The Dark of Day (27 page)

“Is that why you came?”

“Sort of. Yes. And I wanted to see something different.”

“That's understandable. Well, maybe you'll bump into your relatives some day.”

“Maybe.” She plunged her straw up and down through the lid. “What do you want to know about Alana?”

Richard reached into another pocket of his cargo pants and took out a folded white envelope. He hung his sunglasses off the pocket of his shirt. He had squint lines, but his eyes were wide open, sort of green with bits of brown. She felt like he was making contact on some level, and she made a note to herself: Never wear sunglasses when you're talking to a source.

“I'm going to show you a picture. I pulled it off the Internet.” He passed it to her. “Does he look familiar?”

The photo had been cut from a larger page. She saw an ordinary-looking, middle-aged man in a suit with neatly combed brown hair, eyebrows that slanted downward, a small nose, and a wide smile. She shook her head. “I've never seen him before.”

“You sure? Look carefully.”

“I don't know him. Who is he?”

“Paul Shelby. He's a U.S. congressman. He lives in Miami. You never heard the name?”

“No.”

“Alana never mentioned him?”

“No.”

Richard put the picture back into the envelope. “Did Alana ever talk to you about politics, or politicians, or anyone on the take? Bribes, favors, that sort of thing?”

“I get it. The congressman is part of your investigation, isn't he? You think he's crooked. Big political scandal. Right?”

“Something like that.” Richard put an elbow on the back of the bench and knitted his fingers. His stainless steel watch had three smaller dials. His nails were very clean. No rings. She wondered if he was married. Probably not. It would be hard to have a relationship as a journalist, never knowing where they would send you next.

“Let me ask you about the party at Billy Medina's house. Did you ever meet Billy Medina?”

“I know who he is. I've seen him a couple of times. He doesn't know
me.
”

“Did he invite you and Alana to the party?”

“I don't know. I guess he did.”

“Let's not guess. The right answer is, ‘I don't know.' Aside from going to the party, do you know Medina?”

“I used to work for his magazine,
Tropical Life.
”

“Used to?”

“Well, they laid me off last week. I'm looking for another job. I met Alana at the magazine, before she quit.”

“Why'd she quit?”

“She had a hard time getting up early every day.”

Richard scratched the side of his face, the edge of his beard. “Let's try something else. What about Milo Cahill? Have you ever met him?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about Cahill?”

“He's an architect. He lives on the Beach. He has a Southern accent.”

“You've talked to him, then.”

“Alana and I went to a few parties at his house. It's actually on the Intracoastal. He invites all kinds of artists and musicians and people like that. Why are you asking me about him? Is there some connection between him and . . . and Billy Medina or the congressman?”

“Let me ask the questions, okay? Were you ever alone with Mr. Cahill?”

“No.”

“Were you always with Alana when you went there?”

“Yes, and there were always lots of other people too.”

“What do you know about Milo Cahill? I mean the things that most people might not be aware of. Things that might have surprised you, maybe even shocked you.”

“He wears a hat indoors,” she said. “He lets his dog lick him on the mouth. It's really dark in his house, and his living room looks like an art gallery. He's actually very nice.”

Richard nodded. “You've been to his parties. What goes on? Is it fairly wild, or do they serve tea and cookies?”

She smiled. “No, they're normal parties for the Beach.”

“Loud music, drinking, lots of beautiful people?”

“Yes.”

“Sex?”

“Not openly. Not that I saw.”

“What do you do at the parties?”

“Dance. Listen to the music. Maybe just watch what goes on. Yeah, it's a circus here, that's for sure.” She drank more of her lemonade, which had nearly all melted but was still cold.

Richard brushed a leaf off the bench. “Did Milo Cahill ever suggest to you or flat-out say, Kylie, there's this guy I want you to meet. He's looking for a little fun, and he wants to hook up. Did he ever say anything like that?”

“You mean like to have sex?”

“That's what I mean.”

“No.” She laughed. “He isn't like that at all.”

“What about Alana? Did she ever want to hook you up?”

“Well . . . yes, but it didn't work out. I wasn't interested in the guy she picked out for me.”

“Where was this?”

“At a dance club.”

“No, I mean privately and possibly for money. The night of the party at Medina's house, did she say she wanted to hook you up with someone? Is that why she took you there?”

Kylie stared at him. “I don't know what you think I am, but I am not a whore, and neither was Alana.”

“I apologize, but we have to ask uncomfortable questions sometimes. It's part of the job.”

She nodded. “It's okay. I know. Ask me anything. I want to help.”

His eyes were on the water. A catamaran flopped its sail over to the other side, turned, and went slowly out of sight behind the trees. He said, “You told me something the night of the party, when you were in the car and I was driving you home. You probably don't remember, but you said that Alana went to talk to someone, a modeling agent. Is that right?”

“Yes. She said wait here, I have to go talk to someone. She left, and she never came back. She said he was an agent from New York.”

“You don't sound sure about that,” he said.

Kylie sighed. “There are plenty of agents in Miami. And anyway, I don't think she was that good a model. She never got on any photo shoots. She only modeled for China Moon.”

“So you never met the agent. Don't know who he was.”

“If I knew, I'd go see him. Except I don't have a portfolio. Which is another reason I need some cash.”

Richard slid his fingers down his mustache, then said, “What about other friends of Alana? Do you know her friends? Other girls I could talk to?”

“Not really. I remember first names, but not who they are, or how you could find them. Friendships on the beach are shallow. I'm sort of a loner anyway.”

“So how did you get to be friends with a party girl like Alana Martin?”

“I was new, and she asked me if I'd like to go to lunch with her. She could be really nice. And a little bit crazy. She made me laugh. We went
out together. It was fun at the time. But she wasn't . . . she wasn't the sort of person you could remain friends with forever, you know.”

He put his elbows on his knees and looked at the water. After a while, he said, “Well, I guess that's about it.”

“Don't you have anything else to ask me?”

“Sometimes a source doesn't pan out like you'd hoped.”

“I'm not giving any of the money back. I answered all your questions.”

“So you did.” He patted her knee. “Listen, here's some free advice for an aspiring journalist. Smile. You don't smile enough. People respond to a friendly face. And get yourself a reporter's vest. That comes in handy, all the pockets.”

“You're not wearing one.”

“I'm undercover. Another thing, very important. Protect your sources and they will protect you. Understand?” His forefinger went back and forth. “You and me. I might need to contact you in the future and pay for more information, but if you blow my cover, I can't do that. Deal?”

He held out his hand. She wondered what he would do if she demanded extra for her silence, but she knew she wouldn't say anything, so what was the point? Her hand disappeared into his. “Deal.”

Putting his sunglasses back on, he stood up and said, “You have my phone number. If you hear anything else, call me. And I'd like to hear how school turns out. Good luck with that. You take care of yourself, Kylie Willis. I'll be thinking about you.”

“Will you let me know when your article gets published?”

“You bet.” He looked down at her. “One more piece of advice. If I were you? I'd go back to mom and dad. Patch up your differences and let them take care of you. Like they say, there's no place like home.”

“Sure.”

He walked away, wide shoulders, muscular arms, the hat covering his head. He turned around and saluted, and she faked a smile and waved. As he continued his way toward the street, Kylie kicked at a root. The dust settled on her sneakers. She brushed them off, then put her head in her hands and stared at the ground between her feet. She had less than four hundred dollars, total. The rat-trap hotel where she was staying charged sixty a day, so it wouldn't last long.

C.J. wouldn't help. C.J. would send her back to Pensacola, no matter what promises came out of her mouth.

When Edgar had paid her this morning, she'd seen where he kept his cash, behind some old books in the living room, but she could never do that. Ever. She could work for him, fifteen dollars an hour, but after she finished his photographs, what?

Go home.

Her heart felt as heavy as it ever had.

The only person she could think of was Milo Cahill. He had money, no question about that. He liked her. He'd said she was an angel, pretty as a Carolina peach. Standing there in his white Panama hat, opening his arms, smiling so big his eyes squeezed shut.

“oh, but I make a world-class Bloody Mary.”

“I'm sure you do, but just give me the kiddie version and an extra piece of celery.”

“Did we overdo last night?” Donald Finch raised a sun-bleached brow.

With a grin, his sister waved him away, “Don, don't be a pain.”

He went back to the wet bar in the corner, leaving C.J. to continue her conversation with Sarah Finch. Sarah had been in Belize to check on a wildlife special CNN was coproducing with
National Geographic.
Summoned back early to Atlanta, she'd arranged her connecting flight to give her the day with her brother and sister-in-law. She'd been wanting to meet C.J. Dunn.

“The decision will be made by the end of the month, I believe. There are other people under consideration, but they're all lightweights. I've seen tapes of your interviews with Barbara Walters, Larry King, Bill O'Reilly—I think you'd be ideal for the show. It's not up to me, you understand, but I do have some input.”

Warmed by the compliment and the sense that this was going her way, C.J. smiled. “Is there a name for the show?”

“Tentatively it's
Rich, Famous, and Deadly.
”

“That's catchy. I've already been thinking of possible guests, people who can give a real insider's look at the system. We don't need more babble about the lifestyles of the accused.”

“Oh, I agree completely,” said Sarah. She had the same square jaw and prominent nose as her brother, but not his lethargy or well-oiled sarcasm. Her laugh was genuine, and her nervous energy kept her poised on the edge of her chair.

They were under the colonnade behind the Finches' Mediterranean-style house in Coral Gables, ceiling fans making a pleasant breeze, a tray of croissants, bagels, and fresh fruit on the table. The pool sparkled, and hot pink bougainvillea climbed the coral rock columns. The property sloped down to a canal, where a small cabin cruiser was docked. A plaque on the vine-covered wall out front announced that the home was a city landmark. Hence the mildewed Spanish tiles on the roof and the streaks down the mustard-yellow walls. Donald Finch had explained, ushering C.J. to the patio, that the paint had been made using the original formula from the nineteen-twenties. He spoke as if he actually owned the place, though C.J. doubted his wife had put his name on the deed.

Noreen, in sun hat and dark glasses, was occupied in the backyard, supervising the crew from her husband's production company, who would be filming in the afternoon for Paul Shelby's campaign ads. Noreen pointed at the nude, poured-concrete cherub at the far end of the pool and said to move it and throw some floats into the water.

Finch came back with the drinks. “God, yes, let's have some family values in the shot. Paul and Diana and the boys will be over soon as church is out. Paul's PR guru suggested he teach a class at Sunday School, but Noreen nixed that idea. Not macho enough. I've heard Noreen lecture him on his haircut. It's too pretty. You look like the king of your high school prom. My wife is very good at this, actually. She studied Leni Riefenstahl, filmmaker to the Nazi Party.”