circled the block twice to spot anyone tailing her car, but the photographer had given up for the time being. She caught Thirty-Seventh and headed south into Coconut Grove. On slower, narrower streets, she pulled out her BlackBerry, scrolled to voice dialing, and spoke into the microphone. “Call Kylie Willis.” After four rings she heard, “Hi, Kylie’s not here. You know what to do.” Beep. “Hello, Kylie, this is C.J. again. We really do need to talk, sweetie. Please call me back as soon as you can.” She hit the disconnect button. “Damn.” That had been the third message. Rick Slater hadn’t provided much of a description. Young, thin, long brown hair. He’d been right: this could be every other girl on South Beach. But if it was Kylie, and Kylie could identify Rick Slater and say that she’d left the party with him, Slater’s problems would be over. At the very least, George Fuentes would start looking further down the list of suspects. It would have to be done quickly.
