The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

  “Just cruising by and I saw you come out. How’s that for luck? C.J., look this way. Smile pretty. I like the outfit. Real sexy.”

  “Get lost, Nash. I’m going inside and calling the police.”

  “Am I on your property? I think not.” As she walked away, Nash called, “I hear that your client is the Numero Uno suspect. Richard Slater. Is that right? He works for Congressman Paul Shelby. What have they got on him? Did he cut that girl up?”

  The front door was still locked, so C.J. had to walk back under the carport, and she imagined that every step would be another image in Nash Pettigrew’s camera. Her face without makeup would look washed out, she would be squinting in the sun, and the thick white robe would add ten pounds.

  Her jaw was clenching when she went inside and slammed the newspaper on the kitchen counter. She should have known better. “Damn.”

  Nash Pettigrew had been out to get her ever since she’d had him arrested for trespassing onto her and Elliott’s property in Topanga Canyon, back in L.A. If Pettigrew hadn’t slid down the hill, and his gear hadn’t tumbled out of his backpack, he would have gotten away with photos of them in the hot tub, smoking a joint. Completely nude, Elliott sprinted across the yard and caught the intruder, and C.J. took the memory stick out of his camera and threw it into the hot tub. Nash Pettigrew had her to thank for his criminal record.

  She poured herself some coffee and went upstairs. She had planned to call a producer she knew at Channel Seven, the most tabloid of the TV news stations in Miami, and promise an exclusive interview, but it had gone beyond that. She needed to contact a friend on the staff of People magazine, or do a preemptive strike and call Larry King.

  First she needed to let Rick Slater know what was going on. As she walked into her closet and slid out of the robe, she scrolled to his number. Phone at her ear, she flipped through the rack, deciding what to wear to Milo’s house.

  Slater’s phone went to voice mail. “Rick. This is C.J. Dunn. Just wanted to warn you. Remember that little weasel following us yesterday? He was outside my house this morning taking pictures. He knows the police are interested in you. Call me when you get a chance. I have an appointment at eleven, so if I don’t pick up, leave a message.”

  She held up a sleeveless turquoise dress on its hanger, then put it back for a more photo-friendly navy blue with a stand-up white collar, just in case. Walking past the full-length mirror, she noticed what she was wearing—a pink satin thong—and imagined Slater getting an eyeful of that. She slowly turned, checking her butt. Not bad for thirty-seven. Still tight. She put her hands over her breasts. Slater’s hands would have covered them completely. A flash of warmth went up between her legs.

  She grabbed a robe. “For God’s sake, stop it.”

  She went into her office to paw through her desk for Milo’s number. Of course he was still asleep, so she left a message with a man who said he was Milo’s massage therapist, not his secretary, thank you very much. C.J. apologized, then said, “Would you please go into His Excellency’s bedchamber and remind him that I’m coming over at eleven? Yes, he knows about it.”

  That done, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Noticing the message icon flashing on her cell phone, she checked her voice mail. If it was a reporter, she would hang up.

  The message was from Donald Finch.

  He was sorry for calling at the last minute, but would she like to come over and meet his sister Sarah, who had come through MIA last night from Belize on her way home to CNN in Atlanta? They would have a chilled Bloody Mary waiting.

  chapter TWENTY

  they sat on a bench in Peacock Park in Coconut Grove, a patch of trees and gray dirt that led to a dried-out baseball field, a tangle of mangroves, and a pile of seaweed-draped rocks. It was already hot, and the dogs being walked had their tongues hanging out. But it wasn’t bad in the shade, with the wind coming off the bay. Kylie could see the boats moored in neat rows behind the Coral Reef Yacht Club. The sailboat rigging sounded like bells.

  She said to the man next to her, “I kept thinking she’d call. ‘Hi, it’s me. I made it. I’m standing right here on the Walk of Stars in Hollywood.’ She said that’s the first place she’d go. She said somebody was going to hook her up with a friend out there. She had it all planned.”

  “Well, she sure took a wrong turn.” Richard stirred his frozen lemonade with the straw. He had bought them both one at the cart by the street before he looked around for the right place to sit, near the water with a fence at their backs. He could keep an eye on the park.

  Kylie said, “Can you get any more information from your sources? Your friends, other reporters? Don’t you have contacts with the police?”

  “I’m working on it. I have a friend with a TV station in Miami. He’s close to the story.”

  Richard wore baggy cargo pants, a tropical print shirt, sunglasses, and a Chicago Cubs hat. She hadn’t recognized him until he tapped her on the arm, having seen him only that one other time. She had been walking to the bus stop on Biscayne Boulevard two days after the party and this man fell into step with her, a big man with a beard and shaved head. Hi. Remember me? She didn’t until he told her he was a friend of Alana’s, and he’d brought her home from the party at Billy Medina’s house. He wanted to talk to her. He would pay for information.

  She looked at him, trying to see past the sunglasses. “Do you think someone killed Alana because of your investigation?”

  “Jesus, I hope not.”

  “I mean, if somebody found out she was working with you. . . .”

  “If I find it had anything to do with me, I’d hate myself, but I can’t see it. Alana could keep her secrets. We don’t put our sources in danger. We don’t ask them to wear hidden microphones or anything like that. Don’t worry. Talking to me is not a risk. We’re just two people shooting the breeze.”

  Kylie watched a sail puff out from the front of a sailboat, red and blue stripes. “Before we start, we need to discuss how much you’re going to pay me.”

  He set his cup aside. “All right. What did you have in mind?”

  “I need at least three thousand.”

  He started to laugh but could see she was serious. “You think reporters have unlimited expense accounts? That our publishers have big buckets of cash we dip into?”

  “The New York Times is rich. Aren’t they? And you said this story would be huge.”

  “I also told you we pay on the value of the information we receive.”

  “I want some of it up front. Or no deal.” She sipped her frozen lemonade.

  He looked at her for a while, then scanned the park. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes moved to the cars rounding the curve onto Bayshore Drive. He finally turned toward the water, and his body shielded any sight of his wallet coming out of the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. He said, “I don’t want anybody to get the wrong idea.” She saw his fingers walking over the tops of some twenties. He pulled out five of them and held them folded near his waist.

  “A hundred dollars? It’s worth more than that.”

  “Not so loud.” He pulled out four more twenties. “That’s all I’ve got on me.”

  She zipped the money into her purse. “How much did you pay Alana?”

  “That was between me and Alana.”

  “More than this, no doubt.”

  “Why don’t you use it for plane fare home?” he said.

  “The money is for school,” she told him.

  “School?”

  “College. I’m going to get a degree in journalism at the University of Miami. I decided just the other day. I’m a good writer, and I’ve always been curious about things. I guess you could say you’re my inspiration.”

  “Really? That’s nice.”

  “So I hope you don’t screw me over.”

  He smiled. “Likewise.”

  “You travel a lot in your job, I suppose.”

  “All the time.”

  “That’s what I want to d
o. Travel.”

  “It’s great, if you like living out of a backpack and running for your life occasionally.”

  “You did that? Where?”

  “Afghanistan.” Richard turned his right arm so she could see the scar on the underside. “I took a round from a Kalashnikov. I was an embedded reporter with a unit of Special Forces in pursuit of the Taliban. They got the bad guy for me.” He spread out his left hand and showed her a scar across the palm. “Souvenir of Peshawar, Pakistan. I was on a story about Ayman al-Zawahri.” He smiled at her again. “It was rough. Time to come in out of the cold, so to speak. Where are you from, Kylie? You’re not from Michigan. Come on.”

  “Pensacola.”

  “Naval Air Station. Dad in the military?”

  “No, he works for a gas company, when he’s not hung over.”

  “I’ve never been to Pensacola.”

  “Biggest town on the Redneck Riviera.”

  “Your parents know you’re down here?”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “They throw you out?”

  “Not exactly. We had a difference of opinion,” she said.

  “Sorry to hear it. I hit the road at sixteen, but I went back.”

  “I’m adopted.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My birth parents were from Miami. My mother told me. I was twelve and a pain in the ass, asking about them all the time. She said all she knew is that my parents were from here, and they died in a car crash. My brother and sister are adopted too. They came from the same family. They’ve met their birth parents. I never will. But I imagine sometimes, when I’m walking down the street, that my father walked there too, or my mother lived around the corner. I might have cousins here. I feel a connection to Miami.”

  “Is that why you came?”

  “Sort of. Yes. And I wanted to see something different.”

  “That’s understandable. Well, maybe you’ll bump into your relatives some day.”

  “Maybe.” She plunged her straw up and down through the lid. “What do you want to know about Alana?”

  Richard reached into another pocket of his cargo pants and took out a folded white envelope. He hung his sunglasses off the pocket of his shirt. He had squint lines, but his eyes were wide open, sort of green with bits of brown. She felt like he was making contact on some level, and she made a note to herself: Never wear sunglasses when you’re talking to a source.

  “I’m going to show you a picture. I pulled it off the Internet.” He passed it to her. “Does he look familiar?”

  The photo had been cut from a larger page. She saw an ordinary-looking, middle-aged man in a suit with neatly combed brown hair, eyebrows that slanted downward, a small nose, and a wide smile. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You sure? Look carefully.”

  “I don’t know him. Who is he?”

  “Paul Shelby. He’s a U.S. congressman. He lives in Miami. You never heard the name?”

  “No.”

  “Alana never mentioned him?”

  “No.”

  Richard put the picture back into the envelope. “Did Alana ever talk to you about politics, or politicians, or anyone on the take? Bribes, favors, that sort of thing?”

  “I get it. The congressman is part of your investigation, isn’t he? You think he’s crooked. Big political scandal. Right?”

  “Something like that.” Richard put an elbow on the back of the bench and knitted his fingers. His stainless steel watch had three smaller dials. His nails were very clean. No rings. She wondered if he was married. Probably not. It would be hard to have a relationship as a journalist, never knowing where they would send you next.

  “Let me ask you about the party at Billy Medina’s house. Did you ever meet Billy Medina?”

  “I know who he is. I’ve seen him a couple of times. He doesn’t know me.”

  “Did he invite you and Alana to the party?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he did.”

  “Let’s not guess. The right answer is, ‘I don’t know.’ Aside from going to the party, do you know Medina?”

  “I used to work for his magazine, Tropical Life.”

  “Used to?”

  “Well, they laid me off last week. I’m looking for another job. I met Alana at the magazine, before she quit.”

  “Why’d she quit?”

  “She had a hard time getting up early every day.”

  Richard scratched the side of his face, the edge of his beard. “Let’s try something else. What about Milo Cahill? Have you ever met him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about Cahill?”

  “He’s an architect. He lives on the Beach. He has a Southern accent.”

  “You’ve talked to him, then.”

  “Alana and I went to a few parties at his house. It’s actually on the Intracoastal. He invites all kinds of artists and musicians and people like that. Why are you asking me about him? Is there some connection between him and . . . and Billy Medina or the congressman?”

  “Let me ask the questions, okay? Were you ever alone with Mr. Cahill?”

  “No.”

  “Were you always with Alana when you went there?”

  “Yes, and there were always lots of other people too.”

  “What do you know about Milo Cahill? I mean the things that most people might not be aware of. Things that might have surprised you, maybe even shocked you.”

  “He wears a hat indoors,” she said. “He lets his dog lick him on the mouth. It’s really dark in his house, and his living room looks like an art gallery. He’s actually very nice.”

  Richard nodded. “You’ve been to his parties. What goes on? Is it fairly wild, or do they serve tea and cookies?”

  She smiled. “No, they’re normal parties for the Beach.”

  “Loud music, drinking, lots of beautiful people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sex?”

  “Not openly. Not that I saw.”

  “What do you do at the parties?”

  “Dance. Listen to the music. Maybe just watch what goes on. Yeah, it’s a circus here, that’s for sure.” She drank more of her lemonade, which had nearly all melted but was still cold.

  Richard brushed a leaf off the bench. “Did Milo Cahill ever suggest to you or flat-out say, Kylie, there’s this guy I want you to meet. He’s looking for a little fun, and he wants to hook up. Did he ever say anything like that?”

  “You mean like to have sex?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “No.” She laughed. “He isn’t like that at all.”

  “What about Alana? Did she ever want to hook you up?”

  “Well . . . yes, but it didn’t work out. I wasn’t interested in the guy she picked out for me.”

  “Where was this?”

  “At a dance club.”

  “No, I mean privately and possibly for money. The night of the party at Medina’s house, did she say she wanted to hook you up with someone? Is that why she took you there?”

  Kylie stared at him. “I don’t know what you think I am, but I am not a whore, and neither was Alana.”

  “I apologize, but we have to ask uncomfortable questions sometimes. It’s part of the job.”

  She nodded. “It’s okay. I know. Ask me anything. I want to help.”

  His eyes were on the water. A catamaran flopped its sail over to the other side, turned, and went slowly out of sight behind the trees. He said, “You told me something the night of the party, when you were in the car and I was driving you home. You probably don’t remember, but you said that Alana went to talk to someone, a modeling agent. Is that right?”

  “Yes. She said wait here, I have to go talk to someone. She left, and she never came back. She said he was an agent from New York.”

  “You don’t sound sure about that,” he said.

  Kylie sighed. “There are plenty of agents in Miami. And anyway, I don’t think she was that good a
model. She never got on any photo shoots. She only modeled for China Moon.”

  “So you never met the agent. Don’t know who he was.”

  “If I knew, I’d go see him. Except I don’t have a portfolio. Which is another reason I need some cash.”

  Richard slid his fingers down his mustache, then said, “What about other friends of Alana? Do you know her friends? Other girls I could talk to?”

  “Not really. I remember first names, but not who they are, or how you could find them. Friendships on the beach are shallow. I’m sort of a loner anyway.”

  “So how did you get to be friends with a party girl like Alana Martin?”

  “I was new, and she asked me if I’d like to go to lunch with her. She could be really nice. And a little bit crazy. She made me laugh. We went out together. It was fun at the time. But she wasn’t . . . she wasn’t the sort of person you could remain friends with forever, you know.”

  He put his elbows on his knees and looked at the water. After a while, he said, “Well, I guess that’s about it.”

  “Don’t you have anything else to ask me?”

  “Sometimes a source doesn’t pan out like you’d hoped.”

  “I’m not giving any of the money back. I answered all your questions.”

  “So you did.” He patted her knee. “Listen, here’s some free advice for an aspiring journalist. Smile. You don’t smile enough. People respond to a friendly face. And get yourself a reporter’s vest. That comes in handy, all the pockets.”

  “You’re not wearing one.”

  “I’m undercover. Another thing, very important. Protect your sources and they will protect you. Understand?” His forefinger went back and forth. “You and me. I might need to contact you in the future and pay for more information, but if you blow my cover, I can’t do that. Deal?”

  He held out his hand. She wondered what he would do if she demanded extra for her silence, but she knew she wouldn’t say anything, so what was the point? Her hand disappeared into his. “Deal.”

  Putting his sunglasses back on, he stood up and said, “You have my phone number. If you hear anything else, call me. And I’d like to hear how school turns out. Good luck with that. You take care of yourself, Kylie Willis. I’ll be thinking about you.”