The Crucifix Killer - Chris Carter [79]
‘Hi there, you’re fashionably late,’ she said as she leant forward to give Hunter a peck on the lips.
‘I’m sorry about that. I had a bad hair day.’
‘You too?’ She laughed, pointing to her own hair. ‘Come in.’ She pulled him by the hand and led him into the living room. There was a pleasant and exotic smell in the apartment. The living room was illuminated by soft light courtesy of a table lamp in the corner next to a comfortable-looking leather armchair.
‘I hope this goes with dinner, I’m not a wine expert so I followed a recommendation,’ he said, handing her the wine bottle.
Isabella held it with both hands and tilted it towards the dim light so she could read the label. ‘Ooh! Mas de Daumas Gassac . . . and a 1992 bottle, I’m impressed. I’m sure this goes well with anything. How about a small glass now?’
‘That sounds good to me.’
‘Great, the glasses are on the table and the corkscrew is just over there.’ She pointed to a small drinks cabinet next to the window. ‘Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself comfortable.’ She turned and walked back into the kitchen leaving Hunter to do the honors.
He took his jacket off, remembering to remove his Wildey pistol as well. He picked up the corkscrew from the drinks cabinet and opened the wine bottle, pouring the dense red liquid into two glasses on the table. Next to the drinks cabinet an elegant glass rack held a considerable number of CDs. Hunter couldn’t help browsing through them. Her jazz collection was impressive, most of it contemporary with a few old school classics thrown in. Everything immaculately arranged in alphabetical order. A handful of autographed Rock albums disrupted the remarkable jazz compilation. Hunter quickly had a look at them. So she secretly listens to rock music, he thought with a smile. My kinda woman.
‘Whatever it is that you’re cooking smells great,’ he said, walking into the kitchen with both glasses in hand. He handed one to Isabella who slowly swirled it around and brought it to her nose before having a small sip.
‘Wow, as I expected . . . delicious.’
Hunter had no idea what difference it made but he copied Isabella’s moves, swirling, sniffing and sipping.
‘Yeah, not bad.’ They both laughed.
She lifted her glass in Hunter’s direction. ‘To . . . a nice evening together. Hopefully with no phone interruptions.’
Hunter nodded and softly touched his glass against hers.
The evening proceeded better than Hunter could’ve hoped for. Isabella cooked veal parmesan with prosciutto and Mediterranean roasted vegetables, which came as a surprise. He was expecting some traditional Italian pasta dish. Most of the conversation over dinner revolved around her life, with Hunter revealing very little about his own.
She grew up in New York. Her parents were first-generation Italian immigrants who had come to the United States during the early seventies. They owned a restaurant in Little Italy where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years together with her brother. She’d moved to LA only five years ago when she accepted a research job with the University of California in Los Angeles. She still flew back to New York at least three times a year to visit her folks.
‘Do you keep in touch with your brother?’ Hunter asked.
Isabella took her time before pulling her stare away from her wine glass. ‘My brother passed away,’ she said with sadness in her eyes.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied with a slight shake of the head. ‘It was a while ago.’
‘Were you still kids?’
Her stare went back to her wine glass. Hunter could tell she was searching for the right words. ‘He was a Marine, sent to a war we didn’t belong. In a country most Americans can’t even spell the name of.’
Hunter wondered if he should ask any more about it, but Isabella made the decision for him. ‘You know, this ain’t fair,’ she said, clearing the table and taking the dishes into the kitchen.
‘What ain’t