The Dark of Day (6 page)

the humid blast of summer didn't reach into the Everglades Room, where the air was cool as early spring. Light filtered through palm fronds, mahogany-bladed fans slowly revolved in the high ceilings, and orchids decorated the tables. Huge backlit photographs of water birds in their habitat, of mangroves and sawgrass, swamps and sloughs, created the illusion that one might have wandered into the wilderness at dusk.

Following the hostess past tables and banquettes, C.J. could see through one of the fresh-water aquariums that served as room dividers. Shelby and his party had been given some privacy. When she stepped into view, they turned to look at her. The men rose, and Paul Shelby extended his hand. “Ms. Dunn. Thanks for coming on such short notice. It's a pleasure to meet you in person. Let me introduce everybody. My wife Diana. My mother, Noreen Finch. Her husband Don.”

Hands were shaken all around, and Shelby pulled out the vacant chair between him and his mother. He was shorter than he appeared on television, but the wavy brown hair was the same, the gray eyes with lines at the
corners, the downward-slanting brows and quick smile. He asked the waiter to bring a menu.

“Just a club soda,” C.J. said.

Diana Shelby leaned around her husband. “Oh, have something. An appetizer?”

“Thanks, but I have plans for later. Please go ahead, finish your dinner.”

Diana Shelby's gray silk dress and neat brown hair reminded C.J. of a nesting bird. Mrs. Shelby was eating salad, and if she was fighting to stay slim, she was losing the battle.

The congressman's mother had devoured her meal, and only the bones remained of what appeared to have been a whole red snapper. Her platinum blond hair looked sculpted into place. She had to be in her sixties, but a good surgeon had shaved off a decade or so. As she set down her wine glass, her diamond bracelet caught the light.

“How do you like Miami, Ms. Dunn?”

“Very much. After seven years, it grows on you. I have no plans to return to Los Angeles.” She realized that they thought California was her home; she didn't correct them.

“Weren't you married to a reporter on Channel Ten? I forget his name.”

“Elliott Dunn. We met in L.A. When he was offered the job in Miami, we decided to relocate. Elliott was born here, and he'd always wanted to come back.”

“I was real sorry when he died. I liked his style. He had a heart attack, wasn't it?”

C.J. nodded. “Three years ago.”

Quick sympathy appeared on Diana Shelby's face. “I remember him. He was an excellent reporter.”

“Yes. He was.”

“It's Miami's gain that you decided to stay,” Paul Shelby said. “Ms. Dunn's a partner at Tischman Farmer.”

His mother smiled at C.J. “Donald and I saw you on TV this afternoon. I figured Harnell Robinson would do time, but you sure pulled his fat out of the fire.” C.J. couldn't place the accent, but the phrasing said country.

“Don, don't you think she's pretty in person?”

“Very.” A smile passed over her husband's thin lips. Donald Finch held onto a rocks glass—probably not his first, judging from the level of his eyelids. The Finches were patrons of the concert hall. C.J. seemed to recall a million-dollar gift.

Noticing that his wife's glass was empty, Finch lifted the wine bottle from the standing ice bucket. “A refill, sweetheart?”

“Just a tad.”

C.J. asked, “Are you and Don from Miami, Noreen?”

“No, I can't claim to be a native. Ha! I've only been here forty-five years. I was born in Worland, Wyoming. Give you a dollar if you can tell me where that is. My family had horses, used to rent them out to dude ranches. I grew up shoveling horse shit. Paul did his share of it, too, when we'd go visit.” Chuckling, she nudged C.J.'s shoulder. “I think that's what got him into politics.”

The line had to be an old one, but C.J. laughed obligingly.

Noreen turned to pinch her husband's lean, tanned cheek. “Donald here is a snotty Upper East Side brat, aren't you? But he's fun. He puts up with me.”

“You know it. I like 'em hot.”

She playfully slapped his arm. “Don!”

Donald Finch looked to be north of fifty, but he was still attractive, in a dissolute sort of way, with the shaggy, sun-bleached hair of a yachtsman, a square jaw, and a long, narrow nose. His sport coat draped perfectly, and his tie was a sumptuous yellow silk—the same color as his wife's pantsuit, C.J. noticed.

Squinting slightly, he focused on C.J. “Ms. Dunn, I understand you're in the running for a job at CNN. I have a sister who works there. She's on a project in Central America right now, but I think she might come see us. We should invite you over to meet her.”

“That would be lovely,” C.J. said.

“Do you have a card?”

She took one from her wallet, wrote her cell phone number on the reverse, and slid it across the table. “Call me anytime. What is her name?”

“Sarah Finch. She uses her maiden name. She married a friend of mine from New York. Playwright. Talented guy.”

Noreen Finch dusted bread crumbs from her fingers. “Don knows everybody. You wouldn't believe it to look at him, but he studied at the American Film Institute. Heck, you and he could've bumped into each other on the street. He got his master of fine arts degree from there. Oh, let me brag on you a little, Donald.”

The waiter brought C.J.'s club soda in a tall glass. Paul Shelby leaned back as the waiter took his plate away, then set his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his fists. So far he had said next to nothing.

Noreen Finch tilted her head. “C.J. Now, that's interesting. Do you mind me asking what that stands for? Not many women have initials as their names.”

“I don't use my real name. I don't like it.”

“Oh, come on.”

C.J. made a dismissive wave. “Not on my life.”

After a quick laugh and a glance around the table, Noreen said, “Well, Miss C.J., they say you're a damned good lawyer. Is that true?”

“So they say.”

Finch murmured, “Ms. Dunn would like to be another Nancy Grace.”

Paul Shelby leaned closer to C.J. “Don't pay any attention to Don.”

Noreen said, “It's a compliment! C.J. is famous. She's been on
Larry King Live.
But I'm thinking . . . for a chauffeur, do we want a celebrity attorney? People are going to ask why the big gun? Then you get reporters crawling out of the woodwork, asking questions that don't matter a damn.”

This was going in the wrong direction. C.J. set down her glass. “I'm sure the media aren't that interested in me.”

“It isn't you I'm worried about; it's my son. They go after anybody in politics these days. It's a blood sport. God help us if this turns into a piece on
Entertainment Tonight.
Some smartass with a cell phone could be watching right now, and we'll see it on YouTube.”

“Mother, that's not going to happen.”

Donald Finch pulled up his cuff to check the time. “If you keep talking, Noreen, we're going to be late to the theater.”

“We have a box. What difference does it make?”

“I happen to like Arturo Sandoval, and I want to see the whole show. Diana doesn't want to be late either, do you, Diana?”

C.J. turned to Paul Shelby. “The police are like anyone else: they respond to power. Call it celebrity if you like. They know me, and they know I don't let anyone step on my clients. If I offer proof that Richard Slater was elsewhere, or that he had no motive to harm Ms. Martin, the police will pay attention. I believe this can be wrapped up within a few days.”

“Wouldn't
that
be dandy?” Noreen said.

Diana touched her husband's arm. “Paul, hadn't you better go talk to Ms. Dunn?”

“We can talk here,” he replied. “Everyone knows the situation. Ms. Dunn—C.J., we're all sorry about Alana Martin, and equally so for her parents. Diana and I have two boys, Mike and Matthew, and if something happened to one of them—I can't imagine. Of course the police have to question anyone who was at the party that night. They even talked to me, and that's fine. I'm happy to cooperate, but there wasn't much I could tell them. I don't know Ms. Martin, and neither does Rick Slater. That's what he tells me, and I believe him. Rick was in the Army, and I hired him, or one reason I hired him, was to give a fellow veteran a break. Between college and law school, I served as a lieutenant in the Navy for four years, so I feel a kinship to some extent. What I don't do is get rid of people on my staff, good people, just because the police ask to interview them.”

Noreen broke in. “You know my position. I'd have fired his ass already. His background is spotty. I don't trust him.”

“Oh, Noreen, you can't mean that,” Diana protested. “He's wonderful with the boys. He's reliable and courteous. I agree with Paul. Rick had nothing to do with that girl's disappearance.”

Shelby said, “I'm not going to fire him.”

His mother smiled tightly. “Then you're definitely going to need Ms. Dunn.”

C.J. said, “Whether I take this case or not is up to Mr. Slater. Have you spoken to him, Mr. Shelby?”

“It's Paul. Please. I haven't talked to Rick about you yet. He's going to pick us up after the concert. I'll have a few words with him then. As a lawyer myself, I believe I can explain to him how important it is to have representation, even when you've done nothing wrong. He'll make the
right decision. Should I give him your phone number? Or would you rather call him?”

“Tell him to call me in the morning. I can make myself available this weekend.” C.J. put her folded napkin on the table. “I'm going to leave now, but first I'd like to offer a couple of suggestions. You don't have a
chauffeur;
you have a
driver.
Miami traffic is terrible, and you're concerned about the safety of your wife and children, so you hired someone to help out.”

“It's true, I hate to drive,” Diana Shelby said. “When I was a little girl, someone crashed into our car, and ever since then—” She gave a little shudder.

“You see? It's dangerous out there. Mr. Slater drives your boys to school and you and your wife to your various appointments. He is always there when you need him. But he's not a bodyguard, no. That has negative connotations. He's a loyal member of the staff. He's gentle, good with the kids.”

“He's a golden retriever,” Donald Finch said.

C.J. ignored him. “You trust Rick Slater because he's a veteran, a brother in arms. He served his country, and now he is serving a United States congressman and his family.”

“Excuse me.” C.J. felt a tap on her arm and turned. Noreen said, “Were you at the party at Guillermo Medina's house, the night that girl went missing?”

“No, I wasn't there. Why do you ask?”

“I thought you would be. There's been photos of you and Guillermo Medina in the local pages. Are you a couple? I'm only asking because if you are, it's one more thing for the media to get their grubby little hands on.”

After a second, C.J. said, “Mr. Medina and I are friends.”

A chilly smile was returned to her. “Well, let's just keep everything low-key. The first priority is to protect Paul. Get this over and done with. No interviews. No appearances on
Larry King.
All right?”

C.J. held her gaze. “You can trust me to do whatever is best for my client.” She stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet all of you.” Hands were extended again. “Mr. Shelby, could you walk me out?”

Halfway across the restaurant, he stopped to say hello to a man who wanted to introduce him to friends. C.J. walked on, crossing the spacious foyer, moving as far as possible from the crowd gathered around the reservations desk. She found a dim corner past some potted palms. The street was visible through wooden louvers. Sunlight hit the top of the buildings.

She took a breath, and her chest trembled with tension. He didn't know her. She had sat next to him, had spoken to him, had let him shake her moist hand, and he didn't remember her.

If there had been any hesitation when he looked at her, the faintest echo of a memory that just maybe they had met before. . . . She took a breath. “It's fine. It's going to be fine.”

She heard footsteps behind her and turned.

With a smile, Paul Shelby said, “I think my mother might have gotten under your skin. I'm sorry about that. She gets a little carried away sometimes.”

“No need to apologize.” He stood too close, and she shifted away. “But in the future, I'd rather not have to explain myself to four different people.”

He held up his hands. “Without question. You know, Noreen was my first campaign manager. I'd have been happy following in my father's footsteps in the insurance business, but she pushed me toward politics, and she was right. I love this job. Mom can be a bulldog, but she's great. Her dad and Ronald Reagan used to go hunting together out west, and she's been to Crawford, Texas, a couple of times. She's pretty well plugged into the Washington scene. I wouldn't be where I am without her.”

C.J. smiled. “She wants to see you in the White House.”

“That's true, she does.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Something tells me you're a registered Democrat. No, I don't hold it against you. There's a lot of room in the center, and that's where I want to be, working for the American people. Noreen believes that the way politics are now, any little thing can jump out and bite you, and she's probably right. I have a good feeling about you, C.J. I'm glad you're on the team. You don't have to worry about getting paid. We need to talk about that, don't we?”