FiFty Fifty

Chapter Ten

SHE

The timer on the Sous-vide machine began to sound a steady beat. She'd risen early to prepare a treat for breakfast and then returned to bed. There was a busy day ahead. She threw back the covers, padded to the kitchen, turned off the machine and lifted the lid. Inside was a gallon of water, which the machine had kept at exactly one hundred and thirty degrees for forty-five minutes. Reaching inside, the water felt very warm, but it didn't burn her skin. The pouch came out of the water bath and she placed it on a clean plate. Prior to taking its bath, the meat had been vacuum sealed in the pouch along with salt and thirty grams of smoked butter.
She slid a knife along the edge of the pouch releasing a warm cloud of vapor. From the cupboard by her knees she lifted a frying pan with an iron base, put it on the hob and lit it. A generous knob of butter hissed as it hit the pan. She reached into the bag and felt the liver. It was warm, but not too warm to touch. It would not burn her. The sensation of warm liver and butter in her hands was almost too good.
Delicately, she seared the liver on both sides while she licked the plasma from her fingers. She tipped the contents of the pan on top of a plate already laden with crushed avocado on sourdough toast. A few splashes of balsamic vinegar and a slice of blood orange completed the dish. The aromas increased her hunger. She took the plate to the dining table, sat down and tucked in.
She put down her knife and fork, picked up a cell phone from the table that sat beside a digital Dictaphone. The cell was a burner. Completely disposable. She accessed the reroute call app, dialed the number and put the phone on speaker. The call connected and rang out. No one picked up. She wasn't expecting the call to be answered. No one in the office at seven a.m. She was waiting for the message service.
'This is Assistant District Attorney Wesley Dreyer, I'm not available right now, please leave a message after the tone ...'
She waited for the beep then hit play on the Dictaphone.
'This is Mike Modine. I hear you've been looking for me. I'm sorry, this is all bad timing. I've been putting money away for years, and now it's time to use it. You could call it a midlife crisis or whatever you want, but I'm not coming back.

Frank Avellino is dead, and I could be next. He called me and wanted to change his will, but he didn't say how or why. I suspect he was being paranoid and was in the early stages of dementia when he made the call. That's all I know. Stop looking for me. I'm not going to talk to you, Mr. Dreyer. Just leave me alone.'
She ended the call, but let the Dictaphone play. The next voice was hers.
'Good boy.'
'Is that it? Can you let me go now? Come on, please. Please just let me go. No, no don't do that. No, don't ...'
The sound of Mike's screams turned to static on the recording. They were much too loud to pick up clearly on the mic.
The venison liver was good. It reminded her of the fawn. Its flesh had been warm and gamey. But quickly grew cold. Soon she would know more about the prosecution case – the witnesses and forensic evidence that they would use against her. She also needed to know what the evidence would be against her sister. Lawyers could only do so much. It was up to her to tip the balance in her favor. Like that message on Dreyer's voicemail. It would lead him in a certain direction.
There were any number of ways to make sure she walked away free from the trial. Some participants in the trial would never change their minds. These unfortunates would need her special attention.
As she took the last bite of liver in her mouth, she thought the meal lacked something. Armagnac, perhaps. A little heavy for breakfast, but ideal for supper. Mike Modine had now been divided into manageable sections, each wrapped tightly in black plastic along with an appropriately weighted disc from the dumbbell set she had ordered. There any many ways to discard a body in New York. The rivers are by far the easiest. And the ferries are usually quiet after ten a.m. She would buy a ticket to DUMBO on the East River, and then, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, with her back to a security camera on the rear deck, she could toss a limb discretely from her gym bag without anyone noticing so much as a splash. She showered, put on her running gear.
She made a note on a file pad beside her. After she dumped Mike's arms in the river, she would call in to the liquor store and get some Armagnac.