CUTTING ROOM -THE- (38 page)

He laughed again. ‘A cop? No, no, no. No way. I'm a filmmaker. I'm down here from New York on a project. It's nice to meet you, Daria,' he said, extending his hand across the table. ‘My name's Reid …'

Manny stared at the phone and rubbed his head. Now what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

I love you?

Daria was obviously polluted. Three sheets to the wind. Slurring, sighing — a melancholy, mushy drunk tonight.

But,
I love you?

He looked at the other side of his bed, strewn with papers and reports from the Lunders case, and now reports from Fort Lauderdale PD and grisly crime-scene photos of Marie Modic's broken and discarded corpse. Even though Daria wasn't next to him in bed anymore, she was still next to him in bed.

I love you. Now you have to forgive me. Please, Manny …

Finally, she'd apologized. It had taken her long enough to say the word sorry. It probably hurt when she finally coughed it up. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number. Let's see if it was the alcohol talking. Let's see if she's still all, ‘Oh forgive me, please. I didn't mean it. I love you,' when she'd sobered up. And if she was? If she meant what she'd said when she was drunk, when she was seeing straight, what then?

He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard. Women. Soft, sweet-smelling and warm. Kissable, full lips and curvy, full bodies. That woman-scent they give off. Those pheromones. It got him every time. He did like the ladies. Always had.

But
she
was different. Right from the start, everything about Daria DeBianchi, Esq., was different. A little red firecracker, with an amazing, pint-sized body and a personality as fiery and dark and snappy as her hair. She was not his type — smart, educated, conservative, save for those heels she lusted over. Manny liked his women big and Latin and curvy and flashy, and it helped if they weren't so bright or quick with a retort. Of course, none of those had worked out for him before. He'd walked down the aisle three times, but no woman had ever made him feel the way Daria did. Happy. Sexy. Masculine. Mad. Funny. Vulnerable. Stupid. Smart.

Happy.

That was it. That was the first word that came to mind. She made him
happy
when he was with her. Usually. And, as he had recently learned, he was completely miserable when she wasn't around. Grumpy, edgy. Like he was missing something. It wasn't just the wild sex — although he did love what he did to the conservative, uptight part of her. Making her scream words he didn't think she even knew. But it wasn't all physical: they could talk for hours about criminals and homicide scenes without her threatening to leave because it grossed her out or bored her. They could argue about things like baseball or politics and she wouldn't sulk 'cause he didn't agree with her. She was a huge Dolphin fan. She understood when he didn't want to talk about something he'd seen because she knew all too well what it was like to witness something horrible and not be able to do anything about it. He loved her small hands, which fit completely inside his, like a baby's would. He loved her eyes, even when she was pissed off and they practically glowed. He loved her ruby-red lips — especially when they were on his. He loved that she liked to make a statement. He loved her petiteness. He loved her smile, when she decided to flash it, that was.

He loved her.

He banged the back of his head against the headboard again.
What then?
What if she meant what she'd said? What if a smart, sophisticated, sometimes bitchy, beautiful woman really meant it when she said she loved him?

Then he'd say it back. Because it was true. He'd been in love and in lust enough times to know the difference. And his little red firecracker attorney was everything every other woman he'd loved before was not, so this time it must be true. It must be real. And he was ready to forgive her and move on. Yes, he was still beyond pissed, especially since Bantling's supposedly accidental release from custody was all over the fucking news. If he didn't care about her, he would have no problem calling up Nadine Kramer from the
Herald
and telling her all about Collier's cursed deal with a serial killer. But that would only destroy Daria's career. Not to mention that the snuff-club allegations would then have to come out, and he didn't want to turn the lights on on that macabre cache of secrets yet, lest all those cockroaches go into hiding. No, he'd manage to get past what she'd done and maybe they'd tackle Bantling together, like some crime-fighting duo. Manny would find him and bring him back to Miami, and since there was no deal actually struck for his cooperation, they would send his sorry ass back to Florida State Prison. Then he and Dickerson and Customs and the FBI and FDLE and any other agency that wanted to join in would find this snuff club and infiltrate it. There had to be another way in. There had to be another way to disrupt it besides putting a convicted serial killer on the payroll as a snitch. And everyone would live happily-ever-fucking-after.

Then he looked over at the box files on his dresser. Maybe not.

The State of Florida v. William Rupert Bantling
was scribbled across the side of one.
Black Jacket
across another. He hadn't looked in either box yet. He wasn't sure if he would or if he should. He'd only gotten as far as taking them home and putting them on his dresser. The past few hours, as he worked on Lunders, he'd glanced over at those boxes every so often, wondering what secrets would be revealed when and if he decided to open them up. That was why he hadn't done anything yet — he wasn't sure he'd be able to put the lids back on once he decided to take them off. And like Pandora's Box, he wasn't sure what evil he might be releasing into the world if he did decide to flip the lid …

He tapped his fingers on the nightstand as Daria's phone started to ring.
How would the crazy thoughts that had just run through his head spill out when he heard her voice? What if she was still drunk or too hungover to think straight?
But the call went straight to voicemail. Her phone was either turned off, or she'd turned it off when she saw it was him calling.

‘Listen, it's me,' Manny began softly enough at the sound of the tone. ‘I got your message. That's pretty heavy. And that's a cheap fucking shot, you know, telling me that on the phone. What the hell am I supposed to say to that, Counselor? You tell me you fucking love me on a voicemail?' He sighed. ‘I'm sitting here buried in crap with stuff on your case and …' He broke off and looked around the empty room, his eyes avoiding the dresser. ‘Well, I have a lot to say to you, but I need to know if that was you talking. If it was, if you meant what you said, then call me back. If this is all just a mistake, if you drank too much, is all, then, well I'll see you Wednesday at the hearing and we'll handle this as … professionals. Although, I don't know how I'm gonna do that, but, whatever. So, well, let me know,' he finished.

He hit the ‘end' button and stared at the phone, his heart beating so hard, he felt it all the way up in his mouth. He sat there for what felt like an hour, watching the stupid cordless phone that sat atop Marie Modic's autopsy report.

She never did call him back.

C.J. stared at the wriggly, white ball of pure fluff that had popped its head out of a gigantic wrapped box. The red bow around the puppy's neck was bigger than its whole head. ‘This is supposed to eat people?' she said with a laugh as the pup licked her face. ‘This is gonna be a ferocious guard dog?'

‘Yes,' Dominick insisted with a smile. ‘She's nine pounds now, but she's gonna grow into a fierce, one-hundred-pound beast. A force to be reckoned with. Merry Christmas.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Now name her something mean. Killer. Chops. Tank. Cujo. Beast.'

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Tank?'

‘You're right — she is a girl. How about Tankini? Tank can be for short?'

‘How about Luna?' C.J. asked. ‘She's so white and fluffy, like a fat, full moon. Luna. I think it's exotic. A nod to your Italian heritage, Dominick.'

‘I have to be honest here, honey. Luna doesn't sound very mean. Crazy, maybe, but not mean.'

‘She doesn't have to sound mean, Dominick. She just has to be mean — and only when it counts.'

‘True. Well, she's your baby, so you can name her anything you want as long as you let me train her to eat people.'

‘She's perfect, Dominick. Absolutely perfect. I love her!' she exclaimed as Luna jumped out of the box, knocking it over. She nuzzled into C.J.'s arms and attacked her with kisses. ‘Thank you!'

‘Welcome to the family, Luna,' Dominick said with a perfect smile. ‘Something tells me you're gonna like it here. You certainly lucked out in the crib department, fluffy.'

‘I know you were only playing, girl, but you can't chase the little yappy dogs around the trees. Their little yappy owners don't like it,' C.J. admonished as she and Luna walked into the house. ‘They get very upset.' Luna licked her hand.

She tossed the keys and newspaper on the kitchen table. So much for a leisurely Sunday-morning walk to the dog park — a dog park that Luna hadn't been kicked out of yet. By tonight there were sure to be wanted posters up with her dog's mug shot stapled to the very trees she'd chased a pair of Malti-poos around a few dozen times. She wasn't nine pounds of fluff anymore. Dominick had called it — she'd shed the puppy fuzz and grown into a lean, furry, pure white, hundred-pound, dog-park-clearing force to be reckoned with. And while he might have trained her to eat bad people, he had never managed to train her not to chase and eat those yummy little yappy dogs.

She poured Luna a big bowl of kibble, made a fresh pot of coffee and headed off into the shower. She was gonna have to start driving out of town to look for dog parks, the way a bank robber might scout out fresh targets.

The hot water was not working for some reason, so she took a tepid shower, making a mental note to call the plumber next week. After she got dressed, she turned on the TV in the living room and joined Luna in the kitchen for coffee and a quick plate of scrambled eggs and toast. She had a ton of work to get done. After weeks of delay, finally tomorrow was the day for closing arguments on Kassner.

She gathered a mixing bowl and whisk as her brain reworked thoughts and sentences.

Premeditation: Ladies and gentlemen, you saw the store video of Mr Kassner casually shopping for accelerants at the Snappy Pro hardware store four days before the fire. A hardware store that was twenty-six miles outside of town and not on his way to or from anything. Just out of the way, so that no one would recognize him. He spent twenty-eight dollars on plastic gasoline containers and—

Her thoughts stopped in mid-sentence.

The eggs were not on the second shelf of the refrigerator. They were on the third. The bread was on the second. That was supposed to be on the third.

She closed the refrigerator door and backed up in a sudden panic, knocking over a dinette chair.
Luna was at her side now, barking. She knew something was wrong. C.J.'s eyes darted around the kitchen, at the knick-knacks and old family pictures that decorated her grandmother's walls. She took a breath. Everything else looked the same in the kitchen. She switched the whisk for a chef's knife, and hesitantly headed into the living room, her heart beating crazily in her chest, Luna at her side. Everything looked okay, there, too. Her magazines were in the same order on her coffee table. The photos were all at the same angles. None were missing. The curtains were in the same position, the blinds pulled down. She did the same thing through the rest of her house. Everything
looked
okay. The windows were all locked. The doors, too. And the alarm had, of course, been set when she got home. She would never make the same mistake twice.

But this was how it had started twenty-three years ago. He had been in her house, eating from her fridge, rummaging through her mail and drawers. Taking a shower in her bathroom. Maybe using her toothbrush. She had missed the signs because she hadn't paid attention. Now she always paid attention.

Okay, okay, C.J. Let's think about this rationally: Bantling's on death row in Florida, some 2800 miles away. Chambers is dead and burning in hell, some 2800 miles down. The experiment is done. What are the odds that another former defendant of yours is going to come rearrange your fridge as a form of stalking? You mixed up the eggs and the bread, is all. It happens.

She took another deep breath and headed back into the kitchen. She could not wait until this case was over. After nine weeks of a trial that should have lasted three, she was burned out and stressed. Plus, since her car was stolen, she'd been jumpier than ever. The thought of some stranger rummaging through her glove compartment or console, looking at old receipts and notes and wrappers — things in the Green Giant that had once belonged to her — skeezed her out. It had churned up a violent sea of memories. Now she was seeing invisible hands going through her refrigerator. After Kassner she didn't have another case scheduled for weeks. She needed the break. A few days' vacation in the wine country or something. Great food at restaurants like the Los Olivos Café and Brothers, washed down with gallons of Pinot Noir. Nothing but vineyards and horses and farmers markets.

She walked past the hall console table, where assorted pictures from her life before Santa Barbara were bumped up against each other in a hodge-podge collection of frames. Dominick was in every picture. Her wedding photo taken on a beach in the Keys. Boating in the Caribbean. Playing with Luna on Lake Michigan, sipping coffee in her rain jacket at Pike's Market in Seattle. Eating beignets at Café du Monde in New Orleans. In each picture she was smiling and he was right there beside her. In every picture.