The Dark of Day (7 page)

“Not at all,” C.J. said. “If Mr. Slater wants to hire me, I'll charge him expenses. If you want to take care of it, that's up to you. If you've spoken to Milo Cahill, you know why I'm here. What I would like to know, before
committing to anything, is where I stand with Donald Finch. Back in Los Angeles, I used to be able to lift a telephone and get to the right people. I even had an agent. Here, it's not that easy. I would like to have Mr. Finch's help, but I get the distinct feeling that he couldn't care less.”

“No, no, Don's just that way. You have to know him. Look. I'll make sure he follows through. That's a promise.” Paul Shelby held out his hand. Soft, warm fingers closed around hers. “Deal?”

“Deal.” C.J. quickly shook his hand, then pulled away. “Milo tells me you and he were fraternity brothers at Duke.”

“Oh, goodness. Yes, that's true. Milo's a character, isn't he? Well, C.J., it's been great meeting you. You have a nice evening, and keep me posted. You'll be hearing from Rick tomorrow.”

“One moment.” When he stepped back in her direction, C.J. said, “Tell him not to call me before noon. I'd like for you to call me earlier, no later than ten o'clock. There are some things I'd like to ask you.”

“Such as?”

“When and why he was hired. Who recommended him. His background. That sort of thing.”

“Of course.”

From the depths of her tote bag came a melodic chime. “I also want you to send me copies of any documents relating to Mr. Slater. Résumé, employment application, pay records. Monday morning, if possible.”

“All right.” He glanced down at her tote. “I think your phone is ringing.”

“It will stop.” She smacked the side as if that might work. “Could I ask why you went to Mr. Medina's party?”

“Why? He invited me. I wanted to hear Yasmina. I'd have gone to that big bash Sony Records threw for her on Lincoln Road, but I was stuck in West Palm Beach giving a speech. Billy said come on by afterward, and I did.”

“I wasn't aware you knew Billy Medina.”

“Absolutely. He's always been a supporter. He's a great guy. You know, C.J., politicians don't spend all their time making speeches and sniping at each other. We occasionally like to get out and have a little fun. And before you ask, Diana was stuck at home with a bad cold. She knew I was going over to Guillermo Medina's house. Is this important?” He looked at his watch.

“Just one more thing. Richard Slater dropped you off, didn't he? Then what? You told him he could leave?”

“Yes. It was late. I said I'd find my own way home. I didn't think it was fair to make him stick around waiting for me after he'd been on duty for twelve hours.”

“Did he tell you he was going to come inside?”

“No, I didn't see him. Later, when I asked him about it, he told me he'd just wanted to take a look around, see what the party was all about.”

“How has Mr. Slater managed to avoid talking to the police for this long?”

“Well . . . I think they're extending me a courtesy.”

“Power has its privileges?”

He acknowledged that with a smile. “Sometimes it does, but I try not to overstep.” He lowered his voice. “What are the chances this thing could blow up?”

“I hope not, but yes, it could. It has all the ingredients. A missing girl. Miami Beach. Money, celebrities. And a link—tenuous, but it exists—to a wealthy, attractive, and very well-connected Congressman with presidential ambitions. The tabloid press are not known for extending courtesies.”

Shelby's lips tightened. “I should have fired him. It's not too late.”

“No. I think your first instincts were correct.” C.J. added, “You're confident he told you the truth?”

“So far I have no reason to think otherwise. If you learn anything different, I'd like to know about it.”

“I can't do that. He's my client.”

“Of course.” Shelby nodded. “Just take care of it, the sooner the better.”

“I'll certainly try. Please rejoin your family. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

From her position behind the palms, she watched him walk toward the crowd near the entrance. Watched someone call to him, Shelby not responding until the man grabbed his arm, and then the photogenic smile, laughing, putting his hand on the other man's back. More introductions, more handshakes.

Expelling a breath, C.J. leaned against the wall. “What a phony. What a fucking politician.”

She was aware of what she wanted, and that Shelby could snatch it away. Aware that she'd have nothing if his chauffeur told her to get lost. No, not
chauffeur.
Comrade in arms, a brother veteran, who would be left to rot if he became inconvenient.

Finally remembering that someone had tried to call her, she reached into her bag for her cell phone.

The screen glowed with white light.
Billy.

a yellow sliver of moon hung over the city. The sky had turned dark enough to admit the first pinpricks of stars. Along the seawall behind Billy Medina's house, up-lights skimmed over the trunks of the date palms and illuminated their pale green crowns. The pool glittered as Billy cut through the water, doing his laps.

C.J. hadn't counted; he was already swimming when she arrived. She sat on the edge with her skirt halfway up her thighs and her bare feet on the steps. Billy hadn't greeted her, but their eyes had met as he made a turn, taking a breath, pushing off, his body rippling under the surface.

They had been lovers for almost a year. Before that, their worlds had intersected at cultural events or, more often, the South Beach club scene—the late nights, the hangovers, the tired and trivial chatter, the crowd casting their razor eyes on newcomers, deciding if they were worthy. Billy had never been like that. He wasn't out to matter to anyone. He didn't care. This alone drew people to him, never mind the fact that he was rich and threw A-list parties.

He lived alone, except for the shifting group of friends who came and went. If he had other women, they weren't in Miami. C.J. had never heard any gossip. His ex-wife lived in Boston with their two teenagers. They rarely visited. Billy didn't seem to mind.

Billy dove under, coming closer. His right arm extended. A hand went around C.J.'s ankle, pulling hard, and she laughed and grabbed the handrail. Billy stood up in a cascade of water, raising his arms, pushing back his hair. It was prematurely gray, a contrast to black brows and dark eyes. He had a flat belly and long limbs. Not bad for a man of forty-eight.

He waded closer and kissed her on the mouth with cool, wet lips. Droplets of water fell on her cheek and dotted her silk blouse. “Welcome back,” she said.

“How have you been?”

“I won the Harnell Robinson case.”

“Of course you did. Let's go in.”

He went up the steps and under the palm-frond thatch of the cabana, where he stripped off his swim trunks, careless of anyone going by in a boat. He tossed the briefs aside and ran a towel quickly over his body. He put on shorts and a loose linen shirt and slipped into his sandals. “My flight was delayed, so Maria put my dinner in the refrigerator. I have enough for two. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He let her go first through a sliding door, and she felt the air-conditioned chill on her face. A wall of glass overlooked the terrace. The floor was polished marble, and low tables and furniture upholstered in black leather formed several seating areas. Quiet, uncluttered, perfectly clean.

As they passed the dining room, C.J. heard a splashing noise and looked around the corner to see a red-haired man squeezing water out of a sponge into a bucket. He had a perfectly square crew cut, and longer hair in back that touched the collar of his plaid shirt. The tiles under his knees were wet and shiny, and an old beach towel bore the residue of grout that he had apparently been cleaning from the cracks. He was working in a small area in the corner. His name was Dennis something, and he did odd jobs for Billy. Dennis Murphy.

“Hello, Dennis.”

He nodded in her direction, then said to Billy, “I'm about done here.”

“Looks good. I left you some cash in an envelope on the table.”

“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.” He folded the towel and went to work drying the floor.

Billy continued toward the kitchen, and C.J. followed. She said quietly, “You didn't hire him for his charm.”

“I hired him because I trust him to keep his hands off my stuff,” Billy said.

“Why is he replacing tiles?”

“There were some rust spots where that flower thing used to be.”

She remembered the metal sculpture, a five-foot-tall burst of flowers planted in a polished plaster base. “What did you do with it?”

“I threw it out. Why?”

“Billy! If you didn't like it, you should have said so before I bought it for you. Don't you remember? The Coconut Grove Arts Festival last February. I said it would look nice in your house.”

“You did? I'm sorry, C.J., I completely forgot. How much was it?”

“Six hundred dollars. I don't want the money back. Forget it.”

“Awww. You can help me pick out something else.”

“I wouldn't dare. Your tastes are way too refined for me.”

He laughed. “Come on, you need dinner. We have roast beef on the menu tonight.” He went into the refrigerator for a stack of covered plates. “All I have to do is nuke it.”

“I don't think I can wait that long.” She rummaged through the cheese drawer. “When I saw Milo today, he took me for a ride in his limo. He says the interior is getting ratty, so he's going to have it reupholstered in red leather.”

“That's our Milo.”

C.J. found a box of crackers in one of the cabinets. “He told me you're investing in The Aquarius. I assume it's not a secret.”

“No, it's not a secret.” Billy punched numbers into the microwave.

“Are you in trouble, Billy? With money.”

He turned around.

She said, “Milo seems to think you are. Don't give me that look. I'm your lawyer. If you're taking chances on a project that in this market could just as easily go down the tubes, I wish you had sought my advice before you dug yourself further into the hole than you already are.”

He held up his hands and laughed. “Not to worry. It's all good. We're golden. This project will take off, and when, not if, that happens, yours truly will be rolling in cash. And here's the best part. I'll have first dibs on a casino. I predict it's going to be on the ballot next year, and this time it's going to pass.”

“You're sure,” she said.

“Yes, indeedy.”

“Well. Great. Would you hand me a cheese knife, please?”

“Don't pout. I'll hire you as general counsel.” Billy gave her a knife and went back for silverware and napkins. He set two places at the granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen. Halogens in frosted glass shades hung from a rail, and his hair gleamed as he went in and out of the light.

“You're insufferable,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

Watching him move, C.J. cut a small wedge of brie. “Paul Shelby told me you and he are good friends.”

“Shelby has a lot of friends. I support him because he's pro-business.”

“He's up for re-election this fall.”

“Are you asking if we're buying his influence in Congress?”

“Let's just say you're supporting a pro-business candidate.”

“But I'm not contributing to his campaign. Do you know why?” Billy leaned his arms on the granite top.

C.J. fed him a bite of cheese. “You don't want Shelby's opponents to start making snarky comments about this deal.”

“Exactly.”

“What are those?” She had noticed the bottles on the other end of the island, one in a brown wrapper with ornate lettering, the other a squat bottle with an old sailing ship on its label.

“Those? I brought them back from Aruba. I am on a hunt for the world's finest gin.” He slid the bottles closer. “This is a Van Wees, from Holland,
fifteen years old. The other is Martin Miller's, distilled in London, then shipped to Iceland to be blended with spring water.” He slid off his stool and crossed to the refrigerator. “However, for a truly superlative gin and tonic, you need the right tonic.” He presented a chilled bottle. “From India, Fever Tree tonic water. Cures you of malaria, dengue fever, and impotence, I expect.” He squinted at the label. “What does this say?”

She read, “Bitter orange from Tanzania, African marigold, Sicilian lemons, pure cane sugar.”