The Dark of Day (26 page)

“Did you give her any money?”

“I gave her what I owed her, thirty bucks. Two hours. Plus a little in advance. She'll be back.” Edgar stooped to look under a bush. “Iggy! I see you. Come and get it. The boss doesn't like us leaving your food out all day. You snooze, you lose, little buddy.”

C.J. stepped in front of him. “Edgar? Are you keeping something from me? Did Kylie ask you not to tell?”

He squinted through his heavy glasses. “C.J., I've never lied to you in my life. I told you before, she said she had to meet somebody, and if I knew who, I'd spill it.”

Giving up, C.J. leaned against one of the porch roof supports and watched Edgar bend his knees, extend an arm, and set the pan under the bush. She said, “I have to leave soon, but I should be back by two o'clock. If she comes before I get home, will you please try to keep her here?”

“That won't be hard,” he said. “There's plenty for her to do. We can finish going through the photographs. She's interested in 'em. Most people aren't. You aren't. That's the way it is. Unless it's your family, who cares? Toss it in the trash can.”

C.J. walked over and put an arm around his waist. “I'm glad you're doing this, Edgar. I am. They're great photos.”

“I'm going to ask her to help me pick out a computer and scanner. She says she's not going back to Pensacola for a while, so. . . . Don't give me that face, C.J. I trust her. She's a good girl.”

“I suppose she is. You're right, it's your decision.” She put a kiss on his cheek and said she would see him later, and she would appreciate it if he would call her cell phone when Kylie showed up.

In her white terrycloth robe and slippers, C.J. went around the house to pick up the Sunday paper, which lay in its bright blue wrapper on the front walk. She pulled the paper from the wrapper, juggling for a moment to keep the circulars from sliding out. The story about Alana Martin was above the fold.
Body of Missing Woman Found on Fort Lauderdale Beach.

Moving into the shade of a mahogany tree, she set the bulk of the newspaper on the grass and turned to the continuation. There were enough references to body parts to ensure that tomorrow's edition would fly off the racks. Written close to deadline, the article was short but accompanied by photos of the beach, the crowds behind crime-scene tape, and—no surprise—a stock photo of Billy Medina's house, where the victim had allegedly last been seen alive. The police refused to name suspects, only that “several persons” were being interviewed. C.J. Dunn's name was not mentioned, but Grammy-nominee singer Yasmina had entertained, and U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby had made an appearance.

“Oh, great.”

A spot of light flashed across the dark foliage, then was gone. A reflection. C.J. looked toward the street.

The long lens of a camera was looking back at her. Nash Pettigrew. Turning away, C.J. stooped to gather the newspaper. She wanted to grab the camera and smash it over his head. She wondered if he had taken any photos of Kylie.

“Mr. Pettigrew. How long have you been lurking?”

“Just cruising by and I saw you come out. How's that for luck? C.J., look this way. Smile pretty. I like the outfit. Real sexy.”

“Get lost, Nash. I'm going inside and calling the police.”

“Am I on your property? I think not.” As she walked away, Nash called, “I hear that your client is the Numero Uno suspect. Richard Slater. Is that right? He works for Congressman Paul Shelby. What have they got on him? Did he cut that girl up?”

The front door was still locked, so C.J. had to walk back under the carport, and she imagined that every step would be another image in Nash Pettigrew's camera. Her face without makeup would look washed out, she would be squinting in the sun, and the thick white robe would add ten pounds.

Her jaw was clenching when she went inside and slammed the newspaper on the kitchen counter. She should have known better. “Damn.”

Nash Pettigrew had been out to get her ever since she'd had him arrested for trespassing onto her and Elliott's property in Topanga Canyon, back in L.A. If Pettigrew hadn't slid down the hill, and his gear hadn't tumbled
out of his backpack, he would have gotten away with photos of them in the hot tub, smoking a joint. Completely nude, Elliott sprinted across the yard and caught the intruder, and C.J. took the memory stick out of his camera and threw it into the hot tub. Nash Pettigrew had her to thank for his criminal record.

She poured herself some coffee and went upstairs. She had planned to call a producer she knew at Channel Seven, the most tabloid of the TV news stations in Miami, and promise an exclusive interview, but it had gone beyond that. She needed to contact a friend on the staff of
People
magazine, or do a preemptive strike and call Larry King.

First she needed to let Rick Slater know what was going on. As she walked into her closet and slid out of the robe, she scrolled to his number. Phone at her ear, she flipped through the rack, deciding what to wear to Milo's house.

Slater's phone went to voice mail. “Rick. This is C.J. Dunn. Just wanted to warn you. Remember that little weasel following us yesterday? He was outside my house this morning taking pictures. He knows the police are interested in you. Call me when you get a chance. I have an appointment at eleven, so if I don't pick up, leave a message.”

She held up a sleeveless turquoise dress on its hanger, then put it back for a more photo-friendly navy blue with a stand-up white collar, just in case. Walking past the full-length mirror, she noticed what she was wearing—a pink satin thong—and imagined Slater getting an eyeful of that. She slowly turned, checking her butt. Not bad for thirty-seven. Still tight. She put her hands over her breasts. Slater's hands would have covered them completely. A flash of warmth went up between her legs.

She grabbed a robe. “For God's sake, stop it.”

She went into her office to paw through her desk for Milo's number. Of course he was still asleep, so she left a message with a man who said he was Milo's massage therapist, not his secretary, thank you very much. C.J. apologized, then said, “Would you please go into His Excellency's bedchamber and remind him that I'm coming over at eleven? Yes, he knows about it.”

That done, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Noticing the message icon flashing on her cell phone, she checked her voice mail. If it was a reporter, she would hang up.

The message was from Donald Finch.

He was sorry for calling at the last minute, but would she like to come over and meet his sister Sarah, who had come through MIA last night from Belize on her way home to CNN in Atlanta? They would have a chilled Bloody Mary waiting.

they sat on a bench in Peacock Park in Coconut Grove, a patch of trees and gray dirt that led to a dried-out baseball field, a tangle of mangroves, and a pile of seaweed-draped rocks. It was already hot, and the dogs being walked had their tongues hanging out. But it wasn't bad in the shade, with the wind coming off the bay. Kylie could see the boats moored in neat rows behind the Coral Reef Yacht Club. The sailboat rigging sounded like bells.

She said to the man next to her, “I kept thinking she'd call. ‘Hi, it's me. I made it. I'm standing right here on the Walk of Stars in Hollywood.' She said that's the first place she'd go. She said somebody was going to hook her up with a friend out there. She had it all planned.”

“Well, she sure took a wrong turn.” Richard stirred his frozen lemonade with the straw. He had bought them both one at the cart by the street before he looked around for the right place to sit, near the water with a fence at their backs. He could keep an eye on the park.

Kylie said, “Can you get any more information from your sources? Your friends, other reporters? Don't you have contacts with the police?”

“I'm working on it. I have a friend with a TV station in Miami. He's close to the story.”

Richard wore baggy cargo pants, a tropical print shirt, sunglasses, and a Chicago Cubs hat. She hadn't recognized him until he tapped her on the arm, having seen him only that one other time. She had been walking to the bus stop on Biscayne Boulevard two days after the party and this man fell into step with her, a big man with a beard and shaved head.
Hi. Remember me?
She didn't until he told her he was a friend of Alana's, and he'd brought her home from the party at Billy Medina's house. He wanted to talk to her. He would pay for information.

She looked at him, trying to see past the sunglasses. “Do you think someone killed Alana because of your investigation?”

“Jesus, I hope not.”

“I mean, if somebody found out she was working with you. . . .”

“If I find it had anything to do with me, I'd hate myself, but I can't see it. Alana could keep her secrets. We don't put our sources in danger. We don't ask them to wear hidden microphones or anything like that. Don't worry. Talking to me is not a risk. We're just two people shooting the breeze.”

Kylie watched a sail puff out from the front of a sailboat, red and blue stripes. “Before we start, we need to discuss how much you're going to pay me.”

He set his cup aside. “All right. What did you have in mind?”

“I need at least three thousand.”

He started to laugh but could see she was serious. “You think reporters have unlimited expense accounts? That our publishers have big buckets of cash we dip into?”

“
The New York Times
is rich. Aren't they? And you said this story would be huge.”

“I also told you we pay on the value of the information we receive.”

“I want some of it up front. Or no deal.” She sipped her frozen lemonade.

He looked at her for a while, then scanned the park. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes moved to the cars rounding the curve onto Bayshore Drive. He finally turned toward the water, and his body shielded any sight of his wallet coming out of the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. He said, “I don't
want anybody to get the wrong idea.” She saw his fingers walking over the tops of some twenties. He pulled out five of them and held them folded near his waist.

“A hundred dollars? It's worth more than
that.
”

“Not so loud.” He pulled out four more twenties. “That's all I've got on me.”

She zipped the money into her purse. “How much did you pay Alana?”

“That was between me and Alana.”

“More than this, no doubt.”

“Why don't you use it for plane fare home?” he said.

“The money is for school,” she told him.

“School?”

“College. I'm going to get a degree in journalism at the University of Miami. I decided just the other day. I'm a good writer, and I've always been curious about things. I guess you could say you're my inspiration.”

“Really? That's nice.”

“So I hope you don't screw me over.”

He smiled. “Likewise.”

“You travel a lot in your job, I suppose.”

“All the time.”

“That's what I want to do. Travel.”

“It's great, if you like living out of a backpack and running for your life occasionally.”

“You did that? Where?”

“Afghanistan.” Richard turned his right arm so she could see the scar on the underside. “I took a round from a Kalashnikov. I was an embedded reporter with a unit of Special Forces in pursuit of the Taliban. They got the bad guy for me.” He spread out his left hand and showed her a scar across the palm. “Souvenir of Peshawar, Pakistan. I was on a story about Ayman al-Zawahri.” He smiled at her again. “It was rough. Time to come in out of the cold, so to speak. Where are you from, Kylie? You're not from Michigan. Come on.”

“Pensacola.”

“Naval Air Station. Dad in the military?”

“No, he works for a gas company, when he's not hung over.”

“I've never been to Pensacola.”

“Biggest town on the Redneck Riviera.”

“Your parents know you're down here?”

“I'm not going back.”

“They throw you out?”

“Not exactly. We had a difference of opinion,” she said.

“Sorry to hear it. I hit the road at sixteen, but I went back.”

“I'm adopted.”

“Yeah?”

“My birth parents were from Miami. My mother told me. I was twelve and a pain in the ass, asking about them all the time. She said all she knew is that my parents were from here, and they died in a car crash. My brother and sister are adopted too. They came from the same family. They've met their birth parents. I never will. But I imagine sometimes, when I'm walking down the street, that my father walked there too, or my mother lived around the corner. I might have cousins here. I feel a connection to Miami.”