FOURTEEN

Nicole Brown Simpson wore bikini underwear from Victoria’s Secret. That was classy. I squinted at a police photo from the 1994 crime scene. I’d requested the pictures because we were kind of ripping off the O. J./Nicole thing for a Flesh and Bone episode. Studying the actual crime scene photos was invaluable for giving me details for Maggie and her team on the show. I’d never seen these pictures before and was surprised by all the gore. Nicole lay on her stomach in a huge pool of her blood, wearing a black minidress. It had ridden up and you could see her bottom hanging out of her Victoria’s Secret panties, one buttock cheek totally exposed. She’d had two kids, and her bottom in death was a little lumpy—not by normal American Ass standards, but by LA standards. As beautiful as she’d been in life, it wasn’t a flattering shot, and I wished for her that someone had pulled her dress down to give her a little dignity. Sure, it would have meant tampering with a crime scene, but the murderer wasn’t going to be apprehended on the basis of her panties showing.

My office phone rang. “Hi, it’s Dani,” I said absently, still looking at dead Nicole.

“Buenos días, señora, I’m calling from the Palmilla to confirm your reservation for the Labor Day holiday.”

“Oh shit,” I said out loud.

In my misery about Dave I had forgotten about other couples and their happiness. Jon and Catherine, two friends of Dave’s, were getting married in Cabo over the Labor Day weekend. Destination weddings were all the rage in Hollywood circles and everyone in town was “running for the border” to get married. Because Flesh and Bone was going to be in production through most of the summer, I wasn’t going to be getting an extended vacation the way writers did on most shows, which halt production during the summer months. Going to Mexico with Dave for a long wedding weekend was something I’d been so excited about planning. Shortly after receiving the “save the date” card in the mail, I’d bought my bathing suits from net-a-porter.com, so I’d have the chicest Missoni and Pucci bikinis at the pool. I’d also been clipping articles about anti-cellulite treatments in anticipation of getting a little rear end tune-up for our trip. In the last weeks, what with just trying not to have a nervous breakdown, I’d not thought about it at all. Now here was a woman not only confirming the reservation, but also calling me “señora.” How the fuck did she know how old I was? I could still be a “señorita.” Was there a cutoff age?

I should have canceled this reservation when Dave and I broke up. “Well . . . ,” I began.