Manny stared at the phone and rubbed his head. Now what the hell was he supposed to do with that?
I love you?
Daria was obviously polluted. Three sheets to the wind. Slurring, sighing — a melancholy, mushy drunk tonight.
But, I love you?
He looked at the other side of his bed, strewn with papers and reports from the Lunders case, and now reports from Fort Lauderdale PD and grisly crime-scene photos of Marie Modic’s broken and discarded corpse. Even though Daria wasn’t next to him in bed anymore, she was still next to him in bed.
I love you. Now you have to forgive me. Please, Manny …
Finally, she’d apologized. It had taken her long enough to say the word sorry. It probably hurt when she finally coughed it up. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number. Let’s see if it was the alcohol talking. Let’s see if she’s still all, ‘Oh forgive me, please. I didn’t mean it. I love you,’ when she’d sobered up. And if she was? If she meant what she’d said when she was drunk, when she was seeing straight, what then?
He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard. Women. Soft, sweet-smelling and warm. Kissable, full lips and curvy, full bodies. That woman-scent they give off. Those pheromones. It got him every time. He did like the ladies. Always had.
But she was different. Right from the start, everything about Daria DeBianchi, Esq., was different. A little red firecracker, with an amazing, pint-sized body and a personality as fiery and dark and snappy as her hair. She was not his type — smart, educated, conservative, save for those heels she lusted over. Manny liked his women big and Latin and curvy and flashy, and it helped if they weren’t so bright or quick with a retort. Of course, none of those had worked out for him before. He’d walked down the aisle three times, but no woman had ever made him feel the way Daria did. Happy. Sexy. Masculine. Mad. Funny. Vulnerable. Stupid. Smart.
Happy.
That was it. That was the first word that came to mind. She made him happy when he was with her. Usually. And, as he had recently learned, he was completely miserable when she wasn’t around. Grumpy, edgy. Like he was missing something. It wasn’t just the wild sex — although he did love what he did to the conservative, uptight part of her. Making her scream words he didn’t think she even knew. But it wasn’t all physical: they could talk for hours about criminals and homicide scenes without her threatening to leave because it grossed her out or bored her. They could argue about things like baseball or politics and she wouldn’t sulk ’cause he didn’t agree with her. She was a huge Dolphin fan. She understood when he didn’t want to talk about something he’d seen because she knew all too well what it was like to witness something horrible and not be able to do anything about it. He loved her small hands, which fit completely inside his, like a baby’s would. He loved her eyes, even when she was pissed off and they practically glowed. He loved her ruby-red lips — especially when they were on his. He loved that she liked to make a statement. He loved her petiteness. He loved her smile, when she decided to flash it, that was.
He loved her.
He banged the back of his head against the headboard again. What then? What if she meant what she’d said? What if a smart, sophisticated, sometimes bitchy, beautiful woman really meant it when she said she loved him?
Then he’d say it back. Because it was true. He’d been in love and in lust enough times to know the difference. And his little red firecracker attorney was everything every other woman he’d loved before was not, so this time it must be true. It must be real. And he was ready to forgive her and move on. Yes, he was still beyond pissed, especially since Bantling’s supposedly accidental release from custody was all over the fucking news. If he didn’t care about her, he would have no problem calling up Nadine Kramer from the Herald and telling her all about Collier’s cursed deal with a serial killer. But that would only destroy Daria’s career. Not to mention that the snuff-club allegations would then have to come out, and he didn’t want to turn the lights on on that macabre cache of secrets yet, lest all those cockroaches go into hiding. No, he’d manage to get past what she’d done and maybe they’d tackle Bantling together, like some crime-fighting duo. Manny would find him and bring him back to Miami, and since there was no deal actually struck for his cooperation, they would send his sorry ass back to Florida State Prison. Then he and Dickerson and Customs and the FBI and FDLE and any other agency that wanted to join in would find this snuff club and infiltrate it. There had to be another way in. There had to be another way to disrupt it besides putting a convicted serial killer on the payroll as a snitch. And everyone would live happily-ever-fucking-after.
Then he looked over at the box files on his dresser. Maybe not.
The State of Florida v. William Rupert Bantling was scribbled across the side of one. Black Jacket across another. He hadn’t looked in either box yet. He wasn’t sure if he would or if he should. He’d only gotten as far as taking them home and putting them on his dresser. The past few hours, as he worked on Lunders, he’d glanced over at those boxes every so often, wondering what secrets would be revealed when and if he decided to open them up. That was why he hadn’t done anything yet — he wasn’t sure he’d be able to put the lids back on once he decided to take them off. And like Pandora’s Box, he wasn’t sure what evil he might be releasing into the world if he did decide to flip the lid …
He tapped his fingers on the nightstand as Daria’s phone started to ring. How would the crazy thoughts that had just run through his head spill out when he heard her voice? What if she was still drunk or too hungover to think straight? But the call went straight to voicemail. Her phone was either turned off, or she’d turned it off when she saw it was him calling.
‘Listen, it’s me,’ Manny began softly enough at the sound of the tone. ‘I got your message. That’s pretty heavy. And that’s a cheap fucking shot, you know, telling me that on the phone. What the hell am I supposed to say to that, Counselor? You tell me you fucking love me on a voicemail?’ He sighed. ‘I’m sitting here buried in crap with stuff on your case and …’ He broke off and looked around the empty room, his eyes avoiding the dresser. ‘Well, I have a lot to say to you, but I need to know if that was you talking. If it was, if you meant what you said, then call me back. If this is all just a mistake, if you drank too much, is all, then, well I’ll see you Wednesday at the hearing and we’ll handle this as … professionals. Although, I don’t know how I’m gonna do that, but, whatever. So, well, let me know,’ he finished.
He hit the ‘end’ button and stared at the phone, his heart beating so hard, he felt it all the way up in his mouth. He sat there for what felt like an hour, watching the stupid cordless phone that sat atop Marie Modic’s autopsy report.
She never did call him back.