For the usual suspects — Rich, Monster, Amanda, mom, dad, and the writing buddies — who make everything seem possible.

And for Ed Sieban and Uncle Tommy McDermott, forever missed.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Part Two

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Part Three

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

About the Author

Also by Jilliane Hoffman

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

1

The pretty girl in the tight ‘COED’ T-shirt leaned all the way back against the bar, so that her chestnut hair lay strewn out behind her across the white epoxy bar top. Straddled directly over her, his Vans balanced precariously on two bar stools, stood a shirtless guy with the most cut chest Gabriella Vechio had ever seen, a shot glass clenched tightly in his flexed abs. While the crowd cheered him on, he rocked his body over the coed’s, pouring the amber liquid into her open mouth. Southern Comfort splashed across her face and over her T-shirt, but the laughing girl definitely didn’t care. And neither did the rambunctious crowd.

‘Ho, man! Look at this guy work it!’ mused the DJ as he amped up the music. ‘Open your mouth wider, baby! Let’s see how much you can take in!’

Gabby ran a finger along the sugared rim of her lemon-drop martini as she watched the scene play out across the restaurant. The thickening crowd was already three deep at the bar, and the indie-rock music that’d been playing when she and her friends had first sat down for appetizers was now a pulsating throb of Top 40. Beyoncé was singing/screaming so loud, the knives and forks still left on the table danced and tinked together. Even the waitress had changed — whether it was a different blonde or just a different outfit, this one was decked out in much higher heels and a much shorter skirt than the frazzled girl who’d served up quesadillas and Buffalo wings a couple of hours earlier.

‘So how long you think you’re gonna stay?’ Gabby’s friend Hannah asked with a frown as she stood from the table, gathering her purse. She cast a disapproving look in the direction of the circus that was still happening over at the bar.

‘What?’ Gabby answered, gesturing to her ear. It was getting impossible to hear. Friday-night happy hours at Jezebels always started out sort of mellow, but once food stopped being served alongside the Heinekens and cosmos, the crowd really built up. One of the reasons Gabby usually hated coming to Jezzie’s was because after nine the place turned into nothing more than a noisy meat market. And two days shy of her twenty-ninth birthday, Gabby was already old meat. At least in here, where she’d actually heard females over twenty-five called ‘cougars’ by other girls.

‘I said, so how long you gonna stay?’ Hannah repeated. ‘We don’t want to leave you all alone here. Not with this crowd …’

Gabby shrugged and raised her half-empty martini at Hannah and her other friend, Daisy, who sat beside her, wide-eyed and still fixed on the ab man and the coed. ‘Just till I finish this, I guess. Don’t worry about me; I’m parked right across the street.’

‘I don’t know about you all, but I’m feeling mighty thirsty right now,’ Daisy announced as she, too, slowly stood to leave.

‘I wish I could stay, but I promised Brandon …’ Hannah started, hesitantly slinging her laptop bag across her shoulder.

‘Don’t be silly. I was gonna head home early anyway. I got a ton of shit to do tomorrow,’ Gabby lied. ‘You go and have fun, Han. Think of me when you do,’ she added with a wink.

‘Don’t you worry. Brandon won’t be having any fun tonight. I’m exhausted.’

‘Poor Brandon,’ Gabby laughed. ‘You’re not even married yet and he’s already not getting any on a Friday night.’

‘I’m easing him into July; the boy can’t say he wasn’t warned,’ Hannah returned. She looked uneasily around the restaurant again. ‘But I really hate leaving you here all alone, Gab …’

Daisy’s eyes caught on Gabby’s. ‘Maybe he’ll come back,’ she mused with a sly smile as she wrapped a lilac cashmere scarf around her throat.

Hannah smiled as if she’d just understood a dirty joke. Gabby felt the blood rush to her cheeks and she buried her face in her drink. All three of them knew who Daisy was talking about — the quirkily handsome recent MIT grad with the ginger hair who’d plopped down uninvited at the very same table last Friday night as happy hour was coming to a close. He’d charmed all three of them before the rest of his drunk entourage finally found him and pulled him away to hit another establishment down the block. He and Gabby hadn’t talked for long, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to get the guy out of her head. Jeff, his name was. And while she’d tried to convince herself that Mr Still Seeking Gainful Employment as an Electrical Engineer wasn’t the sole reason she’d suggested Jezzie’s to the crew for tonight’s girls’-night-out, she couldn’t deny he was a consideration. But she hadn’t expected anyone else to know that. She rolled her eyes. ‘Hope not. Please. I’m not waiting on him.’

‘Okay … then can I?’ Daisy replied with a laugh, unwrapping the scarf that went perfectly with her gorgeous trench coat and trendy Alice + Olivia booties. Everything about Daisy always went together perfectly. Her cute name, her size-two wardrobe, her beautiful, butt-length, espresso curls, her tanned Spanish complexion, her seductive chocolate eyes. ‘He was freaking hot! A little young, but you can still teach them things at that age, you know.’ She sighed. ‘And they can go for ever. Three times a night, if you’re lucky.’

‘You’re so bad,’ Hannah scolded.

Gabby motioned to a seat next to her. ‘Be my guest, chica.’ But she didn’t mean it. In fact, she secretly hoped Daisy would just go. And for thinking that, of course Gabby felt super-guilty. Hannah, Daisy and she had been instant friends since freshman year in college when fate had thrown them all together in the same cramped dorm at U Buff — the University of Buffalo. And they’d stayed close through ten years of boyfriends, break-ups, bad bosses, family bullshit, illnesses, therapy, cross-country moves, cross-country moves back, and the general drama and angst that accompanied all of the above. But it always seemed to be Daisy who enjoyed most of the boyfriends and break-ups, as well as most of the drama. Daisy’s enduring popularity had never bothered her as much as it had this past year, though, when, for Gabby, just landing a stupid date had become about as challenging as picking all six lotto numbers in the same drawing.

Back in college when the three of them were cute and inseparable and the nicknames were being handed out, they were known around campus as ‘Charlie’s Angels’. Hannah had been branded the Smart One; Gabby was the Funny One, and Daisy, the Pretty One. Even now, almost seven years after the final note of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ had ushered the Angels officially into adulthood, the labels had held fast, and being the Funny One was no longer the compliment it used to be. Gabby’s hang-up, no doubt; Daisy was still the same great friend she used to be. But the fun, hard-partying Sex and the City lifestyle fantasy they’d all joked they were actually living was one day supposed to come to an end — with each of them landing high-powered husbands and popping out a couple of beautiful babies who would play together on the living-room floors of their fabulous homes while their mommies gossiped over lattes in the kitchen. Phase II, as Gabby called it in her head, was supposed to begin before the age of thirty. Or at least be in motion by then, which meant a serious boyfriend and hopefully a ring on her finger. Of course, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans, as Gabby’s mom liked to remind her. The Smart One had broken the mold and surprisingly landed the first fiancé. The Pretty One was still fielding multiple propositions and proposals from multiple suitors and was in no rush or need to settle down anywhere. And the Funny One … well, she was ‘still looking’, as Mrs Vechio told all her friends with a soft sigh when they asked why little Gabriella hadn’t yet found herself a man. Thirty was coming at her hard and fast and Mr Wonderful was nowhere in sight. Maybe a relationship with Jeff the Wannabe Engineer or a dirty dance with Mr Unbelievable Abs was totally in her head, but the truth was, no one was gonna want to talk up the Funny Accountant when the Pretty Fashion Magazine Publicist was seated a barstool away flashing a beautiful smile and sporting an amazing body.

‘Oh, I would, trust me. If I didn’t have to be at work at freaking five in the morning, I would,’ Daisy replied. ‘But we have to set up the shoot before the sun comes up. Gotta get that “first light” or it’s all for nothing, and that means working Saturday.’ She looked at her watch and added, ‘Eech, I’m going home at ten. That’s pathetic. You know, I should just stay up all night. Sleep? Who needs sleep? Remember those days, girls?’

Hannah winced. ‘I’m still trying to forget those all-nighters, Daisy. The hangovers were the only thing that stopped me from becoming a raging alcoholic.’

‘That and your Born Again mother would’ve killed you,’ added Daisy as she finished her drink.

‘True.’

‘You gonna stay then?’ Gabby asked Daisy anxiously, twisting her pin-straight honey-blonde hair around and around her index finger. The curl collapsed as soon as she pulled her finger away. Being around Daisy lately made her so self-conscious. It was like the girl never aged, or gained weight or had a bad hair day. At five foot four and 130 pounds, Gabby definitely wasn’t fat; she just wasn’t Daisy-thin. And her blonde hair and light eyes would normally attract some attention — until you sat next to a Spanish temptress who looked a lot like a young Sophia Loren. Gabriella hated herself for being so competitive, especially since Daisy obviously wasn’t. She pushed aside the brewing jealousy and forced a smile. ‘Should I get another round then?’

Daisy sighed. ‘Nah. This is one of those moments when you have to do the right thing or pay later. I got a hot date tomorrow and I need to look fresh. He runs a hedge fund.’ She fanned herself again and rubbed her fingers together. ‘Lots of cash. We’re talking big money, girls.’

‘Which means lots of competition,’ Hannah cautioned.

‘Precisely. I need at least five hours or I get circles.’

‘Circles probably look great on you,’ Gabriella offered.

‘Circles look good on zombies, Gab, but thanks for the compliment,’ Daisy replied.

‘All right then, guys,’ Gabby said. ‘I’ll be heading home in a little bit myself.’

‘Be good,’ Hannah warned with a wag of her finger. ‘No weirdos. And no circus freaks,’ she said, motioning to the still shirtless Ab Wonder. ‘Oh, and in case I don’t see you, happy birthday!’

‘Yes! Happy birthday!’ Daisy said, blowing an air kiss at Gabby as she and Hannah slipped into the crowd. ‘Call me Monday. Do anything I would do, including hot circus freaks. And text me if Ginger and his friends show up. Maybe I’ll come back!’

Gabriella raised her martini in the direction of her two friends as they disappeared into the sea of writhing bodies. She saw Hannah wave and then the crowd swallowed them whole and they both were gone. The guilt pang disappeared as fast as it had come on, replaced by an exuberant feeling of freedom. Gabby wasn’t a clubber, but here she was out in a club with a couple of drinks in her already to loosen her up and no competition to hold her back. She opened another button on her blouse and sipped her martini, moving to the music as the lights dimmed and the last of the tables in the center of the restaurant were cleared out, forming a makeshift dance floor that was quickly filling with bodies. It was getting crowded. Soon enough the bouncers would stop letting anyone in.

Although it was still early by club standards, hookups were already happening. Guys and girls. Girls and girls. The dirty dancing was definitely a lot sexier than Gabby remembered it being when she used to hit the clubs. And the clothes — or lack thereof — that the girls were wearing … damn! She could unbutton her blouse to her belly button and it would still be modest by some standards. Everyone was either here with their BFFs or they were busy making new ones. Gabby suddenly felt as if there was a spotlight shining down on her — the Old Maid All Alone With No One. And everyone looked so freaking young …

A herd of short skirts and stilettos pushed by, knocking into Gabby’s chair and spilling her drink a little. She blew out a controlled breath. It probably was crazy of her to think he’d come back here tonight. Even crazier to think that, if he did, he’d be looking for her. Here she was, all by herself in a club, still dressed in her lame poly-blend suit from work, sitting by herself at a table for four, surrounded by people who didn’t look close to worrying about turning thirty, or having babies, or meeting Mr Right. The exhilarating feeling of freedom was quickly sinking into a panicky depression that she didn’t want to feel tonight. Gabby glanced at her watch and threw back the rest of her drink. That was it. She’d lasted a half-hour. It was time to go …

As she grabbed her purse and stood to leave, the waitress brought over a fresh lemon-drop martini. ‘Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,’ she said, motioning behind her with a toss of her blonde curls.

Gabby looked around for her ginger-haired engineer. Had her instincts been right? Her heart started to pound. If so, this would be one helluva story to tell the grandchildren …

But there were no tall, lean redheads to be found. She dipped her finger in her drink and swirled it around as her eyes canvassed the crowd.

That’s when Gabby spotted the stranger with the dark, wavy hair and piercing eyes who was standing next to the bar across the dance floor, sipping a bottle of Bud and staring at her. He smiled softly and tipped his beer in her direction.

And so, with a coy smile and a quick wave, Gabriella Vechio welcomed over the stranger who would soon change her life for ever.

2

‘Thanks for the drink,’ Gabby began when he sat down beside her.

‘How’d you know it was from me?’

‘I … well, I just assumed,’ she stuttered.

He grinned. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m Gabriella.’

‘I’m Reid. Nice to meet you, Gabriella.’

‘God, that sounds so formal. Only my mom and my boss call me Gabriella. My friends call me Gabby.’

‘Gabby. Okay,’ he replied, nodding. ‘I like Gabriella, though. That’s a beautiful name. So, are you from around here, Gabby?’

‘I live in Forest Hills. I just came here after work.’ She fidgeted with the collar of her blazer. ‘In case you couldn’t tell.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m out of high school, for starters,’ Gabby answered with a short laugh.

‘Yeah. This is a bit of a younger crowd, huh?’ Reid said, looking around. ‘But they have great wings.’

‘Yup. And quesadillas. We — me and my friends — we’ve been here a couple of times before. They have a good happy hour. That crowd is a little more … let’s say, mature. You know, with everyone getting off work and all.’

He nodded and looked around. ‘Where are they? Your friends?’

‘Oh. They’re gone,’ Gabby replied quickly. ‘They left a half-hour or so ago. They had to get up in the morning. I decided to stay and finish my drink. I was gonna head out right before you sent this over.’

‘Well I’m glad you stayed. And I have to say, I think I like the crowd in here.’ He didn’t look around when he said it — his dark chocolate brown eyes never left hers. Mesmerizing, bright flecks of amber and gold lit his pupils.

Gabriella blushed. He was handsome — Reid. Not in an obvious way, like Ab Man. He had a bit of a big chin, but a nice smile that took over his whole face when he flashed it, and that’s what she really noticed. His teeth were straight and super white, like a toothpaste model’s. No gums in sight. Some girls were attracted to abs or curly hair or eyes or big muscles, but Gabby went for the smile every time. She used to think she’d marry a dentist until she realized a lot of them actually had terrible teeth. What was that proverb? Physician heal thyself? Dentist fix thy overbite. As Gabby studied Reid’s rugged, fair face, set against the backdrop of a raucous Spring Break-aged crowd, she thought perhaps his very best feature right now was the fact that he wasn’t twenty-one. She guessed late twenties, but didn’t want to ask, because she didn’t want to be asked that very same question and then watch for the disappointment on his face. Demi Moore might’ve broken ground with Ashton Kutcher, but for most female earthlings who didn’t have movie-star looks and a celebrity-sized bank book, it wasn’t so easy to bridge even a small age gap with a handsome guy. And definitely not in a place like this. Most men heard ‘twenty-eight’, swore the woman said ‘thirty’, and pictured the thought-bubble above her smiling, anxious head that read, ‘Looking for marriage, a house and a baby!’ That’s when they excused themselves to use the bathroom and you never saw them again. Maybe she was being silly and down on herself, but tonight she didn’t want to take any risks with having fun. She just wanted to have it. ‘I’m an accountant with Morgan and Tipley,’ Gabby replied. ‘It’s a really small firm in Midtown. Lex and Forty-third. You’ve never heard of it, trust me. I’ve been there a couple of years now. I like it.’

‘Accounting … ooh. Sooo not what I pegged you for and sooo not my strong suit. I’m good with my money — not so sure I’d be good handling other people’s. I might get jealous.’

‘You don’t actually get to touch it, which takes away some of the temptation.’ Gabby sipped her drink. ‘Interesting. What did you peg me for?’

‘Oh, I don’t know … an astronaut? A rocket scientist? A nuclear physicist?’

‘Do I look that smart? It’s the suit, I tell ya.’

‘Nah. I really thought that you might be a lawyer or a paralegal. Something with the law. Maybe an FBI agent or a cop or maybe a spy. Just a wild guess. You look too fun to be an accountant.’

‘Accountants can be a lively bunch. The life of the party. Especially on April sixteenth.’

‘Really? Mine’s named Sy, he works for H&R Block, and I don’t think he’s been to a party in a few decades. So tell me, what do you like about it, Gabby? Accounting?’

‘Hmmm … good question. Let me think. Well, for starters it’s not subjective, like a lot of careers are. My friend’s a writer and I could never do what she does, because she never knows if it’s good. I mean, there’s always someone telling her what she wrote sucked, even if a hundred other people tell her she’s the bomb. It makes no sense. She ends up banging her head against the wall. Same for my friend who’s a publicist. Someone always second-guesses what she did. Claims they could have done it better. And that they would’ve had a better result: more people at a premiere, a better photo from a better model, whatever. But accounting, you know, is predictable. It always works out, if you do it right. And if you really do it right, you can make people very happy. Numbers don’t lie and they don’t care what other people think of them.’

‘Interesting …’

Gabby had never had to explain why she liked accounting to a guy before. She wondered if she’d given the ‘right’ answer. No matter how you phrased it, accounting never sounded thrilling. ‘What do you do, Reid?’ she asked.

‘I’m a filmmaker.’

Gabby’s heartbeat sped up a bit. Filmmaker was up there with surgeon in both the excitement and good-catch departments. ‘That’s really cool,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m working at it. It’s not an easy profession to crack. Lots of competition. You have to be real original to stand out.’

‘What kind of films do you make?’

‘Okay, now don’t get too excited, because you’re not talking up the next James Cameron. I, well … I make documentaries.’

‘I still think that’s exciting.’

He smiled. ‘I do, too. I think real life is much more interesting than make-believe, actually. Real people having real reactions, expressing real emotions. It’s capturing those moments on film that can be difficult. But … well, it doesn’t bring in much money, unless your name’s Michael Moore.’

‘I still think it’s exciting. Money isn’t everything, you know.’

‘Hmmm … didn’t you say you were an accountant?’

Gabby laughed. ‘I’ve done taxes for a lot of people that make a lot of money, but their lives are still a mess and they’re not happy. No, money isn’t everything.’

‘I agree. There’s a lot more to life.’

Gabby gestured to her ear. It was getting really loud.

Reid leaned in closer, placed his hand firmly on her back and whispered in her ear. She felt his warm breath on her neck and it gave her a shiver, as his strong hand massaged her lower spine. ‘So tell me more about yourself, Gabriella. I wanna know more about you.’

She smiled coquettishly. To think she had almost walked out and gone home all alone again to her cat and a bad movie on Lifetime. Her luck was definitely changing; she could feel it. And so over two lemon-drop martinis, as he stroked her back and played with the ends of her hair, she told him everything he wanted to know.

3

God, she liked the way he said her name. Gabriella. And she liked that after a few drinks, a lot of meaningless conversation and, perhaps most importantly, after a few more short-skirted, long-legged stiletto packs had wandered by en route to the Ladies’ room, that he still remembered it.

Reid moved a strand of hair off her face and leaned in close. ‘Listen,’ he whispered, his mouth on her ear. ‘I don’t normally ask girls back to my place. I don’t, but …’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ The room was spinning.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, I’d like to go home with you. You don’t normally ask, and I don’t normally say yes, but here we are. Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Great. I don’t live too far.’

‘Great.’ Gabby reached for her purse under the table and the world went belly-up. She put her hands on her head to get it to stop spinning. And she said a prayer that her stomach would settle back down. She definitely shouldn’t have had that fourth martini. That was what put her over the edge. And that’s why she was making such an impetuous, crazy-ass decision to go home with a total stranger. It was the alcohol; it had definitely made her horny and her overactive pheromones weren’t helping the decision-making process. What was worse was that she was still sober enough to recognize what she was doing was stupid but she was gonna do it anyway. Damn … She was definitely missing sex, no doubt about it; it’d been almost a year since she’d been with anyone. And it had been three years since she’d had anyone serious in her life. It wasn’t like she was thinking Reid was ‘the one’ or anything, or even that this relationship might go someplace past tonight — no, that would require lucid thinking. On the other hand, he did have a great smile and he made freaking movies for a living, which was a total turn-on. Plus, when his hand had traveled up her skirt underneath the table it had given her tingles in all the right places. Perhaps saying yes was a much easier decision than it should’ve been, but, as Daisy would say if she were here, ‘You only live once …’

Thankfully, her legs worked when she stood up. Reid put his arm around her and led her protectively by the elbow past the tightly packed bodies that surrounded the dance floor and the bar and out of the club. On the sidewalk outside, a chattering line of minimally dressed people had formed and was wrapping around the side of the building. For them, the night was just beginning. It would end only when the sun came up.

The cold, damp, night air was refreshing. It sobered her up a bit and slowed down the spinning, which was good, but the quiet was almost deafening. Her head was still pulsing to Britney.

‘You okay?’ he asked as he opened the door to a car and slid her into the front seat.

‘Oh sure,’ she lied. ‘I’m fine. How close is your place?’

‘Not far,’ he said as he got behind the wheel.

‘Are you in Manhattan?’

‘Who can afford Manhattan?’ he replied with a laugh, pulling away from the curb.

‘True. Tha’s true. Iss so damn expensive. Everything is so s’pensive.’ Did she just slur expensive? Damn. He reached over and touched her thigh, tracing it with his finger, moving up and under her skirt. She rubbed his hand, watching as the halos above the streetlights blurred together into long streaks of white as the car slipped under what looked like the Midtown Tunnel. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Then she drifted off to sleep.

‘Okay, Sleepyhead, we’re here.’

Gabby opened her eyes. The passenger door was open and Reid was leaning in. There were no bright lights, no skyscrapers, no double-parked cars or beeping taxis. They were in front of a two-story house on a quiet, deserted street. Gabby wasn’t sure where she was, but it definitely wasn’t any of the boroughs of New York. At the end of the block she saw a red light, only there were no cars stopped at it. In fact, there were no cars anywhere. Though the neighborhood didn’t look completely residential, the couple of restaurants she did see were closed for the night. What time was it? She tried to check her watch, but couldn’t make out the dial; it was too dark and she was too drunk. She fumbled to find her heels on the floorboard, and with them in hand, stepped on to the sidewalk. The world was spinning again. It would be so embarrassing if she fell on her ass. Where was she? Then her stockinged feet stepped in an ice-cold, freaking puddle. Gabby looked down. The sidewalk glistened. ‘Did it rain?’ she asked.

‘Did it rain?’ he answered with a laugh. ‘It poured. Cats and dogs. You slept through the whole thing. Even the traffic jam. You might want to put your shoes on — the walk can flood sometimes.’

‘I definitely should not have had that lass’ martini,’ she said as she slipped on her pumps, holding on to his arm for support.

‘Don’t worry; I’ll warm you up when we get inside.’

‘Sounds fun …’

His arm around her waist, Reid led her along the side of the old Victorian with the cute front porch. A broken brick path twisted through a dead winter garden toward a cement staircase that led down below the house, like a crypt. But for a light coming from the basement on the opposite side of the yard, the old house was completely dark.

‘Is this yours?’ Gabby asked.

‘Nah. I rent the apartment in the back.’

‘Downstairs?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Iss a pretty house.’

‘Yeah, well, I hope you don’t spook easy. It’s actually a funeral home.’

Gabby stopped walking. ‘Wha?’

‘Not where I live, obviously. The main house upstairs is the business, you know, where people have wakes and stuff. I guess they do other funeral parlor things on the other side of the basement, but I’ve never heard or seen anything. Promise.’

‘You mean there are dead people in there?’

‘I don’t know about right now. Listen, it took me a while to get used to it, but you do. My friends think it’s kind of funny, actually. And I get a great rate on the rent. Come on,’ he said, pulling her along by the hand, ‘I’ll make sure the ghouls don’t get you.’

‘A funeral home … Damn, tha’s fucked up.’ But she found herself following him anyway as he led her to the staircase. ‘Where the hell are we?’

‘Paradise,’ he returned with a smile.

At the top of the staircase she hesitated. ‘A funeral home … I dunno, Reid …’ Every instinct in her body told her not to go down.

He rubbed her hand and moved to kiss her on the lips. ‘I’ll take care of you. Promise,’ he whispered, his mouth moving over her ear. ‘You trust me, right? If I was a real bad guy I never would have told you about the funeral parlor. Only a stand-up guy would be honest about something like that when he’s taking a girl home and trying to seduce her.’

‘Or a fool,’ Gabby replied with a laugh.

‘Or a fool,’ he conceded with a shrug. He kissed her then, a long and wet and lingering kiss. His warm tongue probed the inside of her mouth. And his hands ran over her ass.

That was enough for Gabby.

Her hand in his, he led her down the steps and into the pure darkness.

‘Is there a light? Jesus, I … I can’t see a thing, Reid. These stupid heels … I’m gonna break my damn neck …’ she whispered with a nervous giggle. She wondered why she was whispering.

‘The light’s broken. I keep meaning to fix it, but I always forget. Hold my hand and the railing; the stairs are real steep, Gabby. There we go. We’re almost there.’

When they’d reached the bottom she heard the jingle of a key as she looked around. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds and there was no light. She wondered how he could see the lock, because she couldn’t see a thing. It made her more than a little uneasy, enclosed in the darkness, encased in cement, a flight of stairs away from the rest of the world, right below a funeral home. Even putting the funeral parlor thing aside, she had never been a fan of basements. In the eighteen years she’d lived at home with her parents, she could count the number of times she’d ventured down into the root cellar. Bad things live down there, her sister would warn with a smug smile whenever their mom sent Gabby down to retrieve some jar of homemade pickles or canned fruit. Bad things that don’t like the living …

‘Careful,’ he said as he led her inside. ‘I’ll get the lights.’

After a second or two he flicked on a light and she was relieved to see they were standing in a bright, white galley kitchen, which led into what appeared to be a small studio apartment. There were no metal gurneys with bodies on them, waiting their turn to be taken upstairs. No caskets pushed up against the walls. A loveseat, coffee table and television defined a living room. A breakfast table with two chairs made for a dining area. And off in the corner, partially blocked from view by floor-to-ceiling black drapes, was the bedroom. One of the drapes was pulled back a few inches and Gabby spotted a queen-sized bed.

He was behind her again. He moved quick, like a vampire. It was a little unsettling, especially given where they were. She shook the cobwebs from her head. Of course, that was the alcohol thinking.

‘Another drink?’ he asked, sliding her coat off her shoulders and tossing it on the couch in the living room. Her suit jacket followed.

‘Where are we? Long Island? Jersey?’ Despite the drunken stupor, a slight panic was beginning to set in. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I thought you lived close to Jezzie’s. How am I gonna get home?’

‘Don’t worry about that; I’ll take you in the morning, or whenever you want to go. You shouldn’t be driving, anyway. Have another drink and relax.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and caressed them. His soft lips traced the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. ‘You smell so good,’ he murmured.

‘Damn … You feel good,’ she whispered. Pushed up against her, she felt him now, his hard penis pressing into her buttocks. His hands moved off her shoulders and down her arms, working their way over her hips. ‘I really shouldn’t have another; I’ve had a lot to drink.’

‘It’ll help you relax.’

She shrugged. ‘Okay. Although I don’t usually drink this much, you know.’ Even while she said it, she couldn’t help but think her excuse for being three sheets to the wind in a strange guy’s house, a couple steps from his bed, was lame. ‘I want you to know,’ she started as he went to the kitchen. ‘Not that you’ll believe me, but … well, I don’t go home with guys I jus’ met. In fact, well, besize this one guy in college who was not a stranger — I actually knew him from my Calc class — I, I don’t do this. I don’t.’ She was slurring, wasn’t she? She took a deep breath. ‘I’m not a ho’, is all I’m sayin’.’

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought the room had a funny odor. It smelled like one of the Glade plug-in air fresheners that she used in her apartment to cover up the smell of mildew that was growing underneath her kitchen sink from a dishwasher leak that had gone undetected for too long. But then there was an undertone of something else. Something else the air freshener was covering up. It had the faint hint of a … medicinal smell? Like a hospital or nursing home. Or funeral parlor, maybe? Whatever the hell that smelled like … She pushed the thought out of her head. The apartment was, for a guy’s place, really neat. And with the dramatic black curtains surrounding the bedroom, kind of sexy. God, what was she doing here?

He came back over and handed her a vodka and OJ, watching while she sipped it. ‘Well, I’m glad you made an exception. Let me be honest here, too — I’m not a player. I rarely take home girls, Gabby. And when I do, well, they’re special. Different. Unique. Like you. I think you’re special. You’re not like those girls in the bar. Those girls — they don’t know what they want, they don’t know who they are. But you do, Gabriella. I think you know what you want, and you’re not afraid to go for it. I may be crazy, but I felt this connection between us, even from across the bar.’ He ran his hand through her hair, tracing her chin and then down her throat to where her blouse was buttoned. His eyes moved over her. ‘And I can’t wait to see more of you.’

Maybe it was all just words, but they were certainly the ones she wanted to hear. Reid grasped the back of her neck, pulling her body to his. She could feel his heartbeat through his dress shirt. He smelled clean, like soap and a crisp, citrusy cologne. Versace, perhaps? Aqua di Gio? But as she stretched her head up to finally kiss him he leaned away and with a teasing smile, reached behind him and pulled out a long, black silk scarf. He dangled it in front of her.

‘Ooh,’ Gabby said, sucking in a breath. ‘Whass that for?’

‘Let’s find out,’ he whispered, taking her by the hand and leading her past the open curtain and into the bedroom area. Gabby’s heart began to race. Bondage with a stranger — Daisy would be so impressed. Gabby took a final long sip of her drink before he gently took it from her lips and placed it on the side table. Then, with one hand underneath her chin, he lifted her mouth to his and kissed her. His tongue was thick and warm and probing, reaching all the way to the back of her throat. Gabby could feel herself getting wet for him. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. So many thoughts tumbled through the thick fog in her brain. She wondered if he was a good lover, or if she would know what a good lover was, given the state she was in. She wondered if he would think she was a good lover. What does someone who is into bondage expect from a girl? What other tricks might he have hiding in his closet or behind those sleek black curtains? If the scarf was any indicator, Gabby figured he would probably take his time with her. And that got her even more excited. She closed her eyes and tried to drive out the jitters and second thoughts. If she was going to be a cheap ho’ and have a one-night stand, she could only hope it would involve Tantric sex with a guy who could go for hours, then wake her up and ask for more.

Reid must have read her mind. As he kissed her, he raised both of her arms above her head. She felt him wrap the smooth silk scarf around and around her wrists. It was very erotic. Then he slipped the ends through something that must have been hanging on the ceiling — a rod or ring or beam, Gabby wasn’t quite sure — and he pulled tight, so that she was almost suspended from the ceiling, although her feet were still touching the floor. It hurt a little, but the loss of control over the moment was both frightening and unbelievably sexy. She wanted him more than ever.

‘Oh,’ she murmured, surprised.

He unbuttoned her blouse and opened it, exposing her lace see-through Victoria’s Secrets bra. The lights were still on and all Gabby could think was thank God she had put on nice underwear this morning. He ran his warm palms over the lace. ‘Do you like that?’ he asked when her nipples got hard.

She sucked in a breath and nodded.

He pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it on the bed. His chest was hairless and muscular. Not body-builder cut, but defined. Especially his pecs. Then he bent down and starting from her ankles, ran his hands over her legs and up her entire body, pulling her skirt up as he did, so that it rested on her hips, exposing her sheer panties. He slowly pulled down her pantyhose, leaving her panties on. ‘I said, “Do you like that?”’ he repeated, his voice sharper. ‘I want to hear you say it, Gabriella. Tell me you like it. Tell me you want me to touch you.’

She nodded again. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but it felt so good. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud. ‘Yes, I like that, Reid. I like it a lot. I want you to touch me.’

He kissed her again and then he pulled away. In one fast motion, he took the pantyhose and tied it around her mouth, knotting it in the back. Her tongue was trapped and she couldn’t speak. Her heartbeat quickened. A feeling of fright pulsed through her body. ‘That’s all I wanted to hear,’ he whispered.

He walked over to the wall of curtains and pulled back the first curtain. Behind it was a video camera set up on a tripod. Flanking the left side of the video camera were three computer monitors sitting on metal carts. He opened the other curtain, revealing another three monitors on the right — six computers in total. The carts looked like the audiovisual carts teachers used to wheel into classrooms in elementary school when they wanted the class to watch an educational movie. Behind the push carts and video camera was another wall of black curtains. The monitor screens were all on. On each monitor Gabby saw a different person.

‘Hello, Gabby,’ said a man on one of the screens, leaning into the camera.

‘Good evening, pretty,’ said another.

And another. ‘Hey there, Gabriella. That’s a real sexy name you have. I like your hair.’

The man on the first monitor laughed. ‘He likes naturals.’

Gabby’s eyes grew wide with fear. She tried to speak but the gag wouldn’t let her. She pulled hard on the scarf above her, but it only tightened on her wrists, twisting her hands around and around in mid-air. She tried to kick out, but there was nothing to use for leverage. She spun uselessly, her feet barely touching the floor.

Reid turned his attention away from the screens and back to her. He’d put on a tight, black mask that covered his face. Besides an opening for his mouth, the only part visible was his eyes. The flecks of gold in them that Gabby had found so intriguing a few hours earlier danced excitedly.

Gabby tried to scream but couldn’t. She just twisted helplessly around and around, her suspended body jerking about. She thought of her mom and dad and sister in Bloomfield, sleeping in their beds, dreaming nice dreams. She wondered how they would react when they found out she’d been raped by a strange man she’d willingly gone home with. Her mom would break down and cry and scream and probably blame everything on the evil city of New York till her Dad told her to stop. Her Dad, though, would secretly blame Gabby for being a slut and hooking up with someone she’d met in a bar. The tears streamed down Gabby’s face. Then a cold fear stopped her heart as she looked at the excited faces on the computer monitors watching her. Gabby knew then that as sure as the sun would rise in the morning she would never again see it. And she would never see her family, or have to witness her mother scream out in pain, or feel her dad silently condemn her judgment over the next Thanksgiving dinner. Because at that moment she knew she was going to die. Off in the distance, behind the wall, she heard the whir of what sounded like a motor, but it wasn’t a car engine. It was more like a blender. Or a buzz saw. Scenes from every horror movie she’d ever watched flashed through her head.

‘Gabriella, baby,’ Reid said, as he slowly approached her, flashing his model-perfect smile through the mask’s black slit. One arm was outstretched, the other hidden behind his back. ‘You’re about to become so very famous. You’re going to be a star, Gabby. A star. And now I’d like to introduce you to some of your biggest fans …’

PART TWO

4

Miami, May 2011

City of Miami homicide detective Manny Alvarez chomped on a greasy beef empanada and sifted through the awful pictures that covered his squad desk. The crumpled body of a young woman dressed in just a pair of black panties lay inside a dumpster, her long blonde hair tangled in the mound of garbage she’d been found buried in. Only her face was visible in the first series of photos, peeking through piles of rotting food, trash bags, discarded paint cans, and broken furniture, her terrified brown eyes open wide, staring up at what was, ironically enough, a perfect, blue Miami sky. What was left of her lips was twisted into the most grotesque smile Manny had ever seen. The fingers of her left hand, the nails painted pink, reached out from her fetid grave. When Manny had first arrived at the scene with the rest of the crime-scene crowd and the pack of technicians from the Medical Examiner’s office, his first thought — standing on a ladder over that filthy Dumpster, surrounded by blue uniforms and onlookers straining for a peek, sweating his cojones off in the ninety-degree heat — was that it seemed as if something or someone was beneath the poor girl, like in that horror flick, Drag Me to Hell. Pulling her back down into the garbage, back into hell, by her pretty blonde hair while she desperately reached out for someone — anyone — who could help her.

But no one had.

Her name was Holly Skole, her case number was F10-24367, and she was the thirty-fourth homicide of 2011 in the city. Her body had been found by Esteban ‘Papi’ Munoz, the owner of Papito’s Cafeteria, who’d apparently discovered Holly while disposing of spoiled trays of last night’s special. Clutching at his chest, the old man had staggered back through the parking lot towards his restaurant — and straight into the path of an SUV that was pulling into the lot. Fortunately, the two ribs he’d cracked on the fender of a Lexus hadn’t killed him. Unfortunately, the heart attack that was most likely brought on by seeing a dead body in with his leftovers had. It was only after the ambulance had come and carted off the grandpa of sixteen to the hospital morgue, the reports had been written, the rubber-neckers had dispersed, and the tow truck had hauled the Lexus off to impound that someone finally thought to take a good look around and see what had gotten the old abuelo so freaked out. A rookie traffic cop with twenty minutes on the job was the one who’d ultimately lifted the dumpster lid — only to spend the rest of the morning throwing up his Cheerios.

Manny washed down the last chunk of his lunch with a slug of crappy coffee from the machine down the hall as he flipped through the pictures and reviewed his reports. Dumped bodies were never good. Not that he relished a gory domestic or a gang-banger shootout, but usually with dumpers by the time you found them they were in a progressed state of decomposition and they stank and looked terrible. The real crime scene was missing, along with vital evidence. Plus, there was something tragic about a victim who’d been used up, right down to their last ounce of dignity, then their remains tossed away like a piece of trash. It was especially disturbing when the body being thrown out was that of a pretty, nineteen-year-old college coed with her whole life in front of her.

Clipped to the top of a Coral Gables PD missing persons report was a photo of the vivacious University of Miami sophomore from Connellsville, Pennsylvania, with the creamy complexion, infectious grin and honey-blonde hair. A communications major on a partial dance scholarship, Holly had vanished without a trace from the hardcore nightclub Menace after celebrating a friend’s twenty-first birthday back in April. Her body was found nine days later across town in the Design District — a gentrified part of the city that bordered the crime-ridden and infamous suburb of Overtown, the birthplace of Miami’s 1982 race riots.

It hadn’t taken long to get an ID. Holly’s purse, along with her wallet full of cash and credit cards, had been thrown in the dumpster alongside her. Thanks to her distraught mom, who’d flown in from Pennsylvania after Holly was reported missing by her roommate, pictures of Holly had made the rounds on all the local news stations, and Manny had known right away who it was he was staring down at from atop that ladder. In a cardboard box under his desk now sat the stack of family photos that Cookie Skole had given to him after her daughter had been pulled from the garbage and the investigation had officially changed course from missing persons to homicide. He hadn’t needed more than one picture, seeing as the girl was dead, but it was hard to tell a bawling parent, ‘One photo of your murdered kid’s enough,’ so he’d taken the whole box. Inside were pictures that started with Holly’s birth and ended with her opening presents next to the Christmas tree the last time she’d come home for winter-break. They didn’t exactly match up with the micro-miniskirts and mesh tops he’d seen Holly sporting on her Facebook page.

Although she’d been found more than a week after disappearing, unfortunately, Holly hadn’t been dead that long. In fact, her body had likely been in the dumpster only a matter of hours, and according to the Medical Examiner, rigor mortis — a condition of joint and muscle stiffening that a body goes through in the first seventy-two hours after death occurs — was still in effect. That meant Holly hadn’t been dead very long at all when she was found. And that meant someone had kept her somewhere for a long while before finally putting her out of her misery …

She had chemical burns on her feet, hands, and face, bind marks on her wrists, and a strange burn wound on the nape of her neck. Toxicology reports indicated that she’d been injected with copious amounts of diphenhydramine and dextromethorphan — the active ingredients in Benadryl and Nyquil, respectively — both of which, Manny knew, induced hallucinations when given in high enough doses. She’d been raped and sexually abused with an object or objects. The cause of death was asphyxiation. The most disturbing injury for Manny was the smile. Or lack thereof. Her lips had been melted with sulfuric acid, exposing her teeth and gums, so that it looked, from a distance, like she was grinning. As Manny figured it, Holly’s killer had actually wanted her to be found. He’d wanted everyone to see the Joker smile he’d put on her face before it could be blamed on hungry rats or decomposition had taken the rest of her flesh with it. No wonder poor Papi had dropped right after he opened that lid on the dumpster — he’d peered down into hell, only to find it grinning back up at him.

Twenty-three years as a cop in Miami — eighteen of them spent working homicides — and some things unfortunately still shocked even Manny Alvarez, on rare occasions leaving the usually unflappable, physically intimidating six-foot-five, 280-pound detective unnerved. Because the way he saw it, murder usually had a point. You got mad at someone and you lost your temper and you pulled the trigger, or lashed out with a knife, or hit the gas pedal. Or maybe you exacted revenge on someone who’d wronged you, or stole from you, or cheated on you, or failed to fork over all the dope you’d arranged to pick up. Or you needed money and the gun went off while you were trying to take it. Or you didn’t want to leave witnesses. Even with gang shootings that were committed solely to intimidate others, or gain initiation into a gang — as perverted as those reasons might be, slayings committed in their name had a point. But every once in a rare while a case landed on Manny’s desk that defied reason. Any reason. A life taken by someone simply for the purpose of taking it. Perhaps to satisfy a morbid, primal curiosity, or worse — for sheer amusement. Manny stared at the final picture of the coed’s abused body, taken on a steel gurney at the ME’s office. The macabre smile, bind marks, burns, chemical injections — all were obvious signs of sadistic torture. And her killer had held her captive for several days, undoubtedly to play with her, experiment on her, terrify her, before finally strangling the life out of her.

The suspect in custody whose bond hearing he was preparing for was not a boyfriend or an ex-lover, or a co-worker or a frenemy of Holly. He was not related to her, or mad at her, from what Manny could tell. In fact, it appeared that Holly had only met her murderer that night, as fate would have it, while she was trying to have a good time. She was not robbed; her car was found in the parking lot of Menace, right where she’d left it. There was no withdrawal from her bank accounts, or unauthorized charges on her credit cards. There was no evidence of a drug deal, no gang involvement. The rape in and of itself did not explain the overt use of torture or the violent sexual abuse. In fact, the injuries inflicted on Holly were way outside the psychological confines of what was considered ‘normal’ behavior for a rapist. Even a murdering rapist. Without any further explanation from the perp, it was a murder that simply defied any reason, and the most terrifying rationale for Holly’s death was that there was none; her murder had no point.

Manny glanced at his watch. Shit. It was already almost 2:00. Time to head over to the courthouse. His hearing was with an uptight, well-heeled prosecutor who probably really meant 1:30 when she said it — though Manny knew there was no way the case would be heard before 3:00, since it was Slow Steyn on the bench today and the man never returned from lunch before 2:00 and his calendars were always the size of a Harry Potter novel.

As he finished the last of his coffee, Manny stuck the photos and reports into an accordion folder that was already tearing at the edges. It was time to move up to a box. Or boxes. After enough years in the trenches, you developed a feeling for which cases would be ‘quickies’ — plenty of evidence, cooperative witnesses, a damning confession — all leading to a fast-tracked plea bargain. Then there were the headaches — sloppy scene, no witnesses, circumstantial evidence, and a closed-mouthed, cocky, SOB defendant. Not to mention the years of BS appeals if you did get a conviction. The State of Florida v. Talbot Lunders unfortunately fell into the headache pile.

Crumpling up the remains of his empanada in the deli wrapper, Manny pitched it across the room and over the head of the only other detective currently in the squad bay and not out to lunch. It landed in the overflowing wastebasket next to the copier, causing an avalanche of paper down one side. Mike Dickerson, an ornery fixture as old as the building itself, shot Manny a dark look over his black spectacles. ‘Watch it, Bear,’ he grumbled, shaking the sports section of the Miami Herald in Manny’s direction. ‘You ain’t no Josh Johnson.’ Then he buried his head behind the paper and carried on gumming his sub.

‘I coulda been, Pops,’ Manny said with a heavy sigh, as he crumpled up the paper bag lunch had come in and chucked that, too, across the room. This time he hit the copier.

‘Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what you was throwing those ten minutes you spent in the minor leagues, boy, but I’ll tell you, your aim is for shit now.’

‘Took your piece off.’

Mike’s hand shot to the top of his head.

‘Don’t have a heart attack, Pops. I’m just busting balls,’ Manny said with a hearty laugh. ‘It’s still there.’

‘Bald fucking Yeti.’

‘You should go natural, Mikey. It beats the rug. The missus would love it, rubbing her hands all over your smooth, silky melon.’

Manny had shaved his head the day he joined the force and worn it that way ever since. But he did let hair grow everywhere else it naturally wanted to on his body, including his arms, hands, back and chest — thus earning him the nickname Bear. He wore a five o’clock shadow by noon and a thick, wiry, black mustache 24/7. The decision to go bald wasn’t solely motivated by vanity, though. It kept him cool, for one thing. And as a hulking, over-sized, olive-skinned, bald Cubano with a thick mustache and dark, full eyebrows that were perpetually furrowed, he looked menacing. Most defendants thought twice before trying to fuck with him. And confessions came faster for him than they did for most of the other guys. Plus, the ladies seemed to like it. Considering he’d been married three times already and hadn’t had a hair on his head when he met any of his exes, being bald certainly didn’t hold him back.

Dickerson snorted and shook the paper again. ‘Don’t you have some murder to solve, Manuelo?’

‘Heading to court right now,’ Manny replied, pulling a sports jacket on.

‘Where’d you dig up that thing?’

‘What?’

‘The coat.’

‘The prosecutor asked me to get all fancy. You don’t like?’

‘Are those patches on the sleeves?’

‘Very funny. Ain’t no patches, Pops. This is a genuine …’ Manny peered at the label on the inside of his jacket, ‘… Haggar. I bought it at the Aventura Mall.’ Manny shrugged. ‘I can’t find my good suit. It must still be in the cleaners’ from my last trial.’

‘Nice tie.’

Manny wagged the tip of his teal tie that was speckled with tiny Miami Dolphins football helmets in the old detective’s direction. ‘Thanks.’

Dickerson rolled his eyes again. ‘You in trial?’

‘I got an Arthur.’ Arthur was short for Arthur Hearing — another way of saying bond hearing.

Dickerson smiled coyly. ‘I’m willing to bet your prosecutor has a nice set of gams and the initials ‘Ms’ in front of her name.’

‘Who the hell says “gams”?’

‘You wouldn’t wear a jacket to your own momma’s funeral.’

‘Not if it was in Miami in June, I sure as fuck wouldn’t. That’s why Cubans invented guayabera shirts, Pops. Dressy when you need to be, yet still cool and comfortable. You’re right — she is a she. And she does have fine legs. Not that I noticed.’

‘I knew it,’ Dickerson replied with the same lecherous cackle.

‘Fuck you, old man. You don’t know shit.’

‘What case you going on? Is that the dumpster girl?’

‘Yup. Holly Skole’s her name.’

‘Saw the pictures on your desk.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Didn’t realize you had a suspect. Is he good?’

‘I’m not counting chickens; I always get burned when I do. You saw the pictures — the guy’s an animal. He needs to pay for what he’s done.’

‘For once, young Jedi, we agree.’

Manny laughed. ‘For once.’ Then he picked up his file and headed out the homicide squad-room doors and into the controlled chaos of the rest of the City of Miami Police Department.

‘Call me if you get lonely, Sonny Boy,’ Dickerson called after him, as he returned to his paper. ‘I’ve only got one hundred and eighty-three days left. You still got time to learn from the master …’

The old man’s voice faded away as the hallway crowd got louder. Manny had learned early on to never boast about the strength of a case or predict a conviction. No case was airtight, and especially not this one. He would have to make his case as if he was building a house destined to be hit by a hurricane — slowly, carefully, with a strong foundation.

He slipped on his Oakley’s and stepped into the scorching sunshine. It was barely June and the humidity was already 95 per cent. He could feel his armpits start to drain as he headed across the steamy asphalt parking lot.

Bienvenido a Miami.

5

By 1:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, the criminal courthouse in downtown Miami was relatively quiet. The frenzied morning calendars had finally been cleared and the defendants, victims, witnesses, family members, defense attorneys, prosecutors and cops were long gone — their cases arraigned, continued, pled-out or set-over for motions or trials on another day. The hallways that had been clogged a few hours earlier were now deserted. Most of the building’s courtrooms were empty and locked, their judges either still at lunch or in recess till the following morning. The courtrooms that were open were either in trial or hearing motions.

Assistant State Attorney Daria DeBianchi pushed open the heavy doors of 4-10 and made her way into the one courtroom in the building that was still a beehive of activity. On the other side of the railing that partitioned the lawyers from the general audience, an invisible line separated prosecutors from defense attorneys, like a boy/girl middle school dance. Correction officers manned the exits and flanked the jury box, which was also filled with bodies, except they weren’t jurors, they were defendants — all dressed in bright orange jumpsuits, chained together at the wrists and shackled at the ankles. Filling the pews on the ‘state’s side’ of the gallery were detectives and cops. For the defense, it was friends and family. The judge hadn’t yet taken the bench and the courtroom sounded like a playground at recess. Seated at a desk in front of the bench was the judge’s judicial assistant, checking in a line of attorneys while simultaneously digging for gold inside her ear with a curved, glossy black fingernail. Daria took one look at the printed court calendar on top of the podium and sighed heavily. It was over two inches thick. She was gonna be here till friggin’ Christmas …

Standing four-foot-eleven and three-quarters, and weighing 94 pounds, with wavy auburn hair, blue eyes and skin so fair she broke out in freckles when she was next to an oven, everyone liked to tell Daria that: #1 — she didn’t look Italian, and #2 — she definitely didn’t look like a prosecutor. The Italian thing was understandable, she supposed. Every one of her relatives, including her nonna, was tan, dark-eyed, and blanketed in coarse, black hair all over their stocky, thick bodies. Daria got called ‘mick’ more often than she did ‘guinea’. As for the comments on her non-prosecutorial appearance, she wasn’t sure if those were intended as compliments or condolences, but since she was still getting them five years into her career, she figured the job had neither aged nor hardened her. To compensate for the fact that she wasn’t an Amazon who could arm wrestle an AK47 out of a defendant’s hands before carrying him up the river, she made sure she always wore heels — the higher, the better. And red lipstick — the redder, the better. She’d read in Vogue once that red lipstick made people think you were in control. For the most part it worked. Most defendants weren’t sure whether they should flirt with her or send over a death threat.

The majestically intimidating, wood-paneled courtroom was standing-room only. In the afternoons 4-10 was reserved solely for Arthur Hearings — bond hearings for badass defendants charged with non-bondable, badass offenses like kidnapping, drug trafficking, and murder. On a good day with a good judge, they were no big deal — a ten or twenty-minute defense fishing expedition that usually ended like it started, with a dangerous defendant denied bond and remanded to the county jail pending trial. But on Tuesdays Arthurs were presided over by Judge Werner Steyn, a former public defender who leaned so far to the left he had trouble standing up straight. That made him the natural favorite of defense attorneys everywhere, who all pushed to have their Arthurs set before him. With Monday’s Memorial Day holiday shortening the work-week, and Steyn dependably late taking the bench, Christmas might actually come and go before she returned to the mess that waited on her desk across the street at the State Attorney’s Office.

She found her case buried on page 22 of the calendar. With two defendants per page, it wasn’t hard to do the math. Unless she got moved up, there’d be no Toddlers & Tiaras tonight.

‘Hi, Harmony,’ she said sweetly when she’d finally made her way on the attorney line up to the clerk’s desk. ‘How are you? How’s your hubby feeling? I heard half of Probation is down with the flu. And it’s almost June. What’s with that?’

Harmony, the clerk with the name befitting either a stripper or a Life Coach, stared blankly at Daria as if she were a total stranger, not a Division Chief who’d appeared in her courtroom dozens of times before. And with whom she’d had dozens of — obviously meaningless — conversations. Her bulging eyes, which were lined like a dead body at a TV crime scene with black liner, blinked twice. Finally it clicked — at least that she had a husband. ‘Good, he’s good, thank God! Wow! No, no flu. What page you on, hon?’

So much for charm and chit-chat. ‘Twenty-two. Lunders. Talbot Lunders. Has the defense checked in yet?’

Harmony leafed through her master calendar. ‘Oh yeah. A while ago. But I got a lot ahead of you now, State; I can’t let you be cutting the line. So you’re gonna be number thirteen, hon.’ She frowned and wagged a black talon to stop the words she knew were coming. ‘And yes, that is the best I can do, even though, I know, I know, it’s an unlucky number, but somebody’s gotta be it.’ Harmony finished with a dismissive sigh, before turning her head to address the lawyer behind Daria. ‘What page you on, hon?’

Next! It was like getting served slop on a school lunch line. Daria begrudgingly waded into the pack of prosecutors. Thirteen was better than forty-four, but it still meant a long afternoon, although, she thought, as she surveyed the courtroom, her detective didn’t appear to be on time anyway. This was her first case with City of Miami Detective Manny Alvarez. Last week he’d been forty-five minutes late for his pre-file without offering up so much as a lame excuse why. Although he had brought her a café con leche and some weird pastry that oozed pink goo, along with a stack of reports that he’d already actually written — something most cops didn’t get around to doing before the third discovery demand, and only after you screamed at them — she was still ticked off. And she was going to be really mad if he pulled the same stunt today, even if he did wind up beating the judge to the bench.

She peered at the degenerates that filled the jury box to see if her defendant had been brought out yet. He hadn’t. Based on the mug shot clipped to the top of her file, she could expect the ladies in the courtroom to collectively start panting when Corrections ushered him through the door. She wondered if he’d be as striking in person, having fermented in a jail cell for the past couple of weeks.

Standing up against the wall on the prosecutorial side of the courtroom was her friend Lizette, a Domestics prosecutor, who was waving her over as if she were hailing a cab in rush hour. ‘So what happened to you yesterday, mami?’ Lizette demanded when Daria squeezed in next to her.

‘Don’t start,’ Daria replied. Most of the young, single prosecutors in the office had spent Monday’s unofficial start to summer sipping mojitos and sangria by the pool at the Clevelander on South Beach. Judging by the comments she’d fielded all morning, she was the only one who’d missed it. ‘I was at my brother’s all weekend. Dang, you’re tan. Did you fall asleep on a tanning bed or something, Liz? You look like Snooki.’

Lizette waved a hand in front of her face. ‘I’m Columbian. I got this on the walk across the parking lot,’ she shot back with a Spanish accent that became more pronounced whenever she got flustered or was in front of a Hispanic judge. ‘You missed a good time, girl.’

‘Don’t envy me. I spent the past three days babysitting triplets.’

Lizette curled her lip like she’d smelled two-day-old fish. ‘Triplets?’

‘Three-year-old triplets. My brother and his wife went on a cruise to the Bahamas. So while you were working on that tan you deny intentionally working on, I was cutting up hot dogs and watching Disney flicks. Oh, and potty training.’

The curl grew into a grimace.

‘Of course they’re boys, so that means none of ’em can aim for shit. We’re talking the ceiling, the walls, the door — anywhere but the bowl. They’re cute and I love them to pieces, but, man, do I feel old. I was stressed the whole time. Couldn’t sleep. Always afraid one of ’em might slip out in the middle of the night, ride out of town like Paul Revere, naked on top of the Great Dane, waving a Pull-Up in his hand.’

‘Great Dane?’

‘Her name’s Petunia. She’s shy.’

‘I won’t even watch my sister’s fish.’

‘Oh, and an albino ferret that the kids like to lock in the dryer.’

‘I’ve heard enough.’

‘I think my whacked mother’s plan backfired. Instead of rushing out to find myself a husband and jump-start a family, I might go celibate.’ Daria sniffed at her arm. ‘Do I smell like grape jelly to you? I don’t know what they put in that shit, but it stays in your system. I’m sweating it out of my pores. That and peanut butter. And my shoes are sticking to everything.’

Lizette nodded. ‘You’re right. I would never advocate celibacy, but you’re not the mommy type. Good thing you don’t need a man to have fun.’

‘That’s not a real concern right now for me, anyway; it’s easy to give up what you’re not getting.’ Daria frowned before adding, ‘Thanks for the mommy comment. I can be warm and fuzzy, you know.’

Lizette shrugged. ‘Whatever. So who’re you here on?’

‘On today’s menu we have one Talbot Alastair Lunders.’

‘What kind of name is that?’

‘A family one, I suppose.’

‘Obviously not a Miami family. I’m guessing that someone with not one, but two, obnoxious Anglo names must come from money.’

‘You’re right. Young Talbot is of the Palm Beach Lunders.’

‘Who are the Palm Beach Lunders?’

‘Daddy apparently owns some luxury soap company. Or so I’ve been warned.’

‘What company is that?’

‘Dial.’

Lizette’s eyes went wide. ‘No shit. Really?’

Daria laughed. ‘No, not really. Some spa brand I never heard of.’

Lizette surveyed the jury box. ‘All of the boys today look like they come from the projects, not Palm Beach.’

‘Oh, Talbot’s not out yet,’ Daria replied, flashing Lizette the mug shot. The tan playboy with the highlighted, shaggy hairdo and mesmerizing hazel eyes looked more like a brooding Dolce & Gabbana model in his booking photo than a murderer. ‘You’ll probably start drooling when Corrections brings him in. Maybe even consider a career on the Dark Side.’

Lizette sucked in a breath. ‘If you could guarantee all of my client’s would look like that, I’d enter pleas on their behalf. What crime did poor-little-hot-rich boy commit?’

‘Murder.’

Lizette shook her head. ‘What a shame. My mother can overlook many things in the hunt to find me a husband, but murderer would be a tough sell. Who’d handsome get so mad at?’

‘A pretty college kid out clubbing at Menace. She was found in a dumpster near the Design District.’

‘Is that the girl who was missing on the news a few weeks ago?’

Daria nodded.

‘The UM kid. Hmmm. I didn’t realize they’d found her.’

‘It didn’t make much press,’ Daria answered. That was no coincidence. The University of Miami was a prestigious private university that came with a hefty price tag. Parents who shelled out fifty thousand a year on tuition didn’t like to hear on the nightly news that one of their own had been the random target of a brutal sex maniac while out clubbing underage. So the university brass had contacted all parties involved — including the City of Miami and the State Attorney — to make sure they didn’t. The order was no press conferences, no perp walks when the arrest came. Everything was kept on the down-low, which likely explained why there were no cameras in today’s hearing.

‘How’d she die?’ Lizette asked.

The back door that led to the judge’s chambers suddenly swung open. ‘All rise!’ Steyn’s bailiff shouted. ‘The Honorable Judge Werner Steyn presiding.’

‘Good afternoon, all,’ the judge said with the slight hint of a German accent as he took the bench, nodding in the direction of a few cronies from the good ol’ days. ‘Sorry to be running a bit late. Let’s get started; we have a real big calendar today.’

‘No cell phones, no cameras, no talking. Be seated and be quiet!’ bellowed the bailiff.

Everyone in the audience quickly found a seat, while the lawyers pushed up against the walls on their respective sides of the courtroom and Harmony called the first case.

Daria anxiously scanned the room for any sign of her detective. The one thing she did know about Manny Alvarez was that he was hard to miss. Anywhere. There was no sign of his shiny bald head towering above the packed courtroom crowd.

Although he hadn’t expressly said it, Daria knew that Vance Collier, the Chief Felony Assistant and right-hand to the State Attorney, had personally assigned her this case for a reason. The Chief of the Sexual Battery Unit was stepping down in September and Daria had let it be known to the powers that be that she was throwing her name in the ring for the job. Holly Skole had been brutally raped before she was murdered. The case was potentially high profile — with a good-looking defendant from a privileged family, a cute coed for a victim, and a heinous, gory murder that was sure to command headlines if not handled correctly. The evidence, while damning, was completely circumstantial, which definitely complicated things. And there were multiple parties within the community whose feathers needed to be stroked, not ruffled, including the powerful University of Miami, and the even more powerful South Florida press. The State of Florida v. Talbot Lunders would be the perfect test case to see if Daria DeBianchi could head up one of the busiest, most contentious, most emotionally draining units at the State Attorney’s Office.

But no more than five minutes out of the start gate and the horse she was riding was faltering. And at this point in the race, a stumble could be as tragic as a broken leg. Because if Talbot Lunders got a bond — for whatever reason — she was the one who’d be held responsible. It was always easier to negotiate a plea with a defendant who was behind bars. Statistically, it was also easier to secure a conviction. The biggest concern if Lunders got out was that an accused killer would be running around the streets of Miami for months before his case finally made it to trial. Joe General Public would not be at all happy to hear that. Neither would those powers that be on the third floor of the SAO who were studying her résumé and deciding if she was good enough to move up a rung or two on the company ladder. She was beginning to realize that the heat from the spotlight she’d been placed under could not only set her apart from the crowd, it could burn her just as well.

The parties on Steyn’s first case began opening arguments. She nibbled on a cuticle while frantically texting with her other hand under the cover of her file.

Depending on how fast Steyn worked, number thirteen might not be as far off as she once thought it was going to be …

6

And she was right.

Forty-five minutes later, Steyn was listening to arguments on twelve. A large clock hung above the courtroom doors, ticking off minutes and hours with jumbo-sized precision. Every time the doors opened with a whoosh, Daria would look to see if it was Manny. Not only was she consistently disappointed, she was also reminded to the second how late he actually was. He wasn’t answering his texts or picking up his phone, and neither she nor her witness coordinator could get through to anyone in command at Homicide to find out where the hell he was. While it was possible that he was on a case that had taken him beyond cell range, or was lying comatose somewhere in a hospital bed, Daria thought it much more likely her lead detective had either forgotten entirely about today’s hearing, or he’d enjoyed a late lunch and was taking his sweet Cuban time to get to the courthouse, figuring he could milk another hour or so out of a Tuesday afternoon Arthur with Slow Steyn before anyone would start to miss him.

He figured wrong.

‘Next up, State of Florida versus Talbot Alastair Lunders,’ announced Harmony.

Two stone-faced, black-suited lawyers — an older, heavyset man and an attractive woman in her thirties — emerged from the crowd of defense attorneys and approached the podium. The criminal bar in Miami was small; everyone knew each other. The fact that Daria had never seen either of the two people standing before the judge made her more than a little uneasy.

‘Joseph Varlack on behalf of the defendant, Talbot Lunders. Appearing with me today is Anne-Claire Simmons.’

Varlack. She knew the name from somewhere. ‘Daria DeBianchi on behalf of the state. I thought the defendant was being represented by Les Pfeiffer,’ she replied, leafing through her file for the Notice of Appearance from Pfeiffer that she’d tucked away somewhere.

Joe Varlack looked at her and smiled. ‘Not anymore he’s not. I filed a Substitution of Counsel this morning.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘My Notice of Appearance.’

That was when she spotted the shoes.

She couldn’t touch them on her state salary, but Daria had a weakness for designer kicks. Her eyes fell on the unmistakably red sole of a pair of Christian Louboutin black patent pumps that Varlack’s co-counsel was wearing. Then on his shiny, manicured fingernails, which perfectly complimented the snazzy Rolex he had strapped to his wrist. Her Bottega Venetta handbag. His Louis Vuitton briefcase. The impeccably tailored suits on both of them that Daria — the great-granddaughter of a legendary tailor from Spoleto, Italy — just knew had to be Italian. The Palm Beach Lunders must have up and hired Palm Beach attorneys. Expensive Palm Beach attorneys.

‘Are we ready?’ asked the judge.

‘The defendant’s on his way out, Judge,’ offered Corrections. ‘Two minutes.’

‘The defense is ready to proceed,’ Varlack responded.

Daria hesitated. ‘Your Honor, I’m waiting on my detective. Perhaps we could pass this case?’

Varlack looked at his pretty watch, then pointed it at Steyn, just in case the judge couldn’t make out the huge timepiece above the courtroom doors. ‘Your Honor, Ms Simmons and I were here at one o’clock. I expected the state and their witnesses to be here and be ready by one-thirty, which is the time this matter was set down for. I have a pressing engagement back in Palm Beach, which is why I specifically requested that the clerk put us on the calendar early today, and which is why I made sure I was here on time and ready to proceed.’

‘I understand, Mr Varlack,’ Judge Steyn responded with a conciliatory nod. ‘Your time is valuable. What do you want? A continuance, then?’

The light bulb went off. Joe Varlack. Varlack, Metzer, Shearson & A Thousand Other Peon Associates Whose Names No One Besides Their Own Mothers Ever Remembers. Attorneys to fallen movie stars, wayward athletes and corrupt Fortune 500 companies. Their retainers alone were more than what most people made in a year. Forget the name, Daria should’ve recognized Joe Varlack from his TV days, when he used to do a Channel Ten Nightly News ‘Justice with Joe’ segment. That was a decade or so ago — before he represented his first rock star and his legal career took off. Other rock stars began to fill his appointment book, along with football players and basketball greats — apparently leaving Justice Joe no time to dispense legal advice at six and eleven anymore to all the regular Joes sitting at home in front of their TVs. It must’ve been all those fancy client dinners over the past ten years that helped him pack an extra hundred or so pounds on to an already hefty six-foot frame, which probably explained why she didn’t recognize him right away from his glory days on Channel Ten. And it must’ve been one of those eccentric, fading rock stars from the seventies who’d convinced him that it would be a good idea to let his hair grow out, too. What was still left of it, anyway. Shiny bald on top with a set of jowls that were more befitting a Bull Mastiff, and a ponytail of yellowed white curls running down his back, the man definitely made an intimidating impression, no matter what he was saying, which, even in his TV heyday, always seemed to be at decibel level 10. She was gonna kill Manny Alvarez. Of all the cases to screw with her on …

‘Your Honor, I’d like to be heard on bond,’ Varlack bellowed. ‘The state’s not prepared, but I am. It would be unfair to reset this matter and let Talbot languish in jail all because the state doesn’t have its act together. He’s an upstanding young man with no criminal record. His family is very important and highly respected in the community, as you probably know. He’s the managing director for the Southeast Division of Flower & Honey Bath Products. He has well-established roots; he’s not some drifter that won’t show up for court. He’s not a danger by any stretch. Had the state been ready, you would’ve seen that the case against him is entirely circumstantial. In fact, as an attorney who’s been practicing for forty years representing other high-profile clients, I’m frankly shocked Talbot was even arrested. The fact that he was lured down to Miami and arrested like common street scum, without being given the courtesy to surrender himself, is outrageous. His arrest was done for show and to usher in a quick end to this case for the City of Miami Police Department — damn the consequences. It’s imperative Talbot be released so that he can aid in his defense of these very serious charges and attempt to regain his and his family’s good name.’

Daria bit her cheek so hard she drew blood, trying to contain the stream of expletives that wanted to fly out of her mouth. Most defense attorneys gave you a break and agreed to a continuance before they bitched about you not being ready or got on a soapbox about client persecution. And most did not grandstand about their big-name clients. Especially socialites nobody’d ever heard of anyway. What a prick.

Unfortunately, Steyn looked impressed. ‘What do you propose?’

‘The Lunders family is willing to post one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash today as bond. If the court deems it necessary, Talbot is also willing to submit to an ankle bracelet. I believe that’s more than adequate.’

An inmate in the box whooped. ‘Someone be bringing home the Benjamins!’

‘I have to agree that does sound reasonable,’ Steyn replied, ignoring the outburst. ‘State?’

‘Your Honor, the defendant’s been charged with murder, not jaywalking,’ Daria protested incredulously. ‘The case goes before the grand jury tomorrow, where Mr Varlack knows his client will be indicted, which is why he set down this matter for today and is pressing for a bond today, because once his client is indicted for capital murder, he’ll be hard-pressed to find any judge that will give him the time of day when it comes to seeking a bond and he knows it. That’s because the evidence will show in this case that Talbot Lunders tortured, raped, and brutally murdered Holly Skole.’

Steyn was shaking his head. ‘No it won’t, Counsel, because you’re not—’

A loud, boisterous hoot broke out from the hallway, causing heads to turn and Steyn to stop in mid-sentence. A split-second later the door opened and hearty laughter filled the room.

‘—ready,’ finished the judge.

It wasn’t hard to place the laugh. It belonged on a big body.

‘Actually, I believe I am ready,’ Daria announced before even turning around to confirm that it was, in fact, Manny — accompanied by two other city detectives, who were also in stitches but not half as loud — who’d walked through the door. All three were completely oblivious to the fact that they’d momentarily shut down court.

Judge Steyn scowled. The defense team simultaneously rolled their eyes.

‘Detective, nice of you to join us,’ Steyn sniped.

‘I was out in the hall, Judge. Dixon just came and told me you called my case?’ Dixon was the correction officer manning the courtroom door, who nodded at the judge.

Steyn glared at Daria.

The jangle of chains and leg irons sounded from the jury deliberation room as the door opened and a new crop of unruly defendants shuffled into the courtroom and the old ones shuffled out. ‘Take your seats and ya’all shut up, now!’ the CO barked as he moved them into their seats. ‘The defendant is present, Judge.’

‘Thank you,’ Steyn said, rubbing his temple. ‘You don’t need to tell them to shut up. Be quiet is fine.’

‘They won’t do that, neither, Judge,’ replied the CO. ‘They’re a rowdy bunch today.’

Daria looked over at the box. Her defendant definitely stood out, and not just because he was the only white guy in the row. Apparently unaffected by the commotion around him, he stared into the gallery, a curious smile on his face, like he knew a joke that no one else was getting. Even in that hideous orange jumpsuit, dressed to the nines in shackles and leg irons, with stubble on his cheeks and his highlighted hair a bit greasy, he was still — dare she say it? — handsome. Really handsome. Like suck-in-your-breath, Brad-Pitt-in-Thelma and Louise-handsome. The thought made her brain cringe and she shook it right out of her head.

‘Hello? State? Are you with us?’ the judge was asking.

Daria looked back at Manny. ‘Can I have a moment, Your Honor, to confer with my detective?’

‘No,’ Steyn replied, annoyed. ‘The defendant is here, counsel is here, your detective is finally here, you said you’re ready, so have at it.’ He leaned back in his chair with a loud squeak and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Don’t bother with an opening; I’ve read the arrest form. Give me the meat and potatoes and get on with it.’

In a perfect world, Daria would’ve had at least a few minutes to run through the questions she was about to ask. But the world was far from perfect.

So without further delay, she opened her file and called City of Miami Detective Manny Alvarez to the stand.

7

‘State your name and position for the record, please.’ Although she couldn’t scream at him, Daria shot Manny a look that would freeze water.

He grinned back at her. ‘Manuel Alvarez, City of Miami Homicide.’

‘How long have you been so employed?’

Manny pulled thoughtfully on his oversized mustache. ‘Let’s see, I’ve been a cop since eighty-nine, and in Homicide since ninety-two, so altogether I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years, State.’ He smiled again.

She glared at her notes.

And so began the direct examination of Manny Alvarez.

To hold someone without bond, the state had to present enough of a case to show that ‘proof was evident and presumption was great’ that a crime was committed and the defendant was the one who’d committed it — a higher standard of proof than even ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’, which was what she was going to need for a conviction. But the rules of evidence were much more relaxed at an Arthur than they were at trial and hearsay was admissible, so that the only witness you usually needed to testify was your lead detective or arresting officer. The more experienced the detective the better, because, like a movie trailer that gives you the gist of what a movie’s about in a seriously condensed, really exciting version, you needed to tell just enough of your story at an Arthur to keep your defendant behind bars without giving away the entire investigation. Plus, the more times someone told a detailed story, the more times he or she was bound to tell it with different details, and even the most innocent of misstatements could and would be used later on to poke holes in the state’s case or impeach a witness’s credibility. What you definitely didn’t want was an unproven detective, or one who ran at the mouth, providing the defense with a sworn transcript full of ammunition. With all those years of experience, Manny didn’t need his hand held; when she asked a question he ran with the ball and made the shot. Normally she’d be thrilled to have such a stellar witness. Today his competence only irritated her all the more.

She’d led him smoothly through his credentials and then up through the initial investigation when Holly’s body was first found in the dumpster. The bumps started right after she asked him to describe the condition of the body.

‘She was buried in garbage, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties,’ Manny answered, without needing to refer to his notes. ‘She’d sustained visible traumatic injuries to her face, feet and neck. I also saw nasty bind marks on her wrists and ankles, indicating she’d been tied up for a period before she was murdered.’

Joe Varlack sprang to his feet. ‘Objection! Speculation!’

‘An autopsy was performed by Dr Gunther Trauss of the Miami-Dade ME’s office,’ Manny continued, basically ignoring Varlack.

‘There’s an objection pending,’ barked the defense attorney. ‘I guess the detective didn’t hear me.’

‘Your Honor,’ Daria responded, ‘Detective Alvarez has been investigating murders for eighteen years. We can assume that he knows rope burns on someone’s wrists when he sees them. We’re getting to the autopsy, which will confirm the detective’s observations.’

Steyn nodded. ‘Go on.’

She held up the autopsy report. ‘What was Dr Trauss’s determination as to the cause of death?’

‘Manuel asphyxiation. She was choked to death with bare hands. She had finger marks on her throat, bruising, and a crushed larynx.’ Manny looked over at the defense table and smiled smugly. ‘I observed that, too.’

‘And the bind marks on her wrists?’

‘Dr Trauss determined that she was tied up with rope and tortured prior to her death.’

‘Objection,’ interrupted Varlack again. ‘Not only is this hearsay, but it calls for speculation, both on the part of the detective and the pathologist.’

Daria sighed heavily so that everyone in the courtroom could hear. Patience was not her strong suit. She was gonna hit stop-and-go traffic the whole way home. Either Varlack was trying to fluster her by making loud, dumb objections or he was an idiot. ‘This is not trial, Counsel,’ she shot back sharply. ‘It’s a bond hearing and the last time I checked, hearsay is admissible. Judge, the ME’s report extensively details Ms Skole’s injuries — the victim was most definitely tortured before she was murdered. And as much as Counsel might not like that word or want to hear it, torture goes to show premeditation, which is an element of first-degree murder, which is the crime his client has been charged with. If Mr Varlack wants to second-guess the findings of the Medical Examiner, let him do so at his deposition or at trial or in a written motion, but once again, this is a bond hearing. Now, can I get on with my case, or are we gonna bicker all afternoon about how to conduct an Arthur Hearing way down here in the bowels of Miami? Because I thought Mr Varlack had a pressing appointment back home with one of his degenerate high-profile clients in Palm Beach.’

Justice Joe looked taken aback, followed by embarrassed and then, finally, really, really angry — all in a spate of thirty seconds. The shiny part of his head turned red. It was war. And just like that, Daria had eliminated yet another law firm to float out a résumé to in the event she ever did decide to go into private practice. She had to stop doing that. With a pile of law school loans to still pay back, a $44,000 career as a prosecutor wasn’t supposed to last forever.

‘You don’t need to worry yourself about my schedule, Counsel,’ Varlack hissed.

She shrugged. ‘Take a look at the law on a subject before you start making objections, is all I’m saying. It will make this go faster for all of us.’

‘Enough,’ Steyn cautioned, obviously flustered. ‘Both of you, take your corners. Continue, Ms DeBianchi.’

Daria turned her attention to Manny. ‘If you would, please describe Holly Skole’s injuries.’

‘She had a traumatic burn mark on the back of her neck and severe chemical burns on the soles of her feet and on her face, most likely caused by sulfuric acid,’ Manny answered.

Those who had actually been listening in the courtroom collectively gasped. And that made all the others who were still whisper-chatting amongst themselves or reading files or secretly checking and sending texts stop and listen. The courtroom went completely quiet.

‘She’d been both vaginally and anally raped,’ continued Manny. ‘Toxicology reports indicate that she’d also been injected with, or force-fed, large amounts of diphenhydramine and dextromethorphan, the chemical compounds found in cough syrup and sleep aids that produce hallucinations in high enough doses. Her wrists were abraded where she’d been bound with rope, and she had cuts on her gums, indicating she’d been perhaps fitted with a bit, like a horse — all indications of sadomasochistic behavior.’ Manny turned and gave the defense counsel a steely look before finishing with his next sentence: ‘Yet another clue she’d been tortured before she was murdered.’

Varlack snorted loudly but said nothing. The spanking had worked.

Daria hid her smile and the ice began to thaw. ‘What caused you to believe that Mr Lunders was responsible for Holly’s death?’

‘On Monday, April eighteenth, Holly’s roommate, Jenny Demchar, reported Holly missing to Coral Gables police. Holly had gone out two nights earlier to the Miami nightclub Menace to celebrate a friend’s birthday, but didn’t come home. When she didn’t show up for class, Ms Demchar and Holly’s other friend, Esther Flicker — the girl whose birthday Holly’d been celebrating — went back to Menace and discovered Holly’s locked car parked in a municipal lot under the 395 overpass. Ms Demchar called the police. A missing persons investigation was opened by Coral Gables and, pursuant to that investigation, surveillance video from the nightclub was pulled, which records Holly leaving Menace at 4:16 a.m. with an, at the time, unknown white male. Coral Gables Detective John Coffey obtained additional video footage from a nearby traffic cam, which shows Holly getting into the passenger side of a dark-colored, late-model Mercedes. Visible in the video is the last digit of the plate. It was “Z”, as in Zulu.

‘Holly was entered into NCIC — the National Crime Information Center — as a missing person. Her photo, along with a still photo of the vehicle from the traffic cam and a still photo of the individual seen leaving Menace with Holly were distributed in the community and broadcast on several local television news stations.’

Daria held up a poster. ‘Are these the photographs you’re referring to?’

‘Yes. That’s a Crime Stoppers reward poster. A thousand-dollar reward was set up requesting information on Holly’s disappearance.’

She moved the poster into evidence and continued. ‘After Holly was entered into NCIC, what happened?’

‘Holly’s body was subsequently discovered on April twenty-fifth and her death was classified a homicide. A couple of weeks later I was contacted by a Ms Marie Modic of Hallendale, Florida. She told me that she’d been in Menace on Saturday night, May seventh, and in the club’s bathroom she’d seen the Crime Stoppers poster. She recognized the male in the surveillance photo and called me. I interviewed her at the nail salon where she works and she identified the man in the Crime Stoppers’ photo as “T”, a guy she’d talked to in Menace on the night of April sixteenth, which was the same night Holly Skole had been in the club and disappeared. “T” was the name he went by, but Ms Modic didn’t know his full name. He flashed a lot of cash, was dressed real nice. Said he was, quote, “slumming it down in Miami”, endquote. Said he came from the land of the Trumps and Kennedys, where the real money is.

‘So this “T” bought Marie Modic a couple of drinks and then asked her if she wanted to come back to his suite at the Mandarin. She initially said yes, at which time he placed his keys on the bar to pay the bar tab and she saw a car key with the Mercedes logo. Attached to the key was a metal plate that said, ‘Automotive Expert’. Ms Modic then excused herself to go to the bathroom, where she said she had second thoughts about going with “T”. Something just didn’t sit right with her about him and she was not feeling well physically, so she texted her girlfriend, who was also in the club, and asked her to get the car and meet her outside. She snuck out the back entrance. Stepping into the car is the last thing she remembers that night. She blanked out until the next morning, when she woke up in her apartment some seventeen hours later. Her girlfriend told her that as soon as she’d gotten into the car she’d pretty much passed out. She now believes she was drugged by the defendant.’

‘Objection! How much leniency are you gonna give this prosecutor, Judge? Hearsay upon hearsay, and now we have a medical opinion being offered up from a nail tech who downed one too many free drinks,’ barked Varlack. He threw his hands up in frustration.

‘Sustained,’ replied the judge. ‘Move on, Ms DeBianchi.’

‘How did you come to identify this “T” as being the defendant, Talbot Lunders?’

‘I contacted a company called Automotive Experts, a high-end car dealership with offices in Palm Beach and Stuart. I spoke with the owner and had him pull records for late-model Mercedes sales within the past two years. Then I did a records check on all of the Mercedes sold by Automotive Experts for plates ending in “Z”, and I found a black 2010 S-class registered to Abigail Charmaine Lunders, age forty-six. A background check on her revealed that she was the wife of Frederick Alastair Lunders, age sixty-seven. An insurance check on the vehicle listed Talbot Alastair Lunders, age twenty-eight, as an additional authorized driver of the vehicle. I pulled Mr Lunders’s driver’s license and identified him as the guy captured on the surveillance video leaving Menace with Holly Skole. Marie Modic also identified him through his DL — his driver’s license photo. A search warrant for the Mercedes was obtained and executed on May thirteenth.’

‘What did you find?’

‘A lipstick compact was recovered under the front passenger seat of the car, along with three long blonde hairs that the lab subsequently confirmed matched the chemical composition of Ms Skole’s hair dye. Fingerprints were also lifted from the lipstick case, which matched both the index and thumbprints on Ms Skole’s right hand. DNA analysis of the lipstick is pending. Fingerprints matching Ms Skole’s right thumb and right palm were also found on the inside door handle of the passenger side of the vehicle. So we know she was in that car.’

‘Objection.’

‘Overruled.’

‘Was the defendant present when the Mercedes was seized?’

‘Yes. It was seized from the parking lot of Flower & Honey Bath Products in Palm Beach, where Mr Lunders works. He appeared very agitated and upset, pacing the lot, threatening to call his attorney. His mother accompanied him. She wasn’t very happy, either. At that time I asked him if he wanted to talk about the disappearance of Holly Skole. He declined.

‘Three days later, while lab results were pending, I learned that the very afternoon the Benz was seized, Mr Lunders had gone and listed his 2008 Cigarette High-Performance Top Gun for sale through a broker in Coconut Grove, Miami. The racing boat was being offered for thirty percent less than other Cigarettes listed for sale of the same year and style. That raised my eyebrows way up. So I ran a system search of airline flights and learned that one T. Lunders was booked on a one-way JetBlue flight out of Palm Beach International to New York’s JFK the following afternoon. And a T. Lunders and A. Lunders were also booked on a Lufthansa flight to Zurich the day after that. His mother’s name is Abigail Lunders. Based on that, Mr Lunders was asked to come down to his boat broker to provide additional paperwork to facilitate the pending sale of his boat. When he arrived at the marina, I approached the defendant, identified myself once again, and told him his boat was being searched pursuant to a homicide investigation. Mr Lunders didn’t like that; he again declined to talk to us.’

‘Objection!’ Varlack barked. ‘The defendant has a right against self-incrimination! He doesn’t have to talk to the police if he doesn’t want to and that can’t be used against him. That’s Criminal Law 101!’

Steyn frowned. ‘Was the defendant free to go at that time?’

‘I had not yet taken him into custody,’ Manny replied.

‘That, I’m thinking, is going to be up for debate in a future motion,’ the judge replied with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Sustained.’

‘The fingerprint analysis of both the lipstick and the prints left on the interior passenger door of the Mercedes confirmed Ms Skole had been in Abigail Lunders’s vehicle,’ Manny continued. ‘Based on the prints and hair of the victim being found in his car, the video surveillance of her getting into the defendant’s car, and then the quick sell-off of his worldly possessions and his impending flight from the jurisdiction to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US, a decision was made to arrest him for the murder of Holly Anne Skole.’

That was enough for the judge. Particularly the Switzerland flight. As much as Joe Varlack and his well-heeled sidekick tried for the next twenty minutes to downplay the evidence as circumstantial and unreliable, and discredit Manny as biased, sloppy, lazy — and a zillion other disingenuous adjectives — there was no way that even liberal, let-’em-go, Slow Steyn was going to give Talbot Lunders a bond. Enough dots had been connected to keep him behind bars pending trial. And the truth be told, it was an election year. If Steyn did let Talbot Alastair Lunders of the Palm Beach Lunders buy his way out of the pokey with $150,000 in cold, hard cash, the press would start screaming favorable treatment for the rich and it would be difficult for anyone to argue otherwise come the August primaries.

Harmony called up the next case and a fresh set of attorneys approached the podiums, ready to do battle. The lurid transfixion that had held the audience captive during Talbot Lunders’s Arthur finally broke, and the hushed conversations and illicit texting started up once again as courtroom life returned to normal. Case file in hand, Daria made her way past the rows of spectators to the majestic mahogany doors. With her palm on the handle, she turned to look back at the box. Joe Varlack and Anne-Claire Simmons were standing outside the jury box, at the side of their client, who was at the far end of the box. Although they were speaking in hushed voices and she was too far away to hear what was being said, it wasn’t hard to read the body language — both attorneys were pissed and the client wasn’t listening. More than not listening, handsome Talbot wasn’t even affected. And that was what held her attention as she stood at the door. Accused of a brutal murder, remanded to a jail cell for the foreseeable future, facing imminent indictment by the grand jury, and, ultimately, a possible death sentence, and the guy seemed about as interested or affected as if the crowd around him were discussing the weather in Nepal. She’d seen cold-blooded gang members more worked up over a traffic ticket. He almost seemed amused.

Just as she was thinking that her defendant’s reaction, or lack thereof, to what was happening was bizarre and disturbing, she saw his lips move. Then, with a smug smirk, he raised his shackled hands together and pointed straight at Daria across the room. Those in the courtroom who had been watching the exchange looked over at her, which, in turn, started a chain reaction of courtroom rubbernecking — everyone wanting to see what or who the accused sadist was pointing at with his jingling chains, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

The blood rushed to her face. It was as if she’d been caught peeking in someone’s bedroom window and now the whole neighborhood was up and out on the front lawn staring at her. The case file slipped from her hands, spilling papers and crime-scene photos all over the floor. She rushed to pick them up and dropped her purse. Makeup, pens, tampons, loose change, and an assortment of hoarded receipts shot everywhere. Court again came to a complete halt. Dixon, the correction officer who was manning the door, and Manny both stooped down to help her.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled to both men as she hurriedly stuffed papers into her file and things into her purse. ‘It must’ve slipped.’

After a few painful, all-too-quiet minutes, the judge finally broke the rubbernecking trance. ‘Okay, back to work, everyone. Ms DeBianchi, you got it together there? You okay now?’

Daria waved a hand in the general direction of the bench. She wished she could disappear.

‘Harmony, where’s my file on Acevedo?’ Slow Steyn barked. ‘This is the wrong one, I think.’ Court started up once more.

‘Let’s go now!’ Corrections shouted. ‘Take your seats. That means you, too, Lunders! Caused enough trouble now, didn’t ya, pretty boy?’

‘I think she’s hot for him,’ she heard one observer in the gallery remark with a chuckle.

‘I got the door, Counselor,’ Manny said as Daria stood to leave. ‘Have a nice day, Judge,’ he called with a wave as she scuttled past.

Once in the hallway, Daria took a breath and tried to shake off her embarrassment. She felt like a complete idiot, dropping her file all over the floor like an incompetent intern. Or worse, like a flustered schoolgirl who’d made eye contact with the school quarterback.

Why the hell had she gotten so rattled? Why had she lost her composure? It pissed her off, was what it did.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was defiance. Or maybe it was an attempt to reestablish her authority that had made her steal one final glance in the direction of the box as the mahogany doors began to close behind her with a hydraulic hiss. Whatever her intent, whatever the reasoning, she instantly wished she hadn’t. Because in all her years prosecuting terrible men for the terrible things they’d done, she’d never before felt the icy-cold sensation of fear race through her veins when she looked at a defendant. She’d never before had to fight off an overwhelming urge to run as hard and as fast as she could away from a moment. And she had never before wished that she’d not been assigned a case.

But that day had come.

Her defendant had not moved. He had not sat down. He was still standing in the box, still pointing at her with his manacled hands, a knowing smile frozen on his face, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. As if he knew she would try to look at him once again, try to break him. The Ghost of Christmas Future now, staring at her as though she had none. Watching her at the door she’d just walked through, those beautiful hazel eyes of his fixed on the small sliver of her person that remained visible before the door finally closed and the judge ordered him removed from the courtroom.

8

‘Looks like somebody’s got herself a secret admirer,’ Manny said with a touch of sing-song in his voice that made him sound like a pesky little brother. ‘I wouldn’t get too excited, though. Your new friend reminds me too much of Michael Myers. You know, the psycho from Halloween. The guy who chased sexy Jamie Lee Curtis around for a night in that freaky mask while he whacked all her friends to pieces—’

‘Yeah, I got it, Detective,’ Daria replied, as she turned away from the courtroom and headed toward the bank of escalators, the hurried clicking of her pumps echoing like a jackhammer down the deserted hallway. She was still embarrassed about dropping her file. ‘The guy is definitely creepy.’

‘So’s his lawyers. The big guy, anyway. What’s with the pony?’

‘Ha.’

‘What guy gets a fucking manicure? Come on. Don’t think I didn’t spot those pudgy, girly hands, Counselor. Never worked an honest day in his life, I bet. Wait a second, he’s a lawyer. Of course he hasn’t. They’re all scumbags.’

‘Remember who you’re talking to, Detective. I have an Esq after my name, too.’

‘Present company excluded, of course. I meant defense lawyers.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘We worked the room in there, didn’t we, Counselor?’ Manny said with a grin, waving at a couple of cops down the hall, who waved back. ‘Like Sonny and Cher, we were. What a team.’

‘Hmmm. Sonny and Cher?’

‘You know, I remember Varlack from that news show he used to do on Channel Ten. “Advice with Joey” or whatever. He was a big bag of wind back then, too. Damn, has Father Time been hard on that guy. Looks like he ate Father Time,’ Manny remarked with a chuckle. ‘Do you think he really believed his deranged client was gonna walk out of here today because Mom and Pop were waving a big, fat check at the system?’

Daria stepped on the escalator going down. ‘Well, if you’d been a minute later, he probably would have,’ she replied coolly.

‘Uh-oh. You’re mad,’ Manny replied, following her.

‘You’re quick.’

‘I wasn’t late. I was here the whole time,’ he said, taking the fat file from her arms. ‘Let me get that for you. It’s heavy and you look so tired. And cranky.’

‘Hey there, Manny!’ a defense attorney called from behind them. ‘You going to the game tonight?’

‘Not tonight. I got tickets for Saturday.’

‘See ya there!’ the lawyer replied before disappearing into a courtroom.

He turned his attention back to her. ‘Like I said, you look drained. Give me that.’

The man knew everyone and everyone knew him. She handed her file over without a fight. ‘Bullshit. I texted you a dozen times — no Manny.’

‘There’s your problem. I never text. Hate that thing. The world is going to shit, Counselor; no one talks to nobody no more. Everyone just sends cryptic messages. Can’t even bother to spell out the fucking words — pardon the English. I’m old school — call me if you need me. That’s not so hard.’

‘I can’t call you when court’s in session.’

‘You’re not supposed to text, either.’

‘You were so not out in the hall.’

‘I was, too. Dixon came and got me.’

‘You were drinking coffee downstairs in the cafeteria; I can still smell the espresso on your breath. Don’t lie.’

Manny smiled again. ‘You’re good. Let me clarify: I was in the building the whole time. My buddy told me we were on page twenty-two. I’ve been before Slow Steyn enough damn times to know that means I had at least an hour. That guy is never on time.’

‘Your source is unreliable. We got moved up.’

‘And I was still there on time. No harm, no foul.’

Daria shook her head. ‘Next time I’m gonna lie to you. Have you here two hours before kick-off. That’ll teach you.’

‘I’ve been doing this for a long while, Counselor; I know every trick in the book. And I always make it. Always. Ask anybody.’

She sighed. ‘I can’t live like that.’

He laughed. ‘I like how you shot down the Palm Beachers. Now that was fun to watch. You got a set of cojones on you, Little Lady. That’s a good thing to have in this building.’

She really wanted to stay mad at him, but unfortunately it wasn’t sticking. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I’m ignoring the short comment for now, though I want you to know I don’t like jokes about my height. The hearing went pretty smooth, considering. But don’t count out Yin and Yang just yet. They get paid a lot of money for a reason. Today was a fishing expedition, and they netted more than a few fish and a real good understanding of where we are with our case. Or, more telling, where we are not. I don’t imagine they’ll be making deals anytime soon. Which brings me to my biggest concern: Kuzak’s going to the grand jury on this tomorrow. You know that, right?’ Guy Kuzak was a seasoned prosecutor and the only ASA who presented cases to the grand jury.

‘I’ve already met with Guy. Don’t worry, Counselor, I’ll be there at nine.’

‘Yeah, well, I am worried. But if everything goes like it did today, and you testify the way you did on the stand, I’m confident the good people of Miami-Dade County will do the right thing and indict. Now I’m thinking ahead. If our defendant’s not talking and he’s not plea-bargaining, then for trial purposes, we’re gonna need something tangible to tie him to the murder: blood, semen, hair, smoking gun. Any of the above would be nice. Anything on the boat?’

‘We’re running tests on shredded fibers that were found in the bathroom of the cabin and the driver’s side floorboard of the Mercedes. They were black viscose and spandex with a shiny silver poly weave that would seem to match the shirt Holly was wearing when she disappeared, but because the shirt was never found, we have nothing to compare it to. I’ll try to track down where and when she might’ve bought it. If it was recent enough, then maybe I can get the same shirt and test it against the found fibers.’

‘How many fibers do you have?’

‘About twenty or thirty strands in the boat. Another half-dozen in the car and in the trunk. They were torn, you know? Shredded. Enough to figure that the shirt was ripped off the girl, possibly on the boat, and then he carried some on his person that fell off in the car.’

‘That would be something,’ Daria said as they both stepped on to the next floor’s escalator. ‘Better still, find me that ripped shirt stuffed inside one of Talbot’s toys. If we can also find something that can tie him to the sulfuric acid, that would be big. Really big. Receipts, Internet surfing. Where the hell do you buy that shit anyway? We have his computer, right? What’s on that?’

Manny shook his head. He hesitated before speaking. ‘We have it, but it’s wiped clean. It had a sensitive password protection on it. One try and then it activated a virus that wiped the hard-drive clean. Our tech guy had never seen that sort of security before, and he blew it.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re kidding, right? We can’t retrieve any of it?’

‘Nope. The whole thing’s gone. Whatever he was trying to protect must have been pretty important.’

‘What about his cell? Tell me that didn’t self-destruct.’

‘Pulled the records. He stayed in Miami the night Holly disappeared, according to the cell towers. Made two calls between four and five-thirty a.m. — both to the same number, and that was a throwaway. No way to find who owns that phone.’

She tapped her hand impatiently on the escalator’s handrail. ‘Well, we need something. Since you made the arrest already, time is ticking and we have to deal with the cards we have. I’d sure as hell like a better hand.’

‘Hey, hey,’ Manny said, his face growing dark as they stepped off and went to get on the final set of escalators down. He moved in front of her, blocking her from getting on. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have arrested the guy? No, don’t answer that, because, yeah, that’s what you are saying. Listen, he was gonna run and you and I both know it. So let me ask ya, Ms Hard-ass, would you rather be standing here with me now and the scumbag tucked away safely in a jail cell trying to figure out how to make a good case better, or be sitting in your office with what looks like a better case but your fucking psycho playboy nowhere to be found? Or worse — living the high life up at the family chateau in Switzerland, thumbing his nose at us while we sit here and beg the Swiss to extradite his ass before he ups and kills some hot-looking yodler, knowing full well they won’t? And oh, yeah, by the way — your boy’s family does have a crib in Lucerne. I checked before I popped him. Dad’s a Swiss national. Ooh la-fucking-la.’

Daria shrugged. ‘What I’m saying is that now we have a potential speedy problem. And what we don’t have is the luxury of waiting for shit to fall in our laps. I don’t want to see an acquittal because while we had plenty of evidence to prove the guy took pretty Holly for a spin in Mommy’s new Benz, we didn’t have enough evidence to actually prove him guilty of murder, ’cause then he can sit across the street from my office and thumb his nose at both of us for the rest of our sure-to-be-shortened-careers, and even if I find the bottle of sulfuric acid with his name on it that he used to melt her fucking feet off, or the rope he used to tie her wrists together, there will be nothing I can do about it since it will be too late. Pardon my English. So let’s get past the blame game, shall we? And let’s build a case that will send his sorry ass to death row.’ She moved past him and on to the escalator.

Neither said anything until they were halfway down to the lobby. ‘This is not the best way to start off a relationship,’ he finally remarked.

‘Nope. And neither was you showing up an hour late to my Arthur Hearing and giving me a fucking heart attack.’

‘You gotta get over that.’

‘Oh, and by the way, since we are being honest, you’re going to need a new tie if we do go to trial or have a motion or even walk down the street together — preferably one that does not have miniature Miami Dolphin helmets on it. And you are definitely gonna need a new suit.’

Manny peered down at his jacket, his brow furrowed. ‘What the fuck? Now I’m hurt.’

‘You shouldn’t be. You should be grateful for my candor. I sent a habitual offender away for twenty years who strong-armed the manager of a Men’s Wearhouse on Biscayne. He said he gives discounts to law enforcement. Go see him. And the next prosecutor you get will thank me. I’ll also warn her or him way in advance of your problem minding the clock. I will not sugar-coat it, as was done to me.’

Manny shook his head. ‘Let me be honest now: Are you always this much of a bitch?’

She didn’t blink. ‘Yes. Particularly when I’ve almost been stood up and, unlike you, I haven’t had my afternoon coffee. I didn’t even have my morning coffee, since I was here at seven, busting my ass to help my new C get the morning calendar ready.’

‘I’m gonna buy you a cup. We need to get you some caffeine and get past this — you know, discuss a game plan, focus our anger on the bad guy, because I need to like you again. I really do.’ He looked down at her legs and bit his knuckle. ‘Okay, it’s coming back to me now.’

‘Very funny. Don’t be a pig. That sort of flattery will get you nowhere.’

He sighed loudly. ‘Because I’m trying to make amends here, I’ll make sure Raul makes you a fresh pot, ’cause he won’t after three, but he will for me. That’s how much I’m trying. I’m pulling out connections. I’ll even throw in a pastelito.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Yum.’

‘Don’t ask for favors on my behalf.’ She finally smiled a little. ‘It is the least you could do.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘As long as you pull your fangs in.’

They stepped on to the main floor and headed to the courthouse cafeteria. Across the all-but deserted lobby, a well-dressed woman stood by herself at the bank of elevators. When she spotted Manny and Daria she began to walk toward them. She looked to be in her forties, with ash-blonde hair that was coiffed into a long, edgy, layered cut that could only have been professionally styled that morning. Daria’s eyes fell on the Hermès Birkin bag and then on the baubles — as in plural — that rested comfortably on several digits of her slim, tan hands. Tennis hands, no doubt. Miami had its share of wealthy inhabitants, but there was a noticeable difference between flashy South Florida spenders and their understated sisters to the north. Another Palm Beacher had crossed the county line.

‘Uh-oh. This is gonna get interesting,’ Manny remarked.

Before Daria could ask why, the woman was upon them.

‘Excuse me, Ms DeBianchi,’ she said, extending her hand only to Daria. She nodded coolly at Manny. ‘Detective Alvarez.’

Manny nodded back.

‘Ms DeBianchi, my name is Abby Lunders. I was watching you in court this afternoon, listening to what you were saying, and I need to speak with you right away …’

9

The resemblance was uncanny. And given Daria’s all-too recent experience with the woman’s seemingly psychopathic offspring, a little unnerving. Mom had the same rich, polished skin tone, full lips, high cheekbones, and heart-shaped chin. Like Talbot, a preternaturally striking person. And the same intense, light hazel eyes. Eyes that didn’t merely see — they studied. With a perfectly smooth forehead and almost flawless, wrinkle-free skin, Abby Lunders probably spent a considerable amount of time in the plastic surgeon’s office. And with super-toned arms and a slim waist a teenager would envy, no doubt the gym, as well. In the right lighting, she could pass for her son’s sister, which was obviously the look she was aiming for.

‘It came in my inbox last week. Friday. I’ve no idea who sent it. I don’t normally open up mail from people I don’t know, but given its title and what’s happened with Talbot, I did. I just can’t believe what’s on there. I don’t even know what I’m looking at exactly, but after being in court this afternoon and hearing all the things that you said, Detective, about the body and how you found that girl. I …’ She hesitated. ‘There are simply too many similarities.’

The three of them were across the street at the State Attorney’s Office, sitting in Daria’s third-floor cramped cubby of an office that overlooked both the courthouse and the Dade County Jail. ‘Can we use your computer, Counselor?’ Manny asked, holding up the USB flash drive that Abby Lunders had given him.

‘Let me make sure we have a copy,’ Daria said, taking the flash from Manny. The security debacle that had happened on the laptop wasn’t far from her memory. ‘I’ll get Investigations to scan it,’ she said as she stepped out of the room.

‘Mr Varlack didn’t want me to say anything,’ Abby began after Daria had left. ‘He wants to use this at trial. But I … I don’t want to wait that long. I mean, if it’s so obvious Talbot didn’t do this horrible thing and that someone else is responsible — then he shouldn’t have to wait in jail for five more minutes. Not in that sewer pit,’ she said with a disgusted shudder, nodding behind Manny at the imposing nine-storied mass of gray concrete outside the window that was the Dade County Jail. ‘And Mr Varlack says it could be months, possibly a year before the case goes to trial. That’s insane. Absolutely insane! How could it take that long?’

Manny nodded, but said nothing. He’d seen murder cases languish on a judge’s docket a lot longer than a year before a jury was finally sworn.

‘Talbot’s a good man. I know you don’t believe that, I know you don’t want to believe that, but he is. I heard what you said in there. He’s never been in any trouble. He’s smart, hard-working. He would never do the things you’re accusing him of because, well, frankly, he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t need to drug a girl to get her to go home with him or have sex with him. Just look at him. When he was eighteen, he modeled on runways in Milan and Paris. He does not want for beautiful girlfriends.’ She nodded at the case folder marked State v. Lunders that sat on Daria’s desk. ‘And I mean really stunning girls. No offense to the dead.’

Manny resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mrs Lunders. Rape’s not a crime of passion, and the fact that your son can easily bed attractive women doesn’t move me. Let’s take a look at what was sent to you.’

Daria walked in right then, flash in hand.

‘Did you view it?’ Manny asked.

‘Not yet.’ She popped the flash into her laptop.

‘It’s the only thing on there,’ Abby quietly noted. ‘That’s a brand-new flash drive. All I did was copy the email and download the attachment.’

Daria’s F drive showed only one file. It was an email titled ‘LOOK AT ME’ with an .mp4 share file attached. She clicked on it, immediately launching a video.

A young woman hung from a low-beamed ceiling in a black room by her wrists, which were tethered with a black cord to a ring secured above her. She was dressed in only a thin, see-through bra and panties, but the bra had been cut or opened from the front and her breasts were exposed. She dangled in the air, twisting around, the toes of her bare feet barely touching the polished cement floor, sweeping back and forth, like a broom.

Her head was bowed and her honey-blonde hair, stringy with sweat, completely covered her face. Because of the hair and the stocky, athletic body type and what she’d been found wearing, Daria at first thought it was Holly Skole. Then a black-gloved hand came into the shot and tucked the hair behind the girl’s ear, exposing half her face to the camera and she could see it wasn’t Holly. A pair of pantyhose had been stuffed into the girl’s mouth and the nude legs of the hose were wrapped several times around her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. Behind her on a metal table were syringes, gauze, several bottles of different colored liquids, a half-full refill bottle of window cleaner, a bottle of Drano and black electrical tape. The camera jiggled and moved. It was obviously hand-held.

The girl looked up and her scared blue eyes grew large. A muffled whimper came out of the computer. That’s when Daria realized there was sound with the video. The girl shook her head violently at something off camera and her eyes bulged and darted about. Her body jolted in the air, twisting, as if she were running a marathon in place.

But she couldn’t get away. There was nowhere for her to go. The hand returned, and in it was a shiny pair of kitchen shears.

The video stopped and the screen froze. The final frame captured the girl’s frantic face as the nude, muscular back of a white male, scissors in one hand, a long-stemmed red rose in the other, entered the shot. The entire clip had lasted less than a minute. On the far-right bottom of the screen were tiny red numbers: 29:12:14, and 11/07/06.

‘Jesus,’ Daria said as she sat back in her seat. ‘What the hell was that?’

Manny frowned. ‘Is that it? Is there more?’

‘No. Just that clip,’ Abby answered. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know what it was at first. I don’t know that girl and, while I can’t see his face, I don’t think I know that man. “Why would someone send this to me?” I thought. But after today, after what I heard, I think I understand now. This is what happened to the Skole girl. This is what you described in the courtroom today, Detective. The Skole girl had been tied up, and she had been injected with drugs and she had been raped. Just like what seems to be happening to this girl on the video. And someone sends it to me? Obviously because they know that Talbot didn’t do this.’

‘Maybe that’s your son in the video, ma’am,’ Manny said, nodding at the screen. ‘It looks like the same build. Maybe someone wants you to know that your son has done this before.’

Abby’s voice rose. ‘First of all, that makes no sense. Because why would they send it to me? Why wouldn’t they send it to you? So you’d at least have some evidence to support your twisted, sick allegations.’

Daria nodded. ‘Could be an extortion attempt.’

Abby frowned. ‘Extortion? There was no demand for money. Doesn’t there have to be a demand for money?’

‘We can’t be sure this is anything,’ Daria continued. ‘This could very well be homemade porn. Sure, it’s hard-core, but there’s no law against making home videos as long as they star consenting adults.’

‘Give me a break, Ms DeBianchi,’ retorted Abby. ‘This is not some Paris Hilton sex tape that was leaked to the public by the help. You saw that girl’s face. Does she look like she’s enjoying this? She’s terrified and you and I both know it.’

Daria’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d be amazed what people do when the shades are drawn, Mrs Lunders. And what fantasies they get off playing out while their camcorders are rolling. All I’m saying is that we can’t be sure what this is and I’m not ready to jump to conclusions. Not even close. We don’t know why it was sent to you, or who sent it, for that matter.’

‘Say what you’re thinking, why don’t you? Come on — spit it out,’ Abby snapped. ‘“If someone even sent it to you,” is what you meant to say. What do you think I did? Do you think I surfed porn sites in search of a bizarre S&M video that I could pawn off as a copycat victim in a far-fetched attempt to exonerate my son? Please, check my computer. Do it. I implore you. Check my email. Do whatever you’re supposed to do as officers sworn to uphold the law and investigate crime. Because, while I’m no detective, this seems to me to show someone committing the exact same crime my son is accused of — and I am certain that that is not my son in the video.’

‘How’s that, Mrs Lunders?’ Manny asked.

‘Besides the fact that I am his mother and I know his body like I know my own, including the very prominent freckled brown birthmark in the shape of a waving flag he has between his shoulder blades, which is missing from that animal in the video, there’s also the time/date stamp on the bottom of the screen to consider. And on November seventh, 2006, my son was a patient at Good Samaritan Hospital in Palm Beach having his appendix removed. So, no, that is not my son in that video. But I believe it is your job to find out who it is, and why someone would want to send it to me.’

10

‘That’s one helluva coincidence,’ Daria remarked after Abby Lunders and her ostentatious, mouthwatering, elephant-gray crocodile Birkin bag had finally up and left her office.

‘What?’ Manny asked.

‘Not only did somebody else kill the girl who was last seen leaving a bar with your son, but that somebody else is now sending you video clips of the real murderer having freaky sex with another girl who looks like the girl your son murdered? Am I missing something, or does that sound a little out there?’

‘When you put it like that, it does.’

She frowned. ‘Well, how would you put it?’

‘I don’t know. This lady’s son is accused of rape and murder. Claims he didn’t do it.’

Daria shook her head. ‘They all claim they didn’t do it. When was the last time you had a killer take full responsibility for slitting someone’s throat? Give me a break.’

‘True. But you asked for the lady’s perspective. Her son says he didn’t do it. Her only kid, mind you. Claims he’s a victim of circumstance. Then she gets an anonymous email right before his bond hearing showing a lookalike blonde being what sure looks to me like tortured, and in the background are an assortment of syringes and chemicals — all the fucked-up goodies her son is accused of using on his victim. Except the person in the video is not her son.’

‘So she says. And the girl in the video is not dead.’

Manny shrugged. ‘Not that we know of.’

‘How the hell old was she when she popped out sonny-boy? Eighteen? All that Botox makes her look like his freaking sister. It’s weird.’

‘Careful, Counselor. You sound jealous.’

‘I am. Of her bag, not her face. I’m only twenty-nine. The wrinkles you’re giving me won’t show for a few years.’

Manny laughed.

‘And how old is Dad Freddy?’ Daria asked. ‘Isn’t he, what, twenty-three or -four years her senior? She must’ve been a trophy bride.’

‘It’s actually Stepdad Freddy. He’s about sixty-seven. Looks it, too. Abby is a trophy bride, but she wasn’t a teenager when she and Fred got hitched. She was thirty. Freddy adopted young Talbot and let him in on the family name. I think he gave him the Alastair as an adoption present so he would blend in more with the Kennedys and Rockefellers,’ Manny said with a chuckle. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket. ‘I, for one, thinks she looks pretty damn good for any age,’ he replied, taking a cigarette from the box and tapping it on her desk. ‘Not that that’s influencing my opinion.’

Daria frowned again. ‘Don’t light that in here.’

‘I’m getting ready for when I leave.’

‘Hmmm. Well, I’m still not seeing anything but a bunch of smoke from the flash-bang she just dropped, and you’re walking right into the room.’

‘Listen, I’m no sucker, but I am a little puzzled,’ Manny replied, sticking the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Aren’t you? I mean, what the hell is this video about? That’s pretty fucked up, Counselor.’

Daria sighed. ‘Her own attorney didn’t want to bring it up today, Manny, because he’s saving it for trial. Because he knew it wasn’t anything but smoke and he’d rather sandbag us with some highly prejudicial, totally inflammatory video after I’ve sworn in a jury and jeopardy has attached. It’s all bullshit — they’re setting up a reasonable doubt argument. The more attention you pay to it, the more that’s going to doom us when we get in front of a jury because it looks like we bought into the bullshit, too. It makes us look like we think there’s some validity to this.’

Manny nodded thoughtfully. He jingled the flash drive in his hand and stood to leave. ‘Probably. But I’m gonna see what else the lab can get from this clip. Maybe they can up the sound or enhance the video. And I’m gonna check out Trophy Mom’s computer, see if we can trace who sent it to her, or, even better, where the video originated from. I’m not a computer geek, but I know there’s a lot those geeks can do — I watch CSI,’ he added with a wink.

‘You’re walking right into this. You’re buying their “one-armed man” defense hook, line and sinker,’ she charged. ‘Let the defense spend their own time and money checking out the bullshit, please. Save the taxpayers of Miami.’

‘Like I said before, for such a pretty little thing, you have a tremendous set of steel balls on you. They must make it difficult to walk sometimes. Let me ask ya, just for my own clarification here: What do you do when you got a case that you can’t prove maybe, but you believe the victim was wronged? How do you handle those?’

‘Sometimes you have to walk away, Manny, and go after the ones you can solve. It’s not easy. And I don’t mean to sound callous, but sometimes you have no choice but to tell someone, “There’s no justice for you today. Sorry, Charlie.”’

‘That’s cold.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s life. Your job is to find the bad guy. My job is to prove he did it. If I can’t prove it, then there’s no case. It’s not a matter of right and wrong. And I don’t go looking for cases that might help the defense. I have a lot on my plate.’

‘Listen, Counselor, I’m gonna find out more before I walk away. I have to. If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing and all I did was waste a little time. And if it’s homemade porn, then maybe I’ll get lucky and get to meet the actress live and in person. But I’m personally gonna have a hard time sleeping, wondering whose terrified kid that is on that clip.’

‘How many children do you have?’ Daria asked. ‘No, no, scratch that — how many daughters?’

‘None and none. No little Mannys or Emanuelas running around. At least, none that I know of.’

Daria rolled her eyes. ‘I would’ve pegged you for the dad of a harem of teenage daughters with that last comment.’

‘I may not have kids myself, Counselor, but it doesn’t take much to imagine what it would feel like if my daughter was raped and whacked by a psycho with a camera and a thing for household cleaners. Maybe the dad of the girl in that video has no idea what happened to his kid. Maybe she went out one night and never came home and he has no idea what became of her. Maybe her family’s hoping she had a car accident and bumped her melon and has amnesia, and they wait for the day she walks back through their door.’

‘She’s a little old to be calling a kid. I’m thinking late twenties.’

‘Okay, so she’s not a kid. Then maybe she’s married and her hubby has been scouring every waterway within a ten-mile radius of their house thinking she had a car accident and that’s why she didn’t come home for supper. Or maybe she’s not dead. Maybe she was raped and her assault was caught on camera and the bastard uploaded it to YouTube. Those are just a few of the scenarios that popped into my head. You and I have had to deal with the families of enough murder victims to understand that not knowing is the worst. I don’t have to be a dad or a husband to feel for them.’

‘What if she left home at sixteen to earn a living as an adult entertainer in LA and this shit she does with her boyfriend is mild compared to the other tricks she can perform with a rope? I just thought of that scenario off the top of my head.’

Manny shrugged and moved to the door. ‘It’s a forty-nine second clip, Counselor. Just imagine what we didn’t see, what footage might’ve ended up on the cutting-room floor.’

‘That works both ways, you know. It could be ten minutes of foreplay and cigarette smoking.’

‘Could be.’

‘Ugh.’ She spun her chair around to face the jail. ‘I’m not heartless. I’m being practical, is all.’

‘Okay,’ he answered, but he didn’t sound convinced. He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow after the grand jury, although I’m sure you’ll be on the horn with Guy to find out how I did way before that.’

Daria waited until the door closed before she sank her head into her hands. She wanted to scream. She heard everyone saying hello to Manny as he made his way down the hall and finally out of the unit.

Talbot Lunders definitely had headline potential. If she didn’t see that before, she did now. The rape and murder of a pretty college coed by a privileged, former male model was intriguing enough to attract interest, and without adding yet more salacious detail, could prove a difficult story to control. But throw in a mysterious, lurid email, a homemade bondage sex tape, a secret family hideaway in Switzerland and the distraught, well-dressed, hot, young socialite momma of the defendant alleging lookalike blondes were being hunted and tortured by a real killer who the police weren’t bothering to look for, and you had the potential makings of a national news sensation. A savvy publicist would pitch it to the morning talk shows as ‘the perfect story’. Daria thought it more akin to the perfect storm.

After five years prosecuting everything and anything from shoplifting to homicide, Daria knew that Sex Batt was where she wanted to be. And she didn’t want to settle for being a line prosecutor — she wanted to lead the charge. As the cliché went, she’d paid her dues. She’d spent years in the pits prosecuting crappy cases and winning them, and for the past two years she’d been Division Chief of one of the most congested trial units in the office, supervising three felony attorneys and responsible for a court docket of more than four hundred felonies. The average ASA lasted three years on the state payroll before heading out to greener pastures; anyone who went past five was considered a lifer. And on the lifer scale, there were those bodies that stayed on simply to earn a paycheck and keep the benefits, working their eight-hour shifts from the trenches of the Felony Screening Unit, taking witness testimony and filing cases all day long, or buried under mounds of paperwork, tucked safely away in some dull, specialized unit on the fifth floor, like Economic Crimes.

Then there were the lifers who made a run at bigger and better things.

Daria fell into the latter group. While she’d never consciously decided to spend her entire legal career as a prosecutor, besides the possibility of moving to the feds, she’d never really had the itch to circulate her résumé. Once you’d put a rapist behind bars for thirty years, a slip and fall at the grocery store just didn’t seem all that exciting. Neither did bankruptcy law, corporate litigation, insurance defense, or helping sound the death knell on people’s marriages as a divorce attorney. A rabid fan of all cop and lawyer shows and everything FBI since she was a kid, Daria figured being a prosecutor was simply what she was meant to be. Unlike her older brothers — a hospital administrator and an eighth-grade science teacher — she’d never dreaded going to work in the morning. And God knew she’d never spent a single second bored in her job. On occasion sad, and a lot of times pissed off, but never bored. That didn’t mean she wanted to stay an overworked, underpaid division pit prosecutor for the rest of her career, though.

To prove to Vance Collier and the rest of Administration that she was a lifer with a future, in addition to trying cases that a lot of other ASAs would’ve pled out, she’d worked weekends, volunteered for on-call robbery duty even when it wasn’t her rotation, and handled holiday bond hearings without complaint. Coming in early and leaving late every day, watching jealously at times and scornfully at others while the support staff headed en masse for the elevators at 4:30 and most of her colleagues followed by 5:30. Some a helluva lot sooner. She’d made the requisite sacrifices: no boyfriend, no hobbies, no life, outside babysitting her brother’s ADHD triplets on her first long weekend off since Christmas.

If it was only a simple murder case that she needed to win in order to prove herself capable of heading up a unit full of specialized prosecutors, she’d have no real worries. The case against Talbot Lunders was circumstantial, yes, but the evidence, in the collective, damning. As a law school professor had once described it, making a circumstantial case was a lot like making a strudel: while a single sheet of paper-thin filo dough couldn’t support the weight of ten apples, if you capably assembled sheet upon delicate sheet, eventually you had a pastry with enough layers to support a whole bushel of fruit. The key was in the dogged construction, and, of course, in the oven you ultimately loaded your dessert into, which had to be brought to the perfect temperature before actually introducing the food, and that temperature had to be maintained throughout the whole baking process. The oven in the analogy, of course, referred to the jury — already plenty hot and fired up by the time you opened the oven door, ready to bake anything to a crisp the second you closed it. Too cool and nothing would gel. Considering Florida was a death penalty state — and, until a few years ago, the state’s preferred method of execution was a seat in Old Sparky — her professor’s analogy of a jury baking anything to a crisp was completely intentional. In other words, you had to pick the perfect twelve people — none of whom watched CSI or NCIS — set the right tone of outrage and shock, and by the time you slid your assembled facts through the door of that deliberation room, the only thing you had to wait for was the timer to ding.

Daria could handle that. She had a way with juries, almost like a sixth sense when she was picking them. She wasn’t sweating a conviction on Lunders, even with Manny Alvarez playing Wild West cop and making what was, arguably, a premature arrest. Because with the facts as she had them down at the Arthur, she could certainly set that perfect tone of grab-the-pitchforks indignation in the jury room, and she had enough circumstantial layers that when put together would be strong enough to hold together a death penalty request. The gruesome crime-scene photos would certainly help fuel the fire. The competition she faced, though well paid, was out of their element in Miami. Joe Varlack was a showman with a big voice who likely hadn’t personally tried a criminal case in a long while. She could eat both him and his sidekick Simmons for breakfast, complete with Louboutins and fancy briefcases. She was also confident she could keep Talbot Lunders’s pretty face off at least the front page of the paper and maintain the low profile the State Attorney was trying for. It was a fair assumption that if the cameras weren’t in court this afternoon the matter wasn’t on their radar.

Unlike other ASAs who saw certain cases as a means to make a name for themselves outside of the office, Daria was no media hound. If Lunders didn’t end up pleading out — like 90 percent of cases that passed through the system — when it came down to trying him, she wasn’t going to do it on live TV and in the court of public opinion, which could fuck up any verdict, as O.J. Simpson’s prosecutors could attest. She reasoned that as long as she didn’t go looking for press, the press wouldn’t come looking for her. Or Talbot Lunders. There were too many other headlines to chase. Too much other gory bad news going on worldwide for the people to revel in their morning cups of joe.

Unless …

Unless someone led the reporters and their boom mikes straight to a story that had everything the public at large wanted to read about in super-sized portions — perverted sex, brutal murder, and Birkin bag money. And kept harping on it until someone with a press badge finally paid attention.

Daria saw the train-wreck coming up ahead if Manny followed this breadcrumb trail laid by the defendant’s sniffling, sexy mother. It had been a decade since the serial killer Cupid had stalked his comely victims from happening ‘it’ clubs on Miami Beach, and yet his crimes still defined Miami to the world — as much as celebrities, yachts, teal water, and Cuban refugees did. Then there was Picasso, another monster who had hunted and killed young runaways in South Florida, commanding headlines and craziness a couple of years ago. And of course, the high-profile murder of Gianni Versace by a serial killer a few steps from the white sands of South Beach in 1997. Versace’s murder and the ensuing week-long hunt for Andrew Cunnanan had spawned an international feeding frenzy that had lasted for months on end. Three relatively recent, bloody blemishes on the suntanned reputation of a cosmopolitan city that drew an outrageous number of tourist dollars to its golden beaches, beautiful hotels and happening nightlife. It wouldn’t be good PR if news got out that not only was there yet another sadistic killer in the city, but speculation existed within law enforcement that that killer was still at large, trolling for victims at the hot spots that the tourists and their money loved to frequent, making chilling videos of his conquests.

She nibbled on a thumbnail, staring all the while out the window at the jail where Talbot Lunders was being held. She had a terrible habit of imagining the worst-case scenario of any situation and then multiplying it exponentially until she imagined herself right out of a job and facing eviction from her apartment for nonpayment of rent.

The truth was, if this case did become a circus like Cupid or Versace, or worse, a completely bungled O.J. Simpson that she couldn’t control, she knew she’d never get Collier’s seal of approval. And while that might not force her butt out on the streets, it certainly wouldn’t put her in the running for Chief of Sex Batt, or any other unit for that matter. She’d be a pit prosecutor for ever. A lifer stuck in neutral. Like a Hollywood actress that only got one shot at the box office, she knew she had only one chance to get this right. That meant she had to retain control over her case and make sure that whatever Manny Alvarez was doing to allay the fears his own conscience was conjuring up, it didn’t become public knowledge and it didn’t interfere with her prosecution.

She checked her watch: almost eight. The day was gone and she still had a ton of shit to do. The sun was starting to set over the Everglades, casting the jail in an ethereal, tangerine glow. If you hadn’t noticed the razor wire and barred windows, and you didn’t know there were violent, depraved rapists and murderers being housed inside, from a distance, in this light, one might think the normally dingy, unimpressive jail building looked inviting. Like Dracula’s castle about twenty minutes before sundown.

She was reaching for the top file in her inbox when the time bomb Manny Alvarez planted in her brain suddenly went off. A barrage of unanswerable questions cut through her stream of consciousness like shrapnel: What if it did turn out to be more than a distracting, consensual sex-slave video that Abby Lunders had thrown at them? What if there actually was something to this crazy ‘other killer’ theory Momma Lunders was alleging? What then?

She pulled a hand through her hair and took a deep breath.

There was no way her tired brain could even begin to wrap itself around the exponential multiplication of that worst-case scenario …

11

The grand jury deliberated for thirty minutes before unanimously voting to indict Talbot Lunders for capital murder. While the indictment itself might not have come as a surprise, the speed with which it was delivered did; Manny hadn’t even made it back to his office when Guy Kuzak called him. He could only hope the rest of this case would move as expeditiously through the system, yet still he couldn’t seem to shake the ‘calm before the storm’ feeling in his gut. Holly’s murder had been a chest-thumper from the second her body was fished from the dumpster — starting with the sad demise of Papi Munoz. And if yesterday’s meeting with Mami Lunders was any indicator, he should probably be running to the pharmacy to stock up on antacids.

He sat at his desk now, twisting his mustache, studying the still photo of Jane Doe he’d pulled from the video, searching for tattoos, birthmarks, discolorations — anything at all that might make her more readily identifiable in a ViCAP entry than, ‘blonde-haired, green-eyed, white female, approximate height between 5'2" and 5'6"; approximate age between twenty and thirty years’.

He was probably clutching at straws, trying to determine who this girl was. The overwhelming fact of the matter was that she could be anyone. And she could be from anywhere. He wasn’t sure if he should start his search for her in Florida, or halfway across the globe in Greenland …

The numbers on missing persons were mind-numbing. Nationwide, almost a million people each year were reported missing to police — most of these were teens or young adults, like Jane Doe. That averaged to around 2,300 people, each and every day. And that wasn’t accounting for the throwaways — the poor souls who nobody gave enough of a shit about to report them missing when they didn’t make it home. He was no expert, but Manny had heard estimates as high as another million or so throwaways that never made it into a police report. That sad fact alone made the prospect of combing through a haystack of missing person reports not just daunting, but probably useless. And if those were the US figures, Manny couldn’t begin to imagine what the global number of missing persons might be. Which was probably why he was sitting at his desk, hours after the grand jury, still pulling on his mustache and still staring at the same nasty photo, trying to come up with a game plan to find a girl who may or may not be missing, and/or who may or may not be the victim of a sexual assault, and/or who may or may not be a homicide victim.

Mike Dickerson planted half a droopy butt cheek on the edge of his desk. He was munching on a bag of Cheetos. ‘Watcha doing, Bear?’ he asked, in between crunches. The air smelled like fake cheese and Old Spice. ‘Your face is all twisted up. You look constipated.’

Manny groaned and stretched. ‘Arrgh … I got a puzzle to solve here, Pops. Problem is, I only got one piece and I ain’t got no idea what the picture on the box even looks like.’

‘That don’t sound good.’

‘Nope, it don’t.’

‘Okay, now stop talking in Chinese riddles and tell me what the fucking problem is. Is that it?’ Mike asked, nodding at the photo. ‘Is that your puzzle piece?’

‘Yup.’

‘Nice. Perky tits; they look natural. Now, is this a case you’re working or is that a girlfriend you need advice with?’

‘You’re a hoot. It’s a case. I think. Not sure, actually. But it definitely ain’t a girlfriend, you sick geezer.’

‘I was gonna say she’s way too pretty to be one of yours.’

‘I ain’t responding to that.’

‘Who is she?’ Mike asked with another crunch.

‘That’s the million-dollar question. The case I’m working, the dumpster case—’

‘Holly Skole.’

Manny cocked an eyebrow.

‘Just ’cause I’m over sixty don’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. I listen when you talk,’ Mike shot back.

Manny shrugged. ‘Okay. Well, the mom of my defendant in that case claims that someone anonymously sent her a fucked-up video clip right before the Arthur Hearing. She don’t know who and she don’t know why. But in the video that I made this picture from, this girl is being strung up from the ceiling by her wrists like a pig in a slaughterhouse, and she might or might not be being tortured by an unidentifiable white male. The clip’s under a minute long, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on. Could be real, could be fantasy role-play. So I’m not sure what I have, Mikey. Not sure what to do about it, either. But it’s not sitting right with me and I want to see if I can get an ID on Jane Doe. Only I’m not sure where to start.’

‘Most guys would walk away. Let the defense handle it. Sounds like it’s their problem anyways.’

‘Yup. Most guys would.’

‘Have you run her through ViCAP?’

ViCAP — the Violent Crime Apprehension Program — was the FBI’s largest investigative repository of major violent cases in the US. A computer database of missing persons, unsolved sexual assaults and homicides, and unidentified remains collected from police agencies around the country. In a perfect world, Manny could put in the information he had on Jane Doe and ViCAP would spit out a similar missing person or homicide victim in an unsolved case. But the world wasn’t perfect. The system was only as comprehensive as the information put into it, and not every police agency was diligent providing cases for ViCAP. Most small agencies didn’t have access and a lot of large agencies weren’t assiduous about doing it.

‘Yeah. I checked,’ Manny replied. ‘Didn’t see anything that matched up, but I don’t got much to go on here. I also looked at Broward County’s Found and Forgotten website, but came up empty there, too. I’m trying to think of my next move.’

‘Let me see that. You mind? And can I see the video?’ Mike asked.

Manny nodded, handed him the picture, and got up from his seat. ‘Help yourself. When did you figure out how to turn on a computer?’

Mike ignored the jab and moved into Manny’s chair. He watched the entire clip through three times without saying a word, then ran it a fourth time and paused at forty-one seconds in, studying the screen. ‘That window cleaner there … it’s a knock-off.’ He captured the shot and zoomed in on the far corner. ‘I thought so,’ he said, mumbling under his breath. ‘I thought so. That there’s the Shoprite logo. On the red part — doesn’t that look like a grocery cart to you?’

‘Could be,’ Manny said, studying the screen. ‘What’s Shoprite?’

‘Shoprite’s a supermarket chain up north. New York, Jersey, Connecticut. I’m not sure it’s around anymore, but that’s where you need to focus, Alvarez. Have the boys in Tech see if they can enhance that picture — I’d bet my bottom dollar that’s Shoprite. Been a while since I saw that brand. They used to have some crazy commercial about how Shoprite’s got the can-can sale, with a bunch of French dancers singing about stocking up on peas.’

‘I thought you were from the Midwest.’

‘Ahhh,’ Mike grumbled. ‘I’m a native New Yorker, Alvarez. Born and raised in Elmhurst. That’s in Queens, you know. I worked with the Minneapolis PD for eight years before coming down here for some sun.’

‘Minnesota? Jesus, how the hell did you end up there? How does anyone end up there?’

Mike ignored the question. ‘One day it will all become clear. Listen, sorry about the titty comment. I didn’t realize she was a victim. That was bad of me.’

‘Well, thanks for the tip,’ Manny said with a nod.

‘What I would do if I was you is put her in NCIC, and mark it special attention to the tri-state area — see if the boys up there got something for you. Send the picture, but let them know there’s a video available.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Your long shot ain’t so long now,’ Mike continued smugly. ‘And you got a date/time stamp on this, for whatever that’s worth, assuming it’s authentic. I’d put that on there, too. It’ll help whoever is looking narrow down dates. I’d also send that video off to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. Let the profilers take a peek. Could be they’ve seen the rest of your video. Or maybe they can tell you if it’s for shits and giggles or if it’s the real McCoy.’

‘Okay, okay, I got it. Now it’s your turn to speak English, Pops. What the hell is a “shit and giggle”? And what’s a “real McCoy”?’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Damn immigrants. Learn English.’

‘I left Havana on a twenty-two-foot fishing boat that was missing an engine with twenty other people when I was five. Been speaking English from the second I stepped on the sand at Key Biscayne. You’re yapping in old fart, not English. I’ll send it to BAU. You’re right. It can’t hurt none.’

‘Nope. It can’t hurt,’ Mike replied as he started across the room to his desk. Then he stopped, turned abruptly, walked back. ‘You know, I can work up that NCIC for ya. Maybe contact the cold case squads myself and see if I can shake some trees.’

‘You’re not busy with your own load?’

‘Nah. I’m good. I got the time. And it looks like you need the help.’

Mike Dickerson wasn’t the only one counting down days till his retirement party. Even though he still had about six months to go, Mike hadn’t caught a new case in a long while, and he wasn’t going to. He was in wind-down mode. The squad sergeant didn’t want to hand out new cases to someone who’d have to be dragged out of retirement to be a witness for the next five years as those cases worked their way through the system. It was too much of a hassle. And if Mike was the lead on a case and he died — well, that would be terrible. And even more of a hassle. That was the danger of working cases when you were nearing seventy — your age became a liability and all that ‘invaluable experience’ that used to look so great on a résumé now added to the argument that your shelf life had expired. Until he officially called it quits, Mike was on ‘light duty’, which might seem like every government employee’s dream, but Manny didn’t think Mike saw it that way. The guy had been on the job for almost four decades, and he wore his pride the way he did his badge — right in the open for all to see. It might be hard to walk away, but Manny thought it was probably worse to stay and watch the world carry on without you.

Manny ran a hand over his smooth scalp. ‘You think you can help me out?’ he asked hesitantly. ‘You know, this video is a fucking monkey wrench. I still have a shitload of crap to get done on Skole without this nipping at the back of my thoughts.’

‘Sure, Bear, sure. I know some faces in the NYPD. It’ll give me something to do.’

Manny nodded. Partnering up in Homicide was not done at the City. There weren’t enough bodies or enough resources. And that was fine by him — he didn’t like partners. And if he had to pick a partner, it never in a million years would’ve been ornery, stubborn, conventional, conservative Mike Dickerson. But Manny himself was only seven years away from collecting a check, which seemed like a lifetime … a lifetime ago. Now it wasn’t so far off. Just seven more wild Miami-Dade PD Homicide Christmas parties. So he could feel for the old man; he didn’t think he’d want to leave when the time came, either. Plus, being nice to a guy on his way out of the job and maybe even out the door seemed like the right thing to do. Of course it was exactly that sort of charitable thinking that had led him down the aisle three times. Manny had a feeling this partnership might not fare any better …

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