The Dark of Day (15 page)

“Don't believe everything you hear, Edgar.”

“The same house as the fella you're dating,” he observed. One of his tangled eyebrows went up. “Medina.”

“Yes, unfortunately, it was his party. Billy's horrified, as you can imagine.”

Edgar stepped onto the porch and shut the door to keep the cool air inside. “Listen, I've been thinking. That girl, Kylie, had some nifty ideas about scanning my photos. I'll bet she could help me pick out a new computer and show me what to do. I'd pay for her expertise.”

“What a marvelous idea, but—” C.J. shrugged. “I'm afraid Kylie will be leaving Miami soon, going back to Pensacola to finish high school.”

“Well, that's good. Nice girl. Smart as a whip.”

“Isn't she, though? I'll help you. I'd like to.”

“That'd be great. Say, why don't we grill out tonight? If you don't have a hot date, I mean.”

She had heard nothing from Billy Medina, though sometimes he called at the last minute, and too often she would go flying over to Miami Beach instead of telling him she had plans, which would have been a lie but satisfying all the same.

“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.

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.

She 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?”