The Rich and the Dead Page 13

  Lila had spent the morning in Miami gathering the wig and clothes she needed to transform back into herself, covering up the blond glamour of Camilla Dayton with the black-haired, fashion-challenged Detective Lila Day.

  It was 10 P.M. when she had the cab drop her off at the Burger King a block from the station, a place she used to frequently grab a fast lunch from when she was on the force. She knew the layout well. She entered the restaurant by the side door, glancing briefly at the gray-faced staff standing bored behind the counter and the customers hunched over grease-stained paper wrappers, then went directly to the bathroom. In the handicap stall, she shed her high-priced clothes and put on the black wig and the sensible black pantsuit that had been her chosen uniform since the moment she was promoted to detective.

  Looking at herself in the fluorescent lights of the Burger King bathroom gave Lila a pleasant shock. “There you are,” she said to her reflection, feeling a sense of comfort in seeing a familiar person look back at her after two months of inhabiting what often felt like the body and mind of a stranger. The only problem was her hair. It was off, badly off, so she twisted it up in a sloppy bun secured to the top of her head.

  Doing her best impersonation of herself, she climbed the stairs to the police station and boldly opened the door like she belonged there. Sitting behind the front desk was Sergeant Corey Kreps. Kreps was a veteran cop of thirty years who always managed to land the shit assignments, thanks to his habit of starting and ending each shift blind drunk on Jameson’s, though he told everyone he had a desk job due to his “bum back.”

  “Who’d you have to piss off to be working Thanksgiving night, sweetheart?” Kreps asked her, his way of saying hello. She could smell the whiskey on his breath from ten feet away.

  “Same person you pissed off, seeing as you’ve been sitting here all night,” Lila said, thinking her voice sounded strange in her ears. But from the way Kreps smiled at her, she knew she had passed the test.

  “Go shit in your hat, Detective,” the sergeant said before turning his attentions back to the sports section.

  “Same to you, Kreps.” With that, Lila walked past the front desk, through the lobby, and into the bowels of the station.

  As she went down the familiar halls and into the dank little office shared by all of Central Miami’s homicide detectives, a sense of homecoming overwhelmed her. Who knew that the odor of sweat and stale coffee could smell so sweet?

  The Homicide office was empty, just as she’d thought it would be. She sat down at her desk, running her hand along the familiar collection of objects. The framed picture of her family at Disney World back in 1993, when she was five; the piles of notebooks; the handcuffs; the stained coffee mug; the stack of reports in various stages of completion.

  All of her senses on alert, Lila logged in to the computer on her desk. She pulled up the city’s criminal database and typed into the search field: Frederic Sandoval. Unlike Google, which spit out a handful of civilian Sandovals with proper jobs and active social media profiles, this database immediately delivered to her the Sandoval she was looking for. Staring at her from the mug shot was the balding, long-faced man that Javier had been stalking.

  On February 5, 2001, Sandoval was arrested for breaking and entering. He was convicted and sentenced for grand larceny, serving fourteen months at the Everglades Correctional Institution. Then, in 2005, Sandoval was convicted on racketeering and drug charges. He was sentenced to three years in a state prison but was out in eighteen months for good behavior.

  Sandoval was the primary suspect in the March 2012 shooting of known drug trafficker Buddy Fenton, but he was never brought up on charges. Lila knew what that meant. Since that attempted murder in the first degree was his third conviction, Sandoval would have faced a lifetime prison sentence without any hope for parole. Instead of facing those years, he turned snitch, and the police dropped the charges.

  Lila sat there in the dark, furiously scanning the files devoted to the Fenton shooting. She reviewed all the forensic evidence and pictures of the crime scene showing Fenton slouched against a wall, a bullet through his forehead.

  She gasped audibly when she saw it. The gun linked to the shooting was a Colt 45—the same gun used by the Star Island killer.

  It was a common gun, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking the connection was meaningful. The questions swirled in Lila’s head: Did Sandoval have some dirt on Javier that he was going to use to secure his own freedom? Did Javier know this was happening, and was he planning on assassinating Sandoval to protect himself? Was the Star Island massacre nothing more than Sandoval preempting his own murder by killing Javier, with the eleven other victims just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  She decided to print off the pages of the Fenton case to look them over back on Star Island. But just as the first page was being spit out by the printer, she heard footsteps echoing loudly down the hall. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Something was wrong. No one should be here now. Quickly, she got up from the desk and hurried over to the window of the Homicide office, which overlooked the hall. What she saw made her heart stop.

  The person walking in her direction was her.

  Crouching low to the floor, Lila rushed toward her old desk, opened the bottom drawer, and removed a black metal lockbox. She entered the combination, and the lock clicked. She removed the revolver she stored there for safekeeping and tucked it in the front of her suit pants. If she was going to confront Frederic Sandoval, she’d need to come in heavy.

  The footsteps grew louder. She rushed over to the printer and grabbed the page that she’d managed to print off, ducking beneath a desk adjacent to the door just as the footsteps stopped.

  “Okay,” she heard her past self mutter. “What the hell?”

  Her heart beating so loud she thought it would burst, Lila turned and fled out of the side entrance, which opened into an empty alley.

  Her breathing was heavy. She pressed her back against the station wall, bending forward, desperate to slow her mind and her pulse. A chill ran down her spine.

  She remembered this night with icy clarity—the night her gun was stolen. It was a mystery that had haunted Lila for years. The police had launched a minor investigation to locate the firearm (a missing police weapon was always a big deal), but nothing had ever been discovered; only Lila’s fingerprints were ever found on the lockbox and only she knew the combination.

  She had stolen the gun, she knew that now. Years later, plus one trip back in time, the mystery of the missing revolver had been solved.

  She walked back to the Burger King in a daze of confusion and shed her disguise on top of her disguise in the handicap stall, returning to only one layer of deceit. Once she was Camilla Dayton again, she looked at the printed page she’d managed to grab before fleeing the station. On it was Sandoval’s last known address.

  Tomorrow she’d pay him a visit.

  CHAPTER 20

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Lila heard someone tapping on the sliding glass door of the guesthouse. She looked at her phone. It was a little before nine. She peeked around the corner to see Effie standing there, holding a silver tray with a French press and two croissants.

  Lila paused. She’d been avoiding Effie ever since their strange fight in her bedroom.

  She glanced quickly around the room. The gun was locked away, as were the notebooks full of her observations on the investigation. She went to the door and opened it for Effie, who stood there beaming like Little Miss Mary Sunshine.

  “I thought I’d surprise you with a little breakfast,” Effie said as she walked into the living room, putting the tray down on the coffee table.

  Something had to be up. Effie was never awake this early, plus Lila suspected that Effie had never before carried a tray in her life.

  “How nice.” Lila hoped her smile didn’t look as disingenuous as it felt.

  “It’s my way of saying sorry.” Effie put the tray down and sighed back into a large white armchair
. The entire guesthouse was outfitted with white furniture, like one of the showroom apartments architects build to advertise a new condo complex. Lila perched on the snow-white couch across from Effie, slightly holding her breath. She gave Effie a questioning, curious look.

  “What’s there to be sorry for, Ef?” When Lila wasn’t sure what to do, she played dumb. It was a pretty woman’s habit and she hated to use it, but it tended to work with Effie.

  “Oh, you know. I didn’t mean to bark at you the other night. I just always go crazy around Thanksgiving. The whole trip was totally exhausting.” Effie reached for a croissant, broke off a small piece, and put it back on the plate. In all their meals together, Lila had never seen her take more than a couple small bites of anything set before her.

  “It’s okay,” Lila said.

  Effie rushed over to the couch, plopped down next to Lila, and threw her arms around her. “So you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Lila said, playfully wrestling out of Effie’s embrace. After a moment, she decided to go ahead and ask, “Is everything okay? Who were you on the phone with the other night?” Lila wondered why Effie was being so secretive about it.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” Effie said.

  “You sounded upset.”

  “And you sound like the nagging mother I never had and never wanted.”

  “Fine,” Lila said. “I’ll mind my own business. And don’t worry. I’ve been on the phone with Meredith Sloan about the house. I’m putting in a new offer tomorrow. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

  While living at Effie Webster’s had given her invaluable access to the rest of the Star Island twelve, Lila had been wondering if now was a good time to move on.

  “No! Please don’t move out just yet,” Effie protested. “I know I’ve been distant, but I need you right now.” Her eyes were wide and pleading.

  The force and urgency in Effie’s voice surprised Lila. Whatever was going on had spooked Effie, that was for sure. She was scared, but about what?

  “Effie. You know I’m always here for you if you need me.” This Lila said from the heart.

  “Then it’s settled!” Effie exclaimed. “You’re mine for a while longer.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, but her hands were so shaky that some fell into the delicate saucer under the china cup. Then she grabbed the broken-off bite of croissant, spread a little strawberry jam on it, and put it back down on the plate, as if she were feeding herself via osmosis through her fingertips.

  “Now, time to get dressed!” she squealed, jumping up and resting the coffee cup precariously on the couch’s arm, causing the china to rattle. As Lila rose, she saw that Effie’s cup had left a brown ring on the white upholstery. Effie saw Lila looking at the spot.

  “Oh, don’t fuss over that. I’m sure it’ll come out, no problem.” It was then that Lila realized Effie had never been forced to learn the lessons that come from cleaning up after your own mess. People had walked behind Effie her whole life, sweeping away what she had carelessly smashed.

  For a moment, Lila hated spoiled, selfish Effie.

  “Come on, you old hen,” Effie said, seeing the sternness that had taken over Lila’s face. “I’ll fix it.” She took a white linen napkin from the silver tray and gallantly placed it over the stain, like a knight laying his cloak over a muddy puddle. “There. Just like magic.”

  She seized Lila’s arm and walked her quickly toward the bathroom.

  “Go freshen up. It’s Saturday. And you know what that means. We’re heading to the club.”

  “Actually, Effie, I wasn’t sure what the plan was, so I told Dylan we could do something.” It was a partial lie. She was meeting Dylan later in the day for lunch, but she had planned on scoping out Frederic Sandoval’s house in the morning. She had zero interest in spending the day with Effie at the club.

  “Are you kidding?”

  The two women stopped and stared at each other. Effie’s mood swings had Lila feeling unsure which way was up, and she was tired of it. After a moment, Effie turned away from Lila and walked back into the living room.

  “I wouldn’t get too attached to Dylan if I were you,” she called over her shoulder.

  Lila stepped out of the bathroom toward Effie. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he doesn’t always play well with others. You know, he’s one of those guys who never wants anyone to slow him down,” Effie said.

  Lila shrugged. It sounded like what people said about her. “Don’t worry about me, Effie,” she said. “I can handle myself, just like you.”

  Effie went back to the main house in a major sulk. While Lila got dressed, she mulled over what was going on with her friend. She didn’t know what to think. Effie had seemed so open, so transparent when they first met, but that had radically changed. Now it seemed she was all secrets, hidden agendas, and bad feelings. And now Effie was hiding an affair from Lila—a serious and heartbreaking affair, by the sound of it. But why? Lila shook her head. It was probably nothing more than typical Effie drama. And Lila had more important things to do than worry about a socialite’s love life.

  WEARING HER BLOND hair up in a messy ponytail and a low-key outfit of jeans and a black sweater, Lila got in her car and headed toward Sandoval’s last known address. In a twenty-minute drive, she went from the opulence of Star Island to the wasteland of Liberty City. Once upon a time she’d thought that the wealthy, with their islands, their bridges, their yachts, and their country clubs, operated completely unaware that they lived a stone’s throw from soul-crushing poverty. But now Lila realized that the rich were only too aware of the poor. That awareness was precisely why they lived on those islands with their bridges.

  Lila pulled up across the street from what she hoped was still Sandoval’s house and paused for a moment, taking in the surroundings. The house was on a run-down residential block full of postage-stamp front yards with patches of browned grass and the occasional withering palm tree. Two young girls rode up and down the street on pink bikes as an old woman watched them from a broken-down couch on the front porch. There was no sign of life around Sandoval’s house.

  Lila drove around the corner, parked, and walked to the house, her gun tucked securely in her jeans.

  The calm afternoon was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a man’s anguished cry erupting from inside Sandoval’s house. Lila immediately and instinctively started to sprint forward, reaching for her revolver, ready to fire. Her racing pulse made her temples throb, but her hands were steady.

  “Police,” she said, out of habit.

  The man wailed again. She heard the rustling sound of someone else moving inside.

  “Police!” she shouted again. There was no answer.

  Lila kicked the door in and stumbled inside. Sandoval was lying on the floor, his hands clutching his chest, his face a purplish red.

  His eyes bulged with desperation when he saw her.

  “My heart,” he gasped.

  Lila couldn’t believe it. She had walked in on him having a heart attack. Quickly, she picked up Sandoval’s house phone and dialed 911. She knew she couldn’t speak. Every call was recorded. If she communicated with the emergency operator, she would have the police searching for a woman who shouldn’t exist.

  Lila placed the receiver next to Sandoval’s mouth.

  “Tell them to send an ambulance,” she whispered to the dying man. But he couldn’t summon the words, only groans of pain and terror.

  Lila felt his pulse. It was as fast as a hummingbird’s. He wouldn’t last long.

  “Don’t die! Don’t die!” she repeated in barely a whisper as she began to administer CPR. She needed this man to live, so she could learn why Javier Martinez was tracking him. She needed to find the Star Island killer.

  Suddenly Sandoval’s body spasmed under her hands. She continued CPR even as she felt all the life drain out of him. She reached to feel his pulse again, but she already knew it was pointless. He was gone, his mouth frozen in a grimace.


  Lila sank to the floor as a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Sandoval had been her only real lead in the case, and now he was dead, and she knew nothing about his involvement with Javier or any of the others. She was back to square one.

  She took a deep breath and glanced quickly around the desolate little house. She knew that a patrol car would follow up on that 911 call in the next few minutes, and she couldn’t risk being at the scene. There was no chance that she’d be able to search the house for other possible clues without running the risk of being caught by the police.

  Lila grabbed a baseball cap from the kitchen table, pulled it low over her face, and ran out through the back door, keeping her gaze down the whole time. She jumped in her car and peeled off toward the highway. On the drive south, Lila tried to piece together what had just happened.

  Frederic Sandoval wasn’t the killer, that was for sure. He’d be six feet under on the night of the Star Island massacre. And whatever else he had known was now gone with him. He was just one more dead end. A bubble of rage burst inside her. Why did every lead go nowhere? What if she’d come all the way back in time only to end up exactly where she’d started?

  Her phone rang. It was Dylan. Lila looked at the clock.

  “Fuck!” she said aloud. She was supposed to have been at his place half an hour ago.

  “You like making me wait, don’t you,” he said playfully, when she pressed Accept.

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” Lila couldn’t focus. “I need to cancel lunch.”

  “Why?”

  She could hear the disappointment in his voice. It made her ever angrier at herself. She felt like she couldn’t do anything right.

  “Nothing . . . bad day . . . I wouldn’t be good company.” Her mind was still back at Sandoval’s house. Maybe she could go there once the paramedics and police had cleared out. Then she’d be able to carry out a thorough search, though it would be after law enforcement had already gone through the place.