“I’d love to cook out,” she said. “I’ll pick up some steaks.”
“Take a gander at that.” He pointed toward the back of the house. The black hose still hung from the PVC pipe protruding from the hole in the wall, but now it went through the lid of the big plastic barrel. He had attached a soaker hose to a valve in the bottom of the barrel and laid it in a circle in the backyard. “You just took a shower, am I right? You watered the grass.”
Repressing a sigh, she said, “Genius.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, pat his shoulder, and say a prayer for rain.
She was forced to consult her address book for the building where Kylie lived, having been there only once, the day she had delivered Kylie into the hands of Rosalia Gomez, the retired housekeeper for Billy Medina’s aunt. A mile north of downtown, C.J. cut over to Biscayne Boulevard. The new performing arts center had started a wave of redevelopment that was sweeping away tiny stucco houses and rundown apartments. The wave washed up against the box-like condominiums that had staked out a place in the 1970s, now terribly un-chic but too expensive to tear down just yet. The Windmere, with its faded beige paint and aluminum railings, occupied a prime spot overlooking the bay.
In the lobby, C.J. put her sunglasses into their case and told the man at the security desk she was here to visit Mrs. Gomez in 1015. He called up, then buzzed her through to the elevators. Rosalia Gomez had moved to Miami, C.J. remembered, to be near her only relative, a sister. C.J. had been sending Mrs. Gomez a hundred dollars a week so Kylie could live in her spare bedroom. It had all been arranged through Billy Medina’s assistant at Tropical Life. Billy himself had never met Kylie. How fortunate to have people to relieve you of the messy details of life.
The woman who answered the door was short, gray-haired, well past seventy. “Entra, señora, por favor. Come in.” Clear plastic covered her living room furniture, and family photographs fought for space on a glass étagère. It was very clean, very quiet. Not the lodgings of choice for a seventeen-year-old with any say in the matter.
“Hello again, Mrs. Gomez. It’s been a while. How are you?” As the woman fumbled with her hearing aid, C.J. repeated, “How are you? ¿Cómo está?”
“Ay, not so good, I have the artritis. You are here for Kylie, no?”
“Sorry to disturb you, but I can’t seem to reach her on her cell phone.” C.J. took the envelope out of her bag. “Would you give her this note when she comes home?”
“She is no here.”
“I see that, but could you make sure she gets it? Por favor.”
“Kylie is gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gone.” Mrs. Gomez emphasized this with a sweep of her hand. “Hace dos horas. Two hours ago. Yes. I show you.” She took C.J. down a hall and opened a door at the end. “Kylie say, ‘Goodbye, Rosalia, thank you very much, I going for stay with a friend.’ That’s all. Se fué.”
“What friend? Where did she go?”
The old woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I ask her, but she don’t tell me.”
Still not believing it, C.J. walked inside the small room. Kylie had left the sheets and pillow stacked on the end of the single bed. Coasters and plastic drink glasses from night clubs littered the dresser. C.J. opened the closet to see empty hangers. Small white squares on the wall marked where posters had hung, and the posters themselves were folded and crammed into a paper grocery sack. With no chair in the room, Kylie would have sat on the side of the bed to look out the window. The blinds were open.
In the distance, Miami Beach lay twinkling in the sun.
chapter TWELVE
mrs. Gomez didn’t know any of Kylie’s friends. No, there was one, a girl who spoke Spanish. She had come only once or twice, and had gone into Kylie’s room and shut the door. Her name? Lo siento, señora. Mrs. Gomez didn’t remember.
“When was this? When did you see Kylie with this girl?”
“I don’t know. Two weeks? Three?”
Her eyes fell once again on the grocery sack by the door. A scrap of black fabric spilled over the side. She crossed the bedroom, removed the discarded posters, and pulled out a dress more air than substance. The quality of the fabric, the design, and the finishing said this little rag must have cost more than Kylie could ever have afforded. The bodice was slashed to the waist, and a light puff of wind would be enough to lift the gauzy skirt. Had Kylie worn this? Kylie, with her flat chest and narrow hips? In the bottom of the bag, C.J. found a pair of shoes with stiletto heels and red soles. Cheap fakes. But with such a dress, who would notice?
C.J. put the clothes back into the bag and asked Mrs. Gomez if she could have them.
In the parking lot, she sat in her BMW with the engine running, staring through the windshield at the bay, which sparkled like broken glass. Kylie had been fired, so C.J. wouldn’t be able to find her at work on Monday. Did she have a place to stay tonight, tomorrow? Her money would run out soon, and then what? C.J. hadn’t felt so unsettled in a long time. Where the feeling had come from, she didn’t know. She couldn’t really describe it, except that it was something like dread.
She took out her cell phone, scrolled through the directory for Milo Cahill, and found nothing. Resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she tried without luck to think of his private number. It was written down somewhere in her office at home. It had been so long since she’d called him. Hey, guess who? It’s your California girl. We’re at Crobar, and it’s dead here, can we come over? . . . Listen, listen, everybody. Milo’s having a party for Puff Daddy! . . . Milo, sweetie? We’re so smashed. Can you send the car?
C.J. dialed Judy Mazzio, who picked up on the second ring. She was at her office doing paperwork and having a late lunch of take-out Chinese.
“Kylie’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone how?”
Judy listened without comment as C.J. related the facts. “Judy, do me a favor, will you? Find out Alana Martin’s address and get right back to me. I believe there’s a roommate. I’d like to talk to her.”
“By yourself? Don’t do that,” Judy said. “I should go.”
Defense lawyers did not, as a rule, interview potential witnesses, in case they themselves could be called to testify. C.J. said, “I’m not going as Rick Slater’s lawyer. I just want to find Kylie. That’s what I want to do. The roommate might have some information.”
Judy said, “The way it usually works is, people get in touch when they’re ready to talk. Kylie seemed pretty savvy to me. I don’t think she would put herself in danger.”
“Yes, we all tell ourselves that at her age, don’t we?”
Judy was silent for a while, then said, “What’s up with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t even like this girl. She’s been here for four months, and now you’re worried?”
“Can you get the address for me or not?”
“I’m on it.” Judy asked, “What about Rick Slater? Did the cops find anything at his apartment?”
“No, nothing. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Look, hon, sorry to be a pain in the ass, but if you’re emotionally involved in something, you shouldn’t be the one to ask the questions.”
C.J. considered that. “All right. Come with me, then. How long do you think it will take?”
“To get the address? Give me an hour. I’ll meet you on the Beach.”
“That’s fine. I have something else I need to do.”
Ten minutes later she was dropping quarters into a meter just south of Lincoln Road. The street had been turned into a pedestrian mall years ago. Shade trees cut the heat, and there were plenty of people strolling from shop to shop. By nightfall, every outdoor table would be taken. The bars wouldn’t clear out until two or three in the morning. She noticed that one of the bars had a new name, and another was gone entirely, replaced by a gay-themed gift shop. Giving up drinking had kept her away from the Beach. It seemed strange to her now.
Sh
e found China Moon between an art gallery and a gelato shop. The windows of the boutique were starkly beautiful, with orchids in cloisonné vases and manikins dressed for seduction. C.J. grasped the polished brass door handle and went inside.
A middle-aged Asian woman stood behind a glass case arranging wispy bras and camisoles in confectionery colors as alluring as French pastries. Her straight black hair was chopped at her jawline, and she wore retro psychedelic-print pants and a bright yellow top.
“Ms. Chu?” When the woman looked around, C.J. said, “I called you a little while ago. I’m C.J. Dunn.”
“Yes, I’m Marilyn.” The woman’s eyes went to the piece of black silk draped over C.J.’s arm. “This is the dress?”
C.J. laid it on the display case. “Is it yours?”
Marilyn checked the label and turned it this way and that. “Yes, it’s mine. We noticed it missing a week ago. Oh, my God. Somebody used blue thread to take it in! The waist is ripped. And what is this stain on the skirt? It’s ruined!” She looked at C.J. “Where did you get this?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t share that information, but I believe that one of your former employees, Alana Martin, might have taken it.”
The small, crimson mouth tightened. “Why did you bring it back? I can’t sell it.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Alana.” C.J. produced a business card, which Marilyn Chu made no move to take. “I’m a lawyer, and I’m looking for a friend of hers.”
“I can’t talk to you now. I’m very busy.”
“When would be a better time?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you. The police have been here, reporters, all of them with questions. Yesterday I threw a photographer out of my shop. He was sneaking pictures and asking my salesgirls about Alana. I don’t like this. It isn’t good for business.”
Reaching across the display case, C.J. put her hand on the other woman’s wrist. “I need your help. The girl I’m looking for is the daughter of an old friend of mine, and we can’t find her. Her name is Kylie Willis. She’s young, seventeen, about five-feet-two, with gray eyes and long brown hair. She wears glasses.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember anyone like that.”
“She left the place she was staying without a word. Now she’s somewhere on South Beach, and we’re afraid of what might happen to her. She and Alana had the same circle of friends. Anything you could tell me might be useful. Please.”
Marilyn Chu looked at her steadily, then said, “This dress was stolen from my shop, and now it’s a total loss. Someone should pay.” She arched her brows, the implication clear.
C.J. asked, “How much did it cost?”
“Twelve hundred and fifty dollars.”
“What? That’s insane.”
“Would you like to see the invoice? You can have it for seven. No, I’ll give it to you for six-fifty.”
“You just said it was ruined. Of what value could it possibly be to me?”
Marilyn Chu said, “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
“Three hundred.”
“Five. Not a penny less. The seams can be fixed. You can have it cleaned.”
C.J. nodded. “All right. Five hundred.”
Marilyn Chu’s little smile put dimples in her cheeks. She turned and called out, “Debra! I am going into my office. Watch the store, will you?” She motioned for C.J. to follow. They went through a workroom lined with racks and boxes, then into a cluttered office, where Marilyn put on a pair of half-glasses. “Your charge card, please?”
C.J. opened her wallet, silently cursing.
Marilyn sat at her desk to write. “This is not an easy business. I have a shop in SoHo, but Miami is the worst. People steal you blind. You are continually disappointed. Have a seat, Ms. Dunn.”
C.J. pulled a chair closer. “How long had Alana been working for you?”
“About three months. She wasn’t reliable, but she turned out to be one of my best salesgirls. You know, I hired her as a model. She was a perfect size two. Gorgeous skin and hair and a lovely body. Men sometimes come to China Moon to buy gifts for their wives or girlfriends. Alana would model for them. They rarely said no. It was something to watch.”
Marilyn turned the charge slip around and gave C.J. the pen. “Your phone number also, please.” When C.J. was finished, Marilyn tore off the duplicate and gave it to her.
“You wouldn’t have any photographs of Alana, would you?”
“Yes, I do. She gave me her portfolio when she applied for the job.” Marilyn crossed the room to a filing cabinet and opened a drawer, returning with a large envelope.
C.J. looked through a dozen or more color closeups and full-length shots of Alana Martin in various types of clothing, from white fur to a minuscule swimsuit. Front view, back view, reclining with her back provocatively arched. The pose didn’t match her small breasts and thin limbs. The makeup had been professionally done: glossy lips, immense brown eyes, and slashes of color on her cheeks, but all wrong for her upturned nose and baby-doll face. It was creepy somehow. The name of the photographer—Carlos Moreno—was printed on the bottom edges. The name sounded familiar, but C.J. couldn’t think why.
She asked, “May I have one of these?”
“Take them all if you want. I don’t need them anymore.” Marilyn sighed. “Tragic.”
C.J. set the envelope on the floor beside her purse. “A story in today’s Herald referred to an allegation that Alana had been stealing. Is that true?”
“Apparently so. Things went missing, and one of the clerks told me that Alana was taking them. I confronted her, but she denied it. She was so convincing. She was an actress, you know.”
“I’ve heard that,” C.J. said.
“She told me she’d had a part in an action movie shot in the Bahamas.”
“Was it true?”
“Oh, who knows? She couldn’t tell me the title or the director or anything about it. It could have been a walk-on in one of those low-budget productions that go right to DVD. I put her in touch with a friend of mine, an agent for TV commercials. They paid her a few hundred dollars to model back-to-school clothes. The director told her he could use her again, but she didn’t want to be known for commercials. No, Alana was going to be a star in Hollywood. Where do they get these ideas? Oh, I suppose she had some talent, but not enough. Not nearly enough to compete against so many other girls with the same dream. Maybe on some level she knew it. She always seemed a little desperate to me. The kind of girl people take advantage of, the kind who get all used up, and you try to make them see, but they won’t. They can’t. They need their illusions. Otherwise, their ordinary little lives wouldn’t be tolerable, would they?”
C.J. only gazed back at her.
Crossing her legs, Marilyn Chu took off her glasses and slowly twirled them, happy to expound on Alana Martin’s poor prospects. “The last time we spoke, Alana told me that she’d soon be working in Hollywood. Again, no details, but this time she was certain. She had someone who would make it happen for her.”
“Did she say who?”
“An agent, a producer, someone like that. I didn’t try to pin her down because, well, it sounded like another of her stories. I told the police about it. They thought at first it might be true, and she’d turn up on a movie set, but I don’t think she will ever be found alive.”
“Do you have any theories on what happened to her?”
“She was careless. Money, sex, drugs, good times. Always a party going on. It attracts the wrong sort. You’re right to be concerned if your girl is part of that crowd.”
“Was Alana taking drugs? Did you see any indication?”
“My dear. If I required drug testing, I would have to fire half my staff. How do you think they get by on three hours of sleep a night?” She passed a long, French-manicured nail under her nose. “What they do outside the shop is not my concern.”
C.J. decided that she loathed this woman. She opened her purs
e. “I want to show you a photograph.” In her lap, she folded the copy of Rick Slater’s driver’s license to hide everything but his face, then held it up. “Have you ever seen this man?”
Marilyn leaned closer. “No, but the police showed me the same picture. He looks like a felon. Who is he?”
“If you don’t know him, his name doesn’t matter.” C.J. put it away. “Did Alana ever go out with any of the men she met here at the shop?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Did she have a boyfriend? Did she ever talk about anyone?”
“Not to me. I don’t encourage trivial chatter. Please don’t disturb my salesgirls, asking them about her. It wouldn’t do you any good. They didn’t socialize with Alana.”
Marilyn picked up the black dress and went over to a work table. She unfolded a shopping bag imprinted with the name of the store. The paper was gold, the handles red rope. She found some sheets of matching gold tissue paper, which she gently tucked around the dress. “You’ve bought yourself a treasure. This dress was originally designed for Paris Hilton.”
“Oh? How exciting,” C.J. said.
Turning around, Marilyn held up a hand. “Wait a minute. There was someone. Tall, blond, very handsome. He had blue eyes. They perfectly matched his shirt, really stunning. He came in and asked for Alana. I think it was late. I don’t usually close the store myself, but my manager had just quit.”
“Who was he?”
“His name? Oh, what was it? I don’t remember. I told him Alana was working, to come back after nine o’clock. We close at nine on weekdays. Alana was with a customer, a man who was in the middle of making a large purchase, so I wasn’t about to break in. Her friend said they had reservations somewhere. Well, I told him that’s just too bad, wait for her outside. I could see him out there, walking back and forth, trying to signal Alana. She finally rang up the sale, grabbed her purse, and went right out the door. Her boyfriend was still waiting, and I could hear him yelling at her.”
The Dark of Day Page 11