Matthews asked if the police were making any progress in the case.
Enriquez said, “Not fast enough. Luisa and Hector want to find the persons responsible, so if anyone has information, please come forward. They also want to thank the hundreds of people who have sent them messages of sympathy, and as soon as the medical examiner releases their daughter’s body, they will see about a burial. They want to have a nice service for her. They don’t have much money, but it’s the last gift they can give their daughter.”
“I can’t stand this.” C.J. aimed the remote at the television but was stopped by the faces of Alana’s parents. They were drained. Stunned. Holding hands, they mumbled their thanks in heavily accented English.
The screen went dark when C.J. pressed the remote. Their daughter was dead. Whatever she had been, they had loved her. Their pain had poured through the screen. For a minute, C.J. rested her forehead on the heels of her hands, eyes closed.
She thought about Kylie. She still hadn’t heard from her, even after leaving four messages. Kylie had returned Edgar’s car yesterday while C.J. was at Milo’s. She had come and gone, apologizing to Edgar for not finishing his photographs, but hoping to get to it in a few days. She had asked Edgar to drop her off at the bus stop on South Dixie Highway.
C.J. looked at her telephone. Taking a breath, she picked up the handset and from memory dialed the Willises’ home number in Pensacola. Three days ago she had promised Fran to put Kylie on an airplane today, Monday, and fly her home. She expected to catch hell for it, but there was nothing left to do but admit she had failed.
Kylie’s father answered.
“Bob, this is C.J. Dunn. I hope I’m not calling too early.”
He said she wasn’t, they were just finishing breakfast. “I guess you’ll want to talk to Fran.”
C.J. took a last sip of cold coffee from the mug and, a moment later, Fran came on. “Well,” she said, “I was wondering when you’d get around to calling back.”
“Fran, I’m sorry, I don’t know where Kylie is. She spent the night at my house on Saturday—”
“I know. She told me. We had a talk last night. She’s going to stay in Miami. Bob and I aren’t thrilled, but there comes a point when you’re just beating your head against the wall. She has a job and her own apartment—”
“Her own apartment?”
“An efficiency, one room and a kitchen. She has some money, and she got a little advance on her salary.”
C.J. couldn’t decide if Fran was angry at her or at Kylie. She said, “Where is she working?”
“In a gift shop on Miami Beach. They sell henna tattoos and crystals and things like that. She says she likes the owner, and she’s making enough to live on, so I said, Kylie, if that’s what you really want, there’s nothing your father and I can do about it, as long as you call us every week and let us know you’re okay, and she said she would.”
C.J. said, “She’s too young, Fran.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? You don’t have to worry about her anymore. I was wrong to involve you in the first place. Kylie said you were trying to reach her, and I told her, no, just leave Ms. Dunn alone.” Fran paused to take a breath. “I won’t be calling you again, and you don’t call here. All right? We won’t be bothering you anymore. Kylie is my daughter, not yours.” As Fran spoke, her voice had risen and become more clipped, until it seemed that the words came at C.J. like sharp pebbles.
Into the silence on the line, she said, “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want. And Bob too. I’m sorry it has to be that way.”
“So am I. Good-bye, Fran.”
C.J. slowly replaced the handset. She knew she ought to be relieved. Another task crossed off her list. A burden lifted. But all she felt was hollow, as if something precious to her had been irretrievably lost. She felt pressure behind her eyes, then the burn of tears.
“Stop it.” She jerked a drawer open for a tissue.
At 8:30 she consulted her computer for her list of media contacts. She called an acquaintance who worked for Larry King. He said he would call the assistant producer for her and see if they could get her on the air tonight or tomorrow.
Next, C.J. put in calls to friendly reporters at The Los Angeles Times, The Miami Herald, The Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale, and the local ABC affiliate. Some were in, some not, but when she had them on the line, she told them she was representing a member of Congressman Shelby’s staff, one of several persons being questioned by police. Mr. Slater, an Army veteran with a spotless record, had given his consent to a search of his apartment, and the detectives had found absolutely nothing to incriminate him. C.J. told the reporters about the men who claimed to have seen her client leave the party with Alana Martin, but it had actually been some other girl. No, sorry, she couldn’t divulge the name of this girl just yet, but she expected to get statements soon to clear it all up.
After she had worked her way through as many reporters as she believed would report the story her way, she called Edgar. So far, the vultures had not landed on her front lawn, though Edgar had spotted a car driving by slowly, someone taking pictures through the window.
C.J. worked through the morning and ate lunch at her desk. The managing partner stopped by for a chat, making sure that the Martin story wasn’t going to disrupt the smooth functioning of the office—it wouldn’t—or to see if C.J. had any juicy details. She didn’t.
Shirley came in waving some message slips. “Fox News wants a phone interview at four-fifteen.”
“Sure, right in advance of Paul Shelby’s press conference. Call them back, say not at this time but we’ll be in touch.”
“I already did.” Shirley gave her a list of stories that had appeared on the portable TV set at her desk. “They’re talking about a boyfriend of Alana Martin, a young architect named Jason Wright.”
C.J. laid down her pen. “What are they saying?”
“Well, that he and Alana were dating, and she broke it off. They showed where he lives, an apartment on Miami Beach. They’re not saying he killed her or anything.” Shirley looked closely at C.J. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Someone had leaked this story, and C.J. could only think of one person: Noreen Finch. It wouldn’t have been hard for Noreen to discover the name of the young architect Alana had been dating and, from there, to drop a few hints to the right people. The effect it would have on the poor schmuck she was accusing wouldn’t have occurred to Noreen. And C.J. was painfully aware of where the blame lay: with herself.
“There are a couple other things,” Shirley said. “ET is going to interview Yasmina tonight, the singer who was at the party.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to watch. Did Harnell Robinson’s check arrive? He was supposed to have it here today by noon.”
“Nothing yet,” Shirley said.
“Dammit. He’s not going to blow off twenty thousand dollars. I will sue him. His last excuse was, I had to make some back payments to my agent. Next time Milo Cahill sends me a client, I’m going to make sure they have the cash.”
“Want me to call Mr. Robinson and see if it’s on its way?”
“Please. If I do it, I’ll scream at him.”
“Oh, you got this.” A large brown envelope was clamped under Shirley’s elbow, and she handed it across the desk. “It’s from Paul Shelby’s office.”
When Shirley had gone out, C.J. opened the envelope. She unfolded a letter from Shelby’s chief of staff. Per your request to Mr. Shelby, enclosed please find. . . . He had attached the résumé and pay records for Richard Alan Slater.
Slater was earning $700 a week plus overtime. C.J. went to the résumé, expecting nothing unusual. Judy Mazzio had already supplied the basic information. Born at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, lived on bases in six different countries. High school and first two years of college in Chicago. Eight years in the Army Special Forces, various assignments overseas, discharged as a lieutenant. Paratroop training. Medal for
expert marksmanship. Third-degree black belt in karate and tae kwon do. Graduated from UNC-WILMINGTON, near Fort Bragg, with a degree in political science.
C.J. turned to the next page. Private security work in Malaysia, Italy, Colombia, and Mexico. Most recently with Atlas Security, Miami. Licensed to carry firearms. Fluent in Spanish, had basic Italian, French, and Arabic.
Odd. Why would a man with that much going for him settle for $700 a week to be a chauffeur in Miami, Florida?
Her thoughts were interrupted when Shirley buzzed her on the intercom.
“It’s Mr. Medina. I told him you didn’t want to be disturbed, but he said you were expecting his call.”
When she connected, C.J. said, “Billy, I was hoping to speak to you today. Have the media showed up?”
“Like flies,” he said. “But what can I tell them? Yes, I had the party. Yes, she was here. That’s all I know. Well, my lovely, I have something you want. I spoke to the mayor about the witnesses.”
“Thank you, Billy. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“You should have more faith in me, chica.”
He gave her the names of two men and their addresses, one in Miami, the other on the beach. He said, “I hope you get rid of this soon. It’s making you a little crazy. You’ll be easier to get along with when it’s over.”
“Probably true. Maybe we can see each other this weekend. Until then, I’m swamped.”
“Really? How unusual. Whenever you break free, you know my number.”
Click.
“Yes, and I would be so happy to see you too,” she said.
She called Judy Mazzio’s office and left the information on Judy’s voice mail. She added, “See if you can get a statement out of these guys pronto. I need it yesterday. Threaten to break their legs if they lie. Oh, and I’m going to courier that black dress over to you. See if it improves their memories.”
As she worked, she kept the TV on mute, two channels on the screen, NBC and CNN. She planned to watch Paul Shelby’s press conference at four-thirty. He had timed it to give the reporters a chance to put his big smile and brilliant remarks into their five o’clock lineup. But she suspected they weren’t going to ask many questions about The Aquarius.
Her intercom buzzed. Shirley told her that Mr. Slater had arrived. C.J. said to ask him if he wanted anything to drink; she would be with him in a minute. She hung up and raced around her office shoving boxes out of the way, straightening stacks of journals, and pushing three pairs of shoes out of sight under the sofa. She touched up her lipstick and went out to the twenty-first-floor waiting room to find her client.
He sat on the edge of one of the square-shaped armchairs, leaning over the large glass-topped table, feet planted apart, reading an issue of Yachting Magazine. The back of his dark gray suit coat stretched tightly across his shoulders. The halogens in the ceiling put a little shine on his head.
“Mr. Slater?”
His eyes went first to her face before doing the automatic male scan, starting at her open-toe, four-inch Manolo Blahniks, up her legs, over the above-the-knee skirt, lingering for a split second on her chest, then back to her face. He smiled politely and stood up, extending his hand.
“Ms. Dunn.”
“Come on back.”
In her office she closed the door behind him and said, “No comments on the clutter, please.”
“Nice view.” He walked over to the window. “I don’t have much time. I dropped the Shelbys off at his congressional office for the press conference, and he expects me to come right back.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
Slater withdrew an envelope from inside his jacket. “He gave me a check for you. Five grand. I don’t think he was too happy about it. He’s been listening to the news, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Slater looked at the row of orchid pots on the windowsill. Three were in bloom, including a white vanda that was sending out double sprays of flowers, propped up on long sticks. “Green thumb,” he said.
“I just feed them. They bloom when they get good and ready.” C.J. put the envelope on her desk. “I had to give your name to some reporters whom I trust before Libi Rodriguez figures it out. She’s good, I have to hand it to her. She smiles pretty and shows her cleavage. Do you want to sit down?”
“Sure.” Slater sat on the edge of the sofa, feet apart, elbows on knees. He was frowning. “What are the chances of them coming after me? In my business, we don’t like our faces on TV.”
“Fifty-fifty. I’m doing the best I can. If they think you’re just another Joe Schmoe at the party, they’ll leave you alone.” She told him that she had obtained the names of the witnesses who supposedly had seen him with Alana Martin. “My investigator is going to show them Alana’s picture and encourage them to say they were mistaken. We’ll give their statements to the police. I thought I had an alibi witness, but it didn’t work out.”
“Who?”
“The girl you took home from the party. I thought I could find her.”
“How?”
“I have my ways, but it was a dead end. We won’t need her. Somebody else’s name has come up. Jason Wright. Remember him? The architect who works for Milo Cahill? Or he used to. Cahill fired him.”
“Yeah, the guy you didn’t think was guilty.”
“I didn’t tell them. I think Noreen Finch did. Shelby’s mother. It was a rotten thing to do, but it’s out in the media now, and if we can take advantage, so be it. That’s how the game is played.”
“Some game,” Slater said.
“My job is to protect you.”
“And Shelby.”
“Screw Shelby.” When Slater raised his brows, C.J. said, “Politicians.”
“Shelby at the top of the list, seems to me,” Slater said. “Saturday at the Royal Palm, he put his hand on your arm, and you nearly slugged him.”
“I did not.” C.J. picked up her remote. “Let’s see if his press conference is being carried live. I doubt it. If anything, they’ll just put some sound bites on the evening news.”
She was wrong. Paul Shelby was live on two local channels, the Fox affiliate and Channel Eight. There were others taping it; he spoke into a cluster of microphones. His wife stood beside him in a neat blue suit, a smile on her pretty face. As background they had hung up large drawings of The Aquarius, glittering blue towers rising above a horizon of palm trees and turquoise water. Shelby was finishing his remarks, gesturing to a photograph of the land as it currently existed, scrubby and dry, useless as surplus government property, to be developed for the good of the people of Florida, for American energy independence, and for the future of the planet.
“Give me a break,” C.J. said. “Slater, I know he’s your boss, but can you honestly tell me he’s not getting anything out of this but a good deed that warms his heart?”
“So he says.”
When Paul Shelby was finished, the room erupted. Reporters were on their feet waving arms, shouting. A man with a Fox News microphone managed to get through. “Congressman, a question about the party a week ago where Alana Martin disappeared. Is it true that you went there to hear the Lebanese singer, Yasmina? Were you aware then, or are you now, of anti-American statements she’s made against our policy in the Middle East?”
Rick Slater stared at the screen.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” C.J. said.
Paul Shelby chuckled. “No, I wasn’t aware, but you can be sure I won’t be buying any of her CDs.”
The laughter was quickly drowned out by shouts for attention. A slender arm at the front of the crowd rose, and a woman called out, “Congressman Shelby, a question on The Aquarius!”
“Yes.” He pointed.
The camera swung to Libi Rodriguez with her Channel Eight microphone. “The architect for the project is Milo Cahill. Mr. Cahill has a long relationship with celebrity criminal lawyer C.J. Dunn, going back at least ten years, when Ms. Dunn represented Mr. Cahill in a wrongful death case in California. Now Ms. Dunn is apparentl
y representing you or someone on your staff. Why did you hire Ms. Dunn? Is it related to the disappearance and murder of Alana Martin?”
Shelby broke into a smile. “Well, that’s a bait-and-switch if I ever heard one. A member of my staff was at the party with me, and police have been interviewing everyone. It’s only wise to have advice of counsel in a situation like this, and I asked Ms. Dunn for her opinion. That’s all it is. And I’m not going to give you the name of my staff member, out of consideration for his privacy. Next?”
Slater let out a breath. “I just heard a bullet go past my head.” C.J. said, “Shelby’s good at this. Nothing hits him and sticks. He was born to be in Washington.”
Slater looked at her. “You really don’t like the man. What did he ever do to you?”
“Nothing, I hate them all equally.”
“You look like you could use a drink.”
C.J. laughed. “A double scotch on the rocks. We need to talk about this, but you should go. Call me after you’re finished with Shelby.”
“What if we meet later, say six-thirty? I’ll buy you a hamburger at my favorite joint, the Killarney Pub.”
She hesitated. “I can’t. I’ve got too much to do.”
“You have to eat sometime, and it’s on your way home.”
“I don’t drink when I’m working. I have some things to finish tonight.”
“I said eat. I’m not out to get you drunk, Ms. Dunn.” He smiled, and his teeth flashed white in his beard.
She let Shirley escort him back to the elevators. She picked up her little brass plant mister and walked down the row of orchids in her window, wondering if they would be happier in her backyard, or if the heat would bake them. She lifted a leaf on the phalaenopsis and sprayed the roots. Leaning closer, she saw a tender green shoot that hadn’t been there yesterday. She smiled and gently touched it. “Where have you been?”
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
rick sat in a booth on the side facing the door so he could watch for C.J. Dunn. The windows were heavily tinted, and neon beer signs reflected back into the bar. There were three televisions going, but the sound was turned off, CNN on one, the others showing a game between the Florida Marlins and the Atlanta Braves, top of the eighth, Atlanta getting creamed. Not too many people on a Monday, so Rick wasn’t bothering anybody by talking on his cell phone. Even so, he spoke quietly, his hand in front of his face. Carlos Moreno was on the other end, calling to tell him that in her next broadcast, Libi Rodriguez intended to mention his name.
The Dark of Day Page 22
