The Dark of Day (47 page)

Rick moved fast. He came up to the driver's side, pinned Murphy's arm to the door, and put the barrel of the gun to his neck, snugging it tight under the curve of his skull.

Murphy jerked, and the cigarette dropped to the pavement. “What the fuck?” Rick's fingers were clamped hard above his left elbow.

“Don't move. I have a forty-five calibur pistol that could blow your brains through the roof of this truck. Take the keys out of the ignition and toss them out the window. Easy.”

Murphy's eyes darted side to side as if someone might be around to witness this. No one was. “What do you want?”

“The keys. Throw them out.”

Murphy laughed. “You're putting yourself in a bad spot, man.” The keys jangled on the cracked concrete.

“Now you. Get out. Slow.” Murphy reached across with his right hand for the door release. Shifting as the door slowly came open, Rick moved the pistol around the window frame and pressed it again to Murphy's head. One sneaker hit the ground, then the other. “Turn around, face the
door.” Murphy was a couple of inches shorter. This worked to Rick's advantage as he quickly slid his left arm around the other man's throat and squeezed hard, using pressure on his carotid arteries to cut off his blood supply.

Murphy struggled, but after a few seconds his body sagged. Rick maintained the pressure a while longer, and, when he was sure Murphy was out, dragged him toward the rear of the building. Nelia was coming back. She glanced Rick's way and kept walking.

Raindrops whispered in the tall weeds that had grown up through the pitted rocks along the river bank. Past the chain-link fence, the hammering of metal on metal and the hiss of acetylene torches came from the night shift at the boat works. The scent of diesel fuel, rotting vegetation, and muck drifted downwind. Rick crouched next to Dennis Murphy and waited for him to wake up. Murphy lay face up on a ragged sheet of plywood, feet on land, head a few inches from the oily water. His ankles and knees were bound with duct tape; his arms were behind him, secured at the wrist. Across the river a two-story office building had closed for the night: nobody over there looking out a window.

When he woke up, it took a minute for Murphy to grasp his situation. Rick poked his shoulder. “Why were you following me?”

Murphy lifted his head off the plywood. “Fuck you.”

Rick stood up, put a foot on Murphy's chest, and shifted his weight toward the downhill end of the plywood. It went under, and the water swirled up, reaching Murphy's head, then his shoulders. “Did Noreen Finch send you after me?”

Murphy took a lung full of air and screamed, “Help!” Rick leaned forward and Murphy went under. Bubbles came up. He counted to ten. When Murphy's head reappeared, his spiked red hair was flattened to his skull. He spat out water.

“Talk to me, Dennis. Maybe you'd rather go swimming. Nobody would notice. You'd drift out to the bay, probably be cut up by boat propellers, turned into fish food.” Rick sat on his heels beside him. “Did Noreen tell you to follow me?”

“No!”

Rick slapped him across the face. Then again. When he thought he had his attention, he leaned closer. “Did she tell you to kill Alana Martin? Or did Shelby do it?”

“You're crazy. Let me go.”

“See if this makes sense to you, Dennis. Paul Shelby killed her, and Noreen Finch drove over and helped him get the body off the island. Did you help them? Is that what happened?”

“No! Jesus Fucking Christ, no.”

He tried to roll away, but Rick dragged him toward the water. His shoes lost some traction on the algae-slick wood, and he slipped to his knees. Water rushed over his legs. He put both hands on Dennis Murphy's chest and counted slowly to ten, then hooked his belt and hauled him out. “Who murdered Alana? Was it Paul Shelby?”

A spray of water came from Murphy's mouth. He dragged in some air and coughed on it. “No! Fuck! Let me go. I don't know anything about it!” A scrap of sodden plastic bag stuck to his cheek, and Rick lifted it off.

“Did you help them put Alana's body in Noreen's boat that night? Maybe the next morning? What did you tie the body to so it would sink? You didn't do a very good job. She floated up again.”

Murphy wheezed. “I didn't kill her. I swear.”

“If it wasn't you, was it Shelby? or Noreen? Had to be one or the other, Dennis. Which one?”

“I don't know, man. I don't know anything.”

“Let's see how long you can hold your breath.” Rick stepped on the end of the board and Murphy went under. When he came up again, Rick said, “Showtime, Dennis. No more bullshit. I'm ready to push you in. Was it Shelby? Yes or no?”

“I don't know!”

A blow across his cheekbone sent his head whiplashing to one side. The next blow split his lip. “What happened to Alana Martin? I'll fucking put you in the river.”

“Don't! I didn't kill her. Don't put me in there. It was Billy. He did it.”

“Medina?” Rick sat there a minute thinking, then gave Murphy a shove. “Were you there? Did he cut her up?”

Murphy shook his head. “Nobody cut her up. She came to the party. They went upstairs to talk. It was an accident. I helped him get rid of her body. That's all I did. Tied her to a metal statue. Took it out on his boat.”

“Jesus.” Rick had to take a breath. “Why did he do it? Why did Billy kill her?”

“She was threatening him.” Murphy coughed. “She acted in some porno movie. A friend of Billy's had the tapes. She thought Billy could get them back.”

“This friend of Billy's. Is his name Harold Vincent?”

“Yeah.”

“She threatened Billy. How?”

“Alana said if he didn't get her the tapes, she'd go to the newspaper, the TV, shit like that. I don't know. They were upstairs during the party. She went after him, and he pushed her. She hit her head. It was an accident.”

“You believe that?”

“I don't know.”

Rain ticked on the wood and dotted the slow-moving surface of the river. Rick could feel it on his shoulders and back. “Did Billy send you after me?”

“Yeah. Didn't trust you. Too many questions about Alana.”

“What did Billy tell you to do to me?”

“Fuck you up.” Dennis Murphy laughed through bloody teeth. “I was supposed to fuck you up.”

“That's nice. Fuck me up, huh? Maybe send me to the Everglades in pieces? Is that what he had in mind?”

“I wouldn't have.”

“Uh-huh.”

Murphy spat out some blood. “I told you everything. Untie me. How about it?”

“Can't let you go, Dennis.”

“What are you going to do?”

Rick grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him into the weeds. His shirt came up, and he moaned when his back scraped the rocks. Holding him under the arms, Rick hauled him over to a twisted tree trunk near the fence and propped him against it. He found the roll of duct tape where
he'd left it, picked at the free end, and spun it out. He wrapped the tape around the tree trunk and Murphy's torso, pinning his arms. He tore off another piece and got it over Murphy's mouth and twice around his head.

The rain was coming down, and the wind bent the tall grasses. In the dim light Rick could see a pair of small, pale blue eyes glittering with rage. Rick patted Murphy on the shoulder. “The cops will be coming by later on to pick you up.”

Breathing hard, more from nerves than exertion, Rick trotted back through the vacant lot behind the gas station, went around, and left Dennis Murphy's keys on the seat of the truck. It might be there later, it might not. Fuck him. Rick got into his car. He wiped the rain off his face and put his pistol back into the glove compartment. He didn't lock it. He wanted to be able to get to the gun easily when he arrived at Billy Medina's house. C.J. would be there. He thought about the bruises on her arm. If Billy had touched her, Rick would break both his knees and then shoot him.

His hands were shaking as he jammed the key into the ignition.

as Billy stood there with a glass in each hand, waiting for her to explain, C.J. folded the page.

“It's just a picture of a piece of metal they found with Alana Martin's body. They don't know what it is. I thought of the flowers that used to be here, but it's not the same.”

“Let me see it.”

“It's nothing. I had that statue on my mind. You didn't like it. That's all right.” She walked past him.

His bare feet were silent on the smooth floor, but in the windows she could see him behind her. The buildings downtown were gone, swallowed up in rain. Lightning flickered. “There's a storm. It's coming this way. You know, I really ought to get home before it breaks.” The car keys were in her purse, which seemed impossibly distant, a white dot on the black leather sofa.

Two slight thuds, Billy setting the drinks on the coffee table. “If you leave now, you'll drive right into it.” He reached for her hand. “Stay and have a drink with me, a real drink.”

“I really can't.”

“Why is your hand so cold?”

“Is it?”

“Yes, very cold.” He squeezed her fingers.

“It's your house. And the rain—I was chilled coming in.”

“Show me the picture. Come on, C.J. Let's see what you have in your pocket.” He caught her around the waist and had the paper in his hand before she could swivel away. He shook the page open. “Yes. I saw this too. You're wrong. There's no way in hell this piece of metal, whatever it is, came off my statue.”

“I just said that, Billy.” The muscles in her legs were quivering. She wondered if they would carry her outside. “The flowers, I mean that part of the flowers, was much curlier. And different metal. Not at all the same.”

“But you're wondering about it.” He tossed the page to the sofa. “Aren't you? I've been wondering about it too. I had the statue in the garage and then it was gone. I asked Dennis, and he said he had taken it to his house. He asked me if that was okay, and I said sure. I didn't want it anymore.”

“Dennis took it?”

“I think . . . this sounds crazy, but I think he may have had something to do with Alana's disappearance.”

“You do?” C.J.'s purse was out of reach on the middle of the three sofas, formed into a square, with a large coffee table in the middle, blocking her way.

Billy said, “I think Dennis used that statue to sink her body.”

C.J. nodded. “It was heavy enough. Why did he do it?”

“Dennis knows Harold Vincent. Did some handyman jobs for his travel agency. I recommended him.”

“Did you?” C.J. walked casually, slowly across the floor. “So Harold Vincent was in it too?”

Billy was behind her. “I think you were right about Harold. The pornography. Alana was involved with him. He knows dangerous people. Desperate people. You asked me to talk to him, and I did. Remember you asked me? I talked to Harold, and he said that Alana was causing major, major problems for him, wanting her audition tapes. I tried to get some answers,
but he wouldn't elaborate. I didn't call you about it because, well, I didn't think you wanted to see me anymore.”

“The tapes,” she said. “That must be it.” Her heart was beating so fast and hard she was afraid he could hear it. She took a breath to calm herself. It didn't work. Her purse was straight ahead. The car keys inside it. She kept moving. “I never liked Dennis. Something about him. If, as you say, he worked for Harold Vincent, and Alana was causing Vincent major problems, then he had a reason to get rid of her, so he sent Dennis, and . . . and Dennis kidnapped and murdered her.”

“But we can't prove anything, can we?” Billy took C.J.'s elbow and turned her around.

She didn't want to look in his face, afraid he would see too much, but she lifted her chin and said, “No, we can't prove it. We have no evidence. Even the statue is gone. We can't do anything.”

“Oh, C.J.” Billy's black brows came together as though he'd felt a sudden pain.

“We can't tell anyone,” she said again. “I think all we can do . . . is let it go. We can't accuse Harold Vincent or Dennis either, without proof. They would sue us for slander.”

“You know, don't you? You know.”

“About lawsuits, you mean. Oh, yes. My advice is, do nothing for the moment. We'll talk when you come back from Antigua.” C.J. was walking backward now, Billy holding on to her fingertips. “Call me when you get there. I should leave and let you finish packing. Billy, let go.”

“I'm so sorry.” And then he turned her around, and his arm was across her throat. “Sorrier than you can imagine, C.J.”