The Dark of Day (33 page)

Rick sprinkled some malt vinegar over his fish and chips. “Want some?”

“In a minute.”

He put away a couple pieces of fish, then wiped his mouth and leaned across the table. “How long has it been?”

“What?”

“Since you had your last drink? How long?”

She tilted her head and pursed her lips. Shadows cut under her cheekbones. “Excuse me?”

“You sucked that first one down like it was water in the desert, and you're halfway through the second already.”

She set her glass on the table. “There. Happy?”

He asked, “Were you ever in AA?”

“No. Why are we talking about this?”

“Then you don't have a problem.”

C.J. seemed to search the ceiling for a response to such a stupid question. “I hardly think that two drinks constitute a problem.”

She reached for her glass, but he got there first. He poured the contents into his nearly empty beer mug. Her mouth opened. He said, “You told me to stop you at one.”

Her gaze turned chilly. “Call the waitress.”

“Do you really want me to do that? Do you?”

“If I want another drink, I can damned well have it.”

“Sure. It's up to you, but you're my lawyer, and I don't want to see your face on TV when they book you for a DUI. Want to give me your car keys now or before you leave?”

“You have a lot of nerve.” C.J. crossed her arms, and her fingertips went white, like she was holding on.

“I apologize,” Rick said. “My older brother, Tom, was an alcoholic. I know what it is.”

“I'm not an alcoholic.”

“He died of it, cirrhosis of the liver,” Rick said. “I was in Pakistan when I got word he wasn't going to make it. It took me three days to get home. Tom didn't want to die in the hospital, so I took him to Illinois, where our grandparents lived. Our parents were both gone by then. He lasted two weeks. The morning he died, he wanted me to carry him out on the porch. It was the first warm day of spring.”

Sympathy flooded across C.J.'s face. “I'm so sorry.”

“What can you do?”

“It's been a year since I've had a drink,” she said. “I was in AA, but I stopped going because I wasn't drinking anymore. I haven't touched it in a year, and . . . I don't know why I'm telling you this. Forget you heard it. Listen, I'm not mad at you for pouring out my Bushmills.” She laughed. “Although it was awfully good. My father used to drink Black Jack by the quart. He was a real drunk.”

“He passed away?”

“The same thing as your brother. I was in California. I came back for his funeral.”

“That's rough.”

“Not really. I hadn't seen him since I left home at twenty. He was in his own world, and he barely knew I was gone. My mother is still alive. She buried my father, told me I was going to hell, and a year later she married a fundamentalist preacher and moved to Tennessee. I'm sure she's very happy.”

“No brothers, sisters?” Rick asked.

“Nobody. My husband was originally from Miami. His uncle lives in a cottage behind my place, and we've adopted each other. Edgar's a dear old thing, eighty-seven years old. I may have some cousins left in Mayo, but we've completely lost touch.” She finally unrolled her napkin and picked up her fork. “And that's my life. You know more than most people.”

“It's safe with me. Where's Mayo? Is that where you're from?”

“Where is Mayo? About an hour northwest of Gainesville near the Suwanee River, population one thousand. A nice little town if you like cows, pine trees, and not much to do except follow the Florida Gators.
The name is from Ireland, speaking of things Irish.” She ate some potato. “You were right, this is delicious.”

“Glad you like it. We'll do dinner again sometime.”

“Maybe, when this is over.” She cut a piece of fish and ate it, then another, as though her desire for alcohol had switched to hunger. “I've made a decision. Even if Shelby lets you go, I'm not firing you as my client.”

“That's good. Go easy on me with the fees.”

“What fees? I'm doing it for all the free publicity.”

“I could live without it,” he said. “Reporters have probably staked out my apartment.”

“I'm sure they have, after that report from Libi Rodriguez. You shouldn't go home right now. I'd rather you avoided the media. Is there somewhere you could stay until later on tonight?”

“Sure, I've got a friend I could stay with for a while.”

C.J. finished chewing and patted her mouth with the napkin. Her eyes lit up. “Let's get out of town for the rest of the day. What about Key Largo?”

“I thought you had to work.”

“I'm always up late. I don't sleep. There's a little place on the bay side I haven't been to in years, but it's still there. We could do dessert and coffee and be back before midnight.”

He could read the question in her eyes, and it wasn't about coffee. He said, “We'd better not.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” Her hand lay on the table, white and smooth, the fingers gracefully curling. She wore a ring, pearl and diamonds. “Because if we do that, we'll end up in the same hotel room, and that wouldn't be smart.” He drew a line across her knuckles, around her thumb. “Would it?”

“Well, I'm glad one of us is thinking straight.” She dropped her hands into her lap.

“It's not that I don't want to,” he said. “You know that, don't you?”

“Rick, when this is over. . . .” A smile slowly formed on her lips.

“When this is over, what?”

“Do you think you could teach a city girl how to fish?”

He smiled. “Count on it.”

On Tuesday morning a producer for Larry King called to say they would feature the Alana Martin murder that night, and they wanted C.J. to comment. They would go live from L.A. at 9:00 P.M., and do C.J.'s part of the show from local Channel Eight. After a sentencing hearing that afternoon, C.J. planned to go home and get ready, but when Judy Mazzio called, she decided to take a detour.

The two witnesses against Rick Slater had changed their minds. Judy had their signed statements at her office. She had shown the two men a photograph from Sunday's
Herald
, a group snapshot taken at Billy's party, Alana Martin in a black halter dress that left her shoulders bare. Judy took another black dress out of a bag, one with cap sleeves and a neckline slashed nearly to the waist. The girl you saw, Judy told them, was wearing this dress. She showed them Kylie's driver's license photo.

C.J. drove the few blocks from the Justice Building to Judy's office, a converted 1930s bungalow with shade trees in the yard and security bars over the windows. Mazzio Bail Bonds and Investigations. While Judy made copies, C.J. sat at a long table looking through the latest tabloids and news
magazines. She could hear a television going in the next office, where one of Judy's bail bondsmen was working.

She picked up a copy of
The Globe.
The letters leaped off the page:
Alana Martin's Secret Life of Sex and Drugs
over a photograph of girls stumbling out of a night club. On the cover of
People
, Luisa Martinez held a graduation portrait of Alana:
Alana's Mom: It Could Happen to Your Daughter.
The headline in
The National Enquirer
blared
: Horror on the Beach! Exclusive Interview with Ohio Couple Who Found Alana's Body!
C.J. turned pages to find indistinct images of police officers pulling a tarp toward a shape in the sand.

In Touch
featured a collage of the celebrities at the party that night, unflattering photos in which they appeared drunk or stoned. In a box to one side, C.J. saw a photo of herself without makeup, squinting.
Which celeb is lawyer C.J. Dunn's client? See page 22.

She found the picture that Nash Pettigrew had taken in her front yard. With a laugh she held it up. “Judy, did you see this one of me in the bathrobe and slippers?”

“Yeah, great outfit,” Judy said, stapling papers together.

“Thank God the public has a short attention span.” C.J. read the article and found that she represented Richard Slater, the chauffeur for U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby. They didn't have Slater's photo and didn't imply he was guilty. So far Slater still had his job. Milo Cahill had promised to talk to the congressman, and it appeared he had done so.

The Sun
reported
Alana's Boyfriend Denies Fight at Party.
The cover photo showed Jason with his arms around two girls, one of them Alana, obviously not taken at Billy's because Alana was wearing a blue top, and her hair was up. The flash had caught them laughing.

Judy said, “I marked one of the pages.”

Inside, C.J. learned that Jason Wright was a spoiled rich kid who had graduated from Princeton and had come to South Beach to party. He had been fired by world-renowned architect Milo Cahill. Jason's parents lived in a wealthy area in Connecticut and spent the winters in Delray Beach.

“Every time I think the tabloids have gone as low as possible, they prove me wrong,” C.J. said.

Judy came over and tapped a finger on the photograph of the Wrights' waterfront townhouse. “I'll bet you they have a boat.”

Shaking her head, C.J. said, “Jason didn't put the body in his trunk, drive fifty miles north, then carry it in a boat all the way back to Miami and dump it. Alana was carried north by the currents.”

“I know that, but you can't deny it helps your client,” Judy said.

“Oh, look at this one,” C.J. said, holding up a copy of
South Beach Insider
. “According to this, Jason is gay. A bartender at the Samba Room swears they had sex. Now why haven't the tabloids run that story?”

“Because they like him better straight.” Judy went to her desk and came back with the local section of
The Miami Herald,
already opened and folded to a certain page. “Here, in case you're tired of reading about Jason.”

The story was titled
Police Baffled by Metal Piece Found with Body
. The accompanying closeup showed a small plastic ruler alongside a piece of metal about three inches in length, a quarter inch in diameter. One end was straight, and the other twirled to a point. They had found the piece caught in the duct tape wrapped around Alana Martin's torso. It was believed that it could have broken from a larger object used as ballast to insure that the victim would sink, but which had failed to achieve that purpose. Detective Sergeant George Fuentes said the photograph was being released to the public in case someone might be able to identify it.

“I'd guess a corkscrew,” Judy said, “but the metal is thinner.”

C.J. turned the photo sideways, then upside down. “It's got to be one of those things that when somebody tells you what it is, you hit your forehead and say oh, sure, I knew that.”

Judy said, “Does it look familiar?”

“Maybe I'm crazy, but it does.” C.J. tossed the paper aside. “I've no idea.”

Judy handed her the folder with the statements inside. “When are you taking these to Fuentes?”

“Tomorrow. I have a hearing in federal court in the afternoon, and I'll run over to the Beach after that.”

Judy sat down and took off her reading glasses. They had zebra-print frames, matching her black top and tight white jeans. “Do you want me to find Kylie for you? How many New Age shops could there be on South Beach? I was thinking as long as you're over there—”

“Thanks, but Fran doesn't want me to contact Kylie.”

“What a bitch. I don't understand it. What's her problem?”

“I'm a bad influence,” C.J. said.

“How?”

“I don't want to get into it now. Do you have an invoice for me?”

“Sure.” Judy went to get it. “We're only up to sixteen hundred dollars so far. Don't leave yet, though. I have something to put a smile on your face.” She held up a business card. “Remember this? Tisha Dulaney, Excitement Travel, Miami Beach?”

C.J. took the card. “She gave me one of these too.”

“Excitement Travel does ordinary bookings, but they also do porn cruises. What did I tell you? The owner and CEO is Harold Vincent. He's sixty-seven, divorced, lives in an apartment in Surfside. He was born in Kansas City, made money in strip clubs, relocated in Vegas, then came to Miami in the late eighties.”

“Harold Vincent. Wasn't that the man in Tisha's bedroom? I saw a pair of alligator shoes by the sofa.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. He used to produce adult videos before everybody started downloading. He's always been in the adult entertainment industry. He has a company on Aruba that does online gaming and pornography. It's called Blue Wave, Limited. For twenty dollars a month, you get access to their catalog.”