The Dark of Day (36 page)

“Sorry, C.J.”

As she left, Watts said, “Have a nice day, Counselor.”

 

 

Even in the shade of the building, with an ocean breeze winding its way across four lanes of traffic, the heat and humidity were sucking the perspiration out of her body. C.J. waited at the curb for traffic to pass, then ran catercorner in her high heels to the Eleventh Street Diner, where she slid onto a stool, took off her sunglasses, and ordered an iced tea.

She checked her messages. Judy Mazzio had called with the address and phone number for Jason Wright. C.J. wrote it down, then called Judy's cell phone. When Judy answered, C.J. said, “I was just talking to Sergeant Fuentes. Guess which of my clients was seen getting into a boat at the Redfish Point marina the morning after Alana Martin disappeared?”

“Who? Oh, my God. Not Rick Slater.”

“You'd think he would have mentioned it, wouldn't you?”

“No shit. What does he say?”

“I haven't asked him yet. Judy, I need to know whose boat he was using. Can you get me a list of boat owners from the marina? Never mind sailboats, just motor boats.”

“What good will that do?”

“It will make it more difficult for Mr. Slater to lie to me. I'm getting tired of surprises.”

When Judy had hung up, promising to send Raul to the marina with a suitably large bribe, C.J. called Jason Wright's cell phone. She sipped some iced tea through the straw and waited. A few moments later Jason's rich, steady baritone was telling her to please leave a message.

“Jason, this is C.J. Dunn.” She told him she had an envelope for him but since she couldn't reach him, she would come by and leave it with the landlord.

When she had finished her tea and paid, she called for a taxi. She gave the driver the address, Collins and Twenty-Second, an apartment building called The Farnsworth. Five minutes later the taxi was stopping in front. The boxy, four-story design was from the fifties, updated with new windows and red awnings. Traveler's palms stood flat against the wall. A curved portico extended over a walkway, which led to a white metal gate that was closed and probably locked.

She was looking through the bars of the gate at a courtyard and wondering how to get inside when she spotted a man lying on one of the chaises beside the pool. His skin was like oiled bronze. Mirrored sunglasses turned in her direction as she called out, “Excuse me. I need to leave this for one of your neighbors. Could you let me in?”

He stared back at her for a second, then waved for her to go away.

“It's important.” She pushed her sunglasses into her hair so he could see her.

“You're not getting in. We had to lock the gate because of you people.”

She was going to ask if he could take the envelope when she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and looked into a camera
just as the flash went off. It fired two or three more times before she recognized him: Nash Pettigrew.

“Damn it, Nash, get that camera out of my face.” She held up a hand.

“What is C.J. Dunn doing outside Jason Wright's apartment, I'd like to know.” He raised the camera again.

With effort she stopped herself from screaming at him. She was about to go back to the taxi when the gate opened, and the man in the swimsuit motioned her inside. “Sorry. I thought you were a reporter.” He locked the gate and raised his middle finger at Pettigrew. “Bite me.”

“Thanks.” C.J. held up the envelope. “I need to deliver this.”

“Okay. Be sure the gate is closed when you go out.” He returned to his sunbathing.

Four floors of open walkways surrounded the courtyard. Jason Wright lived in 210. C.J. took the stairs. The heat of the day radiated from the concrete steps. She found the apartment without difficulty. The blinds were closed. There were several notes stuck between the door and the frame, and someone had taped an envelope above the doorknob. Jason's name was handwritten on the front, and the return address said it had come from Channel Eight, Libi Rodriguez's station.

C.J. took out her cell phone and tried calling him, but again it went to voice mail. She was afraid that if she left her envelope with the others here, it would be overlooked. C.J. put her phone away and knocked. She waited and knocked more loudly. The door of the next apartment came open and a woman walked out with her hands on her hips. “Would you please stop that? He doesn't want to talk to anybody.”

“I'm not a reporter,” C.J. said. “I'm a friend trying to get in touch with him.”

That eased the frown on her face. “Who are you?”

“My name is C.J. Dunn. I'm a lawyer. Jason called me last night and wanted me to recommend an attorney for him, so I've brought him a list.” When the woman's eyes fell to the envelope, C.J. said, “I've tried to call him, but he doesn't answer. Do you know where he went?”

“He's home. He's just not answering the door,” the woman said. “I heard him come in real late last night, and he hasn't left. I've been here all day.
My boy is sick with the flu. Jason's door always scrapes when it opens, and I can hear when he's coming or going. Knock again.”

C.J. pounded on the white-painted steel with the edge of her fist, listened, then pounded some more.

The woman said, “If you want me to give him that envelope, I will.”

“He has to be there.” Moving over to the window, C.J. rapped on the glass. “Jason? It's me, C.J. Dunn!” The blinds had not been lowered all the way to the sill. She crouched down to look through the narrow opening. Except for the light filtering in from outside, the living room was dark.

She stared at a shape that seemed to float in the middle of the room and gradually realized what it was.

The neighbor said, “I guess Jason went out and I didn't hear him.”

“No. He's in there.” C.J. came away from the window and took out her cell phone. A heaviness had descended into the pit of her stomach. She called 911.

the living-room window of Jason's apartment was a gaping hole where the men had broken through with an ax. There had been other noises: blinds falling with a metallic crash, furniture thumping to the floor, then silence. The door opened. A paramedic came out and told everyone to move back.

The neighbor woman put her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream. In an instant, C.J. saw more clearly what she had glimpsed before: the tilted blades of a ceiling fan, a shape suspended underneath—a man, blond hair, wearing khaki pants and a blue oxford shirt. His head rested on his shoulder; the face was turned away. His hands and bare feet were swollen and dark with blood.

C.J. leaned on the balcony railing, catching her breath before walking to a bench by the elevators. She opened her purse for her cell phone and put it back, too shaken to call anyone. Within minutes, uniformed officers arrived and strung crime-scene tape around the entrance to the apartment. People stood watching from the opposite balcony. Nash Pettigrew pushed through and aimed his long lens at the door. The noise of an engine grew
louder, and the Channel Ten helicopter appeared in the empty square of sky above the courtyard.

The elevator opened. A lieutenant came out, followed by Sergeant Fuentes, who saw her and backed up.

“Ms. Dunn?”

She explained what she was doing there. He nodded and said to wait; he would be right back. Fuentes walked toward Jason's apartment and went inside.

C.J. took out her cell phone and called Billy Medina, not sure even as her fingers pressed the keys why she was doing this, except that of all the people in her address book, Billy would be the least likely to demand answers.

He was at a bar on Ocean Drive having drinks with some hotel developers from Spain. He didn't mind being disturbed; he was bored to tears. When C.J. told him what had happened and said she was stuck without a car, he said, “Do you want me to come save you?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Disconnecting, she noticed the message icon. Rick Slater had returned her call. If it had rung, she hadn't heard it. She slid the cell phone back into its pocket and waited for Sergeant Fuentes. She checked her watch. 5:25. She put her chin on a fist and waited some more.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The Channel Seven team rushed past her, trailed by their cameraman. At the barrier of crime-scene tape, one of the reporters flipped open his notebook and started talking to the police. The other stood in front of the camera. A light went on. Some teenage girls waved and giggled, two seconds of fame before the camera shifted to get them out of the picture.

Fuentes finally returned. “Ms. Dunn, you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“You said Jason called you at midnight.”

“That's right, from the Club Deuce.”

“Why'd he call C.J. Dunn? If he was looking for a lawyer, why ask the lawyer representing a man who might have killed his girlfriend? You know what I mean?”

“George, I have no idea why Jason called me,” she lied. “I think he was drunk.”

“He had your private number at home?”

“He had my mobile number. I'd given him my card at a reception for Milo Cahill. By the way, he wasn't Alana's boyfriend. They were close friends, but he was gay. You shouldn't believe everything you hear on the news.”

“Who told you he was gay?”

“Mr. Cahill. Jason hadn't come out yet because his family couldn't have handled it.”

“In this day and age?”

“Not everyone lives on Miami Beach,” she said.

Fuentes sat beside her. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“That's about it, unfortunately.”

They watched as a reporter and cameraman from Channel 23 came up the stairs and hurried past them, then a man with two big digital cameras and a
Miami Herald
press badge around his neck.

C.J. asked, “Did Jason leave a note?”

“We haven't found anything so far. Might have sent an email, might've dropped a note in the mailbox. They do that sometimes.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“The ME will have a better estimate, but I'm going to say at least twelve hours. He stood on a chair and kicked it over. I'm surprised the ceiling fan didn't fall.” George sighed. “Twenty-eight years old. Why do they do it? Some people, I'd love to hand them a rope, but not a kid like this. Whole life ahead of him.”

They sat there for a moment in gloomy silence. Then C.J. took a breath and stood up. “I need to go. Someone's waiting for me.”

Fuentes walked with her to the top of the stairs. “Don't forget to ask your client what he was doing, taking a boat out the day after Alana disappeared.”

“Fishing, what else?” C.J. gave Fuentes a little wave as she went down the steps.

She had just reached the bottom when she saw Libi Rodriguez coming through the gate in her sneakers and snug-fitting top, followed by Carlos
Moreno with his video camera. Libi's cell phone was pressed to her ear until she noticed C.J. She disconnected and snapped her fingers to get the cameraman's attention. “Carlos!”

C.J. put on her sunglasses. “I have nothing to say to you, Libi.” She swerved to go around them, but the reporter blocked her way.

Libi spoke into her cordless microphone. “Defense attorney C.J. Dunn came here to see Jason Wright, and when he didn't respond to her knocks on the door, she notified police. Why did you want to talk to him? What made you suspect that something might be wrong?”

The microphone moved to C.J., who kept walking.

Libi scooted in front of her. “Ms. Dunn, you're representing a person of interest in Alana Martin's murder. What brought you here to see Jason?”

“No comment.”

“Some say that Jason Wright might have killed Alana. What effect do you think his suicide will have on the investigation?”

C.J. grabbed the microphone out of Libi's hand and threw it across the courtyard. It sailed over the pool fence, hit the edge of the pool, and bounced into the water.

“Oh, my God. I don't believe this! Did you see what she did?”

With her back to the lens, C.J. said quietly, “Stay away from me, Libi, or I'll do the same to you.”

“Turn on the camera mike! Turn it on! She just threatened me.”

But Moreno had lowered his camera. “Let it go, Libi.”

“Turn it on, I said!” Libi's cheeks were hot with rage. “I'll have you arrested. I'll file a complaint for destruction of property.”

“Go for it, you brainless twit.”