The Dark of Day (8 page)

“I was going to do a taste-test tonight. Want to join in?”

“No, thanks.”

Black brows rose. “This gin cost me a hundred and twenty dollars a bottle.”

“I'll try the tonic.”

“Suit yourself.” He brought her an ice-filled glass with a lime wedge, then opened the tonic and poured.

She tasted it. “Nice.”

He set out two shot glasses and filled the first with the Dutch gin. “It's not for you. Just taste mine. One drop won't hurt. Don't be a pussy. I need your opinion.”

“One sip.” She lifted the tiny glass, sniffed, then wet her lips. “This is the Van Wees? Smooth. But worth that price? I don't think so.”

He finished it off, then breathed in. “Oh, yes. Good stuff.” He filled the next with the gin from London. “Now. Let us try the Martin Miller's.”

C.J. turned her head. The longing had come on her so fast she felt dizzy. “Billy, I'd rather not.”

“You don't go to meetings anymore. I haven't seen you take a drink in a year. What are you trying to prove?”

“This is bad for me, what you're doing.”

“Sorry.” He picked up the other shot glass. He sipped, rolling the gin around in his mouth. She could see it wasn't fun for him, drinking alone. He said, “I vote for the Van Wees. Since you're being a Girl Scout, what can I get for you?”

“I'll have a Diet Coke or something.”

“On the rocks?”

“Ha-ha.” She cut a few slices of cheddar. “Why do you think Shelby wants me to take this case? Milo says he has no financial interest in The Aquarius. Is that true?”

“As far as I know,” Billy said as he brought back her cola.

“You think he's trying to ingratiate himself with the environmentalists?”

“I'm sure that's part of it, but he believes this project will be good for Miami, good for development statewide.”

“Since when did you trust a politician?”

“Since never. So what?”

“Tell me about Donald Finch,” she said.

“Don produced a little comedy set on South Beach a few years back. It wasn't bad, got into the Miami Film Festival. I see him around occasionally, when he can sneak away from the ball and chain.” Billy eyeballed his glass and poured in a practiced ounce-and-a-half measure of gin, then filled the glass with tonic. He squeezed the lime wedge and let it drop.

“Is he rich?”

“He used to be. The Finches were prominent in New York City, but Don left town after a dispute with his father, who is now dead. Jesus, this is good. Nearly perfect. I give it a ninety-seven out of a hundred. I don't suppose you want to—”

“No,” she said. “Back to Donald Finch. Noreen told me he studied film in L.A.”

“That he did. Donald took his inheritance and went to Hollywood. He lived large for a while but didn't accomplish much. That was before you went west. He slunk back to New York, I believe, bounced around on various low-budget productions, and finally wound up in Miami doing PR for the tourist board. Then he met Noreen Shelby. She's older. She's ancient, in fact, but he had what she wanted, a pedigree. He'd like to do more independent films, but Noreen controls the funding. She wants him to do a project on Paul Shelby's rise to fame and glory. So far, it's pretty short.”

C.J. asked, “Where did Noreen get her money? Her family raised saddle horses in Wyoming.”

“Her first husband, Paul Shelby's father, was big in commercial real estate. He left a very rich widow.”

“As rich as you?”

“More. I'm still fighting with Uncle Sam.”

“Noreen wants her son to be president.”

“He could get there,” Billy said.

“Yes, why not? He has money, connections, good hair and teeth, a lovely wife and two sons, and a mother who keeps a copy of Machiavelli's
The Prince
under her pillow.”

“What have you got against Paul Shelby?”

“I have nothing against Paul Shelby, particularly.” C.J. sipped her cola, which had all the flavor of water. “I just want to know what we're dealing with. You could be drawn into this case, and I'd like to prevent it if I can.”

“Me? I've done my duty. I talked to the police. I told them I didn't see the girl here. I gave them a list of guests, those I could remember. They said thank you and went away.”

“If they can't find her, they may be back.”

“Fine. They'll get the same answers as before. I don't know dick.”

“What about Richard Slater?”

“Who? Oh, Shelby's driver. Your new client.”

“Maybe—if he lets me represent him. Did you see him that night?”

“Christ, C.J., I don't remember. There were tons of people here. Yasmina was here. She sang. I hired a band for her. Everyone had a good time. You should have come.”

“I was in the weeds with the Robinson trial.”

“Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, I have met Slater. He was driving when Paul Shelby and his wife took me home from a cocktail party at Milo Cahill's place a couple of weeks ago.”

“What's he like?”

Billy let out a puff of air. “What's he like? He speaks in monosyllables. He's about five-ten, big through the chest. Thick neck. Shaved head, a mustache-and-beard combo. He stares right through you.”

“Oh, wonderful. I can't wait.”

“You prefer clients as handsome as me,” Billy said.

“There aren't any.” She wound a strand of his silver hair through her fingers, thick and soft as animal pelt. “When did Shelby leave the party?”

“Are we talking business tonight?”

“For now,” she said.

“He left a little before midnight, I think.”

“But his driver stuck around. I wonder why.”

“Drinking my liquor and ogling the models, probably.”

“I'm surprised your security people didn't ask him to leave.”

“They don't, unless they notice somebody causing a problem.”

“I wonder what he was doing with Alana Martin.”

“Can't help you there,” Billy said.

“Do you know Alana?”

“Until about three months ago she worked for my magazine. She sold advertising. I don't go in more than once a week, you know, just making sure it's still there, but I expect to see people at their desks, not hanging all over the VIPs and celebrities who drop by. I told personnel to get rid of her. She's a fame-fucker.”

“For God's sake, Billy, don't say that to a reporter.”

“It's true.”

“Listen to me,” C.J. said. “This is serious. A very pretty twenty-year-old girl was here, then she wasn't. If this turns into a major media event, you're going to see satellite trucks lined up on the street.”

“They won't get past the guard at the entrance.”

“It's a public street,” she said.

“Technically, yes, but the residents of Star Island have an excellent relationship with the chief of police. There's the microwave. Dinner is served.”

He brought the food over, a bottle of red wine, and one glass. They ate in silence for a while. Then he told her about a restaurant on Aruba. He and a couple of his business partners had gone to Aruba to look into investing in a hotel. C.J. assumed nothing had come of it, but, then, he didn't talk much about his work. Just another day at the office. Billy had bought South Florida real estate when it was cheap, then a hotel on Antigua that had a small casino attached.

He said, “Why do you want to do a show on CNN anyway? Those talk shows are inane.”

“Mine wouldn't be. I'd have intelligent guests with something to say.”

“You'd be famous,” he said.

“I could learn to live with that.”

“You think so? People in your face all the time. No privacy.”

“I'll hire bodyguards to keep the crowds back when I get into my limo.”

“Who is that sexy blonde behind the sunglasses?” Billy's smile deepened the lines at his eyes. “C.J. Dunn. Yes, I know her. She slept with me last night, doing unmentionable things.”

“Would you still like me if I were rich and famous?”

“I might like you more. Right now, you're only beautiful.” He poured himself more wine, and the deep red liquid swirled and made streaks down the glass. The blood-heavy scent of it zinged into her nostrils.

“There's dessert,” Billy said. “Some kind of pie.”

“God, no, I'm full.” She helped him carry things to the sink. The maid would wash them in the morning.

“Are you going to stay tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No. I was asking to be polite.”

“Fine. I won't, then,” she said.

“It's your loss.”

She laughed. “You're horrible. You really are.”

He slid his hands up her arms. “Of course I want you to stay.”

“All right, but I'm leaving early. I have things to do in the morning.”

“Love your enthusiasm,” he said.

“I love yours.” She kissed his cheek, rough with a day's worth of stubble. The bridge of his nose was slightly out of line, but you had to look hard because a plastic surgeon had done a good job putting it back together.

A year ago, with a blood-alcohol level of one point eight, Billy Medina had crashed his Maserati into a guardrail, his second DUI. Billy's attorney worked out a deal: no jail time if he went to AA meetings for six months. He came to the same small group C.J. had joined, a Methodist church in a nowhere residential district on the Beach. She was avoiding the downtown groups, the lunchtime or after-work meetings where there were far too many other lawyers with alcohol problems. She hadn't recognized Billy at first, with the bandage over his nose, but soon they were going out for coffee after the meetings, or having a late dinner, C.J. stifling her laughter as Billy imitated the sappy stories they'd just heard. They started moving
around to other meetings, not wanting to be known, not wanting to get involved with the real drunks, who might ask for favors.

Billy did his six months. C.J. stayed for a while, but she didn't have time, or she didn't like opening herself up to strangers, or maybe it was just too boring without Billy. So she quit too. She had stopped drinking, so what was the point? Her sponsor kept calling for a while, then gave up and wished her well.

The longing to drink still came on her, but not as often, and she was always able to fight it off. What she liked about Billy, among other things, was that he didn't nag her about it. What he liked about her was that she didn't expect him to save her. Whatever she chose, it was up to her. Billy made no demands. He never pushed. If she wanted to be with him, fine. If not, he wouldn't hold her. It was liberating. Sometimes a little lonely, but as Billy would say, if you don't like the view, move on. She had tried to do that. She had tried. She had given up alcohol, but she couldn't give up Billy.

judy Mazzio put the handicap tag on her rearview mirror and gave forty bucks to an off-duty cop to let her park beside a fire hydrant down the street from the concert hall.

As people streamed out the main exit doors, a line of cars moved under the brightly lit portico. Judy spotted the congressman and his party coming down the steps, stopping from time to time to greet friends. Handshakes, air kisses, slaps on the back. A big smile on the older woman with platinum hair, the man with her watching the line of cars. Judy raised her binoculars. This would be Noreen Finch, Shelby's mother.

A couple of minutes later, a silver-blue Cadillac sedan approached. Noreen Finch signaled the others, and they went down to the driveway. Shelby paused to shake another hand.

A bearded man with a shaved head got out of the car. Dark suit, open-collar shirt, big shoulders. No wasted motion. But Shelby had already opened the back door, putting the women and his stepfather inside. The congressman got into the front, and the car pulled away.

Pointed the same direction on the one-way street, Judy followed.

C.J. hadn't asked her to do this. In her phone call three hours ago she had only mentioned that Shelby's driver would be picking them up after the concert. When the poker game at Edgar's ended early, Judy thought there might be time to take a look at the guy.

What had she learned? Not much.

She followed the Cadillac up the interstate on-ramp, heading south, the mirrored spires of downtown on the left, the low apartments and tree-lined streets of Little Havana on the right. The expressway arched over the river, curved past the turnoff to Key Biscayne, then dumped traffic onto South Dixie Highway. Judy turned up the volume on her satellite radio, the classical station, and settled into her seat. There were no classical stations in Miami, which said something about the culture, but she wasn't sure what.