Quintic by V. P. Trick

Fuck! You know the
fucking guy!

The Guy and
Him
    A s soon as he went rigid the team
sensed something was wrong. Nobody said a word. Charles kept
looking at him, Patricia and Hamilton in turn, at a loss what to
do.
    After what
felt like a long time, Patricia finally looked up at
Charles, wide dark-blue eyes frowning. “I
need to talk to Charles, I think,” she said, nervously wetting her
lips. “Alone. Just for a couple of minutes. If you don’t mind.” The
damn woman was way too polite.
    No way are you doing this alone, Angel . He knew she would keep to herself and give Charles only
what she considered strictly necessarily; she’d walk all over the
poor guy just like she had done at the motel. Your need-to-know routine isn’t going to happen,
Pussycat .
    He motioned
the team back to the conference room.
“Why don’t we all sit back down? And maybe you can tell us the name
of the guy? If you please.” He too could be damn
mannerly.
    She glared
at him, anger spurred by her defence
mechanism finally kicking in. Good. Chris was getting angry
himself. The six-degree of separation theory did not apply to the
damn woman when it came to stiffs.
    She stayed
by the door, ready to walk out. Run out. He flanked her side; he
was a fast runner, much faster than her.
    She
s tarted to talk before everyone had their
ass on a chair, “His name is Rick Lemieux.” She stopped and started
again, “His name was Rick Lemieux.” She stopped again.
    Chris
waited; she had more to say for sure. And
indeed, she had.
    “ His
grandfather was French-Canadian.” That explained the name. “I don’t
think he had any relatives. His parents died about twenty years
ago. He had some money from the insurance his parents left him. He
didn’t hold a job.”
    “ You sure
it’s the guy? How did you know him?”
    She glanced
at the open door, stared at it before turning her
frowning gaze to them, chin set. “I met him a few years ago at a
book show. We went out a few times. I have not seen him in almost
two years. That is all I know. I don’t know where he was living or
anything.” She shrugged, end of story. She had given them a name,
and apparently that was all they fucking needed to know.
    He replayed
the information. She had not seen the guy
in two years. Two years ago was her Joshua period. Was the Lemieux
guy before or after Joshua? During? Chris studied her while she
blatantly avoided looking at him by frowning at Charles. The slight
blush colouring her cheeks and neck hinted that she was not telling
all. He waited for a beat, hoping for her to add more. Nope. She
had said it all. The fucking Joshua period. Those fucking bastards
again.
    Chris had
promised himself to one day hunt each of the remaining ones and
shoot them down. Shoot them dead one by one. Even after the outrageous amount of money he’d given the fat
Mario jerk for a job well done during the quarter disaster, he
still owed the guy, a strange debt of honour, so he would keep
Mario for last. He sighed. He would have to save Mario’s ass from
prison or something to clear the debt; then he was going to kill
him.
    Back to the present, MacLaren. Now, what? Damage control first. The team sat stunned, so
he called it a day. He could feel his guys’ eagerness to push her,
the questions hanging on Charles’s lips, but Patricia wouldn’t
answer, not now. She needed time to think − she often needed time
to think and ponder and overthink before she recklessly acted in a
spur-of-the-moment, fucking spontaneous , half-ass,
over-the-top plan − before she gave him straight answers. Who was Lemieux, Darling of
mine? Hopefully, she wouldn’t mourn this
dead. She was sleeping at his place tonight.
    “ You guys in
the mood for a beer?” He asked around. “My treat.”
    The team was
always in the mood for a beer. Even more so when they had open
cases or unfinished business. Fucking right, unfinished business.
“ Reid? Le? How about giving Patricia a
ride, I’ll meet up with you