“Where’s the warrant?” C.J. said. “I want to see it, and I want to speak to my client.”
Another figure appeared at the door. “Ray, I’ll handle this.”
Watts stepped back inside, and George Fuentes said, “Morning, Ms. Dunn. The warrant’s inside. When you get a chance, come talk to me.” They went in and he closed the door. Fuentes was a good cop; he simply went about doing his job, like most of them.
C.J. took a quick look around. The apartment was up to date but generic, the kind you rent if you don’t intend to stay for long, furnished with a brown sofa-armchair combination, lamps, a small flat-screen TV. The coffee table held yesterday’s newspaper, a pack of Marlboros, an overflowing ashtray, an empty pizza box, and at least . . . she counted them . . . nine empty bottles of Rolling Rock beer. Through the open bedroom door, she saw the end of a neatly made bed with precise corners on the dark green duvet. A plainclothes officer was going through dresser drawers.
They had put Slater in the dining area, out of the way. He stood up as she approached, a solidly built man with a shaved head and the muscled arms of a boxer. He might have been sleeping when they knocked on his door. He was barefoot. His cheeks were stubbled past the edge of his beard, and it seemed he had pulled on the first pieces of clothing he could find, a rumpled shirt printed with palm trees and a baggy pair of jeans. This made C.J. feel slightly less grungy, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. She had grabbed her jacket, run out the door, and touched up her lipstick in traffic.
Her hand vanished into Slater’s. “Glad you could come,” he said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Slater. Sorry it’s under these circumstances, but we’ll sort it out.” She picked up the warrant from the table and read it. The search was relying on information from unnamed sources who alleged that Richard Slater was the last person seen with Alana Martin, and another who stated that the two had an “intimate relationship.” This didn’t fit Slater’s assurances to Paul Shelby that he had never met the girl. C.J. had long ago lost the capacity to be shocked by a lie. The only question was, whose lie?
“Have you said anything to them beyond ‘What do you want?’ and ‘I’m calling my lawyer’?”
“No.”
“Good. As soon as they leave, we’ll go downtown to my office and talk.”
Raymond Watts came over to Slater. “I need your car keys. Your vehicle is next.”
Slater said, “On the kitchen counter.”
Watts went to get them. A muscle tensed in Rick Slater’s jaw as he watched the detective walk away.
“The paperwork is in order,” C.J. said. “There’s nothing we can do except wait. Have a seat. Sergeant Fuentes wants to see me. I’ll be right back.”
A short hall led to a bathroom, where a uniformed female officer in blue latex gloves was going through the medicine cabinet. She glanced over at C.J. as if a movie actress had suddenly showed up, then remembered where she was and went back to her duties.
Inside the bedroom, another officer felt the pockets of slacks in the closet, pushed aside hangers, and turned over shoes to see the tread. Sergeant Fuentes stood at a desk going through papers. An ethernet cable lay on the desktop, connected to a wireless router. There was no computer attached. Unless Fuentes was blind, he had noticed too.
C.J. asked, “Find anything interesting?”
“A forty-five cal Smith and Wesson M-and-P pistol. That’s military and police issue. He’s licensed, so he can keep it.” Fuentes thumbed through some papers. “Other than that, not much so far.”
Like the rest of the apartment, there was little in this room to distinguish the occupant. A stack of paperback crime novels on the nightstand. Some CDs beside a portable stereo on the dresser. C.J. walked over and looked at one of the albums. Saima Khan, a dark beauty with jeweled earrings, a gold ring in one nostril, and a yellow silk head scarf about to slide off. She turned the CD over. Recorded in London. The singer was Pakistani. C.J. put it back and saw Radiohead, Mexican ranchero tunes, and a collection from The Buddha Bar in Paris. The man had eclectic tastes.
Fuentes balled up his gloves and stuck them in a pocket. A thin, dark man, he favored brightly colored knit shirts tucked into khaki pants. Jackets were for court. His badge was clipped to his belt holster.
“What can I do for you, George? Mr. Slater didn’t know Alana, despite what you may have heard.”
“Uh-huh. He told me that, too, but I have two witnesses who put your client with Ms. Martin the night she disappeared. She was passed out drunk in the backyard of Guillermo Medina’s house. They went over to see if she was all right, and Slater came along and told them to get lost. They saw him leave with her. We have another witness who tells us that Alana was intimate with Slater.”
“Do these people have names?”
“Sorry, C.J., can’t go there, not yet.”
“What possible motive would Richard Slater have to kidnap this girl? And then what? Rape and murder her? Really, George, you can’t believe that. Rick works for a United States congressman. He was thoroughly vetted. His record is spotless.”
Fuentes held up his hands. “I gotta run down my leads, doesn’t matter who or what. See what your client has to say. I’d be curious to get the real story. Maybe we can stop all this dancing around.”
She nodded. “I’d love to get it resolved, believe me. They say that Alana Martin was quite the party girl. I imagine you have a long list of people to interview.”
“A few. Call me if and when he wants to make a statement. You know the number.”
When they went back into the other room, Raymond Watts was tossing Slater’s car keys onto the dining table. “Damn. That is the cleanest car I’ve ever seen. When was the last time you had it detailed?” The heat had reddened his heavy face and put circles of perspiration under the arms of his sport shirt.
Slater said, “I’m just a very neat guy.”
“Don’t talk to him, Mr. Slater.” Watts wasn’t asking because he was curious; he wanted to know if Rick Slater had disposed of trace evidence.
Watts kept his eyes on Slater. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You were driving Congressman Shelby’s Cadillac the night Alana Martin disappeared. When did you have it cleaned?”
C.J. stepped closer. “That’s enough. Mr. Slater? Let’s just walk over here so they can finish their work.” She crossed the living room and stood by the front windows, which were shaded by the usual beige mini-blinds. The trees shifted in the wind, sending dappled light into the courtyard.
Quietly she said, “Your cell phone is mentioned in the search warrant. Did you give it to them yet?”
He turned his back to the room. “I couldn’t. You know, I think I must’ve left it at the convenience store when I bought some cigarettes.” Hazel eyes flecked with green fixed on her with a look of such fuddled embarrassment that it sounded almost plausible.
C.J. looked through the window into the parking lot. “How did you call me?”
“One of the officers lent me his.”
“Well, you’ll have to buy another phone, won’t you?”
“I guess so, if mine doesn’t turn up.”
She put a finger between the blinds. A motion had caught her attention, a man in sunglasses and a dark blue ball cap running across the street between the cars. He stopped just outside the fence and lifted a camera, its long lens going through the pickets, aiming at the window where she stood. She doubted he could get a clear shot.
“Mr. Slater, do you see that little man taking pictures? There, near the gate.”
“I see him. Who is he?”
“His name is Nash Pettigrew. He’s a tabloid photographer.”
“Why is he out there?”
“Oh, I think he’s just sniffing around so far, waiting to see who comes out. His interest has been piqued. A beautiful girl, gone. A party on South Beach. A congressman’s driver questioned by police. There could be something to it. Pettigrew sells to the sleazier publications, rarely the national media, though he
did get some of his photos of the Anna Nicole Smith saga into People magazine. He came to Miami for that, and it looks like he’s back. I knew him in L.A. He’s the sort of photographer who takes those embarrassing pictures of stars walking on the beach, showing their hip bones. ‘Angelina Jolie Anorexia Scare.’ He will wait outside nightclubs for someone to trip on the curb in her high heels, and then you see the headline, ‘Celebrity Lawyer Loses Case, Gets Smashed.’”
Rick Slater’s smile creased his cheek. “Personal experience?”
“The funny thing is, it was my partner’s case, not mine, but I have better legs. My car is parked in plain sight, so he knows I’m here.”
“How did he find out they were serving a warrant?”
“Nash has contacts in the major police departments, and he pays them for leads. It’s like seeing that first buzzard circling over the desert.” She stepped away from the window and twirled the rod to close the blinds. “Is there another way out of here?”
“There’s a back door in the kitchen.”
“We’re going to my office to chat. Do you mind driving?”
“I do it for a living,” he said.
Five minutes later, the police were done. Sergeant Fuentes asked Rick Slater to sign a form that nothing had been removed from or damaged in the premises. They said thank you and left.
Slater locked the door behind them and sat on the couch to slide his feet into a pair of woven leather sandals. He put his cigarettes in his shirt pocket and walked to the table to pick up his car keys. On the way through the kitchen, he stopped and opened the refrigerator’s freezer compartment. He lifted the door on the ice-maker and rummaged through the ice cubes. He retrieved a cell phone in a small zip-lock bag.
C.J. closed her eyes. “I didn’t see that.”
“Do you want to tell the cops to come back?”
“Let’s just go,” she said.
chapter TEN
driving across the parking lot, Rick Slater told C.J. to scoot down in the seat if she didn’t want her picture taken. The Audi slowed at the gate and turned left. Sitting up again, C.J. looked through the back window. The photographer was running toward a small brown sedan parked along the curb. “He’s following us.”
Slater said, “Hang on.”
Her body was slung sideways into his shoulder as he made a fast right at the end of the block. She had just recovered when he hit the brakes and turned into the alley behind a discount furniture store, came out on Twenty-Second, and headed north. He zipped around a car slowing for a yellow light on Calle Ocho and took a left on the red. A truck gave a long blast on its horn.
“Slow down! Are you trying to get us killed?”
He calmly glanced over to the passenger seat. Dark wraparound shades covered his eyes. “You should fasten your seat belt.”
She did so, then raked her hair off her face. “We’re going the wrong way. My office is in the Met Center.”
“There’s a good Cuban diner up the street. I’ll buy you some café con leche.”
She wanted the sleek corner conference room at Tischman Farmer, not a diner. “Thanks, but I’ve had my coffee. I’d rather we talk at my office.”
“Later,” he said. “I haven’t had breakfast. I get cranky.”
“Fine.”
He shook a cigarette out of his pack and grabbed it in his lips, then reached for a lighter in the console. He paused. “You mind?”
“Yes, actually, I do. It gives me a headache.”
He hit the button to send the window back up and returned the cigarette to his shirt pocket. “I don’t smoke that much. Five or six a day. And those beers in the living room? They aren’t all mine. I had a friend over. Just so you know.”
“I wasn’t asking,” she said.
Slater planted his right elbow on the arm rest. “Paul said you can take care of this for me, the police and so forth. He said you’re not charging me the regular rates.”
“That’s correct.”
“You look expensive.”
“I am. Let’s say five thousand for my expenses. I believe Mr. Shelby will pay it.”
“Five thousand dollars? I’m definitely going to respect you in the morning.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was a joke.” Slater accelerated around a city bus, then said, “I thought Shelby would fire me. Why hasn’t he?”
“He’s loyal to his employees.”
Slater made a little twist of his lips. “That’s good to know.”
“You could find another attorney,” C.J. said.
“You’ll do. You did the job for Harnell Robinson. I saw you on the news last night. I thought for sure Robinson was going away.” Slater stopped at a red light. “What does C.J. stand for?”
“I don’t like my real name. I never use it.”
“Cordelia?”
“God, no.”
“I bet I could find out.”
“You probably could, but it’s C.J.”
“Calamity Jane?”
She had to smile.
Slater made a six-gun out of his thumb and forefinger. “You could start with the photographer.”
“That’s so tempting,” she said.
The street took them past small storefront businesses, a botanica with a life-size statue of San Lazaro on crutches out front, and a Walgreen’s announcing descuentos on school supplies. Slater held on to the top of the leather-wrapped steering wheel. As he turned the wheel to go around a slower-moving vehicle, his sleeve pulled up, and on the heavy muscle above his elbow she noticed a pale, shiny scar about the size of a quarter.
He saw her curious gaze. “It was a swordfish.”
“A what?”
“The fish with a long, sharp bill.”
“I know what a swordfish is, I just thought . . . it looks like a bullet wound.”
“Yeah, it does, but it was a swordfish. Cut the artery. Son of a bitch leaped right out of the water. A friend of mine owned a charter boat on Isla de Mujeres, Yucatan. We took a bunch of American doctors out for the day.” He smiled. “Good thing they weren’t lawyers.”
She looked at him for a few seconds more, doubting the story but unable to think of a reason for him to lie about it.
Slater put on his signal and turned into a shady parking lot. He braked, then skillfully backed into a space between two SUVs that hid the Audi from view. He walked around to open her door, but she was already getting out.
He shrugged. “Habit.”
The restaurant was crowded, a brightly lit place with red-covered stools at a long counter with tables in another section. While they waited, Slater took a copy of El Herald, the Spanish edition of The Miami Herald, from a stack of them and left some coins beside the cash register. He slid out the local section and dropped the rest in a trash can by the door.
“Let’s see what we’ve got. They’ve been running stories about Alana Martin all week.” He turned the A Section over to see below the fold. “Here it is. Yesterday it was in the local section. The Venezolana is still missing. The parents are asking the community to contribute reward money. Here’s something new. They deny that she was stealing from her employer. She worked in a dress shop on South Beach. She’s an angel. Never a problem. A beautiful daughter. A model. She dreams of being a movie actress.”
He turned the article so she could see it. C.J. asked, “Who alleged she was stealing?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“I’m sorry for her parents,” C.J. said quietly. “I’ve represented parents of missing children. It tears your heart. It’s bad when they find them dead. Worse if they never know.”
“Someone killed her,” Slater said. “The police are waiting for the body to turn up.”
“I think so too.”
A young hostess appeared with menus. He folded the newspaper. “Por favor, una mesa al fondo.” With a nod and a smile she led them to a booth in the back. When they were seated with menus, Slater took off his sunglasses and said, “What do you want? I’m bu
ying.”
“Nothing. Juice. Maybe some wheat toast.”
“How about a ham-and-cheese omelet? You look a little underfed.”
“Two scrambled with one piece of bacon,” she replied.
“You’re not skinny. I didn’t mean that.”
“Where did you learn Spanish?” C.J. asked.
“Here and there. Mexico, mostly.”
“What were you doing in Mexico besides fishing?”
“Playing bodyguard for rich ex-pats. Tending bar. Basically wasting time.” He spoke as though what he said didn’t matter in the least and her inquiries were only an attempt to make polite conversation.
Before she could probe further, the waitress came with her notepad. Slater ordered for both of them, sending her off with a flash of white teeth and a gracias that put a smile on the woman’s face. He wasn’t ugly at all, C.J. thought. He had a good face for the camera. With the right sort of clothes and some polishing, he would look rugged, not rough.
C.J. said, “Your criminal record comes up clean, but . . . have you ever been arrested?”
“Not really. The Philippines, does that count? It was a bar in Manila. This whore, excuse me, a woman at the bar approached me, I declined, and her pimp and another guy tried to take my wallet when I went to the men’s room. The cops threw me in jail till it got sorted out. I didn’t put it on my résumé. What I tell you is in confidence. Am I right?”
She stared at him for a while, then said, “I should probably be careful what I ask you. Can you meet me at my office later? Say two o’clock?”
“Can’t.” He looked at his heavy watch with its three smaller dials. “I’m taking Paul Shelby and his chief of staff to a luncheon in Boca Raton, some kind of fundraising thing. We’re talking now, aren’t we?”
She leaned forward. “This is going to take more than a few minutes over eggs and toast, Mr. Slater. What I need, if I’m going to—”
“Call me Rick.” He smiled.
“Fine. Rick. If I’m going to do my job, I need to know everything about you. I want your autobiography. I have a written list of questions you can use for a guide—”
The Dark of Day Page 9
