The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

  “Wait.” Heels tapped on the wood floor and went silent on the carpet in the living room. “I’ll have Judy take you.”

  “No, don’t worry about me. It’s easy to get rides, especially from men. They think I’m cute.”

  “Kylie, stop.”

  “Why? I have to start looking for another job, don’t I?”

  “Go ahead, do what you want, but I’m not letting you leave this house and accept a ride from a stranger!”

  Kylie went into the foyer and stopped at the door, staring at the dark, heavy wood. It was curved at the top, with a crystal hanging in the fan-shaped window, catching the sun. Kylie bowed her head. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain. “Actually, I drove here.”

  “Drove what?”

  “A friend’s car.” She stared at the floor. “I’m sorry I said you were hateful. I didn’t mean it.”

  “We were both upset,” C.J. said.

  “Can’t I stay another week? It won’t make any difference.”

  “What about Wednesday? That gives you time to say good-bye to your friends. It’s not the end of the world, you know. You can always come back. Miami will still be here.” C.J. had a smile so phony that Kylie wanted to shove her. “Well. Is there anything you need? Do you have enough cash to last until then?”

  “Actually, no.” Kylie put on her own smile. “I need some gas for the car. It’s running on empty. And I have to drop it off on South Beach. Could you lend me enough for a taxi?”

  “Of course. I’ll just get my purse.” She went over to the sofa. “You do have a valid driver’s license, don’t you?” When Kylie said she did, C.J. nodded. She took a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet, then another one, then all of them, including a fifty. She tossed the wallet back into her bag. “Be careful, borrowing somebody else’s car. If you get into an accident, and you’re under eighteen, the owner could sue your parents for the damage.”

  “I doubt it. The owner’s been gone for a week, and I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  Blue eyes opened wide, and the hand with the money froze as Kylie reached for it.

  Kylie tugged it away. “Thank you very much, Ms. Dunn. I really appreciate this.”

  “What are you talking about, the owner is gone?”

  She slid the money into her shorts pocket. “The car belongs to Alana Martin. Nobody can find her. It’s been on TV. She and I were friends, and I think . . . well, I’m pretty sure she went to Hollywood. She told me she had a friend out there or something.”

  C.J. tilted her head as though she hadn’t heard correctly. “You knew Alana Martin? What are you doing with her car? Kylie?”

  “I borrowed it.” Kylie wished she hadn’t said anything.

  “From Alana? When?”

  “Somebody was fixing the transmission, and they dropped it off at her apartment a couple of days ago. When I went by there yesterday to ask her roommate if she’d heard anything, I saw Alana’s car, and then . . . I needed some way to get here, so I took a bus over to the Beach early this morning and borrowed it. She kept a spare key under the rear bumper.” Kylie added, “I’m going to take it right back.”

  “You knew her. You knew Alana Martin. How do you know her?”

  “From the magazine. Alana was working for the advertising director. She quit just after I started there, but we would go out together. Parties. Dancing. Alana got me a fake ID. She knew most of the bouncers, so we didn’t have any trouble.”

  “A fake ID. Oh, God.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “No? Tell me that when you get arrested. When did you last see Alana?”

  “The night of the party. There was a party on Star Island. We went there together. She said she had to talk to someone, and to wait, but she never came back. I waited and waited and finally hitched a ride home.”

  “You hitchhiked?”

  “It was somebody from the party. He was all right.”

  “What is the matter with you? My God, Kylie, anything could have happened!”

  “I couldn’t find Alana, and I didn’t have any money. What the fu—What was I supposed to do?”

  C.J. took her arm and put her on the sofa while she sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. “We need to take that car back before someone reports it stolen. I’ll ask Judy. She can do it. You and I are going to talk. I need to know everything about Alana Martin.”

  After some seconds went by, Kylie said, “Why?”

  She shook her head. “It’s related to a case I’m doing. I can’t discuss that with you, but it’s extremely important that I know what happened that night. Why did she go to the party? Who was she going to meet? She must have said something to you. What can you tell me about her friends and the men she knew? Don’t move. I’m going to call Judy.” Crossing the room, C.J. picked up the phone. “You need to give her Alana’s address and the key to the car.”

  The key was in the pocket of Kylie’s shorts. She could almost feel it vibrating against her hip. A feeling of lightness was rushing through her, and everything suddenly seemed so clear, so perfectly obvious. Sliding her bag over her shoulder, she went around the coffee table, past an armchair, then toward the foyer. “This is so interesting. You have this big important legal thing you can’t talk about, and I have information you want. I might know a lot about Alana. It depends.”

  C.J. turned around with the phone in her hand. “What do you mean, it depends? Depends on what?”

  Kylie sent her a little smile. “I can’t talk to you if I’m not here, can I?” As C.J.’s mouth dropped open, Kylie ran for the door. “Stop! Where are you going? Wait!”

  She slammed the door on her way out, leaped off the porch, and sped across the yard. She skidded to a stop at the end of the brick walkway and dug the key out of her pocket as the front door swung open.

  “Kylie! Stop!” C.J. almost tripped in her high heels. “Come back!”

  Kylie spun around. “I am not going to Pensacola! If you want something from me, you can pay for it!”

  She sprinted to where she had parked the car, unlocked it, and got in, slamming down the lock. The tires screeched when she stepped on the gas. Before she turned onto Bayshore, she looked in the rearview and saw C.J. Dunn standing in the middle of the street fifty yards back with her hands in her hair.

  chapter EIGHT

  judy Mazzio said, “You couldn’t stop her?” “You try to catch a teenager in sneakers with a head start.” C.J. threw one high-heeled Prada, then the other, at the sofa. “I hope she gets arrested for car theft.”

  “Do you really?”

  “No.” C.J. fished a pair of scuffed flats from under the coffee table. “I’d have to go get her skinny little butt out of jail. You should have heard her. ‘Thank you for caring whether I live or die.’ That’s something you expect out of the mouth of a thirteen-year-old. I thought she’d be . . . I don’t know. Nicer.”

  “Edgar likes her. He says she’s spunky.”

  “Edgar likes everyone. I need some coffee. I need it bad. Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

  “Better make it decaf,” Judy said with an arch of her brow.

  Standing in the doorway, C.J. sighed at the mess, then spotted one of her three cats on the counter. “Get down, you!” He leaped off and walked calmly to his dish, tail switching. “When I have a spare minute, I’m going to interview housekeepers.” She waved Judy away from the sink and retrieved the coffee carafe herself. “I’ll do it. Go have a seat.”

  Judy pulled out a chair at the bistro table under the window and shifted aside a week’s worth of newspapers. “Have a good time last night?”

  “Yes, I did, thank you.”

  “And how is Señor Wonderful?” Judy’s attitude was showing. She thought that Billy Medina had the morals of an alley cat, that he would dump C.J. one day, and that she deserved better.

  C.J. grinned over her shoulder. “He climbed out of the pool and took off his Speedo. That was pretty wonderful.”

  “I�
�ll bet.”

  “I like going over to Billy’s. He keeps a very neat house. It’s inspiring.”

  “That’s the reason?”

  “Well, the sex. There is that.”

  Judy swung her foot. Changing the subject, she said, “What are you going to do about Kylie?”

  “If she knows anything, I have to get it out of her.”

  “It’s going to cost you.”

  “I’ll send Paul Shelby the bill.”

  Judy smiled. “You admire the kid’s chutzpah.”

  “Please.”

  “You do, admit it.” With a chuckle Judy set her chin in her palm. “Not often someone gets the better of C.J. Dunn. Even worse, a smartass teenager. How much for a year in college these days?”

  “She’s going to school in Pensacola.” C.J. measured coffee into the filter. She turned on the coffeemaker and stared at it, letting out a long breath.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “How did Kylie get involved with people like this? Drugs, drinking. A fake ID? And she got fired from her job, too.” Pushing away from the counter, C.J. said, “I can’t think about this now. What did you find out on Richard Slater?”

  “A couple of things. First, tell me what Shelby had to say.”

  “Not much. It was basically a repeat of what I told you last night.” C.J. found some mugs in the sink and washed them. “Shelby hired Slater two months ago. He doesn’t remember where Slater lives or how much they pay him.”

  Judy brushed some crumbs into her hand and sprinkled them into a potted geranium on the windowsill.

  “That was on my list,” C.J. said. “You’re making me feel bad.”

  “Sorry.” Judy grinned.

  Pouring the coffee, C.J. said, “Billy met Slater once. He thinks he’s basically a muscle-bound dimwit. Now it’s your turn. He’s going to call me at noon. What should I know about him?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Judy said, “Billy Medina is dead wrong.”

  C.J. looked at her from across the kitchen as she stirred in the milk.

  “I followed the Shelbys’ car from the concert last night. Just curious, you know? Slater dropped the Finches off in Coral Gables and took the Shelbys home to Cocoplum, where he picked up his own car, an Audi with dark tints on the windows. I don’t know when he made me, but he did. Coming back up Dixie, he took off like a rocket and left me stuck in traffic. Very slick move. I was parked on the circle at Sunset Drive, and I bet he read my license plate.”

  C.J. brought the mugs. “It doesn’t matter. You work for me. I wanted to know who my client is. So tell me about him.”

  Judy rummaged in her bag, found an envelope, and took out some pages. On top was an enlarged color copy of a Florida driver’s license. Richard A. Slater. All the charm of a mug shot. The man’s hair was shaved close to his scalp. Brown or hazel eyes—it was hard to tell—stared through narrowed lids. A small scar made a pale line above one of his straight, dark brows. His jaw and lips were obscured by a closely trimmed mustache and short beard. His collar seemed too tight, and his shoulders looked massive. Five-ten, 200 pounds, age thirty-eight, living in a Latino neighborhood west of downtown.

  She grimaced. “My new client.”

  “It’s a driver’s license photo. You should see mine. I think he’s kinda sexy. Check out the birth date. He’s a Scorpio. Same as me. Passionate, intelligent—but secretive and stubborn. You’re a Leo. You might get along with him.”

  “I’m sure.” C.J. sipped her coffee. “What else have you got?”

  Judy unfolded a pair of purple-framed reading glasses. “I ran his name, DOB, and social security number through a national database. No criminal record, no traffic tickets. No record of real estate bought or sold. No record of car loans. He bought the Audi here in Florida two months ago, used. No outstanding debts. One credit card, a Visa, zero balance.”

  “Does he exist?”

  Consulting her notebook, Judy said, “I talked to a friend with the Beach police last night. Marla. She’s in property crimes, but she said she’d find out what she could. The lead detective on the Martin case is George Fuentes, who I think you know.”

  “Yes, he’s a decent guy.”

  Judy went on, “Slater lives alone. Never married. Born in Kentucky. Dad was in the military, so they traveled around a lot. He served eight years in the Army, earned a college degree, was honorably discharged, then went into private security work overseas. He applied for a job with Atlas Security, and they sent him to Paul Shelby.” Looking over the top of her glasses, Judy said, “It’s not unusual if he’s been out of the country most of his adult life. Do you want me to dig further, or do you want to just ask him?”

  “I’ll ask.” C.J. pushed her coffee away. The acid was giving her heart-burn. She opened the bag of potato chips she’d left on the table. They were stale, but the grease and salt made her mouth water.

  “Didn’t Señor Wonderful have breakfast sent up?”

  “Stop calling him that. No, he was still asleep when I left.”

  “You’re going to make yourself sick.” Judy snatched the bag away and threw it in the trash. Opening the refrigerator, she found some yogurt and looked at the expiration date. She tossed that in the trash as well. “Oh, this is pathetic. At least you feed the cats.”

  “I’ve been busy lately,” C.J. said. “The witnesses who allegedly saw Slater with Alana Martin. Did you get any names?”

  “Marla doesn’t know.” Judy came back. “I’m not giving up, but you could ask Paul Shelby to find out, couldn’t you? He has some influence, is all I’m saying.”

  “I do that, and we’d start hearing stories about Congressman Shelby meddling in a murder investigation. That’s how it would play if reporters like Libi Rodriguez got ahold of it.”

  “And so . . . bottom line, you protect Shelby. If not, he might pull the rug out from under your chance to get on TV.”

  “I deserve that job,” C.J. said. “You know I’d be good at it.”

  “Oh, definitely, but as they say, be careful what you wish for.” Arms raised, Judy poked a loose strand of black hair into the knot on top of her head. “I had my little moment of fame, and, honestly? It was a drag, except for the money, which went out as fast as it came in. I made a few friends, I guess, but when you’re paying the bills, everyone’s your friend. I’m not complaining. I was a featured dancer at Caesar’s Palace. I flew to Paris in a private jet.” She made a crooked smile. “Big deal.”

  “You’ve done all right.” C.J. smiled across the table. “Best P.I. in Miami.”

  “Yeah?” She winked, a sweep of long lashes. “They never suspect a thing.”

  C.J. said, “You know, I might ask Billy to find out who the so-called witnesses are. He knows the mayor.”

  “You think he would lift a finger? Great. Make him do something useful. Meanwhile, I’ll keep asking around.”

  “Judy, you have the wrong idea about Billy. He’s not as shallow as you think.”

  “Now, there’s a sterling recommendation.”

  The phone rang on the other end of the kitchen counter, and C.J. glanced at her watch. Nine-forty-five, too early for Rick Slater to be calling.

  “Are you going to answer it?” Judy asked.

  “No, it’s probably a salesman.” But the thought came to her that it might be Kylie Willis. The girl had raced out of here, and she had crashed the car, or had been pulled over for speeding. C.J. crossed the kitchen. The screen on the wall phone said unknown caller, but by the time her mind registered that fact, she was already lifting the handset. “Hello?”

  The male voice on the other end said, “Ms. Dunn? This is Richard Slater.”

  She glanced over at Judy, then said, “Good morning, Mr. Slater. I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”

  “Sorry about that. Are you busy right now?”

  “Just doing some paperwork. We need to talk. If you could meet me at my office later today—”

  “No good. The police just d
ropped by my place with a search warrant. I need you to come over here.”

  chapter NINE

  rick Slater had a ground-floor apartment in The Banyan Tree, a two-story, L-shaped complex on the fringes of Little Havana. The initial wave of Cuban refugees had been diluted by successive floods of other Latino groups, evidenced by the Nicaraguan market on the corner and a Brazilian steak house across the street. A black metal picket fence surrounded the apartment building, accessible through a wide rolling gate that apparently was left open during the day. The namesake trees put some shade over the rows of tenant vehicles baking in the lot.

  As she pulled into a vacant guest space, C.J. noticed a Miami patrol car and two unmarked sedans clustered at one end of the building. The duty of serving a search warrant fell to the police in the local jurisdiction, the city of Miami. She guessed the unmarked cars would belong to detectives from the Beach.

  At number 108, a uniformed officer was posted outside. She told him what she wanted. A minute later, Raymond Watts came out, a big man with a stomach he counter-balanced by placing his feet apart and leaning backward. This produced a view of a double chin, short nose, and a fringe of gray hair.

  “Well, lookee here. It’s the famous C.J. Dunn. I’m all excited.”

  She had last seen Watts on the witness stand three days ago, when she sliced him apart on cross-examination. Poor Raymond. His best days were over. After Gianni Versace was shot dead on Ocean Drive, Watts was giving updates at press conferences and statements for the nightly news. Since then, he had become just another ageing cop with an eye on his pension.

  C.J. looked at him through her sunglasses. “Good morning, Detective. Are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here listening to your pointless sarcasm?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad. Officer, this is the lady, if I can call her that, who screwed us over on the Robinson case. It’s really disgusting, don’t you think, the way some lawyers get away with playing the race card? Harnell Robinson beat the crap out of somebody. He deserves jail time, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what color he is or how much money he makes.”