“Will you let me know when your article gets published?”
“You bet.” He looked down at her. “One more piece of advice. If I were you? I’d go back to mom and dad. Patch up your differences and let them take care of you. Like they say, there’s no place like home.”
“Sure.”
He walked away, wide shoulders, muscular arms, the hat covering his head. He turned around and saluted, and she faked a smile and waved. As he continued his way toward the street, Kylie kicked at a root. The dust settled on her sneakers. She brushed them off, then put her head in her hands and stared at the ground between her feet. She had less than four hundred dollars, total. The rat-trap hotel where she was staying charged sixty a day, so it wouldn’t last long.
C.J. wouldn’t help. C.J. would send her back to Pensacola, no matter what promises came out of her mouth.
When Edgar had paid her this morning, she’d seen where he kept his cash, behind some old books in the living room, but she could never do that. Ever. She could work for him, fifteen dollars an hour, but after she finished his photographs, what?
Go home.
Her heart felt as heavy as it ever had.
The only person she could think of was Milo Cahill. He had money, no question about that. He liked her. He’d said she was an angel, pretty as a Carolina peach. Standing there in his white Panama hat, opening his arms, smiling so big his eyes squeezed shut.
Come here, sugar. Come on over here and talk to Milo.
chapter TWENTY-ONE
“oh, but I make a world-class Bloody Mary.”
“I’m sure you do, but just give me the kiddie version and an extra piece of celery.”
“Did we overdo last night?” Donald Finch raised a sun-bleached brow.
With a grin, his sister waved him away, “Don, don’t be a pain.”
He went back to the wet bar in the corner, leaving C.J. to continue her conversation with Sarah Finch. Sarah had been in Belize to check on a wildlife special CNN was coproducing with National Geographic. Summoned back early to Atlanta, she’d arranged her connecting flight to give her the day with her brother and sister-in-law. She’d been wanting to meet C.J. Dunn.
“The decision will be made by the end of the month, I believe. There are other people under consideration, but they’re all lightweights. I’ve seen tapes of your interviews with Barbara Walters, Larry King, Bill O’Reilly—I think you’d be ideal for the show. It’s not up to me, you understand, but I do have some input.”
Warmed by the compliment and the sense that this was going her way, C.J. smiled. “Is there a name for the show?”
“Tentatively it’s Rich, Famous, and Deadly.”
“That’s catchy. I’ve already been thinking of possible guests, people who can give a real insider’s look at the system. We don’t need more babble about the lifestyles of the accused.”
“Oh, I agree completely,” said Sarah. She had the same square jaw and prominent nose as her brother, but not his lethargy or well-oiled sarcasm. Her laugh was genuine, and her nervous energy kept her poised on the edge of her chair.
They were under the colonnade behind the Finches’ Mediterranean-style house in Coral Gables, ceiling fans making a pleasant breeze, a tray of croissants, bagels, and fresh fruit on the table. The pool sparkled, and hot pink bougainvillea climbed the coral rock columns. The property sloped down to a canal, where a small cabin cruiser was docked. A plaque on the vine-covered wall out front announced that the home was a city landmark. Hence the mildewed Spanish tiles on the roof and the streaks down the mustard-yellow walls. Donald Finch had explained, ushering C.J. to the patio, that the paint had been made using the original formula from the nineteen-twenties. He spoke as if he actually owned the place, though C.J. doubted his wife had put his name on the deed.
Noreen, in sun hat and dark glasses, was occupied in the backyard, supervising the crew from her husband’s production company, who would be filming in the afternoon for Paul Shelby’s campaign ads. Noreen pointed at the nude, poured-concrete cherub at the far end of the pool and said to move it and throw some floats into the water.
Finch came back with the drinks. “God, yes, let’s have some family values in the shot. Paul and Diana and the boys will be over soon as church is out. Paul’s PR guru suggested he teach a class at Sunday School, but Noreen nixed that idea. Not macho enough. I’ve heard Noreen lecture him on his haircut. It’s too pretty. You look like the king of your high school prom. My wife is very good at this, actually. She studied Leni Riefenstahl, filmmaker to the Nazi Party.”
“Really, Don.” He sister threw him a look, but her eyes twinkled when she bit into her bagel.
“Noreen, sweetheart! Come take a break.”
“In a minute.”
Sarah speared a piece of mango. “Paul and I don’t share the same politics, but I have to admit, he’s taking the right position on green architecture. Do you know anything about The Aquarius? They say the design is getting lots of positive press.”
“The architect is a friend of mine,” C.J. said. As she described the project, she watched a powerfully built man in mirrored sunglasses grab the statue around the waist, lean back, and haul it toward the corner of the house. He seemed familiar. Yes. Dennis Murphy. The top of his head was the shape of a box, and sweat-soaked red hair fell past his collar. He set the cherub down and mopped his face.
“I know that man. He works for Billy Medina. His name is Dennis Murphy.”
Finch lowered his head to look over the top of his sunglasses. “My company hired him when we needed someone to tote and carry. In the trade, he’s known as a grip.”
“Did you bring him from California? I remember Noreen saying you studied at the American Film Institute,” C.J. said.
“Yes, but I acquired Dennis locally. He used to move furniture, I think.”
“Do you still have many contacts in the movie business? Back in California, I mean.” C.J. hoped the inquiry sounded innocent enough.
“A few, but we’re going back twenty-five years.” Finch grimaced. “Is that possible?” He turned to his sister. “Sarah, dear, do you know Billy Medina? I should introduce you sometime. Puerto Rican from New York. He owns a hotel in Antigua and publishes Tropical Life, all the latest glitz, glamour, and sin on South Beach. He hosted the party of the century last weekend. They’ll be talking about it for years, and I’m afraid poor Paul is wishing he’d never gone. Please do not bring this up in front of Noreen.” Finch retreated behind his drink. “Here she comes.”
Sarah looked at C.J. “Medina. Is that the same man—I saw something on CNN last night.”
“The same,” C.J. said.
Noreen Finch, platinum hair pinned off her neck, fanned her face with her hat. Diamonds twinkled on her fingers. “Lord, will this heat ever let up? Don, go get me a drink, will you? Lots of ice.” He stood to hold her chair, then hustled back to the bar. Noreen looked across the table through her big sunglasses. “Well, Miss C.J. How do you like this old shack?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Paul’s granddaddy built it in nineteen twenty-six, and, God willing, my grandkids will want to keep it. Right now, I’m about ready to tie down the porch furniture and bring in the plants.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a storm coming. Paul was mentioned in that article in the paper this morning.”
“They said he was at the party. I wouldn’t be concerned about it,” C.J. said. She thought of her encounter with Nash Pettigrew, but only said, “Don’t be surprised at the questions at Paul’s press conference tomorrow. Someone might ask why I was hired to represent his chauffeur. They know you’ve turned down an interview with The Justice Files and that Mr. Slater’s apartment was searched.”
The lines around Noreen’s mouth tightened, and for a moment she looked every bit of sixty-five. “Oh, my God. ‘Congressman, can you explain why you’ve got a murder suspect working for you?’”
“Paul should simply respond that Mr. Slate
r had nothing to do with it, and the police are questioning everyone. He should stick to the topic, his reelection and his support for the environment.”
Sarah said, “C.J., do you think you should be there with him? With Paul, I mean.”
“No. It would raise more questions. Anyway, I’m not his lawyer.”
Noreen was not mollified. “You didn’t ask Libi Rodriguez to drop your name into her broadcast on CNN last night, did you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Noreen turned to her sister-in-law. “Sarah, who can I talk to up there? How did that Rodriguez woman get on CNN? She ought to stick with local news. She acts like finding a murder victim in South Florida is the biggest thing since Nine-Eleven.”
“I have no control over the news division,” Sarah said, “nor would I intervene if I did.”
Donald Finch brought his wife a Bloody Mary. She made a little kiss in his direction and stirred the drink with her celery. “They ought to interview C.J. She has a good idea who killed that girl.”
C.J.’s mouth fell open. “Actually, I don’t.”
“That’s what you told Paul last night, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me, Noreen, but I said nothing of the sort.”
“You told him you have a suspect, the dead girl’s boyfriend. Makes sense to me. A crime of passion. I’m sorry she’s dead, but if you lead a life of drugs, sex, and immorality, you’re asking for it.”
Sarah said, “No woman asks for it.”
“You know what I mean. Actions have consequences.”
C.J. silently cursed herself for having said one damned word to Paul Shelby. She glanced into her lap and tilted her watch. Before leaving home she had called Milo to tell him she would be late. If she left now, she could get there by noon.
Noreen said, “I hope you’ve relayed your suspicions to the police.”
C.J. looked up. Noreen had taken her sunglasses off, and cool blue-gray eyes were staring across the table. C.J. said, “First, I clearly told Paul that I’m not certain this person was Alana’s boyfriend. And second, I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss a case with anyone but the client.”
“Well, Miss C.J., I think you need to remember who your client really is. If there’s somebody the police ought to be talking to instead of a man who works for us, then why not tell them so?”
“I’m sure they’re already aware.” She smiled around the table. “Well. I hate to run, but I have a luncheon engagement. Thank you for the hospitality. And Sarah, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Tall, lanky Sarah Finch rose to shake her hand. She gave it an extra squeeze, and a smile passed between them. She said, “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks.”
Noreen waved her husband back to his seat. “Oh, let me walk Ms. Dunn out.”
The thunderclaps C.J. had expected broke as soon as the heavy front door closed. The women faced each other on the wide coral-rock porch under a jacaranda tree in full, purple bloom. Except for C.J.’s high heels, Noreen would have had the advantage. They were eye to eye.
“You told us on Friday this story wouldn’t get into the national media.”
Calmly C.J. replied, “That was before Alana Martin’s body washed up on Fort Lauderdale Beach last night.”
“Since you’re spending so much of our money investigating everybody involved in this case, have you been asking about Jason Wright? Paul says he works for Milo Cahill.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“Can’t discuss the case. We’re not the client. Don called you over here this morning to speak to Sarah. We’re doing you a big favor, and to turn around and brush us off like you do—”
“Noreen, please don’t tell me how to practice law. I will say it again. You are not my client.” C.J. took her car keys from her purse.
“If you know somebody who might have killed her, why’n hell don’t you say so?”
“Because I don’t know that, and it is unethical to make unfounded accusations based on a mere assumption.”
That brought a loud bark of a laugh. “My God. I don’t know how you’ve lasted this long, taking that prissy attitude. Reporters have been calling Paul’s house all morning. They’re turning up the heat, and I don’t like it. He’s getting hives.”
C.J. put on her sunglasses. “It’s going to be fine.”
“It had goddamn well better be.”
She went down the steps, past the fountain—whose four brass porpoises were spouting jets of water into the air in blatant violation of current use restrictions—then to the gravel driveway, where she opened the door of her BMW and slid behind the wheel. Noreen was watching from the porch.
Turning toward the street, C.J. pressed the accelerator and heard the rear tires spinning and gravel hitting the wheel wells.
“Take that, you bitch.”
chapter TWENTY-TWO
the downside of dealing with wealthy and powerful individuals, C.J.’s mentor had told her, is that the bastards expected to win. Don’t show your hand too soon. In ten years dealing with all varieties of such people, C.J. had learned the lesson pretty well, or so she had thought. Occasionally one slipped up by being too sanguine in judging the probability of success. One could also commit other mistakes, like making assumptions based on incomplete evidence. Case in point: suggesting that a twenty-eight-year-old Ivy League architect had brutally murdered, dismembered, and dumped his girlfriend into the sea, without the lawyer’s having first ascertained whether said architect was actually her lover, let alone whether he had a propensity toward violence and access to a boat.
C.J. hoped that Milo Cahill could shed some light. If not, C.J. would have to rely on Kylie Willis to establish an alibi for her client—if Kylie had been sober enough that night to remember who had taken her home, and if the police believed her. C.J. also hoped to confront the witnesses who claimed it was Alana Martin that Slater had taken from the party. Billy Medina had promised to find out their names, but he might be so ticked off at her right now that it could be a week before she heard from him, if ever.
Barring all that, there was very little that was going to make this case magically disappear. Still, C.J. knew she had made a good impression on Sarah Finch, and that the odds of landing the gig with CNN had definitely improved.
She automatically followed the Interstate north from downtown. The second exit to the beach would take her to Milo Cahill’s house. She was so deep in thought that it took a while to realize her cell phone was ringing. She had left it in its cradle on her dash, plugged into the speaker system. The screen said “unknown caller,” but she recognized the number. Fran Willis. How had she found out her cell-phone number? Well, from Kylie, of course.
She kept her hands on the wheel. After two more rings, the phone went silent. The message icon came on.
Sooner or later she would have to speak to the woman. Fran, I swear I didn’t tell Kylie she could stay. I will pay you to come here and take her back with you. How about it? A few days in Miami on me. Bring Bob. Bring Donny and Darlene, too. Go to Disney World on the way home. I’ll take care of it. She’s your daughter. Come and get her.
The phone rang again. She was about to hit the mute button when she saw who it was from. “Rick, hello. I’m in traffic, but I have it on speaker. What’s up?”
His voice surrounded her. “Got your message about Pettigrew. I was busy and couldn’t get back to you till now.”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“I’m on the road, but they had it on NPR.”
“Damn. Then it has to be on all the talk shows,” she said.
“I cruised by my apartment just now, and there was a TV crew outside my door, so I thought I’d find something else to do for a while. I called Shelby. He wants me to take him and the wife to his press conference tomorrow. I’m picking up vibes from the man, like I’m about to get fired.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
Rick asked, “If it happens, where does tha
t leave you and me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t pay you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just try to avoid the press until I get a few things nailed down.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . I’m working on it. I’d rather not say until I have more to report.”
“Okay. I think I might take off and go fishing this afternoon.”
“Good idea. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget the check.”
“You still want me to answer all those questions?”
Smiling, she settled into her seat. “No. We’ll just chat. Come in the afternoon. Toward five.”
“Depends on what the congressman has for me, but I’ll try to see you then.”
The words were forming on her lips. Maybe we can grab some dinner after, when she heard “Hasta mañana” and then the disconnect. She was glad she had not spoken. Another rule that she had almost forgotten: Unless they are persons to whom you could not possibly be attracted, do not meet your clients outside the office.
She hit the speed dial for Edgar’s number at home. He didn’t own a cell phone, refused even to consider it. He had the old-fashioned kind that would ring off the hook until answered. He finally picked up, a little out of breath.
“Edgar, it’s me. Has Kylie come back yet?”
“I’d have called you if she had.”
“What are you doing? You weren’t up on the ladder again, I hope?”
“No, no. I was under my house taking measurements. I want to open the bathtub drain, but it’s a pretty tight squeeze.”
“Edgar, please don’t do that. What if you got stuck? It’s going to rain soon. I promise.”
“If you have any influence, use it, but I think we’d have a better chance asking the Miccosukees to do a rain dance.”
“By the way, have any reporters been by the house? Have you seen anyone?”
“Nope.”
“Well, lock the gate, and don’t answer the door unless it’s Kylie. And don’t forget to call me when she comes back.”
The Dark of Day Page 20
