It had been months since C.J. had visited Milo Cahill, but she saw the red tile roof of the tower above the trees on the narrow, curving street. C.J. parked next to two other cars on the bricked area outside the wall. The heavy wooden gate was closed, so she walked to a smaller door, pressed a buzzer, and a minute later an unfamiliar man in a white T-shirt and trousers let her in. His beard was a narrow line along his jaw, and his glasses were tinted blue.
“I’m C.J. Dunn. I’ve come to see Mr. Cahill. He’s expecting me.”
“Just so you know, I’m his massage therapist.” He escorted her across the courtyard. The garage door was up, but Milo’s Mercedes wasn’t there. Another car, a Chrysler, was parked in its place.
“Milo is home, isn’t he?”
“In all his glory.”
“His car is gone, and I thought—”
“That’s a rental.”
“Oh, yes. Milo said he’s having the limo reupholstered.” She added, “In red leather.”
“La-de-fucking-dah.”
They walked up the steps. The rambling, two-story house was an Art Deco throwback that had been built in stages, creating a labyrinth of hallways and oddly shaped rooms. One of the previous owners had added a tower, accessible by a narrow, curving metal staircase. To the tower Milo had added oriental carpets, silk pillows, an antique Moroccan hookah, and a dumbwaiter to send drinks up and empty bottles down. He used the large living room as a gallery and place to mingle. There were black leather stools and a long red sofa shaped like lips.
A short, dumpy figure in an embroidered green silk turban stepped into view at the end of the hall. He opened his arms. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, look who’s here.”
She walked over and gave him a hug. “Hello, Milo.”
“Forgive my attire.” He brushed a hand over his baggy gray T-shirt and warmup pants. Leather slippers covered his feet. “Only my true friends are allowed to see me in this condition. But you look fresh as a daisy.”
“I just came from Noreen and Donald Finch’s house. I had a nice talk with his sister, Sarah.”
“Do tell.”
“I think I stand a good chance of getting the job.”
“Of course you’ll get it. Aren’t you glad you took my advice? Julio!” He looked around her to speak to the man still lingering in the hall. “C.J., you want some breakfast, don’t you? Or lunch?”
“I’ve just eaten, thanks. I’ll take some coffee.”
“Coffee for Ms. Dunn, please, Julio. Cream, one sugar. You see, I remember how you like it. I’ll have a pot of Earl Grey, some cranberry juice, and dry toast.”
When Julio was gone, rolling his eyes, Milo put his arm through hers, and they walked. “We’re being kind to Mr. Tummy this morning.”
“You had a party,” she guessed.
“Did I ever! Finally had somethin’ to celebrate. Wasn’t that a fabulous reception at the Royal Palm? Wasn’t it perfect? Everybody came over afterward and didn’t leave till the sun came up, and some of them are probably still asleep if you look in the corners. I was outside at dawn saying ’bye when the newspaper dropped at my feet. I made the mistake of looking at the front page. So they found Alana Martin. Most of her. It’s too awful for words. I had to take a Xanax.”
They entered the room he called his terrarium, half an octagon built on the back of the house. Tall windows looked out on a thatch-covered outdoor bar, a lap pool, and a dock where one could sit and look up and down the Intracoastal Waterway or at the mansions on the other side. But the cool air in the house had fogged the windows, and C.J. could only make out the plants pressing up against the glass. Roll-down bamboo shades cut the view even further, so that the room was dim and quiet, except for the trickle of water from a small fountain in the corner.
They sat opposite each other in rattan chairs upholstered in tropical print fabric from the 1940s, a teakwood table between. Its top was cluttered with antique wooden puzzles, some feather carnival masks, a dish of colored glass balls, and other things whose purpose was a mystery to her. C.J. stared at the collection, unable to decide if Milo’s house had always been so bizarre, or if sobriety had altered her perceptions.
“Thanks for referring this case to me, Milo, but it’s about to become a media feeding frenzy. When you turn on the news, you’ll find out.”
“Well, now you can get that pretty face in front of the public. You’ll be doing all sorts of interviews. I know someone at Vanity Fair. A profile is in order. How a small-town girl became one of America’s most glamorous attorneys.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“I don’t understand that about you, C.J. You love love love to talk about the law, but never a word about yourself. People like those rags-to-riches stories. They do.”
Milo’s head turned toward the jingling noise coming across the room. As a small blur of brown and black leaped on him and attacked his face with its tongue, he laughed and raised his arms. The dog circled, jumped down, and bounced into C.J.’s lap. She got her hands around its belly before it could lick her too. She held it up and looked past the fur into bright black eyes. The Yorkie let out a high-pitched yap and wagged its thumb-sized tail.
“Christ, Milo, you need to train this thing.”
He straightened his turban. “Princess just went to the groomer. Doesn’t she smell pretty?”
“Take her, please.”
“Come on, Princess. Come to Daddy.” He reached across the table. “Auntie C.J. doesn’t want to play. Sit. Be still. All right, C.J., you didn’t come over this morning because you missed us. What’s on your mind?” His mood had soured slightly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night,” C.J. said. “First, Noreen Finch. She’s not happy that I haven’t wrapped this case up and tied it with a bow already. Don’s sister is on my side, but I’m worried about Noreen. Do you think she’ll be a problem?”
Milo stroked the dog. “Don’t you worry about big bad Noreen. I’ll talk to Paul. No, I won’t say you asked me to. I know how to handle it. I think they all need to calm down over there.”
“You and he were fraternity brothers at Duke,” C.J. remembered. “Friends for a long time.”
“Oh, it’s just one of those connections you make when you’re young, and it sticks. We were boys, practically. Almost thirty years ago. Am I that old? Wait, I remember why you came over. You wanted to know if Alana Martin was doing porno movies. Well, I did ask a few people last night who might have heard something like that, and—” He lifted his hands.
C.J. replayed in her mind what Kylie had told her. She raised her brows. “No?”
“Not that I know about, and I know everything.”
“Well, if she never actually appeared in an adult film, did she ever try out for one? Or did she know or associate with people who made them?”
“My, you are on a tangent. Darlin’, that kind are not welcome on the beach, at least not in Milo’s house. We like to have good clean fun, don’t we, Princess? Oh, Alana had no inhibitions. She liked to party, we all knew that. I told you before, I think she got mixed up with drug dealers or such. They’re the people that tie a dead body to something heavy and throw it overboard.” He shuddered, and Princess took that as a signal to leap up and go for his face again. Her pink tongue darted over his eyes and mouth. “Yes, yes, you love Daddy, but that’s enough. Look, Julio brought you a cookie.”
The man in the white T-shirt had come in with a tray, which he quickly unloaded. “If that’s it, I have other appointments, and I’m already late.”
“Enjoy your day. Thank you.” Milo took the dog biscuit from a gold-rimmed saucer and gave it to Princess. “There you go. Yum-yum.”
C.J. had spent hours in this house, part of Milo’s circle, watching his courtiers come and go. In those days, she had even found his antics with his dog amusing. She had relied on Milo for fun, for never judging her, and to fix the little problems that arose. He knew she had spent two weeks locked away with other drunks a
nd a few addicts, but he had kept it to himself. He was discreet. She felt some fondness toward him, and she doubted he would lie to her.
“Milo, has Donald Finch ever made adult movies?”
That brought an open-mouthed laugh. “That is funny. Donald Finch makes second-rate documentaries that wouldn’t sell at all if he weren’t so well connected. The smartest thing he ever did for himself was marry Noreen Shelby.”
“He studied film in L.A., but he’d left by the time I arrived,” C.J. said. “Does he talk about people he knows in the industry?”
“Yes, but I take it with a grain of salt. Why are you asking?”
“Alana Martin said someone was going to connect her with a friend in Hollywood.”
“Oh, not Donald. I doubt he knew her, and he certainly wouldn’t have offered to help her. Noreen would have had his balls on a platter.”
“It wasn’t you, was it?”
“Me?” Milo laid a hand on his chest. “Why, I’m so flattered you think I have any influence in Tinseltown. If Alana had come to me, I’d certainly have done what I could for her, though.”
C.J. sighed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not being very helpful to you today, am I? Last night, did you have time to see the drawings of the interior of The Aquarius? We’re doing something new there, too. Fiber-optic cable, which admits light but not heat.”
She picked up her coffee cup, yellow Fiesta Ware pottery, and put it down again. “What I came over to talk to you about is someone on your design staff. Jason Wright. I need to ask you about him.”
Milo closed his eyes and raised his brows. “No longer on my staff, as of about one o’clock this morning.”
“What happened?”
Milo poured himself some tea. “I found out Jason was bad-mouthing me behind my back. Oh, we’d had our disagreements, but his attitude had become impossible. A master’s degree from Princeton. An internship with Frank Gehry. That makes you smarter than Milo Cahill, who has been in this business as long as you have been alive? I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” C.J. said. “I spoke to him at the reception. He seemed unhappy.”
“He’s a deeply unhappy young man. That was part of our problem. I don’t like mopes.”
She leaned forward with her arms crossed on her knees. “Was he Alana Martin’s lover?”
Over his tea cup, Milo’s eyes narrowed with amusement, and his rosy lips turned up. “Hardly. Jason is gay. You mean you didn’t pick up on it?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Well, I should rephrase that. Jason is having difficulties accepting what he is. He hasn’t told his family. He’s the only son, mommy and daddy are in the country club, go to church, vote Republican. You know. I introduced him to Alana Martin, hoping she could push him off the fence, but . . . well, it didn’t work. I tried.” He smiled across the table. “Have a piece of toast?”
“No, I should leave.”
“We’re so glad you came to see us.” He wasn’t urging her to stay, she noticed. She had done the unforgivable, turned into a mope.
She leaned over and kissed his cheek, their customary parting. “Thanks, Milo.”
He stood up with Princess draped over his arm. “Don’t be a stranger.”
When the door closed behind her, C.J. doubted she would ever be back. Something had changed. For years she had called him her friend, but she really knew very little about him beyond the surface glitter. After she moved from California, she never heard from him. When he came to Miami, he used her contacts to dig new roots. His money and his laughter attracted friends. He was generous, but the kind of generosity that served to keep him at the center of the circle. He was a fixer, but the price was loyalty. To those who crossed him he could be dismissive and cruel. How could she never have noticed? The world was not as pretty, sober.
As she went through the small door to the street, C.J. looked up at the sky. The heat and humidity had turned the blue to a featureless haze. Clouds floated tantalizingly west to east, holding on tightly to any rain.
One thing she knew: the week was gonna be hell.
chapter TWENTY-THREE
it was 7:10 A.M. when C.J. opened her office door and turned on the lights. She had come in early to avoid the reporters who would soon be swarming the lobby. Her name had come up on CNN again. Well-known attorney C.J. Dunn had been hired by a person of interest in the murder of Alana Martin. Sources were suggesting it could be someone on the staff of U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby, who had been at the party that night.
The only possible source of that rumor, C.J. thought, was Libi Rodriguez. She had wanted an interview with Shelby, who had brushed her off. Libi had to know something was going on, and sooner or later she would leak Rick Slater’s name, leaving it to the talking heads to draw the wrong conclusions. C.J. planned to grab the story out of Libi’s hands and spin it her way.
Driving to work, half expecting an outraged phone call from Shelby or even his mother, C.J. had flipped through the talk-radio stations. The theory of a connection to drugs was getting some play, Alana Martin as a party girl who had crossed the wrong people. A person who called herself a friend of Alana was certain that a man she’d met at a bar had stalked and killed her.
At her desk, C.J. aimed her remote at the television and let it play in the background. She tossed her tote into a chair and flipped open her daily diary so see what could possibly be put off until later in the week or given to one of her associates.
At 7:25, her secretary knocked on the open door and came in, her dyed red hair a vivid contrast to a lime-green jacket and skirt. C.J. looked around from the window, where she had been spraying a little fertilizer on her orchids. “Aren’t you the early bird?”
“Well, I kinda figured there’d be a lot going on today,” Shirley said. “I saw your picture on Good Morning America. They talked about all the big cases you’ve done. I expect you’ll get some phone calls.”
“I expect I will.”
“What’s first?” Shirley scooted her jangling bracelets up her arm and poised her pen over her steno pad. “Coffee?”
“No, I’ll get it. Put a note on Henry’s door to come see me as soon as he gets in. And tell the front desk that if they get any calls from the media, we have no comment at this time.” Ten minutes later, she had given Shirley enough to keep her busy the rest of the day. “So how was your weekend at Disney World with the girls?”
“Great, but I felt like I was playing hooky. The real fun is here.” Shirley stuck her pen behind her ear and, with a swirl of her skirt, she was gone.
“Right. We’re having a ball.”
The corridors, empty and silent when C.J. had arrived, were coming to life. The girl from the printing room was making deliveries, and legal assistants were turning on their computers. In the kitchen, C.J. fixed herself a large mug of coffee and took a bagel from the tray, which would have to do until lunch.
Henri Pierre was waiting for her when she got back to her office. “Morning, boss. You wanted to see me?”
“Bonjour, Henry. That’s a nice suit.”
He shrugged, smiling. “On sale. You like it?”
“Very handsome. You look like partnership material. Come on in.” She took a sip of coffee. “I could use some help. I’m jammed up with this Martin thing. Can you handle a federal bond hearing at two o’clock this afternoon? Basically, all you need to do is show up.”
“I have a conference call, but yes, I can move it to later today. Where’s the file?”
“Wait.” C.J. aimed her remote at the screen to turn up the volume. The Today Show host was saying, “After the news at the top of the hour, we’ll be talking to the parents of Alana Martin, the Miami woman whose body was found more than a week after she vanished from a celebrity party at the home of a wealthy Miami Beach publisher and socialite.”
C.J. wondered about calling Billy Medina to warn him.
Henry said, “How can you go on national TV if your child was
just found dead? Do they like the attention?”
“Everyone deals with it in his own way. This is the second daughter they’ve lost.” C.J. looked at Henry. “Alana’s older sister drowned when her car went into a canal. Alana was driving.”
“My God. That is beyond tragic. How are they functioning?”
“I don’t know.” She handed Henry a thick file. “Here. If you have any questions, call me.”
From behind her desk, C.J. scrolled through the channels, then backed up to CNN. She had caught sight of the beach, police standing in the glare of floodlights, and a tarp covering a body. The story was no different than what she had seen at home two hours ago. She turned it off and called her secretary.
“Shirley, don’t we have a portable TV in the storeroom? I want you to put it on your desk and if you see anything on the Martin case, take notes. Let me know if they say anything I need to respond to. If they mention Paul Shelby or Rick Slater, drop everything and tell me what channel. I also want you to check the Internet and see what’s coming through on the news blogs.”
Shirley said she would. C.J. thanked her and turned to the files that she had hoped to get to over the weekend. She checked her watch. There were certain reporters she wanted to call, but it was too early.
At 8:05, she turned the TV back on and kept an eye on it. A few minutes later, the Today Show host, Scott Matthews, went to the Martin story, reminding the audience that the girl’s body had been found on the beach two nights ago. He had the good manners not to describe the body’s condition. The screen went to a view of the parents and their lawyer at a conference table, probably at Oscar Enriquez’s office.
Matthews gave them his condolences, then asked if they had prepared themselves for this outcome.
“Stupid question,” C.J. said.
Oscar Enriquez translated, then spoke to the camera. “They were holding on to hope of finding her alive. It’s very painful for them, Scott. Alana’s older sister died in a traffic accident, and to lose a second child to a murder, well, they are traumatized. Alana was a good student, a good daughter, an aspiring actress, a beautiful young woman. They want people to know that.”
The Dark of Day Page 21
