The Dark of Day (12 page)

“Are you going to answer it?” Judy asked.

“No, it's probably a salesman.” But the thought came to her that it might be Kylie Willis. The girl had raced out of here, and she had crashed the car, or had been pulled over for speeding. C.J. crossed the kitchen. The screen on the wall phone said unknown caller, but by the time her mind registered that fact, she was already lifting the handset. “Hello?”

The male voice on the other end said, “Ms. Dunn? This is Richard Slater.”

She glanced over at Judy, then said, “Good morning, Mr. Slater. I didn't expect to hear from you this early.”

“Sorry about that. Are you busy right now?”

“Just doing some paperwork. We need to talk. If you could meet me at my office later today—”

“No good. The police just dropped by my place with a search warrant. I need you to come over here.”

rick Slater had a ground-floor apartment in The Banyan Tree, a two-story, L-shaped complex on the fringes of Little Havana. The initial wave of Cuban refugees had been diluted by successive floods of other Latino groups, evidenced by the Nicaraguan market on the corner and a Brazilian steak house across the street. A black metal picket fence surrounded the apartment building, accessible through a wide rolling gate that apparently was left open during the day. The namesake trees put some shade over the rows of tenant vehicles baking in the lot.

As she pulled into a vacant guest space, C.J. noticed a Miami patrol car and two unmarked sedans clustered at one end of the building. The duty of serving a search warrant fell to the police in the local jurisdiction, the city of Miami. She guessed the unmarked cars would belong to detectives from the Beach.

At number 108, a uniformed officer was posted outside. She told him what she wanted. A minute later, Raymond Watts came out, a big man with a stomach he counter-balanced by placing his feet apart and leaning backward. This produced a view of a double chin, short nose, and a fringe of gray hair.

“Well, lookee here. It's the famous C.J. Dunn. I'm all excited.”

She had last seen Watts on the witness stand three days ago, when she sliced him apart on cross-examination. Poor Raymond. His best days were over. After Gianni Versace was shot dead on Ocean Drive, Watts was giving updates at press conferences and statements for the nightly news. Since then, he had become just another ageing cop with an eye on his pension.

C.J. looked at him through her sunglasses. “Good morning, Detective. Are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here listening to your pointless sarcasm?”

“Don't get your panties in a wad. Officer, this is the lady, if I can call her that, who screwed us over on the Robinson case. It's really disgusting, don't you think, the way some lawyers get away with playing the race card? Harnell Robinson beat the crap out of somebody. He deserves jail time, and I don't give a rat's ass what color he is or how much money he makes.”

“Where's the warrant?” C.J. said. “I want to see it, and I want to speak to my client.”

Another figure appeared at the door. “Ray, I'll handle this.”

Watts stepped back inside, and George Fuentes said, “Morning, Ms. Dunn. The warrant's inside. When you get a chance, come talk to me.” They went in and he closed the door. Fuentes was a good cop; he simply went about doing his job, like most of them.

C.J. took a quick look around. The apartment was up to date but generic, the kind you rent if you don't intend to stay for long, furnished with a brown sofa-armchair combination, lamps, a small flat-screen TV. The coffee table held yesterday's newspaper, a pack of Marlboros, an overflowing ashtray, an empty pizza box, and at least . . . she counted them . . . nine empty bottles of Rolling Rock beer. Through the open bedroom door, she saw the end of a neatly made bed with precise corners on the dark green duvet. A plainclothes officer was going through dresser drawers.

They had put Slater in the dining area, out of the way. He stood up as she approached, a solidly built man with a shaved head and the muscled arms of a boxer. He might have been sleeping when they knocked on his door. He was barefoot. His cheeks were stubbled past the edge of his beard, and it seemed he had pulled on the first pieces of clothing he could find, a rumpled shirt printed with palm trees and a baggy pair of jeans. This made
C.J. feel slightly less grungy, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. She had grabbed her jacket, run out the door, and touched up her lipstick in traffic.

Her hand vanished into Slater's. “Glad you could come,” he said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Slater. Sorry it's under these circumstances, but we'll sort it out.” She picked up the warrant from the table and read it. The search was relying on information from unnamed sources who alleged that Richard Slater was the last person seen with Alana Martin, and another who stated that the two had an “intimate relationship.” This didn't fit Slater's assurances to Paul Shelby that he had never met the girl. C.J. had long ago lost the capacity to be shocked by a lie. The only question was, whose lie?

“Have you said anything to them beyond ‘What do you want?' and ‘I'm calling my lawyer'?”

“No.”

“Good. As soon as they leave, we'll go downtown to my office and talk.”

Raymond Watts came over to Slater. “I need your car keys. Your vehicle is next.”

Slater said, “On the kitchen counter.”

Watts went to get them. A muscle tensed in Rick Slater's jaw as he watched the detective walk away.

“The paperwork is in order,” C.J. said. “There's nothing we can do except wait. Have a seat. Sergeant Fuentes wants to see me. I'll be right back.”

A short hall led to a bathroom, where a uniformed female officer in blue latex gloves was going through the medicine cabinet. She glanced over at C.J. as if a movie actress had suddenly showed up, then remembered where she was and went back to her duties.

Inside the bedroom, another officer felt the pockets of slacks in the closet, pushed aside hangers, and turned over shoes to see the tread. Sergeant Fuentes stood at a desk going through papers. An ethernet cable lay on the desktop, connected to a wireless router. There was no computer attached. Unless Fuentes was blind, he had noticed too.

C.J. asked, “Find anything interesting?”

“A forty-five cal Smith and Wesson M-and-P pistol. That's military and police issue. He's licensed, so he can keep it.” Fuentes thumbed through some papers. “Other than that, not much so far.”

Like the rest of the apartment, there was little in this room to distinguish the occupant. A stack of paperback crime novels on the nightstand. Some CDs beside a portable stereo on the dresser. C.J. walked over and looked at one of the albums. Saima Khan, a dark beauty with jeweled earrings, a gold ring in one nostril, and a yellow silk head scarf about to slide off. She turned the CD over. Recorded in London. The singer was Pakistani. C.J. put it back and saw Radiohead, Mexican
ranchero
tunes, and a collection from The Buddha Bar in Paris. The man had eclectic tastes.

Fuentes balled up his gloves and stuck them in a pocket. A thin, dark man, he favored brightly colored knit shirts tucked into khaki pants. Jackets were for court. His badge was clipped to his belt holster.

“What can I do for you, George? Mr. Slater didn't know Alana, despite what you may have heard.”

“Uh-huh. He told me that, too, but I have two witnesses who put your client with Ms. Martin the night she disappeared. She was passed out drunk in the backyard of Guillermo Medina's house. They went over to see if she was all right, and Slater came along and told them to get lost. They saw him leave with her. We have another witness who tells us that Alana was intimate with Slater.”

“Do these people have names?”

“Sorry, C.J., can't go there, not yet.”

“What possible motive would Richard Slater have to kidnap this girl? And then what? Rape and murder her? Really, George, you can't believe that. Rick works for a United States congressman. He was thoroughly vetted. His record is spotless.”

Fuentes held up his hands. “I gotta run down my leads, doesn't matter who or what. See what your client has to say. I'd be curious to get the real story. Maybe we can stop all this dancing around.”

She nodded. “I'd love to get it resolved, believe me. They say that Alana Martin was quite the party girl. I imagine you have a long list of people to interview.”

“A few. Call me if and when he wants to make a statement. You know the number.”

When they went back into the other room, Raymond Watts was tossing Slater's car keys onto the dining table. “Damn. That is the cleanest car I've
ever seen. When was the last time you had it detailed?” The heat had reddened his heavy face and put circles of perspiration under the arms of his sport shirt.

Slater said, “I'm just a very neat guy.”

“Don't talk to him, Mr. Slater.” Watts wasn't asking because he was curious; he wanted to know if Rick Slater had disposed of trace evidence.

Watts kept his eyes on Slater. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You were driving Congressman Shelby's Cadillac the night Alana Martin disappeared. When did you have it cleaned?”

C.J. stepped closer. “That's enough. Mr. Slater? Let's just walk over here so they can finish their work.” She crossed the living room and stood by the front windows, which were shaded by the usual beige mini-blinds. The trees shifted in the wind, sending dappled light into the courtyard.

Quietly she said, “Your cell phone is mentioned in the search warrant. Did you give it to them yet?”

He turned his back to the room. “I couldn't. You know, I think I must've left it at the convenience store when I bought some cigarettes.” Hazel eyes flecked with green fixed on her with a look of such fuddled embarrassment that it sounded almost plausible.

C.J. looked through the window into the parking lot. “How did you call me?”

“One of the officers lent me his.”

“Well, you'll have to buy another phone, won't you?”

“I guess so, if mine doesn't turn up.”

She put a finger between the blinds. A motion had caught her attention, a man in sunglasses and a dark blue ball cap running across the street between the cars. He stopped just outside the fence and lifted a camera, its long lens going through the pickets, aiming at the window where she stood. She doubted he could get a clear shot.

“Mr. Slater, do you see that little man taking pictures? There, near the gate.”

“I see him. Who is he?”

“His name is Nash Pettigrew. He's a tabloid photographer.”

“Why is he out there?”

“Oh, I think he's just sniffing around so far, waiting to see who comes out. His interest has been piqued. A beautiful girl, gone. A party on South Beach. A congressman's driver questioned by police. There could be something to it. Pettigrew sells to the sleazier publications, rarely the national media, though he did get some of his photos of the Anna Nicole Smith saga into
People
magazine. He came to Miami for that, and it looks like he's back. I knew him in L.A. He's the sort of photographer who takes those embarrassing pictures of stars walking on the beach, showing their hip bones. ‘Angelina Jolie Anorexia Scare.' He will wait outside nightclubs for someone to trip on the curb in her high heels, and then you see the headline, ‘Celebrity Lawyer Loses Case, Gets Smashed.'”

Rick Slater's smile creased his cheek. “Personal experience?”

“The funny thing is, it was my partner's case, not mine, but I have better legs. My car is parked in plain sight, so he knows I'm here.”

“How did he find out they were serving a warrant?”

“Nash has contacts in the major police departments, and he pays them for leads. It's like seeing that first buzzard circling over the desert.” She stepped away from the window and twirled the rod to close the blinds. “Is there another way out of here?”

“There's a back door in the kitchen.”

“We're going to my office to chat. Do you mind driving?”

“I do it for a living,” he said.

Five minutes later, the police were done. Sergeant Fuentes asked Rick Slater to sign a form that nothing had been removed from or damaged in the premises. They said thank you and left.

Slater locked the door behind them and sat on the couch to slide his feet into a pair of woven leather sandals. He put his cigarettes in his shirt pocket and walked to the table to pick up his car keys. On the way through the kitchen, he stopped and opened the refrigerator's freezer compartment. He lifted the door on the ice-maker and rummaged through the ice cubes. He retrieved a cell phone in a small zip-lock bag.