The Dark of Day
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
chapter ONE
chapter TWO
chapter THREE
chapter FOUR
chapter FIVE
chapter SIX
chapter SEVEN
chapter EIGHT
chapter NINE
chapter TEN
chapter ELEVEN
chapter TWELVE
chapter THIRTEEN
chapter FOURTEEN
chapter FIFTEEN
chapter SIXTEEN
chapter SEVENTEEN
chapter EIGHTEEN
chapter NINETEEN
chapter TWENTY
chapter TWENTY-ONE
chapter TWENTY-TWO
chapter TWENTY-THREE
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
REELECT YOUR REPRESENTATIVE IN CONGRESS. PAUL SHELBY, WORKING FOR YOU.
chapter TWENTY-FIVE
chapter TWENTY-SIX
chapter TWENTY- SEVEN
chapter TWENTY- EIGHT
chapter TWENTY- NINE
chapter THIRTY
chapter THIRTY- ONE
PAUL SHELBY, WORKING FOR YOU.
chapter THIRTY-TWO
chapter THIRTY-THREE
chapter THIRTY- FOUR
chapter THIRTY- FIVE
chapter THIRTY- SIX
chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
chapter THIRTY- EIGHT
chapter THIRTY-NINE
chapter FORTY
Copyright Page
Also by Barbara Parker
The Perfect Fake
Suspicion of Rage
Suspicion of Madness
Suspicion of Vengeance
Suspicion of Malice
Suspicion of Betrayal
Suspicion of Deceit
Criminal Justice
Blood Relations
Suspicion of Guilt
Suspicion of Innocence
For Nick and Andrea
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A writer depends on the generosity of others. I am grateful to Sam Richards, for stories of old Miami; Dana Vitantonio, for a unique perspective on Las Vegas; Reid Vogelhut, for his recollections of the lush life; Milton Hirsch, for legal matters; Mel Taylor for a glimpse inside TV news; and Nicholas Windler, for choosing the right wine. As ever, my sister Laura had 20-20 vision.
Many thanks also to my agent, Richard Curtis, and to all the folks at Vanguard Press, especially my freelance editor, Kevin Smith.
chapter ONE
the third glass of champagne. Or the fourth. If you’re alone at a party where you don’t know anybody, you need something in your hands. You move around a lot. You look across the room like you see somebody you recognize and you walk in that direction. Or you stay in one of the bathrooms until someone knocks, or you look at the paintings on the walls, or you sit on one of the long sofas and pretend to be listening to the five-piece band and the woman singer. She was supposed to be famous, but Kylie had never heard of her.
The party had been okay—until Alana disappeared.
Kylie could look across a huge living room with polished marble floors and see the owner of the house in his tuxedo shirt with the cuffs rolled up, talking to a bunch of his friends. Probably his friends, but on South Beach, do you ever know who your friends are? Do they bring you to a party and then dump you? She thought about going over and saying hello and it’s a nice house, but he might ask who are you? Were you invited?
The images split and drifted apart. Kylie mumbled, “Oh, shit, I’m wasted.”
She walked to the buffet table near the windows, the lights of Miami a mile west, reflecting off the low-hanging clouds. It was all fuzzy without her glasses. The window reflected blurry candles, trays of food, flower arrangements, and a thin girl in a short black dress. Kylie flipped her hair over her shoulder and ate a miniature quiche.
When she turned around, she saw someone familiar. She squinted. Jason. His curly blond hair and red shirt had grabbed Kylie’s attention. His friends were obviously flamers, not that she cared.
She walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi.”
“Hey! How are you?”
“I can’t find Alana. She’s been gone for like an hour. Have you seen her?”
“Don’t worry, Ky, she’ll turn up. She always does. Why don’t you find a place to sit down and wait for her?”
“I guess I will. Thanks.”
He returned to his friends, and Kylie took another flute of champagne from one of the servers walking around with trays, obviously a model, so gorgeous you had to wonder what planet people like that came from.
Steadying herself on the walls, she went through the house again, in and out of rooms she had already seen. A dining room with a long table; a media room where people were playing Guitar Hero on a flat-screen TV; the kitchen with caterers running back and forth. In one of the bathrooms she saw some girls cutting lines of coke on the vanity. They offered her some. Kylie shook her head and went out.
She found a narrow staircase in the hall behind the kitchen. Sipping her champagne, steadying herself on the handrail, Kylie went up. At the top, a man in a black T-shirt and pants stepped in front of her. She stared at his hair and thought of a red brick. His shoulders were square, too. He said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find a friend of mine.” She hiccuped. “Her name is Alana Martin. Do you know her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’s a little taller than me? Long brown hair and a black halter dress? I came with her, and it’s late, and I have to leave. She’s not—” Kylie hiccuped again. “—anywhere else in the house, so logically she has to be upstairs.”
“Sorry. The upstairs is Mr. Medina’s private area.”
“Please? I have to find her.”
The man shook his head. “Girl, if she was up there, I’d tell you. All right?”
“Thank you.” She held on going down, trying not to catch her stiletto heels on the carpet, Alana’s Jimmy Choo knockoffs, which were too big. Why had Alana lent her this dress and helped her with her makeup if she was just going to take off, leaving her friend, supposedly her friend, at a party where she didn’t know anyone, with five dollars in her purse? It was rude.
Making her way again through the crowd in the living room, even more people now, Kylie knew that if she didn’t get some air she would faint.
She walked through one of the sliding glass doors, left open so people could go in and out, air-conditioned air pumping through it. Past midnight, still hot and sticky outside, even with the fans and the misting machines hissing out clouds of vapor. The bartender, a tall blonde girl, was wiping down the bar, nothing else to do except look good. Kylie walked over to the pool and leaned on a chair. She counted four people swimming in their underwear. No Alana. A transvestite had passed out on one of the chaises in her polka-dot dress. Her wig was crooked.
None of this surprised Kylie. Six months in Miami, you learn a lot. You see things, somebody hooks you up with a job, you get to know people, and you feel like you’re fitting in, if you have a friend like Alana. And then she dumps you.
“Bitch. Where are you?”
The music faded as Kylie walked down the steps and around the side of the house. She looked to see if Alana was standing out front. Headlights swept around the portico as a Porsche convertible came to a stop. The parking attendant ran over to take the keys.
With a sigh, Kylie went back the way she had come. She would lie on a chaise next to the trannie until Alana came back and started wondering where she was. Kylie took off the shoes and walked barefoot across the thick, cool grass. A breeze came off the water. She could see boats docked at the seawall. A
sailboat. Some yachts. Must be nice, being rich. She walked past a trellis of jasmine, and its sweet scent filled her head. Tiny lights shone into the palm trees by the seawall.
Kylie went slower and slower and finally stopped. On the way down, she thought how strange it was that time dragged out long enough for her to set the shoes and the champagne glass carefully on the path and then to lie beside them in the grass and close her eyes.
She woke when she felt something moving on her bare thigh. A hand, going up her leg, under her skirt. She grabbed for it. “No. Don’t.”
Two blurred, grinning faces moved into view. “Hey, baby. What you doing out here all by yourself? You need some company?”
She formed the words carefully. “Not . . . particularly. I’m studying the clouds.”
One of them brushed her hair off her face, then a finger went along the low neckline of her dress. “I think the girl needs some company.”
“I prefer to be alone, thank you very much.”
“She definitely needs something. I have it right here for you, baby.” He rubbed his crotch.
“Go away!”
The other guy looked around. “Over there. The boathouse. Help me pick her up.”
“Don’t.” Kylie pushed against his chest.
Another voice said, “Hey!”
Their heads swung around.
The voice came again, getting closer. “What’s going on?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Security, that’s who. You guys clear out. Now.”
Laughter. “Security, my ass. I know Billy’s security guys.”
The man holding Kylie said, “Turn around and keep walking before I kick you over the seawall.”
Shadows moved. He let go of her, and she fell limply into the grass. She heard a thud, a grunt of pain. Then somebody saying, “Forget it, man. Let’s go.” Footsteps faded into the darkness.
A big man crouched beside her, a silhouette.
Kylie struggled to sit up. “Leave me alone!”
“It’s okay, they’re gone.” He picked up her shoes. “Come on, let’s get you back inside.” He put an arm under her and she seemed to float up.
“I’m going to puke!” Turning, she leaned over the grass. When she was done, the man gave her a handkerchief. Her hands were shaking as she wiped her lips and chin. “I’m sorry. I want to go home now, please.”
“Do I look like a cab driver? Who’d you come with?”
“A friend.”
“Tell him it’s time to go.”
“Her. She’s a girl. Do you work here? Maybe you know where she is. Alana. Long hair. Beautiful. She’s sort of dark. From Venezuela.”
“Alana Martin?”
“Yes! Where is she?”
“Don’t know. Well, well. Small world. Friends of Alana.”
“How could she just leave me here? Shit! How am I going to get home?”
“You have a cell phone? Call a taxi.”
“I don’t have enough money for a taxi.” She started to cry.
“Come on. Stop that.” He let out a breath. “Okay. It’s your lucky night. I was leaving anyway. I’ll take you home, but if you throw up in my boss’s Cadillac, you can walk.”
“Thank you so much. Thank you.” She stumbled, and he held her up with an arm around her waist.
Then she was in a car, leaning against a side door, and cold air blew on her face. She opened her eyes. The man was going through her purse. She grabbed for it, and he pulled it out of her reach.
“I only have five dollars!”
“Just finding out where you live, sweet face. I asked, and you couldn’t seem to tell me.” He pulled out her driver’s license and held it under the dome light, which shone on his shaved head. He had a short beard and a mustache. “Kylie Ann Willis. Lansing, Michigan. Twenty-one years old. Not bad. I should have had one like this back in the day. Looks almost real.”
“It is real!”
“With that cracker accent, no way you’re from Michigan. How old are you, kid? Are you even eighteen?”
“Yes!”
He shoved the license back into her purse and tossed it to her lap. “I doubt that. Your folks know where you are?”
“Of course. I . . . I’m a student at the University of Miami.”
“Yeah? Studying what, nuclear physics?”
She closed her eyes. The seat was so soft.
“Wake up.” He patted her cheek. “Where am I taking you? If you can’t remember, I’ll have to drop you at the Miami Beach Police station and let them figure it out.”
She forced her eyes open, forced them to bring the two images of his face together. She moistened her lips. “Twenny-six, east of Biscayne. Windmere Apartments.”
“Windmill?”
“Wind . . . mere.”
“Good. Have you there in ten minutes.”
They passed a long line of cars from the party, huge houses with gates, then the guard house at the entrance. The striped arm went up, down. They went over a short bridge and took a right on the MacArthur Causeway. The streetlights came faster and faster.
She moaned a little.
“Are you all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Downtown Miami. Lights going in and out of the car. The man held a cigarette, its end glowing orange. He blew smoke toward the window, which was open a few inches. He was a big man with big hands and a heavy stainless-steel watch on his thick wrist. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his cuffs.
He glanced over at her. “So. Kylie. You’re a friend of Alana’s.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good friend?”
“I thought so. She dumped me. She went off to see somebody and didn’t come back.”
“Like who?”
“Somebody, I dunno.”
“You and Alana hang out together?”
“I guess. She’s my best friend. A model. I’m going to be a model too.”
“How long have you girls known each other?”
“Since . . .” Kylie frowned. “After I got here.”
“When was that?”
“March?”
“What’d you do, come down from Cornpone, Alabama, for spring break and decide you liked South Beach?”
“I do like it. I like it a lot.”
She closed her eyes against the streetlights that were coming too fast, turning into strobe lights, and in the darkness she began to spin backward. She dug her fingers into the seat and held on.
chapter TWO
the judge’s gavel came down, and the former defendant, Harnell Robinson, put a kiss on his lawyer’s cheek. He hugged his family, his sports agent, and the teammates who had sat behind him during three days of trial. Swinging her tote over her shoulder, C.J. Dunn signaled her young associate to follow with the files and turned her client toward the exit. A sheriff’s deputy pushed open the double doors while another held back the spectators. Robinson stopped to sign his autograph and shake a few hands.
In the corridor, reporters converged on Robinson, shouting. How did he feel? Was he relieved? When would he return to practice?
Arms around his family, Robinson smiled for the cameras. “Good. I feel real good. I feel like, you know, like somebody up there was looking out for me. Justice prevailed!”
Before the trial, C.J. had sent him to Macy’s for some blue suits. Leave the custom-tailored Armani at home with the Rolex. Wear a cheap watch, your wedding ring, your Super Bowl ring, and that’s it. Lose the braids and the diamond ear stud. No miniskirts on the wife, belly shirts on the daughter, or drooping pants on the son. For the three days of the trial, his mother had carried a Bible and worn a hat, gloves, and a below-the-knee dress, a bit of overkill that C.J. had decided to let pass.
Last New Year’s Day, at three o’clock in the morning, Harnell Robinson had been arrested at a club on South Beach for aggravated battery on one of the bouncers. A felony conviction on top of a previous skirmish with some fans could have ended Robinson’s
career. But C.J.’s private investigator delivered good news: the bouncer had served time in Illinois for possession of meth, carrying a concealed firearm, domestic battery on his girlfriend, and a string of DUI’s. A copy of his rap sheet found its way to Channel Seven. The judge instructed the jurors not to watch the news, but it was too late.
C.J. motioned to her associate, Henry. When he came closer, she dropped her keys into his coat pocket. “Go get my car. I’ll meet you outside.” He backed up and steered the rolling briefcase around the crowd, which had grown as people stopped to see what was going on.
The woman reporter from Channel Eight’s Justice Files elbowed the Miami Herald sports reporter aside. “Harnell, what’s next for you?”
With a smile, C.J. stepped into the frame. “Mr. Robinson has been vindicated. What he wants now is to go home and be with his family so he can start putting this ordeal behind him. On Monday morning, eight A.M., he’s reporting for practice with the rest of the team.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be good, you know, to get back in uniform.”