The Dark of Day (32 page)

“Sorry I'm late.” She scooted in.

“No problem.” He handed her a menu just as the waitress appeared with his order of nacho chips smothered in cheese with bits of jalapeño peppers.

C.J. said, “In an Irish pub?”

“This is Miami.”

The cheese stretched when she took a nacho chip. She bit into it and fanned her mouth. “Hot.”

The waitress said, “What can I get you to drink?”

C.J. stared at her as if she'd spoken Chinese.

“On draft we've got Killian Red, Bass Ale, Harp, Sam Adams, Bud, Bud Lite—”

“I'll have . . . oh . . . Bushmills on the rocks. I'm in an Irish mood. But go easy on the pour. I have to work tonight.”

“One Bushmills on the rocks.” She wrote it down, and Rick ordered another Harp. “You folks know what you want to eat?”

“Give us a minute, please,” Rick said. He pushed one of the small plates across the table toward C.J. “You changed your mind about working tonight?”

“I'm having just one, and promise to stop me if I ask for another.” She opened the menu. “What do you recommend? I'm not up for a hamburger.”

“Potato soup's good, if you're feeling Irish. Corned beef. Fish and chips.”

“Soup, I guess. Oh, it comes with soda bread. That's a lot of carbs.”

“What are you worried about? You don't have an ounce of fat.” She smiled and kept reading. Rick leaned closer. “I found out something about you.”

“What's that?”

“Your real name. What C.J. stands for.” Her eyes met his over the top of the menu.

“Charlotte Josephine Bryan.”

“Well, aren't you clever?”

“Charlotte's a nice name.”

“I dropped it when I moved to California. When I was a kid they called me Charlie. I could've passed for a boy, skinny and flat-chested.”

“You filled out nicely,” he said.

She turned a page of the menu. “Just so we're even, I found out that you spent eight years in the Special Forces. Do you want to come clean about that scar on your arm? Swordfish?”

“Well, I don't like to scare people. I'm just a big old pussycat.”

“Good thing for you I like cats, or we'd have some trouble.” She set the menu aside. “You didn't lie to me about anything important, did you?”

“No. Scout's honor.”

“Make sure you don't. Have you tried their fish and chips?”

“You'll like it, trust me.” He signaled the waitress, and she came with their drinks. He told her what they wanted, two orders of the fish and chips. When she left, he noticed that C.J. was staring at her glass. “Did she bring the wrong thing?”

“No, it's fine.” C.J. took a tentative sip. Her tongue came out and licked the liquid off her lips. She pressed them together as if she might find more of it.

Looking over her head, Rick saw Alana Martin's face on the television tuned to CNN. Live from Miami. He saw Libi Rodriguez standing in front of Paul Shelby's office on South Dixie Highway, a storefront with a sign in the window.

The sun was slanting across the building at the same angle as outside the bar.

C.J. turned around to see what he was looking at.

The transcription at the bottom wasn't keeping up with the reporter's mouth.
Richard Slater, chauffeur for Congressman Shelby. . . .

“Uh-oh,” said C.J.

Rick saw himself in sunglasses and a dark suit, opening the door of the Ford SUV, helping Mrs. Shelby out, walking the congressman and his wife to the door of the office, then turning around, the camera doing a closeup and a freeze on his face. He looked like a hit man.

The words slid by.
Police say Slater is a person of interest in the Alana Martin investigation. Slater, thirty-eight, is a former member of the Army Special Forces who quit to join Blackwater USA. He relocated to Miami earlier this year and was hired by Atlas Security, a Florida-based company.

Libi Rodriguez reappeared, her mouth moving silently.
Slater has been working as Shelby's bodyguard and chauffeur for two months. Sources tell CNN that Slater knew Alana Martin, though the nature of their relationship is uncertain. Slater has hired celebrity defense attorney C.J. Dunn. Ms. Dunn recently won an acquittal for Miami Dolphins star running back Harnell Robinson, charged with aggravated battery. This is Libi Rodriguez reporting for CNN.

The video switched to one of the anchormen, some news about a typhoon in Asia.

When Rick looked back across the table, C.J. was staring at him. “Celebrity defense attorney. You're famous.” As C.J.'s eyes narrowed, he said, “I spent less than a year with Blackwater, and that was back in oh-two.”

“Which you omitted from your résumé.”

“You know how it is. The controversies they're involved in lately—”

“And what did you do for Blackwater?”

“Security for press organizations in the Middle East and Central Asia. I quit when we went into Iraq. They wanted me to guard convoys, and it just didn't sound like as much fun as hanging around with reporters from the BBC or Reuters or
The New York Times.
”

She lifted her glass and drank. “Bull. Shit.”

“I am not lying to you, C.J.”

Her eyes were drilling holes in him, but she took a breath and shook her head. “I must be crazy, believing anything you say.”

He pointed at the television. “What now?”

“If you mean, are the police going to look at you more closely because of that report, no. If you're wondering if Shelby is going to fire you, I can't answer that. I have the feeling that Libi is too late. Most of the media's attention is turning to Jason Wright. As I told you before, Jason makes a better suspect because of his relationship with Alana. There's only one catch. He's gay. He hasn't come out yet, and as long as he stays in the closet, people will wonder if he's the boyfriend, which would be very good for you.”

“So what's your advice? Wait and see?”

“Turn on the news at eleven,” she said. “I'm also working on another theory.” During the pause that followed, she seemed to weigh how much the client needed to be told about what his lawyer was doing. “Alana auditioned for the part of a young girl—very young—for a porn movie. There are perverts in the world who get off on that. The movie was never made, and she was trying to get the audition tapes back. If she had made it to Hollywood and they turned up on the Internet, it could have hurt her career. What if she had threatened to go to the FBI? Even if these people were using adult actors, an investigation could have done some damage. Did Alana ever say anything that, as you look back now, could refer to this? Did she mention any names?”

Rick slowly shook his head. “This is news to me. The subject never came up. Where are you getting this from?”

“Well, I can't really say, but I believe the information is accurate.”

“Who was making the movie?”

“I'd love to be able to answer that one. It wasn't Libi's cameraman. I had him checked out, and he doesn't do porn.”

“It didn't seem likely,” Rick said.

“But it still doesn't explain why Moreno hasn't revealed the pictures in her portfolio. The tabloids would pay big money, but he's holding on to them. Why? What's he hiding?”

Rick said, “Alana was Carlos Moreno's client. Why would he want to make her look like a slut?”

“Maybe, but if you knew photographers like I do, you wouldn't be so trusting.” As she talked, she drank, and the level in the glass was sinking. “I wish I could ask Jason about Alana's audition tapes. He might know. They were friends.”

“Why can't you ask him?”

“If I thought he would talk to me, I would.”

“Let me ask you something,” Rick said. “It's about Milo Cahill. At the press conference, Libi Rodriguez said you represented Cahill in a wrongful death case in California. I wasn't aware you knew him.”

She lifted a shoulder and drank some of her Bushmills.

“Did you win his trial?”

“Yes. It wasn't really his fault. Milo's car went off the road in the rain. His passenger was a boy he had picked up hitchhiking, and the parents sued. It was unfortunate, but they had no case. Afterward, Milo made sure his friends in Hollywood knew who I was.”

“He was grateful.” Rick rested his elbows on the table. “So . . . how did you actually get involved in my case? You said Paul Shelby called you, but I'm just curious if Milo talked to you first. He owed you a lot.” C.J.'s eyes shifted to his. Rick decided to wait her out.

She took another sip of her drink. “Yes, Milo did talk to me first. I was busy, but it sounded like the kind of case I'd be interested in.”

This was a different story than the one she'd given him two days ago. Then, she had taken the case because Shelby was up for reelection and
she'd wanted to help him out. Not if she hated Shelby as much as it appeared she did. Rick smiled. “Lucky for me Cahill talked to you. I guess that Cahill wanted to do a favor for Paul Shelby. You know. Shelby is doing a big favor for Cahill, getting the land for The Aquarius through congress.”

C.J. had gone silent again, looking at him.

Rick said, “They go way back. They were fraternity brothers in college in North Carolina. Duke. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I think I did,” she said. “Why are you asking about Milo and Paul Shelby?”

Instead of an answer, he made a joke: “You think when Shelby fires me, Cahill will want a chauffeur?”

She laughed. “Believe me, you wouldn't want to work for Milo.”

Rick had more questions, but he could see that it wouldn't get him anywhere to ask them. He had never known a lawyer who wasn't on the alert for ulterior motives. C.J. finished her drink and looked around for the waitress.

“You said just one,” Rick reminded her.

“So I did. Thanks.” She pulled a nacho chip off the stack. Then another, eating them with a greediness that left her fingers and mouth shiny. “Oh, God, this is good. Hot, hot. Jalapeño attack!” She grabbed his beer and took several gulps. She laughed when she put it back. “I think I owe you a beer.”

“Waitress!” Rick held up his hand. “Could we get some water over here, please?”

C.J. wiped melted cheese off her fingers. “What were you really doing in Mexico, if you weren't catching swordfish?”

“I was catching swordfish. I'm a damn good fisherman. I was also tending bar for a friend, not making much money at that, and doing some security work in the American community, and . . . don't laugh. Writing a novel.”

Her brows rose. “You?”

“Yeah, me. I'd written some nonfiction. I collaborated on a couple of articles with the reporters I'd met. My older brother had passed away and left me some money. I didn't touch it for a long time because I thought it would be like getting some use out of his death, but I was looking at forty on the horizon and said what the hell? So I rented a house on the beach and started on chapter one.”

“What's it about?”

The waitress brought their water. Rick still had some beer, but C.J. ordered another drink. He said, “Do you want that? You said to stop you after one.”

“Bring me the Bushmills, please.” When the waitress was gone, C.J. said, “Your novel?”

“The main character is a charter-boat captain. The bad guys kill his best friend, and he seeks revenge and foils a terrorist nuclear attack.” Rick laughed and had to cough to clear his throat. “It was the biggest piece of crap you ever saw. I tore it up and started over. The second draft was going along pretty well, but my girlfriend walked out on me, the people I worked for left town, and the money was running dry. I got a call from Atlas Security about the job for Shelby.” He shrugged. “And here we are.”

“Here we are.” C.J. looked at him a while longer. Her eyes moved so closely over his face, it was making him nervous.

“What are you looking at?”

“You shave your head, don't you?”

“Yes, so?”

“Would you have a bald spot if you let it grow? I'm asking because I might need to make you appear less threatening. If we could grow your hair and shave off the mustache and beard—”

“No.”

“I've studied emotional response to faces. Most people are leery of men with bald heads and beards. It's backward, you see. The accepted norm is hair on top and none on the chin.”

“I'm not going to shave my beard.”

“Well, what about the hair? Pattern baldness is associated with vulnerability, depending on the man. I think you'd look . . . reliable. Trustworthy.”

“Yeah? What do I look like now?”

“Hmmm.” She leaned closer on crossed arms. The neckline of her blouse opened up, and he could see the curve of her breasts. He brought his eyes back to hers, blue and warm, like the water off the beach in Mexico. She said, “When you get that serious expression on your face, you look . . . dangerous. Maybe a little sexy. That would be fine if you were the lawyer, but you're the client. Clients should look harmless and friendly. What if we get you a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a plaid jacket?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, that's good,” she said. “I like the smile.”

“Harmless enough?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

The waitress came with their dinners and C.J.'s whiskey on the same tray. C.J. reached for it before the waitress had finished putting the plates on the table. She settled back with the drink and left her dinner untouched.