chapter TWENTY- SEVEN
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.”
Other reporters were looking over the railings, and cameras pointed their way.
Libi walked along beside her. “Don’t pretend to be so perfect. I know who you are, Charlotte Josephine Bryan, high school dropout, juvenile arrest record, locked in a rehab hospital, and you have the nerve to call me names?”
C.J. felt detached, as though she were observing a complete stranger with no connection to herself. Under the portico she turned around to smile. “Well, Libi, when I’m hosting Rich, Famous, and Deadly on CNN next season, and you aren’t, be sure to watch. That’s right, I got the job, so unpack your suitcase, honey, you’re not going anywhere.”
Whatever Libi had intended to say next vanished on a sharp intake of breath.
Billy Medina’s Jaguar was waiting at the curb. He leaned over and opened the door. It was blissfully cool inside, and C.J. sank into the leather seat. “Thank you.”
“What was that about?” Billy asked.
“Nothing. Libi Rodriguez is throwing a tantrum because I wouldn’t play with her.”
He checked for traffic, then made a U-turn and headed south on Collins. The engine purred. Billy’s hair was combed back, and he wore a finely checked black-and-white silk jacket and an open-collar shirt. He pressed a button on his steering wheel, and the radio went from a news station to easy-listening jazz. “I heard the report on Jason Wright. They aren’t saying anything more than what you told me. You look warm. Want to come over to my place? What’s your pleasure? Diet cola, Gatorade, a joint?”
The image of an icy gin and tonic jumped into her head. “Let me sit here a minute and calm down.”
“Poor baby,” he said.
“Poor Jason,” she corrected.
“Good for your case, though, if he killed Alana like they’re saying. He couldn’t live with the guilt.”
“Yes, I’m sure that theory will be all over the talk shows tonight. Billy, did you happen to mention to Paul Shelby what I told you about Jason having no alibi?”
“No, I haven’t talked to Paul since the party. Why?”
“Then Shelby got it from me. Somebody over there leaked it to the media, and Jason is suddenly guilty of murder. I feel so damned bad.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Don’t obsess about it.” Billy put his hand on her leg. “You need to relax.”
“I was just offered the job at CNN,” she said.
“That’s great!”
“I don’t have it yet. I might not, if the media keep dredging up my past.”
“Let them. What have you got to hide? So you were in rehab. Big deal.”
“I need this case over with, Billy. I really need it over.”
“Come on, baby.” He massaged her knee. “You’re freaking out. You’re not like this.”
“Does the name Harold Vincent ring a bell?”
“Why?”
“Harold Vincent is a pornographer. He owns Blue Wave, Limited, based in Aruba. They do online gaming and Web porn. They also make X-RATED DVD’s. You just got back from Aruba. You went down there to see about investing in a hotel. You must have heard of him.”
“I’ve met him. I wouldn’t want to socialize with him. What’s this about?”
“Is he still making DVD’s with underage girls?”
Billy’s dark brows rose over his silver-framed sunglasses. “I don’t think he ever did.”
“He did. They just couldn’t prove it.” C.J. lifted her chin to get more cool air on her neck. “I believe that Alana Martin knew Harold Vincent.”
“You’re correct,” Billy said. “I introduced them.”
“You what?”
“It was about six months ago. Tropical Life threw a party in the Bahamas, the casino on Paradise Island. I took the entire staff over on a cruise ship. Alana was working for me at the time, so she went too. Hal Vincent was there. His company had been buying advertising space, so they put him on the guest list. He showed up with a hooker on each arm, but he saw Alana and his tongue fell out. Alana was getting stoned, laughing too loudly, hanging on my VIP guests, so I went over to her and asked if she wanted to meet a good friend of mine in the movie business. Her eyes lit up, and that was the last I saw of her for the rest of the weekend.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t think of it,” Billy said. “I should’ve mentioned it to the police. Alana knew too many people like Harold Vincent. She was not, to put it mildly, the kind of person we wanted at the magazine.”
With a little laugh, C.J. shook her head. “You see, Billy, this is why I keep telling you to be careful. One disgruntled employee could say something for spite and you’d have the FBI on your ass.”
“I have nothing to do with Hal Vincent,” he said. “I work damned hard keeping my business squeaky clean. Give me some credit. Let’s not talk about this. It’s depressing. You’ve got Jason Wright’s suicide on the brain. You need to sit in my hot tub and smoke some weed.”
“Billy, please.”
“It’s a fine idea. I know what. Come with me to Antigua for the weekend. I’m leaving Saturday to check on the hotel, but we can have some time together. Fly back on Monday or whenever you like. I’ll be there a week.”
“Some of us have eight-to-five jobs,” she said. “Billy, I need another favor, and don’t say no. Alana auditioned for a DVD, and she was trying to get her tapes back so they wouldn’t turn up on the Internet. You’ve just told me she knew Harold Vincent. Alana was renting a room from Tisha Dulaney, who works for Vincent—and sleeps with him. It’s just too cozy not to mean something.”
Billy glanced at her, then back at the street. “And?”
“And I’d like for you to ask Harold Vincent about Alana. If she was murdered by someone in the pornography business—”
Billy laughed in disbelief. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not?”
They were at the light on Alton Road, waiting for traffic to clear so he could take a right onto the causeway, heading for his house on Star Island.
Billy said, “Look. I don’t know Harold Vincent. I choose not to know him. If I go over to Harold’s place or have any contact with him, people will find out. They will wonder if I am buddies with a man who makes adult movies and runs a quasi-legal gambling operation on the Web. I am not Harold Vincent’s friend.” When C.J. started to speak, he held up a hand. “No. No. I can’t do it. By the grace of God I was admitted into the elite group of investors in The Aquarius. We are waiting for congressional approval. If the media find out that I am in any way connected to a pornographer, even by association, I’m fucked. Can I spell it out for you more clearly?”
C.J. couldn’t see Billy’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but she didn’t like the tone of his voice. “Forget I asked.”
A horn sounded. Billy shot the driver the bird and went ahead. “I’m sorry, baby.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.
She pulled away.
“Do we have PMS tonight?”
“For God’s sake, Billy. Just take me to my office. You’re right, I have too much on my mind.”
“What is the matter with you lately? Snap out of it.”
“Sure. Snap out of it.”
He looked at her and shook his head. Neither of them spoke until the car finally stopped at the entrance to the Met Center.
C.J. got out with her briefcase and shoulder bag and leaned back in. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“Any time.” He smiled. “Hope you feel better soon.”
As the Jaguar pulled away, C.J. realized that whether she snapped out of it or not would make no difference to Billy Medina.
