The Rich and the Dead (20 page)

Teddy had warned her against the dangers of meeting herself in the past. Which was why the night of Thanksgiving would be perfect for this particular undercover stint. On Thanksgiving, she knew that past-Lila would be sitting at her mother's cheap dining room table and wolfing down a meal her mom had spent all day cooking. And not only would her past self be out of the station on Thanksgiving—so would almost everybody else.

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

O
N
S
ATURDAY 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.