#SandyBottom

by Alexi Venice

  She finished chewing and washed the bite down with more juice. “See? You’re interviewing me now, and I haven’t been at work for a week. I’m on admin leave, you know.” She stared at her bacon but didn’t pick it up.

  “Why are you on admin leave?”

  Chance’s question quieted the other conversations at the table, drawing the interest of all the musicians.

  With intention and purpose, Amanda picked up the strip of bacon, syrup dripping from it, and took a bite. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then raised her coffee cup to her mouth. After she drank, still using time as an ally, she rested the rim against her lips. Everyone at the table grew quiet in anticipation. “Standard operating procedure in the department. I was involved in two shootings: one in my office and the second, the shootout with Kara Montiago. Bullets were flying over my head at a close range, so I’m on mandatory leave. They also need to clean my office, sad to say, because Detective Vietti shot Melanie Valentine in there.”

  “The SFPD media release indicated Melanie Valentine was shot but Kara Montiago wasn’t killed by gunfire. I’m confused.” Kip had no recording device or writing utensil, so he studied her intently, memorizing her reaction.

  Amanda glanced at Margot and Timpani Tom’s shocked faces before replying, “That’s true. Mel was shot but Kara fell to her death.”

  “Let’s take one at a time. Who’s Melanie Valentine?” As soon as the question left his mouth, Kip’s expression changed to that of comprehension. He snapped his fingers while Amanda returned to her eggs. “Let me guess—Eddy Valentine’s wife?”

  “Daughter,” she said around a bite.

  “Why did Detective Vietti shoot her?”

  “She was about to shoot someone.”

  “Who?” Kip asked innocently enough.

  Amanda pressed her eyes shut, remembering Mel’s deadly ambush. “Me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ducked.”

  Everyone gasped.

  “Then Tommy walked in and drew his gun, but she shot him in the arm. He went down to the floor, so I jumped on Mel and proceeded to beat the shit out of her.” Amanda discharged the facts in such a detached manner that she could have been talking about the weather.

  “That’s my girl,” Chance said, holding up his hand for a high-five.

  Amanda ignored him, leaving him hanging.

  “Mid-fight, Mel gained a temporary advantage and rolled on top of me. That’s when Tommy shot her.”

  There was silence, but she felt everyone’s eyes on her, not unlike when she gave a closing argument to a jury. She took another bite of bacon and sipped her coffee. No tears. No trauma. No shame or regret. Just facts.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Chance said in an earnest tone.

  “Thanks,” Amanda said gently, wanting to appear as if she possessed the normal range of human emotion in front of the musicians, who probably hadn’t been anywhere near a gun fight.

  “Can I run with that?” Kip asked.

  “Sure,” she said, returning her attention to her plate. She cut a bite of pancake with the edge of her fork, stabbed it, then added some scrambled eggs to it.

  “Might raise more questions about the Eddy Valentine shooting on the beach,” Kip said.

  Her armor rose again, masking the concern behind her eyes. “Did you put truth serum in the Blue Dream last night?”

  That drew a nervous laugh from the musicians.

  “No, but that’s an idea,” Kip said. “Seriously.”

  She took a bite and chewed. “That’s old news, and besides, I don’t give a fuck,” she said with a full mouth.

  Kip laughed, which made her smile too. The others sort of half-smiled, shocked that Kip and Amanda could laugh so easily about shootings. Theirs was a world of music, making people happy, or, since it was classical music, at least entertained.

  “Tell me about the Kara Montiago shooting in Vincent Voss’ office,” Chance said.

  Amanda closed her eyes, resting her hand next to her plate, holding the fork tines-up. She recalled the chaotic scene and wanted to say that Kara Montiago was a psycho nymphomaniac, but she batted away the temptation before it fell out of her mouth. “Kara was shooting at us—Frank Degrugillier, Tommy Vietti, a few other officers, and me—her gun pointed in every direction, randomly firing. Bullets ricocheted off everything. Glass rained from the ceiling lights. The windows cracked and burst. Lamps exploded. The noise was deafening. Deafening . Loud blasts assaulted my ears and echoed around us. We all hit the floor in split-second time, but that wasn’t fast enough for Frank, who took a bullet.”

  She opened her eyes and glanced around the table, not surprised to see shocked expressions on the musicians’ faces. Attempting to inject some levity, Timpani Tom mumbled, “Note to self, hit the floor when someone starts shooting.”

  Amanda smiled at him, connecting like she would with a juror while she was arguing in court. She purposefully avoided Margot’s gaze.

  “I saw that on the news,” Kip said. “How is Frank?”

  Amanda finished her eggs. “Recovering. He’ll be fine.”

  “Who pushed Montiago out of the window to her death?” Kip asked, as the musicians’ eyes grew wide with curiosity.

  Amanda’s quick laughter startled the somber mood. “She didn’t fall to her death by defenestration, Kip. One of the officers, a very brave man, grabbed her by the ankle to wrestle the gun away from her. She was kicking at him, clawing her way around the desk, when she broke free and lurched, throwing herself out of the window. I looked up in time to see her outstretched hand grabbing for the window frame, but her forward motion and gravity overpowered her. Her hand missed the frame by a split second.” Amanda clapped her hands, re-enacting how Montiago’s hand slapped against the window frame.

  “She probably did herself a favor instead of going to prison,” Kip said.

  “I don’t disagree.” Amanda used the last bite of pancake to mop up the remaining pool of syrup on her plate. Savoring the maple flavor, she washed it down with the final swig of coffee in her mug.

  Kip patiently waited then said in a gossipy tone, “I thought Montiago’s fashion choice was a bit strange for the occasion.”

  Amanda snorted. “You mean the Zara jacket with ‘I really don’t care, do u?’ written on the back?”

  “As inspired by our First Lady? Yes,” he said.

  “I don’t get it, but I also don’t really care about either one of them,” Amanda said.

  “Touché,” Kip said, then returned to his journalistic inquisition. “Who has the Vince Voss file in the DA’s Office?”

  “My senior ADA, Jeremy Jones.”

  “Mind if I interview him?”

  “You need to ask him that.” She lay her fork and knife across her empty plate, noting that her fuzzy marijuana brain was slowly dissipating in the face of endorphins from the run and the magical mix of caffeine and sugar. Now, she just needed time—maybe a day or two—for the residual over her logic center to disappear.

  “And, you figured out that Kara Montiago and Vincent Voss murdered Jared Carlisle?” Kip asked.

  “I can’t comment on that because Voss’ prosecution is an active file,” she said.

  “Got it. I’ll call Jeremy tomorrow.”

  “I wish you luck.”

  “He and I go way back, you know,” Kip said.

  “How’s that?” she asked, even though she suspected what was coming.

  “I pressed charges against Dimitri Ivanov a few years ago for hitting me in the face and breaking my nose during an interview, but Jeremy never prosecuted him. Douche move if you ask me.”

  Amanda ran her index finger around her empty coffee mug, as she was the one who had instructed Jeremy not to prosecute that file. “Yes. I’m aware. I think there were extenuating circumstances at the time. Ivanov was assisting in the investigation of Nicholas Nutini, who killed his daughter, so the DA’s Office needed Ivanov’s cooperation on a number of fronts.” She l
eft out, of course, that she had asked Ivanov to murder Nutini, a conversation he had recorded then later used to blackmail her.

  “Some deal,” Kip said haughtily.

  “We got Nutini, though, didn’t we?”

  “He was in killed your back yard!” Kip exclaimed.

  “Um. Yeah, but not by me.” Amanda smiled, but the frozen faces around the table indicated that they were becoming wary, if not downright frightened, of her.

  Timpani Tom spoke for the group, “Wow. What a crazy life. Makes beating on drums at the back of an orchestra sound like a pretty boring job.”

  “Indeed.” Amanda winked at him while the others nervously chuckled.

  “So, Montiago and her lawyer really offed Carlisle because he tried to blackmail her?” Kip asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Did she have an affair with him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why? She was married.”

  “I don’t know why people have affairs,” she lied.

  He narrowed his eyes, framed by sandy brown lashes. “And, see, I think you do know why she had an affair.”

  Amanda placed her palms on either side of her plate, signaling the interview was over. “Chance, Kip, it’s been a terrific weekend. Thank you for your hospitality, but I have to shower and return to the city.”

  “I understand. Thanks for generously answering Kip’s questions.” Chance rose, assisting Amanda by pulling out her chair for her. “Take your time in the shower. I’ll be tidying the kitchen when you come down.”

  “Thanks for the breakfast company.” She nodded at the others around the table.

  They smiled and mumbled something suitable in response. Margot silently mouthed “goodbye” with a forlorn look.

  Trust me, flutist with troglodyte toenails, you dodged a bullet by not getting involved with me.

  Amanda quickly showered and stuffed her clothes in the soft duffel. When she came down the stairs, Chance and Kip were finishing their cleanup of the breakfast dishes. Everyone else was outside.

  She hugged each of her hosts. “Thanks, guys. Talk to you soon.”

  “Thanks for the interview,” Kips said. “I’ll be nice.”

  “You’d better be,” she said.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Chance said.

  They emerged from the house into blinding sunshine, so she lowered her sunglasses from her wet hair.

  “Sorry about Kip’s spontaneous interview,” Chance said.

  “No need to apologize,” she said. “If I hadn’t been in the mood, I would’ve declined to comment and referred him to my official spokesperson—you. Ha. The irony!”

  “Good to hear,” he said. “Got any plans for next week?”

  “I’m going to Wisconsin.”

  “Good luck. I know she loves you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch. Warn me if more photos of Roxy and me drop.”

  He furrowed his neatly trimmed brows. “More?”

  She held up her hand. “Not that there are any. I’m just saying, I was totally caught off guard by this one.”

  His expression relaxed. “I’ll keep a lookout. Duck if any homophobes start throwing stones at you and Jen in Wisconsin.”

  She laughed. “I’ve ducked bullets, so I’m pretty sure I can handle stones. I have nine lives, you know.” She opened the trunk and tossed her bag in.

  “I’m pretty sure you used a few lives in the last two weeks. Add that to the Nutini mob war, and I’d say you’re down to three or four by now, so watch yourself.”

  “Thanks for that optimistic forecast,” she said, opening the driver’s door.

  “You can always count on me to give you the truth,” he said.

  “Or, an opinion anyway.” She angled up and gave him a peck on his unshaven cheek. “Goodbye.”

  She got in and started the sleek car, and, as she backed out and turned to leave, she glimpsed Chance in her rearview mirror. A premonition gripped her that it would be some time before she saw him again.

  A few miles down the road, she turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, allowing the sports car to stretch its legs. Accelerating with abandon on the straight stretches and expertly cornering around the narrow curves hugging the cliffs, she cranked up the music to Two Feet, the base beat and twisted lyrics of “Love is a Bitch” resonating with her undying love of Jen. She felt recharged and determined to win Jen back.

  Seventeen

  San Francisco

  Monday

  Amanda sat on a barstool at her chilly kitchen counter, sorting the mail in stifling silence. She tossed the majority of the stack into the recycle bin, created a pile of letters from professional associations and the like addressed to Jen, then prepared to pay bills and stop her mail for the next week while she was in Wisconsin. She opened her laptop and navigated to the U.S. Mail Service website.

  Her phone lit up with Jack’s name, so she hit the speaker phone.

  “Hi Daddy.”

  “Hey sweet pea, how are you today?”

  “Just paying bills. Any word on the jet?”

  “It should be available tomorrow. The Martins are returning tonight, and the cleaning crew is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, my favorite pilot, is available, so I’ll book him if that works for you.”

  “Awesome!” she exclaimed. “That works perfectly. I’ll run some errands today and be ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I wish you good luck, my sweet.”

  “Thanks Daddy. Text me with a wheels-up time.”

  “Will do.”

  They ended their call, and she checked her phone for new messages. No reply from Jen to the text Amanda sent her from the beach. Her heart sank. Maybe I miscalculated timing and tone.

  She stared at the microwave clock, wondering if she should text something to Jen today. Should I apologize for texting? Should I warn her that I’ll be there tomorrow?

  She decided less was more. The surprise element of arriving in-person had worked for her in the past—the chemistry between them undeniable. She absent-mindedly tapped a pen against her upper lip, thinking about packing for a trip to a state she had never visited. What should I wear? Jeans or shorts? Swimsuit for sure. Flip flops or hiking boots? Maybe both .

  She considered bringing food and wine for the Dawson clan. That would be the polite thing to do. She knew what Tommy and Jen liked, but what did the Dawson’s like? What’s a signature food from San Francisco? Her mind snapped into gear, and she mentally mapped an errand circuit—Molinari Deli, Tartine Bakery, Blackwell’s Wine on Geary—when her phone rang with a call from Jeremy Jones, her trusted ADA.

  “This is Amanda.”

  “Good morning. This is Jeremy. How are you?”

  “Doing well. How are things at the office?”

  “Humming along, but I need to meet with you. Can you swing by this morning?”

  She checked the time. “Allowing for traffic, I can be there in 45 minutes.”

  “Excellent. See you then.”

  They said goodbye, and she slammed the lid shut on her laptop. She ran upstairs to pull her hair back and apply some makeup, then selected an Ann Taylor, glen-check suit with a white/navy polka dot blouse for the unexpected trip to work.

  Thick, gun-metal-grey clouds had rolled in over the ocean, and the wind was whipping the tops of the waves, so she grabbed a raincoat on her way out the door. Traffic was light mid-morning on a Monday, allowing for an easy drive to the Hall of Justice. Her spot behind the building in the small VIP lot was vacant, so she pulled her Mercedes in, realizing this was the first time—in a very long time—that she had driven herself to work. Fat droplets of rain bounced on the windshield, so she drew her coat over her head like a cape and hustled to the back entrance of the building.

  Adrenaline snaked through her veins when she swiped her keycard for the door and climbed the dingy stairway up to the DA’s Office. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor under the sickly glow of fluorescent lights, triggering her thirst for wo
rk, as she opened the glass door and nodded at the receptionist—someone she didn’t recognize. Under the receptionist’s curious gaze, Amanda scanned herself into the DA Office suite only to be met by suspicious quietude. She passed cubicles of staff busy on the phone or typing while staring at their computer monitors. No one looked up. She concluded they weren’t expecting her, so they didn’t notice. Avoiding her own office, other than seeing a sign over the closed door that said, “Under Construction,” she proceeded to Jeremy Jones’ smaller office.

  She tapped her knuckles on the open door, grabbing Jeremy’s attention. He stood and rounded his desk, his bony hand outstretched for a shake. She accepted, mildly surprised that he didn’t hug her.

  “Amanda, welcome,” he said.

  “Thanks Jeremy. You look well.”

  His tall, skeletal frame was clothed in a black, pinstriped suit, giving the impression of an undertaker rather than a prosecutor. “I can’t complain. We’re busy, barely keeping our heads above water.” He chose a chair at his small conference table where there were two thick files lying on top. One bore a sticker with the name “ Vincent Voss ” on it.

  She sat across from him and nodded at the file. “How’s that going?”

  “Voss entered a ‘not guilty’ plea,” Jeremy said.

  “Who’s his lawyer?”

  “Doug Durbin.”

  She groaned.

  “I know,” he said. “Real pain in the ass. He already filed a motion to suppress anything that was said in Voss’ office during the takedown, since Voss wasn’t Mirandized.”

  “But, he was Mirandized. I was there. I witnessed it.”

  “Which is another issue. He named you on his witness list and plans to subpoena you to testify.”

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “Judge Grady indicated in our motion hearing that he planned to allow it,” Jeremy said.

  “Well, that’s just plain dumb. We’ll have to appeal that ruling. How am I supposed to serve as the lead prosecutor and testify as a witness?”

  “Judge Grady ruled you couldn’t. He instructed the prosecution to remove you from the case and appoint a substitute. Since I was arguing the motions, I volunteered, so I’m the lead now.”