The Dark of Day (31 page)

Slater was earning $700 a week plus overtime. C.J. went to the résumé, expecting nothing unusual. Judy Mazzio had already supplied the basic information. Born at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, lived on bases in six different countries. High school and first two years of college in Chicago. Eight years in the Army Special Forces, various assignments overseas, discharged as a lieutenant. Paratroop training. Medal for expert marksmanship. Third-degree black belt in karate and tae kwon do. Graduated from UNC-WILMINGTON, near Fort Bragg, with a degree in political science.

C.J. turned to the next page. Private security work in Malaysia, Italy, Colombia, and Mexico. Most recently with Atlas Security, Miami. Licensed to carry firearms. Fluent in Spanish, had basic Italian, French, and Arabic.

Odd. Why would a man with that much going for him settle for $700 a week to be a chauffeur in Miami, Florida?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Shirley buzzed her on the intercom.

“It's Mr. Medina. I told him you didn't want to be disturbed, but he said you were expecting his call.”

When she connected, C.J. said, “Billy, I was hoping to speak to you today. Have the media showed up?”

“Like flies,” he said. “But what can I tell them? Yes, I had the party. Yes, she was here. That's all I know. Well, my lovely, I have something you want. I spoke to the mayor about the witnesses.”

“Thank you, Billy. I wasn't sure you would.”

“You should have more faith in me,
chica.
”

He gave her the names of two men and their addresses, one in Miami, the other on the beach. He said, “I hope you get rid of this soon. It's making you a little crazy. You'll be easier to get along with when it's over.”

“Probably true. Maybe we can see each other this weekend. Until then, I'm swamped.”

“Really? How unusual. Whenever you break free, you know my number.”

“Yes, and I would be so happy to see you too,” she said.

She called Judy Mazzio's office and left the information on Judy's voice mail. She added, “See if you can get a statement out of these guys pronto. I need it yesterday. Threaten to break their legs if they lie. Oh, and I'm going to courier that black dress over to you. See if it improves their memories.”

As she worked, she kept the TV on mute, two channels on the screen, NBC and CNN. She planned to watch Paul Shelby's press conference at four-thirty. He had timed it to give the reporters a chance to put his big smile and brilliant remarks into their five o'clock lineup. But she suspected they weren't going to ask many questions about The Aquarius.

Her intercom buzzed. Shirley told her that Mr. Slater had arrived. C.J. said to ask him if he wanted anything to drink; she would be with him in a minute. She hung up and raced around her office shoving boxes out of the way, straightening stacks of journals, and pushing three pairs of shoes out of sight under the sofa. She touched up her lipstick and went out to the twenty-first-floor waiting room to find her client.

He sat on the edge of one of the square-shaped armchairs, leaning over the large glass-topped table, feet planted apart, reading an issue of
Yachting Magazine.
The back of his dark gray suit coat stretched tightly across his shoulders. The halogens in the ceiling put a little shine on his head.

“Mr. Slater?”

His eyes went first to her face before doing the automatic male scan, starting at her open-toe, four-inch Manolo Blahniks, up her legs, over the above-the-knee skirt, lingering for a split second on her chest, then back to her face. He smiled politely and stood up, extending his hand.

“Ms. Dunn.”

“Come on back.”

In her office she closed the door behind him and said, “No comments on the clutter, please.”

“Nice view.” He walked over to the window. “I don't have much time. I dropped the Shelbys off at his congressional office for the press conference, and he expects me to come right back.”

“Does he know you're here?”

Slater withdrew an envelope from inside his jacket. “He gave me a check for you. Five grand. I don't think he was too happy about it. He's been listening to the news, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Slater looked at the row of orchid pots on the windowsill. Three were in bloom, including a white vanda that was sending out double sprays of flowers, propped up on long sticks. “Green thumb,” he said.

“I just feed them. They bloom when they get good and ready.” C.J. put the envelope on her desk. “I had to give your name to some reporters whom I trust before Libi Rodriguez figures it out. She's good, I have to hand it to her. She smiles pretty and shows her cleavage. Do you want to sit down?”

“Sure.” Slater sat on the edge of the sofa, feet apart, elbows on knees. He was frowning. “What are the chances of them coming after me? In my business, we don't like our faces on TV.”

“Fifty-fifty. I'm doing the best I can. If they think you're just another Joe Schmoe at the party, they'll leave you alone.” She told him that she had obtained the names of the witnesses who supposedly had seen him with Alana Martin. “My investigator is going to show them Alana's picture and encourage them to say they were mistaken. We'll give their statements to the police. I thought I had an alibi witness, but it didn't work out.”

“Who?”

“The girl you took home from the party. I thought I could find her.”

“How?”

“I have my ways, but it was a dead end. We won't need her. Somebody else's name has come up. Jason Wright. Remember him? The architect who works for Milo Cahill? Or he used to. Cahill fired him.”

“Yeah, the guy you didn't think was guilty.”

“I didn't tell them. I think Noreen Finch did. Shelby's mother. It was a rotten thing to do, but it's out in the media now, and if we can take advantage, so be it. That's how the game is played.”

“Some game,” Slater said.

“My job is to protect you.”

“And Shelby.”

“Screw Shelby.” When Slater raised his brows, C.J. said, “Politicians.”

“Shelby at the top of the list, seems to me,” Slater said. “Saturday at the Royal Palm, he put his hand on your arm, and you nearly slugged him.”

“I did not.” C.J. picked up her remote. “Let's see if his press conference is being carried live. I doubt it. If anything, they'll just put some sound bites on the evening news.”

She was wrong. Paul Shelby was live on two local channels, the Fox affiliate and Channel Eight. There were others taping it; he spoke into a cluster of microphones. His wife stood beside him in a neat blue suit, a smile on her pretty face. As background they had hung up large drawings of The Aquarius, glittering blue towers rising above a horizon of palm trees and turquoise water. Shelby was finishing his remarks, gesturing to a photograph of the land as it currently existed, scrubby and dry, useless as surplus
government property, to be developed for the good of the people of Florida, for American energy independence, and for the future of the planet.

“Give me a break,” C.J. said. “Slater, I know he's your boss, but can you honestly tell me he's not getting anything out of this but a good deed that warms his heart?”

“So he says.”

When Paul Shelby was finished, the room erupted. Reporters were on their feet waving arms, shouting. A man with a Fox News microphone managed to get through. “Congressman, a question about the party a week ago where Alana Martin disappeared. Is it true that you went there to hear the Lebanese singer, Yasmina? Were you aware then, or are you now, of anti-American statements she's made against our policy in the Middle East?”

Rick Slater stared at the screen.

“Oh, that's a good one,” C.J. said.

Paul Shelby chuckled. “No, I wasn't aware, but you can be sure I won't be buying any of her CDs.”

The laughter was quickly drowned out by shouts for attention. A slender arm at the front of the crowd rose, and a woman called out, “Congressman Shelby, a question on The Aquarius!”

“Yes.” He pointed.

The camera swung to Libi Rodriguez with her Channel Eight microphone. “The architect for the project is Milo Cahill. Mr. Cahill has a long relationship with celebrity criminal lawyer C.J. Dunn, going back at least ten years, when Ms. Dunn represented Mr. Cahill in a wrongful death case in California. Now Ms. Dunn is apparently representing you or someone on your staff. Why did you hire Ms. Dunn? Is it related to the disappearance and murder of Alana Martin?”

Shelby broke into a smile. “Well, that's a bait-and-switch if I ever heard one. A member of my staff was at the party with me, and police have been interviewing everyone. It's only wise to have advice of counsel in a situation like this, and I asked Ms. Dunn for her opinion. That's all it is. And I'm not going to give you the name of my staff member, out of consideration for his privacy. Next?”

Slater let out a breath. “I just heard a bullet go past my head.” C.J. said, “Shelby's good at this. Nothing hits him and sticks. He was born to be in Washington.”

Slater looked at her. “You really don't like the man. What did he ever do to you?”

“Nothing, I hate them all equally.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

C.J. laughed. “A double scotch on the rocks. We need to talk about this, but you should go. Call me after you're finished with Shelby.”

“What if we meet later, say six-thirty? I'll buy you a hamburger at my favorite joint, the Killarney Pub.”

She hesitated. “I can't. I've got too much to do.”

“You have to eat sometime, and it's on your way home.”

“I don't drink when I'm working. I have some things to finish tonight.”

“I said eat. I'm not out to get you drunk, Ms. Dunn.” He smiled, and his teeth flashed white in his beard.

She let Shirley escort him back to the elevators. She picked up her little brass plant mister and walked down the row of orchids in her window, wondering if they would be happier in her backyard, or if the heat would bake them. She lifted a leaf on the phalaenopsis and sprayed the roots. Leaning closer, she saw a tender green shoot that hadn't been there yesterday. She smiled and gently touched it. “Where have you been?”

rick sat in a booth on the side facing the door so he could watch for C.J. Dunn. The windows were heavily tinted, and neon beer signs reflected back into the bar. There were three televisions going, but the sound was turned off, CNN on one, the others showing a game between the Florida Marlins and the Atlanta Braves, top of the eighth, Atlanta getting creamed. Not too many people on a Monday, so Rick wasn't bothering anybody by talking on his cell phone. Even so, he spoke quietly, his hand in front of his face. Carlos Moreno was on the other end, calling to tell him that in her next broadcast, Libi Rodriguez intended to mention his name.

“What the hell?” Rick said. “What's she trying to do?”

“It's not you, man,” Carlos said. “It's your lawyer. She says C.J. Dunn is a menace to the media, but here's the story. They're both being considered for a job on CNN, hosting some show about murders by the rich and famous.”

“Libi knows criminal law?”

“She covers the courthouse beat, and she thinks she has a shot because she's getting so much air time on this Martin murder. Hey, something else, Rick. A woman's been asking questions about me, an investigator named Judy Mazzio. Doesn't she work for your lawyer? What's going on?”

“C.J. thinks you're a cameraman for adult movies.”

Carlos laughed. “
¡Ay, qué rico!
I wish. Why does she think that?”

“Tell you later. I have to sign off. She's coming in now.”

He turned his cell phone to mute and slid it into his pants pocket. He had hung his jacket on the hook at the end of the booth and rolled up his sleeves. His pistol and holster were locked in the glove compartment of the Audi. As a general rule, he never took his gun into a bar that didn't serve pickled pig's feet and two-dollar beer.

She was walking past the window, reaching for the door. The sun, low in the sky, put some gold in her long blond hair. A nice-looking woman. Better than nice. Under other circumstances, if they weren't attorney and client, he might have asked her out. This didn't count, because she wanted to talk about his case.

C.J. took off her sunglasses and looked around for him. Rick stood up and raised a hand. She nodded and came over, shoved her leather bag over on the seat, and took off her jacket. Underneath, she wore a soft white blouse, so thin he could see the lace on her bra. He quickly put his eyes on her face and smiled. “You made it.”