The Dark of Day (30 page)

it was 7:10 A.M. when C.J. opened her office door and turned on the lights. She had come in early to avoid the reporters who would soon be swarming the lobby. Her name had come up on CNN again. Well-known attorney C.J. Dunn had been hired by a person of interest in the murder of Alana Martin. Sources were suggesting it could be someone on the staff of U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby, who had been at the party that night.

The only possible source of that rumor, C.J. thought, was Libi Rodriguez. She had wanted an interview with Shelby, who had brushed her off. Libi had to know something was going on, and sooner or later she would leak Rick Slater's name, leaving it to the talking heads to draw the wrong conclusions. C.J. planned to grab the story out of Libi's hands and spin it her way.

Driving to work, half expecting an outraged phone call from Shelby or even his mother, C.J. had flipped through the talk-radio stations. The theory of a connection to drugs was getting some play, Alana Martin as a party girl who had crossed the wrong people. A person who called herself a
friend of Alana was certain that a man she'd met at a bar had stalked and killed her.

At her desk, C.J. aimed her remote at the television and let it play in the background. She tossed her tote into a chair and flipped open her daily diary so see what could possibly be put off until later in the week or given to one of her associates.

At 7:25, her secretary knocked on the open door and came in, her dyed red hair a vivid contrast to a lime-green jacket and skirt. C.J. looked around from the window, where she had been spraying a little fertilizer on her orchids. “Aren't you the early bird?”

“Well, I kinda figured there'd be a lot going on today,” Shirley said. “I saw your picture on
Good Morning America.
They talked about all the big cases you've done. I expect you'll get some phone calls.”

“I expect I will.”

“What's first?” Shirley scooted her jangling bracelets up her arm and poised her pen over her steno pad. “Coffee?”

“No, I'll get it. Put a note on Henry's door to come see me as soon as he gets in. And tell the front desk that if they get any calls from the media, we have no comment at this time.” Ten minutes later, she had given Shirley enough to keep her busy the rest of the day. “So how was your weekend at Disney World with the girls?”

“Great, but I felt like I was playing hooky. The real fun is here.” Shirley stuck her pen behind her ear and, with a swirl of her skirt, she was gone.

“Right. We're having a ball.”

The corridors, empty and silent when C.J. had arrived, were coming to life. The girl from the printing room was making deliveries, and legal assistants were turning on their computers. In the kitchen, C.J. fixed herself a large mug of coffee and took a bagel from the tray, which would have to do until lunch.

Henri Pierre was waiting for her when she got back to her office. “Morning, boss. You wanted to see me?”

“
Bonjour,
Henry. That's a nice suit.”

He shrugged, smiling. “On sale. You like it?”

“Very handsome. You look like partnership material. Come on in.” She took a sip of coffee. “I could use some help. I'm jammed up with this Martin
thing. Can you handle a federal bond hearing at two o'clock this afternoon? Basically, all you need to do is show up.”

“I have a conference call, but yes, I can move it to later today. Where's the file?”

“Wait.” C.J. aimed her remote at the screen to turn up the volume. The
Today Show
host was saying, “After the news at the top of the hour, we'll be talking to the parents of Alana Martin, the Miami woman whose body was found more than a week after she vanished from a celebrity party at the home of a wealthy Miami Beach publisher and socialite.”

C.J. wondered about calling Billy Medina to warn him.

Henry said, “How can you go on national TV if your child was just found dead? Do they like the attention?”

“Everyone deals with it in his own way. This is the second daughter they've lost.” C.J. looked at Henry. “Alana's older sister drowned when her car went into a canal. Alana was driving.”

“My God. That is beyond tragic. How are they functioning?”

“I don't know.” She handed Henry a thick file. “Here. If you have any questions, call me.”

From behind her desk, C.J. scrolled through the channels, then backed up to CNN. She had caught sight of the beach, police standing in the glare of floodlights, and a tarp covering a body. The story was no different than what she had seen at home two hours ago. She turned it off and called her secretary.

“Shirley, don't we have a portable TV in the storeroom? I want you to put it on your desk and if you see anything on the Martin case, take notes. Let me know if they say anything I need to respond to. If they mention Paul Shelby or Rick Slater, drop everything and tell me what channel. I also want you to check the Internet and see what's coming through on the news blogs.”

Shirley said she would. C.J. thanked her and turned to the files that she had hoped to get to over the weekend. She checked her watch. There were certain reporters she wanted to call, but it was too early.

At 8:05, she turned the TV back on and kept an eye on it. A few minutes later, the
Today Show
host, Scott Matthews, went to the Martin story, reminding the audience that the girl's body had been found on the beach
two nights ago. He had the good manners not to describe the body's condition. The screen went to a view of the parents and their lawyer at a conference table, probably at Oscar Enriquez's office.

Matthews gave them his condolences, then asked if they had prepared themselves for this outcome.

“Stupid question,” C.J. said.

Oscar Enriquez translated, then spoke to the camera. “They were holding on to hope of finding her alive. It's very painful for them, Scott. Alana's older sister died in a traffic accident, and to lose a second child to a murder, well, they are traumatized. Alana was a good student, a good daughter, an aspiring actress, a beautiful young woman. They want people to know that.”

Matthews asked if the police were making any progress in the case.

Enriquez said, “Not fast enough. Luisa and Hector want to find the persons responsible, so if anyone has information, please come forward. They also want to thank the hundreds of people who have sent them messages of sympathy, and as soon as the medical examiner releases their daughter's body, they will see about a burial. They want to have a nice service for her. They don't have much money, but it's the last gift they can give their daughter.”

“I can't stand this.” C.J. aimed the remote at the television but was stopped by the faces of Alana's parents. They were drained. Stunned. Holding hands, they mumbled their thanks in heavily accented English.

The screen went dark when C.J. pressed the remote. Their daughter was dead. Whatever she had been, they had loved her. Their pain had poured through the screen. For a minute, C.J. rested her forehead on the heels of her hands, eyes closed.

She thought about Kylie. She still hadn't heard from her, even after leaving four messages. Kylie had returned Edgar's car yesterday while C.J. was at Milo's. She had come and gone, apologizing to Edgar for not finishing his photographs, but hoping to get to it in a few days. She had asked Edgar to drop her off at the bus stop on South Dixie Highway.

C.J. looked at her telephone. Taking a breath, she picked up the handset and from memory dialed the Willises' home number in Pensacola. Three days ago she had promised Fran to put Kylie on an airplane today,
Monday, and fly her home. She expected to catch hell for it, but there was nothing left to do but admit she had failed.

Kylie's father answered.

“Bob, this is C.J. Dunn. I hope I'm not calling too early.”

He said she wasn't, they were just finishing breakfast. “I guess you'll want to talk to Fran.”

C.J. took a last sip of cold coffee from the mug and, a moment later, Fran came on. “Well,” she said, “I was wondering when you'd get around to calling back.”

“Fran, I'm sorry, I don't know where Kylie is. She spent the night at my house on Saturday—”

“I know. She told me. We had a talk last night. She's going to stay in Miami. Bob and I aren't thrilled, but there comes a point when you're just beating your head against the wall. She has a job and her own apartment—”

“Her own apartment?”

“An efficiency, one room and a kitchen. She has some money, and she got a little advance on her salary.”

C.J. couldn't decide if Fran was angry at her or at Kylie. She said, “Where is she working?”

“In a gift shop on Miami Beach. They sell henna tattoos and crystals and things like that. She says she likes the owner, and she's making enough to live on, so I said, Kylie, if that's what you really want, there's nothing your father and I can do about it, as long as you call us every week and let us know you're okay, and she said she would.”

C.J. said, “She's too young, Fran.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? You don't have to worry about her anymore. I was wrong to involve you in the first place. Kylie said you were trying to reach her, and I told her, no, just leave Ms. Dunn alone.” Fran paused to take a breath. “I won't be calling you again, and you don't call here. All right? We won't be bothering you anymore. Kylie is my daughter, not yours.” As Fran spoke, her voice had risen and become more clipped, until it seemed that the words came at C.J. like sharp pebbles.

Into the silence on the line, she said, “If that's what you want.”

“It's what I want. And Bob too. I'm sorry it has to be that way.”

“So am I. Good-bye, Fran.”

C.J. slowly replaced the handset. She knew she ought to be relieved. Another task crossed off her list. A burden lifted. But all she felt was hollow, as if something precious to her had been irretrievably lost. She felt pressure behind her eyes, then the burn of tears.

“Stop it.” She jerked a drawer open for a tissue.

At 8:30 she consulted her computer for her list of media contacts. She called an acquaintance who worked for Larry King. He said he would call the assistant producer for her and see if they could get her on the air tonight or tomorrow.

Next, C.J. put in calls to friendly reporters at
The Los Angeles Times, The Miami Herald, The Sun-Sentinel
in Fort Lauderdale, and the local ABC affiliate. Some were in, some not, but when she had them on the line, she told them she was representing a member of Congressman Shelby's staff, one of several persons being questioned by police. Mr. Slater, an Army veteran with a spotless record, had given his consent to a search of his apartment, and the detectives had found absolutely nothing to incriminate him. C.J. told the reporters about the men who claimed to have seen her client leave the party with Alana Martin, but it had actually been some other girl. No, sorry, she couldn't divulge the name of this girl just yet, but she expected to get statements soon to clear it all up.

After she had worked her way through as many reporters as she believed would report the story her way, she called Edgar. So far, the vultures had not landed on her front lawn, though Edgar had spotted a car driving by slowly, someone taking pictures through the window.

C.J. worked through the morning and ate lunch at her desk. The managing partner stopped by for a chat, making sure that the Martin story wasn't going to disrupt the smooth functioning of the office—it wouldn't—or to see if C.J. had any juicy details. She didn't.

Shirley came in waving some message slips. “Fox News wants a phone interview at four-fifteen.”

“Sure, right in advance of Paul Shelby's press conference. Call them back, say not at this time but we'll be in touch.”

“I already did.” Shirley gave her a list of stories that had appeared on the portable TV set at her desk. “They're talking about a boyfriend of Alana Martin, a young architect named Jason Wright.”

C.J. laid down her pen. “What are they saying?”

“Well, that he and Alana were dating, and she broke it off. They showed where he lives, an apartment on Miami Beach. They're not saying he killed her or anything.” Shirley looked closely at C.J. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” Someone had leaked this story, and C.J. could only think of one person: Noreen Finch. It wouldn't have been hard for Noreen to discover the name of the young architect Alana had been dating and, from there, to drop a few hints to the right people. The effect it would have on the poor schmuck she was accusing wouldn't have occurred to Noreen. And C.J. was painfully aware of where the blame lay: with herself.

“There are a couple other things,” Shirley said. “
ET
is going to interview Yasmina tonight, the singer who was at the party.”

“Yeah, I'll be sure to watch. Did Harnell Robinson's check arrive? He was supposed to have it here today by noon.”

“Nothing yet,” Shirley said.

“Dammit. He's not going to blow off twenty thousand dollars. I
will
sue him. His last excuse was, I had to make some back payments to my agent. Next time Milo Cahill sends me a client, I'm going to make sure they have the cash.”

“Want me to call Mr. Robinson and see if it's on its way?”

“Please. If I do it, I'll scream at him.”

“Oh, you got this.” A large brown envelope was clamped under Shirley's elbow, and she handed it across the desk. “It's from Paul Shelby's office.”

When Shirley had gone out, C.J. opened the envelope. She unfolded a letter from Shelby's chief of staff.
Per your request to Mr. Shelby, enclosed please find. . . .
He had attached the résumé and pay records for Richard Alan Slater.