The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

  “A new boat?” asked C.J. “That’s risky.”

  “Stop being my lawyer, will you, baby? I told you, everything’s golden. And they’d give me a good trade-in on the Lucky Lady.”

  “Well, at least you aren’t going to throw it out in the trash.”

  “Are you talking about that sculpture again? Why do you keep bringing it up? Didn’t I apologize already?”

  “I don’t care about the damned sculpture. It just seems that when something bores you, you get rid of it.”

  He came closer. “Are you afraid it will apply to you?”

  “I was simply trying to make a point.”

  “One thing about you, C.J., you’re never boring.” She could feel his breath on her lips. “Let’s just have a good time. Aren’t you having a good time?”

  “I’ll have a better time after we dump your tedious friends.”

  He smiled. “Me too. Now go, find Milo. I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Billy, what about the witnesses?”

  “Oh, the witnesses. Sure. I’ll find out for you first thing in the morning.” He patted her fanny as she walked away and called after her, “Hurry up.”

  The party was being held on the second floor in a room overlooking the pool and an acre of landscaped gardens, bedraggled from lack of rain. Music and voices floated down. C.J. picked her way carefully over a brick bath. The straps on her shoes were so narrow they gave the impression of walking barefoot on tiptoes.

  With a glance around to make sure Billy was out of sight, C.J. opened her bag for her BlackBerry. She was hoping for a message from Kylie. She had kept it on vibrate mode in the boat. She hadn’t told Billy anything about Kylie. If he remembered at all, the girl was an annoyance, a minor favor to be handled for some old acquaintance of C.J.’s mother. Billy knew where C.J. had been born. He thought it was amusing. He’d faked a Southern accent until she’d screamed at him to shut up.

  C.J. was praying not to get a call from Fran Willis. When is Kylie’s flight home? Did you talk to her yet? C.J. had no idea what to say. She should have called Fran already, gotten it over with.

  The screen showed that email had come in. She clicked the icon. Scrolling through messages from friends or colleagues, she saw one from Rick Slater. Curious, she clicked on it. He had blown off the questionnaire. He suggested she call him instead. She laughed in disbelief. “Buddy, you are on thin ice.” She put away the phone, checked her lipstick, and snapped her compact shut.

  On the second level, she opened a glass door and strode into the crowd. Her attention was drawn to a large, square table that held the model of The Aquarius Residences and Resort. The glassy blue bay was dotted with sailboats, and the swampy, waterfront acreage on Card Sound had turned into the landscaped surroundings for three glass towers that resembled columns of water rising from the sea. There were pools, fountains, a marina, shopping, a conference center, and—just as Billy Medina had wanted—plenty of room for a Vegas-style casino. All the surfaces were pale turquoise, smooth and liquid, with solar panels everywhere, positioned to catch the sun. An empty rectangle at the edge of the property indicated the location of a desalination plant. Someday. When they invented a method that wouldn’t cost a fortune.

  Milo had been right: The Aquarius depended on getting fifty scrubby acres of abandoned government land. Again, she wondered why Paul Shelby would take such a political gamble. Because he wanted an endorsement from Friends of the Everglades? “And sell me the Brooklyn Bridge, too,” she muttered.

  The architect stood in the light of a video camera being interviewed by a reporter from the local CBS affiliate. He wore a white dinner jacket with black silk trousers, cowboy boots, and his Panama hat. He spotted C.J. and opened his arms. “There she is! The beautiful and very talented, formerly from Hollywood, celebrity attorney C.J. Dunn.”

  The reporter, a man with a bit too much base makeup, asked if she’d had a chance to see the model and what she thought. The microphone shifted toward her. C.J. smiled at Milo. “I think it’s just brilliant. We’re all so excited that a project of this importance will be built in South Florida.”

  A camera flashed. Someone said, “One more? Smile. Big smile.”

  When the lights went off, and the reporters moved on, Milo said, “This is a surprise. I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Of course I’d come, Milo, but listen, I don’t have much time. Billy’s waiting for me. You know that young architect who works for you? He was driving when you picked me up at the courthouse. Jason. What’s his last name?”

  “Jason Wright. Why?”

  “He was a friend of Alana Martin, and I want to talk to him.”

  “Well, I don’t have his number on me.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes, but I can’t help you look. It’s just one interview after another. The burden of fame.”

  C.J. slid her arm around Milo’s waist. “Milo, sweetie, I need to talk to you sometime. Not now, tomorrow. Early. Say elevenish?”

  “Whenever you call me ‘sweetie,’ I am immediately suspicious. What’s it about?”

  She spoke into his ear. “Oh, just this thing I’m doing for your friend, Mr. Shelby. But now I have to fly.”

  He stuck out his lower lip. “Are you deserting poor old Milo already?”

  “Afraid so. Oh, wait. You know all the gossip. Have you heard anything about Alana Martin being in adult movies?”

  His wide blue eyes opened further. “Adult movies? You mean porn? My goodness. Who told you that?”

  “Nobody. I’ve been talking to people who knew her. She claimed to have been in a movie but didn’t want to say which, or with whom, or anything about it. She led a fairly free lifestyle, to say the least. I was just wondering if you’d heard anything.”

  “Not a word.”

  “Find out for me? But don’t say who’s asking. You’re so good at that.” She put an air kiss on his cheek. “I’ll call you in the morning.” She backed away, and within seconds he was surrounded again.

  Her watch said 7:42. When she lifted her eyes, she noticed a woman handing out brochures at a table by the door. C.J. pushed through the crowd. Reaching the table she said, “Excuse me. Don’t you work for Milo Cahill? I’m looking for Jason, but I have no idea where he went to.”

  The woman pointed to one of the bartenders’ stations, and her mouth moved, but the jazz quartet was playing again, and C.J. couldn’t hear. She nodded and thanked her. It took C.J. five minutes to find a young man who resembled the one she had seen yesterday. This specimen was six feet tall, with tousled blond hair and the deepest blue eyes. His indigo suit skimmed his body, and the open-collar white shirt set off his tan. He was holding a drink, laughing with some other men.

  Touching his shoulder, she said, “I’m sorry to break in like this, but aren’t you Jason Wright? May I talk to you for a minute?” When they had moved to a quieter location near the windows, she introduced herself. “Do you remember me? You were driving when Milo picked me up outside the courthouse.”

  “I know who you are,” he said, “and I am not Milo’s chauffeur. I’m an architect. I specialize in structural engineering.”

  Jason was having trouble pronouncing his words. C.J. smiled at him. “I know. You’re a graduate of Princeton, too. How long have you been with Milo Cahill?”

  “Two years.”

  “Must be great experience for you, being on the team for The Aquarius.”

  He focused on her. “What do you think of it?”

  No one, she thought, ever asked a question in that manner unless they wanted a negative response. “Well . . . it’s not really to my taste, but . . . I have to admire the technology.”

  “Yes, yes, let’s admire the technology.”

  She said, “And I really don’t think it fits the location. It’s too . . . cold.”

  He narrowed his lovely eyes. “Ha. At last. One person in this room not totally full of crap. I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice.” He laughed. “Oh, God. If Milo was he
re, he’d have my head. You won’t tell him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “May I get you a drink?” He held up his glass.

  “Thank you, but I don’t have time. Did Milo tell you why he wanted to see me yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “He asked me to take on a client, a man who was at Billy Medina’s party the night Alana Martin disappeared. The police are interviewing everyone. My client had nothing to do with it, but when the police show up, it’s good to have a lawyer on your side. To do my job, I need to discover as much as I can about Alana and hopefully discover the reason. . . .” C.J. stopped. “I’m sorry about Alana.”

  “Who says she’s dead?” Jason turned his back to the room. “They say that, but where’s the body?”

  “They may never find her, but that doesn’t stop the police from investigating or the media from turning it into a circus and possibly ruining several lives in the process, including that of my client.”

  Daylight was turning to dusk. The arch of lights on the bridge to Key Biscayne had come on. Some of Billy’s guests were back on the boat, sitting on the bench seats behind the helm. Billy was nowhere in sight.

  “Jason, I need to know about Alana. Who she was, what she wanted. Her friends, and those who were not her friends. What I need, to be honest, is a motive. If I have that, I can point the investigation away from my client. He’s an innocent man. But I’m handicapped because I just don’t know where to start. You’re busy now, but could I meet you somewhere tomorrow or Monday?”

  The lights in the room put his pale reflection on the window. “Let me ask you a question. You’re a criminal lawyer. If the police want to talk to me, and I don’t want to, will they suspect me?”

  “Well, they shouldn’t, but it does arouse their interest. It’s human nature, isn’t it?” C.J. concentrated fully on Jason’s face. He had something on his mind. The proper thing would be to walk away, tell him to find a lawyer immediately and to keep his mouth shut. But she said, “Have the police contacted you?”

  “They showed up earlier today at my apartment. I wasn’t there. They left a card in the door. Sergeant George Fuentes. He wrote me a note to call him.”

  “I know Fuentes. He’ll be back.”

  “So should I call him? I don’t know what happened to Alana. What should I tell him?”

  C.J. said, “He will probably ask if you saw her leave the party with anyone.”

  “I didn’t see her leave at all. She was just gone.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Only once, when I got there at ten-thirty.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “No, I saw her across the living room. She was talking to some people. I don’t know who they were. I didn’t see her after that.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “About one o’clock. I came with some friends, but I was tired, and they wanted to stay, so I left early.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “South Beach, Twenty-Second Street.”

  “How did you get home? A taxi?”

  “You can’t get a taxi on Star Island. You call and it takes forever, that time of night. I had my own car. Why?”

  “A taxi driver could confirm when you left.”

  Jason leaned down to speak to her, and she smelled the alcohol, the tangy-sweet aroma of scotch. He said, “What difference does it make when I left? Alana was gone around midnight. That’s what they’re saying on the news.”

  “They don’t know for sure,” C.J. said. “Where were you around midnight? Are there people who can swear you were with them continuously between, say, eleven p.m. and one o’clock in the morning? Do you have an alibi witness? The police will ask you.” She waited for an answer. “Jason?”

  “Everyone was coming and going! I can’t prove where I was. How do you prove something like that?”

  “It’s not easy,” she admitted. “They’ll be looking for a possible motive, too.”

  “I had no reason to—to—” He ground his teeth together. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “You cared for her.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Were you very close?”

  “Yes.” He wiped his fingers across his mouth. “She . . . she was a special person. She lit up everything she touched.”

  “You were . . . intimate with her?”

  His eyes had reddened. “I—Yes. No. We . . . we were friends. But I did love her. Who could help but love her? I’m sorry. This is so hideous.”

  “Yes. I understand.” C.J. put a hand on his arm. “Could you tell me if she had enemies? Someone who was jealous of her? Or angry? Or afraid she might reveal a secret? Did she mention any threats?”

  Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at the crowd, which had grown even larger. “I should go. I’m supposed to be over there kissing ass.” He cleared this throat and finished his drink. “You didn’t hear that either.”

  C.J. held on to his arm. “Could we talk sometime?”

  Jason was edging away. “Sorry. I have to go.”

  “It would be so helpful. Please. Anything you tell me would remain between us.” As she spoke, she fumbled in her purse for a card. “Take this. Wait. Call my cell phone in the morning. Or anytime.” She found a pen and quickly jotted it down. “Will you call me?”

  He slid the card into his coat pocket as he turned away and vanished into the crowd.

  She had lied to him. She felt bad about it, but not so bad she had stopped herself. There was no attorney-client privilege between them. Jason Wright was not her client. If he implicated himself, she would use it. Her duty was to Richard Slater.

  A glance outside told her she was running out of time. The sea had turned gray, and the trees were dark silhouettes. Swiveling quickly toward the door, she took a step and collided with someone, a man, who grabbed her arms to keep her from falling. She gasped and put a hand to her heart.

  With a slow smile, Paul Shelby said, “I don’t usually scare people like that.”

  “Sorry. It’s fine, I just. . . .” She pushed back her hair. “I was just leaving.”

  “Let me walk you out.”

  As they went out to the terrace, C.J. said, “I dropped by to congratulate Milo. It’s a marvelous design.”

  “Yes, I’m proud to be associated with it,” Paul Shelby said. “You may have heard, I’m sponsoring a resolution in the House to sell an old naval base to the company building The Aquarius. The land’s no use to anybody, just sitting there. We’ve scheduled a press conference for Monday to announce that and some other things. My candidacy and so forth.”

  With the temperature still nudging ninety, sweat was breaking out on her neck. As Shelby talked, she moved slowly toward the stairs and put her hand on the tubular white railing that curved to the gardens below.

  “C.J., would you mind? I asked to speak to you for a reason.”

  She stopped and turned, the low wall of the terrace at her back. “I’m so sorry, but there are people waiting for me. Is it something that could wait till tomorrow?”

  “No, it’s not. I think you can afford to give me a minute of your time.” Shelby spoke softly, although the nearest people were several yards away at small tables, having hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. “Rick told me you want five thousand dollars for expenses. What I’d like to know is, what expenses could there be? I thought you’d have this all wrapped up in a few days.”

  “I’m hoping to.” C.J. wandered toward the side overlooking the gardens, and Shelby followed. She fanned her face. “My God, this heat. Where is our ocean breeze? Mr. Shelby—”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul. I don’t discuss my cases except with clients or members of my staff, but since you’re paying the bill . . . the expenses are primarily for my investigator. We’re doing background checks on everyone involved. Mr. Slater, of course. Alana Martin and the people she knew. I regret I can’t get into details.”

  “Why are y
ou investigating your own client?”

  “I always do in a criminal case. I investigate everyone connected with it.”

  “That seems a tad excessive.”

  “It’s how I do things. Look. Any lawyer who can accomplish what you want is going to incur some expenses. You’re lucky I’m not charging fees.” She said, “By the way, did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Finch’s sister about my interview with CNN?”

  She doubted it was the heat that had caused color to rise in Paul Shelby’s face. He looked distinctly annoyed. “Yes. I mentioned it. Sarah is flying through Miami this weekend. There’s a possibility she’ll have time to see you. Don’t worry, C.J. I’m a man of my word. You’ll get your part of the bargain. There’s one other thing. I’ve been told the police searched Rick’s apartment this morning and found nothing of interest. Is that true?”

  “Yes. I was there.”

  “Then can you explain why a producer for The Justice Files is requesting an interview with me?”

  She shook her head. “Are they? Someone is fishing. You should decline.”

  “Oh, we did. Our schedule is jammed. My mother, whose advice has always proved right on the money, wants me to reconsider my decision to keep Rick Slater on. He’s becoming a liability. Any thoughts?”

  “It would raise questions.”

  “It would save me five thousand dollars.”

  “Give me a few days,” she said. “I’m on to some good leads about Alana Martin.”

  “What leads?”

  “Sorry, Paul, you aren’t the client.”

  “No, but you owe me some consideration, don’t you think?”

  She relented. “There might be a jealous boyfriend. Alana dated Jason Wright, a young architect who works for Milo Cahill, but I don’t want to speculate. Also, we’re tracking down the witnesses who claim they saw Alana with Rick Slater. I believe they will change their minds when they think about it more clearly.”

  “What’s your strategy to hold off the media?” Shelby asked.

  C.J. checked her watch and saw with a start that she was late. “Forgive me, but I really must run.”