The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

The cameraman lowered the camera. “Libi, forget about it.”

  They found an empty booth at the Eleventh Street Diner. When the waitress came back with their iced teas, Judy said she’d have a Reuben sandwich and fries.

  C.J. said, “Didn’t you have barbecued ribs with Edgar last night?”

  “I missed lunch, thanks to you.” Judy reached into her bag for her compact and lipstick for a touch-up. The uncompromising light through the window showed the fine lines that forty-six years had sketched on her face.

  “If you’re interested,” C.J. said, “we’re grilling steaks tonight. They say we’ll get a breeze. I’m so tired of this heat.”

  “You should try Vegas.” Judy blotted her lips, now shiny plum-red. “We’ll get some rain soon.”

  “It won’t be soon enough.” C.J. unwrapped a straw. “Richard Slater. My goodness. ‘How well do you know Alana Martin?’ ‘Oh, hardly at all. Just bumped into her by accident and asked for directions. Had lunch with her.’”

  “Had more than that,” Judy said. “Bad boy, lying to his lawyer.”

  “They all do. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I wonder how huge he is?”

  “Oh, stop.” Stirring her tea, C.J. said, “Did you see Alana’s parents? I wish I could tell them. They’re going to be used up by people like their smarmy attorney, and Libi Rodriguez, and whoever else wants a free ride to five seconds of fame.”

  “Maybe they want it too,” Judy said. “It sort of keeps her alive in a way. As long as people are talking about her—”

  “It never lasts. People will stop talking. The reporters move on to the next story, and Alana will be even more dead than she is now.”

  “Aren’t we in a mood,” Judy said.

  C.J. suddenly smiled. “Carlos Moreno. I know who he is. Libi Rodriguez’s cameraman.”

  “Who?”

  “The photographer who did the portfolio for Alana.”

  “No way. You sure?”

  “Positive. I thought the name sounded familiar. I’ve seen him around the courthouse.” C.J. paused. “He used to work for a big news agency. AP, Reuters, something like that. One of his pictures from Afghanistan made the cover of Newsweek. Now he’s with Channel Eight. I can’t imagine he’s happy tagging along after Libi Rodriguez.”

  “Another guy coming up in the world,” Judy said. “Here’s a question. If it is the same Carlos Moreno, why aren’t we seeing those sexy photos on Channel Eight? I mean, if you listen to Libi Rodriguez, Alana was this sweet, innocent kid who was snatched for no reason at all, just another night of mayhem on South Beach. You get what I’m saying?”

  C.J. nodded. “Moreno knows Alana Martin, and he’s keeping it from Libi. But why? Find out what you can on him, all right?”

  “Is Rick Slater’s five grand going to stretch that far? Which he hasn’t even paid you yet, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “If it runs short, I’ll get it from his boss. So. What’s your impression of Tisha Dulaney?”

  “Barrel of fun, that girl.”

  “She said she’s a travel agent. What do you think? An exotic dancer?”

  “Maybe at one time,” Judy said, “but she’s a little old for it now. No, I think she was telling the truth. And she said travel industry, not travel agent. How about adult travel industry? There are sex cruises where you can meet your favorite porn stars. Live demonstrations. Ping-pong-ball contests.”

  “Judy, for God’s sake.”

  “What? You haven’t heard about this?”

  “Yes, it’s disgusting.”

  Judy smiled around her straw. “Did you notice the DVDs on the coffee table? They were watching Bambi Gets It On, and it wasn’t the Disney version. That’s okay. I don’t care what people do in the privacy of their own homes and so forth, but it got me to thinking: What about Alana? I took a good look at her wardrobe. Most of it’s ordinary stuff, you know, but some of it? She must’ve bought it from Skank and Co.”

  “What is that?”

  Judy gave her a patient smile. “I made it up, hon. It’s not a real company. So if you look at the clothes, and the fact that she was a quote-unquote actress who couldn’t remember what movie she was in—” Judy shrugged. “I’m thinking X-rated. The industry is worth billions, not just DVDs but the stuff you download on your computer.”

  “She told Marilyn Chu it was a feature film.”

  “Sure. What else would she say? Want me to run a check on Tisha? Find out what she’s into?”

  “Why not?” C.J. laughed. “This just keeps on getting better and better. Where is Kylie in all this, I wonder?”

  “Why do you think she’s in it at all?” Judy said, “I didn’t pick up on anything like that. She’s a good girl. She is. She comes off tough, but she’s still innocent.”

  “Kylie? Innocent?”

  “Basically, yes. I mean, compared to Alana Martin, and forget Tisha. I think I can read people pretty well. Kylie’s got ambition. She wants a life. That’s why she came here. You’re not wrong, though, worrying about her. I think she’s right on the line. She could go one way or the other.”

  “Where she’s going is Pensacola. Why the hell doesn’t she call? One phone call. That’s just plain rude. Do you think I should notify the police?”

  “How long’s she been gone? Five hours? Relax. She’s letting you steam, that’s what she’s doing. She’ll call you. You’re her ticket to getting what she wants.”

  “Conniving little witch, isn’t she?”

  Judy returned her smile. “I won’t even tell my priest what I was into at her age.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Okay, then. We survived. Kylie will too.” Judy looked up as the waitress arrived with her Reuben and fries. “Talk about huge. C.J., you have to help me with this.” Holding it delicately with her long nails, she cut the sandwich in half.

  “It’s possible,” C.J. said, “that I won’t need to use Kylie. If Jason is what Marilyn Chu suggested, I can point Fuentes in his direction. That’s all I have to do.”

  “You’d make Paul Shelby happy,” Judy said. “Not so sure about Jason.”

  “That’s not my problem. He should’ve stayed away from Alana Martin.” C.J. slid her cell phone out of its pouch.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Billy. He has Milo Cahill’s private number.”

  chapter FOURTEEN

  after the trip to Boca Raton with the congressman, Rick Slater dropped by Carlos’s house to check his email. He had been keeping his laptop and personal papers over there ever since the police had first requested to talk to him.

  Rick kept everything in a metal suitcase with a lock, which Carlos stored for him on an upper shelf in a closet in the master bedroom. Before coming over, Rick would call, and Carlos would carry the suitcase into the family room. Rick had a key in the event no one was home. Inez didn’t like this arrangement. She had worn a permanent crease between her brows ever since Rick had shown up three months ago, and her husband’s refusal to explain didn’t help matters. But Inez was loyal; she would have had her fingernails pulled out before she talked. Rick had to give her that.

  He set his laptop on the card table and attached the power cord. Out in the backyard, teenagers splashed in the pool, their laughter mixed with music, some kind of rap or hip-hop that he failed to appreciate. Carlos was sitting on the other side of the table with a beer, bringing Rick up to speed on the events at Tisha Dulaney’s apartment.

  His back was to the kitchen. Inez was putting dinner together, pretending not to care if Rick Slater was in her house. Carlos spoke quietly, and his eyes danced with merriment.

  “There was a note on the door. ‘If this is about Alana Martin, go away.’ Libi was going to knock regardless, but the Martinezes’ lawyer said no, please. He said it would be bad for the parents. If Tisha got mad, she might throw away their daughter’s things, and it’s all they have left of her. The guy almost got on his knees. He didn’t have the chops to order Libi to back
off, and he knew it, so he was begging. His clients didn’t know what the hell was going on. The mother started crying. I told them, don’t worry, you can come back later. Libi says, ‘Be quiet, Carlos. You’re the cameraman. You don’t talk.’ But that was it. We left.”

  Rick said, “I think I’d have decked her.”

  Carlos’s laugh turned into a sigh. He took another swallow of beer. “I have my résumé out.”

  “You going to stay in Miami?”

  “What else can I do?” He tilted his head toward the backyard. “It’s not so bad, Rick. The family. A steady job, the insurance. But I think about it. Maybe some day, after the kids are gone, and if I’m not too old. . . .”

  Rick said, “I haven’t been shot at in a while. Can’t say I miss it.” He raised the screen on his laptop.

  “I should let you go to work,” Carlos said.

  “That’s okay. Just want to see what my lawyer has sent me.”

  Carlos said, “There was another woman with her today. She was tall, about six feet. Black hair. Mid-forties.”

  “Must’ve been her private investigator, Judy Mazzio.” Rick asked the question he had already asked without getting an answer. “Why was C.J. talking to Tisha Dulaney?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And how the hell did she get through the door?”

  “Don’t know that either.”

  “What does ‘C.J.’ stand for?”

  “I never heard.” Then Carlos smiled and said in Spanish, “Co-jones. That woman has a set of balls. You have to see her in trial sometime.”

  “Glad she’s on my side . . . if she is.”

  Rick leaned over to plug the cord into the wall. He became aware that a telephone had been ringing, and that it had stopped. On the other side of the pass-through, Inez called out, “Carlos! Te llaman, mi amor.”

  As Carlos headed across the room, Rick gave Inez a little wave. She saw it but went back to cooking dinner, or whatever domestic duties would allow her to keep an eye on her husband. She was afraid that he might suddenly get a notion to pack his camera bag and take off for places where it would be wise to wear a Kevlar vest and a helmet.

  At fifty-one, Carlos Moreno had a son in high school, two stepkids, a new grandbaby, a house with a pool, a voracious mortgage, and a motorboat he used for fishing in the Keys, about as far away as he got these days. It was a second marriage, and Inez had put her foot down. Ten years ago, Rick and Carlos had been on the Afghan-Pakistani border, bullets whining past, knocking chunks out of the wall, somebody moaning in Pashto for Allah or his mother. The moans had ended when a mortar hit their position. It had been two weeks before Rick got his hearing back. Carlos had bitched about his broken lens. Fun times.

  Rick drank some of his beer as the computer went through its startup routine. He logged on and checked his Hotmail account. More trash had leaked through the spam filters. Would he please reply to a Christian lady from Zimbabwe needing to transfer cash to the U.S.? Did he want to clean out his colon, buy stock at a discount, increase his potency? Among these, he saw a message from C.J. Dunn. He clicked on it. She was sending the questionnaire she’d mentioned over breakfast. He opened the PDF, scrolled down, went to the next page, then the next. She wanted it ASAP.

  “Jesus.” His fingers quickly tapped out a reply: “So many questions, so little time. Easier if we talk. Call me.” He paused then wrote: “Old hand injury, too hard to type.” He hit send.

  He scrolled down through more junk mail, then saw a message from SoBeGrl227. A lot of girls on South Beach. Only one had his email address. He opened the message. She had written: “Hi. I will answer Qs about Alana but what about $? Pls e me back.”

  He wrote: “Kylie: Money possible but depends on what you have for me. Let’s talk. I’m tied up tonight, can meet you tomorrow, early is best. Tell me where, when. Text me. You have my phone number.”

  Carlos came back and stood over the table.

  Rick looked up. “Problems?”

  “That was Libi. She’s covering a reception downtown tonight for The Aquarius. I told her I have things to do, but there isn’t anyone else. She said wear a suit.”

  “I might see you there,” Rick said. “I’m taking Shelby and his wife to the same event. Look for the dark-green Ford hybrid SUV. People these days don’t want their congressmen driving Cadillacs. They still have it, though. It’s in the garage, along with the Excursion.”

  “Ay-yi-yi-yi.” Carlos finished his beer. “Let’s you and me load up the boat and head for Key West.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  chapter FIFTEEN

  calling Billy Medina for Milo’s phone number, C.J. learned that Milo would be at the Royal Palm Hotel at a reception in his honor, as the architect of The Aquarius. The real goal was to seduce investors. Every business leader, major real estate broker, and environmental activist in South Florida had been invited, along with more than a few from the arts crowd. Billy said it sounded boring. C.J. had tossed away her invitation two weeks ago.

  Billy wanted to load a dozen friends on his boat and cruise over to Monty Trainer’s for a lobster dinner, one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas he was famous for. C.J. would go, she told him, only if they could stop off at the hotel, which was on the way. After hanging up the phone, she went over to Edgar’s cottage to apologize for canceling the cookout. Edgar said good, it was too hot, and anyway he wanted to work on his old photographs. C.J. quickly showered, put on a strapless dress with splashy tropical flowers, and added the coral necklace and earrings that Billy had given her for her last birthday. Thirty-seven. How had that happened? She leaned closer to the mirror.

  The water was like oiled satin, the sky full of thin, barren clouds drifting north. Everyone stayed below in the air-conditioned salon because it was just so damned humid on deck, and the women didn’t want their hair blown to bits. Billy was playing bartender. He had hired a man from the marina to drive the boat. Billy put on a Jimmy Buffet CD and made drinks in the galley as the Lucky Lady glided across the bay.

  He was gorgeous in pale green slacks and an ivory linen shirt. A strand of his hair put a silver-gray comma across a black eyebrow. With every seat taken, he stood behind C.J. and sipped his gin-and-tonic, shifting his weight with the easy movement of the boat. Across the salon, the toffee-skinned Jamaican girlfriend, or wife, of the owner of some car dealership or other crossed her long, bare legs, giving a glimpse to the man seated opposite, who nudged his neighbor. C.J. held her club soda and focused in the general direction of the woman with spiked blond hair, who was talking about the wretched food at her hotel in Croatia.

  Somewhere in the bubbling chit-chat, the man from London, who may once have been Elton John’s arranger, leaned over and grinned at C.J. He had large, moist lips and brows like inverted Vs. “Billy says you’re going to have a show on CNN.”

  “I wish it were that certain,” C.J. said. “They haven’t decided on a host.”

  “Nonsense,” Billy said. “Who else is there?” He stroked her bare shoulder and played with the necklace. She felt his fingers gliding across her skin.

  The man from London bounced on his seat. “Ooooh! Could I be your first guest?”

  C.J. said, “You’ll have to murder someone to qualify. The topic is celebrity trials.”

  “Oh, Christ! I have to murder someone to get on her show!”

  They shouted out suggestions for a list of victims and methods of whacking them. C.J. got up and walked over to the galley to find the club soda. A bottle of Gray Goose sat next to the sink. If it hadn’t been flavored with cranberries, she might have poured herself a shot.

  Billy followed with two empty wine glasses and took a bottle of white from the below-the-counter refrigerator. He spoke quietly. “What’s the matter with you tonight? They’re going to think you don’t like them.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, do me a favor—fake it. This boat ride is for Mark. I owe him.”

  “Which one is Mark again?�
��

  “My accountant. Striped shirt, far right.” Billy refilled the glasses. “You’ve met him twice already.”

  “Billy, did you get the names of the witnesses?”

  “What?”

  “The witnesses who allegedly saw my client with Alana Martin. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “Jesus. Give it a rest.” He pushed her against a cabinet and his hips pinned her there. “I want to fuck you blind.”

  “Billy! Shhhh.” She looked over his shoulder at the others.

  “I’m going to pull your skirt up right here.” Laughing softly, he tugged on the hem.

  A wave of heat flooded through her traitorous body even as she pushed him away. “Don’t.”

  Before he could reply, the engines slowed and C.J. gripped the edge of the sink. Billy looked through the window. “Land ho, everybody. We’re making a brief stop. Grab a quick one at the pool bar, or you can stay on the boat and get shit-faced. Either way, the gangplank goes up in thirty minutes, that’s eight o’clock sharp. Stragglers will be taking a taxi.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” came a few voices as the line formed. The Jamaican woman and the car dealer were in a clench, obviously not going anywhere. C.J. picked up her purse and followed everyone else up the steps to the open deck behind the helm. Billy stepped off the side, caught the lines, and wound them around the cleats. A yacht twice as big was docked farther on, the occupants idly watching the new arrivals.

  The Royal Palm and half a dozen luxury condominiums soared from a small island at the mouth of the Miami River, the skyline of downtown to the north, more condos and bank buildings to the south. The sky was still blue, but fading. The low sun pushed the hotel’s shadow out over the water. Chattering gaily, the small crowd moved forward.

  “C.J.!” Billy held out his hand and helped her to the dock. He was saying to his accountant, “I’m looking at a sixty-two-foot Hatteras. They’re willing to make me a deal. I could easily get down to the islands in that. But could I deduct it?”

  “No problemo. You go down there, you check on the casino, hold some meetings on board, take your partners fishing—” Their conversation ended as the accountant’s girlfriend, or whoever, took his arm and led him toward the pool bar.