The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

  He finished it off, then breathed in. “Oh, yes. Good stuff.” He filled the next with the gin from London. “Now. Let us try the Martin Miller’s.”

  C.J. turned her head. The longing had come on her so fast she felt dizzy. “Billy, I’d rather not.”

  “You don’t go to meetings anymore. I haven’t seen you take a drink in a year. What are you trying to prove?”

  “This is bad for me, what you’re doing.”

  “Sorry.” He picked up the other shot glass. He sipped, rolling the gin around in his mouth. She could see it wasn’t fun for him, drinking alone. He said, “I vote for the Van Wees. Since you’re being a Girl Scout, what can I get for you?”

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke or something.”

  “On the rocks?”

  “Ha-ha.” She cut a few slices of cheddar. “Why do you think Shelby wants me to take this case? Milo says he has no financial interest in The Aquarius. Is that true?”

  “As far as I know,” Billy said as he brought back her cola.

  “You think he’s trying to ingratiate himself with the environmentalists?”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it, but he believes this project will be good for Miami, good for development statewide.”

  “Since when did you trust a politician?”

  “Since never. So what?”

  “Tell me about Donald Finch,” she said.

  “Don produced a little comedy set on South Beach a few years back. It wasn’t bad, got into the Miami Film Festival. I see him around occasionally, when he can sneak away from the ball and chain.” Billy eyeballed his glass and poured in a practiced ounce-and-a-half measure of gin, then filled the glass with tonic. He squeezed the lime wedge and let it drop.

  “Is he rich?”

  “He used to be. The Finches were prominent in New York City, but Don left town after a dispute with his father, who is now dead. Jesus, this is good. Nearly perfect. I give it a ninety-seven out of a hundred. I don’t suppose you want to—”

  “No,” she said. “Back to Donald Finch. Noreen told me he studied film in L.A.”

  “That he did. Donald took his inheritance and went to Hollywood. He lived large for a while but didn’t accomplish much. That was before you went west. He slunk back to New York, I believe, bounced around on various low-budget productions, and finally wound up in Miami doing PR for the tourist board. Then he met Noreen Shelby. She’s older. She’s ancient, in fact, but he had what she wanted, a pedigree. He’d like to do more independent films, but Noreen controls the funding. She wants him to do a project on Paul Shelby’s rise to fame and glory. So far, it’s pretty short.”

  C.J. asked, “Where did Noreen get her money? Her family raised saddle horses in Wyoming.”

  “Her first husband, Paul Shelby’s father, was big in commercial real estate. He left a very rich widow.”

  “As rich as you?”

  “More. I’m still fighting with Uncle Sam.”

  “Noreen wants her son to be president.”

  “He could get there,” Billy said.

  “Yes, why not? He has money, connections, good hair and teeth, a lovely wife and two sons, and a mother who keeps a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince under her pillow.”

  “What have you got against Paul Shelby?”

  “I have nothing against Paul Shelby, particularly.” C.J. sipped her cola, which had all the flavor of water. “I just want to know what we’re dealing with. You could be drawn into this case, and I’d like to prevent it if I can.”

  “Me? I’ve done my duty. I talked to the police. I told them I didn’t see the girl here. I gave them a list of guests, those I could remember. They said thank you and went away.”

  “If they can’t find her, they may be back.”

  “Fine. They’ll get the same answers as before. I don’t know dick.”

  “What about Richard Slater?”

  “Who? Oh, Shelby’s driver. Your new client.”

  “Maybe—if he lets me represent him. Did you see him that night?”

  “Christ, C.J., I don’t remember. There were tons of people here. Yasmina was here. She sang. I hired a band for her. Everyone had a good time. You should have come.”

  “I was in the weeds with the Robinson trial.”

  “Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, I have met Slater. He was driving when Paul Shelby and his wife took me home from a cocktail party at Milo Cahill’s place a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Billy let out a puff of air. “What’s he like? He speaks in monosyllables. He’s about five-ten, big through the chest. Thick neck. Shaved head, a mustache-and-beard combo. He stares right through you.”

  “Oh, wonderful. I can’t wait.”

  “You prefer clients as handsome as me,” Billy said.

  “There aren’t any.” She wound a strand of his silver hair through her fingers, thick and soft as animal pelt. “When did Shelby leave the party?”

  “Are we talking business tonight?”

  “For now,” she said.

  “He left a little before midnight, I think.”

  “But his driver stuck around. I wonder why.”

  “Drinking my liquor and ogling the models, probably.”

  “I’m surprised your security people didn’t ask him to leave.”

  “They don’t, unless they notice somebody causing a problem.”

  “I wonder what he was doing with Alana Martin.”

  “Can’t help you there,” Billy said.

  “Do you know Alana?”

  “Until about three months ago she worked for my magazine. She sold advertising. I don’t go in more than once a week, you know, just making sure it’s still there, but I expect to see people at their desks, not hanging all over the VIPs and celebrities who drop by. I told personnel to get rid of her. She’s a fame-fucker.”

  “For God’s sake, Billy, don’t say that to a reporter.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Listen to me,” C.J. said. “This is serious. A very pretty twenty-year-old girl was here, then she wasn’t. If this turns into a major media event, you’re going to see satellite trucks lined up on the street.”

  “They won’t get past the guard at the entrance.”

  “It’s a public street,” she said.

  “Technically, yes, but the residents of Star Island have an excellent relationship with the chief of police. There’s the microwave. Dinner is served.”

  He brought the food over, a bottle of red wine, and one glass. They ate in silence for a while. Then he told her about a restaurant on Aruba. He and a couple of his business partners had gone to Aruba to look into investing in a hotel. C.J. assumed nothing had come of it, but, then, he didn’t talk much about his work. Just another day at the office. Billy had bought South Florida real estate when it was cheap, then a hotel on Antigua that had a small casino attached.

  He said, “Why do you want to do a show on CNN anyway? Those talk shows are inane.”

  “Mine wouldn’t be. I’d have intelligent guests with something to say.”

  “You’d be famous,” he said.

  “I could learn to live with that.”

  “You think so? People in your face all the time. No privacy.”

  “I’ll hire bodyguards to keep the crowds back when I get into my limo.”

  “Who is that sexy blonde behind the sunglasses?” Billy’s smile deepened the lines at his eyes. “C.J. Dunn. Yes, I know her. She slept with me last night, doing unmentionable things.”

  “Would you still like me if I were rich and famous?”

  “I might like you more. Right now, you’re only beautiful.” He poured himself more wine, and the deep red liquid swirled and made streaks down the glass. The blood-heavy scent of it zinged into her nostrils.

  “There’s dessert,” Billy said. “Some kind of pie.”

  “God, no, I’m full.” She helped him carry things to the sink. The maid would wash them in the morning.

&
nbsp; “Are you going to stay tonight?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No. I was asking to be polite.”

  “Fine. I won’t, then,” she said.

  “It’s your loss.”

  She laughed. “You’re horrible. You really are.”

  He slid his hands up her arms. “Of course I want you to stay.”

  “All right, but I’m leaving early. I have things to do in the morning.”

  “Love your enthusiasm,” he said.

  “I love yours.” She kissed his cheek, rough with a day’s worth of stubble. The bridge of his nose was slightly out of line, but you had to look hard because a plastic surgeon had done a good job putting it back together.

  A year ago, with a blood-alcohol level of one point eight, Billy Medina had crashed his Maserati into a guardrail, his second DUI. Billy’s attorney worked out a deal: no jail time if he went to AA meetings for six months. He came to the same small group C.J. had joined, a Methodist church in a nowhere residential district on the Beach. She was avoiding the downtown groups, the lunchtime or after-work meetings where there were far too many other lawyers with alcohol problems. She hadn’t recognized Billy at first, with the bandage over his nose, but soon they were going out for coffee after the meetings, or having a late dinner, C.J. stifling her laughter as Billy imitated the sappy stories they’d just heard. They started moving around to other meetings, not wanting to be known, not wanting to get involved with the real drunks, who might ask for favors.

  Billy did his six months. C.J. stayed for a while, but she didn’t have time, or she didn’t like opening herself up to strangers, or maybe it was just too boring without Billy. So she quit too. She had stopped drinking, so what was the point? Her sponsor kept calling for a while, then gave up and wished her well.

  The longing to drink still came on her, but not as often, and she was always able to fight it off. What she liked about Billy, among other things, was that he didn’t nag her about it. What he liked about her was that she didn’t expect him to save her. Whatever she chose, it was up to her. Billy made no demands. He never pushed. If she wanted to be with him, fine. If not, he wouldn’t hold her. It was liberating. Sometimes a little lonely, but as Billy would say, if you don’t like the view, move on. She had tried to do that. She had tried. She had given up alcohol, but she couldn’t give up Billy.

  chapter SIX

  judy Mazzio put the handicap tag on her rearview mirror and gave forty bucks to an off-duty cop to let her park beside a fire hydrant down the street from the concert hall.

  As people streamed out the main exit doors, a line of cars moved under the brightly lit portico. Judy spotted the congressman and his party coming down the steps, stopping from time to time to greet friends. Handshakes, air kisses, slaps on the back. A big smile on the older woman with platinum hair, the man with her watching the line of cars. Judy raised her binoculars. This would be Noreen Finch, Shelby’s mother.

  A couple of minutes later, a silver-blue Cadillac sedan approached. Noreen Finch signaled the others, and they went down to the driveway. Shelby paused to shake another hand.

  A bearded man with a shaved head got out of the car. Dark suit, open-collar shirt, big shoulders. No wasted motion. But Shelby had already opened the back door, putting the women and his stepfather inside. The congressman got into the front, and the car pulled away.

  Pointed the same direction on the one-way street, Judy followed.

  C.J. hadn’t asked her to do this. In her phone call three hours ago she had only mentioned that Shelby’s driver would be picking them up after the concert. When the poker game at Edgar’s ended early, Judy thought there might be time to take a look at the guy.

  What had she learned? Not much.

  She followed the Cadillac up the interstate on-ramp, heading south, the mirrored spires of downtown on the left, the low apartments and tree-lined streets of Little Havana on the right. The expressway arched over the river, curved past the turnoff to Key Biscayne, then dumped traffic onto South Dixie Highway. Judy turned up the volume on her satellite radio, the classical station, and settled into her seat. There were no classical stations in Miami, which said something about the culture, but she wasn’t sure what.

  She stayed just close enough not to lose them. Her gray Camry was as invisible a car as existed, but it had a six-cylinder, turbocharged engine and racing shocks. A couple of miles farther on, the Shelbys’ car slowed at a light, then turned north on Riviera Drive. Here in Coral Gables, banyan trees met over the narrow streets and traffic thinned out. Riviera curved right, but the Cadillac went straight on to Biltmore. Judy slowed as its brake lights flared. The Caddy paused at a low, vine-covered wall on the left, waiting for a gate to slide back.

  Judy cruised by the house, a sprawling, two-story mansion with a red tile roof and a fountain. She caught a glimpse of the older couple getting out and quickly did a U-turn at the end of the block and parked in someone’s driveway with her lights off. When the Cadillac reappeared, she followed it back to South Dixie.

  Through the usual heavy Friday-night traffic she kept her eyes on the Caddy’s taillights. The driver maintained a steady pace, going the speed limit, signaling before changing lanes, a real Eagle Scout. He cruised past the University of Miami and took a left on Red Road, due south, into narrower streets and heavier foliage. Judy fell back.

  They went over a bridge and toward a landscaped traffic circle. As she’d expected, the Cadillac went around, heading toward the low illuminated sign that marked the waterfront subdivision of Cocoplum, where the Shelbys lived. At the guard shack a gate arm went up. Judy kept going around to the small parking area near the bridge, which overlooked a canal. She turned off her lights, slid down in her seat, and adjusted the rearview.

  Ten minutes later headlights approached the exit lane, and the gate went up. A dark blue Audi appeared. The side windows were tinted, but the light from the guard shack shone through the windshield. When the Audi had gone around the circle and over the bridge, Judy put her car into gear.

  Heading north on Dixie Highway he picked up speed to fifteen miles over the limit, like everyone else. At Twenty-Seventh, he slowed as the light turned yellow, then whipped around another car and blew through the red light.

  Caught by the car ahead of her, Judy watched the taillights on the Audi getting smaller. When the light turned green, she gunned the engine and zigzagged through traffic, but he was gone.

  She hit the steering wheel and laughed out loud. “Damn. You’re good.”

  chapter SEVEN

  after two tries on the doorbell, Kylie stepped off the front porch and walked around to the side of the house. The only car under the portico was a twenty-year-old Buick sedan. She had come all this way for nothing. She hadn’t called first because it would have been too easy for C.J. to say no on the phone.

  She heard a noise from behind the house. It sounded like an electric saw. Kylie followed a mossy brick path to a gate, looked through the bars, and saw shade trees, an arbor with hanging baskets of orchids, and, beyond that, a stucco cottage painted the same white as the main house. A power cord came out the screen door of the cottage, down the steps, and over to the back wall, which Kylie couldn’t see from where she stood.

  The saw started up again. She tried the latch. It opened.

  A long ladder reached the second floor, and a skinny man in a straw hat stood near the top holding a jigsaw against a PVC pipe coming out of the wall. Bits of white plastic flew everywhere. He turned off the saw, hung it on an S-hook, and brushed off the end of the pipe.

  Kylie stepped closer. “Excuse me? Sir?”

  The straw hat turned. Under the brim she could make out a pair of thick glasses, a small gray mustache, and a face lined with wrinkles. “We’re not buying anything.”

  “I’m looking for C.J. Dunn. This is her house, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is she home?”

  “Not right now. And who might you be?”
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  “Kylie Willis. My mother is a friend of hers.”

  He nodded slowly. “Seems I’ve heard the name.”

  “Will Ms. Dunn be back?”

  “I expect so. She lives here.” He reached into a bucket hanging off another hook and took out a short piece of pipe with a ninety-degree angle. “Said she’d be here about nine o’clock. You’re free to wait.”

  With a sigh, Kylie sat on the bench under the tree. She checked her watch: ten minutes past. A breeze came through, cooling her bare arms and legs. She took off her glasses and cleaned them on the hem of her T-SHIRT. Five minutes ago, getting out of her borrowed car, she had seen how the street came to a dead end at the water, with a little park at the turnaround, the kind of street she’d live on if she had the money.

  “Dad-drat it!” The old man stared down at the grass. “Girl! Get that for me, will you? That little can of PVC cement.”

  Kylie put her glasses back on, found the can, and went up the ladder. “What are you doing?”

  “Diverting water from the shower drain to that barrel there.” He unscrewed the cap and painted glue around the end of the pipe coming out of the wall, then daubed the brush into the angled connector. “We’re in a drought, in case you hadn’t noticed. We used to have dry spells, but not like this.”

  “Global warming,” she said, going down the ladder again.

  “No! It’s too many idiots moving down here. Greed. Stupidity. We’re paying the price now, boy-oh-boy, are we. When I was your age, Miami was a paradise. Pure spring water bubbled right up through the aquifer into Biscayne Bay. There were rapids in the Miami River, till they blew it up with dynamite and dredged it. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

  He pressed the connector onto the end of the pipe, grunting, then reached into the bucket again and came out with a red-handled valve on a threaded piece. He screwed the piece into the connector. “Now give me the hose. It’s over there, by the barrel.”

  He pointed toward a blue plastic barrel lying on its side under a window. She couldn’t see into the house; the blinds were closed. She picked up the coil of two-inch-diameter black hose lying in the grass and carried it up the ladder. The man slid it over the pipe, off and on. The uncoiled hose reached nearly to the ground.