The Dark of Day (25 page)

“She played the part of a child? Kylie, is that what she did?”

“Alana didn't know it was going to be like that. They didn't tell her! She said it was embarrassing and stupid, and she was going to get the tapes back so nobody would see it on the Internet. That would have ruined her career. She wanted to be a regular actress. She could have been a star! That's all she wanted, and now she's dead!”

C.J. put an arm around her. Last weekend, Alana's former roommate, Tisha Dulaney, had said the same thing: Alana had tried out for a movie. C.J. asked Kylie, “Did Alana ever get the tapes?”

“I don't know.” Kylie blew her nose. “She was like totally wasted when she told me, and the next day she said if I ever opened my mouth about it she would never speak to me again.”

“Who were these people?”

“She didn't say.”

“Were you wasted too?”

Kylie stared at the floor and sniffled. “Sort of.”

“When was this?” C.J. asked. “When did she try out for this movie?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, when did she tell you about the tapes?”

“Like . . . two weeks ago?”

“Kylie, you told me she was going to meet someone at the party. Remember? Did she say who?”

“Yeah. A modeling agent from New York. That's why I wanted to go along. Maybe I could meet him too. Alana said I'd be good for junior fashions.”

“An agent from New York? Didn't you think this was strange? Miami has no shortage of modeling agencies.” When Kylie only shrugged, C.J. asked, “How do you know he was legitimate?”

“Alana said he was.”

“Alana said.”

Kylie blew out a breath and looked at the ceiling. “That's how it's done in the industry. A friend of a friend. It's all very informal.”

“Are you
that
naïve? Alana Martin knows people who make pornography. You and she go to a party looking like junior hookers, and she's meeting a
modeling
agent? I saw the dress you wore. You left it at Mrs. Gomez's apartment. Alana stole it from China Moon.”

“Alana
borrowed
it. The dress was torn, or I'd have taken it back. I don't steal things!”

If Kylie ran out the door, C.J. had no hope of catching her. She pressed her hands together, then said. “I'm sorry. Of course you don't. Let's not talk any more tonight. It's late.”

“And I am totally not in the mood.” Kylie looked at the paper towel wadded in her hand. “Where can I put this?”

“Here.” C.J. crammed the paper into a trash can under the sink, which should have been emptied days ago. She closed the cabinet door. “You're tired. Come on, I'll show you to your room.”

Kylie took her purse and followed her out of the kitchen. C.J. turned on a lamp in the hall. Covered in worn green carpet, the old stair treads creaked as they went up. The light from the street came dimly through the pebbled yellow glass in the small round window on the landing. She opened the first door on the left and flipped the light switch, revealing a double bed and white wicker furniture. The ceiling fan began to turn.

“It's a nice room,” Kylie said.

“I'll get you something to wear to bed.” C.J. went into her own room at the end of the hall and rummaged through the drawer where she kept her sleepwear, looking for something cotton, preferably demure, finally grabbing a pale blue gown with hand-embroidered lace trim. A gift from Elliott, but she hadn't worn it in years, and it was clean.

When C.J. returned to the guest bedroom, she lay the gown on the bed. “That should fit. Go ahead and take a shower. Towels are in the bathroom, and a new toothbrush in the cabinet with some toothpaste. There's a hair dryer, lotion, everything. If you put your clothes outside the door, I'll wash them for you.”

“You don't have to.”

“I don't mind. I have some things of my own to do anyway. You'll have fresh clothes for tomorrow. And I'll bring the hot chocolate right up and leave it on your nightstand.”

“All right. Thanks. Well, good night.” Kylie pushed her hair behind her ears.

They stared at each other. C.J. felt a sudden desire to embrace the girl, but her feet wouldn't move. “Good night, Kylie.” She closed the door and went back downstairs.

In the kitchen she leaned against the sink and took a deep breath. Then laughed. “Oh, God, would I love a scotch on the rocks about now.”

She walked to the dining room table and lifted papers until she found the envelope Judy Mazzio had brought over early this morning. C.J. thought she had put Rick Slater's photograph back into it. She peered inside, making sure. In the morning she would show it to Kylie. Do you recognize this man? This is the man who took you home from the party, isn't he? Would you mind telling that to the police so I can get rid of this goddamn case and send you back to Pensacola?

With a start, she glanced at the clock, then ran back to the kitchen and turned on the little TV in the breakfast nook. The breaking news about Alana Martin was the top story on Channel Six. The remote in her hand, she saw the beach, black sky, glaring floodlights. She flipped from channel to channel, catching brief scenes. A neighbor of the Martinez family: “They're praying it's not Alana, but it would bring closure.” A Coast Guard
officer: “—possibility of calculating the point of entry, based on the currents and the tides.” A Broward sheriff's deputy: “—about a hundred yards north, what appeared to be the arm. We're combing the entire beach area.”

C.J. checked CNN to see if they had anything. She stared at the screen. “Oh, no.”

Libi Rodriguez was wrapping up an interview with George Fuentes on a sidewalk beside the beach. He was saying, “We won't know for sure until DNA tests are done, but the clothes, the approximate age of the victim, and the changes to the body, consistent with being in the water for at least several days, all point toward that conclusion.”

The camera focused on Libi, her black hair teased by the wind, her full, glossy lips. “There you have it. The victim is most likely Alana Martin, who disappeared a week ago today from a celebrity-studded party on exclusive Star Island. Nobody is talking, but at least one of the attendees has hired high-powered attorney C.J. Dunn, one of America's top female lawyers.”

Through her teeth, C.J. muttered,
“Shit!”

The video switched to footage from a murder trial last year, C.J. in her sunglasses and spike heels, trailed by her associates, clearing a path through reporters at the courthouse, refusing to comment, bitch lawyer that she was.

Back to Libi: “As the investigation continues into a life cut brutally short, we'll be here to bring you the story. From Miami, this is Libi Rodriguez for CNN.”

C.J. turned off the television and sat in the silent kitchen. She thought of calling Rick Slater. And saying what, exactly? Hang on, it's going to be a bumpy ride. But he could take it. He was that kind of guy. She laughed a little, remembering how cool he'd been with Billy back at the hotel, getting the better of him. She thought about Slater pushing her behind him when Dennis Murphy aimed the shotgun, then blocking Dennis's view when she put on her shoes, not letting him look down her dress. Billy liked it when she showed herself, and she felt both valued and cheapened at the same time.

With her forehead in her hands, C.J. heard noises upstairs, then water running and the groan of old pipes. She got up and finished making Kylie's hot chocolate.

She left the mug in the bedroom, as promised, and went out again, picking up the little pile of clothes by the door, which she carried back downstairs to the laundry room. The socks, T-shirt, and shorts could go in the regular wash, but the underwear—

She held the wispy bra in one hand and the tiny matching thong in the other. Leopard print on satin with a fine edging of black silk ruffles. The label said
La Coquette. Paris.
She thought of the polished mahogany display case at China Moon, the lingerie gleaming like jewels under glass. Kylie wouldn't have bought these for herself. Her friend Alana Martin had stuffed them into a pocket. She'd given them to Kylie, maybe after she'd worn them a few times. Or she had turned her back and let Kylie walk out with them.

At sixteen, C.J. and a friend had done just that at a mall in Gainesville. They had never been caught, but the friend had been fired for using drugs and a year later went to jail for selling meth.

C.J. balled the garments into her fists. When she opened her hands, the sumptuous fabric expanded like flowers. Her fingers began to tremble, and she flung the things into the laundry sink and went back to the kitchen.

A keen thirst had gripped her throat and turned her tongue to sand. She walked to the pantry, flipped on a light, and pushed aside some boxes, which fell to the floor. She had purposely put the wine on a shelf above her head, out of sight. She felt around and grabbed a bottle by the neck. It clanked against its neighbors. She took it to the kitchen and set it on the counter by the sink. The label seemed to glow in the under-counter lights. Marcassin Vineyards, 2002. Sonoma Valley pinot noir. Elliott had spent eighty dollars for this wine, and they'd planned to toast their anniversary.

“Just one glass. That's all. I will pour the rest out,” she told herself. “One little glass. Three ounces.”

Metal clanked and rattled as C.J. pulled open a drawer and rummaged for the corkscrew. She sliced the top off the seal and thrust the point into the cork. It broke coming out. “God
damn
it.” She ran back to the pantry and opened the toolbox, finding a flathead screwdriver. She jabbed it into the cork and twisted until the cork was shredded into pieces.

Open a cabinet door. Slam it shut. Another. Another. Wine glasses. Where the hell had she put them? On an upper shelf. Never mind. Use a juice glass. Very elegant.

“Three ounces.” C.J. picked up the bottle and held it over the stainless steel sink, upside down. The bits of cork floated up and the wine gurgled out. When the aroma hit her nose she wanted to weep. She flipped it right side up, gauging it was half gone, then turned it over again and let more go. And more. She watched the dark red liquid swirl across the sink. She watched it all go until nothing was left but the soft tick of liquid in the drain.

She began to laugh. She put her head down on the counter and laughed some more. Then she put her tongue to the mouth of the bottle and retrieved a single drop.

 

 

That night she lay awake, every nerve buzzing. She thought of Kylie just across the hall, twenty feet away. She would call Fran first thing. And say . . .
You and Bob come get your daughter. I'll pay for your flight. No, wait a few days, until she makes a statement to the police. And that girl who washed up on the beach? Never mind her. Kylie needs to come home. I think she's been hanging around a bad element. Not that I have any right to talk.

C.J. dreamed of being pursued, naked and alone, trying to run. She awoke and watched the windows lighten to gray, heard the first morning bird songs. She closed her eyes and drifted.

Then Dylan, as was his habit, was leaping onto her bed, batting at her hair, demanding his breakfast. The clock said 9:15. C.J. threw back the covers and put on a robe. In the hall she saw that the clothes she'd left outside the guest room at midnight were gone.

The door was open. The sheets and blanket were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and the gown lay across them.

C.J. rushed downstairs. There was a note on the kitchen counter.

she found Edgar in the front yard of his cottage with a pie pan full of cat food. Edgar was dressed for the day in his khaki pants and work shirt and straw hat. He rattled the pie pan. “Iggy! Breakfast is served. Oh, good morning, C.J.”

“Kylie's gone. She left me a note in the kitchen.”

“You just missed her. Left not ten minutes ago. She had to meet somebody.”

“Who?”

“Didn't say.”

“I can't believe you let her take your car!”

“What are you so hot and bothered about? I'm not going anyplace today, and it's my damn car. She's a good driver. She ran me over to the store last night for a six-pack.”

“You let her have a beer?”

“No, she's a kid! I bought her a Sprite.”

“Where did she say she was going?”

“Didn't say. She was in a hurry, though. I offered to make her pancakes and sausage and she said she didn't have time.”