The Dark of Day (41 page)

“Well, now, I don't know how you can justify that if you're only charging expenses. That's what you told Paul. Expenses, not fees.”

“My expenses have been much heavier than expected.”

“We did you a big favor, Miss C.J. Whatever-your-real-name-is. You got the job at CNN because of Paul, and you ought to be damned grateful.”

“I'm so sorry, Noreen, but there will be no check for the balance because there is nothing left. Must go now. Have a lovely evening.” C.J. disconnected and muttered, “I do not fucking believe this.”

Setting down her drink and a plate of cheese and crackers, the waiter pretended not to have heard anything. “Would you like to run a tab?”

“No, I'll just pay for it now.” She reached into her wallet for her charge card. “Could I ask you to bring me the rest of this drink, straight up?” She settled back in the chair and sipped her vodka and soda. She could barely taste the vodka, but ate a piece of cheese to put something in her stomach besides alcohol.

Unbidden, unwanted, a memory floated to the surface. Outside a liquor store. Waiting in his black Mustang, Guns N' Roses at full volume on the stereo. The car door opening, Paul handing her the bag.
You bought Popov?
He had laughed.
Come on, Charlie, we're going to mix it. I'm not wasting my money on Absolut.
She had said he was cheap.
Then you fuckin' pay for it,
he had said, turning the key in the ignition.

The waiter returned with the charge slip and a shot glass with the Grey Goose. She signed, took back her card, and picked up the glass, which contained one and one-half ounces. The bar at the Andalusia still had generous pours in the afternoon. She started to add the vodka to the soda, but instead put the shot glass to her lips and tipped it back. The heat burst onto her tongue and filled her mouth. She took a long breath, pulling the warmth into her lungs.

Later that night, a road out in the country: Paul Shelby holding her arms away from her bare chest.
Damn it, don't tease me. I'm so hot for you, baby. You want it, don't you? Don't you?

Among the disorderly pile of papers on C.J.'s desk she had left the envelope of photographs from Alana Martin's portfolio. Alana with her forefinger in the corner of her mouth. Alana in a bikini, looking at the camera with moist, parted lips and overdone makeup. The thin arms and legs, the narrow hips and small breasts, didn't belong to a woman of twenty. She could have been sixteen. Or younger. Much younger. Put her in front of a pornographer's video camera in knee socks and a short dress, with her hair in pigtails, and she could have passed for twelve.

C.J. held up her hand to signal the waiter. When he saw her, she lifted her empty shot glass. He nodded and went toward the bar.

The guitarist was setting up his music stand. He tuned his guitar. Men and women in office attire were coming in to get buzzed, forget the day, and find someone for the night, if they were lucky. Their laughter rose above the guitar and the splash of water in the fountain.

The waiter came back with the vodka and a rocks glass full of ice.

Her cell phone rang again. C.J. recognized the number and quickly pressed the button to answer. “Kylie?”

“Hi.”

“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

“Great. I'm at work, so I can't talk long. My mother said I shouldn't bother you, but I wanted to say thanks for letting me stay at your house the other night.”

“My pleasure. I'm so glad to hear from you. And you're doing well. A job. An apartment. Kylie—How did you get the apartment? You don't have a lot of money.”

“I don't have to pay rent. The owner is in Europe right now, so I'm kind of house-sitting.”

“Who is he? The owner.”

“I don't know. He's friends with a friend of mine. Have you ever heard of a famous architect named Milo Cahill? He fixed it all up for me.”

“Yes, I do know Milo Cahill. How did you meet him?”

“Through Alana.”

“And he fixed you up with an apartment? Not good. Milo isn't the kind of man you want to be friends with. Trust me. I know him better than you do.”

“You're thinking he's going to come on to me, aren't you? He won't. He's gay.”

“Milo Cahill is a chameleon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don't believe everything he tells you. He doesn't have your best interests at heart. Promise me you'll be careful.”

“I am careful. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Christ, how naïve, C.J. thought. “Look, Kylie, if you ever need anything, call me, will you? And I'll stay in touch, all right? You know, just to see how you are.”

“If you want to, but I'm fine. Ms. Dunn? One other reason I wanted to call you . . . I've been watching TV a lot because of Alana and everything, and it's awful how they talk about you. Last night they had these video clips of you at a nightclub in California, which has nothing to do with anything, then they show pictures of downtown Mayo, Florida? Okay, I get it. Famous attorney comes from humble roots, blah blah. Did you see it?”

“No, I don't believe I did.”

“They said you dropped out of high school.”

“I did drop out. I wasn't quite sixteen, but the school gave up on me.”

“I know, my mother told me; but the point is, they're making you out to be somebody you're not. It's awful, what they're doing, and you shouldn't pay any attention to them. This is why young people today are going more and more to the Internet. I think that by the time I get my journalism degree, there will be no more television, and frankly? I don't care.” Kylie paused to take a breath. “Would you please tell Edgar I'm sorry I didn't get to finish his photographs? I hope he goes ahead and gets a new computer.”

“Yes, I'll make sure he does.”

“I have to hang up. A customer just came in.”

“Why don't you call Edgar? Do you have his phone number?”

“I think so.”

“Wait. I can give it to you.”

“Gotta go. See you later.”

There was a click, and Kylie was gone. C.J. held on to the phone, pressed it against her heart. Kylie was worried about her. Kylie gave a damn what happened to her. C.J. let her eyes fall closed. She leaned her forehead against her palm. My God, she thought. Libi Rodriguez. If not Libi, then another in the pack of wolves. They would not stop until every last scrap of information about her, past and present, had been dug up and laid out for everyone to see. They would gnaw her bones clean. C.J. wasn't worried for herself, really. It was all publicity. She could handle it. But Kylie. Sooner or later they would get to Kylie.

She thumbed through the phone's directory. Sarah Finch. She pressed the button, heard it ringing. She bit her lips.

When Sarah's voice mail picked up, C.J. took a breath. “Sarah, it's C.J. Dunn.” She paused, laughing a little. “You're going to think this is crazy, but I've changed my mind. I can't take the job. I don't have time. I'm a working lawyer, and I can't give that up. I appreciate your help. I really do. If you'd pass this message on to the producers?” She could think of nothing else to say except, “I'm sorry.”

She turned in her chair to signal the waiter. When he came over, she shook her head and picked up her purse. “No, never mind. I have to leave.”

A little while later she was heading into the glare of the sun on South Dixie Highway, the Metrorail on her right, a sea of cars ahead. At Fifty-Seventh Avenue, blowing her horn, she nudged into the left lane and made a quick turn on the red light. A liquor store on the corner of Sunset Drive sold her a pint of Absolut. Getting back into her car, she found a cup from Dunkin' Donuts in the backseat. She unscrewed the bottle cap and poured enough to rinse out the dried coffee, then threw the liquid on the ground in the parking lot before filling the cup with vodka.

She headed south a few miles, cut west to U.S. 1, then north a block to the strip shopping center where Shelby had turned his congressional office into a campaign headquarters.

They had locked up for the day, but she looked past signs in the window and saw him putting on his suit coat. There were three desks, some cabinets, posters, computer monitors. And two women, but neither was Noreen Finch. One of them came with a key and unlocked the door. She stuck her head out and smiled. “I'm sorry, we're closed, but if you come back tomorrow—”

“I need to talk to Mr. Shelby.” C.J. pushed past her.

He turned around, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “Ms. Dunn?”

“Mr. Shelby. Your mother called me to demand the unspent portion of the so-called expense deposit for Richard Slater, after you fired him with
no notice and a paltry two weeks' severance pay. I wanted to tell you personally what a shitty thing it was.”

Shelby looked past her at the two women standing near the door. “Thank you. You can go now. It's all right. Just lock up on your way out. Ms. Dunn, would you like to come into my office?”

It was a carpeted room with a large desk, a sofa, some flags, a color photograph of the president shaking hands with the congressman, more photographs, certificates. On his desk, framed portraits of his wife and their two sons, gray eyes and neatly combed brown hair like daddy.

Paul Shelby stood squarely in the center of his office, his expression a mix of indignation and incredulity. “I am shocked. If you have a complaint, that's fine, but to barge in here spouting profanity shows a lack of manners I'd never have expected from you. I didn't need Mr. Slater's services anymore. Diana's brother is going to drive her from now on. End of story.”

C.J. put her sunglasses away, missing twice before getting them into their case. Her hands were shaking. Her chest felt like a cold wind was blowing through it.

“Are we finished, Ms. Dunn? I have a meeting to attend.”

She said, “You wanted me to tell you when my client became more of a burden than a duty to you, so you could fire him. That was against my principles and I should have called you on it right there, but I didn't. You made your decision without consulting me. Now you want a refund on your deposit, after I have put in many, many hours of my time. That's not just cheap, it's rude.”

With a sigh, Shelby said, “All right. If you want to keep the money, then keep it. I'm not going to argue.”

“You know what really ticks me off? Jason Wright. Who leaked his name to the press?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You fucking do. I told you Jason had no alibi, and he was Alana's boyfriend, and you, or maybe Noreen, ran with it, and then reporters were all over him like piranhas. Don't you feel any responsibility for what happened? I do. I feel bad as hell.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Do you deny that you told the media about Jason?”

“Yes, I deny it. What is the matter with you? I think you're drunk.” Shelby held up a forefinger in warning as he picked up his telephone. “I'm going to call a taxi, and I want you to get in it and go home.”

C.J. pressed the button to disconnect. “You don't know who I am, do you? You really have no clue.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at me. Look at me, I said. What if I told you my name? Charlotte Jo Bryan. They called me Charlie. You said it was cute. Is it coming back to you now?”

He stared at her, squinting slightly.

“Gainesville, Florida. You were a third-year law student. I was working at the Sundowner on West Main. I didn't wear designer suits then. I wore blue jeans and T-shirts and flip-flops because it was what I could afford. I was nineteen and weighed about twenty pounds less than I do now, and I had short brown hair. Look at me.”

Paul Shelby was slowly shaking his head.

“You gave me a thousand dollars for an abortion. You can't have forgotten that.”

After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Charlie?”

She held out her arms, then let them fall at her sides. “Yeah. Charlie.”

Warily he said, “What do you want?”

“What do I
want?
I don't know. I guess I want . . . I want some acknowledgment of what you did. Yes. That would be nice. An apology. Let's start there.”

“An apology? For what? For getting you pregnant?”

“No. For what you did to me.” Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she paced in front of him. “I'd never been with a guy so much older, almost ten years older, a law student, a former Navy lieutenant, and I couldn't imagine why you'd want
me.
We didn't have normal dates. We never went to dinner or a movie. I never met your friends. We'd go right to your apartment. But then one of your neighbors saw us come out. He laughed and said who's the kid?”

“For God's sake.” Shelby turned away and put a hand to his forehead.

C.J. pulled on his sleeve and forced him to look at her. “It took me a while, but I finally got it, what I was to you. The next time you called me, I said no, but you kept calling and said you missed me. Please, Charlie, I miss you, baby. We didn't go to your apartment. We drove out to the country—you had that new Mustang, remember? The front seat went all the way down.”

“Stop it!”

“That's funny. I said the same thing. I said it over and over, but you wouldn't stop. You called me your baby doll. You put your hands around my neck and squeezed. You said it would make it better for both of us. I thought I was going to die. After it was over, you threw me out of the car, and I had to walk back to town. How far was that? Five miles?”