@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } 8 Matthew was still steaming. Back some time ago, before they'd got to know each other better, he'd had the same kind of confrontation with Bloom. Twice, in fact. The first time was while Bloom was investigating the murder of Vicky Miller and the kidnapping of her daughter, Allison. Bloom had told him-on the phone, in much the same way Rawles had told him on the phone-to bug off. What he'd said, actually, was: "Counselor" (and the word counselor rankled because it was more often than not used sarcastically even among contesting attorneys in a courtroom) "it would be nice to have your word that from this minute on you won't be running all over the city of Calusa questioning anybody you think might have some connection with this case, as I would hate to have the blood of a six-year-old girl on my hands if I were you, Counselor." Matthew had said, "Stop talking to me as if I'm a fucking Los Angeles private eye." That was the first time Bloom had felt it necessary to chastise Matthew.
