The Cutting Room. Jilliane Hoffman
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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