The Dark of Day (35 page)

Elaine glanced at her watch and said, “I'll make time. How can I help you?”

C.J. told her she was exploring the possibility that Alana Martin had been murdered by someone with a connection to the porn industry, specifically a producer of DVD's or Internet content using underage girls. She told Elaine about Alana's audition tapes. Alana herself was over eighteen, but she may have known enough to be a problem for someone. C.J. stated what she knew about Harold Vincent and asked Elaine if she had ever heard of him.

That brought a smile to Elaine McCoy's usually serious face. “Oh, yes, we know Harold around here. He was one of the targets of a multi-agency investigation into child pornography. This goes back to the early nineties. Harold Vincent wasn't peddling movies with young children. No, his specialty was teenagers, light-skinned girls primarily from the Netherlands Antilles. Many of them were young prostitutes. Prostitution is legal on Aruba for adults, but younger ones do exist. Back in the eighties, Harold Vincent owned a brothel in Nye County, Nevada. I guess it was in his blood.”

Elaine leaned her elbows on the balcony railing. “I wasn't part of the investigation, but I clearly recall the howls of disappointment when Harold slid out of the net. He had a very clever lawyer, no offense intended.”

“None taken,” C.J. said.

“The filming was done at various locations in the Caribbean, and the videotapes were sold by mail order from Mexico. Later on, when DVD's could be bought on the Internet, his business really took off. Harold had a choice: Keep his products out of the U.S. market and thereby avoid the jurisdictional reach of the federal government. Or he could risk it and make a fortune, because we buy more porn than anybody. He decided the reward was worth the risk. He was making millions, getting away with it until one of the people lower down started talking to us.”

“He ratted Harold Vincent out in order to reduce his own sentence,” C.J. said.

“We prefer to describe it as an offer of cooperation. Anyway, the defendant rolled over, but we couldn't get to Harold. He had created so many foreign shell corporations that the wall around him was virtually impenetrable. It scared him, though. He was looking at twenty to thirty years easily, with the minimum mandatories. He's gone straight, or as straight as you can get in the business. He does online gaming now, still based in Aruba and highly profitable. He was one of the first to get into it. That Web site is linked to his porn sites, where he charges for downloads and sells DVD's. He uses girls who look young, like Alana Martin, but it states clearly on his Web site: ‘Barely Legal Girls. All Eighteen and Over.' The FBI occasionally sends out feelers, but nothing comes back.”

“I think you just shot down my theory,” C.J. said. “I'd hoped to pin this on a pornographer.”

“Sorry.” Turning toward her, Elaine said, “This doesn't mean that Alana Martin wasn't trying to get her audition tapes back.”

“Yes, but if Harold Vincent was behind it, and he was legal, he'd have no reason to keep them.”

“And no reason to kill her,” Elaine concluded.

“Maybe. There's always a maybe,” C.J. said. “I'm going to see what more I can find out.”

“Well, if you hear anything, please share it.”

 

 

In her tote bag, C.J. had the signed and notarized statements that Judy Mazzio had obtained. She caught a taxi outside the courthouse and told the driver to take her over to the Miami Beach police headquarters on Washington and Eleventh. As the taxi maneuvered slowly through downtown traffic, she stared out the side window. Her reflection came back to her, large sunglasses, a mane of blond hair, and tightly compressed lips. With a sigh, she leaned her head against the seat back.

She had hoped to present George Fuentes with more than two pieces of paper that he might or might not accept: she'd wanted to show him a real
motive for murder. Harold Vincent had been a long shot, and the odds had just dropped to near zero. She had hoped to be able to call certain friends in the media and tell them about Vincent, which would certainly get their attention off Slater. The easiest thing now would be to push them toward Jason. It could be done. She had done it in other cases, spinning the story in the direction she wanted it to go. But she wouldn't do it with a man she believed to be innocent. Having stupidly told Paul Shelby about Jason, and knowing that Noreen had probably leaked it to the media, made C.J. feel obligated, guilty for her lapse, unwilling to participate in the bloodfest.

Last night Jason had begged for the name of a lawyer he could go to. C.J. had the list with her, and she intended to meet him and hand it over. If he had any information about Alana's audition tapes, great, but if he didn't want to talk, that was fine too. C.J. took out her BlackBerry and scrolled through the call log for his number, pressed it, and listened to the rings on the other end. Finally someone picked up.

“Club Deuce.”

After a moment of confusion, C.J. said she must have dialed the wrong number. She disconnected and looked at the screen, realizing that it was impossible to have dialed the wrong number, as she had simply redialed the telephone that Jason had used. She pressed it again.

“Club Deuce.”

“Excuse me, but last night around midnight someone called me from this number. His name is Jason Wright. Do you happen to know how I could reach him?”

“Sorry, I don't. This is a pay phone, and if it rings, we answer it.” She thanked him and hung up. Last night she hadn't bothered to confirm how to reach Jason, and he hadn't been sober enough to think of it either. Now what?

The first time they had talked, Jason had told her he lived near Collins Avenue and . . . and where? C.J. called Judy Mazzio and left a message to get her Jason Wright's address, ASAP. She would leave the list in his mailbox or slide it under his door.

As the taxi came off the causeway and went up the single-lane overpass that would drop them onto Alton Road, C.J. checked in with her secretary.
“Shirley, it's me. I'm on the Beach. I should be back in the office before five o'clock. Are there any emergencies I need to know about?”

Shirley replied that things were pretty quiet, but Sarah Finch had called and left a number in Atlanta.

“Let me have it.”

A woman on the other end put her on hold for a minute, and then Sarah was on the line. C.J. recognized her warm voice immediately. “C.J., hello, how are you?”

“Having so much fun I can't stand it. It's good to talk to you again, Sarah. What's up?”

“Well, I have been allowed the pleasure of making this call because I know you, and we had such a nice talk the other day. I have good news. Jerry Hazelton, the producer of
Rich, Famous, and Deadly,
would like you to come to Atlanta for a final interview. It's really more of a formality. They're set to offer you the job.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, Sarah. This is wonderful. I can't tell you how wonderful.”

“There are a lot of details still to be worked out. If you have an agent, they'll want him or her in on the negotiations.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I think it's all right if I tell you this now,” Sarah said. “They were also considering a reporter from Miami, Libertad Rodriguez, the host of
Miami Justice Files,
but I was pulling for you.”

No, this could not be better, C.J. thought. “When should I come? Next week?”

“A morning flight on Wednesday if you can. Someone will pick you up at the airport, and Jerry and his assistant will take you to lunch before you meet the big guns. I'd love to get together with you, but I'm flying to New York on Monday. Give Jerry a call.”

As C.J. wrote down the number, the taxi pulled up to the drop-off zone at police headquarters. C.J. leaned forward and held up a hand for him to wait. “Got it. I'll call Jerry in the morning, and thank you so very much.”

“There's one other thing,” Sarah said. “It probably doesn't matter, but some on the staff are concerned about things they've heard. I'll be frank.
They mentioned rumors about your juvenile record, a father who died in prison, and the fact you were in an alcohol rehab center.”

“Oh, it's all true,” C.J. said. “If that's a problem for them—”

“Not at all, but they'll want to talk to you and find out if there's anything else they should know. I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

“Thanks.” C.J. sighed. “This is such crap. Where is it coming from?”

“No idea. I'm sure it's going to be all right,” Sarah said. “Frankly, this makes you all the more interesting. The publicity department will love it. I'm sorry I'll be out of town, but we'll see each other soon.”

With Sarah's congratulations still echoing in her ears, C.J. disconnected and laughed aloud.

The driver looked over his shoulder. “Happy news?”

“God, yes. It's everything I've been dreaming of. I'm going to host a show on CNN.”

“You are? I should get your autograph. What's your name?”

“C.J. Dunn. I'm a lawyer.” The meter said $15.40, and she dug her wallet out of her bag. “For now, the show is called
Rich, Famous, and Deadly,
but that could change.”

“Yeah. I heard of you,” said the driver. “It was on the news. That girl who was killed over here. They found her body up in Lauderdale without the head. Right?”

“She had a name, Alana Martin.”

“That's right. And you're the lawyer for this Special Forces guy they think did it.”

“He had nothing to do with it. Nobody ever said he did.” C.J. thrust the money over the seat, got out of the taxi, and slammed the door.

“Hey! Take it easy!”

 

 

Sergeant Fuentes came down to the lobby and escorted her to the personal crimes bureau on the third floor. A series of glass-fronted offices formed a perimeter around a large center section of desks and file cabinets. There were two holding cells with steel-mesh doors, and in one of them a man sat on the edge of a metal bench with his head in his hands.

Fuentes's office was on the east side, overlooking the apartments on Collins and the Art Deco hotels on Ocean Drive two blocks away. In his knit shirt of eye-scorching green, Fuentes gestured toward a chair, then went behind his desk as C.J. handed him the statements. He rocked slowly back and forth in his chair, reading.

His partner, Raymond Watts, stood by the door, arms resting on his belly, chewing a piece of gum.

C.J. had made the decision to name the girl the witnesses had seen: Kylie Willis. She had not included Kylie's address because she didn't know it. She was correct in assuming that Fuentes would ask her.

“I'm sorry, George. She moved and left no forwarding address. I believe I can find her if it's absolutely necessary.”

Watts said, “That's convenient, the girl moving.”

“No, detective, it is not,” said C.J. “She has made it more difficult for me.”

The
café-con-leche
skin on Fuentes's forehead furrowed into lines. “Any chance you can get her to come in and ID your client? If Slater has a solid alibi, we're not going to keep him on our list, obviously.”

“I'll see what I can do,” C.J. said, “but really, these statements should be enough. The men are now saying it wasn't Alana Martin they saw with Mr. Slater, and that's basically all you had.”

Watts grinned around his chewing gum. “We have more than that.”

C.J. looked back at Fuentes, who said, “We've been going around to marinas in the area with photographs of several men who were at the party at Mr. Medina's house that night, including your client. A witness at the Redfish Point marina says he saw Mr. Slater getting into a motorboat about nine o'clock on Sunday morning, the day after the party. He had a large cooler with him. Now, I'm not going to sit here and tell you he saw your client loading a body into the boat. If he had, we'd be asking a judge for an arrest warrant. Maybe Slater was fishing. Maybe he was gonna take a scenic cruise. I don't know. I'm telling you this in hopes you can clear it up for us. We could run over to his place and ask him, but you and I both know he'd call you, and we'd be right back here, like we are now. So how about it?”

During this, C.J. had gazed coolly at Fuentes with her brows slightly raised. She said, “Whose boat was it? My client doesn't own a boat.”

“Well, we don't know, and the dockmaster couldn't tell us. Mr. Slater didn't sign in or out. They're supposed to, but sometimes people forget.”

“Then how can you be certain it was Mr. Slater?”

“It was him. The man who ID'd Slater has seen him around before. Didn't know his name, but he's seen him. We're aware that he doesn't own a boat, because we checked the records; so he must have borrowed it. If you can clear this up for us, it would be helpful.”

“Have you divined a motive? Some plausible reason why it would remotely cross Mr. Slater's mind to do away with Alana Martin?”

“His relationship with her would have jeopardized his position with Congressman Shelby.”

“That is so lame it's laughable.” C.J. stood and shouldered her tote bag. “George, this information, even if true, isn't going anywhere, but I'll get back to you.”

Watts, still grinning, moved aside.

C.J. turned around and asked Fuentes, “Just out of curiosity, are you also looking at the young architect who may have been Alana's boyfriend? I believe his name is Jason Wright.”

Fuentes said, “If you'd talk to Mr. Slater for us?”

“No comment, George?”