Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

He tilted forward, put his mouth near my ear. “You want to get out of here?” Grady spoke the words low.

We both knew where my condo was. I tried to think of Grady and me in my bed, stripped of clothes, stripped of the remaining walls of friendship.

The thought left me vacant, with a feeling that said, No, that’s not right, or maybe it was more of a No, not now. I wasn’t sure which. I wasn’t sure why. Would I ever be sure of anything again? God, I longingly remembered the days when I used to be decisive about most everything.

“I should get going.” I pulled away from him. “I’ve got my new job tomorrow.”

Grady nodded reluctantly. “Call me tomorrow, all right? Let me know how the job goes.”

“I will. I’m sorry, Grady. I’m just a little confused right now.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

I hugged him, and I left fast, my mind swirling-the product, apparently, of too many men, too many jobs, not enough sleep.

Or maybe… a voice inside me said. Maybe it’s just enough.

I climbed the three flights of stairs to my condo, thinking about starting my new job the next morning, feeling on the precipice of a whole new life. My body tingled with the anticipation of the fall into…what? I didn’t know. And that unknown was thrilling me.

I got undressed. I opened my drawer to find the Jeff Beck concert T-shirt of Sam’s I liked to sleep in. Slipping it over my head, I expected the shiver of calm and coziness it usually brought me. But for some reason, it felt stifling. I tugged at the neck. Too tight. When I slipped into bed, it felt claustrophobic, as if my body was still jumping, not ready to settle down, no matter how many times I reminded myself that I had to start a new job the next morning.

Sleep wouldn’t descend. I kept itching to get out of bed, to do something, but I didn’t know what. The responsible Izzy McNeil, that accountable and dependable self I’d always known, was scratching at the walls, sensing that she was onto something new. And wanting to get on with it sooner rather than later.

After half an hour of twisting under my sheets, I got out of bed and found the silver-gray box I’d brought home from the Fig Leaf. Lifting the cover, I pulled open the delicate tissue. In the light that made its way through a crack in my drapes, I stared at the garment. Delicate silver lace, two strands of creamy ivory pearls that ran side by side.

I took off the T-shirt and slipped on the pearl thong. I stood in the dark of my bedroom, naked but for those pearls, sensing a shift in the air, a shift in me.

My cell phone was on my dresser top, the ringer off. I lifted it and saw that I had a text message. From Theo. Want company?

I texted back, Aren’t you supposed to be in Mexico?

Tomorrow. So, are you up for a visit?

I could see him in my kitchen, squeezing blood oranges, the serpent on his forearm slithering with the movement. I started to write back, Yes, but then I hesitated. Certainly this behavior was reckless, certainly it meant something.

The thing was, I didn’t want to analyze it right now. I just wanted to roll with it.

Door is open, I added to the text. Then I hit Send.

I should have been exhausted after Sunday-a day spent panty peddling, a night spent researching the pearl thong. But as I got ready to leave my condo Monday morning, only forty minutes after Theo left, I felt charged up with that same electricity from the night before, an energy I hadn’t known since I’d left the law firm.

I put on the suit I used to wear for closing arguments or tough depositions. With its long, clingy skirt and high fitted waist it was professional and sassy, exactly the image I hoped that Trial TV would want in a legal analyst.

Downstairs, I went around my building to the detached garage. Inside, I got my helmet and paused for a second. I used to never wear the helmet, not liking how it smashed my curls and never really believing that I would get in an accident. But I no longer believed I was immune to bad luck, and so I pulled the helmet over my head and fastened the chin strap tight.

As I revved the scooter down Sedgwick, then North Avenue, the traffic was going in the other direction. Most people were headed to the Loop or the Mag Mile, while I was heading to West Webster.

As I buzzed down Clybourn, I raised my face and let the sun beam itself onto my cheeks. When I came to a stop at Racine, I closed my eyes, and I let myself remember the night before. My brain was still assimilating all the images-remembering the way I stood in the shadowy dark of my living room, keen with anticipation as his footsteps pounded, heavier and heavier, up my steps; remembering the old Izzy saying What are you doing? while the new Izzy told her to shut up and locked her in a back room of my mind; remembering his face when he walked in and saw me naked except for the thong; remembering the utter lack of words, remembering only the sounds, groans, growls, sighs.

Suddenly the blaring of horns jolted me back to reality. I forced Theo from my mind, locking him in the back room with the old Izzy. I turned left when I got to Webster and drove past Ashland. The neighborhood was populated with a large bank, a Kohl’s department store, a huge new building housing a yoga center and a lighting store.

I found the address-a stubby but sprawling brick building with a concrete parking lot. I parked the scooter, and followed the sidewalk to the front door. Inside, the floors were linoleum and the walls unpainted drywall. The hallway was lined with file cabinets topped with large cardboard moving boxes. Jane told me the build out was still happening and that it was typical for a start-up network like this to truly start up without all the pieces in place. Clearly, she wasn’t kidding.

I gave my name to a security guard, who issued me a badge and pointed down the hallway. I walked, passing offices. A couple were empty, others used as storage space. Those that were occupied looked like offices you might see at any workplace; each had a computer, phone, notes, photos, knickknacks. The only difference between these offices and those in another industry was that each of these had a minimum of two TVs in them, usually four.

I looked at my watch-6:55 a.m., only a few minutes before Jane’s first morning broadcast would begin.

At the end of the hall, I pushed open a heavy door and stopped dead.

If the rest of the building had been slightly shoddy and the construction not complete, the studio was where attention had been lavished. The ceiling was high and covered with lights. Wires wrapped in bright yellow tape crisscrossed the floor and a bevy of cameras stood at the ready, all focused on two sets. In one, an interview area, four royal-blue leather chairs sat in front of a wall of monitors, all showing reporters preparing for stories near courthouses or capitol buildings. Jane had told me this was where expert panelists would come to be questioned and where the morning “Coffee Break” segment would take place. The main set held a large mahogany anchor desk, vaguely resembling a judge’s bench. The words Trial TV were emblazoned across the front in blue lights edged with white.

Behind the desk, on three large panels, the Trial TV logo was superimposed over moving images displaying shots of famous legal scenes from the last few decades.

Jane sat behind the anchor desk, while a floor director in jeans and a T-shirt read to her from a clipboard. As big as the desk was, Jane had a commanding presence. She wore a suit and a crisp white blouse with a high collar. Her black hair hung on either side of her face, gleaming and smooth. Her makeup was heavy but flawless, drawing out the mauve-blue in her eyes. The only thing that marred her appearance-at least for me-was the scarf. Her red scarf was wound around her neck, its silk ends tucked into the collar of her shirt.