The water was like oiled satin, the sky full of thin, barren clouds drifting north. Everyone stayed below in the air-conditioned salon because it was just so damned humid on deck, and the women didn't want their hair blown to bits. Billy was playing bartender. He had hired a man from the marina to drive the boat. Billy put on a Jimmy Buffet CD and made drinks in the galley as the
Lucky Lady
glided across the bay.
He was gorgeous in pale green slacks and an ivory linen shirt. A strand of his hair put a silver-gray comma across a black eyebrow. With every seat taken, he stood behind C.J. and sipped his gin-and-tonic, shifting his weight with the easy movement of the boat. Across the salon, the toffee-skinned Jamaican girlfriend, or wife, of the owner of some car dealership or other crossed her long, bare legs, giving a glimpse to the man seated opposite, who nudged his neighbor. C.J. held her club soda and focused in the general direction of the woman with spiked blond hair, who was talking about the wretched food at her hotel in Croatia.
Somewhere in the bubbling chit-chat, the man from London, who may once have been Elton John's arranger, leaned over and grinned at C.J. He had large, moist lips and brows like inverted Vs. “Billy says you're going to have a show on CNN.”
“I wish it were that certain,” C.J. said. “They haven't decided on a host.”
“Nonsense,” Billy said. “Who else is there?” He stroked her bare shoulder and played with the necklace. She felt his fingers gliding across her skin.
The man from London bounced on his seat. “Ooooh! Could I be your first guest?”
C.J. said, “You'll have to murder someone to qualify. The topic is celebrity trials.”
“Oh, Christ! I have to murder someone to get on her show!”
They shouted out suggestions for a list of victims and methods of whacking them. C.J. got up and walked over to the galley to find the club soda. A bottle of Gray Goose sat next to the sink. If it hadn't been flavored with cranberries, she might have poured herself a shot.
Billy followed with two empty wine glasses and took a bottle of white from the below-the-counter refrigerator. He spoke quietly. “What's the matter with you tonight? They're going to think you don't like them.”
“I don't.”
“Well, do me a favorâfake it. This boat ride is for Mark. I owe him.”
“Which one is Mark again?”
“My accountant. Striped shirt, far right.” Billy refilled the glasses. “You've met him twice already.”
“Billy, did you get the names of the witnesses?”
“What?”
“The witnesses who allegedly saw my client with Alana Martin. Don't tell me you forgot.”
“Jesus. Give it a rest.” He pushed her against a cabinet and his hips pinned her there. “I want to fuck you blind.”
“Billy! Shhhh.” She looked over his shoulder at the others.
“I'm going to pull your skirt up right here.” Laughing softly, he tugged on the hem.
A wave of heat flooded through her traitorous body even as she pushed him away. “Don't.”
Before he could reply, the engines slowed and C.J. gripped the edge of the sink. Billy looked through the window. “Land ho, everybody. We're making a brief stop. Grab a quick one at the pool bar, or you can stay on the boat and get shit-faced. Either way, the gangplank goes up in thirty minutes, that's eight o'clock sharp. Stragglers will be taking a taxi.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” came a few voices as the line formed. The Jamaican woman and the car dealer were in a clench, obviously not going anywhere. C.J. picked up her purse and followed everyone else up the steps to the open deck behind the helm. Billy stepped off the side, caught the lines, and wound them around the cleats. A yacht twice as big was docked farther on, the occupants idly watching the new arrivals.
The Royal Palm and half a dozen luxury condominiums soared from a small island at the mouth of the Miami River, the skyline of downtown to the north, more condos and bank buildings to the south. The sky was still blue, but fading. The low sun pushed the hotel's shadow out over the water. Chattering gaily, the small crowd moved forward.
“C.J.!” Billy held out his hand and helped her to the dock. He was saying to his accountant, “I'm looking at a sixty-two-foot Hatteras. They're willing to make me a deal. I could easily get down to the islands in that. But could I deduct it?”
“No problemo. You go down there, you check on the casino, hold some meetings on board, take your partners fishingâ” Their conversation ended as the accountant's girlfriend, or whoever, took his arm and led him toward the pool bar.
“A new boat?” asked C.J. “That's risky.”
“Stop being my lawyer, will you, baby? I told you, everything's golden. And they'd give me a good trade-in on the
Lucky Lady
.”
“Well, at least you aren't going to throw it out in the trash.”
“Are you talking about that sculpture again? Why do you keep bringing it up? Didn't I apologize already?”
“I don't care about the damned sculpture. It just seems that when something bores you, you get rid of it.”
He came closer. “Are you afraid it will apply to you?”
“I was simply trying to make a point.”
“One thing about you, C.J., you're never boring.” She could feel his breath on her lips. “Let's just have a good time. Aren't you having a good time?”
“I'll have a better time after we dump your tedious friends.”
He smiled. “Me too. Now go, find Milo. I'll be at the bar.”
“Billy, what about the witnesses?”
“Oh, the witnesses. Sure. I'll find out for you first thing in the morning.” He patted her fanny as she walked away and called after her, “Hurry up.”
The party was being held on the second floor in a room overlooking the pool and an acre of landscaped gardens, bedraggled from lack of rain. Music and voices floated down. C.J. picked her way carefully over a brick bath. The straps on her shoes were so narrow they gave the impression of walking barefoot on tiptoes.
With a glance around to make sure Billy was out of sight, C.J. opened her bag for her BlackBerry. She was hoping for a message from Kylie. She had kept it on vibrate mode in the boat. She hadn't told Billy anything about Kylie. If he remembered at all, the girl was an annoyance, a minor favor to be handled for some old acquaintance of C.J.'s mother. Billy knew
where C.J. had been born. He thought it was amusing. He'd faked a Southern accent until she'd screamed at him to shut up.
C.J. was praying not to get a call from Fran Willis. When is Kylie's flight home? Did you talk to her yet? C.J. had no idea what to say. She should have called Fran already, gotten it over with.
The screen showed that email had come in. She clicked the icon. Scrolling through messages from friends or colleagues, she saw one from Rick Slater. Curious, she clicked on it. He had blown off the questionnaire. He suggested she call him instead. She laughed in disbelief. “Buddy, you are on thin ice.” She put away the phone, checked her lipstick, and snapped her compact shut.
On the second level, she opened a glass door and strode into the crowd. Her attention was drawn to a large, square table that held the model of The Aquarius Residences and Resort. The glassy blue bay was dotted with sailboats, and the swampy, waterfront acreage on Card Sound had turned into the landscaped surroundings for three glass towers that resembled columns of water rising from the sea. There were pools, fountains, a marina, shopping, a conference center, andâjust as Billy Medina had wantedâplenty of room for a Vegas-style casino. All the surfaces were pale turquoise, smooth and liquid, with solar panels everywhere, positioned to catch the sun. An empty rectangle at the edge of the property indicated the location of a desalination plant. Someday. When they invented a method that wouldn't cost a fortune.
Milo had been right: The Aquarius depended on getting fifty scrubby acres of abandoned government land. Again, she wondered why Paul Shelby would take such a political gamble. Because he wanted an endorsement from Friends of the Everglades? “And sell me the Brooklyn Bridge, too,” she muttered.
The architect stood in the light of a video camera being interviewed by a reporter from the local CBS affiliate. He wore a white dinner jacket with black silk trousers, cowboy boots, and his Panama hat. He spotted C.J. and opened his arms. “There she is! The beautiful and very talented, formerly from Hollywood, celebrity attorney C.J. Dunn.”
The reporter, a man with a bit too much base makeup, asked if she'd had a chance to see the model and what she thought. The microphone
shifted toward her. C.J. smiled at Milo. “I think it's just brilliant. We're all so excited that a project of this importance will be built in South Florida.”
A camera flashed. Someone said, “One more? Smile. Big smile.”
When the lights went off, and the reporters moved on, Milo said, “This is a surprise. I thought you weren't coming.”
“Of course I'd come, Milo, but listen, I don't have much time. Billy's waiting for me. You know that young architect who works for you? He was driving when you picked me up at the courthouse. Jason. What's his last name?”
“Jason Wright. Why?”
“He was a friend of Alana Martin, and I want to talk to him.”
“Well, I don't have his number on me.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes, but I can't help you look. It's just one interview after another. The burden of fame.”
C.J. slid her arm around Milo's waist. “Milo, sweetie, I need to talk to you sometime. Not now, tomorrow. Early. Say elevenish?”
“Whenever you call me âsweetie,' I am immediately suspicious. What's it about?”
She spoke into his ear. “Oh, just this thing I'm doing for your friend, Mr. Shelby. But now I have to fly.”
He stuck out his lower lip. “Are you deserting poor old Milo already?”
“Afraid so. Oh, wait. You know all the gossip. Have you heard anything about Alana Martin being in adult movies?”
His wide blue eyes opened further. “Adult movies? You mean porn? My goodness. Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I've been talking to people who knew her. She claimed to have been in a movie but didn't want to say which, or with whom, or anything about it. She led a fairly free lifestyle, to say the least. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything.”
“Not a word.”
“Find out for me? But don't say who's asking. You're so good at that.” She put an air kiss on his cheek. “I'll call you in the morning.” She backed away, and within seconds he was surrounded again.
Her watch said 7:42. When she lifted her eyes, she noticed a woman handing out brochures at a table by the door. C.J. pushed through the
crowd. Reaching the table she said, “Excuse me. Don't you work for Milo Cahill? I'm looking for Jason, but I have no idea where he went to.”
The woman pointed to one of the bartenders' stations, and her mouth moved, but the jazz quartet was playing again, and C.J. couldn't hear. She nodded and thanked her. It took C.J. five minutes to find a young man who resembled the one she had seen yesterday. This specimen was six feet tall, with tousled blond hair and the deepest blue eyes. His indigo suit skimmed his body, and the open-collar white shirt set off his tan. He was holding a drink, laughing with some other men.
Touching his shoulder, she said, “I'm sorry to break in like this, but aren't you Jason Wright? May I talk to you for a minute?” When they had moved to a quieter location near the windows, she introduced herself. “Do you remember me? You were driving when Milo picked me up outside the courthouse.”
“I know who you are,” he said, “and I am not Milo's chauffeur. I'm an architect. I specialize in structural engineering.”
Jason was having trouble pronouncing his words. C.J. smiled at him. “I know. You're a graduate of Princeton, too. How long have you been with Milo Cahill?”
“Two years.”
“Must be great experience for you, being on the team for The Aquarius.”
He focused on her. “What do
you
think of it?”
No one, she thought, ever asked a question in that manner unless they wanted a negative response. “Well . . . it's not really to
my
taste, but . . . I have to admire the technology.”
“Yes, yes, let's admire the technology.”
She said, “And I really don't think it fits the location. It's too . . . cold.”
He narrowed his lovely eyes. “Ha. At last. One person in this room not totally full of crap. I'm sorry. That wasn't nice.” He laughed. “Oh, God. If Milo was here, he'd have my head. You won't tell him?”
“Of course not.”
“May I get you a drink?” He held up his glass.
“Thank you, but I don't have time. Did Milo tell you why he wanted to see me yesterday?”
“No.”
“He asked me to take on a client, a man who was at Billy Medina's party the night Alana Martin disappeared. The police are interviewing everyone. My client had nothing to do with it, but when the police show up, it's good to have a lawyer on your side. To do my job, I need to discover as much as I can about Alana and hopefully discover the reason. . . .” C.J. stopped. “I'm sorry about Alana.”
“Who says she's dead?” Jason turned his back to the room. “They say that, but where's the body?”
“They may never find her, but that doesn't stop the police from investigating or the media from turning it into a circus and possibly ruining several lives in the process, including that of my client.”
Daylight was turning to dusk. The arch of lights on the bridge to Key Biscayne had come on. Some of Billy's guests were back on the boat, sitting on the bench seats behind the helm. Billy was nowhere in sight.