The Dark of Day

by Barbara Parker

  A week ago, sitting with Milo Cahill in the backseat of his limousine, C.J. had asked what Paul Shelby was getting in exchange for persuading Congress to sell surplus government land to private developers. Not a thing, Milo had said, beyond earning some points from the environmentalists, which would be helpful to his reelection. C.J. had known it was a lie, but she’d looked past it because Milo had offered to speak to Shelby about the job at CNN. I know what you want, and I can get it for you.

  Pending the final interviews in Atlanta, the job was now hers. Was it this that made her willing to open her eyes? Or just the fact that she was ticked off at Milo for having betrayed her? It was a flaw in her character, to be sure, to glance away from the truth when it failed to benefit her. But eventually, and painfully, she did come around to it.

  Obviously, Paul Shelby was getting something out of the deal. And from whom? From his old fraternity brother at Duke University. Back then, it had been money in exchange for sex. Not just any sex. Sex with a fourteen-year-old girl. Maybe she was mature for her age. Maybe he hadn’t known—

  Look at it, C.J. told herself. Open your eyes.

  Fourteen years old. C.J. wondered how much Noreen had paid to get her boy out of that mess.

  Oh, Milo. You always know what we want, don’t you?

  C.J. buzzed her secretary. “Shirley, get me Harnell Robinson. Tell him it’s okay about the check. I just need to talk to him.”

  In exchange for Shelby’s support, Milo had arranged sex with a young woman who could play the part of a girl. Alana wasn’t satisfied with Milo’s promises. She needed money, enough money to live on until her career in the movies took off. She demanded that Milo help her out, and when he wouldn’t—he couldn’t, because those things never end—she threatened him. Alana had a temper. She accused Milo of using her, treating her like trash. She screamed at him and threatened to tell the police. He put a hand over her mouth. . . . But Milo had such soft hands. He wouldn’t murder anyone. He couldn’t. C.J. had once seen him jump on a chair and shriek when a garter snake slithered across his pool deck.

  The phone rang several times before C.J. heard it. She picked up. Shirley said Harnell Robinson was on the line.

  “Hello, Harnell, No, please don’t apologize. I understand your situation. The collection department wants me to file a lien, but I’m prepared to tell them they have to wait a couple of weeks. I have a question about your house on Star Island, the one up for sale. It’s still vacant?”

  “Yeah,” Harnell said, “we wanted to live there, but my wife doesn’t like the neighborhood, and the pool leaks, so I can’t rent it, and I can’t sell it, the way the market is. That’s part of my problem with your fees—”

  “Never mind that now. Did you let anyone park in your driveway within the past month? Let me be specific. It was the weekend that Alana Martin went missing.”

  There was no reply from Harnell Robinson, but she could hear him breathing in starts and stops, as though he was making up his mind.

  “Harnell, I need to know. Whatever you say will remain between us. I’m your lawyer. But if I have to sue you to collect my fees, the press will find out. They will wonder why a man who makes two point eight million a year can’t pay his bills. They might find out about your gambling debts.”

  “Okay, Milo Cahill said he needed to park his car at my place.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Said it would be safer than leaving it at the party, you know, all those people wanting to touch it and sit in it. He’s crazy about that car.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He didn’t go in the house, okay? There wasn’t anybody ever in the house. I checked it out, you know, after the police started asking questions about the young lady.”

  “Because you were suspicious of Milo?”

  “No, not Milo, but he has some strange friends. Milo’s all right. He said if I let him park in my driveway and didn’t say anything, he’d hook me up with some action on a Marlins game.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “I came out a little bit ahead. Couple thousand.”

  “You should give it up, Harnell. Give it up before it eats you alive.”

  “You’re right. I should.”

  “Did you ever speak to Milo about it again?”

  “Uh-uh. No need to. Everything was fine. Except I’ve still got a house I need to get rid of.”

  “All right,” C.J. said. “Thanks, Harnell. And don’t forget the check. Two weeks.”

  “You’ll have it, no problem.”

  She disconnected and slowly replaced the handset. A perfectly reasonable explanation. Milo wanted people to stay away from his car. C.J. herself had seen the attention it drew.

  Shirley stuck her head around the corner. “Judy Mazzio wants you to call her.”

  Leaving her office by four-thirty didn’t mean escaping the crush of traffic, which was notoriously bad around the criminal courts building. It was close to five o’clock when C.J. parked her car on the wide gravel driveway of Mazzio Investigations. Raul saw her through the bars on the front window and buzzed her in. He took her through the former living room, where half a dozen clients waited to see about their bonds, then to a door. Raul punched in a security code and opened it. A hall led to the back of the house and Judy’s office.

  C.J. rapped on the doorframe. “You have a present for me?”

  Judy pushed the list across the desk, fourteen pages printed out at the Redfish Point marina. C.J. dropped her purse into one of the chairs and sat in the other. “How much did this cost?”

  “Three hundred dollars. It’s a bargain. Raul went down there with a thousand in his pocket. The list doesn’t separate out the power boats from the sailboats, but you can see which is which under each entry. They’re listed by the owner’s last name.” She pointed. “Page ten.”

  C.J. flipped through, backed up, then came to a page of M’s. Judy had helpfully put a checkmark by the name Carlos Moreno. He lived in South Miami and owned a 26-foot Silverton inboard.

  “How many names are on this list?”

  “Two hundred and six.”

  “It could be a coincidence.”

  “I’m sure it is. Carlos Moreno just happened to do Alana Martin’s modeling portfolio. He just happened to be a still photographer for Reuters in Central Asia and the Middle East during the same time Rick Slater was over there, employed by Blackwater USA, protecting the press corps.”

  “What is going on here?”

  Judy made an expansive shrug. “I’m a P.I., not God Almighty. That’s for you to find out, if you think your client will be straight with you.”

  “Ha. I’ll need a copy of that.”

  “It’s yours.” Judy slid the document into a large envelope. “Enjoy your fajitas.”

  chapter THIRTY- ONE

  I leaving the criminal courts building after five o’clock in pre-sobriety days, C.J. and her friends would drive south across the river and zigzag through Miami’s flat grid of streets to the Andalusia Hotel in Coral Gables. The hotel bar, glittering with polished brass and antique mirrors, produced the most creative drinks in town with two-ounce pours between five and seven. Seating was also offered near the atrium fountain, and classical guitar music mixed with the soft splash of water. One was not obliged to drink; one could order a virgin cocktail or a coffee.

  C.J. had this in mind as she settled into an armchair just outside the entrance to the bar. With over an hour to kill before dinner with Rick Slater, she would have some tea and perhaps an appetizer to hold off her hunger. Out of curiosity to see what had changed, she picked up the card with its long list of cocktails.

  The waiter appeared in his white shirt and black vest. C.J. dragged her eyes from the list. “Hi. Bring me . . . a cappuccino. No, wait. Make that a vodka and soda. Grey Goose, squeeze of lime. But only half an ounce. I’ll pay for the whole drink, but tell the bartender half an ounce.” She smiled. “I’m driving.”

  He made a slight bow. “One half
ounce. Certainly.”

  “Oh, and I’ll have the cheese plate too. Thanks.”

  Her BlackBerry chimed in her tote bag. It was a number she didn’t recognize. Even so, she hit the button to connect. The twangy female voice on the other end said, “Hello, Miss C.J., this is Noreen Finch. Am I catching you at a good time?”

  Noreen Finch was the last person C.J. wanted to talk to. She assumed the woman had obtained the cell phone number from her son. “Well, Noreen, I’m with friends at the moment, but what can I do for you?”

  “Paul has asked me to take over the running of his office and his campaign. I guess I’m stuck with making phone calls like this. He and Diana have decided they don’t need a chauffeur anymore, so we’ve let Rick Slater go. He’ll get a good recommendation and two weeks’ severance pay. But that’s not why I’m calling—”

  “Wait a minute.” C.J. drew herself up in her chair. “I talked to Mr. Slater an hour ago. He didn’t say anything about this.”

  “I just now told him.”

  “You fired him.”

  “I had to. Paul wants me to cut costs. Campaigns are expensive! The reason I’m calling is to see if we can get you to send a check for the deposit remaining in Mr. Slater’s case.”

  “What deposit?”

  “Paul gave you five thousand dollars as a deposit toward expenses to handle public relations. The media aren’t interested in Richard Slater anymore or in Paul. I assume you’ve closed your file. We’d like an accounting and a check for the balance.”

  “I’ve put in over forty hours on this already, and at my rate, that’s about sixteen grand. You’re getting off lightly, Noreen.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know how you can justify that if you’re only charging expenses. That’s what you told Paul. Expenses, not fees.”

  “My expenses have been much heavier than expected.”

  “We did you a big favor, Miss C.J. Whatever-your-real-name-is. You got the job at CNN because of Paul, and you ought to be damned grateful.”

  “I’m so sorry, Noreen, but there will be no check for the balance because there is nothing left. Must go now. Have a lovely evening.” C.J. disconnected and muttered, “I do not fucking believe this.”

  Setting down her drink and a plate of cheese and crackers, the waiter pretended not to have heard anything. “Would you like to run a tab?”

  “No, I’ll just pay for it now.” She reached into her wallet for her charge card. “Could I ask you to bring me the rest of this drink, straight up?” She settled back in the chair and sipped her vodka and soda. She could barely taste the vodka, but ate a piece of cheese to put something in her stomach besides alcohol.

  Unbidden, unwanted, a memory floated to the surface. Outside a liquor store. Waiting in his black Mustang, Guns N’ Roses at full volume on the stereo. The car door opening, Paul handing her the bag. You bought Popov? He had laughed. Come on, Charlie, we’re going to mix it. I’m not wasting my money on Absolut. She had said he was cheap. Then you fuckin’ pay for it, he had said, turning the key in the ignition.

  The waiter returned with the charge slip and a shot glass with the Grey Goose. She signed, took back her card, and picked up the glass, which contained one and one-half ounces. The bar at the Andalusia still had generous pours in the afternoon. She started to add the vodka to the soda, but instead put the shot glass to her lips and tipped it back. The heat burst onto her tongue and filled her mouth. She took a long breath, pulling the warmth into her lungs.

  Later that night, a road out in the country: Paul Shelby holding her arms away from her bare chest. Damn it, don’t tease me. I’m so hot for you, baby. You want it, don’t you? Don’t you?

  Among the disorderly pile of papers on C.J.’s desk she had left the envelope of photographs from Alana Martin’s portfolio. Alana with her forefinger in the corner of her mouth. Alana in a bikini, looking at the camera with moist, parted lips and overdone makeup. The thin arms and legs, the narrow hips and small breasts, didn’t belong to a woman of twenty. She could have been sixteen. Or younger. Much younger. Put her in front of a pornographer’s video camera in knee socks and a short dress, with her hair in pigtails, and she could have passed for twelve.

  C.J. held up her hand to signal the waiter. When he saw her, she lifted her empty shot glass. He nodded and went toward the bar.

  The guitarist was setting up his music stand. He tuned his guitar. Men and women in office attire were coming in to get buzzed, forget the day, and find someone for the night, if they were lucky. Their laughter rose above the guitar and the splash of water in the fountain.

  The waiter came back with the vodka and a rocks glass full of ice.

  Her cell phone rang again. C.J. recognized the number and quickly pressed the button to answer. “Kylie?”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  “Great. I’m at work, so I can’t talk long. My mother said I shouldn’t bother you, but I wanted to say thanks for letting me stay at your house the other night.”

  “My pleasure. I’m so glad to hear from you. And you’re doing well. A job. An apartment. Kylie—How did you get the apartment? You don’t have a lot of money.”

  “I don’t have to pay rent. The owner is in Europe right now, so I’m kind of house-sitting.”

  “Who is he? The owner.”

  “I don’t know. He’s friends with a friend of mine. Have you ever heard of a famous architect named Milo Cahill? He fixed it all up for me.”

  “Yes, I do know Milo Cahill. How did you meet him?”

  “Through Alana.”

  “And he fixed you up with an apartment? Not good. Milo isn’t the kind of man you want to be friends with. Trust me. I know him better than you do.”

  “You’re thinking he’s going to come on to me, aren’t you? He won’t. He’s gay.”

  “Milo Cahill is a chameleon.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t believe everything he tells you. He doesn’t have your best interests at heart. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I am careful. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  Christ, how naïve, C.J. thought. “Look, Kylie, if you ever need anything, call me, will you? And I’ll stay in touch, all right? You know, just to see how you are.”

  “If you want to, but I’m fine. Ms. Dunn? One other reason I wanted to call you . . . I’ve been watching TV a lot because of Alana and everything, and it’s awful how they talk about you. Last night they had these video clips of you at a nightclub in California, which has nothing to do with anything, then they show pictures of downtown Mayo, Florida? Okay, I get it. Famous attorney comes from humble roots, blah blah. Did you see it?”

  “No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “They said you dropped out of high school.”

  “I did drop out. I wasn’t quite sixteen, but the school gave up on me.”

  “I know, my mother told me; but the point is, they’re making you out to be somebody you’re not. It’s awful, what they’re doing, and you shouldn’t pay any attention to them. This is why young people today are going more and more to the Internet. I think that by the time I get my journalism degree, there will be no more television, and frankly? I don’t care.” Kylie paused to take a breath. “Would you please tell Edgar I’m sorry I didn’t get to finish his photographs? I hope he goes ahead and gets a new computer.”

  “Yes, I’ll make sure he does.”

  “I have to hang up. A customer just came in.”

  “Why don’t you call Edgar? Do you have his phone number?”

  “I think so.”

  “Wait. I can give it to you.”

  “Gotta go. See you later.”

  There was a click, and Kylie was gone. C.J. held on to the phone, pressed it against her heart. Kylie was worried about her. Kylie gave a damn what happened to her. C.J. let her eyes fall closed. She leaned her forehead against her palm. My God, she thought. Libi Rodriguez. If not Libi, then ano
ther in the pack of wolves. They would not stop until every last scrap of information about her, past and present, had been dug up and laid out for everyone to see. They would gnaw her bones clean. C.J. wasn’t worried for herself, really. It was all publicity. She could handle it. But Kylie. Sooner or later they would get to Kylie.

  She thumbed through the phone’s directory. Sarah Finch. She pressed the button, heard it ringing. She bit her lips.

  When Sarah’s voice mail picked up, C.J. took a breath. “Sarah, it’s C.J. Dunn.” She paused, laughing a little. “You’re going to think this is crazy, but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t take the job. I don’t have time. I’m a working lawyer, and I can’t give that up. I appreciate your help. I really do. If you’d pass this message on to the producers?” She could think of nothing else to say except, “I’m sorry.”

  She turned in her chair to signal the waiter. When he came over, she shook her head and picked up her purse. “No, never mind. I have to leave.”

  A little while later she was heading into the glare of the sun on South Dixie Highway, the Metrorail on her right, a sea of cars ahead. At Fifty-Seventh Avenue, blowing her horn, she nudged into the left lane and made a quick turn on the red light. A liquor store on the corner of Sunset Drive sold her a pint of Absolut. Getting back into her car, she found a cup from Dunkin’ Donuts in the backseat. She unscrewed the bottle cap and poured enough to rinse out the dried coffee, then threw the liquid on the ground in the parking lot before filling the cup with vodka.

  She headed south a few miles, cut west to U.S. 1, then north a block to the strip shopping center where Shelby had turned his congressional office into a campaign headquarters.

  PAUL SHELBY, WORKING FOR YOU.

  They had locked up for the day, but she looked past signs in the window and saw him putting on his suit coat. There were three desks, some cabinets, posters, computer monitors. And two women, but neither was Noreen Finch. One of them came with a key and unlocked the door. She stuck her head out and smiled. “I’m sorry, we’re closed, but if you come back tomorrow—”