The Dark of Day (40 page)

“It's really handy, working for a security company,” Rick said. “You know who to ask if you want to find out if a certain football player is part of Milo Cahill's crowd. Would you call Harnell for me? Ask him if he let Milo Cahill park his car in the driveway that weekend.”

“Why would Milo want to?”

“Well, if you park your vintage Mercedes limo in a driveway down the street instead of leaving it with a valet at your host's house, then no one knows when you arrive, no one knows when you leave, and if you leave with an extra person in the car, they won't know that either.”

C.J. went down her row of orchid pots spraying them with mist. “I can't believe this. Why would Milo kill Alana Martin? Give me a motive.”

“Alana was a threat to him. If he's a pimp for Paul Shelby and Alana was blackmailing him, he'd want her out of the way.”

“Alana couldn't have been blackmailing him,” C.J. said. “She was counting on Milo to help her get into the movies. Last night, Judy Mazzio told me that Milo was the one who'd promised Alana a contact in Hollywood.”

“Could he have actually done that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was it likely?”

She gave her white vanda a quick burst of mist. “Probably not.”

“All right, then. Say Alana found out it was bullshit. She'd still want to get to Hollywood, and where does she get the money from? Milo Cahill. They were both at the party, then they weren't. Why was his limo parked two houses down the street, in Harnell Robinson's driveway? You can find out. I can't.”

“And then what? Shall I run over to Milo's and ask him if he strangled her in the backseat?”

“Jesus. I knew it was a mistake talking to you on the phone.”

“You just dumped all this on me. Excuse me if I need more than sixty seconds to process it.” She exhaled. “Fine. I'll call Harnell.”

“And can you ask Milo what he was doing there?”

“No.”

“Not directly. Make up something, like the Star Island security people are asking Billy Medina about it. You and Milo are friends, aren't you?”

“Rick, how much TV are you watching lately? There's a story going around that C.J. Dunn was locked up in a psych ward after an alcoholic breakdown, exaggerated but basically true, and the only person who could have told them is Milo Cahill. He would have done it for giggles. So no, I don't think he's going to tell me anything remotely related to Alana Martin.”

After a few seconds Rick said, “A psych ward?”

“It was a very civilized clinic in Boca Raton. Three gourmet meals a day, massages, yoga, and counseling.”

“You still want Mexican food?”

“Sure. See you at seven.”

She lifted a leaf on her phalaenopsis to check on the new spike. It was still green, and she could swear it was a quarter inch taller. Leaving her orchid mister on the window ledge, C.J. went back to her desk and hung up the phone.

A week ago, sitting with Milo Cahill in the backseat of his limousine, C.J. had asked what Paul Shelby was getting in exchange for persuading Congress to sell surplus government land to private developers. Not a
thing, Milo had said, beyond earning some points from the environmentalists, which would be helpful to his reelection. C.J. had known it was a lie, but she'd looked past it because Milo had offered to speak to Shelby about the job at CNN.
I know what you want, and I can get it for you.

Pending the final interviews in Atlanta, the job was now hers. Was it this that made her willing to open her eyes? Or just the fact that she was ticked off at Milo for having betrayed her? It was a flaw in her character, to be sure, to glance away from the truth when it failed to benefit her. But eventually, and painfully, she did come around to it.

Obviously, Paul Shelby was getting something out of the deal. And from whom? From his old fraternity brother at Duke University. Back then, it had been money in exchange for sex. Not just any sex. Sex with a fourteen-year-old girl. Maybe she was mature for her age. Maybe he hadn't known—

Look at it, C.J. told herself. Open your eyes.

Fourteen years old. C.J. wondered how much Noreen had paid to get her boy out of that mess.

C.J. buzzed her secretary. “Shirley, get me Harnell Robinson. Tell him it's okay about the check. I just need to talk to him.”

In exchange for Shelby's support, Milo had arranged sex with a young woman who could play the part of a girl. Alana wasn't satisfied with Milo's promises. She needed money, enough money to live on until her career in the movies took off. She demanded that Milo help her out, and when he wouldn't—he couldn't, because those things never end—she threatened him. Alana had a temper. She accused Milo of using her, treating her like trash. She screamed at him and threatened to tell the police. He put a hand over her mouth. . . . But Milo had such soft hands. He wouldn't
murder
anyone. He couldn't. C.J. had once seen him jump on a chair and shriek when a garter snake slithered across his pool deck.

The phone rang several times before C.J. heard it. She picked up. Shirley said Harnell Robinson was on the line.

“Hello, Harnell, No, please don't apologize. I understand your situation. The collection department wants me to file a lien, but I'm prepared to tell them they have to wait a couple of weeks. I have a question about your house on Star Island, the one up for sale. It's still vacant?”

“Yeah,” Harnell said, “we wanted to live there, but my wife doesn't like the neighborhood, and the pool leaks, so I can't rent it, and I can't sell it, the way the market is. That's part of my problem with your fees—”

“Never mind that now. Did you let anyone park in your driveway within the past month? Let me be specific. It was the weekend that Alana Martin went missing.”

There was no reply from Harnell Robinson, but she could hear him breathing in starts and stops, as though he was making up his mind.

“Harnell, I need to know. Whatever you say will remain between us. I'm your lawyer. But if I have to sue you to collect my fees, the press will find out. They will wonder why a man who makes two point eight million a year can't pay his bills. They might find out about your gambling debts.”

“Okay, Milo Cahill said he needed to park his car at my place.”

“Did he say why?”

“Said it would be safer than leaving it at the party, you know, all those people wanting to touch it and sit in it. He's crazy about that car.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He didn't go in the house, okay? There wasn't anybody ever in the house. I checked it out, you know, after the police started asking questions about the young lady.”

“Because you were suspicious of Milo?”

“No, not Milo, but he has some strange friends. Milo's all right. He said if I let him park in my driveway and didn't say anything, he'd hook me up with some action on a Marlins game.”

“How'd you do?”

“I came out a little bit ahead. Couple thousand.”

“You should give it up, Harnell. Give it up before it eats you alive.”

“You're right. I should.”

“Did you ever speak to Milo about it again?”

“Uh-uh. No need to. Everything was fine. Except I've still got a house I need to get rid of.”

“All right,” C.J. said. “Thanks, Harnell. And don't forget the check. Two weeks.”

“You'll have it, no problem.”

She disconnected and slowly replaced the handset. A perfectly reasonable explanation. Milo wanted people to stay away from his car. C.J. herself had seen the attention it drew.

Shirley stuck her head around the corner. “Judy Mazzio wants you to call her.”

 

 

Leaving her office by four-thirty didn't mean escaping the crush of traffic, which was notoriously bad around the criminal courts building. It was close to five o'clock when C.J. parked her car on the wide gravel driveway of Mazzio Investigations. Raul saw her through the bars on the front window and buzzed her in. He took her through the former living room, where half a dozen clients waited to see about their bonds, then to a door. Raul punched in a security code and opened it. A hall led to the back of the house and Judy's office.

C.J. rapped on the doorframe. “You have a present for me?”

Judy pushed the list across the desk, fourteen pages printed out at the Redfish Point marina. C.J. dropped her purse into one of the chairs and sat in the other. “How much did this cost?”

“Three hundred dollars. It's a bargain. Raul went down there with a thousand in his pocket. The list doesn't separate out the power boats from the sailboats, but you can see which is which under each entry. They're listed by the owner's last name.” She pointed. “Page ten.”

C.J. flipped through, backed up, then came to a page of M's. Judy had helpfully put a checkmark by the name Carlos Moreno. He lived in South Miami and owned a 26-foot Silverton inboard.

“How many names are on this list?”

“Two hundred and six.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“I'm sure it is. Carlos Moreno just happened to do Alana Martin's modeling portfolio. He just happened to be a still photographer for Reuters in Central Asia and the Middle East during the same time Rick Slater was over there, employed by Blackwater USA, protecting the press corps.”

“What is going on here?”

Judy made an expansive shrug. “I'm a P.I., not God Almighty. That's for you to find out, if you think your client will be straight with you.”

“Ha. I'll need a copy of that.”

“It's yours.” Judy slid the document into a large envelope. “Enjoy your fajitas.”

I leaving the criminal courts building after five o'clock in pre-sobriety days, C.J. and her friends would drive south across the river and zigzag through Miami's flat grid of streets to the Andalusia Hotel in Coral Gables. The hotel bar, glittering with polished brass and antique mirrors, produced the most creative drinks in town with two-ounce pours between five and seven. Seating was also offered near the atrium fountain, and classical guitar music mixed with the soft splash of water. One was not obliged to drink; one could order a virgin cocktail or a coffee.

C.J. had this in mind as she settled into an armchair just outside the entrance to the bar. With over an hour to kill before dinner with Rick Slater, she would have some tea and perhaps an appetizer to hold off her hunger. Out of curiosity to see what had changed, she picked up the card with its long list of cocktails.

The waiter appeared in his white shirt and black vest. C.J. dragged her eyes from the list. “Hi. Bring me . . . a cappuccino. No, wait. Make that a vodka and soda. Grey Goose, squeeze of lime. But only half an ounce. I'll
pay for the whole drink, but tell the bartender half an ounce.” She smiled. “I'm driving.”

He made a slight bow. “One half ounce. Certainly.”

“Oh, and I'll have the cheese plate too. Thanks.”

Her BlackBerry chimed in her tote bag. It was a number she didn't recognize. Even so, she hit the button to connect. The twangy female voice on the other end said, “Hello, Miss C.J., this is Noreen Finch. Am I catching you at a good time?”

Noreen Finch was the last person C.J. wanted to talk to. She assumed the woman had obtained the cell phone number from her son. “Well, Noreen, I'm with friends at the moment, but what can I do for you?”

“Paul has asked me to take over the running of his office and his campaign. I guess I'm stuck with making phone calls like this. He and Diana have decided they don't need a chauffeur anymore, so we've let Rick Slater go. He'll get a good recommendation and two weeks' severance pay. But that's not why I'm calling—”

“Wait a minute.” C.J. drew herself up in her chair. “I talked to Mr. Slater an hour ago. He didn't say anything about this.”

“I just now told him.”

“You fired him.”

“I had to. Paul wants me to cut costs. Campaigns are expensive! The reason I'm calling is to see if we can get you to send a check for the deposit remaining in Mr. Slater's case.”

“What deposit?”

“Paul gave you five thousand dollars as a deposit toward expenses to handle public relations. The media aren't interested in Richard Slater anymore or in Paul. I assume you've closed your file. We'd like an accounting and a check for the balance.”

“I've put in over forty hours on this already, and at my rate, that's about sixteen grand. You're getting off lightly, Noreen.”