The Dark of Day (37 page)

Other reporters were looking over the railings, and cameras pointed their way.

Libi walked along beside her. “Don't pretend to be so perfect. I know who you are, Charlotte Josephine Bryan, high school dropout, juvenile arrest record, locked in a rehab hospital, and you have the nerve to call
me
names?”

C.J. felt detached, as though she were observing a complete stranger with no connection to herself. Under the portico she turned around to smile. “Well, Libi, when I'm hosting
Rich, Famous, and Deadly
on CNN
next season, and you aren't, be sure to watch. That's right, I got the job, so unpack your suitcase, honey, you're not going anywhere.”

Whatever Libi had intended to say next vanished on a sharp intake of breath.

Billy Medina's Jaguar was waiting at the curb. He leaned over and opened the door. It was blissfully cool inside, and C.J. sank into the leather seat. “Thank you.”

“What was that about?” Billy asked.

“Nothing. Libi Rodriguez is throwing a tantrum because I wouldn't play with her.”

He checked for traffic, then made a U-turn and headed south on Collins. The engine purred. Billy's hair was combed back, and he wore a finely checked black-and-white silk jacket and an open-collar shirt. He pressed a button on his steering wheel, and the radio went from a news station to easy-listening jazz. “I heard the report on Jason Wright. They aren't saying anything more than what you told me. You look warm. Want to come over to my place? What's your pleasure? Diet cola, Gatorade, a joint?”

The image of an icy gin and tonic jumped into her head. “Let me sit here a minute and calm down.”

“Poor baby,” he said.

“Poor Jason,” she corrected.

“Good for your case, though, if he killed Alana like they're saying. He couldn't live with the guilt.”

“Yes, I'm sure that theory will be all over the talk shows tonight. Billy, did you happen to mention to Paul Shelby what I told you about Jason having no alibi?”

“No, I haven't talked to Paul since the party. Why?”

“Then Shelby got it from me. Somebody over there leaked it to the media, and Jason is suddenly guilty of murder. I feel so damned bad.”

“It wasn't your fault. Don't obsess about it.” Billy put his hand on her leg. “You need to relax.”

“I was just offered the job at CNN,” she said.

“That's great!”

“I don't have it yet. I might not, if the media keep dredging up my past.”

“Let them. What have you got to hide? So you were in rehab. Big deal.”

“I need this case over with, Billy. I really need it over.”

“Come on, baby.” He massaged her knee. “You're freaking out. You're not like this.”

“Does the name Harold Vincent ring a bell?”

“Why?”

“Harold Vincent is a pornographer. He owns Blue Wave, Limited, based in Aruba. They do online gaming and Web porn. They also make X-RATED DVD's. You just got back from Aruba. You went down there to see about investing in a hotel. You must have heard of him.”

“I've met him. I wouldn't want to socialize with him. What's this about?”

“Is he still making DVD's with underage girls?”

Billy's dark brows rose over his silver-framed sunglasses. “I don't think he ever did.”

“He did. They just couldn't prove it.” C.J. lifted her chin to get more cool air on her neck. “I believe that Alana Martin knew Harold Vincent.”

“You're correct,” Billy said. “I introduced them.”

“You what?”

“It was about six months ago.
Tropical Life
threw a party in the Bahamas, the casino on Paradise Island. I took the entire staff over on a cruise ship. Alana was working for me at the time, so she went too. Hal Vincent was there. His company had been buying advertising space, so they put him on the guest list. He showed up with a hooker on each arm, but he saw Alana and his tongue fell out. Alana was getting stoned, laughing too loudly, hanging on my VIP guests, so I went over to her and asked if she wanted to meet a good friend of mine in the movie business. Her eyes lit up, and that was the last I saw of her for the rest of the weekend.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I didn't think of it,” Billy said. “I should've mentioned it to the police. Alana knew too many people like Harold Vincent. She was not, to put it mildly, the kind of person we wanted at the magazine.”

With a little laugh, C.J. shook her head. “You see, Billy, this is why I keep telling you to be careful. One disgruntled employee could say something for spite and you'd have the FBI on your ass.”

“I have nothing to do with Hal Vincent,” he said. “I work damned hard keeping my business squeaky clean. Give me some credit. Let's not talk about this. It's depressing. You've got Jason Wright's suicide on the brain. You need to sit in my hot tub and smoke some weed.”

“Billy, please.”

“It's a fine idea. I know what. Come with me to Antigua for the weekend. I'm leaving Saturday to check on the hotel, but we can have some time together. Fly back on Monday or whenever you like. I'll be there a week.”

“Some of us have eight-to-five jobs,” she said. “Billy, I need another favor, and don't say no. Alana auditioned for a DVD, and she was trying to get her tapes back so they wouldn't turn up on the Internet. You've just told me she knew Harold Vincent. Alana was renting a room from Tisha Dulaney, who works for Vincent—and sleeps with him. It's just too cozy not to mean something.”

Billy glanced at her, then back at the street. “And?”

“And I'd like for you to ask Harold Vincent about Alana. If she was murdered by someone in the pornography business—”

Billy laughed in disbelief. “I'm not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

They were at the light on Alton Road, waiting for traffic to clear so he could take a right onto the causeway, heading for his house on Star Island.

Billy said, “Look. I don't know Harold Vincent. I choose not to know him. If I go over to Harold's place or have any contact with him, people will find out. They will wonder if I am buddies with a man who makes adult movies and runs a quasi-legal gambling operation on the Web. I am not Harold Vincent's friend.” When C.J. started to speak, he held up a hand. “No. No. I can't do it. By the grace of God I was admitted into the elite group of investors in The Aquarius. We are waiting for congressional approval. If the media find out that I am in any way connected to a pornographer, even by association, I'm fucked. Can I spell it out for you more clearly?”

C.J. couldn't see Billy's eyes behind the dark glasses, but she didn't like the tone of his voice. “Forget I asked.”

A horn sounded. Billy shot the driver the bird and went ahead. “I'm sorry, baby.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

She pulled away.

“Do we have PMS tonight?”

“For God's sake, Billy. Just take me to my office. You're right, I have too much on my mind.”

“What is the matter with you lately? Snap out of it.”

“Sure. Snap out of it.”

He looked at her and shook his head. Neither of them spoke until the car finally stopped at the entrance to the Met Center.

C.J. got out with her briefcase and shoulder bag and leaned back in. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Any time.” He smiled. “Hope you feel better soon.”

As the Jaguar pulled away, C.J. realized that whether she snapped out of it or not would make no difference to Billy Medina.

judy Mazzio lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and refilled Harold's glass, pouring down the side to keep it from foaming. She topped hers off and touched the glass to his. The crystal made a soft
ding.

“Old times, good times,” Harold said.

“We already drank to that,” Judy reminded him.

“Then you say the toast.”

“Let's see. . . . Champagne to your real friends and real pain to your sham friends.”

Laughing, Harold brought the glass to his lips. The bones of his wrist were like knobs. His curly hair had turned gray and retreated even farther on his high forehead. But hell, Judy thought, twenty years hadn't been kind to either of them. Her ass had dropped, and she'd made good friends with Miss Clairol.

They were on the balcony of Harold's penthouse apartment in Surfside. It wrapped around the southeast corner, so you could look down the Intracoastal Waterway arrowing toward Miami, lights everywhere, or you could see the ocean, a nice view in the daytime, no doubt, but, this time
of night, kind of a downer. Harold kept his chairs right in the middle, like he couldn't decide.

Judy sipped from her champagne flute. She had brought him a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon, his favorite. “So. You were saying. Alana wanted her tapes, but you didn't want to give them to her.”

“Why should I? She didn't ask nicely. She called all hours of the day and night. She came up to me when I was having dinner at a restaurant. She threatened to go to the police. I said, go ahead. You signed a release. You're over eighteen. There is nothing about it that isn't legal, sweetheart, so what are you going to do besides embarrass yourself?”

A sly smile appeared. “And you know, Judy, if she'd made it big in Hollywood—and she had a good shot, in my opinion—those tapes were worth hanging on to.”

“For what, the money?”

“Hell no, for the fun of it. Hey, look at this, Alana Martin back in the day.”

“Alana's friend said it was an underage role.”

“Listen, it started out this way. What she wanted, Alana, was a part in a feature film I was producing. It wasn't porn. It was straight to DVD, but legit. Guns, babes, drug dealers, cops. A solid script, shot on location in the Bahamas. She was already over there for the week, staying at the Paradise Island Hotel. We were introduced, and she says are you doing movies, and I said yes, I am, and she says, oh, I'm an actress. So I said let me pick you up at the hotel tomorrow, let's see how you do. The minute Alana took her clothes off I could see she wasn't right for it. She had no body, this girl. The director said okay, let's try her out for one of the Internet-download bits. It didn't work. You can't fake it. You need to like what you're doing. Her heart wasn't in it. We shot the movie on Andros Island. My friend has a place there, lets me stay whenever I want. You ought to come over sometime. It's right on the beach. Get away from it all. Jesus, I can't believe you're a private investigator.” Harold gave a raspy laugh and raised his glass. “Who would've thought? But I always knew you had the brains. Always knew that. Congrats, babe.”

“Thanks.”

“You're happy? Making enough dough? Getting laid?”

“No complaints. Hal, I'm thinking you ought to burn the tapes. You know, out of respect for the family.”

He thought about it. “I will. I will do that. Jesus, what a terrible, terrible thing.” He tipped back his glass.

Judy reached for the bottle. “You're a decent guy, Hal. I always thought so.” She poured more champagne into their glasses. “You played fair with me. With all the girls. Nobody had anything bad to say about you.”

“You were the best, Judy. I say that with all sincerity. You shouldn't have quit.”

“It was time.”

“To my brown-eyed girl,” Harold said.
“L'chaim.”

They touched glasses and drank.

Judy said, “Alana supposedly had a contact in Hollywood. Was it true? Or was it just wishful thinking?”

“Who knows, with that kid? One thing for certain, she had her mind made up she was going to be a star.” He shook his head, and his brow furrowed. “They like them skinny these days. I don't get it.” He shifted in his chair to put Judy in the light. “God, you're gorgeous.”

“I'm pushing fifty, Hal.”

“Look at those boobs. Those legs. Gorgeous.”

“Look at
you.
Successful, a good business, traveling all over. And grandkids.”

“Yeah, they're great. I'll show you their pictures. My son should have turned out so well, and his wife—don't get me started.”

Judy said, “Back to Alana. Supposedly there was somebody here in Miami helping her get in the movies. Did she mention that?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Did she say who?”

“You might know this name. Milo Cahill.”

“The architect,” Judy said.

“He fancies himself a player, but you ask me, he was blowing smoke. He promised to personally introduce her to a casting director who could get her a part. Milo used to be in L.A., but come on. That's not how it works. If he wasn't, you know, a little on the fruity side, I'd say he was trying to get in her pants.”