The Dark of Day (5 page)

“Sure, I can call right now,” Judy said. “All I'm doing is keeping my nose pointed at room number six. Listen, it's Edgar's night to host the poker game, and he wants me to come too. He's ordering barbecued ribs. You should join us.”

“Ribs? I can barely fit in my jeans as it is.”

“Oh, shut up. I'm the one with the big ass. So, do you want to play some poker tonight?”

“And let Edgar clean out my wallet again? I don't think so. I'll check with you when I get home, probably around eight o'clock. I've got some things to finish here first.”

Edgar Dunn, age eighty-seven, was her late husband's uncle. Edgar lived in a cottage behind her house, originally meant for maids' quarters. He had known Judy Mazzio in Las Vegas. She'd been a blackjack dealer, and Edgar loved to gamble. He used to fly out there with his friends several times a
year. When Judy got tired of the scene, he suggested Miami. C.J. thought Edgar probably had a crush on Judy, which she found cute.

Just as C.J. was hanging up, Shirley brought Friday's paper, neatly folded. C.J. shooed her out. “Thanks. You'd better run before traffic gets too snarled.”

“Have a good weekend,” Shirley said from the doorway.

“We live in hope,” C.J. muttered. Sipping her tea, she unfolded Section A. There was nothing about Alana Martin. She turned pages. Nothing. She picked up the local section, saw the story below the fold:
Woman Still Missing on South Beach.

There was a photograph, a snapshot of a young woman with dark hair and a big smile, the face made pale by the camera flash. It had been clipped out of a group shot, other people's shoulders at the edges of the photo.

 

C.J. opened her desk drawer for some scissors and cut out the article. There had been no mention of Paul Shelby's driver, which she considered a positive sign. On the other hand, it could mean the police weren't interested in him anymore, in which case Milo had panicked over nothing . . . and she could kiss the job at CNN goodbye.

Her watch showed just past five o'clock. She shoved the paper aside and grabbed the remote for the television, which sat on a credenza across
the office. The lead story on all channels was not the Robinson case, as she'd hoped, but the drought and tougher water restrictions. Reporters stood in front of browning lawns, and the owner of a car wash complained about cutbacks.

“Come on, come on.”

C.J. put two channels on the screen at the same time, hit the mute button, and returned a couple of phone calls, walking around with the remote in her hand, one eye on the television. Libi Rodriguez appeared, big brown eyes, glistening lips, and teeth so white they fluoresced. She was standing in front of the gate across Billy Medina's driveway. C.J. apologized to the attorney on the line and quickly ended her call. She aimed the remote at the screen.

“—no leads in the case so far, and Alana's parents fear the worst.”

They had been posed side by side on their living room couch, with a girl and two boys huddling close to fit into the shot. The mother, short and plump, wore a knit top, the father a blue shirt with his name over the pocket. They spoke through a translator. The text at the bottom said Luisa and Hector Martinez.

On her knees, the wife held what looked to be an eight-by-ten high-school graduation photo. Alana Martin—originally Martinez, no doubt—smiled with one side of her ripe little mouth, a combination of sexuality and boredom. Libi prodded to get them to say how much they loved her.

Then another view of Billy Medina's mansion, daytime file footage shot on his pool deck, Billy among his guests, wearing sunglasses and a white linen shirt, cocktail glass in hand. He had his other arm around the waist of a lanky blonde in a sarong tied at her hip. C.J. had been there. The event had been more than two years ago, but to hell with relevance.

“Just say it, why don't you? Billy Medina has Alana Martin chained in his bedroom as a sex slave.”

Libi reappeared. She seemed intensely concerned. “Where is this young woman? Where could she have gone? Which of the celebrity guests at this exclusive Star Island mansion was the last to see Alana Martin? If you have a lead, call the Action Team at Channel Eight.”

“Work it, Libi.”

“When we come back, an exclusive interview with Dolphins star Harnell Robinson, acquitted today of aggravated battery. Did the jury reach the right decision? You decide. Keep it right here. This is Libi Rodriguez, Channel Eight News, your inside connection.”

C.J. knew that after dissing Libi on the courthouse steps, she would see no reference to Robinson's attorney. She went through the other channels and caught a glimpse of herself walking out of the courtroom with her client. She hit the record button on the TiVo. A producer at CNN might want to see what she looked like. C.J. studied her new hairdo. It looked great. It should, for three hundred dollars. She watched herself speaking, the camera coming in close. The woman on the screen had blue eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones.

At the firm in Los Angeles, her boss had said one reason he'd hired her was that he didn't want a dog sitting next to him in court. Far from being offended, C.J. learned what to wear, how to do her hair and makeup, when to smile, when to show outrage. It was a game, and she was good at it.

The screen spun into wild gyrations, then an ad for a local car dealer. C.J. turned it off.

She went over to her desk, picked up her phone, and dialed the number that Billy Medina didn't give out to just anyone. His voice mail picked up.

“Hola, Señor Medina. It's me. Weren't you supposed to be back in Miami today? I hope you bring some rain. We're turning into the Sahara. Listen, I need to talk to you. It's about that girl at your party, the one they can't find. I may be getting involved. Milo roped me into this, and it could work out well. Have you ever heard of Rick Slater? He's Congressman Paul Shelby's driver. He could be my next client, and I know nothing about him. Call me as soon as you can, all right?”

No kiss into the phone. Billy wasn't the warm, cuddly type.

In Miami only seven years, C.J. had risen to an equity partnership, head of Tischman Farmer's three-attorney criminal division. She had arrived with the sparkle and flash of a big-name Los Angeles practice. Though her division didn't rack up the monstrous profits of the banking and litigation divisions, the executive committee liked the good PR, the free advertising, and the occasional spin-off client who believed that paying large fees was a confirmation of his manhood.

Flip back the calendar twenty years, most people would have said Charlotte Josephine Bryan was destined for hard times. The only thing her father had left her was a taste for alcohol. Her mother tried to keep her on the right path with prayer, and, when that didn't work, the back of her hand. They hadn't spoken since C.J. flew back from L.A. for her father's funeral. Her mother informed her she was damned to the eternal flames of hell. In those days, it may have been true. The last C.J. had heard, her mother was living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her second husband, a Baptist minister.

On her desk, C.J. noticed the pink message slip with Fran Willis's name on it. She was tempted to let the message sit there until Monday, but the word
urgent
tugged on her conscience. She punched in the number, shook back her hair, and waited. Tapped her fingers on her elbow.

Three rings. Four. A faint voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Fran, it's C.J. Dunn returning your call.”

“Oh, my goodness, I've been trying to reach you for three days. They said you were in trial, but I thought maybe if you had a break, you could—”

“I'm so sorry. I was completely tied up. If you're worried about Kylie, you shouldn't be. They know to call me if anything happens.”

“No, I spoke to her myself the other day. She says she's all right. What we want, her dad and me, is for her to come home. I've talked to the principal at her high school. If she enrolls this fall, she can graduate in January.”

“Great. What does Kylie say?”

“Well, I think she's finally willing to give it another try. I told her it's important to finish school. You know about that, I mean, with all your education, and going to law school and everything. I said to Kylie, you're such a smart girl, don't you want to make something of your life? I
think
I got through to her, but it's hard to be sure. Sometimes you might as well be talking to a tree stump.”

C.J. paced with the phone at her ear. “Fran, my secretary just signaled me. I have a call waiting. What is it you want me to do?”

“I'm sorry to take up your time, but I don't know who else to turn to. You promised to look after her.”

Promised?
C.J. bit her tongue, then said gently, “What do you want me to do, Fran?”

“Okay. What I wanted to ask you. Kylie has to get home, but we're so strapped right now. They laid Bob off at the gas company, and he can't find anything else, things being like they are up here, and with school around the corner, and the kids needing clothes and things, well . . . I checked all the airlines to find something cheap, but at the last minute, they really stick you!”

“It's all right. I'll buy the ticket.”

“We'll pay you back. I'm sorry I have to ask. Seems like I'm always asking for help for Kylie, and I shouldn't.”

“Fran, stop. It's okay. You don't have to pay me back. I would be happy to help.”

“All right. Thank you.” Fran Willis's mood seemed balanced between gratitude and anger. She made a nervous laugh. “Lord, if I added up all you've given us, I'd be paying it back a long time.” She hesitated, then said, “Can you make sure she gets to the airport?”

“I suppose so.”

“You'll take her yourself, right?”

C.J. tapped her nails along the edge of the desk. “If I'm not able to, I'll have someone else do it. Don't worry, Kylie will make her flight.”

“Well, I'd rather you took her. That way I'd be sure.” Fran laughed again. “Last thing we ask you, I swear to God.”

“All right. I'll drive her to the airport myself.”

“But she has to get on the airplane.”

“Why don't I just tie her up and ship her UPS?”

The silence stretched out. Then she heard Fran Willis let out a breath. A screen door slammed somewhere in the house. Finally she said, “If I could go there and pick her up, I would, but I can't. I can't. It's not like you have no responsibility. You said you'd take care of her. You distinctly said that.”

C.J. swung around and paced in the other direction. “On Monday I will have my secretary arrange for a flight. Meanwhile, call Kylie. Tell her I'll take her to the airport. If she signs up for high school, I will send her a check for five hundred dollars. All right? I'm sorry, but my other call is still waiting. I have to go.”

She disconnected and took a breath.

Her hand was still on the phone when it started ringing. She was tempted to ignore it, grab her purse, and walk out the door. It rang again.

“Yes?” she said sharply.

A man's voice said, “Ms. Dunn?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Paul Shelby. The receptionist put me through to this number.”

A rush of blood went to her head so fast that C.J. had to lean against the desk. She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is C.J. Dunn. My secretary just left, and I don't usually pick up this phone after five o'clock.” She paused. “I'm going to assume that Milo Cahill has spoken to you.”

“Yes, he has. You and I have never met, Ms. Dunn, but I've heard many good things about you. You might be in a position to help one of my staff.”

“Possibly so.”

“That would be great, just great. My wife and I are going downtown tonight for a concert, and I was wondering if you could meet me beforehand at the Everglades. Say about six, six-thirty? We're having a pre-concert dinner before going over to hear Arturo Sandoval. Diana is Cuban, you know, and a big fan of Latin jazz. There will be some people with me, but I believe you and I can find a few minutes to talk. Would that be acceptable?”

She had seen Paul Shelby on television more than once, but not face to face in a long time. A very long time. He didn't know who she was. How could he? She wasn't the same person anymore.
You and I have never met. . . .

Her voice was calm, unhurried. “That's fine. I'll be there at six-thirty.”