IV
Tuhmar, as expected, was less than impressed when Clarice told him how and why she'd lost Landolli at the Gallery. She was fresh meat on this team, and although she was more experienced, she had to fall into rank order.
"You learn to keep home at home, Sara."
"I know it."
And that's all that was said. It seemed strange to work for someone so blasé. She'd made a mistake, but this time it wouldn't be recorded or stored as a threat. She didn't have to cover her own ass in her office or worry about the strength of the foundation supporting her. The image she worked for now was a real one with exposed humanly flaws. No one here wanted to be Superman.
The moments of complete trust and admiration she shared with Tuhmar always reminded her of the deceased Jack Crawford. A butterfly can grow in beauty for its lifetime, but no one forgets the unsightly caterpillar it once was. Clarice Starling could not forget her past, nor did she want to. The Bureau, Crawford and her few friends were distant memories at rest in her past. Regret played no part in the life of Sara Torres.
Her workstation was much larger than any other forerunning hunks of wood. The office was considerably roomy for its minimally numbered employees. Hers and Tuhmar's desks faced opposing disarrayed walls in the far left-hand corner of the room. Their section was notably untidy in comparison to other partnering stations. They both claimed that neatness meant time, and time was better spent on the job; sometimes she couldn't find her keyboard, other times he'd move his files.
When she'd returned to the office, after three hours of sweeping the main streets of Càceres and a short discussion with Tuhmar, Clarice flopped down in her desk and sighed. Mistakes didn't help along dead-end cases and she couldn't help the disappointment that was slowly eating away at her professionalism.
"That face is making me feel depressed" Tuhmar strode into their shared workspace and dragged his chair over to beside Clarice's. The glaze over her eyes faded as he spoke, she didn't want him to see her unhappy with herself.
"Yeah. What'd you find with the record checks?" She straightened in her chair and switched on her computer monitor. She watched her partner swing back in his chair and reach for a beige folder.
"Nara Landolli. Arrested twice for possessing. Charged with theft, trafficking and abandonment, other than that, she's clean."
"Abandonment? She has a child?" Clarice asked.
"Had a child. Sophine Landolli-Mattinez passed two years ago in Foster care. Nara doesn't know." His dark eyes filled with sympathy. It comforted her to know he cared as much as she did.
Clarice sighed again. " So where are we now? Nara worked as the latest vic's supplier and perhaps with the other woman too. All of the victims are wealthy, or married to wealth, and highly regarded socialites. Their bodies were distorted almost beyond recognition and several organs, blood and soft tissue was painted onto large canvases erected in the victims bedrooms. The husbands were all conveniently at work, Spaniards leave their freakin' doors open through the day, and we have no prints. Have I missed anything?" Her mind was rolling over collecting the nothingness she knew would take them nowhere.
"No. That's our case." There was no sarcasm or mock in his tone. "I think the arrangement of the bodies is our best bet." He paused to pull some photographs out of his draw. " Take the latest vic, Gabriella Scleràte, as an example. Her husband found parts of his wife's body at 5pm, approximately 3 hours after the estimated time of death. Firstly the bloody skeleton, arranged on the bed, then the skin, bits of muscle and organs and blood, which were painted onto a 60x60 inch material canvas. Obviously the killer is conveying a message." Alex turned and looked at the framed picture on his desk. Mrs Tuhmar was always a source of his inspiration.
"The canvas was facing the basin mirror, right?" Clarice added.
"Right. The same pattern found at each scene. Looks to me like a sour vengeance directed at rich and beautiful women." He picked up a pencil from its holder and tapped it on his desk.
Clarice's eyes narrowed. " The mirror indicates a reflection of what we are physically. You think Picasso is a female?"
Tuhmar shrugged. "I think I need to sleep on it."
"Alright. Tomorrow you're going back to the crime scene at the Scleràte's home. I think I'll look into this past relationship of Nara's. What was the kid's name?"
"Landolli-Mattinez, daughter of Ven Mattinez. I've got his contacts already." He smiled and pulled a card from his pocket.
"Too good for me Alex." She took the card and swung around to face her computer screen with an exhausted sigh.
"You're not calling quits for today?" Tuhmar skidded across the room on the wheels of his chair, dropping the folder back onto his crowded desk.
"I will…soon." He turned over his shoulder to see a bright homepage flashing on her screen "Classic Recipes".
"If this work is making you hungry, you're more disturbed than I thought." He smirked, brushing his long hair out of his face. Clarice snorted and shook her head in amusement.
"Last minute cooking advice actually. We're having guests over a bit later." She didn't look to him when she replied.
"You can cook? Hmm. And why wasn't I invited to this little get-together?" He teased her and she loved it. It kept the morbid earnest at bay for most of the time. They needed to poke fun at each other, if they didn't, they'd probably shed too many tears.
"No I can't cook, and if you're not looking for a major blow to your health, considerer not being on the invite list as lucky." She laughed into the monitor.
"How long have you got?" He stood and peered over her head.
"I don't know." She shrugged. " I guess they'll be over around ten."
"Andres can't make a start on it? Or perhaps finish it too?" Tuhmar chuckled, playfully poking her arm.
Rolling her eyes she replied. " He cooks every other night. I set days when I like to cook for him, tonight was one of those. I guess I just got a little distracted and forgot."
"What with the dead bodies and all?" Another grin. For a man that spoke English as his second language, the sarcasm was notably praiseworthy. "If you had mentioned this earlier I could have had Tia bring some cook books over." Clarice smiled when he mentioned his wife. She had met Tia and spoken with her on several occasions. Sometimes, she was a corporeal reminder of Ardelia; loving and family orientated.
"Thank you for reminding me that I am the world's greatest procrastinator." She turned to find her partner bent over his chair, searching under his desk. She chuckled. "You'd be lucky to find your legs under there." Her eyes wandered over the stacks of boxes and papers.
"I know they're somewhere around here…" The lid of a storage box was hurled across the floor. "Ahh here we are." Tuhmar rose, his cheeks pink with effort, and sat back in his chair with a victorious grin. He handed her two issues of Woman's Day. Clarice's eyes lit up in humour. Ardelia used to keep a stack of trashy magazines on their coffee table for 'trivial guest entertainment'.
"Mind explaining why you're in possession of women's tabloid magazines?" She playfully yanked the glossy pages out of his hand and flipped through them.
"I too have cooking emergencies on occasion. You know there's a whole section dedicated to recipes?" He seemed excited with the knowledge.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Clarice chortled and looked up to his sad eyes.
"What? Not even a thank you?" She hated when he purposely shifted the mood.
"Sorry. Thank you Alex. You're a wondrous help to the female populace." She engaged in his sincerity.
He nodded and started to pack up for the day. A few folders were thrown into his brief case along with his cell phone and beeper. His gun remained holstered at his waist, as did hers until they reached the complete safety of their homes.
"See you tomorrow partner." The end of days always revitalized energy in people. Even on the worst shifts, the last hour brought relief and happiness. Everyone wants someone, or something to go home to. A quick "Good luck!" was hollered over his shoulder before he disappeared into the sundown.
Clarice exhausted an additional hour ransacking various Spanish cooking sites before surrendering to consult with Tuhmar's gastronomic aids. Keeping in mind the ever-passing hour, she decided it would be best to try a seafood dish, as the Fish Markets were open until midnight. Her search was futile up to page 289, where she spotted a moderately undemanding Snapper cook-up: Catalan Bouillabaisse. In an instant she made a hasty decision and fetched her handbag, double-checking to ensure the contact address of Ven Mattinez was securely at rest in her trouser pocket.
Stepping out into the mild evening, Clarice buttoned up her light jacket and dashed for the markets, a cut out of the Woman's Day recipe clenched in her left hand.
Some things are incapable of change.
She had never been a cook, any person who ever had the opportunity to sit at her table would agree. Hannibal Lecter had shown her there was more to cuisine than frozen dinners and two-minute noodles, and since then she relished dinning in class. After two years of watching her husband and the hired help prepare their meals, Clarice, stubborn and persistent, insisted that she partake in this duty at least once a month. Dr. Lecter tried to convince her that cooking was no duty, and that she need not feel obligated, but his efforts concluded with no avail. Previous nights had run smoothly, Clarice chose dishes she was capable of working at alone, without the help of her concerned and lurking husband. Usually she enjoyed that which, more often that not, became her creative event, but in recent weeks there had been distractions, namely six dead women. She could have rung him back and cancelled, but visitors? No. Now she had to prove herself, though she knew he'd dislike hearing such a confession. Yet, it was the truth. For a woman with roots in a neighbourhood of rednecks, independence and class was something she felt compelled to demonstrate every so often. No one had to know that a tasteless tabloid was lending her a hand on this particular evening.
The main street was markedly quiet. Sprinkles of tourists made their way through the centre of the town, wondering why the locals weren't dining. Restaurants made their roaring local trade at lunch and Spaniards rarely eat out for dinner, excluding special occasions and the invited friends of Andres Torres. He liked to entertain, but there had been a lengthy break between the present and their last special feast. It was an unnerving task, not only to serve Hannibal Lecter's discriminating palate, but also his equally critical friends.
She took another glance at the torn recipe when the reached the gates to the Markets. The air carried a distinctly fishy smell, it reminded her of Evelda…
Keep walking. That's the past.
Such memory triggers always sent a jolt of anxiety directly through her heart. The struggle was not leaving behind her life, it was purposely forgetting the lives that she took. It felt inhumane and disrespectful; she wanted to be neither of those. And of course, when she thought of the raid and the bloodshed, she thought of Johnny Brigham.
How about it Starling? Ever thought about you and me?
She wouldn't deny that she missed him. He had been one of her true friends and forgetting that would be a great disloyalty. Yet, to place these memories so close to the present was dangerous. She harbored no intentions of leaving this life, and she knew that if she kept going down that path, one day soon, she would meet the end; her breakpoint.
Sighing deeply and audibly, Sara Torres weaved her way through the narrow lines of stalls, trying to focus her eyes on the surroundings instead of her weighty thoughts. She stopped in front of the strongly scented seafood stall Pesque la Tienda, and purchased a whole fresh red snapper. The owner looked at her quizzically as she threw the money at him, politely apologising for her haste.
Two blocks down she stepped into an up-market convenience store where she found the rest of the ingredients: onions, sweet butter, parsley, bay leaf, thyme, blanched almonds and garlic cloves. She knew Hannibal would have purchased the wine in advance, as well as whatever else he thought she might require.
It was dark before she entered the welcome warmth of their home. For the excessive space they inhabited, the house was pleasantly comforting and lively. Clarice strode through the renaissance decorated lobby through to the ground floor entertainment area, dropping her workbag on a large desk. She never left her revolver at the door. The down stairs kitchen had been cleared with her knife collection mounted on the countertop. She placed the brown paper bags next to a holder of fillet knives. Suddenly she was swept away with images of Gabriella Scleràte's torn and bloody body. Her mind hi-jacked her breath and she stood for a moment, light-headed from lack of oxygen. Pictures of the six women replayed in her head like a projection movie. Her stomach turned with nausea and restlessness.
She was too caught up in her thoughts to feel his presence closing in behind her. A strong pair of hands circled her small waist and fell back when she expressed her repulsive shock. For a brief second, she knew he though the worst. As she turned to face him, tendrils of her hair caressed his face; he deeply inhaled its familiar scent to calm his throbbing chest.
"You startled me." She was smiling. He had never been so happy to admit poor judgement. His hands moved back to their previous placing, he watched the shade of her eyes grow darker with excitement and passion. Oh yes, he was so very glad to be wrong.
"My apologies, Clarice." Her tense muscles began to loosen with his light caresses. " It seems as though I caught you mid-thought." His subtleness surprised her. She nodded, moving closer to step into the curves of his body.
" The Picasso case is giving me hell." Her own hands ran up the sides of his strong thighs to playfully rest on his backside. An approving growl helped to ease her thoughts into the back of her mind. A wicked grin visualised her further intentions of delaying logical thought. Just as his mouth closed over hers, laughter sounded from the second floor terrace. She pulled away from their grazing lips to look into his eyes.
" I was coming to tell you…"More laughter and his wife's quizzical expression drew him into a brief pause. "…Our guest arrived ahead of schedule." He felt her hands drop from around him, a look or horror crossing her normally exquisite face.
"You have to be kidding" She lent her arms back and rested her weight on the counter.
"I'm afraid not, my dear." He bent forward baring his teeth and nipping at her ear. "You'll have to hold those thoughts for a few more hours." He withdrew then, leaving a cool empty space where his body had roughly pushed against hers.
She watched him ascend the stairs and waited for his silhouette to disappear before she held her head in her hands. Her temples were pounding. She didn't need to add stress to her already hectic plate. The grade exams in college were easier than this. At that moment, she wished she were as dead as the snapper in the paper bag.
A/N: I tried this recipe myself the other night; Catalan Bouillabaisse. Let's just say, if Clarice has even less patience than me...this next chapter is going to get very messy! Send on your reviews, I'd love to hear what you think.