The Rich and the Dead (8 page)

C
HECKING INTO THE
Ritz's five-thousand-dollar-a-night oceanfront suite with no luggage except a metal briefcase raised a few eyebrows behind the flower-laden check-in desk. But once Lila handed over the credit card in Camilla Dayton's name, which could easily shoulder the $50,000 hold that was placed on it, she might as well have been the Queen of England.

A young man with model good looks and heavy blond bangs appeared beside her as if by magic. “Just this way, Ms. Dayton.”

Her room was breathtaking. Decorated like a Balinese paradise, it was all warm wood and white furniture, with a mesmerizing view. The sweet smell of tropical flowers gently scented the air.

“Do you have a hair salon on the premises?” Lila asked, after the boy had given her a brief tour.

“Of course. It's located on the second floor next to the south pool. Would you like me to get you an appointment?”

“Yes. Right away.” Though Lila highly doubted she'd run into anyone she knew at the Ritz, she needed to look as different from herself as she could, as fast as she could.

“John Darling runs the salon. I'm sure you know of him.” Lila nodded her head, though she had absolutely no idea who he was. “He's impossible to book, but I can always pull some strings.” The bellhop gave her a salacious wink. “For a friend.”

Once he secured her a salon appointment, Lila tipped him a hundred dollars. After all, she knew it paid to have friends in low places.

John Darling turned out to be a muscular, taciturn man with arms covered in tattoos and long hair the color and texture of cornsilk. In a little under six hours—and with the help of no fewer than four other hairdressers—he turned Lila's long black mane into a sleek, shoulder-length blond bob.

“From feral to fab,” John said, combing his fingers through her transformed hair. Lila regarded herself in the mirror and was shocked to see someone else look back. It was a jarring experience, seeing herself as just another South Beach blonde, the women she'd spent her whole life detesting.

Pleased to meet you, Camilla,
she thought. The razored edge of the cut fell elegantly right above her prominent collarbones, and the side-swept bangs created a perfect frame for her face. She knew, objectively, that this was the kind of haircut most women dreamed of. But she couldn't think of it as anything more than a disguise.

When the salon receptionist told Lila how much she owed, Lila's first reaction was to slap her across the face. Spending roughly the amount she'd made on the force in a month for a cut and color was tantamount to larceny. But Lila choked back her impulsive reaction and simply smiled, placing the credit card on the counter between them.

It was time for the clothes.

Lila spent the remainder of the day at the mercy of the shopgirls of Miami's priciest boutiques. Tom Ford. Bulgari. Gucci. Dior. Alexander McQueen. Christian Louboutin. And what seemed like a lifetime at the makeup counters in Barneys. These names meant nothing to her. Luckily, Teddy had written detailed instructions for her—where to go, who to ask for, what to say. In every store, just as she was instructed, Lila did the exact same thing. She would walk in, identify the most intimidating salesgirl in the shop, and then tell her, “I've just moved here from New York. I need an entire new wardrobe, and money is no object.”

For Lila, it was almost a game to watch how the faces of the shopgirls transformed from indifference to delight once she made it clear that she had limitless money to spend. In an instant, there was champagne in her hand, a large private dressing room, and a steady stream of outfits for her to try on. Most of the clothes struck her as idiotic. And the cost was obscene. Three hundred and fifty dollars for a T-shirt. Fourteen hundred dollars for a skirt. After the first few items, she stopped looking at the price tags.

“Rich, gorgeous, and a perfect size two,” one shopgirl cooed into Lila's ear as she zipped her into a particularly form-fitting strapless dress. “You must've made a deal with the devil.”

Later that evening, once the bellboys had everything unpacked and put away in her hotel closets, Lila went to the minibar, grabbed a tiny bottle of Wild Turkey, and poured it over ice. She sank onto her terrace with a satisfied sigh, letting the sound of the ocean cascade over her. Then she picked up the phone and called the front desk.

“Yes, Ms. Dayton?”

“Please connect me to the Maserati dealership in Palm Beach.” An enormous smile spread across her lips. She'd been saving the best part of her day for last.

Money wasn't important to Lila. Clothes, even less so. Shopping all day had felt like the worst form of punishment Teddy could inflict on her. But cars—luxury automobiles, that is—were a different story entirely. Lila could barely believe that finally, and in the most unlikely circumstance, she would be able to buy the car of her dreams.

“Connecting you now, Ms. Dayton.” The phone rang. On the third ring, a man with a deep Italian accent picked up.

“Ferrari Maserati of Palm Beach, how can I help you?”

“Yes. Hello,” Lila said. “I'm looking to purchase a 2014 Maserati GranTurismo MC convertible in black. Do you have one on the lot?”

“Yes, signorina, we do have that car. But not in black. We have it in a deep red color called Rosso Trionfale.” The man rolled his
r
's so comedically, Lila wondered if the accent was a put-on. “It's a beautiful color. The same as the Maserati Italian racing cars from the nineteen fifties.
Molto bello. Classico.
Much better than black. Would you like to come down for a test drive.”

“The problem is I'm in Miami and don't have the time. Can I just give you my credit card number and you can bring the car and the papers to my hotel? It's been a long day, and I'd rather handle it this way.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

“Is this . . .
come si dice
. . . a punk?” the man asked in his heavy accent. “You want to buy a car over the phone? Signorina, this is not a pizza for delivery.”

“Look, I just want to get the car. How much is it?”

“Let me pull up the information.” Lila heard the sound of his fingers furiously hitting the computer keys as the man muttered something in Italian. “As is, the total cost of the GT convertible that we have on the floor is one hundred and thirteen thousand, five hundred and thirty-four dollars.”

“That's fine. How soon will I have it?”

It took several more minutes, and the guarantee that she'd tip him five thousand dollars for his trouble, to convince the wary salesman to drive the car seventy miles south to Miami.

With that little treat making her feel a slight buzz of good fortune, Lila unpacked her newly purchased MacBook Air and brought it out to the veranda, along with more Wild Turkey mini bottles and Teddy's thumb drive. She sat in silence as she reviewed the files, beginning to chart out her next day. With a little over three months to complete her mission, she had no time to waste.

Three hours later, her immersion in the files was abruptly halted when her room phone rang. It was the front desk telling her that her car had arrived. She hurried down to the lobby. Even though she had a closet full of designer clothes, she was still wearing her old jeans and tank top. Everything else felt like a straitjacket. Tomorrow she'd dress the part. Tonight was for her.

Seeing that car sitting there waiting for her, all glossy and gorgeous, Lila felt that maybe, somehow, this would all turn out okay. She signed the papers, handed a check for an obscene amount of money to the flabbergasted Italian, and climbed into her new Maserati, almost pinching herself to make sure it wasn't a dream.

“Thanks, Teddy,” she murmured, grinning widely.

Even in South Beach, the land where audacious beauty and absolute weirdness collide, where no one looks twice at a drag queen Rollerblading down the boardwalk in a mermaid costume, everyone who saw the beautiful blonde in the red Maserati gave her a second glance. But Lila was oblivious to their admiring stares. All that mattered to her was the feel of the car as it raced along the road.

Though she was in the past, never before had Lila felt so alive, so present, so
now
.

CHAPTER 10

W
HEN
L
ILA AWOKE
the next morning, it took her a few confused seconds to remember where she was. The previous day had been as surreal as a dream, and now her mind was scrambling to make sense of it all.

She had slept fitfully amid the grandeur of her oceanfront suite. The bed felt too big, the mattress too soft. The sounds of the waves' rhythmic crashing and the wind-rustled palm fronds kept waking her up. But that white noise of the tropics was nothing compared to the riot of thoughts endlessly circling through her head. Her mind was buzzing with lists, ideas, plans, and theories about the Star Island massacre.

She had a second chance, and this time she wasn't going to blow it.

Now it was 10:00
A
.
M
., and she was anxious to get a start on the day. Grabbing the laptop from the pillow beside her, Lila got up, put on a robe, and ordered a pot of black coffee from room service. As she passed by a mirror, she did a double take, startled at the sight of the stranger looking back at her. She ran her hand thoughtfully through her blond tresses, studying her reflection, and smiled. Not because of the hair—that would take some getting used to. But, for the first time in years, Lila was actually looking forward to the day ahead of her.

She hadn't felt this way since she left the force. Once again, she felt driven. She had a purpose.

After an extended battle with blush brushes, lipsticks, and mascara wands, Lila finally felt ready to face the world as Camilla Dayton. Her first target would be Effie Webster.

Of the twelve victims murdered by the Star Island killer that New Year's morning, only three were women. Vivienne Hunter, an aged widow who'd earned her fortune selling drugstore lipsticks and face creams to middle-class moms looking for glam on the cheap. Meredith Sloan, age thirty-five, who, along with her husband, had founded Miami's premier luxury real estate company and somehow gotten even richer after the floor fell out from under the economy in 2008. And Effie Webster, twenty-eight-year-old socialite, known for a weakness for South American soccer players and a penchant for trouble. Though she had once been South Beach's girl du jour, Effie had started cooling off in 2010. By 2014, she was approaching thirty and flirting with has-been status.

With his typical obsessive preparedness, Teddy had suggested multiple ways for Lila to insinuate herself into the Janus Society's social circle. Number one on the list was befriending Effie Webster. Unlike the other society members, Effie was around Lila's age, single, and fantastically social. Becoming a member of her entourage wouldn't be a total impossibility.

But Lila dreaded it. There were few things she found as tiresome as spoiled society girls, and Effie was goddess emeritus of all budding Miami socialites. And though she hated to admit it, Lila was worried Effie would see through her cover in a second. Teddy had said that money would open doors for her, but was it enough to stop Effie from sniffing Camilla Dayton out as a fake?

Lila left the Ritz around noon, got in her car, and drove parallel to the turquoise waters of the ocean along palm-tree-lined streets until she reached the stark white Art Deco masterpiece that was the Delano Hotel.

One of the sections of Teddy's thumb drive had been filled with meticulous agendas for all twelve victims during their last few months of life. The thoroughness of his investigative work astounded Lila. With the Miami police department's limited resources, she had only been able to scratch the surface of the information Teddy had uncovered and obsessively cataloged. Thanks to his work she knew what all twelve victims were doing that very day, Friday, September 26, 2014. Chase Haverford was in Rotterdam, finalizing the details of his new hotel. Vivienne Hunter was at the office of one of her South Beach dermatologists for her second minor cosmetic procedure that week. Theo von Fick, the German manufacturing baron, was holed up with his newest mistress, Loulou, in the South Beach condo he had just bought for her. The number one world-ranked tennis champion, Sam Logan, was in Beijing, playing at the China Open. The young Nigerian cement titan Adebayo “Johnny” Oluwa was in Lagos on business. Fernando Salazar, the Cuban-born political kingmaker, was hosting an anti-Castro convention in Miami with a few dozen fellow exiles. Retired TV morning show host Rusty Browder was deep-sea fishing off Key West with some old Sigma Chi buddies. Meredith Sloan was showing multimillion-dollar mansions to a Bulgarian émigré. Egyptian financier Khaled Fathallah was in Doha for the wedding of his youngest sister. Neville Crawley, the alcoholic heir apparent to his family's massive strip mall fortune, was doing what he did every day, hitting the links with a stiff gin and tonic in hand. Javier Martinez, the Argentine-born, internationally renowned art dealer, was flying back to Miami from an art fair in Berlin.