The Dark of Day (13 page)

C.J. closed her eyes. “I didn't see that.”

“Do you want to tell the cops to come back?”

“Let's just go,” she said.

driving across the parking lot, Rick Slater told C.J. to scoot down in the seat if she didn't want her picture taken. The Audi slowed at the gate and turned left. Sitting up again, C.J. looked through the back window. The photographer was running toward a small brown sedan parked along the curb. “He's following us.”

Slater said, “Hang on.”

Her body was slung sideways into his shoulder as he made a fast right at the end of the block. She had just recovered when he hit the brakes and turned into the alley behind a discount furniture store, came out on Twenty-Second, and headed north. He zipped around a car slowing for a yellow light on Calle Ocho and took a left on the red. A truck gave a long blast on its horn.

“Slow down! Are you trying to get us
killed?
”

He calmly glanced over to the passenger seat. Dark wraparound shades covered his eyes. “You should fasten your seat belt.”

She did so, then raked her hair off her face. “We're going the wrong way. My office is in the Met Center.”

“There's a good Cuban diner up the street. I'll buy you some
café con leche.
”

She wanted the sleek corner conference room at Tischman Farmer, not a diner. “Thanks, but I've had my coffee. I'd rather we talk at my office.”

“Later,” he said. “I haven't had breakfast. I get cranky.”

“Fine.”

He shook a cigarette out of his pack and grabbed it in his lips, then reached for a lighter in the console. He paused. “You mind?”

“Yes, actually, I do. It gives me a headache.”

He hit the button to send the window back up and returned the cigarette to his shirt pocket. “I don't smoke that much. Five or six a day. And those beers in the living room? They aren't all mine. I had a friend over. Just so you know.”

“I wasn't asking,” she said.

Slater planted his right elbow on the arm rest. “Paul said you can take care of this for me, the police and so forth. He said you're not charging me the regular rates.”

“That's correct.”

“You look expensive.”

“I am. Let's say five thousand for my expenses. I believe Mr. Shelby will pay it.”

“Five thousand dollars? I'm definitely going to respect you in the morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a joke.” Slater accelerated around a city bus, then said, “I thought Shelby would fire me. Why hasn't he?”

“He's loyal to his employees.”

Slater made a little twist of his lips. “That's good to know.”

“You could find another attorney,” C.J. said.

“You'll do. You did the job for Harnell Robinson. I saw you on the news last night. I thought for sure Robinson was going away.” Slater stopped at a red light. “What does C.J. stand for?”

“I don't like my real name. I never use it.”

“Cordelia?”

“God, no.”

“I bet I could find out.”

“You probably could, but it's C.J.”

“Calamity Jane?”

She had to smile.

Slater made a six-gun out of his thumb and forefinger. “You could start with the photographer.”

“That's so tempting,” she said.

The street took them past small storefront businesses, a
botanica
with a life-size statue of San Lazaro on crutches out front, and a Walgreen's announcing
descuentos
on school supplies. Slater held on to the top of the leather-wrapped steering wheel. As he turned the wheel to go around a slower-moving vehicle, his sleeve pulled up, and on the heavy muscle above his elbow she noticed a pale, shiny scar about the size of a quarter.

He saw her curious gaze. “It was a swordfish.”

“A what?”

“The fish with a long, sharp bill.”

“I know what a swordfish is, I just thought . . . it looks like a bullet wound.”

“Yeah, it does, but it was a swordfish. Cut the artery. Son of a bitch leaped right out of the water. A friend of mine owned a charter boat on Isla de Mujeres, Yucatan. We took a bunch of American doctors out for the day.” He smiled. “Good thing they weren't lawyers.”

She looked at him for a few seconds more, doubting the story but unable to think of a reason for him to lie about it.

Slater put on his signal and turned into a shady parking lot. He braked, then skillfully backed into a space between two SUVs that hid the Audi from view. He walked around to open her door, but she was already getting out.

He shrugged. “Habit.”

The restaurant was crowded, a brightly lit place with red-covered stools at a long counter with tables in another section. While they waited, Slater took a copy of
El Herald,
the Spanish edition of
The Miami Herald,
from a stack of them and left some coins beside the cash register. He slid out the local section and dropped the rest in a trash can by the door.

“Let's see what we've got. They've been running stories about Alana Martin all week.” He turned the A Section over to see below the fold. “Here it is. Yesterday it was in the local section. The
Venezolana
is still missing. The parents are asking the community to contribute reward money. Here's something new. They deny that she was stealing from her employer. She worked in a dress shop on South Beach. She's an angel. Never a problem. A beautiful daughter. A model. She dreams of being a movie actress.”

He turned the article so she could see it. C.J. asked, “Who alleged she was stealing?”

“It doesn't say.”

“I'm sorry for her parents,” C.J. said quietly. “I've represented parents of missing children. It tears your heart. It's bad when they find them dead. Worse if they never know.”

“Someone killed her,” Slater said. “The police are waiting for the body to turn up.”

“I think so too.”

A young hostess appeared with menus. He folded the newspaper.
“Por favor, una mesa al fondo.”
With a nod and a smile she led them to a booth in the back. When they were seated with menus, Slater took off his sunglasses and said, “What do you want? I'm buying.”

“Nothing. Juice. Maybe some wheat toast.”

“How about a ham-and-cheese omelet? You look a little underfed.”

“Two scrambled with one piece of bacon,” she replied.

“You're not skinny. I didn't mean that.”

“Where did you learn Spanish?” C.J. asked.

“Here and there. Mexico, mostly.”

“What were you doing in Mexico besides fishing?”

“Playing bodyguard for rich ex-pats. Tending bar. Basically wasting time.” He spoke as though what he said didn't matter in the least and her inquiries were only an attempt to make polite conversation.

Before she could probe further, the waitress came with her notepad. Slater ordered for both of them, sending her off with a flash of white teeth and a
gracias
that put a smile on the woman's face. He wasn't ugly at all,
C.J. thought. He had a good face for the camera. With the right sort of clothes and some polishing, he would look rugged, not rough.

C.J. said, “Your criminal record comes up clean, but . . . have you ever been arrested?”

“Not really. The Philippines, does that count? It was a bar in Manila. This whore, excuse me, a woman at the bar approached me, I declined, and her pimp and another guy tried to take my wallet when I went to the men's room. The cops threw me in jail till it got sorted out. I didn't put it on my résumé. What I tell you is in confidence. Am I right?”

She stared at him for a while, then said, “I should probably be careful what I ask you. Can you meet me at my office later? Say two o'clock?”

“Can't.” He looked at his heavy watch with its three smaller dials. “I'm taking Paul Shelby and his chief of staff to a luncheon in Boca Raton, some kind of fundraising thing. We're talking now, aren't we?”

She leaned forward. “This is going to take more than a few minutes over eggs and toast, Mr. Slater. What I need, if I'm going to—”

“Call me Rick.” He smiled.

“Fine. Rick. If I'm going to do my job, I need to know everything about you. I want your autobiography. I have a written list of questions you can use for a guide—”

“Hold it.” He glanced into the restaurant, then leaned closer to speak in a heated whisper. “I didn't kidnap that girl. I had nothing to do with it. They say they have witnesses. Bullshit. What witnesses? You're a hotshot lawyer. Explain it to them. They searched and came up empty. They should back off.”

She locked eyes with him. “Yes, why don't I just tell them to leave you alone? You know, when an adult is missing, the police don't usually serve search warrants on marginal suspects. They don't have the time. But when a case hits the news? They're on it. I predict there's a better than even chance that you're going to find yourself under a very bright spotlight. I'll do what I can to deflect it, but my credibility is on the line too, and I don't like surprises. So far, Mr. Slater, you've shown a remarkable ability to lie. Don't let me turn on the news one day and find out something you didn't tell me first. I will drop you flat.”

He looked at her in silence, his expression flickering from puzzlement to hostility before settling into a neutral stare she couldn't see into. “Mr. Slater? Do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear—Ms. Dunn.” He shifted condiments to make room for his elbow on the table, or to have something to do with his hands.

“It's not Ms. Dunn, it's C.J. I don't need to jump on you so hard, Rick. I apologize. Just be straight with me, okay?”

“Sure.”

The waitress brought two coffees with milk and two large glasses of orange juice, then rattled off more Spanish before going away, ending with the words
ahorita, mi amor.

Slater said, “The food is coming right out.”

C.J. drank some juice. “About that cell phone in the freezer? I'm going to guess that you have names and phone numbers stored on it that you'd like to keep private.”

He acknowledged that with a shrug.

“Then I suggest you commit them to memory. Where's your computer? I saw a wireless router on your desk.”

“I think that belonged to the previous tenant.”

C.J. asked, “Is that what you told the detectives?”

“No. I said my lawyer just told me not to talk to them. I don't have a computer. I have email, though, and whenever I want to check it, I go over to a friend's house.”

“All right. Try not to lie to the police. Or to me.” She spoke quietly. “You told Paul Shelby you had never met Alana Martin. Tell me the real story.”

“I know her slightly.” He stirred extra sugar into the sweet, caramel-colored coffee. “I met her when I first got to Miami. I was over on South Beach and asked for directions. We got to talking. I wanted to know the area, and she showed me around. I took her to lunch a couple of times.”

“The police have a witness who says you were intimate with her.”

“That's a lie.”

“Any idea who this witness might be?” C.J. asked.

“No, but I'd like to find out.”

“Stay away from the witnesses. No exceptions. I have a private investigator. That's what she's for.”

A smile lifted a corner of Slater's mouth. “Judy Mazzio?”

“Judy said you might have seen her license tag. How did you run it so fast? Of course. You work for a security company.”

“It comes in handy.” He leaned back when the waitress reappeared with their plates, massive amounts of eggs and bacon and long wedges of toasted white bread slathered with margarine. When C.J. didn't pick up her fork, he said, “What's wrong?”

“I'll never eat all this.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll help you. All right—C.J. What's next? What's the plan?”

“They want you to make a statement, but that won't happen until we have enough information to put you in the clear. If you had an alibi witness, your worries would be over. But you would have said so already. Nobody?”

He shook his head.

“Then our best option,” C.J. said, “is to dig into Alana Martin's background and find someone else who makes a better suspect than you. We have to work quickly, because once this hits the national news, you're part of the story. I want the media to see a good man unjustly suspected. You served our country. Now you work for a respected congressman. You wouldn't snatch a girl from a party and kill her. Of course you want to cooperate in every way, but your lawyer is bitchy and overprotective. Nobody gets to you, nobody interviews you, except through me. I won't allow lies and negative innuendo to pass unchallenged.
I
take the heat, not you.”