The Rich and the Dead (21 page)

“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.

W
EARING 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.

“Listen,” Dylan said. “Where are you right now?”

“Ninety-five. I just passed exit two,” she said.

“I live fifteen minutes away. Come over. I can still make you lunch. You can tell me what's wrong, and we'll figure it out. Trust me, whatever the problem is, it can wait. A little break will make things seem clearer.”

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“You need to eat.”

Actually, Lila couldn't remember the last time she'd had a sit-down meal. Maybe Dylan was right. Maybe what she needed more than anything was to get some space and perspective on the case.

The morning had been a heartbreaking bust. The rational part of Lila knew she should be by herself and try to focus, to get a grip on a case that had slipped out of her hands yet again. But the rational part of her wasn't in charge at the moment. She wanted to see Dylan, and she wasn't going to justify anything to herself right now.

“Text me your address,” she said. “I'll be there in ten.” Lila pressed her foot down on the gas, letting the car unleash its full power.

At least out here, with her car ripping down the highway, Lila could remember what it felt like to be in control.

CHAPTER 21

S
ITTING RIGHT ON
the water, with the sparkling decadence of Miami just across the bay, Dylan's house had a surprisingly intimate feel. With teak ceilings and coral rock throughout, it was Polynesian splendor mixed with the coziness of an Aspen ski lodge.

When Dylan saw Lila, her clothes rumpled and her face red from heat and frustration, he took her in his arms.

“I'm glad you came,” he said, pulling her closer.

In his embrace, Lila felt the balled fist that was in her stomach begin to relax.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand, “I'll show you around. Then we'll get good and drunk so you can shake off the morning.”

The house was peppered with tokens from Dylan's travels around the world. Tribal masks from Ghana, one collected for each year he went on safari there. Textiles from Peru, where he and his brother had hiked the Inca Trail. A collection of ancient stoneware vases from when he'd lived in Japan for a few years. The rug underfoot had come from a Moroccan souk. Each item carried a story that Lila found intoxicating.

“You travel a lot with your brother?” she asked as she felt Dylan's eyes on her.

“Yep,” he said as he led the way down the hall, pulling her behind him.

“So, your brother lives here?” She felt awkward. She wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

“He's out of the country right now. But he's planning on settling in Miami soon. We're talking about starting a business, rehabbing old sailboats.”

Lila nodded.

Dylan burst into laughter. “God, you're not very good at this, are you?”

“What?”

“Human conversation! You're being so formal.” His infectious smile made her smile as well. Suddenly, she felt lighter. “You know, I
have
kissed you,” he went on, teasing. “Don't you remember?”

Lila's cheeks instantly burned. “Yes,” she said, still smiling, “of course I remember.”

“Oh, good. For a second I worried I made that bit up.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and walked her into his kitchen. “Sit here,” he instructed, pointing to a stool by the counter. “And drink this, please. You're in need of serious help.” He handed her a glass of wine.

“Do I seem that tense?”

“Oh, no. You're as light as a lead balloon,” Dylan joked. “But now you can relax. All you have to do is watch me cook, and as long as I don't burn the place down, that should be a fairly low-key activity.”

Lila settled back with her wine, sipping it slowly. She did watch Dylan. In fact, she couldn't keep her eyes off him. All the physical elegance and efficiency he showed when he sailed was on display in the kitchen as well. She felt giddy just being close to him. Every time he brushed past her on the way to the stove, she shivered.

“Try this,” he said, holding out a spoonful of sauce. Lila opened her mouth, then closed her eyes as she sampled his cooking. It tasted of fresh herbs, lemon rind, and a dash of something she couldn't place.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, searching her eyes, his face close to hers. She broke his gaze by looking down at the floor. She was trying with all of her might to conceal how intoxicated she was at this very moment—with him, his cooking, the wine, the house, the aromas of the food wafting toward her. It was too much.

A feeble “Yummy” was all she managed to say. He looked at her quizzically as he went back to the stove, carefully minding his many bubbling pots and simmering pans.

“So, wanna tell me what happened to you today?” Dylan asked.

“Not at all,” she said.

“Ah, a woman of mystery. I like that.” He walked back toward her, refilled her glass, and then he kissed her on the lips. The taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips, and the effects of the wine pulled Lila's mind out of its whirring machinations. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him deeply, the anger and disappointments of the day channeling rapidly into her desire for him.

They dined on his terrace under a ring of palm trees, with the Miami skyline serving as their view. The food was exquisite. Dylan and Lila sat shoulder to shoulder, holding hands under the table while they ate.