The Dark of Day (46 page)

“You look like you're on your way to a PTA meeting.”

“Be kind to me, Billy. I woke up with a hangover.” She moved past him into the living room.

“Did you? Welcome back to the real world. What can I fix you? Hair of the dog? Milk of magnesia on the rocks?”

“Nothing right now, thanks.”

The clouds obscured what sun remained, and halogens in the ceiling lit the white marble floors, the leather-covered furniture, the polished railing
that curved up the stairs to the balcony on the second level. C.J. put her purse on one of the sofas that made a U-shape, facing the pool.

Billy would want her to stay tonight. In the past, when she had refused, it had been lack of time, or a bad mood, not because she hadn't wanted him. Did she still? Or was the wanting a sudden awareness that something was gone? Like putting the tip of her tongue to the place in her jaw where a molar had been wrenched out. What was it? Desire or its absence?

He stood behind her. She could see his reflection in the glass. Tall and slender, hands in his pockets, the light on his hair. Waiting for her to make the first move. Billy never pushed.

C.J. said, “I turned down the job hosting the show on CNN. They offered it to me, but I called them back and said no. You were right, Billy. It's no good being in the spotlight.”

“Just when I was getting used to the idea of having a famous girlfriend. That's all right. Something else may come along you like better.” He put his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight muscles up her spine, the way she liked it. “You haven't called since our spat. I guess it was a spat. When I let you in just now, I realized I've missed you. I'll be gone for two weeks. Are you sure you can't come with me? Or fly down next weekend? My treat.”

She was afraid if she turned around he would kiss her. She said, “I'm sorry, Billy. I have more to do than I can handle right now.”

“You make too much to do. You need to let it go and enjoy life.” He lifted her hair and put his lips to the back of her neck.

“Please don't,” she said, drawing away.

His dark eyes studied her for a time. “That's it, then.”

“I'm sorry, Billy.”

“Yeah, me too. Things were getting a little stale.” A flicker of dissatisfaction pulled his lips down. He'd rather have been the one to pull the plug.

“You won't be alone for long,” she said.

Billy asked, “Have you been fucking your client?” When a breath left her lips, and she turned away, Billy's smile followed her. “You have, haven't you?”

“No.”

“Oh, baby, I knew you liked it down and dirty, but Slater is so beneath you.”

“Shut up, Billy. I haven't slept with him, not that it's any of your business.” To avoid his penetrating gaze, C.J. took some steps toward the windows. She stopped, her attention caught by something that hadn't been there before. She pointed across the room. “What is that?”

At the bottom of the stairs, between the vast living room and the hall that led toward the dining room, she had noticed a white marble statue, an abstract female form. The top curled over itself, leaving an empty oval for a face.

Billy followed her when she went to look at it. “It's a replacement for the one you bought me. I thought about calling you to come look at it in the gallery, but I wasn't sure you'd want to.”

She slid her hand down the surface. “This is so you, Billy.”

“Hard?”

“I was thinking smooth. Cool. Impenetrable.”

“Do you like it?”

“I'm not sure. Obviously carved by a man.”

“How can you tell?”

She smiled. “Women do not carve female figures with a hole where their head should be.” She slid her hand over the top. “Was it very expensive?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“My God.”

“As I told you, things are looking up for me.” He walked around it, and she went the other way. He leaned down and peered at her through the hole. “You're being elusive tonight. Why did you come over? Fess up.”

“I have a question about Paul Shelby.”

“Aha. You're playing lawyer again. Does this mean we're not going upstairs later, for old time's sake?”

“It means I have a question. The night of your party, how did he leave? I suppose he came to say good-bye to you. Was he with anyone? Did he take a taxi?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“No, I'm not going to humor you. When someone asks me questions, I like knowing what the purpose is.”

“The police are still looking at my client as a possible suspect in the murder of Alana Martin, and I want to clear him. I believe Paul Shelby killed her.”

Billy laughed; then, when she didn't join him in laughter, said, “Paul Shelby? Have you gone nuts?”

“He was having sex with Alana Martin. I believe she blackmailed him, and he killed her.”

“Paul Shelby and . . . that girl?” Billy stared at her. “Paul wouldn't touch a girl like that.”

“Well, he did. Milo Cahill was arranging it. Alana was Shelby's payment for supporting The Aquarius.”

“Milo? Now I know you've gone crazy.”

“It's true. I think Alana wanted money from Paul Shelby to get out of Miami. They argued. Maybe he didn't intend in advance to kill her, but it happened.”

“Here? In my house?”

“Not in your house. I don't know where, somewhere outside, possibly next door. He panicked. His driver had left. He had to call someone to come get him. I don't know who. But if he left in a taxi, then I'm wrong.”

“Oh, baby.” Billy laughed again. “You are wrong.”

“Tell me.”

“Paul came to me and said he was stuck. His driver had left, and he couldn't seem to get a taxi. I asked one of my security people to take him home. Uh-oh. That's not what you wanted to hear.”

“You didn't tell me about this when we talked before!”

Billy spread his arms wide. “Well, maybe you didn't ask.”

C.J. went over and sat down and put her head in her hands.

He sat beside her and patted her knee. “Cheer up, baby. Our politicians might be thieves and liars, but they rarely commit murder.”

“I was so sure.”

“You need a drink.”

“No.”

“A teeny one. Medicinal purposes. You overdid it last night, but you look none the worse for wear. I won't let you go too far.” He nudged her playfully. “How about it? Don't let me drink alone. Bombay Sapphire and tonic, twist of lime?”

She shook her head. “A club soda.”

With a laugh, he said, “Your problem is, you can't take anything in moderation. Sit there and relax. I'll get it.”

His soft linen trousers flowed around his legs. She had already noticed that he wasn't wearing underwear, leaving everything to move around under the fabric. He had done this for her. It used to turn her on. He was waiting for her to change her mind, to get on her knees, to say she must've been crazy, letting him go.

The statue without a face seemed to gaze back at her. The one she had bought for Billy had deserved to be thrown out. Of course he hadn't liked it. He hated flowers, and those had been so phony and cheap. She had thought the shine of the leaves and petals would fit with his house, but he had stuck the statue in a dark corner of his dining room where, forgotten, the bolts through the plaster base had left rust spots on his marble floor. Dennis Murphy had chipped out the tiles and replaced them.

C.J. turned her head and for several seconds stared in the direction of the dining room. She could see the wide arch from where she sat. Without looking away from it, she reached for her purse and felt around for the piece of paper she had put in there earlier, the fax from Judy Mazzio. As if pulled, she got up and crossed the living room, her heels clicking softly on the floor.

Standing in the entrance, she looked at the oriental carpet, the silver-framed Rufino Tamayo paintings of women over the buffet, the chandelier that reflected in the surface of the long table. The corner was empty. The new tiles were exactly the same as the old ones.

At the art show last February, C.J. had touched the petals and leaves, then the curling stamens of the flowers, how whimsical to make such a delicate thing out of steel. She had even talked to the artist and asked how he'd done it. C.J. had paid the money, and the artist and his son had loaded the statue into her trunk and tied the lid down with some rope. By the
time they reached Billy's house, Dennis was there, and he carried it into the house by himself as easily as he had lifted the poured-concrete cherub in the backyard of Noreen Finch's house.

C.J. held the unfolded page at arm's length. The medical examiner had laid the piece of metal next to a ruler, but she could see it coming out of the center of a flower, a curl of steel, something like a corkscrew, but longer and more delicate.

From behind her, Billy asked, “What are you doing?”

on the south side of the Miami River, just before the last draw-bridge, lay a mostly-forgotten area of boat-repair shops, rusted-out warehouses, and cramped concrete-block houses. The people who lived in the houses were too poor to move. Or maybe they liked the fact that city inspectors overlooked the chickens in the backyard and roofs with mismatched tiles. One of the few businesses still hanging on was an off-brand service station with a convenience store inside. The place smelled of stale coffee and hot-dog grease, and the owner kept a shotgun behind the counter. Rick didn't mind this. The fuel prices were low, they carried his brands of beer in the cooler, and he liked to kid around with the owner's sister, Nelia, who ran the cash register. The owner himself was a former flyweight boxer with wrist-to-shoulder tattoos and a crucifix on a heavy gold chain. Fernando had been born in the same general area of Mexico where Rick had spent the past two years. He had offered to hook Rick up with whatever he wanted. Rick hadn't asked what that might be, but he assumed a wide selection to choose from.

Rick nosed his Audi up to the front windows and cut his lights and windshield wipers. It had started to rain, a light drizzle. An old man shuffled out the heavy, smudged glass door and wandered off down the street. Glancing through his tinted side window, Rick could see the front end of a Ford pickup truck drift to a stop at the curb, lights off. He leaned over and unlocked the glove compartment and took his Smith and Wesson out of its holster. After routinely checking the magazine and making sure the safety was on, he jammed the gun into the waist of his trousers and pulled his Hawaiian print shirt down to cover it.

Nelia saw him through the glass and hit the buzzer. She waved and smiled. Her skin was marked with acne scars, but her body justified the bulletproof glass separating her cubicle from the customers outside.

Rick lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, sweetheart. Is Fernando around?”

“In the back with the mop.
Ese maricón
that just left? He peed on the floor.”

“I'm surprised you didn't shoot him.”

“Yeah, if I'd seen him doing it.”

Rick found Fernando by the coolers with a mop and bucket, spraying the floor with industrial disinfectant. “What's up, my man?” Fernando said. “I seen you on TV. You're famous.”

“I could do without it,” Rick said. “Listen, I've got a guy following me. He's parked on the street. I want to go ask him about it. Could you unlock the back door for me?”

Fernando's eyes lit up. “You want some help?”

“No, thanks. I can handle it. You wouldn't have any duct tape, would you?”

“Aisle three, next to the motor oil.” Fernando took the mop out of the bucket. “Just don't leave him on the premises when you're done, okay?”

Rick took a roll of heavy-duty duct tape to the counter to pay for it. “Nelia, how would you like to do me a favor?”

A minute later, when the steel delivery door had quietly closed behind him and the lock had turned, Rick looked around. Darkness was falling early due to the heavy clouds, but shreds of daylight remained. A wooden fence went around the property, and beyond that a vacant lot sloped down
to the river. Somebody had kicked enough boards out of the fence to make a shortcut. He walked past the Dumpster, crouched down, and went to the corner of the building. Looking toward the street, Rick estimated ten yards from the building to the sidewalk, which was heavily shaded with trees. Beyond that, the Ford sat with its engine idling. A couple of cars went by. An arm came out of the window with a cigarette and flicked some ashes. A humid breeze took the smoke.

Rick lifted the edge on the duct tape and pulled. It made a soft ripping noise. He pressed the tape to the side of the building, which was still dry, and the roll dangled there. He took his pistol from under his shirt and held it next to his thigh and waited. Nelia appeared, swaying her molten hips. She wore tight jeans and a low-cut pink top, and the circles of her earrings gleamed against her dark skin. As she walked, she looked up at the sky and popped open an umbrella. She moved on an angle toward the truck, close enough to touch the hood. She twirled the umbrella and waited for a car to pass, then stepped off the curb. In the truck, Dennis Murphy watched her, his head turning toward the street.