“He passed away?”
“The same thing as your brother. I was in California. I came back for his funeral.”
“That’s rough.”
“Not really. I hadn’t seen him since I left home at twenty. He was in his own world, and he barely knew I was gone. My mother is still alive. She buried my father, told me I was going to hell, and a year later she married a fundamentalist preacher and moved to Tennessee. I’m sure she’s very happy.”
“No brothers, sisters?” Rick asked.
“Nobody. My husband was originally from Miami. His uncle lives in a cottage behind my place, and we’ve adopted each other. Edgar’s a dear old thing, eighty-seven years old. I may have some cousins left in Mayo, but we’ve completely lost touch.” She finally unrolled her napkin and picked up her fork. “And that’s my life. You know more than most people.”
“It’s safe with me. Where’s Mayo? Is that where you’re from?”
“Where is Mayo? About an hour northwest of Gainesville near the Suwanee River, population one thousand. A nice little town if you like cows, pine trees, and not much to do except follow the Florida Gators. The name is from Ireland, speaking of things Irish.” She ate some potato. “You were right, this is delicious.”
“Glad you like it. We’ll do dinner again sometime.”
“Maybe, when this is over.” She cut a piece of fish and ate it, then another, as though her desire for alcohol had switched to hunger. “I’ve made a decision. Even if Shelby lets you go, I’m not firing you as my client.”
“That’s good. Go easy on me with the fees.”
“What fees? I’m doing it for all the free publicity.”
“I could live without it,” he said. “Reporters have probably staked out my apartment.”
“I’m sure they have, after that report from Libi Rodriguez. You shouldn’t go home right now. I’d rather you avoided the media. Is there somewhere you could stay until later on tonight?”
“Sure, I’ve got a friend I could stay with for a while.”
C.J. finished chewing and patted her mouth with the napkin. Her eyes lit up. “Let’s get out of town for the rest of the day. What about Key Largo?”
“I thought you had to work.”
“I’m always up late. I don’t sleep. There’s a little place on the bay side I haven’t been to in years, but it’s still there. We could do dessert and coffee and be back before midnight.”
He could read the question in her eyes, and it wasn’t about coffee. He said, “We’d better not.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” Her hand lay on the table, white and smooth, the fingers gracefully curling. She wore a ring, pearl and diamonds. “Because if we do that, we’ll end up in the same hotel room, and that wouldn’t be smart.” He drew a line across her knuckles, around her thumb. “Would it?”
“Well, I’m glad one of us is thinking straight.” She dropped her hands into her lap.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Rick, when this is over. . . .” A smile slowly formed on her lips.
“When this is over, what?”
“Do you think you could teach a city girl how to fish?”
He smiled. “Count on it.”
chapter TWENTY-FIVE
On Tuesday morning a producer for Larry King called to say they would feature the Alana Martin murder that night, and they wanted C.J. to comment. They would go live from L.A. at 9:00 P.M., and do C.J.’s part of the show from local Channel Eight. After a sentencing hearing that afternoon, C.J. planned to go home and get ready, but when Judy Mazzio called, she decided to take a detour.
The two witnesses against Rick Slater had changed their minds. Judy had their signed statements at her office. She had shown the two men a photograph from Sunday’s Herald, a group snapshot taken at Billy’s party, Alana Martin in a black halter dress that left her shoulders bare. Judy took another black dress out of a bag, one with cap sleeves and a neckline slashed nearly to the waist. The girl you saw, Judy told them, was wearing this dress. She showed them Kylie’s driver’s license photo.
C.J. drove the few blocks from the Justice Building to Judy’s office, a converted 1930s bungalow with shade trees in the yard and security bars over the windows. Mazzio Bail Bonds and Investigations. While Judy made copies, C.J. sat at a long table looking through the latest tabloids and news magazines. She could hear a television going in the next office, where one of Judy’s bail bondsmen was working.
She picked up a copy of The Globe. The letters leaped off the page: Alana Martin’s Secret Life of Sex and Drugs over a photograph of girls stumbling out of a night club. On the cover of People, Luisa Martinez held a graduation portrait of Alana: Alana’s Mom: It Could Happen to Your Daughter. The headline in The National Enquirer blared: Horror on the Beach! Exclusive Interview with Ohio Couple Who Found Alana’s Body! C.J. turned pages to find indistinct images of police officers pulling a tarp toward a shape in the sand.
In Touch featured a collage of the celebrities at the party that night, unflattering photos in which they appeared drunk or stoned. In a box to one side, C.J. saw a photo of herself without makeup, squinting. Which celeb is lawyer C.J. Dunn’s client? See page 22.
She found the picture that Nash Pettigrew had taken in her front yard. With a laugh she held it up. “Judy, did you see this one of me in the bathrobe and slippers?”
“Yeah, great outfit,” Judy said, stapling papers together.
“Thank God the public has a short attention span.” C.J. read the article and found that she represented Richard Slater, the chauffeur for U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby. They didn’t have Slater’s photo and didn’t imply he was guilty. So far Slater still had his job. Milo Cahill had promised to talk to the congressman, and it appeared he had done so.
The Sun reported Alana’s Boyfriend Denies Fight at Party. The cover photo showed Jason with his arms around two girls, one of them Alana, obviously not taken at Billy’s because Alana was wearing a blue top, and her hair was up. The flash had caught them laughing.
Judy said, “I marked one of the pages.”
Inside, C.J. learned that Jason Wright was a spoiled rich kid who had graduated from Princeton and had come to South Beach to party. He had been fired by world-renowned architect Milo Cahill. Jason’s parents lived in a wealthy area in Connecticut and spent the winters in Delray Beach.
“Every time I think the tabloids have gone as low as possible, they prove me wrong,” C.J. said.
Judy came over and tapped a finger on the photograph of the Wrights’ waterfront townhouse. “I’ll bet you they have a boat.”
Shaking her head, C.J. said, “Jason didn’t put the body in his trunk, drive fifty miles north, then carry it in a boat all the way back to Miami and dump it. Alana was carried north by the currents.”
“I know that, but you can’t deny it helps your client,” Judy said.
“Oh, look at this one,” C.J. said, holding up a copy of South Beach Insider . “According to this, Jason is gay. A bartender at the Samba Room swears they had sex. Now why haven’t the tabloids run that story?”
“Because they like him better straight.” Judy went to her desk and came back with the local section of The Miami Herald, already opened and folded to a certain page. “Here, in case you’re tired of reading about Jason.”
The story was titled Police Baffled by Metal Piece Found with Body. The accompanying closeup showed a small plastic ruler alongside a piece of metal about three inches in length, a quarter inch in diameter. One end was straight, and the other twirled to a point. They had found the piece caught in the duct tape wrapped around Alana Martin’s torso. It was believed that it could have broken from a larger object used as ballast to insure that the victim would sink, but which had failed to achieve that purpose. Detective Sergeant George Fuentes said the photograph was being released to the public in case someone might be able to identify it.
“I’d g
uess a corkscrew,” Judy said, “but the metal is thinner.”
C.J. turned the photo sideways, then upside down. “It’s got to be one of those things that when somebody tells you what it is, you hit your forehead and say oh, sure, I knew that.”
Judy said, “Does it look familiar?”
“Maybe I’m crazy, but it does.” C.J. tossed the paper aside. “I’ve no idea.”
Judy handed her the folder with the statements inside. “When are you taking these to Fuentes?”
“Tomorrow. I have a hearing in federal court in the afternoon, and I’ll run over to the Beach after that.”
Judy sat down and took off her reading glasses. They had zebra-print frames, matching her black top and tight white jeans. “Do you want me to find Kylie for you? How many New Age shops could there be on South Beach? I was thinking as long as you’re over there—”
“Thanks, but Fran doesn’t want me to contact Kylie.”
“What a bitch. I don’t understand it. What’s her problem?”
“I’m a bad influence,” C.J. said.
“How?”
“I don’t want to get into it now. Do you have an invoice for me?”
“Sure.” Judy went to get it. “We’re only up to sixteen hundred dollars so far. Don’t leave yet, though. I have something to put a smile on your face.” She held up a business card. “Remember this? Tisha Dulaney, Excitement Travel, Miami Beach?”
C.J. took the card. “She gave me one of these too.”
“Excitement Travel does ordinary bookings, but they also do porn cruises. What did I tell you? The owner and CEO is Harold Vincent. He’s sixty-seven, divorced, lives in an apartment in Surfside. He was born in Kansas City, made money in strip clubs, relocated in Vegas, then came to Miami in the late eighties.”
“Harold Vincent. Wasn’t that the man in Tisha’s bedroom? I saw a pair of alligator shoes by the sofa.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He used to produce adult videos before everybody started downloading. He’s always been in the adult entertainment industry. He has a company on Aruba that does online gaming and pornography. It’s called Blue Wave, Limited. For twenty dollars a month, you get access to their catalog.”
“Don’t tell me. Harold Vincent is behind the movie that Alana auditioned for.”
“I’m not sure yet, but give me a couple of days.”
“You amaze me, Judy.”
“When you’re in this business you kinda learn who’s who. I’ve met Harold Vincent. It was in Vegas. He was a tall, skinny man with a toupee and bags under his eyes. Not the best-looking guy in the world, but he dressed like a million. They always comped him a suite, and he’d bring his friends and order up two or three working girls.” Judy swung a foot and twirled a strand of hair from her topknot around her finger. She laughed. “I gave him some lessons in blackjack, and he still lost. Small world, huh?”
They looked around when a man’s voice at the door said, “Judy? You and C.J. ought to come look at this.”
They got up and followed Raul into his office. He was Afro-Cuban, built like a pro wrestler. Raul specialized in tracking down bail bond skips in Miami’s heavily Latin population. He turned up the volume on the television, tuned to Celebrity Docket. They were showing the usual South Beach scenes: stretch limos, lots of skin on smiling models, and night clubs with pounding beats.
A cheerful female voice said, “This is the world that Alana Martin belonged to.”
There was footage of Billy Medina with his white hair and blazing smile, waving at the camera from the terrace of a restaurant on Ocean Drive. He was standing next to 3-Strikes, a rapper who later that weekend would be arrested for throwing a beer bottle at a police officer.
“I’ve seen it all before,” C.J. said. “Sorry, Raul, but I need to go.”
“Wait. They mentioned your name.”
And there she was, staggering into the scene with a drink in her hand, catching herself on 3-Strikes’s shoulder.
The voice-over said, “Glamorous attorney C.J. Dunn, formerly of Hollywood, was a regular on the South Beach party circuit until the lifestyle caught up with her. Our Celebrity Docket sources say that C.J. spent two weeks earlier this year in a court-ordered drug and alcohol treatment center known for its celebrity clientele. It must have worked. She’s been hired by U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby of Miami to represent his bodyguard, who’s being questioned by police in the strange and tragic murder of Alana Martin.”
The host was back with her wide smile. “Stay tuned for more inside looks at the stars and celebs involved in this case.”
Stunned, C.J. could only stare at the screen, which had turned into a blur of color.
“You ought to sue them,” Raul said. “That’s invasion of privacy.”
C.J. smiled. “Unfortunately not. The story is true, and I am arguably a public figure. The court didn’t order me to go to rehab, and I don’t work for Shelby, but who cares about the details?”
“That sucks. Why do they have to say things like that?”
Judy said, “Because the jerk-offs have nothing better to do. Turn it off, Raul.” When C.J. abruptly spun around and went back to Judy’s office to collect her things, Judy followed. “C.J., wait.”
“I need to go home. I have to get ready for my five minutes on Larry King Live tonight. Oh, that should be fun.”
“Cancel it.”
“I’m not canceling an appearance on CNN. I want that job, and by God I’m going to have it. You never cancel, you come out swinging or denying everything. Except I can’t do that, can I? Yes, I was locked up for my own good. I had blackouts and was late to court. I lost clients, and if it weren’t for my good friend Judy, I’d still be a drunk.”
“Larry won’t ask you about that. He’s a gentleman.”
“That’s true, he is. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Judy stopped her. “What son of a bitch told them? Who hates you that much? Does Libi Rodriguez know?”
“She does now.”
“Tell me who it was so I can go break his neck.”
“Who knows how these things get out? I’ll survive. I’ve been through this kind of crappy situation before. Maybe not quite this crappy, where they’re sticking their damned noses into everything I do.”
Judy returned her smile, but lines creased her forehead. “Like you said, the public has a short attention span.”
“I swear, if I hadn’t gone sober, I would get so smashed right now.”
“Oh, hon.”
They exchanged a hug. C.J. finally broke away. “I don’t mean that. I’ll be a good girl.”
The truth had come at her like the creak of footsteps outside her door in the middle of the night, leaving her hands trembling and her heart beating too fast. It was possible she was imagining things, but she didn’t think so. Who had known about her two weeks in hell, losing her mind and finding it again, clean and sober for the first time in twenty years? The partners at her law firm, but they wouldn’t be that vicious. Edgar and Judy, of course, but that was unthinkable. Only two other people had known. Billy and Milo. Her money was on Milo.
The topic on Larry King was the media’s influence on perceptions of guilt and innocence, and C.J. had some things to say about that. Novelist-attorney Dan Hale was on a split screen with her, and together they pounded the tabloids and the paparazzi who fed them.
Relieved it was over, C.J. cruised into her driveway just as her cell phone rang. Rick Slater was calling. She let the car drift into the carport and turned off the lights but left the engine running.
“Rick, I just got home,” she said. “I was on Larry King.”
“I saw it. You did a great job.”
“Thanks.”
“And I want to thank you for keeping my name out of it.”
“Generally they don’t care how you answer as long as you say something halfway intelligent. How’s it going with Shelby? Are you hearing any explosions yet?”
“Not yet, but he sits behind me in th
e car now, not in front. He catches up on phone calls. He sounds happy. His press conference went well, his poll numbers are up, and whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Listen, Charlotte Josephine, there’s another reason I called.”
“Forget you ever heard that name,” she said.
“All right, C.J. I don’t usually sit around watching TV, but lately it’s becoming a bad habit. I saw the piece about you on Celebrity Docket. It was irresponsible, but it won’t make any difference in the long run. It’s not important.”
She leaned against the head rest. “They won’t stop. Everyone connected to Alana Martin will be opened up and sucked dry until they find out who killed her or the next big thing comes along.”
Rick took a while to answer. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not going to go inside and have a drink, if that’s your question.”
“It wasn’t,” he said. “Maybe you’d like some company. I wouldn’t stay long.”
“Rick . . . I picked up the witness statements from my investigator today. I’ll take them over to Detective Fuentes tomorrow. I hope he’ll tell me he’s no longer interested in you. In any event, I think I ought to find you another lawyer.”
“So you’re firing me as your client after all.”
“That’s not it. I never thought I’d say this, but Noreen Finch was right. My being your attorney is drawing attention, and it’s making things more difficult for you. Libi Rodriguez wouldn’t have come after you if you’d had any other lawyer.”
“You don’t know that, C.J.”
“It’s true. I’ve been in this game long enough to know how it’s played. So what do you say?”
“No, thanks.”
“It would be for the best.”
“Isn’t it up to me, who my attorney is? Or are you afraid of what else they might say about you, and you want out?”
The Dark of Day Page 24
