closely she bumped into her when the woman stopped abruptly.

"Boss," Reid greeted the Big guy.

"Ladies." At the sound of Christopher's voice, Patricia took a quick glance up, nodded without saying anything and went back to staring at her boots. She had looked long enough to make Hamilton and Frankke standing at Christopher's right and LeRoy further back to his left. She hoped the entire team wasn't going to show up. Confrontation with corpses were difficult enough; she didn't want to feel sick and guilty at the same time. Thankfully, during her quick up-and-down glance, she had not seen any dead body.

"Ok, Frankke. What do we have?"

Why was Christopher asking such a stupid question? From the look of his shoes, the Big guy had been walking in the mud for a while now. Had he called Reid standing over the body? Trying not to listen to Frankke's voice, Patricia forced herself to think about something else. Hum. They would be having a late supper. Could they go to that Italian place they liked? The fire from the pizza oven would warm them up... Ok, thinking about food right now was not such a great idea. And she could hear Frankke's voice still, couldn't she? Mental note: add earplugs to the emergency kit.

"Woman found dead by the coach coming to access the field before a four o'clock practice. When the lights came on, he noticed a shape of color under the tiers and came to have a look, thinking maybe one of the kids had forgotten his gear bag the day before. They had a practice yesterday afternoon. The lights turn on automatically at three and go out at eleven."

Ok. Nothing too bad up to now. If the body had not been removed, all she had to do was avoid looking under the steps. Easy, the guys were blocking her view now, keeping them in her sight as a screen was the way to go.

"Preliminary observations?"

What was this, police investigation one-o-one? Surely Christopher had looked at the body already. The man was infuriating.

"White woman. Early thirties. Strangled. Naked from the waist up. It will be hard to find white powder on her, though, with all the rain." Perhaps it was not the same killer, she thought. Hoped. Frankke kept on, "Same for semen. Too early to tell. Although with the tiers sheltering her some and the rain letting up last night and again this morning, we might get lucky."

Damn, now she had a mental image of the scene and wasn't liking what she was imagining. She breathed (pant would be more accurate) through her mouth to avoid the smell. She was getting light-headed, but they just wouldn't shut up.

"And the blood? First impressions?"

What blood? Why was there blood? Broken neck she could handle, almost, but blood? Ears had his throat cut too, but she figured it was because he was a guy. Or a kid. Or both. All the women had so far been strangled. No one bled when strangled, right?

"The rain washed most of it. The medical examiner says he'll take soil samples to get an estimate, you know how he is. Cause of death still looks to be strangulation, but the doc doesn't want to commit himself so we'll have to wait for his official report."

Ok, the dead woman had been strangled like the other women. Not that it made her feel better. And it didn't explain the blood. Please let Frankke NOT explain the blood. She was holding her breath now. No more lozenges, no more pants. She felt exhausted. Couldn't they just go now, Reid and she, they obviously had nothing to do here? The crime scene was cordoned off, the techs were at work, and when LeRoy came closer, she caught sight of a big oilcloth over the tiers to shield the techs and the body from the rain. Time to go. She was getting a neck cramp from staring so hard at her boots.

"Ok ladies. Let's go see the body."

What the hell was the Big guy doing? This wasn't a guided tour! He told the techs to take a break and led them under the blue tarp. Keep looking at the tip of your boots, she urged herself. Hands buried deep in her coat, she shadowed Reid doggedly. Eyes glued to her boots, feeling dizzy, she stopped when Reid stopped. The air was warm under that simile-tent. The techs had installed two spotlights that gave out plenty of lights, too much of it.

"Reid. Any comment?"

"Not yet, boss."

"How about you, Patricia?"

"Nope." Her voice sounded faint to her ears. No, she had absolutely no comments. She had not looked at the woman and had no intention to see the woman! Her next book was going to be a children's book. Kiddie book, full of colors and flowers and rabbits. Rabbits were cute and furry and innocent, no one would want to break their necks.

"What do you think her part is?" She couldn't grasp the meaning of the question. Knew for sure she didn't want to understand. "Patricia, it's your idea. What's her best part?"

"The part that's naked." A thought had been bugging her. She had pushed it aside because really, could he be such a jerk? Apparently he could.

"Top half of her is naked. And we already have Breasts. So what is she?"

"You're the guy here, you decide." It was like he knew she had not looked at it but wanted her to. Was it just her or was the place smelling funny? Where had she put those damn lozenges, she felt around her pockets but couldn't find them.

"I'm thinking ribcage since it's about the only place she isn't bruised." Bruised? The others didn't have a mark on them, well except for the neck thing and the wrists. Seeing she wasn't answering, Christopher went on, "So ribcage it is. We'll just call her Ribs for short." He was acting like a mega-jerk, officially an insensitive bastard as far as she was concerned. "Ok ladies. Thanks for coming." He motioned them out.

She was following Reid out when her mind played a trick on her. ʻWhat if,' her mind whispered, ʻthe woman is not really a ribcage? What if she's supposed to be something else?' Doesn't make one bit of difference, she replied to her conscience, she's still dead. ʻYes, but what if she's something else?' So what? She snapped at that damn conscience, who had obviously been asleep last night at the photographer's studio. Now was a hell of a time to wake up. ʻWhat if,' her conscience answered back, ʻlater on you meet the real ribcage, you might brush her off and not notice, and she'll become another victim?' Impossible, she told her wandering mind. But it was too late, the doubt was there. So she stopped, took a long steadying breath, closed her eyes, and turned around.

She walked up to the body and squatted next to it, careful not to touch it. The woman had short brown hair, a boyish type of cut. She was pretty in a girl next door kind of way, nothing more. Her head was turned to the right, her eyes opened. Small green eyes set a little too close. She was slim but not skinny. Hard to estimate her height with her lying there with one leg bent at the knee. Her arms were spread at her sides, opened, almost welcoming. She was wearing a pair of faded Capri jeans and sneakers, which was kind of a light outfit considering the weather. Like Frankke and Christopher had described, she was naked from the waist up.

Patricia looked around for a top or coat. Perhaps the police had it? Unless the killer had taken it? Which would be a first, he had not taken anything before. There was a big red mark circling her neck, where the killer had put the cord she imagined. Christopher was right, her ribcage, the section under her breasts at least, was the only part that wasn't bruised. The woman had cuts on her arms, her stomach, and one on her left cheek. Her jeans were ripped in three places. Flaps of flesh were visible through the gap on her upper left thigh.

"She put up a fight." Christopher's voice came low and soft next to her. She had not heard him kneel down next to her. "Hell of a fight too, she was a mess." She felt her eyes grow humid and started to blink. "Seen enough, Patricia?"

She couldn't speak, only nodded. He took her elbow and pulled her to her feet, stirring her toward an opening of the tent. Once out, she just kept on walking. All the way over the field. The playground. The cops had set up shop in the school. The doors were opened. She went in and headed straight for the girls' toilets. Everything was kid's size. It didn't make one bit of difference, she just bend a little more than she would have in a regular toilet. She put the remaining of her emergency pack to use, brushing her teeth until her gums hurt. She climbed on the ledge of the window, sat with her back against the frame and closed her eyes. She heard men talking and walking in the corridor. If she opened her eyes, she would be able to see to the back of the field. She kept her eyes closed. Trying hard not to think about the sickness of it all.

She wasn't sure how long she kept her eyes closed but when she opened them, there he was leaning against the wall next to the door. Poker face watching her. "You ok, Dollface?"

She sighed. She was tired. For the briefest of moment, she rested her forehead on her knees. When she lifted her head, she looked Christopher straight in the eyes and gave him a thumbs up. "Just groovy."

He shook his head at her, "You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"Funny, Reid said the same thing to me today."

"Come on, she's waiting to take you home."

She got down from the ledge and walked to the door. He rested his palm flat on the door to stop her, smiling down at her as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. He kissed her forehead, just a quick brush of his lips, but she felt his heat all the way down to her toes. She didn't touch him or hug him. Afraid if she did, she wouldn't be able to let go.

# Alternate series: Perfect night

They found another body. The woman had short brown hair, a boyish type of cut. She was pretty. More than pretty. Her head was turned to the right, her eyes opened. Wide blue eyes. She was slim but not skinny. Her arms were spread at her sides, opened, almost welcoming. Like she was waiting for him.

She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and sneakers, which made for a light outfit considering the season and the weather. She was naked from the waist up. He looked around for a top or coat. Maybe the police had it. Maybe the killer had it. Which would be a first, the killer had not taken anything before.

She looked like her. Shorter hair, taller, heavier, perhaps. She looked like her. The first women had not. The last did.

That worried him. What if, he thought for the nth time, what if she had not run away?

She was perfect. She could have been dusted white all over.

With the rain and the rodent, they had trouble finding powder. Finding semen. But they did. Ribcage. The killer was getting more precise. Hands. Lips. The killer was getting bolder.

The club and her apartment he had put under surveillance the night she didn't show. He tried calling again. He searched her apartment again. He visited the morgue and lined up all the women. Legs. Face. Ass. Ribcage. Urging them to talk. The similarities between the last three spoke loudest.

The killer was gathering. Slowly gathering perfection. Her.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Patricia's perfect day

Damn she was tired. Reid dropped her off at her hotel, and she headed straight to the bar. Her barman friend Luis was at work already. All things considered for the size of the small hotel bar, Friday was a busy night.

"Want me to clear you a table, Patricia Baby?"

"No thanks, Luis. I'll just grab a stool at the end of the bar there." She sat down heavily.

Luis, ever the perfect barman, brought her a glass of red wine, without asking if she wanted on. Did she ever!

Luis was a true friend. He listened when she wanted to chat, talked when she wanted company, and kept a watchful eye when she wanted to be alone. Reid had offered to keep Patricia company, but she had declined. In turn, remembering the LeRoy incident, Patricia had asked Reid if she needed some.

"Nope, I have a date later this evening."

"Good for you." Under normal circumstances, she would have pried, but not tonight. Tonight, she didn't want to know anything about anyone. She sat in silence drinking her wine while Luis did his thing at the other end of the bar. Perfect.

She was working on her second glass of wine when some jerk ruined her depressed mood by trying to pick her up. Her still wearing that ridiculous raincoat, vraiment! It gave her the push she needed to get off her seat and climbed to her room. Not in the mood to socialise, she took the stairs and headed straight for the shower. Way too hot, way too long. She came out dizzy and even more tired. Someone had discreetly brought up a decanter of red wine. Another example of why she liked her hotel so much. She buried herself in her sofa and drank another glass as she watched television.

What did she feel like watching? Not a cop show. Not an action movie. Nothing staring a photographer character, a killer or men in general. She channel surfed for a documentary on rabbits but couldn't find one. Ended up throwing the remote to the floor and crying a little. She felt better after. Queasy but better. She ordered a sandwich from downstairs and ate it standing next to the door. Was that the life or what?

I will never again set foot on a baseball field. Or in an abandoned house. Back alleys were still ok since she hadn't seen Ears. The Cabaret was excluded from the exclusions, as it might be hard never to go there again. Perhaps the best way would be to avoid anything tied to the case. Except for Christopher obviously. Even if really, she should stay away from him too, the man was dangerous. She would have gone straight to his place had he asked. She wanted to go right now and wait for him there. Infuriating really. If she quit the job, she wouldn't need the ugly raincoat anymore. No reasons to ever go out in the rain again. And who cared if she was drunk and babbling to herself!

The sandwich had helped but not the fourth glass of wine. She gathered today's clothes in a heap ready to be thrown away. Another outfit ruined due to crime scene exposure. Out of habit, she checked the pockets and came out with her pack of lozenges and the folded picture. She unfolded it slowly and studied it for a long time. She booted up her computer. She moved slowly, deliberately, recoiling from what was coming but knowing she was not going to stop herself. She had no trouble finding the fire warehouse picture in the view-slash-roof subfolder. She stared at it. Except for the woman lying in a swimming suit on the ledge, arms over her head, back arched and generous bosom at the forefront, the picture she had stolen showed the same background as hers. Different angle but identical rooftops without a doubt.

Ok. So what? She had been right; she had proved her point, at least to herself. So what? The phone was on the roof. The roof was in the picture. The picture was in the photographer's place. SO WHAT? She rephrased it. A phone number had been written in Ears's notebook. He had called. Someone might have called back. Said someone's phone was on the roof. The roof was in the picture. The picture was in the photographer's place. SO DAMN WHAT? Her mind was going in circles. She couldn't focus, didn't want to. So what? Ears was dead. They all were. It didn't mean anything. Did it?

It didn't mean anything unless... Unless the phone number-phone-roof-photographer coincidences could be tied to Legs, Ass, Breasts and Ribs. She had gone through their stuff but couldn't recall any of them having a notebook or a cell phone. Hadn't seen one picture of any of them that looked professional. The roof picture had the light-angle-filter package going, surely she would have noticed a photo with that signature look had she seen one in any of the apartments, but she had not, she was sure of it. She had not recognised any of the victims in the photos she had seen in the photographer's place either. Then again, she hadn't seen all of his shots. She paused. Could it be that easy? Search the studio for pictures of the victims?

How could she go about it? She had not looked for MacCarmick or Lonzo today, but for sure they had been around. Even if she managed to lose them and entered without being noticed, what then? There must be thousands of pictures and negative films in there, it would take her forever. She couldn't call any of the guys for help, not after the week she had put them through. She had a vision of them being put to work, each having piles of pictures to examine. She could ask Christopher directly. She chose to consider that her last option, the option after the very last option. Ok, back up a step. Phone number-phone-roof-photographer. If the photographer angle was too complicated, what about the roof? Had all the victims gone on that roof? That was impossible to check. That left the phone. And the phone number.

Phone numbers and phone calls were traceable. If any of the victims had called the number in Ears's notebook or the return number or any of the numbers from the phone pool, that would show a connection, right? She needed phone records for that research. Mario? He could get those easily. He could also write her an algorithm to compare those records with the hundreds of phone numbers the agency had provided, cross checking them with the list of usernames they had, back-checking with the employees. Could she ask Frédéric? She had a vision of the kid being punished by having to check those numbers manually. Should she ask Christopher directly? The fifth glass of wine didn't help her make up her mind much except that now the decanter was empty.

# A woman's night snack

It was close to midnight when she called Christopher. Choosing the right number was always a gamble when she wanted to leave him a message. Leaving messages gave her time to think, windows of opportunities as she liked to call it. The possibility of the universe tilting, or her changing her mind, before he called back. However brilliant, her idea didn't warrant calling the urgent life-or-death cell number. She didn't want to leave a message at the station either. With the calls never rerouted to the same place, sometimes to the front desk, sometimes to the guys on duty, she might have to wait until Monday for him to get the message, or he could call back within minutes of her hanging up, too long against way too quickly. That left his home phone and his important but not urgent cell number. There was also his official cell phone number, but only Brass and unwanted collaborators called that number (in the inner circle of the team, that number was called his I'm-screening-my-calls-and-avoiding-assholes number).

Christopher had been with the body since mid-afternoon so it could go either way. After much deliberation, she called his home number. Remembering how worried about her he had seemed in the school's toilets, she figured he would have stopped by, or at least called had he been done with the crime scene. Good thing she had not wagered anything on that call, he answered before the first ring had even stopped ringing.

"Speak." Still with the cop attitude.

"Hi. It's me."

"I know." Of course he did, damn caller ID. "Everything ok, Patricia?"

"Groovy."

She heard him sigh, or was he smoking? "What's up, Angel?"

She didn't tell him, not yet, still time to back out. "Just relaxing. When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago."

"Ah." And he had not called? What was that about? "I didn't wake you, did I?" She knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for another hour or two, but she excelled at what some called stalling.

"No. But barely. I'm beat. I was just ready to hit the sack."

"Ah. Ok. I, hum, just wanted to make sure you got back ok."

"I did. Thanks for calling. Good night, Angel."

He hung up! What had gotten into him today?!

She was too drunk to go out or she would have ridden over to have a word with him. Really! She fumed for a good ten minutes before calming herself and deciding to call him back. She had valuable information about his case. Surely he would want to know. She got the answering machine. Damn him. She didn't leave a message. Damn, damn him! She did half an hour of closet cleaning since there wasn't a rabbits documentary on yet.

Her little spike of irritation had made her hungry; her sandwich had long been washed down with the wine. The kitchen was closed at this hour, but maybe the night clerk or the doorman would let her sneak in for a piece of toast. All she had in her mini-fridge was milk. With the amount of eucalyptus and alcohol she had in her, she didn't think the mix would work out well.

It took her forty-five minutes to make herself toasts. She found leftover soup to go with the toasts, and a large piece of sugar pie in case she decided to chance the milk. She took a tray up to her room. Bingeing in the hotel kitchen in the middle of the night was fine but she didn't want to eat there alone when she could do that perfectly well in her room in front of the television (she had not given up on the rabbit documentary). With five glasses of wine in her, she had some trouble keeping the platter steady. She successfully reached her door without spilling more than a third of her soup onto the tray. No sweat, she had foreseen the problem, taking an overly large portion of soup and pouring it into a mixing bowl to prevent spilling (most of it at least). She had also left her suite door unlocked so she wouldn't have to fumble with the key. Christopher wouldn't have liked it, but the Big guy was sleeping now, damn him, so it was none of his business.

She lifted the damn handle with her knee, weaseled her foot in and pushed the door opened with her hip while carefully levelling the tray as she watched the soup swing in the bowl. She laid the tray on her entry table and sighed. Mission accomplished. Next time she should let the clerk carry the damn thing when he offered.

"Anything for me?"

She started at the sound of Christopher's voice. He was sitting casually on her sofa, legs stretched out on the coffee table, wearing a faded pair of jeans and a green t-shirt, shoes off. Apparently she was the only one not owning any camouflage-green tee. His hair looked wet; probably it was still raining.

"What are you doing here?" She didn't bother asking him how he had gotten in since she had left the place unlocked. Not that it would have changed anything, he had a key. She had no clue as how he had gotten it, though, and until she knew, she wasn't about to give him one officially.

"You called, Pussycat."

"I called to say hi. You were going to bed."

"I lied." No kidding. "Come here." He patted the couch next to him.

"I want to eat my soup before it gets cold." Lame, she did have a microwave, but stalling was almost a way of life.

She sat at her small bistro table and ate the soup right out of the big bowl with him watching her, a half smile on his face. It was a damn big bowl, she couldn't finish it, couldn't even eat half of it and only ate half a toast.

"You can have the rest if you want."

Her turn to watch him eat. He looked hungry. "Didn't you go eat some place with the guys?"

"Nope." He went right back to the bowl.

"Didn't they ask you?"

"Nope." Mister Small talk here.

He put the empty plates back on the tray and brought the tray into the corridor then closed the door making a show of locking it. She pretended not to see.

She expected him to come back to the couch now that she was sitting on it but instead, he sat on the coffee table in front of her. His we-need-to-talk position.

She didn't give him a chance to start. "It's late, Big guy, I'm tired. Are you coming?" An invitation to bed should distract him. But when she turned, she remembered her computer waiting on her desk. The screen saver was on, but she knew what the screen would reveal if one was to touch a key.

She had pinned the photo from the photographer's on the shelf edge, level with the screen. With the vertical crease she had made folding it, the left side of it curled, and the woman's legs, hips and part of her arched back were visible from where Patricia was standing. Maybe Christopher had not noticed the picture. Hum. With the computer desk right in front of the door, chances were it was the first thing he had seen walking in.

She walked to the desk. He came to stand next to her. She touched the space bar.

"So you were right," he commented.

That did not make her feel any better. "Christopher. Look, I'm sorry. It just that..." That what? It just that it bugged her. She wanted to be sure. She couldn't wait to be sure.

"Go on."

"I'm sorry. That's all."

"Ok." Simple as that. He was such a classy guy when he wanted to.

"I've been thinking."

"Never a good thing when you're drunk, Pussycat." So he had also noticed the decanter.

"Not funny. And I'm not that drunk. I think the eucalyptus might have lessened the effect."

"Good to know. That you're not too drunk, I mean."

She blushed but let it slide. If she got drunk without having given him a sober consent a priori, they didn't make love, him always preferring to wait for her to sober up enough. Again the classy guy but waiting was not her thing. "Do you want to know or not?"

"Of course. You always have such interesting ideas, Dollface."

He must be somewhat tired, or she suspected he would have chosen different terms than those. ʻOver the top imagination' and ʻcrazy as hell ideas' had both been mentioned in the course of previous conversations. Nonetheless, she told him about going through all the pictures looking for the victims and about the phone numbers-victims call records possible matches.

So it turned out he had made the connection ahead of her. "Nothing to be ashamed of," he teased. "It's my job after all. That's why they pay me. They barely pay you at all, and only to file the cold cases, remember?" He rubbed his hair with both hands before adding, "The crosschecking is already under way. So far nothing's turned out."

"You don't have Frédéric do it manually, do you?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Just a thought."

"Don't worry about him, I even got him some help." Damn worse than what she'd imagined. Forcing Frédéric to play with others would not end well. He must have seen the terrified look on her face because he laughed, "He has a new hard drive. For when he'll run the electronic files we'll get from the photographer's place." He played with a lock of her hair that kept falling over her eye. "What did you think I had done?"

"Nothing. It's just that after this week, I−" She stopped herself. Maybe Reid wasn't supposed to tell her about it. He ruffled her hair.

"All in a week's work."

"I see. And the body? Learned anything?"

"Not yet."

"I don't think she's ribcage."

"Neither do I."

"Then why?"

"Come on, Angel, didn't you say you were tired?"

"Christopher?"

"It's late. Big day tomorrow. There's still a lot I have to do to find this guy."

"But you're closer, right?"

"Yes, I think we are."

"Anything I can do?"

"Darling Angel, I think you have done quite enough as it is."

She wasn't sure how he had meant it but, in lights of the recent week, she chose not to ask. But one question still annoyed her. "Why did I have to see her?"

He kept on playing with her hair without answering. He didn't ask what she was talking about, though. He had made her look at the body on purpose, but she couldn't figure out why.

# He's a perfect friend

So he had played it tough. Well worth it.

"I'm taking a leave of absence." Anything you want, Darling of mine.

She didn't even bother getting up when he left in the morning. His night had been short. He had come out of the after-seeing-a-dead-body mandatory shower to find her asleep on the bed. Covers unopened, she was just lying on her side, head resting on her arm. As was always his first impulse, he thought of waking her up to make love to her, or waking her up while making love to her, but had not. Instead, he watched her sleep. He did try to sleep, but with everything that still had to be done running around in his mind, by two o'clock, the soup was long gone but not his erection. It had Fists and Knot to keep it company.

He managed to force himself to sleep around three, and that only lasted to shortly after five. He could go with only a few hours of sleep for a while, so he was ok. He thought again about waking her up but went for a run instead, stopping for some bagels on the way back. He hoped she was going to be awake and waiting when he came up. No such luck. She had awakened during his absence, though because she was now cozily buried under the covers instead of rolled in them as they had spent the night. Even all hidden with only the curve of a cheek visible among all the hair, she made a sexy sight.

The urge to wake her up lingered. He almost chose not to control it. But once awake, could he prevent her from coming along? Yes, probably, but not without a fight. He wanted softness and nakedness later hence he forgo the fight. Hence the awakening also. Better to wait and have more time.

She had called him late morning, poised voice but a definite trace of defiance, to inform him of her decision. "I'm taking a leave of absence."

"It's your decision, Angel. You know I'll go with whatever you decide." He kept his voice even and easy without, he hoped, the faintest trace of giddiness. She knew the team was around and didn't talk long. He hung up with the biggest grin on his face.

The body had shook her enough so that she had quit. Almost. Ok, technically she had not but he felt it was just a matter of time. She would do her weeks of suspension, a couple of weeks, then take a leave of absence, a month or two (he hoped), and by the time she was due to return, she would have moved on to something else. She never stayed long on her so-called jobs. Her real job was writing and for that one, she was an insatiable workaholic. Seeing her so upset at the scene had shaken him. Fuck he had wanted to take her home himself, but she needed to see the cases for what they were. Gruesome. Dangerous. Real. Perfect plan.

Now that she was out, and they had a lead, however thin, to follow, Fists went away. And with that phone call, direct to his cell, the personal-and-important-but-not-urgent number, so did Knot. He kept the grin. He looked like an idiot surely, but none of the guys around were suicidal enough to comment.

The team discussed to and fro how to get into the photographer's place and scan his documents. It came to a unanimous decision. ʻLet's see the results on the phones first'.

He had veto power and didn't need the team's accord to get a warrant, but he agreed to wait for Fred's phone checking. Too bad he had not taken the time to do a quick search of the studio the previous night, but since his patience had paid off big time with the plan, he didn't regret his decision.

Hence, the day was spent getting the layout of the photographer's place and contacting the different agencies to get the necessary paperwork on the way. Fred, with their help, would do most of the work for now. They were still waiting for all the victims' phone records but as soon as those came in, hopefully before tomorrow morning, the kid was to crosscheck them with the clinics' phone lists. They should have the results by Monday at the latest. Running around for warrants was such a pain in the ass on weekends; not many judges enjoyed working on weekends. Chris did manage to keep his cool, though, the grinning was a big help. Something to look forward to.

They also worked on the week's harvest. The guys had encountered some interesting characters, found some lost friends who shouldn't have been around and made new ones that had a real potential for trouble. Shapiro was to spend the next couple of days sorting all the pertinent information and sending it to the respective interested parties, mainly the narcotics department. Dealers and addicts like to keep close to medical clinics. For supplies and all.

On his way to see a judge he had dug out, the guy being sick and laying in bed with a terrible cold or so his wife said, Chris detoured by Patricia's hotel. A quick visit to surprise her, maybe pick her up and drop her off at his place. He stopped by Lonzo's car parked out front. He intended to pull off his friends of her tail, but only after she came to his place. She wouldn't need a watchdog then, she would have one right at her fingertips, even closer if she wanted to.

"Fuck man, I'm pissed I missed the break-in. For sure, I would have played it differently. MacCarmick doesn't know his way with women. I would have opened the door for her, like sweet and understanding, but then I would have locked her in the bathroom to keep her safe and call you right away. Or maybe sat her on my lap while we waited for you." Lonzo and MacCarmick were all talk but when it came to business, they both were professionals. Chances were Lonzo would have done the same as MacCarmick.

Patricia was not in her suite. Nor was she in the bar, lobby, small restaurant, kitchen or laundry room. He even checked the underground parking (she didn't have a car), and the small gym (she had never set foot in there, ever). Not a trace. If she had been like any ordinary woman, he would have assumed she had just stepped out for a walk or a bit of shopping. But a normal woman going out for a fucking walk would have been seen, first by the hotel personnel or, if, by some freaking bad luck, none of the staff had seen her, that regular woman would have been spotted by Lonzo, who would then have proceeded to follow her. Patricia clearly was no typical woman since no one on the employees had seen her and Lonzo was still parked out front.

Fists came back the second he saw her room was empty. He was pissed. He knew she had left by herself. No unwanted abduction here, her suite was as it always was. Clean, orderly yet lived in, with nothing in disarray. She had no self-defence training to speak of, not much upper strength either (except when it came time to carry her fucking laptop), but she wouldn't have gone peacefully, that he knew first hand. So he was pissed but not scared. Not yet.

# Action man

He inspected her suite more thoroughly. Her dinner plates were still on their tray on her narrow entry table; he recognised the bagel bag crumpled on it and the empty cream cheese container. The bed was made. She had taken another shower; a third towel was drying on the stand next to the two that had been used the prior night. She had worked on her computer some because the picture had been removed, and her laptop was now laying on the bed, turned off but its cover still opened.

Her souvenir boxes were stacked one on top of the others as always. Their stacking order had changed, though. She must have looked into one then. He didn't start her computer nor look into the hat boxes. The first because she had it set up so only a scan of her forefinger digit could unlock it (there were ways around that, but he wasn't that desperate yet). The second because it was hers, and he didn't want to intrude on her secret garden. Besides, he wasn't sure he could make sense of the content. From the glimpses he had caught, those boxes were full of pictures, cards, matchboxes, theatre tickets and various such memento. She might even have a napkin from their first evening at the Cabaret in one of those and the fucking copy of his brass badge. Tempting as hell but there again, control.

The smell of her perfume floated in the air. He'd learned to decode her mood by her choice of perfume. His nostrils were filled with her happy fragrance. Not her sultry I-feel-defiant arousing scent nor her delicate I-feel-somewhat-fragile-today enticing one nor the rich I-am-smart-and-professional seductive one. The I-fell-playful-on-this-gorgeous-day sexy one. She had gone some place and had made sure to leave unnoticed.

He called her. If her phone was on, he might have Fred track it although, knowing her, probably the GPS positioning system had been deactivated or blocked by an enormous crazy friend.

"Bonjour!"

"Hi, Princess. How are you?" More polite than ʻwhere the hell are you?'

"Hi, Christopher mon chéri, I'm fine. How are you?" He tried to decipher the background noises. Nothing. "Working hard?"

"Always. What are you doing?" As in what the hell are you up to?

"Not much. You know. Gorgeous Saturday afternoon."

He heard some indistinct noises in the background. Some muffled music. Voices. "I'm on my way to see some judge. I can pick you up after if you want."

"Already?" Now she sounded surprised. Maybe unsettled? "You're done?"

"Not quite but I can drop you off at my place. I thought we could have dinner there. I'll pick something on my way back." He was thinking double benefits here. I will know for sure where you are. You will be waiting for me. Longingly.

"Ah. No need to come all the way. What about I meet you there later?" Interesting way of saying you're not there, and you don't want to tell me, Pussycat.

He was starting to suspect it was her way to get back at him. Easy enough to find out. "No trouble at all, Princess. I'm just around the corner already." Meaning Gotcha!

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not there right now, didn't I tell you? I went out for a walk. You know. Beautiful Saturday afternoon and all that."

Now, that was a tricky one. Had she sounded a bit defiant or just playful? Her wording was important too. She rarely lied, preferring to tell half truths. She had not said ʻI'm out walking,' had she, but ʻI went out for a walk.' Hence, the walk was over. Let's keep it light. Unsuspecting. "Lucky you. It is a lovely day, isn't it? Where are you at then?"

Only the slightest hesitation. "You know the Irish borough near downtown? It's very animated today." Meaning fuck it, I'm really up to something!

"Sounds like fun." He wouldn't need any fucking GPS, she was already too fucking close to Breasts for his comfort.

"Yes, it is. I'm going for a coffee now. I'll see you later, ok?"

"Ok. See you later." Way sooner than you think, Princess.

The staff confirmed she had had her lunch delivered at twelve-thirty, so she had not been gone for more than an hour. Since she had probably walked all the way, such gorgeous weather and the woman did like to walk, she was just arriving in the Irish borough. He ran back to Lonzo's car. On a Saturday afternoon, they could make it in twenty, less if necessary. It took him sixteen minutes, Lonzo in trail. Hoping for a Saturday night truce, he did not use the sirens.

No signs of her around. They could have broken down the dead woman's door, but a show of strength was not what he was going for. Waiting for her inside to catch her in the act was more appropriate. If she didn't show up, well, no harms done, just a simple paranoiac mistake on his part. Or her getting back at him. Either way, his Saturday night naked softness was still on.

They found the landlord in his rocking chair on his paved terrace, a tiny fenced area in the back parking. He had not bothered answering them when they had knocked on his front door; they had to let themselves in to find the old geezer. Chris's grin was now gone, and he was not in the mood for the old guy's disapproving speech. Nor was he in the mood to wait for the geezer's slow climb to Breasts's floor. Simpler to take the key from the man and ran upstairs. Chris wanted to be seated when she'd walked in. If she walked in.

He found her waiting for him, a big grin on her face. "Well, Big guy. It took you long enough." He was speechless. "Wow. I kind of like the silent you. Very sexy." Looking behind him, she added, "Hey, Lonzo. Good to see you. Have you been sleeping on the job?"

Fuck she looked pleased with herself.

Fists were still there; understandably, he was pissed. But Knot should be gone. It wasn't. "Ok. Explain."

"Not so fast. Let me enjoy the moment for a while."

She stood, her back to the wall, facing the front door. Probably not daring to sit on a dead woman's couch. She wouldn't have touched anything else either. She was smiling at them, her smile slowly turning into a soft giggle, then not so discreet laughers while Fists and Knot were getting tighter. Not because he had been had, that only made him want the upcoming nakedness even more − fuck her smart and spunk were sexy − but because she wouldn't have come here just to get even. Dead people's places she didn't like, she sure as hell wouldn't have picked Breasts's place just for the fun of getting back at him.

The old guy had managed to walk up the stairs by now. "Everything ok, Miss Patricia?"

"Yes. Thank you, mon cher monsieur. We'll be leaving now."

He gave the old man his key back since he wouldn't need it anymore. Patricia took the old man's arm, and they slowly walked back downstairs together. Both were smiling; she had made the dear old sir's day. He looked at Lonzo and found she had made Lonzo's day too. Chris was left to be the only one not in a fucking cheerful mood. Maybe he could push back the talk after supper. Naked thing first. Then eat. Then discussion. With her more relaxed, there was less chance of the conversation turning into a confrontation. And if it did, he planned on having her do more of the nakedness. Right. On top of everything, he still had to see the fucking judge.

"Have you seen the judge already?" She wanted to know. She kissed him on the cheek when he didn't answer. "You can pick me up when you're done, Big guy, we'll go over to your place. I'll take a cab back to the hotel, so you don't miss the elusive man of law. Lonzo can trail after me if he wants."

She did have a lot of explaining to do. Then again, so did he. He couldn't argue. Besides, she looked excited; the minx was enjoying herself. She was smiling and laughing and brushing against him. She looked great in those sleek jeans, almost wearing her cop costume if not for the very stretchy black top she had underneath the jacket. Looking forward to taking the top off over appetisers, Angel, you can wear it without the bra over supper. He let her go.

# Her one last move

She had found the business card in her hat box. Not that she had been looking for it. Fed up with dead buddies and blood and murders, she had decided to write something soft. The Cabaret was to be the door to another area for a modern-day romance with a retro twist for her teen public. Hence, her going through the blue box in search of the napkin she had taken from the Cabaret. The blue hatbox held ancient era reminders, all things old-fashioned, old-ish, antiquated and retro. Her teenage lovers were to meet and lived, literally, in the Cabaret, unknowing of each other in real life. She already had a sketchy idea of her characters but wanted a napkin from the Cabaret to recall its logo. Doodling and making sketches of the imaginary place, the silhouette of the logo as the key to the magical retro world, the napkin as a trigger to immerse herself in the story.

The card had been on top of the napkin in the blue box. They did go together in a way. Napkin from the Cabaret, creepy guy's business card offering to make her a goddess, both reminders of the Cabaret's ambiance. If not for the peculiar phone number on the card, she might have pushed it aside. Not a number she knew yet oddly familiar. She studied it for a beat trying to place it. Damn. The first five digits were identical to Ears's notebook number. What now? With Reid, they had met about a quarter of the names on the list. Perhaps the creepy guy had been on someone else's list? Patricia's mind went spinning with what ifs. What if the guy's phone belonged to the pool? What if the guy's name was on the list? But then again, she didn't have a name. The card was bland enough. ʻModelling' written in bold and the number, that was all.

Ok. First thing first. It was easy enough to check the number, either Frédéric or Mario could do that since both had copies of the list. This time it wouldn't be a race, they only needed to verify the number with any of the readily available standard search engines. She would have done it herself had she had the list, but, for some reason, nobody had bother to give her a copy. What if Reedy had called the number? Choosing not to pursue that trail of thoughts immediately, she had decided to go back to Breasts and look for the card. Better to move than to think. The walking will do me good.

Glancing out the window as she waited for the elevator, she had caught sight of him. Watchdog on duty. Damn. It was an hour walk over, plus another half-hour to search the place at least. Too damn long. Efficiency won over walking. She asked one of the cooks to drop her off mid-town on his way home. She walked the last ten blocks, stopping once at a public phone to leave no-question-asked Mario a message. Frédéric would have done it just the same, but sooner or later Christopher would have learned about it. Very awkward considering she had all but quit.

When Christopher called, she became if not worried, somewhat apprehensive. He had his deep cop voice. Either something had happened regarding the case and he was hiding it from her, or he was suspicious of her hiding something. Hum. Today was a Saturday. They had found a body just yesterday. Time elapsed between corpses discovery had never been less than two weeks. His voice turned into a growl the longer they spoke. Considering all of the previous, she concluded he knew she was up to something. Ok then, Big guy, this works both ways, I can read you too. She stirred him toward her. Let him see that the shadowing was unnecessary. And let him be close, so she didn't have to search the place alone.

As it turned out, she did search Breasts's apartment alone, finishing well before he got there. She didn't find the business card. It didn't mean anything in itself, though, for she was sure Breasts too had been given a card. Now the sensible thing to do, and her initial plan, would have been to tell Christopher about it. But then he walked in, looking oh so surprised! She liked it. A lot. It also angered her a trifle. What did he think she was, a pretty thing to play with but without brains? Like she had not found clues during this whole thing! Wasn't she the one who had found two bodies? Ok, technically she had only found Legs but she had given him Breasts. And the phone angle was her thing, thanks to Ears's notebooks, which the Big guy would never have gotten if it wasn't for her. So having him looked surprised, having his buddies babysit her still, well frankly, she got mad and played the playful part to perfection. She was going to show him.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the little voice of her conscience screamed, ʻYou are about to do something crazy.' She forced herself not to think about it by focusing on the forced labour Christopher had imposed upon his team because of her. And that was that. Lonzo tailed her cab.

ʻPhone number an unallocated number,' Mario's text message confirmed. Now why is he allowed text message and I'm not? Moving on. Mario's text meant that, in theory, the disposable phone was resting unused on a shelf somewhere. Again a number but no name. Why had the creepy guy put it on his card? At the time, she had barely looked at the card. The only reason she had kept it at all was to remind herself of such a good despicable character. It might be she had imagined right.

Her inner voice screamed louder. ʻThere is still time, no harms done, CALL HIM.'

She had the cab driver drop her off at a small outdoor mall. Single row of stores without any front parking. Her first stop was at the hardware store, inaptly named since it sold everything but hardware. She bought a burner phone, not caring one bit that Lonzo was watching from his car. Let him figure it out, for all he knew she could have bought a frying pan, hygienic pads or pink hand towels in the damn store. Second stop was to the mall's coffee shop. Since there was no way Christopher was going to be back in time for coffee, she drank her large latte alone. Not good but warm enough. She sat at a round table for two in the back sipping her coffee and configuring her new phone. As soon as the phone was ready, she called. This time, her inner voice stayed silent. Speechless.

She let the phone rang six times before hanging up. She called again after her second coffee, letting it ring eight times. Surely if there had been an answering service, it would have picked up by then. She called from outside the hotel at the end of her walk back from the mall, thus giving herself time to survey the hotel's surroundings in search of her guardians. She suspected they were somewhere around the corner but didn't see them. She was about to hang up when someone answered.

"Yes, hello? May I help you?" The man answering the phone had a soft voice, calm and polite.

"Hello to you, Sir. I apologise for calling during the weekend."

"Think nothing of it, it's of no consequences. What can I do for you, Deary?" So quaint.

"Well, I was given a card a while back, you know, Modelling? And have just now decided to call."

"May I ask where and when you received my card?"

"A while back at a club called Le Cabaret." She gave the nameless voice the date and the club's address. She couldn't place the voice, couldn't remember if it was the creepy guy's. Probably not, the voice sounded younger. She didn't ask his name, or why there was no answering service, or where he had gotten the phone. She didn't ask anything. He did most of the talking.

"Do you have modelling experience?" She had none. "What type of modelling do you want to do?" She didn't know. "It's not that important for now, Deary, we are looking for raw talent. I can help you find your best features when we meet."

The use of the term talent caught her off guard. Hadn't Ears's number been for a talent agent? If talent agents were also used for modelling, maybe that was what they should be looking for, Christopher and his team, a talent agent. It certainly was the victims' best features that had been whitened. Focused as she was on the ʻtalent' and the ʻfeature part,' the ʻwe' he had used went unnoticed.

"Perhaps we could make an appointment?" He offered. "It is always best to talk face to face so I can see your potential. You can ask then all the questions you want. No pictures will be taken during our first rendezvous I assure you, Deary."

They agreed to meet the coming Monday at ten in the morning in a coffee shop next to the opera house at the Northside of town. It was a long way from her place, but she appreciated that he proposed a public place, it hinted Nameless voice had nothing to hide.

"Oh, and Deary my sweet, since our appointments are per reference only, I will need you to bring the card you have been given. It's really more an invitation than a business card you know."

After hanging up, she told herself she had plenty of time to tell Christopher about it. She hadn't done anything yet. Well, nothing too crazy at least.

She had already packed a bag and taken a quick shower by the time Christopher showed up. He teased her about showering again, but after her visit to the dead woman's place and the crazy phone call, she felt tense, and hot water always relaxed her. They stopped for Chinese take-out on the way to his place. She didn't want to bring up the afternoon incident and apparently neither did he. They laughed and teased each other without mentioning it. Good for her.

Once the food was in the oven for warm keeping, they settled in the living room with a glass of wine to watch the news. Or rather, he sat on the couch and watched the news while she sat in one of the armchairs and watched him. The man was hard to read when it came to his job.

"Long day, Big guy?"

"I've had worse."

Chasing paperwork and judges were not his favourite part of the job. He had not bothered taking his jacket off suggesting that, despite his apparent ease, the Big guy was not quite relaxed yet. With his legs stretched out on the coffee table and his messy hair, he looked tired. He caught her studying him and raised a questioning eyebrow. When she kept on looking, he went back to the news, not one bit embarrassed. Wanting a closer look, she sat astride on his lap.

"I'm not blocking your view, am I?" She teased.

He leaned to the left and went on watching the news, his left hand in the pocket of his pants, the right holding on to his nearly empty glass of wine. She finished it for him before putting it on the floor. He put his now free right hand in his pants pocket. My move then, is it, Big guy? She wriggled his jacket off and dropped it on the floor. The hands went right back in the pockets, the dark brown eyes on the screen.

"Pas de problème, mon beau, I can do it all by myself." She undid the tie and dropped it on the jacket.

His eyes stayed on the news, but she had his full attention.

She kissed his ear, the side of his neck, her tongue following the line of his jaw to his ear then down his neck, briefly resting her lips on the pulsing vein, smelling him, before unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt. She followed his collarbone with her tongue enjoying the feel and taste of his skin. She unbuttoned the shirt one button at a time, her tongue and lips touching the exposed skin bit by bit. She detoured by his left nipple, tugged at it with her teeth smiling as she felt his thighs clenched under hers.

"Keep watching the news, Big guy, while I watch you." Taste you. Her mouth found its way back his middle following the shape of his torso, kissing muscles and ribs on the way. She lowered herself to the floor, kneeling between his knees and sunk her tongue in his navel before kissing his stomach from left to right while she untied the buckle of his belt. She pulled, freed it and dropped it next to her on the floor without looking. He clenched his abs when she unbuttoned and slowly unzipped his pants. Breaking news, mon chéri, I'm going to do you.

He was wearing his usual type of briefs. In everyday life, he liked everything held snugly in place although right now the briefs looked restraining. She pulled on them to reveal his shaft, her lips kissing his torso and stomach all the while. His eyes were glued to the screen, but she heard him draw in a sharp breath when her hand brushed the side of his cock. Not yet, Big guy. Your turn to be patient. One hand resting on the couch for balance, holding the front of the briefs down with the other, her tongue resumed its slow travel down across his middle. Back to the navel, across it, lower. She licked all the way down the lower part of his stomach to the root of his shaft. Lingering, teasing, tasting before she licked his length all the way up to the tip. She glanced up and smiled when she saw he had closed his eyes. She took her time licking and kissing the frenulum, that oh so sensitive slit with its tender skin. His hands clenched into fists in his pants pockets. You like, Big guy? So do I. Not so much in control right now, are you?

Her face shielded by her hair, her forehead against his stomach, her tongue twirled along the crown before covering the head, the bulbous tip hard and swollen against her lips yet so silky and warm. She looked up to find him staring down at her, his eyes thin dark slits. She felt herself turn red. You're a dangerous man, Christopher James MacLaren, I can take you in my mouth provocatively yet you make me blush merely by looking at me. She sucked her way down the length of his cock back to its base before traveling back up again, kissing and licking from the root of his shaft to his navel to his nipple as she raised slowly. This time, she tugged at the pointed bud then sucked hard, earning a low groan as her reward. Leaning on him, she kissed and licked her way up to the side of his neck and the contour of his jaw then back to his ear. Taking his ear lobe between her lips, she played with it briefly before returning to her licking. Back down. The side of his jaw, his neck, the vein, smaller on this side like always but throbbing just as fast. Back down. Kissing and licking. Bit his nipple softly, blew on it and smiled as it puckered tighter. Further down to the navel. She kneeled back down to lick the base of his shaft. Kissing and licking. Back up again. On the side of it. Twirling her tongue around it.

She wrapped her hand firmly around the base of his shaft and lowered her mouth on the head. She paused infinitesimally at the fleeting memory of another man pressing a cold bruising shaft hard against her lips, before finally closing her mouth around his cock.

"Hush, Angel of mine." Christopher's husky voice rasped her back to the moment. "Let me do you." His hands were out of the pockets and into her hair, pulling the curls back.

Shush mon amour, I'm doing you tonight. She lowered her mouth further, taking more of his length, pressing her tongue languidly against the slit and sucking the engorged bulb with lips soft before rubbing his gland on the inside of her lips. Nowhere close to relaxed now are you mon chéri? Don't worry, you will be very shortly. When he growled, she rubbed the slit raw with her tongue. Stroking with her hand, pressing between her lips sliding down, grating with her teeth sliding up, she moved her mouth to and fro, looking up only when he lost it.

"Fuck." His eyes bore into hers.

Even wearing his gun and holster, he looked very relaxed when she let go of him. The news were not yet over, but they ate the Chinese with the television off. She forgot to tell him about the call.

# Alternate series: Last move

He got warrants. He lied. He traded. He cheated. He got warrants. Her place. Her parents' place. Her dead sister's. The old man's. The Cabaret. The art school where she went sometimes. Coffee shops she liked. Any and all places she could have been.

Nothing.

Each day that passed brought her closer to dead. If she had not run. The dead women found had all been reported missing prior to their killing, shortest time ten days, longest twenty-five.

Three before the countdown started. Unless she had shortened the run. How could she, she was perfect.

He got surveillance. He got warrants. He lied. He traded. He cheated. He got surveillance. Legit. Mercenaries. Anything he could hire. Her place he covered. Her parents. Her dead sister. The old man. The Cabaret. The art school. The coffee shops.

Nothing.

He waited.

Two.

One.

Day ten. Start of the countdown. No woman was found.

The killer had her. The killer was busy.

He was going to kill the jerk. When he found him.

Plus one.

Plus two.

Plus three.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Too many trails for MacLaren

He kept his cell phone on the table right in front of him during the meeting. First Monday morning meeting of her suspension and even though he had warned Fred barely ten minutes before the meeting, the kid still managed to look surprised she wasn't in the conference room. Every three minutes or so, he unglued his eyes off the table top to look up at the door as if expecting her to walk in. Her suspension was going to do the kid good, Chris thought. The kid was getting way too attached. With Fred's social inadequacies, that attachment could stir up emotions not all innocent.

Ham too was going to benefit from her absence. He had not made one sexist remark since the beginning of the meeting. Lately, with her around, Ham's mind had stayed below the belt, if not down right in the gutter. Not that Chris could blame the jerk, she was distracting as hell, but since he for one managed to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself most of the times, he fucking wished Hamilton could do the same. For the rest, the meeting was going smoothly.

Shapiro went first, with the list of creeps the team had turned up during last week's tour. Frankke followed with an update on the white women case, with Le and Ham working on Rib's background check, enemies, links between her and the other victims, witnesses.

"The field's an open area in the middle in a residential neighbourhood," Le commented. "Someone must have seen something damn it!"

He was right, but they had yet to find that someone.

"The ME send his preliminary report," Frankke resumed. "White powder was found in a crease on her left armpit. No semen, though. The ME also confirmed, as we were already suspecting, that the semen found on the other victims came from the same male. For now, analysis places the suspect between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. Further tests are under way. We should know soon if we're looking at for Caucasian, Asian, Latino or other. Might even know if the jerk got any particular disease." Part of Chris's job as chief was to keep the pressure on to get those results as fast as possible.

Chris took over. "Ok. Phone number angle." Fred never reported in meetings; the kid was totally incomprehensible when speaking in a group. "Fred's done crosschecking the victims' phone records with the pool of phone numbers. The number in the notebook was called two days before the kill, which is coherent with the notebook's chronology." Last five pages after the number showed notes for a school project assigned the day of the kid's murder. "So a hit for Ears, and now a hit for Ass too. She called a pool number on three occasions, the same number all the three times but different from Ears's. The first call went out the 12th at ten-o-five." Eight days before her murder. "Second call, same day, fifteen-o-twenty-two, then again the day before her murder at eleven-forty-two. The conversations lasted two minutes and twelve seconds, four minutes and thirty-six and one minute and seven." Fred was nothing if not precise. "None of our other vics is a match." This new link between Ears and Ass was added to the file. The other victims might have made calls to the pool also, but for now they only had their home phone records to work with.

"We've about traced Ass's and Ears's ten last days, still working on Legs, though," Frankke reported. "And we're a while to go on Rib's."

"OK. I'll get the paperwork going for the places we know of already. Keep me posted on new stops they've made so we can get the phone records ASAP."

Reid and DesForges were assigned the remaining case loads. Not much to report on that front.

"Anything else we need to cover?" Chris surveyed his men around the table. "Good. One thing we haven't decided yet. Photographer's place. Are we ready for the search?" He was still working on a warrant for that one. The roof connection was pretty far fetched, and the judge had asked about how the picture had been obtained. It would have been much simpler if one of the victims had been in the photo. Rearranging facts had its limits; the judge wanted more than circumstantial. Judges tended to be persnickety about the nuances of the law. Chris toyed with the idea of breaking in for another picture, if such a picture existed, but decided to postpone that little B&E project for now.

They talked about the search back and forth.

"Going in now's like telling the dude we're after him but we don't have anything solid yet against him."

"Might not found anything. The photographer might not be the killer."

"But the picture thing, I don't like it, guys. The same roof? It's gotta mean something."

"If we wait too long on this, we might lose him."

"Reid, what's your take on the guy?" Reid was the one who had interviewed the photographer (besides Patricia of course).

"Harmless. He didn't strike me as the killing type." Was there such a thing? "I can't picture him strangling someone. Too frail." She paused before adding as an afterthought, "Boring and anal." Reid had spent too much time with a certain lady writer; she was starting to think like her.

"Roger anal. We sit on it, boss?" Ham's humour.

"We hold out the search for now."

Ribcage's bruised body told the woman had fought back, a first from the victims. Maybe, just maybe, she had injured the killer enough to leave marks. Frankke called hospitals and clinics all over the city. Nothing consistent turned out. The locals having gone back to their regular work, no surprise there without the warrant, Chris subcontracted the photographer's surveillance to MacCarmick (plus two other guys that worked for him and Lonz from time to time). For now the photographer was back in his studio. MacCarmick reported no visible scratches or bruising on the guy. ME would be analysing fiber and skin found under her nails and on her body, but that always took awhile.

The fact that she had fought back might also mean something in itself. Had the killer acted differently with her, arousing her suspicion? Had he been careless? More aggressive? Something had changed in that field and Chris wanted to know what.

Another thing was also bothering Chris, maybe unrelated but nonetheless highly suspicious. Patricia's phone. He had her tail all last week − Maybe he shouldn't have, he knew most guys never had their girlfriends followed, he certainly never had any of his old girlfriend-lover-mistress or whatever followed. What kind of guy did that anyway? Jealous boyfriend assholes. He wasn't the jealous type, but he wasn't blind either, and he had no intention in hell of ever sharing her with anyone. He wasn't judgemental about what she did, though. Her drinking, her way of life, all of her crazy quirks, he liked. That wasn't why he felt the need to have her followed. He didn't even really care about Mario and the bunch of them as long as she was safe − A leave of absence from fucking filing! After a damn suspension!

And yet her visit to Breasts's place had not been innocent. Yes, she was probably getting him back for having her followed, but there was more. He had left Lonzo at the hotel in plain sight on purpose. A decoy. The subcontractors were already deployed at the time of her walk, had been since the break-in. They used unmarked cars, not new but not as old as the K-car. Most importantly, they were not cops, didn't look like cops, didn't act like cops. Hence the phone on the table. So far she had not made them. What the hell are you up to, Princess?

# Chris on the tail

Thankfully her taking cabs or having friends drive her around made following her if not easy, somewhat easier. The woman was a walker. Most of her tricks on unsuspecting watchdogs, from snapping pictures of them to losing them in the lingerie section of department stores to sneaking out of public restrooms wearing a disguise were done by foot. She didn't own a car and rarely drove (by choice he did all of the driving when they were together). Hence, he suspected her shaking-off-a-tail skills were not as fine-tuned in a moving vehicle. She had not spotted the tail when she'd left her hotel. Had not spotted it walking to the apartment either, nor when she had stopped at a public phone or in the cab on her way back when she did her shopping, took her coffee, played with her new phone or made a call in front of the hotel.

"Your girl's been busy," MacCarmick commented when reporting to Chris over the phone. "Don't worry, I told the subs to report any movement live from now on. You'll get a direct play-by-play if she decides to hunt the killer by herself."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" The damn woman wouldn't go that far, would she?

From then on, the subs were to follow strict instructions. Report all movements. Never let her out of sight. Move in and secure if threat occurred.

When the subs asked what kind of threat to expect, Lonzo shrugged. "Anything's possible, and I do mean anything."

Who the fuck had she called? Who would she need a burner phone for? Under normal circumstances, with an ordinary lover, he wouldn't give a shit. But she was, well, her. It. His.

Public phones were one of the many weird ways he suspected she contacted her crazy friend Mario. Crazy paranoiacs, the lot of them, Mario being the worst and the one she called most of all. The jerk did get her just about any information she asked for. But why a disposable phone? So far public phones had been her way. Mario's access to her was more straight-forward, though. The jerk sent her text messages. Tracing text messages was feasible but fucking hard to do when the sender was a paranoiac genius hacker. No doubt Mario had secured himself a bunch of IP addresses hidden all over the word. Hence, all things considered, the disposable phone might not be for Mario.

What had the team been doing lately? Run after possible phone users. What had she been doing herself? Run after a phone. Damn stubborn but fucking resourceful. He had to assume she was still running, after a phone or something related to one. He hadn't told her about Ass's phone call but what if she had found a link? All weekend he had watched for a sign, a giveaway. She had not packed her new phone when she came to his place. After a great weekend together, each avoiding the confrontation they knew was coming, he had dropped her off at her hotel and gone to work clueless as what she was up to. Again.

"She's on the move," the sub announced.

"How?" Monday morning, ten minutes to ten. Where to, Angel?

"Walking for now. I'll call if she stops somewhere."

Chris wished for a fucking library yet prepared himself to be greatly disappointed.

The sub called again as the meeting was winding down. He never took calls during the meetings, that was Bridget's job, but this morning he answered any and all calls from his buddies' guys. He remained hopeful for the library, would be content with a visit to Ingrid, might settle for a lunch date with an old lover as long as the guy was old and fat. He got none of that.

"She's having coffee with some older dude a the coffee shop a block from the Opera House. Fancy place."

He had the sub described the guy while his team listened in on his part of the conversation with interrogative looks on their faces.

"Older male, fifty plus, Caucasian, grey at the temple, tall, slim and smiling."

Not good from Chris's personal perspective. Spying on her for her safety he had no trouble with, but spying on her while she was with her friends or an old flame, that was bad. Not so much the spying itself as the getting caught and her knowing about it part. The reasonable thing to do was to cut the tail. She was in a coffee shop, her natural habitat of sort thus the chances of her spotting the tail increased the longer and the closer the sub stayed. Decision time.

"Back off some, move further away, I want no interference, no surveillance inside the coffee. Pick it up when she leave."

The sub called back about an hour and a half later when he was having lunch with Frankke, Le and Ham in the cafeteria. There again he took the call as soon as he read the caller ID.

"Your woman and the older dude are in front of the coffee shop saying their goodbyes. The guy's pointing to something, his car probably," the sub described, "but she's shaking her head and signalling the opposite way. Looks like she turned down his lift. They're shaking hands. Guy's friendly, he's got his hands wrapped around hers."

"Any cab station or bus route on that street?"

"None I can see from my spot."

"She's about to start walking again then." If she were going back to her hotel, she could easily walk all the way, there again putting his tail at risk. "Maybe it's time you call your buddy," he suggested to Sub.

"Already on it. Mac and Lonzo explained the drill. My partner's parked three blocks down, she'll cross him if she goes back to her hotel."

When Chris hung up, he found his guys smiling at him, Frankke saying, "I'm not sure she'll appreciate."

"Finish your lunch. We have a lot to do." Not in the fucking mood to be lectured by his men.

LeRoy added, "It would have been simpler just to let her come to work."

"Back off, guys."

"Sure thing, Boss." Ham's turn now. "Want us to go get the guy?"

His guys weren't dumb. They had heard the calls, might have caught a few words of what the sub had told him and figured out the rest. They all knew about her contribution too. They sure knew how she got caught up in things, having fallen for it already, but they might not know yet about their relationship. Then again he could be wrong. "No."

"You sure, boss?"

"Fuck guys, cut it out. I'm just checking all the angles here."

"Yeah right. I've seen those angles. Mighty fine angles they were. More curves than angles from what I've seen. Anytime you want me to check them out again, I'm your man." Obviously Ham didn't have a clue yet on the relationship part.

Chris's phone rang again.

"I've got the dude's license plate." He wrote the plate down. "I've also a shot of the man if you want it." Damn right he wanted it.

Sub forwarded two pictures to his phone. His guys leaned in to take a look as he stared at his phone. The first picture was a profile of Patricia and the man standing face to face. An older man, greying dark hair, Caucasian, slim, quite Patricia's type in those times when she yearned for a normal, boring life. Taller than her by half a head, the jerk was smiling and leaning toward her like he was about to kiss her cheek, which he probably was. Had the idiot grinned like that during their entire intimate coffee date too? The second picture zoomed in on the man's face. He wasn't smiling anymore. He was handsome, with smooth skin for a man his age... except for the big pink stain he had in the middle of his cheek. Chris's fist tightened around the phone.

"What is that thing?" Le asked leaning closer.

"Is that a fucking scratch mark?" Frankke asked in reply.

Ham whistled an, "Oh shit," between thinned lips. His sentiment exactly.

# His lead

His mind raced forward. Contingency. Where was she now, where was she up to, and most importantly was she safe?

"Still walking," Sub confirmed. "Destination unknown, all under control." For now. But with only one tail, he couldn't have both her and the old jerk followed.

"Are you close to your backup guy? Do you still have visual on the old man?"

"Backup's still too far to pick her up."

"Keep your eyes on her." They had to forget about the jerk for now.

"The woman sure gets around. Still could be just coincidental, though." LeRoy, always the optimist.

Chris made no comments. Not that LeRoy had been expected one, he was used by now to not getting answers back from his boss.

He turned to Ham, "Run the plate." Depending on what Ham turned up, once he had the old jerk's name and address, Chris could have one of his men pick him up or have Mac and Lonzo tail him.

While he waited for Ham's info, Chris did the only thing left for him to do.

"Hi, Angel."

"Hi, Christopher. How's everything?"

"Good." Yeah right. Except for the fact that you probably lied to me. Again.

"Miss me today?"

"Nope." Yes. More than I can say. Having her at the office had one hell of an advantage as he was starting to realise.

"Ok. Me neither, Big guy." He could hear the smile in her voice. The woman was having fun.

"How about I pick you up for coffee?"

"Right now? Aren't you working?"

"Why not? I can always make time for coffee with you, Princess of mine," he said in what he hoped was his genuinely innocent voice.

Silence at the other end. What the hell was she doing? "Christopher James MacLaren, you didn't!"

"What?"

"What do you mean, ʻwhat?' I don't believe this! You are impossible! You can not keep doing this! That's it; I am done talking to you!" And she hung up.

He slammed his fist on the cafeteria table.

"Learned anything?"

"Shut up, Le."

He tried calling her twice but got an out of service message both times. She never stayed angry long so chances were she'd turned her cell back on soon and would call him back and, as long as he was dreaming, apologise. Or it could be LeRoy was right and her coffee date had nothing to do with his case. Might be she had met with a family member, an old uncle perhaps, or someone from her publisher's house. At this point, he would even take coffee with an old boyfriend as long as the guy was boring and impotent.

It took Ham twenty-two minutes to get the information. Chris was back in his office by then.

"The car's registered to a by-number company, itself registered to an accounting agency, said agency not answering right now, fucking long lunch break. I can go over if you want," Ham volunteered.

"Fucking right you're going over." Not very efficient but there you have it, even the most rational, in-control guy could act stupidly.

Ham called back thirty-seven long minutes later, minutes Chris spent on the phone barking orders around on different open cases, those calls most certainly not helping smoothen his already harsh reputation. Not that he gave a fuck.

"They traced the car to one of their sister agency. Some human resources shit. The accounting firm takes care of the owner's expenses, car, phone, office." Ham had managed to weasel the information out of the desk clerk, and sounded damn proud about it too. As long as the results were there, Chris wasn't one to question the means. He now had a name, a home address and a place of business. The man had no prior arrests, hadn't done the army or wasn't in any of the police databases that were readily accessible. Before launching a full-on hunt, though, he wanted a word with his damn sweetheart, face to face if he could.

"Lonzo? It's Chris. You guys free? I have a job for you."

"I knew you'd need us soon. What did she do now?"

"Forget Patricia, your subs are staying on her." If they had not already lost her. "Got two addresses, one's a home, one a place of business."

"Sit tight and observe or full-on entry?"

"Discreet coverage for now."

His next call was to the sub. "Where's she now?"

"Status unchanged. The babe's still walking," was the reply back. Still safe, still walking, destination unknown.

"Call me if she receives or makes a phone call from her cell or a phone booth. Any call I want to know about." She could be playing him, getting back at him for the tail. Not what Fists and Knot were telling him but he had been wrong in the past. Right. No way. She had played him at the woman's apartment and she had also been up to something. Two birds with one fucking stone just like now.

# The Chief's leading lady

She called back at three o'clock, a good two hours after she had hung up on him. Two hours of walking, two hours of getting back at him. He knew she could walk for hours when angry but luckily she had finally stopped in a coffee shop.

"Hi, Chief, Sir." Her term of endearment for when she was very angry at him.

"Hi, Princess." Meaning I'm angry too. Damn right he was angry.

"Ready to apologise?"

"Who, me?" He had expected her to be mad, but this was ludicrous. What the fuck did he have to apologise for? "You're the one who needs to ask for forgiveness, Sleek."

"No way. You're the one doing the tailing, smart ass."

"And who's doing the lying, Pussycat?"

"Who says I'm lying! I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about." When she gave him answers like that, her exclamation-interrogation automatism as he had nicknamed it, it screamed ʻguilty as charged but no way am I going to admit to it.'

Since confrontation wasn't working, he tried another approach. "Ok. I apologise for having you followed." She wasn't the only one that knew how to lie.

"And?"

"And? I will not do it again." Unless I feel it's necessary.

"And?"

"And? I think you are damn sexy." He threw in some personal feelings; chicks liked that. But Patricia was no ordinary chick, though, as he knew damn well, and it didn't smoothen anything. He could almost hear her pout at the other end. No doubt the sub could see her rolling her eyes and stomping her foot angrily on the sidewalk.

"Christopher! And?"

"Well, I think that pretty much covers it."

"No it doesn't! Call your dogs back!"

"Already done." Worth a try.

"He's still here!"

His turn to play. "You sure? What does he look like?"

"Christopher, you are not funny!" Why should he be? He wasn't having fun. "Call him back."

"No can do, Angel."

"And why not?" Her voice had a note of provocation in it that somehow made Fists clench tighter.

"Who's the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy you had coffee with."

"I've been walking all afternoon; I didn't have my coffee yet." She was good at the denying shit.

"Damn it, Patricia. You want me to send you his picture?"

"You took his picture? Christopher, this is so...You are absolutely... Have you heard about privacy? I'm pretty sure what you're doing is illegal. What if I'm having an affair with the guy or something?"

"Are you?"

"Of course not."

"Then what's the problem? Who's he?"

"It's none of your damn business."

"Patricia, this better not be about the case!"

"If you have his picture, surely you know who his name by now?"

Of course, he did but it didn't help. If it was for personal business, what did she need with a human resources guy? For the briefest of instant, he thought that perhaps, maybe, hopefully, she was looking for a new job. The moment didn't last; he knew it couldn't be that easy. It had to be about the case but what was the connection? What tied the guy, the photographer and the phone? More importantly, was there a link between the older guy and the victims? For now, lying to her seemed the way to go. "No, I don't know who the fucking guy is. That's why I called earlier. I'd hoped you would tell me."

A pause. He pictured her, her cell to her ear, head to the side. "Just some HR guy. Nothing for you to worry. He's going to do my portfolio. You know, for a job."

"Really? Ok then. So everything's ok?" Better to let her think he believed her.

"Of course everything's ok! Why wouldn't it be?" Her automatism.

"Right. I feel better. Sorry for overreacting here. I guess I went a little over the top, but we're good now, right?"

"I'll think about it." So will I, Princess, so will I.

"I have to go back to work now. I'll see you later then, Angel. Bye." He hung up hurriedly, not wanting her to realise he had forgotten to agree to stop the tail.

One might think he had indeed overreacted. Just an HR guy, right? He wasn't that gullible. All those odd jobs she did, she found herself wherever her imagination or her research took her. No way did she need an HR guy for that. She was lying and hiding something, the two always went in pair with her.

It might appear he had not learned anything from their conversation, but there were clues there if he could find them. What made a great liar? She was among the best he knew. She liked lying, hell she liked acting, enjoyed doing it without people knowing. She would never admit to lying, holding back perhaps, and he had yet to catch her in contradicting lies. Like just now. She had not said it wasn't about the case, hence she had not lied. Her very own specialty, turning reality into fiction, rearranging the facts, rearranging the truth. He replayed their little chat in his head. With her, every word counted. They had exchanged replies back and forth but what had he learned?

She knew she was tailed. He had not been sure at first. Had she guessed or had she spotted the tail? Since she knew he had not taken the tail off meant it hadn't an educated guess on her part. Had she seen Sub during their chat or before? He wouldn't find out how she had spotted her tail, she never revealed her tricks (even later when the fight was over), but knowing the when might tell about the how. Had she gotten suspicious after their first conversation but taken the walk so she could identify him? No, a two-hour walk was way too long. Although Mac had assured him the subs were good, Chris knew from personal experience she was often better. With her brisk walking tempo, the subs changing position every fifteen minutes or so, she had plenty of time to watch the subs during her stroll. It wouldn't have taken her two fucking hours to spot a tail she knew was there (he learned later she had spotted the first sub during his phone call, ʻhis suspicious coffee pick-up phone call' as per her exact words).

Why hadn't she tried to shake them off? Her letting them tag along was his clue. The only other time she had let a known watchdog do the deed was for the break-in with Mac. She had wanted Mac there then, so why did she want the tail now? Why did she need the tail? No clue yet, for according to the subs, she had not done anything except walking.

What else did he know? She had said the older man was an HR, which he already knew. Assuming she did not need an HR guy herself, portfolio for a job my ass, why had she met with the guy? He went back to the blackboard. The victims. Ass, Breasts, Ears, Legs. He put the country girl in a corner. Their profiles. The information they had collected on all of them. The list of suspects. Mysterious Gunther. Boring photographer. His studio. The phone lists and the agency's employees. The burned down empty condo. The roof. And now maybe, the HR guy. The wild card. They had tiny threads but none that tied it all together.

He tried looking at it another way, tried going from one to the other testing the links. They all broke down, not one connection, however hair-thin, he could follow all over the board. Except her. From the victims to the roof to the photographer to the old man, her he could follow all over. Could she be tainting his investigation? That habit she had of following her silly ideas, that dangerous, reckless habit of hers of turning facts into fiction. Had she led them in the wrong direction? Her, now walking around like she often did, doing research no doubt. Like she had when she had found Legs's body, and Breasts, and Ears's notebooks. He shook his head. He could almost see her.

# MacLaren's arrest

Imagining her walking around got him closer. He felt it nagging at him in the back of his mind, so close. It was LeRoy with his faithful attentiveness and laid-back attitude that put it all in motion.

Le grew tired of watching his boss stare, ass half-resting on the corner of his desk, at the board alone in his office, and came to sit with him. He waited a while. Patience was not one of Le's best qualities, not without talking anyway. So he started talking about what his boss should do next. He gave a few personal insights on the situation, making a few lame jokes along the way without getting a reaction on anything except the occasional grunting. Grunting being better than getting told off, Le went about asking about Patricia.

"Have you gotten news back from her? What's the old man about?"

More to clarify his thoughts than anything else, and keeping the intimate parts of the conversation under silence, Chris retold his conversation with her out loud. LeRoy listened without interrupting, then added on the board the old man's name to the suspect list, with ʻHR & job portfolio' under it. So under the suspect's list, it was now written ʻGunther, doctor,' ʻ20+ Caucasian, semen,' ʻPhotographer.' ʻOlder man, HR & job portfolio' They stared at the board for a while.

Frankke came to join them and gazed at the board some too. More patient than LeRoy, way less than Chris, Frankke went through the same process, asked the same questions as Le, with the occasional comments from the other two. Frankke being Frankke, he focused more on the details of the case than on the case itself, details being in this instance female body parts. Breasts. Ass. Legs. In retrospect, Chris figured that was how Frankke got to Patricia. From her in her underwear coming from the roof. To the model on the roof. To the photographer. To the HR portfolio.

"Why does Patricia wants a modelling portfolio done?" Frankke asked.

Chris was about to correct his man, HR guy did job portfolio, but it was indeed what she had called it, a fucking ʻjob portfolio.' As in model portfolio. As in modelling job. Fuck! You better not be up to what I think you're up to, Angel!

He called the sub again. His Angel was still walking, not anywhere closer to her hotel, though, but slowly moving toward the photographer's place, toward the burned down building, still blocks from either but closing in on their neighbourhood. There was a giant map pinned next to his board; each of the megalopolis's district was outlined in a different colour. The map's glossy plastic surface was broken in places by pushpins marking the location where each victim was found. While the sub remained on the line, he retraced Patricia's journey on the map with his finger. The map also indicated the position of the phone on the roof and the photographer's place. She had taken a cab to her meeting with Older man, had stayed there for over an hour, had then walked for two seemingly aimless hours, just to spite him he had thought, but now it appeared she might be heading somewhere.

She kept on walking. Not to the burn-down building he realised, the map showed she would have turned left a couple of blocks earlier. If she were going to the photographer's place, she would make a right soon, one or two blocks down... She didn't and kept on walking. No wonder she had trouble keeping weight on, she was in her fourth hour of walking when she stopped at a coffee shop (again), giving him time to study the map some more.

With Frankke and LeRoy next to him, they stared at the pink area on the map. Business area. The photographer's was south at the lower edge of the pink district. The place Patricia was having a snack and a coffee, as reported by Sub, was smack in the middle of the pink. They went over all the information they had on the victims. None of them worked or lived close by the pink. Hell, there were no indications any of them had been in the pink in the days before their murders. Photographer didn't live close, neither did Older. Granted some of the phone users lived in the general vicinity but farther north in the adjoining yellow area. Was it where she was going? He tried calling her again but of course, she choose not to answer him.

Ham joined in with additional info on Older. "His business's been up and running for the last six years. He's been divorced for ten; the ex died three years ago. Older was a doctor, a general practitioner, but lost his licence nine years ago after some wrongful diagnostics shit. I called the last hospital he worked at, and the head nurse and some doctor both said the guy was a drunk." Perhaps Older had picked up his acts, he sure hadn't looked like a drunk in Sub's pictures. "He's got a grown-up son. I checked the phone list. Neither father nor son is on it. Did anyone notice there's not Gunther either on the fucking list?"

Chris felt the anger slowly building. Staring at a map was not his thing, not when she was out there doing whatever the fuck! Shapiro coming in to join the damn impromptu gathering he had going in his office pretty much did it for Chris.

"We're fucking clueless." About the case, and about what she was fucking doing up there.

When Sub called back saying she was on the move again, Chris decided it was about time he did the same. "Ok guys, party's over. Time to go home."

Nobody moved.

To show that he meant it, he put his jacket on, turned off the lights before grabbing his office door handle to wait for them to get the fuck out. They took the hint. He headed straight to his car.

LeRoy caught up with him before he could get in. "Where're you going, boss?"

"Go home, Le."

"Wanna go for beer?"

"Go home."

"No fucking way. It's only fair I come. I haven't had any fun yet."

The fucking problem with having friends as employees, nobody minded their fucking business! While just about everybody found him impossible to read, sometimes his guys had enlightened moments. It seemed this was one of them. Frankke's car pulled up next to his, Ham in the passenger seat. Fucking moment they chose. He could have them all suspended, that he could. Fucking insubordination it was. But what would be the point if he had to call them back in a few hours? Hence, he only shrugged. And why not? They might indeed have fun watching but watching what he didn't know yet. It would depend on how many smokes he had on the way.

A full-on rush hour with traffic everywhere. He smoked a cigarette but it didn't help any. After a quarter of an hour of crawling at turtle speed, he pulled out the flashing lights. After a good thirty blocks of sirens and cursing, traffic finally let up but it was too late. They were only blocks away from her, and his anger was reached a dangerous level. LeRoy's commenting every fucking car they passed hadn't helped.

As a sign of good faith, he killed the lights and sirens. Not that she appreciated it. She turned his way the moment his car had turned the corner, and there she stood on the sidewalk, hands tucked in her pockets, watching as he drove up. Relaxed. Smiling. How had she known? Unless she was expecting him? That got him mad. Did she think this was a fucking game? No, not a game, one of her fucking books! Like a good law-abiding citizen, Frankke parked on the other side of the street. Chris wasn't in such a mood. He jerked the car through incoming traffic to stop level with her, and stormed out of the car, leaving the door ajar, half blocking the sidewalk.

She had not picked up on his mood yet because she greeted him with her usual, "Hi, Big guy!"

"Patricia." Voice low, barely in control.

"So. What took you so long?"

That pushed him right off the edge. Indeed a fucking game! My turn to set the rules, Pussycat Darling. "Patricia. Get in the car."

"Why?"

Why? Was she was really asking him why?! "No more games. Get. In. The. Car." Voice hard.

She looked at him, her mood turning quickly, now seemingly matching his. "No." She crossed her arms over her chest, closed her eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath before opening them back slowly to glare at him, head crooked to the side. "I want to show you something."

"No. No showing. Get in the fucking car!" He felt more than saw LeRoy get out of the car and come to stand next to him. His voice of reason. Not that he needed him. No way was he ever going to hurt her, all he wanted was for her to get in the fucking car where it was safe.

"You are the most infuriating man! I want to show you something, why won't you come?"

"Patricia. The car. Now."

"The hell with you!" She lunged away.

She might be a swift walker, but he had excellent reflexes (might also be he had been anticipating her). Before she could break into a print, he had her by the waist with his left arm, grabbed her right wrist with his right hand and held her arm close. Having personally experienced her two half-ass moves first-hand in the past, he was ready.

"Let go of me." Her voice was angry, the words uttered between clenched teeth.

So were his. "No. Get in the car."

"You can't make me."

"Watch me."

"What! You're going to drag me screaming and kicking?"

"Princess, you're too afraid to hurt me accidentally to kick me and as for screaming, I already know you're not a screamer, don't I?"

"Christopher James MacLaren, You. Are. An. Ass!" He heard her take a sharp breath. "Then what? You can't keep me in the car forever, you know."

She was right, no way could he keep her in his car long. Or could he? Images of her handcuffed to his bed naked came to mind. Very vivid thoughts he pushed aside. He wanted mutual consent for his fantasy, and he doubted she was in the mood right now. "Not in the car, I can't, but I'm putting you under arrest."

"What?" She started pulling at his arm, but he only tightened his grip.

Whispering in her hair next to her ear so only she could hear, he threatened, "I'm putting you under arrest for obstruction of justice. And if you don't stop fighting, I'm going to handcuff you and frisk you. So thoroughly you'll be wet by the time I'm done." She froze but not before lifting her chin defiantly. He knew he had her.

"Fine. Let go of me. I'll get in your damn car!"

He held on to her a while longer hiding his smile in her hair. When he let her go, she walked to the car on LeRoy's side, sat in the back and slammed the door.

Not the first time he had arrested her, or pretended to at least. They rode back to the precinct in silence. Even LeRoy kept his mouth shut. Frankke and Ham left when they reached the parking lot, and he had LeRoy do the same. It wasn't like she was going to run, was it? When he opened the door for her, she got out of the car and walked with a pout to the building's door. Damn woman. Once he had the door unlocked, she walked right in, turning first right, then left, another left, took the stairs and went straight to booking without him having to speak once. She might be hoping to call his bluff, but they both knew he was much better than her at that game.

He had her locked up in an empty cell at the far end. To be safe, he told the cop in charge not to put anyone in the cells next to hers. He planned on letting her wait there as long as it took for her to come to her senses, or at least as long as it took for her to calm down. Her and him. He didn't take her cell phone but did ask for the battery in case the Mario jerk was truly ready to do just about anything for her. He went back up and sat in his office for a long time. Staring at the board from time to time, working on other cases, making notes and calling downstairs every twenty minutes or so. The insipid cafeteria food being food nonetheless, he had a sandwich delivered to her.

Unfortunately for the both of them, and for the victim of course, another body was found, and he had to leave. For the briefest of moment, he thought of bringing her along, handcuffed to the car door would be safe enough. He didn't give a shit what the others would think but couldn't come up with an explanation plausible enough so she couldn't lure her way out of the cuffs. Too many unsuspecting cops at crime scenes.

He stopped by her cell before heading out. She was sitting on the bunk, legs crossed, her back to the wall. She stared at the back wall, pointedly not looking at him when he walked in.

"You can come with me or stay there." Wishing for the second, prepared for the first.

"Fuck you." Classy lady.

He smiled, not the first time they had that conversation. "With you, Princess? You know I like to. Anytime. Anywhere."

Her eyes glued to the back wall, she gave him the finger. He sighed and decided then and there to let her spend the night in the cozy cell. He knew and trusted Cop in charge; his instructions would be followed to the letter. She was given a brand-new pillow, a clean set of sheets and two wool covers from the infirmary, in addition to a small portable television, snacks and drinks. He did try to explain why he wanted her to stay safely in the cell, but she wasn't ready to listen.

"I'll pick you up when I'm done at the scene."

"Don't bother. My lawyer'll have me out by then."

Sassy and sexy. And safe.

# Alternate series: Fake arrest

Plus four.

Plus five.

What would happen if the killer thought they were not looking for him anymore? He made an arrest. He lied. He traded. He cheated. He made an arrest. He told the newspapers.

Plus six.

Plus seven.

He didn't care who he arrested. Someone credible. Someone likable. Someone flamboyant. He told the newspapers.

Plus eight.

Plus nine.

Plus ten.

He got surveillance back. Movement. Someone was relaxing.

Plus eleven.

Plus twelve.

He got surveillance back. Movement. Someone was relaxing. Someone was followed. Day and night.

Plus thirteen.

He got surveillance back. Movement. Someone was relaxing. Someone was followed. Day and night. Someone was pissed.

Plus fourteen.

Dangerously close.

He got surveillance. Closer. Mercenaries.

Day twenty-five.

She was perfect. She had another day.

He went in. No more police work.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Her lunch break

Surprisingly she slept, quite well at that. Anger and walking for hours did wear her out, and she had had plenty of both that day. The man was infuriating! She had walked him right to the killer's doorsteps but had he deigned to hear her out? Well, damn him! She was in no mood to talk when he showed up in the middle of the night.

"You should have let me sleep the night, Big guy."

Ok, so it wasn't that late, not even midnight but even after her nap, she was still angry. Apparently, so was he because he took her to her words and left her locked up. Fine by her! She was good at pretending, could even pretend to be asleep! She studied at the ceiling for a while, listening to the others, whoever her faraway cellmates were, breathing, cursing, snoring. She fell back to sleep after admitting to herself she had maybe, just possibly, acted somewhat like a spoiled brat. Perhaps. But so had he. She was willing to apologise, but he better apologise too. For having her followed countless times. For not listening to her. For letting her walk so long. So the walking had been her idea, still he could have stopped her at any point. She wasn't sure yet what she was going to express regrets for. Acting like a child? Playing games? Having coffee with a potential killer? The man had been lovely.

She had not associated his bruises with the last victim at first. Not even when they had separated on the sidewalk had it occurred to her. All through their meeting, she had asked about the portfolio, what he needed to do, what she would need to do. For whom had he worked before. ʻAny celebrities?' She'd teased. He was charming all through.

It had taken her well into her walk back to realise he could be it. She was not as precise or on the alert as she should or would have been had he not been so nice. She liked gentlemen and had a weak spot for older men. She had dated an old gent between Joshua and Christopher, such a perfectly polite, soft spoken, educated man. He had not argued with her once. Older had seemed the same. Not that she was in the least attracted to him; way too clean, he looked like a gentile from the twenties. If she ever did put together a story at the Cabaret, she saw him for the part of the owner. Frankly, during her date with Older, she had only asked two pertinent questions.

"Who was the man that gave me your business card?" She asked referring to the creepy guy.

"My scout. He is an old family friend; he spends his time roaming bars and clubs. I decided to put his... hobby to better use. When he visits a place that looks promising, raw talent like you." Older gave her a smile with a small derisive nod. She smiled back. So charming. "He tells me and if I'm available, I spend the evening posing as a lonesome gentleman having a good time drinking. I never stay more than an hour or two. Once I have identified potential clients, I tell him my choices and he hands out the cards for me. I am quite small-scale, we gave out only half a dozen cards at the Cabaret."

"Why don't you give the cards out yourself?"

"I did at the beginning, Dearie, but women, and men, were under the impression I was coming on to them."

"Understandably."

"Indeed. I must admit using my old friend turned out to have an unforeseen advantage. Anyone calling is highly motivated." Or desperate, she thought, much, much later that day. But at the time, his explanation had seemed very logical. She had not asked about Breasts. She now wondered what he would have said. And would she have believed him?

Her second challenging question had been about his job. "It is an unusual profession. When, how did you start doing such a fascinating job?" Could a character have such a job? The people it could meet!

Older explained about his divorce and how it had changed his life. She felt his sadness when he talked. "I almost lost my son then. Depression, alcohol, but I turned myself around. Years ago I was bankrupted but now I am thankful for it because I am now doing what I like the most. Meeting new people, doing art." That was what he called it, art.

"How is your son now?"

"We are not yet reconciled I am afraid. We have not seen each other for a while but for the last year, we have talked on the phone once or twice every month. I am optimist; things can only improve. What saddens me the most you see, is my son goes by my ex-wife's name, but I am working on that. Some day soon, I will reclaim my son in name." Nice but a bit grandiloquent. Very twenties. Perfect character.

The man had been lovely but still, she should have picked on the little signs much earlier. But noooo, she was too busy being angry at Christopher again. The first half of the walk had calmed her down some, enough for her to call Mario. With the tail still in tow, she forwent payphones for the emergency voicemail service number Mario had programmed in her cell. All she had to do was push and hold the number five button on her phone. Pretending she was listening to music, she had her earplugs on and sang her request, ʻResearch Older.' At that point she was merely looking for background on her Cabaret owner character. Not as good as McCarmick and Lonzo, not even close, Sub let her do her thing.

Her Cabaret character research lasted until her second coffee break. She wanted to go back to the photographer's place and have Christopher meet the guy with her. They could pretend they were looking for a photographer for their wedding or something. Christopher will appreciate the irony. She forgot about the photographer's place after checking her text messages. One was from Christopher telling her to call him back right away. Too angry, she deleted that one. One was from an unknown source hence Mario. Life history, financial data, addresses, including the ex-wife's house, the storage building the ex owned five blocks from the photographer's. The son's names, his birth name and the one he legally went with now, had her swallow a curse. So damn simple. She wondered if Frédéric had found the same information. Probably, how could he not? Christopher was way ahead of her on this one.

# Patricia's shooting

Just about then she would have appreciated a full glass of red wine, with strong arms and the scent of his cologne shielding her from the world's unpleasantness. She was not completely mad at Christopher yet. Having now realised she had lunch with a serial killer, as charming as he was, made her want to throw up. She kind of agreed, momentarily, with Christopher for being pissed at her.

"Reid? It's Patricia. I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a drink?" Or five. Being forced to call hidden from the sub in the ladies' room brought some of her anger back. So not ready to call Christopher just yet.

"I can't, I have a bunch of reports to write up." Fine! Damn my stupid rules, I'll go alone. "I suggest you stay away from trouble and the boss. He just left in a shitty mood with three of the guys."

"Problem with the Brass?" She wished.

"Don't think so. Bridget says they've been staring at the board for the good part of the afternoon, and they don't seem to be getting anywhere with the case."

Before hanging up, Bridget, through Reid, recommended her to stay away for now. "The Chief's looking for you, and he doesn't look one bit happy."

Great.

She had called Frédéric right after. Mario had won again. In the kid's defence, only Hamilton had asked him to do a complete check on the father. Hamilton being very precise in his request and Frédéric following requests to the letter, the kid had only done what Hamilton had asked. ʻA complete check on the father.' So damn great! Her already pissed boyfriend didn't know half the facts about Older.

Then Christopher had showed up growling orders and, well, her anger had swept her away. One second she wanted to explain it all and the next she was ready to slap him. She couldn't remember wanting to hit someone as much as she had wanted to slap him then − She had never slapped anyone before. Well, except for him, but that didn't count, it was at the very beginning, and they didn't know each other much then − but she did not slap him, remembering a nanosecond before losing it that she wanted to talk to him. Needed to. But no, the damn infuriating man had to be in full I'm-in-charge cop mode. Too bad for him.

Later, when he announced he was leaving for a crime scene, she almost fainted. Was she responsible? By not telling Christopher, had she given the killer time for another killing? Cop-in-charge saved her from going crazy by keeping her posted on the body. At first, it was described as a skinny young kid found behind a dumpster. Ears's killing all over again, she thought. Then later it came that the kid wasn't such a kid anymore, just some skinny guy with a baby face. No parts of the victim were naked and, bless him, no white powder was found on him. But what if next time...? For the safety of women in the megalopolis (and kids with feminine-looking parts), and for her peace of mind, someone needed to keep an eye on Older.

Cop-in-charge helped again. He didn't know Christopher had taken her cell phone battery. She didn't tell him either, some (most) things being better left unsaid with cops. "My phone's broken, do you think I could maybe borrow one?"

Since the chief had let her keep her cell, Charge-man figured she was allowed a phone and he lent her his.

"I don't want to impose; you know how women are, I might take up all your minutes." Small innocent smile. "I'd feel better using the public phone near the entrance."

"The cord's not long enough, Miss." What, no cordless phone in the holding cells, were the cops afraid the phones might get stolen?

"Ah. Perhaps if you let me out, I promis−"

"No can do. Can't let you near the front 'cause my cells are full over there."

Damn. If she called Mario on Charge's cell, the call could be traced as she suspected Christopher was not above tracking a cop's phone. What then? Calling Christopher was her very last option, but she would if she had to. She did not want to but would... Hum. She called Frédéric. What Mario couldn't do, maybe the kid could. All that was needed was for someone to sit and watch Older.

"Hello, sweetie, sorry to wake you, it's Patricia. I was wondering if you could do me a favour? My cell transmission is lousy." Were half-truths euphemisms or understatements? "Do you know the Chief's... ah, MacCarmick and Lonzo? He hires them for, hum, odd jobs." Odd jobs being a cute metaphor for a damn infuriating tail! "Anyway. I heard they subcontracted, and I kind of need the substitutes' coordinates." Since their contract was cut short that afternoon, with her now in jail for the night thanks to her infuriating boyfriend, chances were they were available. Not as good as her original tail but good enough. "Better yet. Can you call them and hire them on Christopher's account? Send them over to those addresses." She gave Older's addresses. "The Chief's at a crime scene so maybe you could have them report to me, I mean, to Officer Byron?" She gave Frédéric Cop-in-charge's cell phone number. With any luck, no one would call Christopher right away.

Since Christopher didn't come storming into her cell (and she slept the second half of the night peacefully), no one called the Big guy. Daytime-cop-in-charge let her go at five, he had to wake her up to do it too. Walking out of the building, she was half expecting, half hoping to find Christopher waiting for her. Both halves were disappointed. Apparently he was still mad. She almost went up to his place but then what? Not only hadn't she told him about Older yet, but she would also have to confess about the Subs. Not that she expected any disapprobation for the subs, certainly she couldn't have Older walk freely. She had done the best under the circumstances. Next to letting him take care of it, of course.

That left the shoot. How was she going to tell him about it? Hi, honey, guess what I did yesterday? I booked a photo shoot with a potential serial killer. Yup, that conversation would surely go smoothly, ending with him sending her right back to her holding cell or the asylum. So what if at the time she had not picked up on the serial-killing thing yet.

She sighed. That she was considering going was even worse. But how could she not? If Older were indeed the killer, it would be the perfect setup. Catching him in the act of sort, not that she intended to play the victim's part to the end, no damn way in hell. Why hadn't Christopher tagged along with her yesterday? Him showing up at the coffee shop as she was about to go snoop around the ex-wife's place had been perfect timing. Christopher was good at breaking and entering; he would have made sure nothing happened to her. And think of the experience! The scene it would have made! She had imagined the layout and started writing the décor in her head. But the man was too damn stubborn!

She had to meet with Older again. Knowing what she now knew, would she see it? She had not the day before but surely now she would. In his eyes maybe? How could she not? How did she not? There was curiosity there also. Irrational. Sick. Why had he done the killings? Because of his ex-wife? His son? Was he crazy for real? What was he doing? She already knew most of the answers. For sure, he was crazy. Yes, she was screwed up, delusional at times, but not crazy crazy, not like him. And if he was crazy for real, how could she even begin to understand what he was doing? Did she want to? Surely it took a crazy person to understand another crazy person? All she wanted to know was, how could he have killed all those women? A small part of her also wondered how she could have been fooled. She wanted to get back at him for his deception. A teeny tiny part deeply buried kept wondering why she was to be a part for really, which part could she be?

# Playing his part

Fred called Chris. Patricia had to know the kid would call him eventually but probably not so soon; it was the middle of the night for Christ's sake! Good, though, Fred picking up on her little tricks. He might hire her as an assistant-trainer or something for the team, crash course on tailing and research. After Fred's call, he called Sub. Everything was for now under control. She was tucked safely in jail. The subs were on the old jerk. Chris should have fallen asleep easily, but sleep eluded him, so he did the sleepless night routine on his terrace. The city was quiet as if to help him think. He sat shirtless and barefoot, old sweats on, a glass of scotch in his left hand, cigarette in his right. Drinking, puffing, thinking.

He had been too pissed then, but he should have let her talk. Tailing Older was her idea; it had to mean something. By four o'clock, he was convinced she had something on Older that the team hadn't. Whatever her initial plan had been, however she had made the connection to the old jerk, she should have run out of that coffee place as soon as she understood what the scratches on his face meant. Unless she had been working on a story, doing the fucking research thing, yet he couldn't see her having lunch with a killer even for some fucking research. Could it be she had not known? The woman could pick out a cop, wherever the place and whichever the clothes or the look, but she had less expertise on killers.

The long walk also bugged him. She was a walker, but she usually made stops along the way, not just at coffee shops but at small boutiques and parks that caught her fancy, snacking and browsing, snapping pictures, sketching staircases, buildings, people. Unless she was running for her life, which obviously she had not been. She had a tail for help, a made tail at that, which brought another question. Why hadn't she made it hard for the watchdog? Losing a tail, she liked a lot yet she had not.

Not caring about the fucking time, the guys were still on his payroll and supposedly watching Older, he called Sub back. "Give me a detailed description of yesterday, everything she did."

Walking. Coffee shop. Walking. Coffee shop. Nothing else. No, she had not stopped anywhere else. No, she had not used a public phone. No, she had not used her phone, at least not at any time when the subs had her in sight.

"Except for the two toilet breaks, one at each of the coffee shops. Blackouts then, roughly three minutes the first time and four minutes and a half," the second Sub estimated.

The Subs might have figured toilet breaks, Chris reckoned phone calls, at least for one of the stops. One day he was going to trash her fucking phone, not only the damn battery.

He could just get up from the fucking chair and go over to the station. Have a nice conversation with her. She had no resistance to tiredness and was most probably sound asleep by now. He liked waking her up. Liked a lot. She was all soft and dreamy then. He knew just where to put his hands to make her talkative. Make her moan. He could get her to do both. Maybe. He stayed in the chair and had another smoke with his drink and another drink with his smoke. Thinking.

He called Fred, asking him to run a check on Older again, asking the kid to check everything. Again. Fred called back forty-five minutes later with the names. Father and son. Ham had been too precise and Fred, well, Fred had been too Fred. Another thing she could teach his team, how to get information from misfits. His mistake. He should have had that information hours ago as she probably had from Mario. Fuck. But he wasn't one to bang his head on the wall for long. His guys made a mistake, time to learn from it and move forward. Plan their next moves.

He woke Frankke. Although, with Frankke, one could never be sure.

"Early start, boss? I'll be over in thirty."

Since it was partly Ham's screw up, Chris woke him too and ordered him over. He did the same with Fred; less of a punishment, the kid was already up because of his previous call. He could have asked them to meet at the station, should have really, would have too but for her there. He didn't want her close to any of his guys until he had them under control again. The way she had ignored him earlier, there was no chance in hell she would agree to come over, so he had her released. The surest place for his guys not to bump into her right now was here.

He took a quick shower, shaved and looked almost presentable dressed in his usual attire of dress pants and crisp shirt, jacket and tie resting on the back of the couch. Clean and sharp, like he had slept his full five-hour night. The guys showed up when he was having his second cup of coffee. It took a good hour to lay out the plan. His home computer had access to the police databases, but it didn't compare with the access they had at the station, so Fred took notes. They needed maps and buildings schematics. Patricia was right in the middle of the fucking plan, but her role he decided alone, and she wasn't to be involved in the planning. He checked with the guy at holding. She had left half an hour ago.

The plan's objectives were simple. Catch the killer. Have her quit. Her helping trap the killer would make her resign, permanently. Two birds with one stone. Fuck he hated her being close to Older. They could have gone and picked up father and son. DNA samples, white powder, fiber and semen needed to be matched with someone to become hard proof, but right now, except for Patricia' involvement, it was all fucking circumstantial. Nothing linked the two men to the victims. Inadmissible in court. He wanted her participation so she'd be scared off, but he did not want her harm nor did he want her to have to testify later. Court and lawyer made her run faster than light hence not good. Unless she ran straight to him, which he wasn't sure she would, not yet. What he was sure of, though, was that she was a step ahead. How had she made contact with Older? With both men now under surveillance, if she did meet either one again, he would know.

"Remember the crazy county-kid incident?" Ham said. " How about we use the Puss the same to get samples for the father and son team?"

Chris punched the jerk. Probably his sleepless night did show

"That was lame, Ham," Frankke commented. "Even from you."

# His part in the play

Ham was a quick learner. From his boss's reaction at the fire scene, he had learned he shouldn't stand too close to the man these days hence he had been standing further back. Chris's fist made less of an impact. Her getting any kind of samples was not brought up again.

The son with the bruised face was under surveillance since Patricia and Reid's visit, Des and Ham were to take over on the son, while now thanks to her, the father with the bruised face was tailed by the subs. As added precaution, Chris put Mac and Lonzo back on tailing her, close and visible so she'd know she wasn't the only one still angry. Once they got everything set up, the waiting started.

Later that morning, Reid went to the father's office to inquire about a portfolio.

"Your instructions are simply to snoop around," Chris informed Reid in a stern voice. "Look around. See what's there. Anything relating to one of the victims." One fucking picture of a roof and they were a go. He gave Reid the wire a guy he knew from Vice had provided. "Tuck this somewhere, it's only as a precaution, it won't be admissible. Shapiro's covering you from outside while I'll listen in with Frankke from Fred's den."

Neither he nor Frankke was offered a cafeteria chair; they had to get one for themselves. Some service. Chris made a mental note to order a couple to keep permanently, strictly a good will gesture since they wouldn't be much needed after she'd quit. Even buying fucking executive leather chairs as a pretence of him not wanting her to leave, the chairs would still come up cheap.

When Reid walked in at ten-thirty sharp, Older was in his office doing whatever. Reid's tap patched through Fred's computer sound system and the voices came out loud and clear. The man's voice was courteous and gentle. Soft, polite and poised, exactly the type of voice Patricia liked. Had she known the man was a killer, Chris wondered again. Probably not, she had been smiling in Sub's picture and her only toilet break during their date (as reported by the sub) had only lasted three minutes, too short for throwing up.

Patricia's date with Older lasted ninety minutes. Reid didn't stay longer than ten in the older man's office.

Older listened to Chris's undercover officer patiently, "I am not looking for new talents right now."

Reid was a pretty woman, no way near petite, but curvy and muscular. The guys had helped her doll up in a skirt short enough to show off her muscular thighs. Reid wouldn't do primp more than that. Paired with the knee-high black stiletto leather boots she wore, the result was more easy than classy but she was still pretty. Older didn't seem to agree.

"Of course, you can leave your coordinates but really, I can not promise anything. I am very busy, and I have a full catalog as it is." He thanked her for coming and out the door she was.

Reid gave a detailed report once back at the station. How the man had acted, how the office had looked. They played back the conversation, analysing Older's intonations, his inflections, his grammar, every fucking word he had said.

"Can he be the one?" Chris asked Reid.

"I don't know."

"If you had to choose, him or the photographer?"

"I didn't like either one, but I didn't dislike them either. I can't pick one more than the other."

Chris wondered if Patricia was ready to pick.

He had given up hope, only for today, on Patricia suddenly deciding on a trip to the library. He was counting her night in jail, though, to have kept her awake enough to make her too tired to try anything funny. As usual, he hoped for the best but planned for the worse. He had befriended some of the staff at her hotel. Calling and asking if she was in was simple enough albeit not always accurate. But with Mac and Lonzo (covering both the front and back entrances) and the front clerk and the bellboy on the lookout, her chances of leaving unnoticed were very slim. He already regretted not leaving her in jail. During the day, those cells were mostly empty. He could have brought her breakfast with a couple of books, and lunch, and supper and a night snack.

He was planning on breaking into Father's and Son's places to look around, and her in jail would have made it easier. No chance of her showing up uninvited. Had he done the fucking B&E last night instead of sitting in his fucking chair smoking and catching a cold, he might have arrested the killer by now, whichever it was. Not that the charges would have held; proofs obtained illegally didn't fair well in court. Instead he now had to have both of them watched, and wait. Sometimes being a cop sucked. Fred was still working the phone angle. The roof angle. The photographer angle. The older-man-agent angle. Pictures had been sent to the North country, to see if the crazy kid, the hotel owner or the married woman recognised Older. Long shots but worth a try.

"Do give my regards to Patricia," County cop had said during his call. Asshole. Chris slammed his fist on the phone's speaker button to end the call.

A bemused Frankke had been listening in on the conversation

"I knew this kid Barry in little school that hated cats," Chris mused. "The kid couldn't stand the sight of them. Whenever we played out in parks or back alleys, Barry would curse at every damn stray cat that came along. The detours Barry took to stay away from those cats! The weirdest thing was, cats liked Barry. He was always the one the animals came up to and rubbed against." Cops were like cats. She hated cops and yet every damn one of them ended up wanting to rub against her one way or the other. And he was the worst.

"What happened to the kid?"

"Not sure. Heard he became a vet."

Chris's plan was simple. Let her get close to the father or the son, whichever he didn't care as long as she got close enough to get scared but no way near close enough to get hurt. He was counting on that damn imagination of hers to do the rest. If she thought the man she was with was a killer, eventually her creativeness was going to run wild, and she's scared herself. At which point, he and Frankke would be scooped her up, them two covering the man plus Lonzo and Mac tailing her. They had reviewed the floor plans of all of Father's and Son's buildings Fred had obtained via the City's town planners. The photographer's apartment and studio, the old man's house and office. The storage. The ex-wife's building. No killings had occurred at those locations, but they had to start someplace and studying the schematics was better than waiting around. Not a complete waste of time since it would speed things up when they finally had search warrants.

If nothing turned up by the end of the day, he planned on hitting those places during the night, starting with the photographer's place. Not that Chris would ever admit it, but he really should have gone through the place during her night excursion there. His mistake. Another one. This case was screwing up his thoroughness. Not the case, he corrected himself, her. If she hadn't been there, he would have. But again, if she hadn't been there, they would never have suspected either Father nor Son.

Turned out he didn't have to wait as long as he had anticipated. She called his important-but-not-urgent cell number. Direct.

# His set-up

"Hi." No darling, no big guy. Noncommittal.

"Hi to you." Silence. Her call, let her make the first move.

"How are you?"

"Fine. How are you?" He meant to add, ʻdid you sleep well,' but foresaw it was a show stopper.

"Fine." Silence again. He heard her fidget with something. Nervous, was she? "Christopher?"

"Yes, Princess?" The Princess kind of slipped out, but she didn't pick up on it.

"You do know I like you, don't you?"

This was a new approach. He liked, "Yes I do. I like to hear it, though."

"I do like you. Even when you're acting like a total jackass."

"And I like you too." Even when you're acting like... He didn't pursue his trail of thoughts; the night had been too short to go that way.

"I know. Even if arresting me is not the best way to show it." Under the circumstances, he was still convinced it had been his only choice but he didn't argue, he needed her calm and under control. "Christopher?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Are you busy later?"

"Later when?"

"Later tonight?"

"Tonight? No, not so far." Ok, so he did intend to break into the photographer's place but that was much later. She was going to be sound asleep by then. As for him, sleep would wait yet another night. Or when the job was done.

"Good. Could you take me out to dinner?"

"Take you out? Why don't you take me out instead?" Better yet, why don't we just stay in, Pussycat?

"You had me spend the night in jail, I think you owe me. A big expensive dinner in a fancy place."

Or why don't we just stay in. Naked. "How about I cook you something?"

"No. You won't have time, you'll work until forever and we'll eat too late."

"I'll bring take-out then." And we'll just stay in, Darling. Naked.

"No. I need to go out."

Had she just said ʻneed'? "Why?"

"It's been a long week." The week's just started, Angel of mine. "A long month for that matter."

"All the more reason to stay in." If she were that tired, he'd give her a backrub. Naked.

"No. I, ah, we, hum, I have a late engagement. One you're, hum, welcomed to attend. Sort of."

He took a deep breath. He considered doing yoga, had heard it helped to stay relaxed. Fucking Zen. Although keeping her in jail was much better, no Knot and Fists last night but back they were now. What was he complaining about, this was a major breakthrough, wasn't it, her telling him anteriorly to the act? Keeping a normal voice, somewhat deeper than his usual perhaps, he asked, "What kind of engagement?"

Long pause. "Ah, well. I'll tell you over dinner." Nice try, Pussycat.

"Tell me now."

"It's complicated." Wasn't it always?

"Try me."

"It's an engagement I made earlier. And I think I should keep it."

She wasn't helping him much here. "Earlier when, Princess?"

"Earlier. Yesterday."

This conversation would be going so much faster if he had her in front of him. "Yesterday when?"

"Christopher! You're playing cop again, enough with the interrogation!"

"Fuck Patricia. We're having a playback of a conversation we had weeks ago! Listen up, Angel, I am not taking you back to the Cabaret!" The sleepless night had kicked in and, his knuckles white from holding the phone so tight, his speech was turning terse.

"The Cabaret? Why ever would I want to go to the Cabaret? Besides, they're not opened tonight."

Maybe this wasn't as bad as he imagined. "Then what?"

"I'm supposed to do a photo shoot later."

No, not as bad, damn fucking worse. "No." Screw the plan!

"No? Why is ʻNo' always the first thing that comes out of your mouth?"

"Not always. Not when I've got you naked."

"Christopher, damn it, I'm serious!"

"So am I. There are so many reasons why it's No, I don't even know where to start."

"Well then, we have a problem, don't we?"

"No. No fucking problem. You're staying right where you are." Safely at home. It would be even safer if she were at his place. He needed to go shopping for a new bed frame ASAP.

"Really? That's what you want? For me to stay here?"

"Damn right, Angel."

"You sure?"

"Damn sure."

Longest pause. "You know where I am then?"

His turn to pause. That sounded like a trick question. He was one hundred percent sure she was at the hotel. Almost. "You're in your room. Probably still in yesterday's clothes. Unless this is a kinky phone call and you forgot to tell me you were naked."

"I'm calling from my cell."

"I know. The caller ID says blocked; the hotel phone would have shown."

"But I could be calling from a public phone and it would show the same, wouldn't it?"

"But you're not. You're calling from your suite."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He heard a faint tsk-tsk over the line. "You have the hotel under surveillance, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Call me back when you don't." She hung up on him; this was turning into a habit yet, feeling it had gone pretty damn well, he smiled to himself. He had not lost it while she almost had, and they had a dinner date. Fucking well indeed. So he had screwed up the plan some, it wasn't such a good plan anyway. Searching the men's places and having them followed was more efficient. Jerk father was in his office, asshole son in his studio, the love of his life safely at her hotel, the day was going smoothly.

An hour passed. He went back to his office and, with the door closed, called her back at the hotel. Getting no answer, he tried her cell.

She answered on the fourth ring, "Yes?"

"Hi, Darling." Trying a smooth approach.

"Did you remove them?"

No way in hell. "Yes, I did."

"You did?"

"Yes. Like you asked."

"Strange. When did you call them off?"

"A while ago, why?"

"Because I saw them when I went out."

Since neither Lonzo nor Mac had called, she was still in her room. "When did you go out?"

"Right now. I'm out right now."

"And where are you?"

"At the library, of course. Where else?"

# Your table, Sir

"Really? Wow, I'm impressed. Do you want me to pick you up there later?" He could pretend as well as her.

"I don't know, I might not stay here a lot longer, I'll let you know."

"Call me when you get back to the hotel then."

"I might not go back right away."

Somehow he had the impression she was a little better at this pretence game than he was. "And where would you be going next, Pussycat?"

"How about I meet you at Vitto's? It's been a while since I had one of his lattes."

Her offer unsettled him. Could she really be out? If she was lying, going to Vitto's from her hotel unnoticed would be hard, what with him having his guys all over her the moment she stepped out. "Ok. Call me when you're ready to head out."

"Will do. See you soon, Big guy." Very nonchalant, wasn't she?

Over the phone, he couldn't always tell if she was misleading him. A master at the game indeed. He drove over to her hotel. What else could he do?

His guys were still tailing the two men, Frankke was still working angles with Fred, Reid had changed back to her everyday, more comfortable attire, swearing it was the last time she ever let Ham and Des pick out an outfit for her. Everyone appeared to be back to business as usual, but there was tension in the air, a sense of expectancy. They watched him leave, half expecting him to ask them to follow.

He could have asked one of his buddies to go knock on her door. If she answered, all would be well. Perhaps she'd be mad but since it was her game, it wouldn't last. But if she didn't answer, then what? Have the guys break into her suite for a visual? If she was there, they were back to square one. If she wasn't, they were in trouble, and the damn library was about the last place he'd go look for her.

He was a couple of blocks from her hotel when she called again. "Me again."

"Done already?"

"Yup."

"It didn't take long."

"Nope. I only needed a couple of minutes."

"What's next then?"

"It depends." Obviously the game wasn't over.

"Depends on what, Pussycat?"

"Depends on you, Big guy."

At the speed this conversation was going, he would be able to talk to her face-to-face in the next two minutes. Or if she was out for real, yell at her over the phone. He smiled. "How so, Angel?" He was now parking in front of the hotel door.

"You'll see. I'll talk to you soon. Gotta go." She hung up again.

You're the one I should have made wear a wire, Darling. He didn't bother with the no-parking zone, waved to the valet and ran up the stairs. Less than three minutes later, he was picking her lock. When he entered, she was sitting on the couch. Same half-smile as at Breasts's place but a more comfortable and luxurious setting. Without a word, he sat down heavily on the sofa next to her. He suddenly felt tired; he was getting too fucking old for sleepless nights. He rested his hands on his lap and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

"You couldn't be sure, could you, Big guy? And you had to be certain, damn you." He kept his mouth shut. "You couldn't be sure where I was when I called, could you?" She repeated. "Like you can't be sure where I'll be later, can you? I'm asking you to be there later, but if you don't want to, I know I'll go anyway."

"No."

"You don't even know where I'm going."

"Cabaret or serial killer were my guesses. Since you said no to the cabaret, it's the killer." He blew out a sigh and rubbed his hair with both hands.

"I want you to listen. Just listen, ok? You can get mad after if you want, not that it'll change anything but−"

"Patricia," he warned.

"Just listen, ok?"

He rubbed his hair again. His eyes were starting to burn. A nap would be nice. Fuck she smelled good. Looked good. So damn fucking nice. She had that soft, almost fragile air today. Her eyes were kind of red too, not that she looked that tired. He looked her over trying to figure out what she was up to and caught the faintest sparkles of green in her eyes. Her ever changing midnight, stormy, ocean, steel blue-grey eyes turned green when she cried. The French had a word for the colour of her eyes, how did she called it? Pairs, pears, pers... The green he didn't see often, she was as secretive with her tears as she was of her life, but when every fucking time he did catch them green, it got to him. Game over, he withdrew. "Ok. I'm listening."

She handed him a phone, not her regular phone but a cheaper model. Was that the burner phone she had fiddled with at the coffee shop days ago? "The sound's not that sharp," she apologised, before hitting the play button. "It's a recording. Neat app, it came with the phone."

He heard static in the background but the voices were audible though he found it hard to recognise them at first.

"Hello, Sir." Her voice.

"Yes, hello?" Who the fuck was that?

"This is Patricia. Do you remember me?" Whoever the jerk was, he would be crazy not to remember her.

"Yes of course I do, lovely it was." With that, he recognised the jerk's voice, not as clear as when he had heard it earlier. Fred's system was high quality, this phone was shit, but still Chris caught the warmth in the man's voice. It hadn't been there for Reid. "I so enjoy our little talk yesterday, Dearie." The jerk calling her dearie, Chris didn't like it. "How are you dear?"

"Ah. I'm fine, thank you. And, hum, how are you?" Doing small talk with a potential killer, his girlfriend was a total lunatic!

"I am fine too, thank you for asking. What can I do for you, lovely lady?"

"I'm, hum, ah, calling regarding our appointment." What fucking appointment? No way in hell was that ever going to happen! And there he had thought she merely wanted to break into the jerk's place like she had the son's.

"Yes. I am so looking forward to it. You remember me asking you where you wanted to do the shoot?" The shoot? Wasn't the shoot with the photographer?

"Yes, you have." Her voice sounded thin to his ear, less assertive than usual, and higher pitch. She had been nervous. "Well, I haven't had a chance to think about it. Maybe we can discuss it later?"

"No, not to worry. I found a place."

"Ah?"

"Yes. It is an old storage place I use sometimes. It has a skylight; it will be a most appropriate place." Father didn't own a storage place; he must have been referring to his ex-wife place. "You remember me telling you about going for an oldies look? Like the beautiful dress you were wearing at the Cabaret when we saw you? So lovely my son and I thought you were. The room is a bit of a mess; the contrast will be stunning." The jerk had met her at the Cabaret? When?

"Ah. You think?" Voice high pitched.

"Yes, dear. How could it not? It will be about you." Chris didn't like the guy's tone, and he fucking didn't like the thing he said to her.

"Well, if you think so. But I can't make it this week. You know. Family thing."

"Nothing serious I hope?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"I am glad. You know, I do not remember you mentioning your family. I thought perhaps you did not have any... But I am glad you do." The jerk didn't sound so fucking happy over the recording.

"It's not really close family. You know. Long distant cousin out of town but I do have to go. Since they're my only relatives and all." Her lying meant she had been back in the game then.

"Yes dear, I understand. When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

"How long will you be gone, milady?"

"I don't know. A couple of days I guess."

"Very well then. I suppose you are right, we will have to reschedule our Wednesday appointment. Unless..." The jerk let the end of his phrase hung, and sure enough, she picked it up.

"Unless?"

"Well, I was just thinking. Since I already have to go to my storage location later this evening. I will need some of my equipment tomorrow, you see. Well, since I will already be there, you might want to stop by tonight, Dearie. If you do not already have plans, of course. Such a lovely lady as yourself, I will understand if you are already taken."

"Ah. Tonight? So soon? I mean, won't you need time to prepare?"

"This will be like an introductory session. We will set up and see what we can come up with. I really want to bring out your best features. We will experiment with lightings. We will see what we can get out of you. No need to be nervous. We will schedule another more official session later."

"Ah." The pitched voice was back.

"This is still a personal project, is it not? I do remember you confiding you really needed this."

"Yes, yes. I do. You're right. Tonight will be okay. What time shall I be there?"

"Shall we say nine o'clock then? I know it is somewhat late, but I do have some work to do before. Make sure to dress appropriately. We want you looking perfect."

The conversation ended with Older giving her the address of his ex-wife place, storage my ass, and saying his goodbyes, not without a few more dearies. Chris stared at the phone. He was back to his initial plan but with one majorly serious difference. Her fucking too close to be safe.

# Alternate series: Table for one

She looked lovely.

Her hair was done up in an old fashioned bun. Her lips were painted fiery red. Her eyes were encased in black eyeliner. She wore a black dress. She wore black stilettos. Her legs were bare. Her arms were bare. Her shoulders were bare. She looked lovely. She was not moving.

From what he could see, there was no white powder on her yet.

From where he was, he couldn't hear what the man was telling her. She didn't reply. She did not move, blink, frown or give the man the finger. Nothing. The man poured her tea into a cup. She didn't move, yet she wasn't restrained. The man added sugar. She didn't move. Nothing on her wrists. He couldn't see her ankles. The man added milk into the cup. She didn't move. The man took the cup and approached it to her lips. She didn't move. The man tilted the cup to her lips. She didn't move. The man put the cup down. It was empty.

The man cleared the coffee table. She didn't move.

The man sat next to her. She didn't move.

The man patted her hair. She didn't move.

The man left the room. She didn't move. The man came back with a tray. Liquid, powder, cloths. All white.

The man cupped her face between his hands. Pale cheeks. The man lifted her dress. Pale thighs. She didn't move.

The man pumped a breast in his hand.

He jumped.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Table for one female

She didn't know how else to explain it to him. Surely he saw it was the easiest way.

"I don't want another dead woman on my hands." If she didn't go, the next one would be on her, surely he saw that.

She had been calm watching Christopher listening to the tape. Secure. He would know what to do. As long as he didn't become raving mad before. He seemed under control for now, with his eyes closed and head resting on the back of the couch. Thinking. Ok, so the vein was throbbing on his neck, it had been pulsing before, right? No clenched fists, one hand on his lap, one hand holding the bargain phone loosely. And he had not rubbed his hair once since the end of the recording.

For the time she kept any of her phones, she should consider buying them bulk. This one had to go, no doubt about it, it had the voice of a murderer on it. If he was indeed the killer. But how could he not be? But how could he be? Such a lovely man. Surely, somehow, it was the son. The son begrudging the father, following him, setting him up, killing his clientele. The son most assuredly. How could it not be? How could it be? The photographer had seemed too small to strangle anyone, yet alone fight. Ribcage had seemed muscular the few seconds she had looked at her. No, not the son. But who else? The phone number was on the list. Maybe she had the entire thing wrong, maybe that was why Christopher was just sitting there without saying anything. She hated it when he was like that. Cop like. Of course, he was the same as always. Cop like. Why did she have to fall for a cop, really! None of this would have happened had she fallen for a banker or a lawyer. An office job, a real office, that was the way to go.

Again and again, she checked his hands. They looked relaxed there on his thighs; maybe he had fallen asleep. That would be just like him! There she was having a small nervous breakdown at the thought of going over to a serial killer's place, and he was sleeping! Some story that made, ʻdemoiselle in distress gets white-powder coated while hero sleeps on.' She meant to shake him but when she looked back at his face, she found him smiling at her. Crooked smile.

"Daydreaming, Princess?"

No way could he have known what she had been thinking. Please. "I thought you had fallen asleep."

"Really? You think I can sleep when you have a date with some killer guy?" Soft voice and crooked smile on but hands not so relaxed anymore.

"It's not a date!"

"How would you call it then?"

"A set-up appointment?"

"An appointment or a date, same thing. It's still with a serial killer." Smile gone, eyebrows almost touching.

"We don't know that for sure."

"No, you're right, we don't so I guess it's fucking ok then!" The end of his phrase ended in a growl. She instantly felt relieved. Thank God, he's not going to let me go! She almost threw herself at him. Very temporary relief. Even if she didn't want to, even if he didn't let her, she had to go. Just thinking about the upcoming meeting had her sweating and fighting a wave of nausea. A dead woman on her conscience would be worse.

"I don't think it's him. He is a lovely man. Quite a gentleman. Really."

He studied her with something in his eyes. She wasn't sure what it was, but it made her nervous as if she should be running. "Why were you nervous talking to him then, if you don't think he's the one?" She was puzzled. "On the phone, Angel. You called him to cancel. And you sounded nervous. Why?"

"He's a murderer! Contrary to you, Big guy, I don't get to talk to murderers often."

"But you just said it couldn't be him. Why be nervous then?" Why indeed? He was right, she had been nervous just talking to the man over the phone. Then, as now, waves of nausea had passed over her. "Why the nerves if you're sure?" He asked again. "Lovely man that he is," he insisted.

"He has to be. Him or his son. More his son, I think."

"Not the photographer, Reid said. Too small."

He was starting to annoy her. She had gone through all that already, had played it over and over in her head. "Then it's neither!"

"And the phones?"

"I don't know about the phones! How can I? You're the professional here, do something!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing," No it wasn't! He was just bugging her. "Patricia. Pick one. Who is it?"

"How should I know?"

"Were you nervous with the son?"

"No. Too boring." Christopher's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile gone before she could be sure.

"Did you think he could be the killer?"

"No."

"Even when you saw the roof picture?"

"I told you, I don't think he took that picture."

"Were you nervous with the old guy? Yesterday I mean."

"No. I had a lovely time." Indeed, she had.

Christopher's eyes grew darker. "How about the old guy? Did you think he could be the killer? Yesterday still."

"No, of course not. He was perfectly charming." She thought she heard Christopher growled, but maybe it was just her imagination.

"But?"

"But I don't know. I guess I wasn't sure."

"So you felt something."

"Well, yes, kind of. By knowing he was the photographer's father, I... Surely that means something, doesn't it?"

"When did you found out?"

"Coffee shop."

"Which one?"

"What do you mean, which one? Is this going somewhere? Am I a suspect or something here?"

"At which coffee shop did you realise he was the father?" He wasn't answering her. Damn interrogation for that was what this was!

"The one where you arrested me, what do you think!" She answered sharply. But then she remembered. Asking Older about his family. His son. Good questions, she had told herself yet she had not known then.

Like he was reading her mind, Christopher pushed on, "What did you talk about with him?"

"Stuff. Small talk mostly."

"You're not that patient at small talk. What did you have him talk about?"

"Christopher..."

"Think. What did you talk about?"

"He wanted to know about me, and I wanted to know about him. You know, his work, his family, his life, things like that."

"And?"

"He asked me the same."

"And?"

"Damn, you'd make a rotten shrink!"

"You don't need a shrink. Let's start at the beginning. How did you contact him?"

"I called him."

She told him about the card, the creepy guy at the Cabaret, the whole set-up Older had and Christopher made the connection with Breasts right away. "She received a card too?"

"Yes, but I didn't see it at her place so maybe she never called and just threw it away. I, hum, didn't ask him about it."

"Because he was so lovely." It wasn't a question, just him pushing still. "Where's your card now?"

"In a plastic bag in my purse." His astonished look should have made her angry. "I'm not a complete idiot. I protected it right away when I realised it might mean something." She swallowed and shook her head, "But I didn't find any cards at the others−" She stopped. Had she just told him about going to the other victims?

"You do know breaking and entering are felonies, don't you, Angel of mine? So is crossing crime scene tapes." Indeed, she had just unwilling confessed, and he had understood clearly. She sighed. "We'll talk about that later, Princess. Lots of conversation topics we'll have to choose from, won't we? We'll talk shop over dinner, like a regular couple, just like you wanted." Irony and sarcasm, his favourite humour styles. What else could she do but give him the finger. This time, she definitely got a smile back. "Back to Older, Angel. What was the conversation mostly about?"

"The portfolio. He wanted to know why I needed a portfolio, so I said I needed money. Struggling writer and all." And the jerk had bought it, everybody did. Writers were indeed struggling. Most of them. "He seemed to appreciate the fact that I really needed money; he offered to help. Said I had potential, and he knew of someone who would like my style."

Another imagined growl. "What else? What did you tell him specifically?"

"The usual. No family, no ties. Wanting to make it in the big city. Growing older." She had an almost-true story she told people who asked personal questions, a story that satisfied curiosity without revealing anything too intimate. She had fed Christopher that same story at the beginning. Older had been more gullible.

"Did he mention specialising? The sort of contracts he took?"

"Not really. Mostly women I suppose. He did mention having cards delivered to men sometimes, even if he said he preferred unmarried woman, husband being often troublesome. Highly motivated clientele, he had called it. That's why he used a sleazy middleman."

"Did he ask if you were married? »

She knew where he was going. No serious relationships, one of the things the victims had in common. "Yes, he did."

"And?"

"And I told him I wasn't married. No ties. That seemed to reassure him."

"And you didn't find that suspicious?" Now the growl was definitely recognisable.

"I couldn't really tell him I was dating a cop now, could I?" Christopher didn't answer. "In retrospect, I wish I had." Older would have run out, and it would have saved her a night in jail.

"So even with that, you still weren't nervous?"

"No." She hadn't suspected a thing, damn her. She thought back to the family thing, "No, I wasn't nervous but I did ask him about his family. He has trouble with his son; he doesn't get to see him. I believed him. He seemed sad about it."

"If you didn't know yet who the son was, why did you ask?"

"I don't know. Curiosity I guess." The old doctor in the back county had mentioned a son to the married woman. Maybe she had not been totally fooled, some part of her brain wise to Older's antics.

"Did you think he was a killer then?"

She thought about it again. "No, I'm sorry to say I didn't."

"Why were you nervous calling him?"

"We already went through this, Big guy!"

"Yes, and you still haven't answered me. When you called him, did you think he was the killer?"

"Yes!" She surprised herself. Had she really? "No. It can't be."

"Which is it? Yes or no?"

"I don't know. You're confusing me with all your questions. No wonder you have the highest success rate in the city, you must daze the convicts during interrogation!"

"Have you listened to the recording?"

"No. Making the call was enough."

"I think you should listen to it."

"No." What was the point in arguing with him if, in the end, she knew she was going to give in. Besides, all she had to do was pretend to listen. Which she did at first. Until something Older had said triggered something else. She grabbed Christopher's hand. He put his big strong hand over hers. Holding her breath, she played the recording over again. She had heard Older right.

"Shall I ask you again, Angel? Why were you nervous?"

"Ask me the other one."

He locked eyes with her and asked softly, "Do you think he could be the killer?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He lied to me about his son. At the coffee shop, he told me he wasn't meeting with his son, only talking once or twice a month on the phone, yet during his call he said his son was at the Cabaret too."

"What does it mean?"

"I have no idea."

"Ok."

"Ok? Ok, what?"

"Ok, Angel. Let's go get him."

Just like that? First she couldn't go because Older could be a murderer, and now that she was indeed convinced Older was a killer, she could? The Big guy sure was hard to follow. Christopher better lend her a gun or something. Maybe she still had time to go buy one. With a teaser gun, some pepper spray, maybe a knife.

# ʻLet's roll,' Chris said

He watched her fiddle with her food. They were having dinner in a very nice French restaurant, his choice, where he was enjoying his steak with all the works while she barely touched her plate of duck. And her wine. Food he could have predicted but wine? She was even more nervous than he had expected. All the better.

She looked stunning. Classy. Delicate. Sleek. Unsure. Sexy. Fragile. Mysterious. Little Cabaret black dress, black stilettos, sheer black stockings, he could only guess about the underwear, her refusing to have him stick around while she dressed. For now, he assumed black but looked forward to finding if he was right later (when she would be in need of manly comfort). She had done her hair up, leaving a thick band to fall over her eyes. Was it the black eyeliner that made her eyes looked wider, greener? Red lips. She was going to be breathtaking in the pictures.

Not that the crazy old man was ever going to take any. Everyone was in position. Revised plan. Her believing Older was the killer made him believe it too. Hence, no way was he letting her out of his sight. He had no problem playing the estranged extremely jealous boyfriend, not much of a stretch, but it was counterproductive.

Simplified plan, tonight had now only one goal: to scare her off. Going along with the fancy dinner as per her initial request was part of the scheme. Phase one, build anticipation. After, he was to drop her off at the old guy's storage place. But Older wouldn't be there; a most unfortunate gas leak had local fire department evacuate the street. A simple enough evacuation considering there were only Older's ex-wife's building and storage condos on that street.

Phase two, let it run wild. He swiped Patricia's disposable phone for a similar yet unusable one. If Older called, Reid was to take the call and blame bad reception for her voice. Patricia didn't notice the phone. Had he messed with her regular cell she would have noticed for sure, but the cheap one she dropped in her purse without a second glance, not even checking the battery level. Denial no doubt. He smiled at the thought. She wouldn't like him playing shrink again. Wanting the bigger threat covered by men he trusted completely, he swapped the tails, putting the Subs on the son and his guys on Older. No need to do anything else for now. Much later, he was going to get busy again, he had a lot of ground to search once she was back safely in her suite, but for now he was enjoying himself, ready to let her imagination do the rest.

# Her plan

The big guy dropped her off in front of Older's storage place. A taxi sign, gotten she had no idea where, was propped on top of Christopher's SUV. The plan they had agreed on was for him to drive to the end of the block and walk back discreetly while Lonzo and McCarmick remained hidden somewhere near. No one on the team had been invited to share the fun, this wasn't official police business, was it, at least not yet.

She couldn't see her tail, which wasn't good, she could always see them! She should be able to see them, damn it! For once she would have liked to see them! Another wave of nausea came. The walk to the side door seemed to take forever. Why the heck was she doing this? She should just quit writing altogether. Find a nice, quiet job in an office somewhere and take pills when a burnout came lurking. No need to wait until hysteria overcame her, surely she could talk a doctor into prescribing the pills right off. A preventive measure against working in a windowless high-rise office tower.

Christopher hadn't offered a gun, and too busy packing her purse with eucalyptus lozenges (stupid for the good they had done her last time), she had forgotten to ask. Her two moves seemed meek right now. A gun, a big heavy gun would have felt much better. Not that she would ever use it.

And what if she needed to run? Those shoes were ridiculous when it came to running. She knocked on the door. No answer. She waited. She couldn't see any lights in the windows. Maybe he wasn't in. Maybe he had forgotten. Yé! Or decided she wasn't worth killing. Yé again! Or had died in a car crash. Bigger Yé. Perhaps he had tried to call, and she had not heard it? Nope, no missed calls. She tried calling him, didn't get an answer. The cheap phone was running low on battery, how damn typical!

The night was dark, and she was cold. Her short coat barely covered her butt. Christopher had suggested she wore a longer one, she had one that fell to her ankles, but she had declined. The length of the thing made running awkward. If she had to make a run for it, she could drop the shoes fast but not the coat. She knocked again. Still no answer. She walked to the back of the little wooden structure. This place was more old house than regular storage place, maybe the ex had inherited it from her old parents or something. It looked like a good place to raise a family and turned them into serial killers.

The back had a small porch. She knocked on the door. No answer. What now? She was angry. Hungry too. Could the old man have gotten suspicious of her? Or maybe she had been wrong all along, and the son was the killer. Maybe the father was dead, killed by the son because he knew too much...

This place was creeping her out. Where the hell was Christopher? She couldn't see him out there, she couldn't see a damn thing! The wind had picked up, carrying all kind of strange noises. Crunching, someone walking on dry leaves? She couldn't see any dry leaves around. There was also that squeaking sound. Like someone trying out a new pair of shoes. She jumped, was that more of a crackling sound?

She looked around, tried to at least. The house was far off, nothing but empty grounds around. Who would live in such a place? The ex-wife must have been scared out of her mind. Sppoky place. Killer husband. Killer son. Or good men in a creepy place? She had trouble thinking. She wanted to go hide under her covers like a school girl. Really. Calme-toi ma jolie! Get a grip, she told herself. Maybe she could run home and hide under Christopher's covers. That would be nice. He sure was taking his sweet damn time walking back that street. She heard that squeak again, and half walked, half ran back out front, might have run all the way but for the shoes. And her dignity, not wanting to ran into Christopher. Who had not showed up yet, damn him!

She felt safer out front, again visible from the street. Not that there was anybody there to see her. She knocked again, more to have something to do than because she expected an answer. By now it was obvious the older gentleman-slash-potential killer wouldn't be coming. She sat on the front steps to wait. Christopher was supposed to be somewhere, waiting. If he saw her there listless on the front porch, surely he would come pick her up. She tried calling Older again, letting it ring a long time. Still no answer.

Where could he be? Where could Christopher be? Maybe the two of them had met up, all the way down over there at the end of the strip. Talking. Shooting the breeze. Shooting. Maybe Christopher was arresting Older for running a stop sign. Maybe Christopher had fallen asleep with all the waiting; he had looked tired at the restaurant. Maybe Older had sneaked up on him and taken him down. Even if Christopher was taller than the guy, and more muscular, with years of training, not to mention the guns, killers were devious, and Older could have taken him by surprise. And taken him down. Damn, she was getting worried now. She should call the Big guy. She stopped short. What if she called, and Older heard the ringing? Wouldn't it jeopardize Christopher's position? Christopher had great parts. Manly parts, rugged, battered and scarred as they were, she liked all of his parts a lot just the same. She didn't want Older to locate Christopher and start dusting him white.

Damn it, I can't take this anymore! She started walking back to the corner, its stop sign and her illusive and endangered boyfriend. Christopher's truck should be just around the bend. Where no doubt she would find him hanging around with MacCarmick and Lonzo. Manly conversation. Having lost track of the time. If she found the three of them dawdling away, she might punch one of them. Really. Who did they think they were? It was obvious none of them had ever tried walking on an uneven back road in way-too-high heels. The nerve of them! Working herself up was better than thinking about all the other possibilities. Them piled up, strangled. Older standing on top of them taking pictures. She would have heard something, even with the wind and the cracking and crunching, she would have heard them fought, right? If they had fought. She hoped they had kicked Older's butt. Not even ten steps after she started walking back to the car the shoes were off.

# Do it

Dishevelled and barefoot, fuck she looked lovely. Chris had parked around the corner, hidden from the house. The guys were crouched down, one in the grass covering the front from the other side of the street, the other in the dry dirt covering the back from the empty field. He intended to give her thirty minutes before picking her up. Thirty minutes to walk around, listen, lose control of that imaginative brain of hers and scare herself. He had waited, foreseeing her knocking on the front door first, her waiting, her going out back, knocking, waiting, before coming back street-side to wait for him. He hoped for a call telling him to get his ass over, not that she could with the phone she had. He smiled. Her running almost all the way down was perfect. Come to me, Angel.

Sitting in his SUV with Fists and Knot, smoking and smiling. Smiling and smoking didn't happen often, he really should stop smoking, Fists and knot weren't about to go. His priority was to stop her and find a safe place to keep her. Then hunt the guy down, whoever the guy. She could always have some pictures taken later if it turned out not to be the old man, with him tagging along to make sure the jerk didn't step out of line. Even if Older turned out not to be their killer, Chris didn't trust him, especially with her all dolled up. Too easy to imagine her waiting at her hotel bar sitting on one of them high stools showing off her legs as she waited for her date. Me. Only me, Angel. A few more minutes and he would drive her home, put her to bed and tuck her in naked (he had to find out about the damn underwear). Only then would he start hunting. It was best she stayed scared a little tonight, better still she had time to think about how scared she had been.

He was enjoying his fourth smoke when she started walking back. He threw the smoke out when the walking turned into running. He turned on the headlights and drove toward her. With the lights blinding her, she wouldn't be able to recognise his truck right away. He hated having to turn on the scare factor on her, but he wasn't about to take any chances. He stopped ten steps in front of her. She stopped too. She shielded her eyes with her hand trying to block out the glow. He killed the engine. He didn't hop out or open her door. This is not part of our date, Angel. The date was the dinner and the tucking in, now was a fucking intermission. A plan. She walked around and sat in the passenger seat. He hoped she had not cut her feet on something running back. He smiled to himself. Her running was a good sign. He started the car and made a U-turn.

"So? What happened, Princess? Why did you came back so fast?" He had trouble hiding his smile. Time elapsed between him dropping her off and her running to the front of his car, twenty-six minutes exactly.

"So fast? I was there for like forever, and he didn't show!"

"Did you try calling him?"

"Of course I did!"

"And?" All outgoing calls from the phoney phone were blocked. She could have dialled any fucking number, all she would have gotten was ringing. He was really proud of himself (and Fred) for that one. He too could do phone tricks.

"There was no answer."

"Maybe something happened." He let that hang for a minute or two. Gave her time to imagine what could have happened.

"Like what? He didn't kill someone else, did he?"

"No. Of course not." He paused, building the suspense. "At least, I don't think so."

"What do you mean, you don't think so? Can't you call the surveillance guys you hired? They're still on him, aren't they?"

"Yes, I'm sure they are. Why wouldn't they?"

"When did you check last?"

"Let me think, sometimes before the restaurant I think."

She gave him a disapproving look. "That was hours ago! Call them now."

So he did. The guys told him, and he told her, "The guy hasn't moved from his home all night."

"Maybe he changed his mind." He glanced at her. "You know. About me. If he's the killer I mean." No way. She had best parts all over inside and out.

They had barely entered her suite when Christopher's cell rang. She stopped moving and held her breath. Please, let it not be one of those calls!

"I gotta go, Angel."

"Ah. Ok. Call me when you know about the body."

She waited up for him.

"Not a white woman, you can sleep now, Princess," his voice came over the phone. She sighed in relief. Not than another dead was something to be happy about, she thought guiltily. And the killer was still at large. If it was indeed Older, she was no closer to getting him. The night had been a total loss, a waste of both hers and Christopher's time, not to mentioned his guys. At least, they were getting paid. Perhaps. She didn't know the details of Christopher's arrangement with them. The truth was, he had told her nothing. Not that she wanted to know, not really. She was too tired, hollow from tiredness and fright. The worst part about it, though, was being back to square one. Killer at large.

She should try calling Older again to yell at him. Yelling wasn't something she often did, snapping back was more her thing, but she was sure feeling like yelling now. Better than crying. And she did want to cry very much... So what if it was past midnight now?

Wasn't it typical, the lousy phone was dead! And she couldn't find its damn cord! Too tired to use the public phone down the street, too tired for even the hotel's downstairs phone (it was not public enough anyway). Her cell phone was out of the question. Joshua had been overly suspicious, Mario was paranoid, both had contaminated her. Although knowing it, she should be able to forget about it and moved on, right? She couldn't bring herself to. She fell asleep on her couch wrapped in a big blanket with her clothes on. All her lights stayed on.

When she woke, the sun was shining. She showered, and, head to toes, she dressed in black. From her black boots to the black cargo pants to a black long-sleeve tee to the black hooded sweatshirt draped over her shoulders. Socks and underwear? Black also. Commando black. She put her hair in a high bun, put black eyeliner on her eyes, some mascara, and scarlet red lipstick on her mouth. She dropped her laptop and phone in a black messenger bag, grabbed breakfast to go from downstairs, and left for a walk. Two blocks from the hotel, she made a stop. She didn't return to the hotel.

Chris needed sleep but had no time for it now. He had spent the night with the guys. First with Lonzo and MacCormick, for the plan with Patricia, and again later when they broke into the ex-wife's and had a look around. Deceiving. The place was like Older had said. Old, partly empty, photographer's equipment stored in two rooms. Screens and umbrellas and shit those guys used. Pictures in storage cabinets, some old, some new. Chris flipped through some of them, but nothing jumped out. He didn't see any of the victims, which didn't mean they weren't amongst the shots, but he didn't have time to look at every one thoroughly. He lifted some fingerprints off three of the cameras. Mac and Lonzo would keep on looking and clean up after. His quick search didn't turn up any white powder or dead bodies.

Ham and Des were on the photographer. They found plenty of the same nothing. And they found the same nothing at the father's office. Fiber and fingerprints were taken at all places. He knew a guy that would run them for a fee. Illegal one might say, then again one didn't have a girlfriend waiting to go after a serial killer. There would be time to get legal samples later if it came to that. The men's apartments would be done once they had left for work.

Chris returned to his place early or, from his point of view, at a very late five in the morning. He had briefly considered crashing at her place, soft would be damn fucking nice, but he was so fucking tired, he wouldn't survive a boner. Although falling asleep in her was the type of death he wanted. Might be somewhat uncomfortable for her, though. For her only. Another yet-to-be-enjoyed fantasy.

He should have gone anyway, he could have stopped her from going out. Lots of places to handcuff her in her hotel room. Starting with his wrist.

# She's not done yet

She hated not knowing. Hence, she took steps to ascertain.

"I'm sorry for calling so early."

Older didn't seem surprised by her morning call. "It is I who needs to apologise, Dearie, for missing you last night. You see the emergency service closed down the street..." What was he talking about, the street had been dead calm last night? Maybe the guy had suddenly become senile. "You did get my message, did you not?"

"Hum." Her crap phone was out. Not buying that brand ever again, it hadn't lasted a week. Even for a disposable it was crap.

They agreed to meet at his place before her departure hence right away. While she walked, she dwelled upon her options. She only saw two: sneak in or go boldly. Did she want to be seen by the Subs or not? Those guys might be good but she was better, sneaking by was going to be a piece of cake, but did she want to? The thought of going to see Older without anybody knowing gave her goose bumps. Nausea. But being seen meant arguing about it later.

Christopher had not been such a big help last night letting her out there to freeze. Ok, maybe not freeze but she could have caught a cold in her silly outfit; the damn skirt had proved not to be the best of attire to await a serial killer. Her commando uniform was much more appropriate. Bring it on, she told herself during her walk over. Older might not like the commando black but too bad for him, she did. Besides, it was not like she was going to let him take pictures, was it? He wanted to see how photogenic she was. She wasn't, she would make sure of that.

The sun was bright, the air crisp, she walked for over an hour thinking. When she reached his street, her mind was made up. Her next book was going to be about friendship. Male friendship from a female point of view. No murders. No violence. No sex either. Male friendship in the corporate world from a secretary's viewpoint. No, a bit sexist. Male friendship from a female manager's perspective. Secretarial job offered more gossiping opportunities, though, did they not? Starting tomorrow, she was going to get herself an office job. Tomorrow because today, she still had a wee thing left to do. When the deed's done, I'm going shopping for a power suit for my new office job.

She stopped at a fast food joint near Older's place, not for the food but they had decent enough coffee and free Internet. His house was only two streets further west. With Google, she got a good look at the house's neighbouring area. Houses in thigh rows on both sides, all with the same basic structure, but modified over the years. Narrow flat-roof, two-storey frame, some with second-floor balconies, most without, large front steps that came almost to the sidewalk and a parking place to the side marking the space between the houses. House, parking space, house, parking space, house, and so on. A neat rectangle of about seven streets by six blocks. Trees in small backyards, kiddie pools but no full-size pools, the yards too tiny. Two ways in, the front and the back. The front door was offset toward the parking area.

She rotated the views, two windows front and back on each level, plus one at ground level on the house's parking side, none on its neighbour's parking. She couldn't see if the houses had basements. Low ceiling maybe, or no direct outside access? Older's street was lost in the middle of others, his place, inconspicuous amongst more of the same, the fifth out of a row of twelve. One in a dozen.

As far as she saw, there were no observation points near the house. Either she walked up the street in plain view of the Subs or she walked hidden through the small backyards. The timing was tricky. Most of the residents would have left for work or school but housewives might still be hanging around their kitchen, calmly having a cup of coffee now that they had the house back to themselves. One might notice her.

She found a bus stop on the corner. She stood as if wanting. Undecided. It truly was a magnificent day. Eyes closed and her face turned upward, she let the sun's warmth fall on her. Time to regroup. Since she wanted the guy caught if he was guilty, she needed to do it right. If she let the Subs see her, they might barge in. Not useful. Granted she wasn't supposed to be there but neither were they. Worse, she wasn't sure they didn't have a police record.

Her nausea gave her the incentive to leave Christopher a message. No point calling him on his cell, right, since I'm going to Older's damn house. The chances of the jerk doing anything to her in his own house were close to non-existent. She would make the guy talk, snoop around if she could, and get a feel of the man. Know for sure. Piece of cake. Her make-believe bus waiting gave her the opportunity to survey the streets. She easily spotted a sub's car on the opposite side of the street. She crossed the street as a bus drove by hiding her from Sub. Finding the second sub was tougher but it helped that she knew what she was looking for. Sub-two was surveying the back yard, spying from Older's backdoor neighbours.

Shielded from both Subs, she walked through the backyards, crouching below windows, wary of both sides of the yards. The first two facing pairs of houses were empty. Easy. Not the third. A woman caught her walking into the yard and opened her window with a confrontational air.

Patricia waved at her with a smile. "Good morning, Madam. Sorry to appear at your doorsteps like this. I hope I didn't startle you. Are you the lady of the house? I'm so glad to meet you. I just moved to the house over there." She vaguely motioned at the surroundings with her hand. "I'm thinking of starting a neighbourhood watch. One never knows who might be lurking about, n'est-ce pas?" Serial killers, lunatic writers, muscles-for-hire-doing-illegal-surveillance.

At that, the woman became neighbourly. "What a good idea. Come," she offered. "I'll introduce you to Joan, my neighbour, so we could talk some more." Which she did right away.

Two women inconspicuously walking up to a neighbour's back door to talk to Joan, the friendly neighbour. Perfect cover.

Another woman watched from the kitchen window of the facing house. Here again Patricia waved. The woman waved back but, fortunately, went back to her business. Three's a crowd and four would have been ridiculous. Patricia, Neighbourly woman and Friendly Joan moved on to the next door. Older's. When he answered, the two women told him about the watch. He was enthusiastic, as much as a fifty-year-old gentile serial killer could be, Patricia thought, as she let the other two do the talking and remained partly hidden on the other side of the screen door.

"Please keep me posted. I look forward to hearing from you ladies," Older concluded before closing the door.

The three women continued to the next door. Halfway, Patricia pretended to have to tell Older something. "You two go on without me, I'll catch up with you. Perhaps I can persuade the nice gentleman to partake in our campaign. Some people do prefer equal-opportunity comity." What was she rambling about, the two seemed to think, but the women let her go with a shrug.

She sneaked back to Older's back door and waited until the women had knocked on the next neighbour's door, and then the next door when there was no answer. Facing the door so the back Sub couldn't see her face, she pulled her sweatshirt hood off her, squared her shoulders and put on a smile before knocking. From the sub's vantage point, she was still one of the next door ladies.

If Older was surprised about her showing up at his back door instead of at the front door, he didn't let it on and welcomed her in his well-mannered habit. "Hello, Dearie. Come in, come in. I am so glad we have this opportunity before you leave."

She couldn't tell.

He was charming and polite as on their previous encounter and seemed genuinely pleased to see her. He took the time to enquire about her upcoming trip. She had almost forgotten about that imaginary family excursion. "I don't have long; I don't want to be late for my train. And I have to go back to get my bags after our meeting."

"Of course, Darling girl. Would you like some coffee? Tea perhaps? I have delicious crumpets." Who on earth ate crumpets outside of England? Potential serial killers that was who, she lectured herself.

Not sure he was the killer. She could spot a plainclothes cop just by standing next to him but serial killers, no can do. Maybe after this, she might. Nothing like a crash course. Wasn't it how she had learned about cops?

He gave her a little tour of his house. Kitchen in the back, plain white, practical and simple. White cupboards, white handles, white Formica table, two white wooden chairs. The basement door was white too, so was its handle, hard to see in all the white. The floor was shining, the counters were shining, the sink was shining. The bathroom was next at the start of the narrow corridor. Same white color. Tiles, bath, towels, everything clean, shiny and squarely folded. The living room came next. She was almost disappointed that it was not white. Beige all over. Couch, sitting two, a lazyboy type recliner, a television set, no entrance hall to speak of. Had she entered through the front, she would have walked right into the living room with all the beige. A few pictures decorated walls.

He pointed them out. Pictures of his ex-wife, of his son when he was younger. She stared at the frame trying to see the resemblance between the skinny nine-year-old kid in the pictures and the plain man now working as a photographer. Very vague, something in the set of the mouth perhaps? The kid in the picture was smiling ear to ear, holding a trout. The photo guy had not smiled once. There was not one father-and-son picture in the dozen on the wall above the stairs to the second floor. To her relief, Older didn't invite her up.

"The only rooms on the second floor are the master bedroom and a smaller guest bedroom. I am hoping my son will come visit soon. The guest bedroom is for him."

Damn it, she couldn't tell!

# Done yet, Patricia?

This house visit was rapidly becoming uninteresting. No wonder she had not picked up on Older, his place was bland. If it weren't for that lie he had told about him and his son at the Cabaret, she would have dropped the entire thing and gone home.

She stayed for still she couldn't tell. She was getting mighty annoyed about it.

They sat in the living room for a while, him in the lazyboy, her on the couch.

"Although I much prefer your Cabaret outfit, you do look lovely, Dearie. It brings out your pale complexion and gives you an ethereal air. You look more delicate somehow if I may say so." Delicate? Maybe the guy needed glasses. Even if she wasn't muscular, she was tall, and she was wearing a damn black commando outfit. "Tell you what, I think we can try for a few pictures. Wait here while I run upstairs to get my equipment. Would you care for a drink while you wait? No? Very well, I will only be a moment."

He got a digital camera from upstairs and took a dozen of candid shots of her just sitting. It made her feel uncomfortable. The queasiness that had quieted down came back. Even if she couldn't tell yet, she was now ready to run. She hated being photographed, hated him doing it even more. Totally irrational, she lectured herself, those pictures were in no way compromising. Just head shots of her sitting on a beige couch with a beige wall behind. As boring as the photographer's pictures.

The man stopped clicking to stare at her; she hated people staring at her like she was an insect or an experiment. She should have worn her glasses. On one knee in front of her, he took more pictures. She thought of Christopher. He wouldn't have liked Older being this close. She hated it. She got up brusquely and took a step sideways, too unsettled to notice he had not flinched or been taken aback with her sudden moves. Like nothing had happened.

"I will unload the pictures on the small computer station I have downstairs to see how we fared. You are sure you do not want some coffee, Dearie, or warm tea and crumpets while you wait? I will need a few moments to verify how the lights and colouring reflect on you."

She had no intention of waiting. Back in the kitchen, he opened the basement door and turned on the lights.

"Come, sweet lady. I would like to show you my set-up. You will see it is very professional."

After a moment of pure panic, she shook her head no. He seemed surprised. So what if she was acting like a crazy person? Damn it, she still couldn't tell! She managed to point to the bathroom.

He smiled. "Take your time, Dearie. Do join me downstairs when you're done."

Like that was ever going to happen! She locked herself in the bathroom and almost threw up. How could she still not know, she reprimanded herself. Do I really need to know? The hell with it, she had an office job to find! She cracked the bathroom door open quietly and listened. Not a sound. He was still downstairs. Front or back? The farther the door, the better; he wouldn't hear her escape. She crept silently to the front door to find it locked with one of those damn locks that needed a key to unlock. Dead end.

Back to the back door. She took three deep breaths to calm the blood hammering at her temples. How could Christopher prevent his heartbeat from going over seventy? Training he had said. Arrogant jerk. When the noise in her head lessened enough for her to hear the birds signing outside, she walked slowly back. She made it to the back door. Had the handle in her left hand, handle already half turned when she took a glance back. The basement door had been left ajar revealing a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, the stairs winding down, the pictures on the wall. Like in the living room, the frames followed the steps, the next lower than the one before. Unlike the photos in the living room, these were interesting. Images of beautiful women, their lightings and poses original. Like the odd ones at the photographer. Not the same location but the same signature for sure. She took the steps one at the time staring at each picture in turn, reaching the bottom before realising it.

She knew. Was it too late?

Older was sitting in front of his computer, studying enlarged images of her on his screen, smiling at her images. He turned to smile at her. She knew but did he knew she knew? She remembered how badly bruised his last victim had been and knew herself to be no way near as strong as the poor woman. She had to leave before he knew she knew.

"You are perfect, Dearie. You are perfect for the part. Exactly what we were looking for."

Her breath caught on the we. Please let him be alone. I don't stand a chance against a crazy person, let alone two! She glanced around surreptitiously. The room was bare but for the computer desk, the one chair Older was using, and about fifty pictures on the walls. This room was obviously not a usual business place for him; there was no place for his clients to sit. Then again, his clients were more of the lying dead on the ground variety.

"Perfect, my dear," he said again. "Please, come have a look." He returned to his screen ogling.

Maybe she could knock him out. She looked around. Nothing. The chair was unavailable unless he stood. The computer was too far. She could have used her laptop but didn't want chancing breaking it. Not there yet. She was contemplating using a framed picture from the wall when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. His grip was like steel.

# She's done

"Look, Dearie. Look."

She turned her eyes to the screen.

All she saw were her eyes, a mosaic of them. He'd cropped the photos he had taken earlier and kept only the eyes. She could easily tell which he had taken first, her eyes almost their usual ʻeverything's fine' color. They had turned dark after a couple of shots and were full of greenish specks by the last ones. Okeydokey, the man is crazy. She jerked her wrist in a futile attempt to weasel out of his grip only to have his hold tighten. Eyes to the screen he wasn't paying attention to her. Smiling. Holding.

With only one free hand, how could she knock him out? Was it too late now to sacrifice her computer? A wave of nausea almost overcame her. Maybe she could throw up on him. It might be time to practice a new move and strangle him with her free arm, the crook of her elbow crushing his windpipe. The strap of her bag might be more effective to strangle him like he had the others.

Did he sense her moving closer or was it just bad luck? Her time was up because he stopped staring. He jumped from the chair and hauled her toward the back of the room where he pushed on a section of wall. A panel, smoothly hidden into the blandness of the wall, opened. He tried pushing her through the opening but by then, she was pushing and kicking. No way was he putting some damn white powder on her eyes.

He punched her in the stomach and she fell to her knees. Apparently her belly wasn't part of her best features. Neither was her back because that was what he kicked next. Staying down meant being kicked again, she might not be much of a fighter but that she knew. Survival instinct. Resilience. She rolled over and got back on her feet. ʻTime to show your claws, Pussycat,' she almost heard Christopher say.

Older smiled down at her. "You are perfect, Dearie. You are just what we were looking for. Let me get my camera so I can take your picture again. If possible, your eyes are even more magnificent right now."

You have not seen anything yet, you sicko! Life sure was full of nutcases; she seriously needed to carry a gun. There better not be any sicko at her new office job!

What now? She had taken care of a dirty cop in a not so distant past, how was a crazy person worse? Unfortunately, at the moment, she didn't have a clue as to how she should go about taking care of the crazy person. Again she looked around for something to throw. She shouldn't have. Her brain came to a stop when it realised what her eyes were seeing. Two long tables sat along the walls of the small hidden room. As if someone had dropped a large bag of flour, everything on the tables was lightly dusted with white powder.

One table held pots, buckets and boxes, a box labelled Plâtre de Paris action rapide. The writing was in English, but her terrified brain had turned it back to French, her mother tongue. Fast setting plaster. Piles of white blocks, some small, some bigger, littered the other table. The outsides of the blocks not polished like one would expect plaster to be but coarse, with only the insides velvety, smoothly curved in or out. Small curves with intricate details, bigger ones with rounder shapes. A work in progress. She made out the imprint of a smooth flat belly with its protruding navel. Moulding imprinting as opposite, the belly button must have been slightly recessed on the model. Small and delicate. Another long mould was propped against the wall, its inside turned to the wall. She thought of Legs. She didn't want to recognise Reedy's breasts. Ears. Ass. There were others. How could she not have known? She stopped looking at the tables. Looked back in anger at the man.

He pulled his belt out. That was all he did. Something jumped on him from the door. He fell on his face. Hard. Good for him. He tried to get up but got kicked and punched. Good for him. He got kicked and punched. Very good. She felt light-headed. People came in. It was all happening so fast, her ears were buzzing. She closed her eyes.

Breathed in. Out. In. Out. When she opened her eyes, the beating had stopped. Older was handcuffed on the floor and Christopher was standing next to her. Something in his eyes. He looked angry. The vein in his neck pulsing. Too fast. Over seventy for sure. She smiled. One of his hands was red. She did love him. She threw herself at him and held tight. His arms felt good around her. The smell of him. The kisses in her hair. His heart beat going too fast. It slowed down gradually. Hers took so much longer.

# Alternate series: Last thought

Jumping through the window, he pounced on the old geezer. Plaster and powder went flying. All he had wanted to do was stop him. He did. Killed him by breaking the man's neck.

She didn't move.

He heard his team yelling as they came in. He went to her. He couldn't hear her breathe. Big blue eyes staring into emptiness.

She was rushed to the hospital. Was put on a respirator. IV.

His team searched the old man's shed. What they found was horrific. Over a hundred moldings of female parts. Some, they knew of the models. Some, they didn't. Some of the moulds were still drying on the models. Parts of the models.

The old man's country place had a large garden. A dozen statues in the garden, guarding the trail between the main cottage and the shed.

None resembling her or her sister. None as perfect as her.

None of the statues had eyes.

She died in the hospital without coming back to him.

extract from _Alternate series_ , by Trica C. Line

# Last thoughts

They were finally back at his place (her mess thus his choice), late in the evening. She looked tired. She had gone from upset to sad to mad to down right furious when the other cops had showed up. Internal affairs, the cops of cops. Chris hadn't been too happy himself then. That day was one of the worst of his life. He had gone through hell and back quite a few times before but he had been alone. In control. She had wrecked his entire plan; they had been a step behind all the way. She had seriously, dramatically endangered herself but somehow, when she explained how she had ended up in the killer's basement, it had sounded logical. For those who knew her anyway.

The story she told the cops' cops was different. She added her own special twist to the investigation, sparkled some lies, tweaked out some pertinent details. Their relationship she left out. He approved. Her being used as bait she had added. Half-lie, she had unknowingly made herself into one while he had tried to keep up. Lucky he had been on the lookout, having added Mac and Lonzo on Older the might before. Even they had almost missed her, Lonzo making her from the window as he came snooping closer when the camera flashes caught his curiosity.

In short she did quite a number on Internals. "I volunteered for this mission." What fucking mission, Angel? "Obviously, I was the only possible choice. I hate to bad-mouth the absentees but, frankly, none of the guys could have taken my place. Not pretty enough." And she flashed a blazing smile to Internals.

"What's your job again, Miss?"

"Filing clerk. What, you don't believe me? Call HR." A pout with trembling lips and teary eyes. Chris suspected the tears were not entirely fake. "They didn't want me to get involved but don't you see I was already? I got a card and I couldn't let it go on. Think you would enjoy being powdered?"

Frankke wanting to help, he added to her version. Fortunately, the guy strictly stuck to the truth; Chris would have hated having to suspend Frankke for encouraging her. " We did try Reid first but the guy didn't bite. Too cop-like I guess."

If even his own team was giving her credibility, Internals didn't stand a chance. Not that he gave a fucking shit about the son killing the father. Internal could put that on him all they wanted, he wasn't about to lose sleep over it.

The team had pulled back from their surveillance to regroup at the father's place. Their personal initiative, thinking that was where the action was coming down. Their idea but his team, he took the blame. As their chief, it was his blame to take. The son showed up undetected while they had the father handcuffed in the house. Older was slumped in a corner, looking deceptively harmless. From their fight, Chris knew Older was fit and way stronger than he looked. Patricia wouldn't have stood a chance against the jerk with her two fucking moves yet the damn woman was still under the misconstrued impression she could have knocked the jerk out. Since she had been badly shaken up, Chris decided to postpone that argument to a later time.

Even after her confrontation with Older, it took her awhile to figure out what Older's intention had been toward her. "I was so angry. There was no way I was letting him put white powder in my eyes," she kept repeating.

But Chris knew. The guy had been moulding parts. They had recovered moulds that fitted Legs's legs, Ears's ears, Breasts's breasts, Ass's ass. They had identified plaster imprints of multiple parts. A chin, one left foot, a pair of calves, a right hand.

He knew. Patricia had great legs, an enticing butt, the sexiest breasts, spectacular everything but the sicko already had plenty of spare parts, so no powder for her. No point in moulding her eyes, though, was there? They found a bottle of formalin, a product labs used to keep specimen. The creep intended to build himself the perfect woman and her eyes were part of it.

Chris knew the precise instant it dawned on her. She had calmed down enough that her shaking had stopped and was standing stiffly in the middle of the basement, observing the scene. She studied the frames on the wall. Moved to the computer. Moved to the mouldings. Never once taking her hands out of her silly commando pants. She looked damn good in them too. Alive. Safe. Everyone let her be. He had sent the ambulance away after having it pointlessly wait for her to consent to an examination. Shapiro and Reid had elected themselves her bodyguards, standing one to her left, one to her right, Reid with her hand on her gun. The gun was still in her hip holster but the fucking holster was unclipped. Understanding they needed to feel useful, he let it be.

He knew. They all knew. Her breathing all but stopped and she froze on the spot. Her eyes glazed over before she ran up the stairs two at a time, Reid following close on her heels, Shapiro a step behind (not bad considering his age and his weight).

He let her go. He knew where she was going and figured she wouldn't want him around. As predicted, she locked herself in the bathroom. He went to check on her every ten-fifteen minutes. Bathrooms were turning out to be one of their usual rendezvous spots. It took her a long time to come back down again. He was surprised she did at all. Like before, Reid and Shapiro were at her sides, having stood guard on each side of the bathroom door while two uniforms were standing outside under the bathroom window where he had put them. Just trying to catch up with my step behind, Angel. It later turned out they hadn't quite caught up yet.

None of them had given a single thought to the son. Chris had asked to have the guy picked up and planned to interview the jerk later but for now, they had their hands full with Older's basement. He had sent both pairs of tail away, not good to have mercenaries hanging close with all those cops around. All of his guys were inside, closing rank. Not efficient. Not effective. Human. The lab techs showed up with all the others that were needed.

At ten-to-noon, they were ready to take Older to the station. They had read him his rights long ago and left him to simmer. The old man had not moved since being seated with the handcuffs. Not even when Patricia had come back down after her bathroom stay and kicked him.

"Could I borrow a gun please?" She politely asked Chris. Her face was white but she stood tall and her voice didn't shake.

"I don't think it's a good idea, Princess." The mood she was in, he wasn't about to lend her a weapon. Not that he gave a shit about Older but Patricia was not the type to kill without remorse, even a killer − If his guys had not stopped him, he would have beaten the sicko into a pulp. Literally. He could live with a kill, he did many, but he didn't want her to. Overprotective as always. Only protecting you, Angel. You and nobody else. − "Maybe tomorrow if you're still up to it, we can go to the shooting range." Right. Like that was ever going to happen.

She stood watching the guy for a long time. Older never once looked at her, he should have, her eyes were blazing. She was magnificent. If a stare could kill, the sicko would have burst into flames right on the spot.

At ten-to-noon, Older was outside, handcuffed and ready to be taken away. The son sprung out from nowhere. The investigation would later show that nowhere was in reality the house out front (neighbours Son knew from previous visits), from where he had been spying most of the morning. Father had called Son earlier, as the phone register would show, from one of the Medphone's phones, minutes before Patricia's scheduled arrival. At ten-to-noon, the son appeared from nowhere and shot his father. He was then thrown to the ground and arrested. Internals were called to the scene. His plan, his blame. He didn't mind, he hadn't liked the father one bit.

The son's defence would be simple. "I knew something was wrong with my dad. He scared me. I've been a coward but I finally wanted to do something about it."

When Internals showed up, one technician had already deleted the eye mosaic, a most unfortunate accident. When Internals showed up, Patricia had already seen Older's body on the ground, the blood leaking out of him. She took another trip to the bathroom but came out much quicker that second time. When Internals showed up, her face had regained most of its colour and she was ready for them. To make her feel better, Chris let her handle it her way. In turn, it made him feel better and certainly made his guys feel better. Nothing like a good show.

She took it all on her. If she hated cops, she seemed to hate the cops' cops even more. Internals made one simple mistake. They treated her like an innocent victim. A pretty woman, probably a little dumb since after all she wanted to be a model. That simple mistake would cost them. In the end, the official version would be the one she fed them. One file she wouldn't ask to read, having written the whole thing up.

During the investigation, Son turned from innocent abused child to messed-up unwilling accomplice to fully participating second hand. It wasn't the father's semen they matched to the victims. The father did the picking, the pictures and the strangling. The son, the jerking. Photographs given from Father to Son were found in the top drawer of the photographer's storage unit. There were enlarged prints, mostly close-up of body parts, of each of the known victims plus five extras. A dozen more showed Son kneeling next to one of the victims doing his thing. Had he showed them to Patricia, he doubt she would have found those artistic.

The pictures helped identified three of the remaining moulds. Another two remained unidentified. The bodies used to make the five anonymous imprints were never recovered. Much later, a Medphone's warehouse clerk was fired after being caught right-handed selling phones to friends. No Gunther was identified. The countrywoman did not recognise Older but the county airport's car rental agency confirmed his credit card was used at the time of the county girl's death. No mouldings of her were found.

# From now on

She was out from her hour long shower-bath-whatever, no doubt having tried to scrub away all memories of her day. It won't work, Angel, however hard you try. And she had tried her best seeing as her skin had a reddish pink hue to it. She had creamed herself, perfumed, blow-dry her hair and dressed up, not just panties and tank top either, her usual sleeping attire, but a full-on daytime outfit. Her ʻeverything is normal' look even it was well past her bedtime. Damn woman. He smiled. I will take care of the rest, Darling of mine. Getting her back to normal, whatever normal was in their case.

"What's going to happen to Creepy?"

"The guy's a drunk. He'll do time as an accessory to murder, might help sober him up some. Not that I think he had a clue. Older trained him to do tricks like a fucking dog, but the guy's a simpleton." A sick idiot.

"And the roof?"

"Older convinced some of his models to do photo shoots up there. Maybe he liked the view. All those old industrial buildings. The chemical place guy let him in, the son was a good customer after all. Ms Morgan said he forgot the phone there." During the search at the photographer's place, they had identified the model in the picture Patricia had borrowed. "He realised he'd lost the phone only once they were back down, but he was in a hurry and didn't have time to go back right away. He never got around to it. Maybe he figured it was safe enough where it was and got another one."

"He could have killed his model there," she said. "Nobody would have found her. Not for a while at least. Why didn't he?"

"That we'll never know, Angel."

But she knew him well, knew he wasn't the type to live with unanswered questions. "Your best guess, Big guy?"

He smiled at her. That crooked, arrogant, sexy smile of his he knew she liked. "Probably Ms Morgan didn't have anything special enough. Not worth copying anyway."

"Ah. Lucky her." He pulled her to him. But she wasn't finished yet. "And the fire?"

"The fire was just bad luck. Fucking bad timing. For him. And for you. Spectacular but unrelated."

"Happenstance then?"

He didn't reply.

She looked at him sideways and smirked. She was probably wondering if she could make him admit that coincidences did indeed occur. No way, Darling of mine.

"You know, Christopher, I've been thinking."

That damn phrase again! He tried to have her think about the same thing he was thinking. He nibbled her ear. Kissed her neck. Pulled her collar down to reveal the soft curve of a breast her bra wasn't shielding. "So have I, Darling of mine."

"I need to work."

He froze, then shrugged, not wanting to know about it, not right now. Damn woman. If she wanted a new job, it would be perfect but if not, well, so be it. Hell, he had gotten her to quit once, he would do it again. For now he chose to focus on more pressing matters. Lips against her skin, he pressed her to him.

The end. For now.

# About the Author

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A midlife crisis later (a very early midlife crisis), what if the earth changed axis? Writing began, and I'm hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Thank you for reading my book.

If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to visit my web page or send me an email.

www.vptrick.com

Other books

Please visit my web page or your favourite ebook retailer for some of my other books

Trois

Quartet

Quintic

Six

Septs

Ottava

Coming soon!

Ennead

Read on for an excerpt from TROIS

# A new chapter for Chris

"You know Princess, I've been thinking." He smiled softly at her. She looked pretty in that skimpy little top she liked to wear to bed. Not that he was going to let her keep it on much longer.

She smiled back with an intrigued look. Playfully, wanting to keep it light, he had purposely used her ʻI've been thinking line.' "What about, Big guy?"

"About you. And me."

More of the intrigued look with a hint of puzzlement to it. Neither of them talked much about the us thing, especially her. "What about, Christopher?"

"I've been thinking about the last few weeks, the last months actually." Since I first dragged you to my place really.

Her smile turned playful, "Are you offering me my old job back?"

No way in hell! "No, Darling, I'm not. Besides, you're the one that quit." He had had enough trouble getting her to resign from the fucking job. Officially, the filing clerk position in his department, unofficially, a recklessly-snooping-around-murderers-just-doing research-Big-guy-writer clerk. Not that she hadn't been great at it, surprisingly helpful but unsafe, and he wanted her safe. As in the fucking library, Pussycat. She had been safely working in a nice cozy insurance office job for the last six weeks; no way was he letting her come back. Not that he didn't miss her at the office, he missed her like hell, but he had a much better plan.

"I didn't quit, Big guy. I took a leave of absence. Big difference."

Not for him. The end result was the same: she was out and safe. "Same thing, Angel. Besides, you already have a new job, with the power suits and everything. Moving up in the world, Dollface."

"Ah. Right."

Six weeks and even now he wasn't sure why she had taken the job. As far as he was concerned, her real job was writing. She was meant to write just like he was destined to be a cop. And it wasn't like she needed the money, did she, with most of her books selling very well. Her hotel suite was paid for the next five years, she even owned shares in the chain; she had no relative, no dependents to take care of; already had money to last her for the rest of her life. Unfortunately. And if by chance she ever ran out, well, he was going to take care of her. Macho as it was, he had dreams of her depending on him, dreams that brought him back to his plan.

Had he not been so focused on the plan, he might have noticed her lack of enthusiasm at the mention of her six-week-old job. He might have asked more questions. He might even have found out about her boss. He didn't.

Instead, he simply said, in his usual straightforward, almost too-direct manner, "I don't want to talk about the job right now, I want to talk about us. I think we should move in together."

She stared at him dumbfounded then burst out laughing. Maybe she's drunk, he thought, but he could always tell when she was tipsy. She wasn't.

Her laughter died down, replaced by a frown that had her brows almost touching, "Surely you're not serious!"

Not the reaction he had been hoping for. "I'm am." Deeper voice but not angry, not yet.

She sat up, back straight and rigid. "That's preposterous!" Preposterous! The woman had a way with words.

Only once had he officially lived with a woman. In his early thirties, feeling the time had come to settle down, he decided he needed to get married. Wanting to keep it simple, wanting a wife his family, his aunt Margaret in particular, would if not endorse, at least tolerate − he had never looked for the MacLaren clan's approval, but the wife was to be a peace offering of sort. Well, not peace but a truce. Well, not a truce exactly but a what? Respite? Lull? Moratorium? De-escalation − he ended up living with a woman he would never have dated under any other circumstances. A snob and a pain in the ass, as he had known from the start since she had been, and still was, what silver spoon families called ʻa close family relation.'

It had been strictly a business decision, a how-to-shut-up-the-family-and-do-the-expected-thing type of decision. A bad decision to say the least. He had never been a do-what's-expected-of-you guy. As it turned out, he wasn't good at it. He had not wanted to live with a woman before, had certainly not wanted to live with that woman during, and had not wanted to live with one since.

Mid-thirty and a couple of brief, casual not-going-anywhere relationships later, he forwent girlfriends for the much simpler female fuck acquaintances. With the job and all, being the workaholic that he was, he preferred being alone. Until her. He had had his place for years now, had had women over occasionally, of course, for coffee or a drink before going out, but never for the evening or the night. His territory. He'd go over to their place and come back to sleep alone.

Until Patricia. The first time she came to his building, he liked the sight and the presence of her in the place; it was as if the place had softened around her. Lending her his bed, he kept her the night, and even as he glared at the ceiling above his fucking couch, he liked the feel of her close by. She was right for the place. Right for him. From that moment on, he had wanted to keep her close, for longer and longer periods, yet the damn woman kept slipping away. He often wondered how much of it was because he was a cop.

Tonight he had believed he could have her all but it seemed there was still much convincing to do. Taking a deep breath, he put on his best smile back on and steady his voice. Playful. "Think about it, Princess. It's going to be great. We're great together. You'll have breakfast served every morning."

She didn't like playful. "Don't be ridiculous! We'll kill each other within the first two weeks."

He tried patient and loving. "Patricia Darling, I think you're exaggerating." Noting the look on her face, he added, "So what if we have a few words once in a while?"

She didn't like patient and loving either. "ʻA few words once in a while?' We argue all the times!"

Patient still. "No, we don't. Not all the times."

"We are now!"

"That's because you're−"

She cut him off, "I'm what? Are you saying the arguing is my fault?"

Ok, patient was getting old, and it wasn't getting him anywhere. She was trying to pick a fight, and he had no intention of falling for it. "All I'm saying is, I think we should try it. A week, two weeks. A month. You pack a few suitcases and bring them to my place, see how it goes. I'll get you an office in the building, I have a vacancy on the second floor. You can arrange it however you want, turn it into a studio for your painting and writing."

"Why should I go to your place? Why can't you come here?"

"My place is bigger. I'll make room for you in my closets." He had already, months ago, but the damn woman still had to fill those damn drawers and shelves.

"I have a big closet too. If it's only for a couple of weeks, why can't me make it work here?"

"Come on, you live in a hotel."

"So?"

"Princess, nobody lives in a hotel suite."

From her lounging position in bed, she half raised, hands on hips to frown at him, "I live in a hotel suite."

"Yes you, do but you shouldn't. You need a real place. My place."

"This place is real and it's mine."

"Mine could be yours."

"I can't live at your place. Who knows how many women you brought there!"

Now standing in front of the bed, fists on her hips, frowning harder than ever, her blue eyes dark and stormy defying him, she was magnificent. He sighed. Big tactical error, he hadn't been prepared. Too bad she hadn't been drunk, it might have been easier. Then again, maybe not. He got out of the bed and came to stand in front of her. Mast erected. He couldn't help it, she was sexy as hell in her sheer top and panties, wavy hair all over. Her hair was cut a bit shorter than its usual shoulder-length, making the waves puffier. He liked.

"Besides, Big guy, we can't move in together, we're middle-aged!"

Middle-aged, now what? Middle-aged was fifty, he had a couple of years to go, and she had a couple more. "You're not forty yet and forty-two's not middle-aged!"

"It is when it's about moving in. We're too old for this." That being said by a woman stomping her foot on the floor like a child. Sexy as hell. His cock twitched; apparently he enjoyed the storm in her eyes and the see-through top a bit too much. It didn't help his case. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Won't help you get laid more often, Big guy."

Since patient was obviously not working, he went back to his usual blunt manners. "Getting laid is easy, don't need you to move in for that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, this is not about sex." Ok, a smaller, less confident man might have felt insecure saying such a thing naked with a boner going but he didn't. So he liked sex, so did she, and he sure liked it with her. Immensely. But this wasn't about sex, or rather this wasn't just about sex. He enjoyed having her around, talking to her, making her laugh. And smile. And blush. And all those things women did that she did better than everyone.

She threw her hands in the air. "The hell it isn't."

"Patricia, seriously. We could try it without sex if you want."

She eyed him suspiciously, sensing a trap. Fucking right, her at his place would give him plenty of opportunities to help her change her mind. All the time in the world to seduce her. He liked that too. She must have read some of his thoughts in his eyes. Or lower.

"Christopher James MacLaren, you're an arrogant jerk!"

"You know, Darling of mine, I don't see what the big problem is. We like each other. A lot. A man and a woman meet. Man and Woman fall for one another. Man and Woman have sex. Woman wants to move in with Man. That's the way it goes."

"The hell it is. Woman does not want to move in with Man!"

"Well, some women do." Ok, so, not his best argument, not even close. Patient not working, direct not working, pissed off had taken over.

It got him more of the narrowed eyes, "Do they now? Well then, why don't Man ask one of them to move in?"

"Maybe I should!" His ship was already sinking, launching another torpedo wouldn't change anything, would it?

Well, it did.

"Yes, you should. And right now. I mean, the state you're in, I think you really need to." At which, she walked to the chair where he had laid his clothes before his shower. As she took the pile in her arms, picking up his shoes too, he thought for a moment she was going to throw the bundle at him. Although, for fear of hurting him, he knew she wouldn't throw the shoes. To his surprise, she walked to her front door and threw her stack, his stack, in the hallway. "Good luck with your new roommate!"

He didn't move. "Ok, Princess, calm down."

She took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. "I am calm," she articulated slowly. Like hell she was. "I am very calm. I want you to get the fuck out."

"I'm not going anywhere. I think we should talk about this."

"No. We're done talking. I want something casual; you want to keep a woman in your place. At your disposal. No middle ground. Get out."

He studied her for a beat. He should have seen she wasn't ready, should have understood right away. Big tactical error indeed. He sighed and shook his head at her. He started to say something, saw the glare in her eyes and stopped. Patient was back. The plan would have to wait.

He strolled outside. She slammed the door behind him. He heard her throw the dead bolt he had installed a couple of months ago. It didn't make much difference because he knew how to jump the door's electronic lock and jimmy the dead bolt. He smiled. Tonight wasn't the night to remind her of his many skills in that field, though. He needed a new plan. In case she was watching through the peephole, he dressed slowly. I'll let you simmer, Pussycat. I'll let you apologise for throwing me out naked. More accurately, since he had walked out all by himself, let her apologise for having demanded he walk out naked. The first step in his new plan^ Her apologising. He was patient.
