Angels Fall
then twenty-four-year-old Reece. He was right, he noted as he scanned the photo. She looked better carrying another ten pounds or so. In fact, she looked pretty damn amazing.
Young, vibrant, essential , somehow, grinning into the camera while holding a big blue bowl and a shining silver whisk. The article gave her educational background—a year in Paris added a lot of polish— personalized it with an anecdote about how she'd prepared five-course dinners for her dolls when she was a child.
It quoted both Tony and Terry Maneo, the owners of the restaurant where she'd worked—a couple who'd be dead in a few years. They stated she was not only the jewel of their business but one of the family.
There were other bits and pieces in the article, and a smattering of others. He learned she was orphaned at fifteen, raised from that point by her maternal grandmother. She'd remained single, spoke fluent French and enjoyed entertaining friends, among whom she was apparently renowned for her Sunday brunches.
Adjectives used to describe her were energetic, creative, adventurous and, his own previous choice, vibrant .
How would he describe her now? Brody asked himself as he sat back, chewed on pizza. Anal, nervous, determined.
Hot.
There was a splashy Boston Globe feature about her taking the position as head chef for a "wildly popular hot spot known for its American fusion cuisine and convivial atmosphere."
The standard background/color data was included along with a photo of a more sophisticated-looking Recce wearing her hair up and back— nice neck—and posed in what he assumed would have been the stainless steel glory of her new kitchen in a sexy black suit and mile-high seductress-red heels.
" 'Ill always treasure my years at Maneo's, and everyone I've worked with or cooked for there. Tony and Terry Matteo not only gave me my first professional opportunities, but gave me an extended family. While I'll miss the comfort and familiarity of Maneo's, I'm thrilled and excited to join the creative team of Oasis. I intend to uphold the restaurant's high standards — and add a few surprises. "
"Look good enough to eat yourself there, Slim,"' he said aloud, scanning back from her quote to her photo.
He checked the date of the article, noted it had been published just about the time he told his editor at the Trib to kiss his ass. When he brought up the first report of the killings at Maneo's, he saw it was three days after the Globe feature.
Goddamn lousy deal, all around. Reece was listed as the only survivor, suffering from multiple gunshot wounds and in critical condition. Police were investigating and so on. It spoke of the owners, and the restaurant they'd run for more than a quarter of a century. There were quotes from family and friends—the shock, the tears, the outrage. The reporter used terms like bloodbath, carnage, brutality .
Subsequent articles reported the progress of the investigation—little to none—and Brody could read the frustration of the investigators in every clipped quote.
Funerals and memorial services were reported on for those who'd died. Reece's condition was moved up to serious. She was reported to be under police protection.
Then it petered out, little by little, the stories moving from front page, above the fold, to page three, and back. There was a small mention, almost an afterthought, when Reece was released from the hospital. There was no quote from her, no photo.
That's the way it went, Brody mused. News was only news until something else came along. It took juice to get the print, the airtime, and the juice had been wrung out of the Maneo Massacre, as the papers had dubbed it, in under three weeks.
The dead were buried, the killers unidentified, and the single survivor left to pick up what pieces she could from a shattered life.
WHILE BRODY FINISHED his pizza and read about her, Reece filled her little bathtub with hot water and an indulgent squirt of drugstore bath foam. She'd taken the aspirin, forced herself to eat some cheese and crackers, with a sprig of grapes to balance it out.
Now she was going to soak, drink her wine and start Brody's book in the tub. She didn't want to think about reality, at least not for the next hour. She debated whether or not to close and lock the bathroom door. She'd have preferred to lock it, but the room was so small she'd never be able to handle being closed in that way.
She'd tried it locked a couple of times already and had
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