The Dark of Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

periodically and expect C.J. to do something about it. What C.J. always told her: Kylie was fine. If not, someone would have raised an alarm.
    At the moment, there were other things to attend to, starting with her newest client, the chauffeur—assuming that Milo Cahill hadn’t been blowing smoke. C.J. reached for the phone and punched in a local number.
    She heard a hello against a background of light classical music. Judy Mazzio turned it down and said she was parked outside a love motel on
South Dixie Highway, waiting for her client’s cheating husband to come out, and with luck she’d catch him and the girlfriend on video. Judy was a private investigator in business with two former bail bondsmen, who provided the muscle if need be. She asked how the Robinson case had turned out. Was there a verdict? Judy Mazzio had an interest because she’d provided the unsavory details on most of the state’s witnesses.
    â€œNot guilty,” C.J. told her.
    â€œWay to go!”
    â€œThanks. And you too. What I’m calling about,” C.J. said, “is the girl who disappeared from a party on South Beach last weekend, Alana Martin. Have you heard about it?”
    â€œIt’s been all over the news.”
    â€œI may have a new client. Supposedly he was seen with this girl. His name is Richard Slater. He’s a chauffeur for Congressman Paul Shelby. That’s about all I know. I have no address, DOB, or social on Slater. Could you call your friend with the Beach P.D.? If they’re trying to talk to him, they’ll be able to provide enough so we can do a background check. See what you can find out.”
    â€œHow soon do you need it?”
    â€œTomorrow if possible. I might be meeting this guy over the weekend, and it would be nice to have some info in advance.”
    â€œSure, I can call right now,” Judy said. “All I’m doing is keeping my nose pointed at room number six. Listen, it’s Edgar’s night to host the poker game, and he wants me to come too. He’s ordering barbecued ribs. You should join us.”
    â€œRibs? I can barely fit in my jeans as it is.”
    â€œOh, shut up. I’m the one with the big ass. So, do you want to play some poker tonight?”
    â€œAnd let Edgar clean out my wallet again? I don’t think so. I’ll check with you when I get home, probably around eight o’clock. I’ve got some things to finish here first.”
    Edgar Dunn, age eighty-seven, was her late husband’s uncle. Edgar lived in a cottage behind her house, originally meant for maids’ quarters. He had known Judy Mazzio in Las Vegas. She’d been a blackjack dealer, and Edgar loved to gamble. He used to fly out there with his friends several times a
year. When Judy got tired of the scene, he suggested Miami. C.J. thought Edgar probably had a crush on Judy, which she found cute.
    Just as C.J. was hanging up, Shirley brought Friday’s paper, neatly folded. C.J. shooed her out. “Thanks. You’d better run before traffic gets too snarled.”
    â€œHave a good weekend,” Shirley said from the doorway.
    â€œWe live in hope,” C.J. muttered. Sipping her tea, she unfolded Section A. There was nothing about Alana Martin. She turned pages. Nothing. She picked up the local section, saw the story below the fold: Woman Still Missing on South Beach.
    There was a photograph, a snapshot of a young woman with dark hair and a big smile, the face made pale by the camera flash. It had been clipped out of a group shot, other people’s shoulders at the edges of the photo.
    Â 
    Alana Martin, 20, was reported missing last Tuesday by her employer after she failed to report to work at China Moon, a women’s clothing boutique on Lincoln Road. According to neighbors, Martin had gone to a party on Saturday night at the Star Island home of Guillermo Medina.
    Medina, 48, is the publisher of Tropical Life. He stated that Martin