The Dark of Day (34 page)

“Don't tell me. Harold Vincent is behind the movie that Alana auditioned for.”

“I'm not sure yet, but give me a couple of days.”

“You amaze me, Judy.”

“When you're in this business you kinda learn who's who. I've met Harold Vincent. It was in Vegas. He was a tall, skinny man with a toupee and bags under his eyes. Not the best-looking guy in the world, but he dressed like a million. They always comped him a suite, and he'd bring his friends and order up two or three working girls.” Judy swung a foot and twirled a strand of hair from her topknot around her finger. She laughed. “I gave him some lessons in blackjack, and he still lost. Small world, huh?”

They looked around when a man's voice at the door said, “Judy? You and C.J. ought to come look at this.”

They got up and followed Raul into his office. He was Afro-Cuban, built like a pro wrestler. Raul specialized in tracking down bail bond skips in Miami's heavily Latin population. He turned up the volume on the television, tuned to
Celebrity Docket
. They were showing the usual South Beach scenes: stretch limos, lots of skin on smiling models, and night clubs with pounding beats.

A cheerful female voice said, “This is the world that Alana Martin belonged to.”

There was footage of Billy Medina with his white hair and blazing smile, waving at the camera from the terrace of a restaurant on Ocean Drive. He was standing next to 3-Strikes, a rapper who later that weekend would be arrested for throwing a beer bottle at a police officer.

“I've seen it all before,” C.J. said. “Sorry, Raul, but I need to go.”

“Wait. They mentioned your name.”

And there she was, staggering into the scene with a drink in her hand, catching herself on 3-Strikes's shoulder.

The voice-over said, “Glamorous attorney C.J. Dunn, formerly of Hollywood, was a regular on the South Beach party circuit until the lifestyle caught up with her. Our
Celebrity Docket
sources say that C.J. spent two weeks earlier this year in a court-ordered drug and alcohol treatment center known for its celebrity clientele. It must have worked. She's been hired by U.S. Congressman Paul Shelby of Miami to represent his bodyguard, who's being questioned by police in the strange and tragic murder of Alana Martin.”

The host was back with her wide smile. “Stay tuned for more inside looks at the stars and celebs involved in this case.”

Stunned, C.J. could only stare at the screen, which had turned into a blur of color.

“You ought to sue them,” Raul said. “That's invasion of privacy.”

C.J. smiled. “Unfortunately not. The story is true, and I am arguably a public figure. The court didn't order me to go to rehab, and I don't work for Shelby, but who cares about the details?”

“That sucks. Why do they have to say things like that?”

Judy said, “Because the jerk-offs have nothing better to do. Turn it off, Raul.” When C.J. abruptly spun around and went back to Judy's office to collect her things, Judy followed. “C.J., wait.”

“I need to go home. I have to get ready for my five minutes on
Larry King Live
tonight. Oh, that should be fun.”

“Cancel it.”

“I'm not canceling an appearance on CNN. I want that job, and by God I'm going to have it. You never cancel, you come out swinging or denying everything. Except I can't do that, can I? Yes, I was locked up for my own good. I had blackouts and was late to court. I lost clients, and if it weren't for my good friend Judy, I'd still be a drunk.”

“Larry won't ask you about that. He's a gentleman.”

“That's true, he is. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Judy stopped her. “What son of a bitch told them? Who hates you that much? Does Libi Rodriguez know?”

“She does now.”

“Tell me who it was so I can go break his neck.”

“Who knows how these things get out? I'll survive. I've been through this kind of crappy situation before. Maybe not quite
this
crappy, where they're sticking their damned noses into everything I do.”

Judy returned her smile, but lines creased her forehead. “Like you said, the public has a short attention span.”

“I swear, if I hadn't gone sober, I would get so smashed right now.”

“Oh, hon.”

They exchanged a hug. C.J. finally broke away. “I don't mean that. I'll be a good girl.”

The truth had come at her like the creak of footsteps outside her door in the middle of the night, leaving her hands trembling and her heart beating too fast. It was possible she was imagining things, but she didn't think so. Who had known about her two weeks in hell, losing her mind and finding it again, clean and sober for the first time in twenty years? The partners at her law firm, but they wouldn't be that vicious. Edgar and Judy, of course, but that was unthinkable. Only two other people had known. Billy and Milo. Her money was on Milo.

The topic on
Larry King
was the media's influence on perceptions of guilt and innocence, and C.J. had some things to say about that. Novelist-attorney Dan Hale was on a split screen with her, and together they pounded the tabloids and the paparazzi who fed them.

Relieved it was over, C.J. cruised into her driveway just as her cell phone rang. Rick Slater was calling. She let the car drift into the carport and turned off the lights but left the engine running.

“Rick, I just got home,” she said. “I was on
Larry King
.”

“I saw it. You did a great job.”

“Thanks.”

“And I want to thank you for keeping my name out of it.”

“Generally they don't care how you answer as long as you say something halfway intelligent. How's it going with Shelby? Are you hearing any explosions yet?”

“Not yet, but he sits behind me in the car now, not in front. He catches up on phone calls. He sounds happy. His press conference went well, his poll numbers are up, and whatever you're doing, keep doing it. Listen, Charlotte Josephine, there's another reason I called.”

“Forget you ever heard that name,” she said.

“All right, C.J. I don't usually sit around watching TV, but lately it's becoming a bad habit. I saw the piece about you on
Celebrity Docket.
It was irresponsible, but it won't make any difference in the long run. It's not important.”

She leaned against the head rest. “They won't stop. Everyone connected to Alana Martin will be opened up and sucked dry until they find out who killed her or the next big thing comes along.”

Rick took a while to answer. “Are you all right?”

“I'm not going to go inside and have a drink, if that's your question.”

“It wasn't,” he said. “Maybe you'd like some company. I wouldn't stay long.”

“Rick . . . I picked up the witness statements from my investigator today. I'll take them over to Detective Fuentes tomorrow. I hope he'll tell me he's no longer interested in you. In any event, I think I ought to find you another lawyer.”

“So you're firing me as your client after all.”

“That's not it. I never thought I'd say this, but Noreen Finch was right. My being your attorney is drawing attention, and it's making things more difficult for you. Libi Rodriguez wouldn't have come after you if you'd had any other lawyer.”

“You don't know that, C.J.”

“It's true. I've been in this game long enough to know how it's played. So what do you say?”

“No, thanks.”

“It would be for the best.”

“Isn't it up to me, who my attorney is? Or are you afraid of what else they might say about you, and you want out?”

She had no quick answer for him. “None of us wants our lives open to public scrutiny. Even you. You lied to me. Small things, but a lie nonetheless.”

“Don't change the subject,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing, so drop it. This is not your concern.” When she heard silence on the other end, she said, “I'm sorry, Rick. That wasn't me. It was the bitch I turn into sometimes. I should go in.”

“Wait. Let's see what shakes out tomorrow. If Fuentes says it's over, you close your case, and we can still be friends. All right?”

“All right.”

“So go in and get some rest. Let me know what the detectives say.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Calamity Jane.”

She was sitting at the desk in her office on her second cup of coffee, idly stroking Lady Bell, who was purring in her lap, and trying to get some work done before she went to bed, not that she had any hope of sleeping, when her cell phone rang in her tote bag. The irrational thought that it might be Kylie caused her quickly to take it out of its pocket and look at the screen. It was not a number she recognized.

After one more ring, she pressed the button to connect. She listened for a moment to muffled music and conversation in the background, then said, “Yes?”

“Ms. Dunn, this is Jason Wright. You gave me your number.”

She sat bolt upright so quickly that Lady Bell leaped off her lap and hid under a chair. “Jason?”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“A quarter after twelve.”

“It is? Oops. I'm sorry.”

“No, no, it's all right. I wasn't asleep, I was working. Why are you calling me?”

“I want to ask you something. Are you the one who told the police that I murdered Alana?” He sounded as though he found something wildly funny and any second he could break into laughter.

Slowly she rose from her chair. Was he drunk? She said, “No, I haven't talked to the police. Why do you think that? I haven't talked to them at all about you.”

“I've been trying to think who it could be. You're the only one I told about having no alibi. Don't you remember?”

“Yes, but I haven't talked to anyone about it.” The lie came quickly to her lips, tasting bitter and sharp. “Jason, I never thought you had anything to do with Alana's death.”

“I didn't kill her.”

“I know that. I know. Listen to me. Call a lawyer. Do it tomorrow.”

“I don't know any lawyers. Can you recommend someone?”

“I'm sorry, I can't. Under the circumstances, it wouldn't be ethical. Ask a friend. Or ask your parents.”

“They're not speaking to me. My mother is in shock. Oh, oh, my boy is gay. Jason, swear to me that you didn't hurt that girl. It's really funny.”

“Don't you have friends you can ask?”

“I'd rather not. They'd want to give an interview about it. Could you please help me? God, I don't mean to sound so fucking pathetic, but I don't know who else to call.”

C.J. paced across the cluttered room, looked out the window into the night, then returned to her desk. “All right. I'll make a list for you. Half a dozen, and you choose whichever you like. Put the list on the wall and throw a dart at it. They will all be excellent attorneys, people I trust and respect. Jason, are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“So I'll call you tomorrow. Go to bed now. Get some sleep. And don't worry, it's going to be all right.” That was probably another lie, but C.J. couldn't stand the tears she heard in his voice. “Jason?”

“Thank you.”

He hung up. C.J. stood there with the phone in her hand until it began to beep, then she went to her computer, opened her address file, and started looking for names.

the next day, after doing what work she could between returning phone calls and refusing requests for interviews, C.J. went into Henri Pierre's office and asked if he could spare half an hour. She needed a ride to a hearing in the bribery case against a county zoning official. She wanted to avoid the reporters in the lobby, who were more interested in asking her about Richard Slater. Henry cruised by the freight entrance, C.J. got in, and they drove the half mile to the federal courthouse, a soaring modern structure next door to the original Spanish-style building.

When her hearing was over, she had to spend ten minutes chatting with the judge about the Martin case. Coming down the escalator in the atrium, C.J. spotted a fortyish woman with short brown hair catching the up escalator on the other side. Elaine McCoy had recently been appointed deputy U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Florida. Before that, she'd been head of the banking and money-laundering division and, before that, Internet fraud.

C.J. ran across the atrium and up the steps of the escalator. “Elaine!”

At the top they exchanged a hug and noted how long it had been since they'd gotten together, but their schedules were just impossible, weren't they? When Elaine confirmed that she'd been watching the news lately, C.J. asked if she had time to answer a couple of questions that might bear on the Martin case.