The Dark of Day (14 page)

Slater cut a large chunk of omelet, ate it, then wiped a napkin across his mustache. “So you want five grand in expenses, and Shelby's going to pay for it, right? What about fees?”

“Don't worry about it. It's taken care of.”

“How much would the check be for, if I were writing you a check? Twenty thousand? Thirty?”

“Probably, but I said you don't have to worry about it.”

“When people do me a favor worth that kind of dough, I like to know why.” He waited for an answer. “Are you a political supporter of the congressman? A friend of the family? Or what? I mean, are you working for me or for somebody else?”

“Of course for you. You're my client. Paul Shelby asked me to help you, and I said yes because, well, he's running for re-election, and I want to do what I can for him.”

“That's a pretty big favor.”

She bit into a piece of toast. “I suppose it is. So what?”

Rick Slater laughed without humor. “This is surreal.”

“I need to caution you about something else,” she said. “People are going to approach you for interviews. They might ask you about Paul Shelby. Keep in mind that he's doing you a big favor, too.”

“I make my living being discreet, lady.” He laid down his fork. “Your job, correct me if I'm wrong, is to protect Paul Shelby, and I'm part of the game plan. That's okay. I sure as hell can't afford your services, but I'll accept the favor. I'm not trying to be a pain here. I just want to know how it is.”

C.J. met his steady, unblinking gaze. She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Shelby might be paying the freight, but you're my client.”

“And if it comes to a choice, me or him?”

She repeated what she had said before. “You are my client. That comes first. My integrity as a lawyer is worth a great deal to me.”

He finally nodded. “Okay.” And dug into a pile of hash-brown potatoes. “Tell me about the night of the party,” she said. “Did you go there to meet Alana Martin?”

“Absolutely not. I wanted to check it out. I don't usually get inside houses like that. I'm the guy waiting in the car with the AC on, working a crossword.”

“Paul Shelby didn't mind?”

“I didn't ask him.”

“So you avoided him at the party?”

“There were a lot of people. It wasn't hard. He left about midnight. Took a taxi, I guess. That's what he said he'd do.”

“When did you leave?”

“About a quarter to one.”

“And you went where?”

“I took Mr. Shelby's car to his house.”

“Was he home?”

“Lights were on. I didn't ring the bell. We have a place to leave keys. I left his car in the driveway and took mine.”

“Where did you go after that?”

“Home. I got there about two in the morning. It's a hike down to Cocoplum.”

C.J. let these facts settle in her mind before she said, “Did Sergeant Fuentes mention to you that they have witnesses who saw you with Alana Martin?”

“He told me. I'd heard about it already. They're either lying or mistaken.”

“They say that Alana was passed out drunk in the backyard. They were trying to help her, but you told them to go away. They saw you pick her up and leave with her.”

“That's news to me.” Rick Slater's blank expression had returned. “What else?”

“That's all he told me. Can you explain it?”

His eyes drifted upward. “I left with a girl, but it wasn't Alana Martin. They're right, she was drunk. I was leaving and saw two men messing with her. Young, mid-twenties. One of them pushed me, so I dropped him, then punched the other one. They were both pretty well lit, so maybe I got lucky, but they took off. I couldn't leave her there. She asked me to take her home. She didn't have any money for a taxi.” He laughed and put his forehead on his fist. “This is so screwed. You can see why they're lying. They want to get even.”

C.J. blinked to put his face into focus. A terrible thought had occurred to her. But it couldn't have been Kylie. Or could it? “Who was she?”

“The girl? I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“I didn't get her name.”

“What did she look like? Height, weight, age?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Those girls all look alike. Long brown hair. Young. Thin.”

“You said you took her home. Where does she live?”

“I dropped her outside some apartment building.”

“Be more specific.”

“I can't remember. It was late, and I was in a hurry to get the car back to Shelby.”

“And she never told you her name?”

“I wish I'd asked,” said Rick Slater. “She could be my alibi.”

C.J. sensed a lie. She looked at him steadily, but he didn't blink.

I leaving Rick Slater's building, C.J. circled the block twice to spot anyone tailing her car, but the photographer had given up for the time being. She caught Thirty-Seventh and headed south into Coconut Grove. On slower, narrower streets, she pulled out her BlackBerry, scrolled to voice dialing, and spoke into the microphone. “Call Kylie Willis.”

After four rings she heard, “Hi, Kylie's not here. You know what to do.”
Beep.

“Hello, Kylie, this is C.J. again. We really do need to talk, sweetie. Please call me back as soon as you can.” She hit the disconnect button. “Damn.” That had been the third message.

Rick Slater hadn't provided much of a description. Young, thin, long brown hair. He'd been right: this could be every other girl on South Beach. But if it was Kylie, and Kylie could identify Rick Slater and say that she'd left the party with him, Slater's problems would be over. At the very least, George Fuentes would start looking further down the list of suspects.

It would have to be done quickly. C.J. could feel the first rumblings of a case about to explode into the national media, like the first tremors of an
impending earthquake. Through experience, she knew that when people like Nash Pettigrew started showing up, events were about to reach a critical stage. She didn't care what happened as long as she could pull Rick Slater out of the way before it blew. That was what the congressman wanted. If C.J. succeeded, she could soon be in negotiations with the producers at CNN. She would need an agent. There were several in L.A. who would remember her.

Not twenty-four hours had passed since C.J. had sat in the back of Milo Cahill's limousine, getting seduced. She and Milo would never have been friends if they had not, at the innermost core, shared the same desire to make their lives matter, or seem to, which in the end could be the same thing.

Deep in thought, C.J. heard an impatient driver lean on his horn. The light had turned green. She pressed the accelerator and shot ahead.

She would have to persuade Kylie. The only problem was, would Fuentes believe her? A seventeen-year-old girl who had passed out at an after-party on South Beach. A girl with a relationship to Richard Slater's attorney. Would he not question her credibility? But what alternative was there?

 

 

After she and Elliott had bought the house in Coconut Grove, they had converted the two spare bedrooms upstairs to home offices, his and hers. Late at night they would tap on their keyboards, a companionable rhythm that had not carried over to the bedroom. They were busy: his new job as anchorman at the CBS affiliate; hers at Tischman Farmer. Cocktails at home, parties on weekends, a carnival of faces and laughter, Elliott doing cocaine—just enough to keep going, he said.
You're a drunk, so get off your fucking high horse.

Elliott wanted to stop. He found them a counselor, but C.J. was in trial. Then there was another trial. On one fresh, blue spring morning, she glanced out her office window and saw Elliott in his bathrobe picking up the Sunday paper from the lawn, but he stayed bent over, standing there like a question mark. Then he dropped to his knees as if he was praying
and slowly, so slowly, fell into the grass. She ran downstairs screaming his name, but it was too late. At his funeral she realized he was gone, truly and forever. She sank down beside his coffin and sobbed, and they had to carry her out. One day, after she'd gone blank during jury selection in a murder trial, the judge called her into his chambers and said if she didn't get help, he would report her to the bar. That should have worked, but it didn't. A month later, Edgar found her unconscious in the kitchen and called 911. Judy Mazzio took charge and saw to it that C.J. spent two weeks in a locked facility in Boca Raton. Her law firm told the press she was recovering from pneumonia.

Sober now, C.J. missed drinking. She couldn't lie to herself about that. Billy Medina could take one drink and walk away, and maybe now she could too, but she didn't have the guts to find out.

The fluffy gray cat, Dylan, jumped onto her lap. She stroked his warm fur as she waited for her computer to connect to Tischman Farmer's mainframe downtown. Her senior partner at the firm in Beverly Hills had come up with a list of topics for hot-button clients to think about, and C.J. still used it. Questions about money, property, business relationships, overseas accounts. Have you ever been sued? Extramarital affairs. Long-term affairs: how did they end? Homosexual relationships. Have you ever used drugs? Alcohol? Ever under the care of a psychiatrist? Is there anyone who could reveal embarrassing events in your life? God help her if she was ever forced to answer the questions herself.

Slater had supplied his Hotmail address, the initials RAS with a string of numbers. C.J. composed a message asking him to send the answers back as soon as possible, preferably before their next meeting. She attached the document.

It was possible that none of this would be needed, though she had to admit to some curiosity about the man.

She hit SEND.

Next: a letter to Kylie. From a desk drawer C.J. took a sheet of buff-colored note paper embossed with her initials and uncapped her Mont Blanc. The salutation—Dear Kylie? C.J. realized she had never written to the girl. No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, only the occasional note to Fran Willis that accompanied a check. She didn't have a photograph of
Kylie, had never asked for one. Until this morning, C.J. had never really looked at her. Behind the wire-rimmed ovals of her glasses, Kylie's eyes were wide and bright. Her center-parted hair framed a face with a small chin, rosebud mouth, and freckles across her cheeks. A few tiny moles dotted her slender neck.

C.J. took her pen and wrote,
Kylie
—

She crushed the paper, tossed it into the basket, and started over.

 

She hesitated. Make no promises.

 

She signed it . . .

 

. . . and sealed it inside a matching envelope.

After a shower, she pinned up her hair in a clip to keep her neck cool, changed into pale pink linen pants and a matching top with heeled sandals. Gold earrings, gold-faced watch with a white leather strap, and a white bag. Downstairs she poured more kibble into the cats' bowls, gave them each a treat and a pat, and went over to the little table under the window.

The papers Judy Mazzio had brought were still there. C.J. found the copy of Rick Slater's driver's license photo and held it up. “You're not going to make my job easy, are you?” She folded the page and stuck it into her purse, in case she connected with Kylie. She wanted to see if Kylie recognized him.

The iguana was asleep next to the cottage in a patch of shade, keeping cool. She turned on a spigot and refilled his water dish. She set the dish on the porch and picked up the pie tin of cat food that Edgar had left there.
She rapped on the screen door. Edgar kept the cottage closed up in the heat of the day, with the window unit running.

He opened the door and said through the screen, “You're back.”

“Not for long,” she said. “I've got to run out again. Edgar, we can't leave Iggy's leftovers out all day. We'll start attracting raccoons.”

“Yep, yep, I forgot.” He took the pan from her. “Where you headed?”

“I have to talk to someone. It's on the Alana Martin case.”

“Oh, sure, they were talking about her on the news at noon. Sounds like a wild scene that night. Drugs and drinking and all sorts of carrying on.”