The Dark of Day (22 page)

Rick said, “What's your story?”

“Mine?” She shook her head. “Very boring. Only child, raised in a small town. I left to seek my fortune, found it, got married, moved to Miami. He died of a heart attack, and I stayed.
C'est tout.
”

“That's all, huh? Somehow I doubt that.”

The narrow road took them past one mansion after another, most of them tucked behind walls or heavy foliage. C.J. pointed to a row of lights inset into a white stucco wall, shining down on the neatly trimmed grass. Rick parked on the grass outside the open gate. The house was modern, two stories under a flat roof, part of it extending out to make a portico, everything bone-white except for the front doors, which had been painted shiny red. Half a dozen cars filled the circular driveway, but C.J. would be able to maneuver her BMW sedan out of the pack.

“Who's home?” Rick asked.

“Nobody, as far as I know. They all got on the boat.” C.J. had her keys in her hand. She tossed them back into her purse. “Show me where you saw the girl.”

“What girl?”

“What girl? The one you found passed out in the backyard.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.” She tilted her watch toward the lights in the portico ceiling. “It's only eight-twenty. You have time.”

A slate walkway led around the side of the house. The trees cut the ambient glow from the city, but landscaping lights helped, and the back patio had some security lights. The place seemed unnaturally quiet. Last time, music had been blaring out the patio doors. The long, narrow pool was sending a pale wash of turquoise up into the palm trees. Another island lay a hundred yards west, more big houses, and, beyond that, the causeway, the port, the city. The sky had faded to purple, stars coming out.

“When I was here,” he said, “there were some boats at the dock.”

“Friends of his who came to the party, I suppose. Billy only has one.”

“Only one. Imagine that.” Rick said, “I have a friend with a boat. That's better than having one myself. I kick in for the fuel, and we share the fish. Sweet.”

The path forked, and he led her around some traveler's palms. The boathouse was at the back corner of the property. A vine-covered wall separated the Medina house from the one next door.

She said, “You know people in Miami? I thought you just moved here from Mexico.”

He thought:
This is what you get from not paying attention, dumbass.
“He's a guy I met in the military. Settled down now, a wife and kids, the whole nine yards. We go fishing, but I don't have much time for it.” Rick pointed to a patch of grass between the walkway and the boat house. “That's where I saw the girl.”

“Tell me what happened,” C.J. said.

“I heard her telling them to stop, so I came over to see what was going on. The men had their hands on her. Far as I could make out, they were going to carry her over to the boathouse. She was so drunk she could hardly stand up.”

“Where were you when you heard her calling out?”

He jerked his head toward the water. “Over there, near the dock.”

C,J. looked in that direction, then at him. “But you told me this morning that you were leaving, going home.”

He said, “I was. I wanted to have a cigarette first.”

“I see. You heard her call, you chased the men away. Then what?”

“She asked if I'd give her a ride. I said yes.”

“She was too drunk to stand up,” C.J. said, “but you dropped her off downtown, alone, at one o'clock in the morning?”

“She was fine by the time we got there.”

“In ten minutes? Obviously
not.
Did you wait until she was safely inside or leave her standing on the sidewalk?”

“Why are you cross-examining me?”

“I'm trying to understand what happened.”

“I just told you what happened. I wasn't her baby-sitter. Don't give me the look from hell. You don't even know this girl. I wouldn't have left her if she hadn't been okay.”

“All right. Fine. Let's go, then.”

He looked past her at the boathouse. The back half extended out over the water, room for a small boat to pull in for shelter. He hadn't noticed
before, but the dock ran along the seawall the entire width of the property, about seventy-five yards. On the south side, only a few yards separated the boathouse from the wall at the property line.

“Rick, let's go,” she said. “What are you looking at?”

“Give me a second.” He walked toward the corner of the property. C.J. slipped off her shoes and followed through the grass. He reached the end of the wall and stepped down to the dock, heavy planks of wood lit dimly by a row of small lights on the pilings. The dock ended abruptly. He peered around the end of the wall and saw the hulking shape of another big house. Hurricane shutters had been pulled across every window and door. There was a dock over there too, but a smaller one in the center of the property. No boats. Nothing.

“Does anybody live next door? It looks vacant.”

“He owns an Italian tire company. They come here in the season.”

“It's a lot bigger than your boyfriend's place,” Rick said.

She gave him a look.

“And what's beyond that?”

“Another house.”

“Owned by?”

“Harnell Robinson.”

“Your client, the Dolphins running back?” C.J. nodded, and Rick said, “Damn. All sorts of celebrities in this neighborhood. Wait. I thought Robinson lived in Miami.”

“He does. He invested in this house when the market was up. Now it's down, and he'd love to sell it, if you're interested. It's a small one, only three bedrooms, and a bargain at one point five million.”

“Location, location. Check this out.” He stepped easily around the end of the wall to the other side. He heard C.J.'s voice asking him what he thought he was doing.

“It's easy to get over there. You want to try it?”

She said, “The police searched every property on this street. They found no trace of Alana.”

“Oh, well.” Slater stepped back up to the grass on Medina's side. C.J. Dunn stood there waiting for him. He looked at her bare feet. “I thought you were about five-seven till you took your shoes off.”

“No, I'm a shrimp. I wear heels to intimidate my enemies.”

“Calamity Jane,” he said.

She turned and walked up the slope the way they had come, her hips swaying nicely. They had just passed the boathouse when a spotlight caught them in its powerful beam. It came from the direction of the traveler's palms, about ten yards away. The light glinted on the barrel of a shotgun.

Rick automatically put out an arm, swept C.J. behind him, and calculated how fast he could get to his pistol. A man holding a high-powered lantern and a long gun at the same time wouldn't be able to manage both.

A voice came from the darkness. “Don't move. Stop right there.”

Rick raised one hand and used the other to shield his eyes. “Take it easy. We weren't stealing anything. We came to pick up the lady's car.”

“So what're you doin' all the way down here?”

C.J. looked around him, a hand at her eyes. “Dennis Murphy? Is that you? It's just me, C.J. Dunn.”

“Who's the guy?”

“His name is Richard Slater. He works for Congressman Paul Shelby. I wanted to show him the view.”

Rick still had his hands up. “How about pointing that thing in some other direction? It might go off.”

“I fucking know how to handle a shotgun.”

“I can see that, but oblige me, okay? Just in case.”

C.J. said, “Dennis, for God's sake. Put it down, and get that damned light out of my eyes!”

The barrel dropped toward the ground, and he shifted the lantern, which made a pool of light at his feet. He was wearing paint-spattered sneakers. The calves needed some work, but he had the thighs of a power lifter and a chest like a bulldog.

“I'm sorry for not ringing the doorbell,” C.J. said, “but I didn't think anyone was here.”

“I was in the garage. Billy didn't say you'd be over.”

“I had to pick up my car. Call him. I'm sure it's all right.”

“I'll definitely call him.” The pool of light jerked toward the front of the house. “You better go.” Finally Rick could see the man's face: a short nose,
heavy cheeks, and red hair standing straight up. The top of his head looked like a paintbrush.

“We were leaving anyway,” C.J. said, bending to put on her shoes.

“Uh-huh.” He stared at her chest, maybe hoping she'd fall out of the dress. She lifted one foot, then the other.

Rick moved in front of her. “Nice haircut. And they said mullets were over. Guess not.”

Murphy didn't growl, but he lifted his lip. He followed them across the yard. Rick took C.J.'s arm, as she was having some trouble with one of her shoes. He held her with his left hand in case he felt like using his right to punch out the man behind them, who had his eyes on her ass. When they reached the driveway, she tossed her hair off her face and dug into her bag for her car keys.

Now the guy was looking at her legs. He was holding the lantern in one hand and the shotgun across the other arm; it looked like a semiautomatic Browning 12-gauge. A little out of his price range, but you never knew.

Rick took her keys and opened the driver's side door of the BMW. “Hop in.” She sat and swung her legs around. Before he closed the door, he leaned down and said, “I'm going to follow you out of here. Stop when you get a chance. The driveway of Harnell Robinson's place. All right?”

The engine purred to life. C.J. turned on her headlights and went through the gate. Rick took out his own keys. “Does Mr. Medina like you drooling on his girlfriends?”

Murphy's pale blue eyes narrowed. “How about I shove this shotgun up your ass?”

“No, you go first.”

“Fuck you.”

Rick had to make a three-point-turn to head back south, Murphy watching from the other side of the gate as it rolled shut. Brake lights flared farther up the street, C.J.'s car pulling over, waiting for him. He felt a vibration in the breast pocket of his shirt. He'd left his phone there, not to miss the call from Paul Shelby. He had a mental image of the congressman and his wife standing out front of the hotel, wondering where their driver had gone to.

But the screen said something else. Moreno.

He hit the button. “Yeah, Carlos, what's up?”

“They think they found her.”

As the SUV drifted along about five miles an hour, Rick listened to what Carlos Moreno had to say. He pulled in behind C.J.'s car and sat there with the engine idling, parking lights on. He could see her opening the door, getting out, wondering what was going on. She was barefoot again. She closed her door and walked toward him.

“Carlos, I have to go. Call you right back.”

He slid the phone into his pocket and got out of his vehicle.

C.J. looked up at him, her face in shadow, the streetlight behind her. “Well? Why did you want me to stop?”

It took him a second to think how to tell her. “That friend I mentioned was watching the news. The police have cordoned off a section of Fort Lauderdale Beach. A body—correction, body parts—washed up on shore. It's a young woman. They think it's Alana Martin.”

“Oh.” Her hands went to her mouth. “Oh, no. Oh, my God. What did they
do
to her?”

“You should go on home. If I hear anything else, I'll call you.” Rick walked C.J. to her car. “The congressman is expecting me.”

from the sidewalk, Carlos Moreno could see a circle of floodlights fifty yards away lighting up the breakers, and, beyond that, empty black ocean. Libi Rodriguez was leaning into the open door of Channel Eight's live truck, speaking with the operator inside. The truck had just arrived, parked on the east side of A1A, close to the curb, and raised its 45-foot mast. The police were squeezing northbound traffic to one lane and keeping onlookers back. Red and blue emergency lights swept over the fronts of the fancy condominiums across the street, and people watched from the balconies. Carlos had brought all his gear, but the tripod would be useless in the sand.

Thanks to a contact in the Fort Lauderdale P.D., Channel Eight had arrived first on the scene. Libi had seventeen minutes to get her story together. They would go live with footage of the crime scene, assuming the police let them get that close. Libi leaned into the truck.

“Manny!
Escúchame bien.
I want that piece with me and the detective, then go to the interview with the tourists. The Taylors? Right. Don't cut the part where the woman looks like she's going to barf. I want that in. We'll
be back in ten minutes. When you get the tape, I want thirty seconds of whatever Carlos shoots plus my comment and any good quotes from the cops on the scene. We'll go live from there.
¿Me entiendes?
”