On her knees, the wife held what looked to be an eight-by-ten high-school graduation photo. Alana Martin—originally Martinez, no doubt—smiled with one side of her ripe little mouth, a combination of sexuality and boredom. Libi prodded to get them to say how much they loved her.
Then another view of Billy Medina’s mansion, daytime file footage shot on his pool deck, Billy among his guests, wearing sunglasses and a white linen shirt, cocktail glass in hand. He had his other arm around the waist of a lanky blonde in a sarong tied at her hip. C.J. had been there. The event had been more than two years ago, but to hell with relevance.
“Just say it, why don’t you? Billy Medina has Alana Martin chained in his bedroom as a sex slave.”
Libi reappeared. She seemed intensely concerned. “Where is this young woman? Where could she have gone? Which of the celebrity guests at this exclusive Star Island mansion was the last to see Alana Martin? If you have a lead, call the Action Team at Channel Eight.”
“Work it, Libi.”
“When we come back, an exclusive interview with Dolphins star Harnell Robinson, acquitted today of aggravated battery. Did the jury reach the right decision? You decide. Keep it right here. This is Libi Rodriguez, Channel Eight News, your inside connection.”
C.J. knew that after dissing Libi on the courthouse steps, she would see no reference to Robinson’s attorney. She went through the other channels and caught a glimpse of herself walking out of the courtroom with her client. She hit the record button on the TiVo. A producer at CNN might want to see what she looked like. C.J. studied her new hairdo. It looked great. It should, for three hundred dollars. She watched herself speaking, the camera coming in close. The woman on the screen had blue eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones.
At the firm in Los Angeles, her boss had said one reason he’d hired her was that he didn’t want a dog sitting next to him in court. Far from being offended, C.J. learned what to wear, how to do her hair and makeup, when to smile, when to show outrage. It was a game, and she was good at it.
The screen spun into wild gyrations, then an ad for a local car dealer. C.J. turned it off.
She went over to her desk, picked up her phone, and dialed the number that Billy Medina didn’t give out to just anyone. His voice mail picked up.
“Hola, Señor Medina. It’s me. Weren’t you supposed to be back in Miami today? I hope you bring some rain. We’re turning into the Sahara. Listen, I need to talk to you. It’s about that girl at your party, the one they can’t find. I may be getting involved. Milo roped me into this, and it could work out well. Have you ever heard of Rick Slater? He’s Congressman Paul Shelby’s driver. He could be my next client, and I know nothing about him. Call me as soon as you can, all right?”
No kiss into the phone. Billy wasn’t the warm, cuddly type.
In Miami only seven years, C.J. had risen to an equity partnership, head of Tischman Farmer’s three-attorney criminal division. She had arrived with the sparkle and flash of a big-name Los Angeles practice. Though her division didn’t rack up the monstrous profits of the banking and litigation divisions, the executive committee liked the good PR, the free advertising, and the occasional spin-off client who believed that paying large fees was a confirmation of his manhood.
Flip back the calendar twenty years, most people would have said Charlotte Josephine Bryan was destined for hard times. The only thing her father had left her was a taste for alcohol. Her mother tried to keep her on the right path with prayer, and, when that didn’t work, the back of her hand. They hadn’t spoken since C.J. flew back from L.A. for her father’s funeral. Her mother informed her she was damned to the eternal flames of hell. In those days, it may have been true. The last C.J. had heard, her mother was living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her second husband, a Baptist minister.
On her desk, C.J. noticed the pink message slip with Fran Willis’s name on it. She was tempted to let the message sit there until Monday, but the word urgent tugged on her conscience. She punched in the number, shook back her hair, and waited. Tapped her fingers on her elbow.
Three rings. Four. A faint voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Fran, it’s C.J. Dunn returning your call.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’ve been trying to reach you for three days. They said you were in trial, but I thought maybe if you had a break, you could—”
“I’m so sorry. I was completely tied up. If you’re worried about Kylie, you shouldn’t be. They know to call me if anything happens.”
“No, I spoke to her myself the other day. She says she’s all right. What we want, her dad and me, is for her to come home. I’ve talked to the principal at her high school. If she enrolls this fall, she can graduate in January.”
“Great. What does Kylie say?”
“Well, I think she’s finally willing to give it another try. I told her it’s important to finish school. You know about that, I mean, with all your education, and going to law school and everything. I said to Kylie, you’re such a smart girl, don’t you want to make something of your life? I think I got through to her, but it’s hard to be sure. Sometimes you might as well be talking to a tree stump.”
C.J. paced with the phone at her ear. “Fran, my secretary just signaled me. I have a call waiting. What is it you want me to do?”
“I’m sorry to take up your time, but I don’t know who else to turn to. You promised to look after her.”
Promised? C.J. bit her tongue, then said gently, “What do you want me to do, Fran?”
“Okay. What I wanted to ask you. Kylie has to get home, but we’re so strapped right now. They laid Bob off at the gas company, and he can’t find anything else, things being like they are up here, and with school around the corner, and the kids needing clothes and things, well . . . I checked all the airlines to find something cheap, but at the last minute, they really stick you!”
“It’s all right. I’ll buy the ticket.”
“We’ll pay you back. I’m sorry I have to ask. Seems like I’m always asking for help for Kylie, and I shouldn’t.”
“Fran, stop. It’s okay. You don’t have to pay me back. I would be happy to help.”
“All right. Thank you.” Fran Willis’s mood seemed balanced between gratitude and anger. She made a nervous laugh. “Lord, if I added up all you’ve given us, I’d be paying it back a long time.” She hesitated, then said, “Can you make sure she gets to the airport?”
“I suppose so.”
“You’ll take her yourself, right?”
C.J. tapped her nails along the edge of the desk. “If I’m not able to, I’ll have someone else do it. Don’t worry, Kylie will make her flight.”
“Well, I’d rather you took her. That way I’d be sure.” Fran laughed again. “Last thing we ask you, I swear to God.”
“All right. I’ll drive her to the airport myself.”
“But she has to get on the airplane.”
“Why don’t I just tie her up and ship her UPS?”
The silence stretched out. Then she heard Fran Willis let out a breath. A screen door slammed somewhere in the house. Finally she said, “If I could go there and pick her up, I would, but I can’t. I can’t. It’s not like you have no responsibility. You said you’d take care of her. You distinctly said that.”
C.J. swung around and paced in the other direction. “On Monday I will have my secretary arrange for a flight. Meanwhile, call Kylie. Tell her I’ll take her to the airport. If she signs up for high school, I will send her a check for five hundred dollars. All right? I’m sorry, but my other call is still waiting. I have to go.”
She disconnected and took a breath.
Her hand was still on the phone when it started ringing. She was tempted to ignore it, grab her purse, and walk out the door. It rang again.
“Yes?” she said sharply.
A man’s voice said, “Ms. Dunn?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Paul Shelby. The receptionist put me through to this num
ber.”
A rush of blood went to her head so fast that C.J. had to lean against the desk. She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is C.J. Dunn. My secretary just left, and I don’t usually pick up this phone after five o’clock.” She paused. “I’m going to assume that Milo Cahill has spoken to you.”
“Yes, he has. You and I have never met, Ms. Dunn, but I’ve heard many good things about you. You might be in a position to help one of my staff.”
“Possibly so.”
“That would be great, just great. My wife and I are going downtown tonight for a concert, and I was wondering if you could meet me beforehand at the Everglades. Say about six, six-thirty? We’re having a pre-concert dinner before going over to hear Arturo Sandoval. Diana is Cuban, you know, and a big fan of Latin jazz. There will be some people with me, but I believe you and I can find a few minutes to talk. Would that be acceptable?”
She had seen Paul Shelby on television more than once, but not face to face in a long time. A very long time. He didn’t know who she was. How could he? She wasn’t the same person anymore. You and I have never met. . . .
Her voice was calm, unhurried. “That’s fine. I’ll be there at six-thirty.”
chapter FOUR
the humid blast of summer didn’t reach into the Everglades Room, where the air was cool as early spring. Light filtered through palm fronds, mahogany-bladed fans slowly revolved in the high ceilings, and orchids decorated the tables. Huge backlit photographs of water birds in their habitat, of mangroves and sawgrass, swamps and sloughs, created the illusion that one might have wandered into the wilderness at dusk.
Following the hostess past tables and banquettes, C.J. could see through one of the fresh-water aquariums that served as room dividers. Shelby and his party had been given some privacy. When she stepped into view, they turned to look at her. The men rose, and Paul Shelby extended his hand. “Ms. Dunn. Thanks for coming on such short notice. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Let me introduce everybody. My wife Diana. My mother, Noreen Finch. Her husband Don.”
Hands were shaken all around, and Shelby pulled out the vacant chair between him and his mother. He was shorter than he appeared on television, but the wavy brown hair was the same, the gray eyes with lines at the corners, the downward-slanting brows and quick smile. He asked the waiter to bring a menu.
“Just a club soda,” C.J. said.
Diana Shelby leaned around her husband. “Oh, have something. An appetizer?”
“Thanks, but I have plans for later. Please go ahead, finish your dinner.”
Diana Shelby’s gray silk dress and neat brown hair reminded C.J. of a nesting bird. Mrs. Shelby was eating salad, and if she was fighting to stay slim, she was losing the battle.
The congressman’s mother had devoured her meal, and only the bones remained of what appeared to have been a whole red snapper. Her platinum blond hair looked sculpted into place. She had to be in her sixties, but a good surgeon had shaved off a decade or so. As she set down her wine glass, her diamond bracelet caught the light.
“How do you like Miami, Ms. Dunn?”
“Very much. After seven years, it grows on you. I have no plans to return to Los Angeles.” She realized that they thought California was her home; she didn’t correct them.
“Weren’t you married to a reporter on Channel Ten? I forget his name.”
“Elliott Dunn. We met in L.A. When he was offered the job in Miami, we decided to relocate. Elliott was born here, and he’d always wanted to come back.”
“I was real sorry when he died. I liked his style. He had a heart attack, wasn’t it?”
C.J. nodded. “Three years ago.”
Quick sympathy appeared on Diana Shelby’s face. “I remember him. He was an excellent reporter.”
“Yes. He was.”
“It’s Miami’s gain that you decided to stay,” Paul Shelby said. “Ms. Dunn’s a partner at Tischman Farmer.”
His mother smiled at C.J. “Donald and I saw you on TV this afternoon. I figured Harnell Robinson would do time, but you sure pulled his fat out of the fire.” C.J. couldn’t place the accent, but the phrasing said country.
“Don, don’t you think she’s pretty in person?”
“Very.” A smile passed over her husband’s thin lips. Donald Finch held onto a rocks glass—probably not his first, judging from the level of his eyelids. The Finches were patrons of the concert hall. C.J. seemed to recall a million-dollar gift.
Noticing that his wife’s glass was empty, Finch lifted the wine bottle from the standing ice bucket. “A refill, sweetheart?”
“Just a tad.”
C.J. asked, “Are you and Don from Miami, Noreen?”
“No, I can’t claim to be a native. Ha! I’ve only been here forty-five years. I was born in Worland, Wyoming. Give you a dollar if you can tell me where that is. My family had horses, used to rent them out to dude ranches. I grew up shoveling horse shit. Paul did his share of it, too, when we’d go visit.” Chuckling, she nudged C.J.’s shoulder. “I think that’s what got him into politics.”
The line had to be an old one, but C.J. laughed obligingly.
Noreen turned to pinch her husband’s lean, tanned cheek. “Donald here is a snotty Upper East Side brat, aren’t you? But he’s fun. He puts up with me.”
“You know it. I like ’em hot.”
She playfully slapped his arm. “Don!”
Donald Finch looked to be north of fifty, but he was still attractive, in a dissolute sort of way, with the shaggy, sun-bleached hair of a yachtsman, a square jaw, and a long, narrow nose. His sport coat draped perfectly, and his tie was a sumptuous yellow silk—the same color as his wife’s pantsuit, C.J. noticed.
Squinting slightly, he focused on C.J. “Ms. Dunn, I understand you’re in the running for a job at CNN. I have a sister who works there. She’s on a project in Central America right now, but I think she might come see us. We should invite you over to meet her.”
“That would be lovely,” C.J. said.
“Do you have a card?”
She took one from her wallet, wrote her cell phone number on the reverse, and slid it across the table. “Call me anytime. What is her name?”
“Sarah Finch. She uses her maiden name. She married a friend of mine from New York. Playwright. Talented guy.”
Noreen Finch dusted bread crumbs from her fingers. “Don knows everybody. You wouldn’t believe it to look at him, but he studied at the American Film Institute. Heck, you and he could’ve bumped into each other on the street. He got his master of fine arts degree from there. Oh, let me brag on you a little, Donald.”
The waiter brought C.J.’s club soda in a tall glass. Paul Shelby leaned back as the waiter took his plate away, then set his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his fists. So far he had said next to nothing.
Noreen Finch tilted her head. “C.J. Now, that’s interesting. Do you mind me asking what that stands for? Not many women have initials as their names.”
“I don’t use my real name. I don’t like it.”
“Oh, come on.”
C.J. made a dismissive wave. “Not on my life.”
After a quick laugh and a glance around the table, Noreen said, “Well, Miss C.J., they say you’re a damned good lawyer. Is that true?”
“So they say.”
Finch murmured, “Ms. Dunn would like to be another Nancy Grace.”
Paul Shelby leaned closer to C.J. “Don’t pay any attention to Don.”
Noreen said, “It’s a compliment! C.J. is famous. She’s been on Larry King Live. But I’m thinking . . . for a chauffeur, do we want a celebrity attorney? People are going to ask why the big gun? Then you get reporters crawling out of the woodwork, asking questions that don’t matter a damn.”
This was going in the wrong direction. C.J. set down her glass. “I’m sure the media aren’t that interested in me.”
“It isn’t you I’m worried about; it’s my son. They go after anybody in politics these day
s. It’s a blood sport. God help us if this turns into a piece on Entertainment Tonight. Some smartass with a cell phone could be watching right now, and we’ll see it on YouTube.”
“Mother, that’s not going to happen.”
Donald Finch pulled up his cuff to check the time. “If you keep talking, Noreen, we’re going to be late to the theater.”
“We have a box. What difference does it make?”
“I happen to like Arturo Sandoval, and I want to see the whole show. Diana doesn’t want to be late either, do you, Diana?”
C.J. turned to Paul Shelby. “The police are like anyone else: they respond to power. Call it celebrity if you like. They know me, and they know I don’t let anyone step on my clients. If I offer proof that Richard Slater was elsewhere, or that he had no motive to harm Ms. Martin, the police will pay attention. I believe this can be wrapped up within a few days.”
“Wouldn’t that be dandy?” Noreen said.
Diana touched her husband’s arm. “Paul, hadn’t you better go talk to Ms. Dunn?”
“We can talk here,” he replied. “Everyone knows the situation. Ms. Dunn—C.J., we’re all sorry about Alana Martin, and equally so for her parents. Diana and I have two boys, Mike and Matthew, and if something happened to one of them—I can’t imagine. Of course the police have to question anyone who was at the party that night. They even talked to me, and that’s fine. I’m happy to cooperate, but there wasn’t much I could tell them. I don’t know Ms. Martin, and neither does Rick Slater. That’s what he tells me, and I believe him. Rick was in the Army, and I hired him, or one reason I hired him, was to give a fellow veteran a break. Between college and law school, I served as a lieutenant in the Navy for four years, so I feel a kinship to some extent. What I don’t do is get rid of people on my staff, good people, just because the police ask to interview them.”
Noreen broke in. “You know my position. I’d have fired his ass already. His background is spotty. I don’t trust him.”
“Oh, Noreen, you can’t mean that,” Diana protested. “He’s wonderful with the boys. He’s reliable and courteous. I agree with Paul. Rick had nothing to do with that girl’s disappearance.”
The Dark of Day Page 4