chapter FIVE
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.”
“I was going to do a taste-test tonight. Want to join in?”
“No, thanks.”
Black brows rose. “This gin cost me a hundred and twenty dollars a bottle.”
“I’ll try the tonic.”
“Suit yourself.” He brought her an ice-filled glass with a lime wedge, then opened the tonic and poured.
She tasted it. “Nice.”
He set out two shot glasses and filled the first with the Dutch gin. “It’s not for you. Just taste mine. One drop won’t hurt. Don’t be a pussy. I need your opinion.”
“One sip.” She lifted the tiny glass, sniffed, then wet her lips. “This is the Van Wees? Smooth. But worth that price? I don’t think so.”
He finished it off, then breathed in. “Oh, yes. Good stuff.” He filled the next with the gin from London. “Now. Let us try the Martin Miller’s.”
C.J. turned her head. The longing had come on her so fast she felt dizzy. “Billy, I’d rather not.”
“You don’t go to meetings anymore. I haven’t seen you take a drink in a year. What are you trying to prove?”
“This is bad for me, what you’re doing.”
“Sorry.” He picked up the other shot glass. He sipped, rolling the gin around in his mouth. She could see it wasn’t fun for him, drinking alone. He said, “I vote for the Van Wees. Since you’re being a Girl Scout, what can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a Diet Coke or something.”
“On the rocks?”
“Ha-ha.” She cut a few slices of cheddar. “Why do you think Shelby wants me to take this case? Milo says he has no financial interest in The Aquarius. Is that true?”
“As far as I know,” Billy said as he brought back her cola.
“You think he’s trying to ingratiate himself with the environmentalists?”
“I’m sure that’s part of it, but he believes this project will be good for Miami, good for development statewide.”
“Since when did you trust a politician?”
“Since never. So what?”
“Tell me about Donald Finch,” she said.
“Don produced a little comedy set on South Beach a few years back. It wasn’t bad, got into the Miami Film Festival. I see him around occasionally, when he can sneak away from the ball and chain.” Billy eyeballed his glass and poured in a practiced ounce-and-a-half measure of gin, then filled the glass with tonic. He squeezed the lime wedge and let it drop.
“Is he rich?”
“He used to be. The Finches were prominent in New York City, but Don left town after a dispute with his father, who is now dead. Jesus, this is good. Nearly perfect. I give it a ninety-seven out of a hundred. I don’t suppose you want to—”
“No,” she said. “Back to Donald Finch. Noreen told me he studied film in L.A.”
“That he did. Donald took his inheritance and went to Hollywood. He lived large for a while but didn’t accomplish much. That was before you went west. He slunk back to New York, I believe, bounced around on various low-budget productions, and finally wound up in Miami doing PR for the tourist board. Then he met Noreen Shelby. She’s older. She’s ancient, in fact, but he had what she wanted, a pedigree. He’d like to do more independent films, but Noreen controls the funding. She wants him to do a project on Paul Shelby’s rise to fame and glory. So far, it’s pretty short.”
C.J. asked, “Where did Noreen get her money? Her family raised saddle horses in Wyoming.”
“Her first husband, Paul Shelby’s father, was big in commercial real estate. He left a very rich widow.”
“As rich as you?”
“More. I’m still fighting with Uncle Sam.”
“Noreen wants her son to be president.”
“He could get there,” Billy said.
“Yes, why not? He has money, connections, good hair and teeth, a lovely wife and two sons, and a mother who keeps a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince under her pillow.”
“What have you got against Paul Shelby?”
“I have nothing against Paul Shelby, particularly.” C.J. sipped her cola, which had all the flavor of water. “I just want to know what we’re dealing with. You could be drawn into this case, and I’d like to prevent it if I can.”
“Me? I’ve done my duty. I talked to the police. I told them I didn’t see the girl here. I gave them a list of guests, those I could remember. They said thank you and went away.”
“If they can’t find her, they may be back.”
“Fine. They’ll get the same answers as before. I don’t know dick.”
“What about Richard Slater?”
“Who? Oh, Shelby’s driver. Your new client.”
“Maybe—if he lets me represent him. Did you see him that night?”
“Christ, C.J., I don’t remember. There were tons of people here. Yasmina was here. She sang. I hired a band for her. Everyone had a good time. You should have come.”
“I was in the weeds with the Robinson trial.”
“Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, I have met Slater. He was driving when Paul Shelby and his wife took me home from a cocktail party at Milo Cahill’s place a couple of weeks ago.”
“What’s he like?”
Billy let out a puff of air. “What’s he like? He speaks in monosyllables. He’s about five-ten, big through the chest. Thick neck. Shaved head, a mustache-and-beard combo. He stares right through you.”
“Oh, wonderful. I can’t wait.”
“You prefer clients as handsome as me,” Billy said.
“There aren’t any.” She wound a strand of his silver hair through her fingers, thick and soft as animal pelt. “When did Shelby leave the party?”
“Are we talking business tonight?”
“For now,” she said.
“He left a little before midnight, I think.”
“But his driver stuck around. I wonder why.”
“Drinking my liquor and ogling the models, probably.”
“I’m surprised your security people didn’t ask him to leave.”
“They don’t, unless they notice somebody causing a problem.”
“I wonder what he was doing with Alana Martin.”
“Can’t help you there,” Billy said.
“Do you know Alana?”
“Until about three months ago she worked for my magazine. She sold advertising. I don’t go in more than once a week, you know, just making sure it’s still there, but I expect to see people at their desks, not hanging all over the VIPs and celebrities who drop by. I told personnel to get rid of her. She’s a fame-fucker.”
“For God’s sake, Billy, don’t say that to a reporter.”
“It’s true.”
“Listen to me,” C.J. said. “This is serious. A very pretty twenty-year-old girl was here, then she wasn’t. If this turns into a major media event, you’re going to see satellite trucks lined up on the street.”
“They won’t get past the guard at the entrance.”
“It’s a public street,” she said.
“Technically, yes, but the residents of Star Island have an excellent relationship with the chief of police. There’s the microwave. Dinner is served.”
He brought the food over, a bottle of red wine, and one glass. They ate in silence for a while. Then he told her about a restaurant on Aruba. He and a couple of his business partners had gone to Aruba to look into investing in a hotel. C.J. assumed nothing had come of it, but, then, he didn’t talk much about his work. Just another day at the office. Billy had bought South Florida real estate when it was cheap, then a hotel on Antigua that had a small casino attached.
He said, “Why do you want to do a show on CNN anyway? Those talk shows are inane.”
“Mine wouldn’t be. I’d have intelligent guests with something to say.”
“You’d be famous,” he said.
“I could learn to live with that.”
“You think so? People in your face all the time. No privacy.”
“I’ll hire bodyguards to keep the crowds back when I get into my limo.”
“Who is that sexy blonde behind the sunglasses?” Billy’s smile deepened the lines at his eyes. “C.J. Dunn. Yes, I know her. She slept with me last night, doing unmentionable things.”
“Would you still like me if I were rich and famous?”
“I might like you more. Right now, you’re only beautiful.” He poured himself more wine, and the deep red liquid swirled and made streaks down the glass. The blood-heavy scent of it zinged into her nostrils.
“There’s dessert,” Billy said. “Some kind of pie.”
“God, no, I’m full.” She helped him carry things to the sink. The maid would wash them in the morning.
“Are you going to stay tonight?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. I was asking to be polite.”
“Fine. I won’t, then,” she said.
“It’s your loss.”
She laughed. “You’re horrible. You really are.”
He slid his hands up her arms. “Of course I want you to stay.”
“All right, but I’m leaving early. I have things to do in the morning.”
“Love your enthusiasm,” he said.
“I love yours.” She kissed his cheek, rough with a day’s worth of stubble. The bridge of his nose was slightly out of line, but you had to look hard because a plastic surgeon had done a good job putting it back together.
A year ago, with a blood-alcohol level of one point eight, Billy Medina had crashed his Maserati into a guardrail, his second DUI. Billy’s attorney worked out a deal: no jail time if he went to AA meetings for six months. He came to the same small group C.J. had joined, a Methodist church in a nowhere residential district on the Beach. She was avoiding the downtown groups, the lunchtime or after-work meetings where there were far too many other lawyers with alcohol problems. She hadn’t recognized Billy at first, with the bandage over his nose, but soon they were going out for coffee after the meetings, or having a late dinner, C.J. stifling her laughter as Billy imitated the sappy stories they’d just heard. They started moving around to other meetings, not wanting to be known, not wanting to get involved with the real drunks, who might ask for favors.
Billy did his six months. C.J. stayed for a while, but she didn’t have time, or she didn’t like opening herself up to strangers, or maybe it was just too boring without Billy. So she quit too. She had stopped drinking, so what was the point? Her sponsor kept calling for a while, then gave up and wished her well.
The longing to drink still came on her, but not as often, and she was always able to fight it off. What she liked about Billy, among other things, was that he didn’t nag her about it. What he liked about her was that she didn’t expect him to save her. Whatever she chose, it was up to her. Billy made no demands. He never pushed. If she wanted to be with him, fine. If not, he wouldn’t hold her. It was liberating. Sometimes a little lonely, but as Billy would say, if you don’t like the view, move on. She had tried to do that. She had tried. She had given up alcohol, but she couldn’t give up Billy.
