The Dark of Day (16 page)

C.J. opened her wallet, silently cursing.

Marilyn sat at her desk to write. “This is not an easy business. I have a shop in SoHo, but Miami is the worst. People steal you blind. You are continually disappointed. Have a seat, Ms. Dunn.”

C.J. pulled a chair closer. “How long had Alana been working for you?”

“About three months. She wasn't reliable, but she turned out to be one of my best salesgirls. You know, I hired her as a model. She was a perfect size two. Gorgeous skin and hair and a lovely body. Men sometimes come to China Moon to buy gifts for their wives or girlfriends. Alana would model for them. They rarely said no. It was something to watch.”

Marilyn turned the charge slip around and gave C.J. the pen. “Your phone number also, please.” When C.J. was finished, Marilyn tore off the duplicate and gave it to her.

“You wouldn't have any photographs of Alana, would you?”

“Yes, I do. She gave me her portfolio when she applied for the job.” Marilyn crossed the room to a filing cabinet and opened a drawer, returning with a large envelope.

C.J. looked through a dozen or more color closeups and full-length shots of Alana Martin in various types of clothing, from white fur to a minuscule swimsuit. Front view, back view, reclining with her back provocatively arched. The pose didn't match her small breasts and thin limbs. The makeup had been professionally done: glossy lips, immense brown eyes, and slashes of color on her cheeks, but all wrong for her upturned nose and
baby-doll face. It was creepy somehow. The name of the photographer—Carlos Moreno—was printed on the bottom edges. The name sounded familiar, but C.J. couldn't think why.

She asked, “May I have one of these?”

“Take them all if you want. I don't need them anymore.” Marilyn sighed. “Tragic.”

C.J. set the envelope on the floor beside her purse. “A story in today's
Herald
referred to an allegation that Alana had been stealing. Is that true?”

“Apparently so. Things went missing, and one of the clerks told me that Alana was taking them. I confronted her, but she denied it. She was so convincing. She was an actress, you know.”

“I've heard that,” C.J. said.

“She told me she'd had a part in an action movie shot in the Bahamas.”

“Was it true?”

“Oh, who knows? She couldn't tell me the title or the director or anything about it. It could have been a walk-on in one of those low-budget productions that go right to DVD. I put her in touch with a friend of mine, an agent for TV commercials. They paid her a few hundred dollars to model back-to-school clothes. The director told her he could use her again, but she didn't want to be known for commercials. No, Alana was going to be a star in Hollywood. Where do they get these ideas? Oh, I suppose she had some talent, but not enough. Not nearly enough to compete against so many other girls with the same dream. Maybe on some level she knew it. She always seemed a little desperate to me. The kind of girl people take advantage of, the kind who get all used up, and you try to make them see, but they won't. They can't. They need their illusions. Otherwise, their ordinary little lives wouldn't be tolerable, would they?”

C.J. only gazed back at her.

Crossing her legs, Marilyn Chu took off her glasses and slowly twirled them, happy to expound on Alana Martin's poor prospects. “The last time we spoke, Alana told me that she'd soon be working in Hollywood. Again, no details, but this time she was certain. She had someone who would make it happen for her.”

“Did she say who?”

“An agent, a producer, someone like that. I didn't try to pin her down because, well, it sounded like another of her stories. I told the police about it. They thought at first it might be true, and she'd turn up on a movie set, but I don't think she will ever be found alive.”

“Do you have any theories on what happened to her?”

“She was careless. Money, sex, drugs, good times. Always a party going on. It attracts the wrong sort. You're right to be concerned if your girl is part of that crowd.”

“Was Alana taking drugs? Did you see any indication?”

“My dear. If I required drug testing, I would have to fire half my staff. How do you think they get by on three hours of sleep a night?” She passed a long, French-manicured nail under her nose. “What they do outside the shop is not my concern.”

C.J. decided that she loathed this woman. She opened her purse. “I want to show you a photograph.” In her lap, she folded the copy of Rick Slater's driver's license to hide everything but his face, then held it up. “Have you ever seen this man?”

Marilyn leaned closer. “No, but the police showed me the same picture. He looks like a felon. Who is he?”

“If you don't know him, his name doesn't matter.” C.J. put it away. “Did Alana ever go out with any of the men she met here at the shop?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Did she have a boyfriend? Did she ever talk about anyone?”

“Not to me. I don't encourage trivial chatter. Please don't disturb my salesgirls, asking them about her. It wouldn't do you any good. They didn't socialize with Alana.”

Marilyn picked up the black dress and went over to a work table. She unfolded a shopping bag imprinted with the name of the store. The paper was gold, the handles red rope. She found some sheets of matching gold tissue paper, which she gently tucked around the dress. “You've bought yourself a treasure. This dress was originally designed for Paris Hilton.”

“Oh? How exciting,” C.J. said.

Turning around, Marilyn held up a hand. “Wait a minute. There was someone. Tall, blond, very handsome. He had blue eyes. They perfectly
matched his shirt, really stunning. He came in and asked for Alana. I think it was late. I don't usually close the store myself, but my manager had just quit.”

“Who was he?”

“His name? Oh, what was it? I don't remember. I told him Alana was working, to come back after nine o'clock. We close at nine on weekdays. Alana was with a customer, a man who was in the middle of making a large purchase, so I wasn't about to break in. Her friend said they had reservations somewhere. Well, I told him that's just too bad, wait for her outside. I could see him out there, walking back and forth, trying to signal Alana. She finally rang up the sale, grabbed her purse, and went right out the door. Her boyfriend was still waiting, and I could hear him yelling at her.”

“Did you mention this to the police?”

“I only just now thought of it. Oh, yes. She called him Jason. I'm sure that was it.”

“You referred to him as her boyfriend. Did she use that word herself?”

“Oh, yes, the next day she did, and if you'd seen them, you'd say they had a relationship.” Marilyn finished wrapping the dress, securing the tissue paper with a gold seal.

“When did this happen?”

“Oh . . . about a week before she turned up missing. I wouldn't say it was unusual. Alana had a temper, and she was hard to deal with.”

“But you kept her on,” C.J. said.

“My dear. She could sell.” Marilyn placed the package into the shopping bag. “She had a gift for it. I'm going to lose some good customers now that she's gone.”

“Yes, it's a shame,” C.J. said.

Marilyn led her toward the door. “Good luck finding your friend's daughter. And Ms. Dunn? Do have the dress repaired. You're a little heavy in the hips for it, but a dressmaker could let it out.”

C.J. smiled at her. “No, I think I'll just donate it to Goodwill.”

parked under the trees on Jefferson Avenue, C.J. kept her eyes on the apartment building at the end of the block. The car's air conditioner blew cold air on her face and ruffled the edges of the photographs that Judy Mazzio was shuffling through.

C.J. said, “You should've seen the underwear at China Moon. Gorgeous. I've never had a pair of fifty-dollar panties.”

“You feel deprived?”

“Definitely.”

“I've had a few pairs. They make you want to lift your skirt. I didn't buy them for myself, you understand. I bet Señor Wonderful would give you some.”

“He probably would.” C.J. added, “By the way, I asked him about getting me the names of the witnesses against Rick Slater. He said yes.”

“Get out.”

“True. As soon as he delivers, I'll let you know who they are.”

“Well, damn.”

The building was a long rectangle that extended back from the street, six units under a flat roof. Ocean Reverie. The white concrete letters marched diagonally up fading turquoise paint. Glass-louvered windows were cranked tightly shut against the cloudless, ninety-two-degree heat. There was space for cars out front. Alana's wasn't among them.

Arriving earlier, Judy Mazzio had spoken to the landlord, who had come over to repair a faucet. He told her the car had been towed an hour before from a no-parking zone. Judy asked about Alana. The landlord had met her but didn't know her, the same thing he'd told the reporters and police who'd been bugging him about it all week. The name of the roommate? Tisha Dulaney. She'd been living here two years, worked nights, slept days, paid on time, kept to herself. There was a lot of turnover in the tenants. She was home, as far as he knew. Her car was there.

Judy slid the photographs of Alana back into the envelope, except for a head shot. “Can I keep this?”

“Keep whatever you need,” C.J. said. “Does the name Carlos Moreno ring a bell? He did Alana's portfolio. You work with photographers. Do you know him?”

“No, but he's probably local, so it won't be hard to find him. Why?”

“I'm curious what he can tell me about Alana Martin. Some of those pictures are fairly provocative.”

“Yeah, she could've posted them on a soft porn site.”

“That makes me feel so reassured about Kylie.”

“Do you have a photo of Kylie? I'd like to show the witnesses both pictures. Which of these girls did Rick Slater leave the party with?”

“I don't have any, but you could probably get one off her driver's license.”

Judy said, “I'd rather take one with my camera, assuming we find her.”

“Oh, we'll find her. I'm going to see if she can ID Slater, and if she can, we'll talk to Fuentes, and then I'm sending her home if I have to drag her there myself.”

Judy slid Alana's photos into the envelope. “I cannot believe that Marilyn Chu forgot to tell the cops about the boyfriend.”

“If he is the boyfriend.”

“Lucky for you if he is. He killed Alana in a fit of jealousy.”

“Jason is an architect,” C.J. said. “He graduated from Princeton. Milo has him running errands.”

“The boy's really coming up in the world,” Judy said.

C.J. turned off the engine. “Let's see if the roommate is awake yet.”

 

 

There was a handwritten note taped to the door of Number Five.
If you are here about Alana Martin, go away!
Each word was underlined twice, the last line so emphatic it had torn the paper.

Judy and C.J. exchanged a glance. Then Judy rapped loudly on the glass louvers. Waited. Tried again, longer this time.

Finally the louvers tilted open, and from the dark interior a woman's voice said, “Can't you people fucking
read?
”

Judy went up the two steps to the door and peered in. “Miss Dulaney? My name's Judy Mazzio. We're looking for a friend of Alana's, Kylie Willis. I'm a private investigator, and this lady here is a friend of the family. They can't find her, and they're worried.” Judy held up her private investigator's license. She looked the part: beige slacks and a white top, low shoes. “Have you seen Kylie today?”

“No, and I don't know where she is.”

“Do you mind if we come in? It's hot as blazes out here.”

“Goodbye.” The glass slats in the door began to roll shut.

Judy grabbed hold of one to keep them open. “We need some help, hon. The girl's a runaway, and she might be in danger. Five minutes, I swear.”

A face appeared. The eyes were on C.J. “Excuse me? Do I know you? Oh, wait. I've seen you on TV. You're a famous lawyer, right?”

“I'm C.J. Dunn.” She stepped closer. “The girl we're looking for is the daughter of an old friend of mine. The smallest detail could help us find her. May we come in and talk to you? We won't take much of your time.”

The face stared out for a while longer. “Okay, wait there. I'll be right back.” The glass louvers closed.