The Dark of Day (20 page)

“Jason, I need to know about Alana. Who she was, what she wanted. Her friends, and those who were not her friends. What I need, to be honest, is a motive. If I have that, I can point the investigation away from my client. He's an innocent man. But I'm handicapped because I just don't know where to start. You're busy now, but could I meet you somewhere tomorrow or Monday?”

The lights in the room put his pale reflection on the window. “Let me ask you a question. You're a criminal lawyer. If the police want to talk to me, and I don't want to, will they suspect me?”

“Well, they shouldn't, but it does arouse their interest. It's human nature, isn't it?” C.J. concentrated fully on Jason's face. He had something on his mind. The proper thing would be to walk away, tell him to find a lawyer immediately and to keep his mouth shut. But she said, “Have the police contacted you?”

“They showed up earlier today at my apartment. I wasn't there. They left a card in the door. Sergeant George Fuentes. He wrote me a note to call him.”

“I know Fuentes. He'll be back.”

“So should I call him? I don't know what happened to Alana. What should I tell him?”

C.J. said, “He will probably ask if you saw her leave the party with anyone.”

“I didn't see her leave at all. She was just gone.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Only once, when I got there at ten-thirty.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No, I saw her across the living room. She was talking to some people. I don't know who they were. I didn't see her after that.”

“When did you leave?”

“About one o'clock. I came with some friends, but I was tired, and they wanted to stay, so I left early.”

“Where do you live?”

“South Beach, Twenty-Second Street.”

“How did you get home? A taxi?”

“You can't get a taxi on Star Island. You call and it takes forever, that time of night. I had my own car. Why?”

“A taxi driver could confirm when you left.”

Jason leaned down to speak to her, and she smelled the alcohol, the tangy-sweet aroma of scotch. He said, “What difference does it make when I left? Alana was gone around midnight. That's what they're saying on the news.”

“They don't know for sure,” C.J. said. “Where were you around midnight? Are there people who can swear you were with them continuously between, say, eleven p.m. and one o'clock in the morning? Do you have an alibi witness? The police will ask you.” She waited for an answer. “Jason?”

“Everyone was coming and going! I can't prove where I was. How do you
prove
something like that?”

“It's not easy,” she admitted. “They'll be looking for a possible motive, too.”

“I had no reason to—to—” He ground his teeth together. “I can't believe she's dead.”

“You cared for her.”

“Of course I did.”

“Were you very close?”

“Yes.” He wiped his fingers across his mouth. “She . . . she was a special person. She lit up everything she touched.”

“You were . . . intimate with her?”

His eyes had reddened. “I—Yes. No. We . . . we were friends. But I did love her. Who could help but love her? I'm sorry. This is so hideous.”

“Yes. I understand.” C.J. put a hand on his arm. “Could you tell me if she had enemies? Someone who was jealous of her? Or angry? Or afraid she might reveal a secret? Did she mention any threats?”

Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at the crowd, which had grown even larger. “I should go. I'm supposed to be over there kissing ass.” He cleared this throat and finished his drink. “You didn't hear that either.”

C.J. held on to his arm. “Could we talk sometime?”

Jason was edging away. “Sorry. I have to go.”

“It would be so helpful. Please. Anything you tell me would remain between us.” As she spoke, she fumbled in her purse for a card. “Take this. Wait. Call my cell phone in the morning. Or anytime.” She found a pen and quickly jotted it down. “Will you call me?”

He slid the card into his coat pocket as he turned away and vanished into the crowd.

She had lied to him. She felt bad about it, but not so bad she had stopped herself. There was no attorney-client privilege between them. Jason Wright was not her client. If he implicated himself, she would use it. Her duty was to Richard Slater.

A glance outside told her she was running out of time. The sea had turned gray, and the trees were dark silhouettes. Swiveling quickly toward the door, she took a step and collided with someone, a man, who grabbed her arms to keep her from falling. She gasped and put a hand to her heart.

With a slow smile, Paul Shelby said, “I don't usually scare people like that.”

“Sorry. It's fine, I just. . . .” She pushed back her hair. “I was just leaving.”

“Let me walk you out.”

As they went out to the terrace, C.J. said, “I dropped by to congratulate Milo. It's a marvelous design.”

“Yes, I'm proud to be associated with it,” Paul Shelby said. “You may have heard, I'm sponsoring a resolution in the House to sell an old naval
base to the company building The Aquarius. The land's no use to anybody, just sitting there. We've scheduled a press conference for Monday to announce that and some other things. My candidacy and so forth.”

With the temperature still nudging ninety, sweat was breaking out on her neck. As Shelby talked, she moved slowly toward the stairs and put her hand on the tubular white railing that curved to the gardens below.

“C.J., would you mind? I asked to speak to you for a reason.”

She stopped and turned, the low wall of the terrace at her back. “I'm so sorry, but there are people waiting for me. Is it something that could wait till tomorrow?”

“No, it's not. I think you can afford to give me a minute of your time.” Shelby spoke softly, although the nearest people were several yards away at small tables, having hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. “Rick told me you want five thousand dollars for expenses. What I'd like to know is, what expenses could there be? I thought you'd have this all wrapped up in a few days.”

“I'm hoping to.” C.J. wandered toward the side overlooking the gardens, and Shelby followed. She fanned her face. “My God, this heat. Where is our ocean breeze? Mr. Shelby—”

“Paul.”

“Paul. I don't discuss my cases except with clients or members of my staff, but since you're paying the bill . . . the expenses are primarily for my investigator. We're doing background checks on everyone involved. Mr. Slater, of course. Alana Martin and the people she knew. I regret I can't get into details.”

“Why are you investigating your own client?”

“I always do in a criminal case. I investigate everyone connected with it.”

“That seems a tad excessive.”

“It's how I do things. Look. Any lawyer who can accomplish what you want is going to incur some expenses. You're lucky I'm not charging fees.” She said, “By the way, did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Finch's sister about my interview with CNN?”

She doubted it was the heat that had caused color to rise in Paul Shelby's face. He looked distinctly annoyed. “Yes. I mentioned it. Sarah is flying through Miami this weekend. There's a possibility she'll have time to see you. Don't worry, C.J. I'm a man of my word. You'll get your part of
the bargain. There's one other thing. I've been told the police searched Rick's apartment this morning and found nothing of interest. Is that true?”

“Yes. I was there.”

“Then can you explain why a producer for
The Justice Files
is requesting an interview with me?”

She shook her head. “Are they? Someone is fishing. You should decline.”

“Oh, we did. Our schedule is jammed. My mother, whose advice has always proved right on the money, wants me to reconsider my decision to keep Rick Slater on. He's becoming a liability. Any thoughts?”

“It would raise questions.”

“It would save me five thousand dollars.”

“Give me a few days,” she said. “I'm on to some good leads about Alana Martin.”

“What leads?”

“Sorry, Paul, you aren't the client.”

“No, but you owe me some consideration, don't you think?”

She relented. “There might be a jealous boyfriend. Alana dated Jason Wright, a young architect who works for Milo Cahill, but I don't want to speculate. Also, we're tracking down the witnesses who claim they saw Alana with Rick Slater. I believe they will change their minds when they think about it more clearly.”

“What's your strategy to hold off the media?” Shelby asked.

C.J. checked her watch and saw with a start that she was late. “Forgive me, but I really must run.”

“Would you keep in touch with me about this?” He reached for her arm, and she jerked away.

“Don't!”

He smiled quizzically. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Her hands were raised, palms out. “I'm just in a hurry.” She turned and ran for the stairs. Her hair flowed behind her, and her skirt belled out. The staccato of her heels matched the quick tempo of her breathing. She reached the sidewalk and without stopping took a smaller, straighter path leading to the dock. A row of palm trees marched along the seawall, with tables and chairs between them. The planter to her left, filled with flowers, had white metal sconces to light the way.

The path was made of bricks, and she did not notice the sand-filled separations between them until her high, narrow heel had plunged into one. She staggered and barely stayed upright. She jerked on her right foot, and a strap across her instep tore loose from the sole. She hopped to keep her balance. The shoe was pinned by its heel. “Goddamn it! Oh . . .
fuck!
Four hundred dollars, and you do this to me, you piece-of-shit shoe!”

She also noticed, too late, a bald man with a short beard slouched in one of the chairs, smoking. “You cuss pretty good for a girl.”

Rick Slater. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his jacket lay folded on the table beside him. She closed her eyes. “What are you doing here? Of course. You brought Congressman Shelby.”

“And the missus. Just your friendly chauffeur. I saw you up there with him. In a hurry?”

“I have some friends waiting for me on a boat.” She crouched down and grabbed the shoe and pulled.
“Come on!”

“Here, let me get that.” He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over. With a sharp tug it came loose. He dangled the shoe from a finger and squinted through cigarette smoke. “I think it's a goner.”

C.J. took it and turned it over. The strap could be repaired, but the bricks had shredded the heel. “Marvelous.” She sat on a chair and brushed the sand off her foot.

“Nice dress, though.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue.

She didn't look at him. “Mr. Slater, I want you to call me tomorrow morning at home. I read your email. You refuse to answer the questions. That is not acceptable. Hand injury? Give me a break.”

“Whoa. Whoa. What's biting your ass?” He crushed out his cigarette in the planter.

“I don't have time to talk to you.” She slid her foot into the shoe. The remaining straps would hold it in place if she walked carefully. “No, I will ask you one thing, and I'd like the truth, if that is remotely possible. You told me you barely knew Alana Martin. You'd had lunch with her a couple of times. Correct? I spoke to Alana Martin's roommate today. She told me that you and Alana were having a sexual relationship.”

“We were?”

C.J. looked coolly at him for a second, then said, “Call me tomorrow.” She started to get up, but Slater put his hands on both arms of the chair. His face was inches from hers.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “Tisha Dulaney claims she saw me having sex with Alana Martin.”

“No. She reported what Alana told her. I would rather not describe it.”

“Must've been good. Did I like it?”

“Get out of my way.”

“Somebody is for damn sure lying, and it ain't me, lady.”

They both looked around when a man's voice came from a few yards away. His silver hair and white shirt emerged from the dark background of foliage. “Excuse me? C.J.? What is going on here?”

“Hello, Billy.” She pushed Slater's arm aside and stood up. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. It took longer than I expected.” Billy had his eyes on Rick Slater. “This is a client,” she said.

“Yes. It's . . . ahhh . . . what's-his-name. Paul Shelby's chauffeur.”

Slater said, “Glad to meet you too, whoever you are.”

“Guillermo Medina. A friend of your boss.”

“Richard Slater.” He smiled. “That's my name.”

“Did I ask?” Billy motioned with his fingers to C.J. “Let's go.”

She said, “Give me a minute, all right?”

“Everyone is waiting for you.”

“I know. Start the engines. I will be there in one minute, after I finish with Mr. Slater.”

“We have reservations,” Billy said in a singsong voice. “It's Saturday night. If we're late, they'll give away our table.”

“So call them. I will be there in one minute!”

“I told you, stragglers take a taxi.”

Rick Slater laughed softly and leaned back with his hands in his pockets.

Billy looked at him. “You have something to say to me?”