The Dark of Day (3 page)

“I adore you, Milo.” She twisted off the cap, and as she raised it to drink she saw a lamp bolted to the ceiling in place of the dome light. There were six antique doll's heads with curly blond hair, dimples, and small white teeth. Small halogen lights were wired to spirals of silver-colored metal. “Oh. My God.”

“Like it?”

“It's insane. It's so . . . you. Where did you find it?”

Round cheeks pushed his eyes into inverted curves when he grinned. “Picked it up in Berlin over Christmas.”

Milo Cahill looked younger than the late forties she knew him to be, with his wide blue eyes and small rosy mouth. His tan came from a high-priced salon. He usually wore a hat, and C.J. suspected it was not an affectation but vanity: hiding his bald spot. People assumed he was gay. The truth, C.J. had found out, was more complicated: he didn't like the physical
act of sex; it was enough to surround himself with beauty, or the oddities that he judged to be beautiful.

Born to faded gentry in Charleston, Milo had gone to Duke University on scholarship. A genius, undeniably offbeat, Milo was a man who could glide without a ripple among the wealthy and cultured as easily as among drunks and addicts, sports stars and models, artists, actors, and various other cheerful wackos who drifted at the edge. It was they, he had once told an interviewer, who gave him his creative kick.

Before he was thirty,
Time
magazine named Milo Cahill one of the “Top 50 Future Leaders in the Arts.” At forty-one he had been short-listed for the Pritzker Prize for his contributions to architecture. But Milo's plans required immense budgets, and he refused to compromise. Jobs dried up. He was reduced to designing furniture made of recycled plastic for a discount chain. Deep into a bottle of bourbon, he had confided to C.J. that he nearly wept with shame every time he cashed a royalty check. She hadn't seen him in a while, but she'd heard he was doing a big project in Miami, something about a residential tower with solar panels or windmills.

They had met in Los Angeles when C.J. had been living there, married to a TV anchor and working at her first job out of law school for a top-rated criminal defense firm. Milo Cahill had been the lead architect on a civic center in Malibu. Driving through a thunderstorm, he swerved to avoid a car and skidded into a tree. He came away with a broken arm, but his passenger, a thirteen-year-old boy he'd picked up hitchhiking, died at the scene. The boy's parents sued. This was C.J.'s first big case. She won the trial, saved Milo Cahill's reputation, and became a celebrity herself when he swept her into his glittering circle of friends. She moved to Miami and for years didn't hear from him, until one day he phoned to announce he'd just bought a house on Miami Beach, come on over, have a drink.

Milo smiled at her. “Would you like an early dinner? We could go to my place and call out for Thai.”

“It sounds wonderful, but I'd better get back to my office. You're not in trouble, are you?”

“Me? No, it's just a favor for someone. Well, for myself too, in a roundabout way.” He leaned toward the intercom and pressed a button. “Jason? We're going downtown to Ms. Dunn's office. The Met Center.”

“Jason is gorgeous,” she said.

“Brains, too. He has a degree in architecture from Princeton.”

“If he's that smart, why is he driving your car?”

“He's just thrilled to be working for Milo Cahill. He'd take out my garbage if I asked him to.”

“You have no shame,” C.J. said.

The driver skipped the exit to the expressway and continued straight on Seventeenth Avenue, crossing the river. C.J. guessed they would go through East Little Havana, then north on Brickell Avenue, cross the river again, and finally arrive at the seventy-six-story skyscraper that dominated the Miami skyline.

“Who's the someone you need a favor for?” she asked.

“Have you watched the local news in the last couple of days?”

“I've been in trial.”

“Well, it seems that a young lady by the name of Alana Martin vanished after, or during, a party at Billy's house last Saturday night. Alana is one of those girls on the fringes of the club crowd. Pretty little thing. Twenty years old. Venezuelan, I think.”

“A party at Billy's house? Which Billy?”

“Yours. Guillermo Medina. It was an after-party that got going around ten o'clock. The main party earlier was a reception at the Sony studios for Yasmina. She's from Lebanon. She was nominated for a Grammy last year. Have you met her? Why am I asking? You've been locked in your law office for months. We never see you anymore.”

“Were you at Billy's?” she asked.

“Not for long. I ducked out as soon as I could. I can't stand those pointless millings-around. Alana Martin wasn't at the reception because it was invitation only, but she showed up at the after-party. And . . . poof! Gone. It's been almost a week. Her parents were on the news last night, asking for help locating her. She prob'ly ran off with a man she'd just met. She could have overdosed in some crack house in Overtown. They say she was doing drugs.”

“Billy hasn't told me about this.” She added, “Not that I've seen him lately.”

“He isn't involved. He can't tell you if she was there or she wasn't. You know how people come and go at Billy's. He's in the clear. The person I
need the favor for is Congressman Paul Shelby. One of his employees was at the party, supposedly the last person to see this girl alive. If that's true, it could look bad for Shelby.”

C.J. finished the Perrier and screwed the cap back on. “I'll tell you up front, I'm no fan of Paul Shelby. Since when did you ever care about politics?”

“I
don't.
I care about The Aquarius. Please don't say you haven't heard of it. The Aquarius is revolutionary. It uses almost no energy, and it'll be a snap to hook it up to a desalination system. Problem is, there's not much waterfront left at a reasonable price, so we're looking into some unused federal land that's just sitting there, going to waste. Paul Shelby is on the Finance Committee, and he's pushing it for us. He says if the Committee approves, which it will, Congress will go along.”

“What federal land?”

“About fifty acres down in the south part of the county, off Card Sound Road. Back in the sixties, the Navy used it for a listening post. Right now it's just weeds and rocks.”

“So how is this a problem for Shelby? Or for you?”

“I'm getting there. He's up for re-election this fall, and the Democrats want his seat. They're looking for anything against Paul,
anything.
He was at the party, too—just dropped in and out long enough to thank Billy for that nice article he published in
Tropical Life.
”

“Is Billy investing in The Aquarius?”

“Sure. He's staking his last dollar on it, so he's biting his nails like the rest of us. He didn't tell you? Oh, well, that's Billy.” Milo put an imaginary key to his lips and turned it. “You didn't hear it from me.”

C.J. lifted her brows. “And what is Shelby getting out of it? Or should I even ask?”

“No, no, not a dime. Honestly, C.J., he isn't. The tricky thing here is the girl. She disappeared from a party attended by Paul Shelby, at which the main entertainment was a woman from the Middle East who openly opposes our foreign policy. Then someone on Shelby's staff is suspected of—of kidnapping? Or murder? The Finance Committee will abandon him. There goes the project. It's enough to make me want to cut my wrists.”

“And Paul Shelby has no financial interest?”

“He doesn't need to. He's loaded.”

“That never stopped a politician. Tell me why he's supporting a project in green architecture when he has one of the
worst
environmental voting records in Congress.”

“He's had a change of heart,” Milo said.

“Try again.”

“It's true! Well . . . it's probably true. Go ahead, accuse him of paying attention to which way the wind blows. The voters want green. The Aquarius would do a lot for his image.”

“So it's just a public relations issue for Paul Shelby?”

“Just?”
Milo closed his eyes and laid a hand over his heart.

“Whose idea was it, getting me involved? His?”

“No, it was mine. I haven't told him yet. They think they can handle it. They can't. They don't see the potential for disaster. It's not a big deal yet, and if it's managed correctly, it won't be.”

“If something happened to this girl, it's a big deal to her family.”

“Yes. All right. But so far there's no national media interest. A girl is missing. It happens. But she did disappear from a party on South Beach, with all the connotations that go with it. I'm sorry for her folks, but she's not a girl who will generate much sympathy.”

C.J. shook her head. “I think what you need is a very quiet, well-connected public relations adviser. Want me to recommend someone?”

“I want
you.
This could blow up, and who else could I trust to handle it as well as C.J. Dunn? She's brilliant. She's beautiful. The media love her.”

“Don't try to sweet-talk me, Milo.”

He stared out the window as they paused at a stop light. The brim of the hat put a shadow on his face. On the opposite corner, men lined up outside the little window of a bodega. How they drank Cuban coffee in this heat, C.J. could not understand. A matron waddled across with her shopping bags. Past four o'clock, traffic getting heavier. A few blocks on, the chauffeur turned left onto Brickell Avenue. Soon they would arrive at her office.

He sighed. “I swear to you, if I have to go back to designing cheap bed frames and wall units, just shove me out of the car now and run me over.”

“Milo.” She squeezed his hand. That brought another sigh. She set the empty bottle into the cup holder on the bar. “Who is this person working for Shelby? What's his name? What does he do?”

The car headed north on a boulevard shaded with banyans. Sunlight reflected off the windows of the bank buildings and flickered through the trees.

“His name is Richard Slater. He drives the congressman and his wife to events and things. He takes their kids to soccer practice. He picks up the dry cleaning.”

“So he's a chauffeur. Good. We're not talking about the inner circle. Did he take Paul Shelby to the party at Billy's that night?”

“He did.”

“Shelby stayed only a little while, correct? Did his driver take him home?”

“No, Paul let him go and took a taxi.”

“But the driver stayed. How long was he there?”

“Who knows?”

“He could have left with Alana Martin.”

“I hope not,” Milo said.

“Was he involved with her sexually? Or in any other way?”

“He denies he knows her at all.”

“He might be lying,” C.J. said. “Has he made any statements to the police?”

“He's managed to avoid them so far.”

“Is that so? Maybe he's had prior experience with the cops. Who actually hired him?”

“Paul Shelby approved it. Slater was recommended by a security company.”

“Fine.” C.J. returned to her corner of the backseat. “Here's what you do. Tell Shelby to let Mr. Slater go. Fire him. If the media or the police ask questions, direct them to the company that sent him.”

Milo chewed on his lower lip. “Well . . . some of the folks on his staff would agree with you, but Paul doesn't want to do that. What if this man doesn't like being fired?”

“Tough. Give him a severance check.”

“I said, Paul won't do it.” Milo's voice rose. “Are you being obtuse on purpose? He's in a delicate position. He can't just go around axing people. No telling what would happen.”

Surprised by this outburst, C.J. was silent for a moment. “The congressman doesn't trust Richard Slater to keep his mouth shut. Is that it? What would he say, I wonder?”

Milo slumped into his seat. He took off his Panama hat and held it on his lap, bouncing the brim on his knees. “He could make up anything. Paul Shelby wears women's underwear. His wife beats their kids.”

“You want me to get the police off Mr. Slater's back, is that it?”

“I think some degree of loyalty is called for.” From Milo's wounded expression, C.J. could only believe he was talking about her.

“Who's going to pay for this? Not Slater, not on his salary.”

“Paul Shelby will. I'll tell him he has to. He's sticking by his loyal employee.” With a smile, Milo added, “You can charge him whatever you feel it's worth.”

Tires hummed over the metal grid of the short bridge across the Miami River. She picked up a shoe. Crossing her legs, she fastened a buckle. The angled blue glass surfaces of the Met Center filled the windshield. The limo turned, circling around to the entrance.

“I'm going to pass. I've been running flat out for weeks. There are several excellent lawyers who could do this. I promise, Mr. Slater will have one of Miami's best holding his hand when he talks to the police. Paul Shelby's name won't come up.”

Milo shook his head. “C.J., my love, it's a big mistake, saying no. You need a case like this. Ask me why. Go on.”

She smiled. “Why do I need this case, Milo?”

“To get your pretty face on TV.”

“Who said I wanted my face on TV?”

“You did, last time you deigned to cross the causeway to raise a glass with poor old Milo.”

“I don't drink anymore.” She buckled the ankle strap of her other shoe.