Evil in All Its Disguises

by Hilary Davidson

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “You know how we were just talking about staying in touch with exes? I was wondering if you and Martin Sklar ever—”

  “We don’t talk.” My voice was as flat as the starless sky.

  “Because he’s in Southeast Asia?”

  “What?”

  “From what I’ve heard, he’s been there a lot lately. Something about negotiating to open a hotel in Burma or Myanmar or whatever you’re supposed to call it these days.”

  Martin cozying up to a regime to get a hotel concession? That figured. Nothing my ex did really surprised me, though hearing about his unethical exploits made me angry at myself and how much I’d been willing to overlook when we were together.

  “I couldn’t really care less about what he does,” I said.

  Skye took another long drag from her cigarette. For the first time, I realized she was nervous. She watched me with an intent expression that made me feel as if I were under a magnifying glass. Her mouth shifted into a grin now and then, as if a pair of tiny fishhooks tugged each corner into place, but her eyes betrayed the effort; they were caught somewhere between worry and hope. “You two always seemed like such a great couple.” Her voice was tentative, almost wary. I didn’t respond, and she went on. “You’re both so glamorous. Seeing the two of you together was like watching a movie.”

  “Sometimes it felt like a movie, but I didn’t like the way the script was going.”

  “You two really are through?”

  “Any particular reason you’re asking, Skye?”

  The only light was from the candle on the table and the ambient glow of the bar’s interior, but I was certain she blushed. “I was thinking you and Martin have broken up before and gotten back together,” she mumbled.

  “That’s not going to happen this time.”

  “Someone told me you hand-addressed your wedding invitations and were taking them to the post office, when you suddenly threw them in the garbage and flew off to Spain instead.”

  “That sounds like something Ava Gardner would have done.” The truth was, I’d tossed a stack of save-the-date cards, not wedding invitations. Not that Skye needed to know. “You seem awfully interested in Martin.”

  She took her time answering. Cigarettes were useful props; you could disguise confusion or annoyance or any other reaction with a long, thoughtful drag. I’d done that myself, enough times to recognize when someone else attempted it. “I guess, in a way, I am.”

  I examined her more closely. There was tension behind her façade. It was knotted around her eyes and mouth, and I saw it in her hands as she reached for another cigarette and lit it with the first. I was about to ask, “Why on earth would you be interested in Martin?” but I immediately thought of a reason: she was involved with him. My mind teetered for a moment, bracing for an agonized revelation, before catching its balance. I don’t really care, I thought, surprising myself. I wasn’t trying to be the bigger person. If they were together, I hoped they were both heart-wrenchingly miserable.

  “I feel like my whole life has fallen apart. I haven’t...” Skye’s voice trailed off and she inhaled smoke, staring out at the dark cliffs. The flames of the torches were losing their fight against the rain.

  Her words hung in the air between us as I waited for an explanation that didn’t come. “You mentioned being sick,” I said cautiously. “What else is wrong?”

  She gave me a searching look, her face pinched with worry. Applause erupted from the cliffs, and Skye took advantage of the distraction. “You know what’s funny? People say there’s never been a death here from cliff diving. Just wait until you see them in action. It’s impossible to believe.”

  The spectacle on the cliffs wasn’t half as interesting to me as whatever had gotten under Skye’s skin. She was normally a cheerful chatterbox; it was unnerving to see her so subdued. “What’s going on with you, Skye? Why did you start crying in the lobby?”

  “That… that was just me being an idiot. I’ve been seeing this guy for months, and I really thought he was The One, but he’s a bastard. He’s just… evil. There’s no other word for it. I’m ashamed I didn’t see it before, you know? I should’ve known something was wrong when he said we had to keep our relationship under wraps. What kind of guy does that?”

  “Is he married?”

  She shook her head. “No, just seriously screwed up in the head.”

  Martin and I had agreed to keep things quiet when we’d first started dating, but that had been a mutual decision, inspired—on my side—by fear of being taken for a gold digger and paranoia about reporters dredging up my past. Before I could form a question, Skye started speaking again.

  “The thing is, I know how to get even with him.” She stopped fidgeting and looked me in the eye. “I’m going to destroy him professionally, and he’ll never even see it coming.”

  “Skye, no matter how much you hate him right now, nothing good is going to come from taking revenge on him.”

  “This isn’t about revenge. This is about righting wrongs. Illegal wrongs, Lily. I can deal with my hurt feelings, but he can’t be allowed to keep on doing the things he does.”

  “Have you gotten the police involved?”

  “There’s no point. This is too big. I know I’m right about what’s going on, but…” She exhaled furiously. She sounded as if she were replaying an argument in her head. “When I try to get to the bottom of things, the truth keeps slipping away. I can’t get the hard proof I need. Sometimes, I think if I were a real journalist, instead of a fluffy travel writer, I’d have done it already. I’m going to write a feature about—”

  She stopped speaking as a man stepped out onto the balcony. In the golden half-light of the bar, I could see he was tall and broad-shouldered, with tanned skin and curly black hair, but the shadows obscured his features. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt that was open at the neck. As he walked by, he nodded at us then stood at the edge of the balcony for a moment. The breeze carried the scent of his cologne over, musky and enticing but a touch too heavily applied.

  “Good evening, ladies.” His English was accented. He passed us again and went back inside. Had he heard us speaking? When I looked at Skye, she was glaring after him with narrowed eyes.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Listen to me, Lily. You don’t want to know that guy.”

  “Okay, what were you saying about working on a story?”

  “I’m not sure I can tell you.” Skye crushed her cigarette and pulled an iPhone out of her bag.

  “You don’t really think I’m going to steal your story, do you?”

  Her platinum hair gleamed as she shook her head. “No, no, no. Of course not, Lily. If anything, you’re the person who could help me with the story.”

  “How?” I was mystified and more than slightly exasperated.

  “Here, take a look at this.” She reached into her bag and handed me a paperback book that I immediately recognized as Frakker’s Mexico.

  “I have this book with me, Skye. I work for them, remember?”

  “Just look at it, okay?” She stood. “I just need to call m— uh, someone. I can’t explain right now, but I’ll be able to soon.” She hurried toward the door, leaving her bag behind on a chair.

  Someone? I thought. She’d been about to say a name but she’d pulled back at the last second.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she called over her shoulder. “Be careful.”

  Before I could say anything, she was through the door and inside the bar. There was a huge cheer from the cliffs. I got to my feet, but couldn’t see anything from that vantage point, except the fading glow of the torchlights. That sight didn’t pique my curiosity the way Skye had. I looked back at the bar, but she was already gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  I polished off my margarita while I waited for Skye to return. Another cliff diver must have jumped, because there was more wild cheering. It was surreal, sitting in a bar so close t
o the spectacle, yet being removed from the action. Ironically, I could picture the divers thanks to the promotional video clips that Denny Chiu, the public-relations executive who’d lured me to Acapulco, had sent my way. I’d been fascinated by the fearless way the men hurled themselves off a narrow ledge. For a split second, they seemed to swoop forward, arms high and torsos arced, defying gravity before plunging into the abyss below. Having seen the sunny highlights on film, I wondered if I’d be disappointed in person, watching under a gray drizzle. That was so often the case in real life.

  “Another pomegranate margarita, señora?” asked the waiter.

  I looked at my watch. It had been at least twenty minutes since Skye had handed the book to me and gone off to make her phone call. The Frakker’s guide had asterisks drawn in the margins next to a few hotels; from what little I’d read by candlelight, there was nothing special about the properties. “No, thank you.”

  “You did not care for it?” he asked. He was in his mid-fifties, with neatly combed and pomaded iron-gray hair and dark brows.

  “It was very good. I’m just a little tired.” That was an understatement. Denny had flown me from Barcelona to New York the day before, so I’d spent two days traveling and was seriously road-weary and jet-lagged.

  He smiled. “It is only nine o’clock! The night has not even started.”

  “I’ve heard Acapulco is one of those towns that never sleeps.”

  “Oh, we sleep, but only at afternoon siesta. When you are in Acapulco, you should do as the natives do.”

  “When my friend comes back, will you tell her that I went to my room—number 527—and that I have her purse?” I felt bad about leaving—I imagined Skye coming back to the table just after I left—but I was hungry, exhausted, and more than slightly annoyed that she’d dragged me to the bar only to abandon me there.

  Retracing my steps back to the lobby, I found it silent. The clerk looked bored as he pecked at his computer, and I wondered if the snake had been captured and escorted off the premises. I headed toward the elevators, turning from the broad expanse of the lobby down a narrow corridor with a high ceiling. The hallway’s walls were populated with black-and-white photographs of Hollywood stars. I recognized a bare-chested Johnny Weissmuller and a bare-legged John Wayne. Next to them was a shot of Tyrone Power, who had filmed Captain From Castile in Acapulco. I stared at that photo; Martin Sklar looked a lot like him, and the resemblance had been the first thing that had attracted me to him. It was only as I stared at the picture that I started to wonder how the hell Skye knew where Martin was.

  My mind churned with bits of our conversation. He’s in Southeast Asia, she’d said. Something about negotiating to open a hotel in Burma or Myanmar or whatever you’re supposed to call it these days.

  I’d dated Martin for two years, and we’d stayed in touch for a year after we broke up. While I hadn’t spoken to him in eight months, there were some things about him that I didn’t believe had changed. One was that Martin, who wasn’t exactly trustworthy himself, didn’t put his faith in other people. Anyone who’d read about Martin could have figured out that he was at a major art show at certain times of the year—Maastricht in mid-March, Art Basel Miami Beach in early December—because he attended a handful of those annually. But Myanmar? That wasn’t just an educated guess. When we’d first started seeing each other, Martin kept quiet about his itinerary; later, I found out that he feared I’d inadvertently tell someone and spoil whatever he was planning. My ex was nothing if not paranoid. The fact that Skye knew where he was made me wonder how well she knew him.

  When I stepped into the elevator, Skye’s voice kept reverberating in my head, distracting me so much that I pressed the wrong button. The thing is, I know how to get even with him. I’m going to destroy him professionally, and he’ll never even see it coming… This isn’t about revenge. This is about righting wrongs. Illegal wrongs, Lily. I can deal with my hurt feelings, but he can’t be allowed to keep on doing the things he does.

  That made something twist inside me. Could Skye have been talking about Martin? If anyone had cause to want revenge on him, it was me. He’d plotted against my sister, Claudia, and I knew he’d wanted to have her killed back when he believed she was blackmailing him. His plans never came to pass, but that awful impulse was something I’d never be able to forgive him for. For weeks after my sister’s funeral, I’d wanted revenge on Martin, even though he hadn’t been responsible for what had actually happened to Claudia. I’d lain awake many nights, visualizing what I’d do to get even. But as I crawled out of the pit of despair, I left my fantasies of vengeance behind. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but a survival mechanism. Moving forward in my life meant shedding the dark regrets in my past.

  When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out before remembering that the fourth floor wasn’t the one I wanted. It was dark and silent, and I backed into the elevator, wondering why all the lights were off. Did the hotel have so few guests that an entire floor was empty? As the doors slid shut and the elevator chugged upward again, my thoughts returned to Martin. My ex was amoral and ruthless, but it had taken me a long time to see that. In retrospect, I realized I’d been willfully blind, ignoring what was in front of me. Maybe poor Skye had caught on faster than I had. You don’t even know that they were involved, whispered a voice in the back of my brain. Even so, I wondered what Martin had done to Skye to make her hate him so deeply.

  On the fifth floor, I stepped out of the elevator and turned down the hallway, finding my room at the end of a long, curving corridor. Room was a misnomer; when I unlocked the door, I found a grand suite that was perhaps a grade below El Presidente levels, but only by a hair. The foyer had a circular table in its center, bearing a massive floral display that I had to inch around to avoid it poking me in the eye. A short hallway opened into an expansive living room with a high, molded ceiling. Someone had pulled the heavy drapes almost closed, but I could still make out floor-to-ceiling windows. I stepped forward, setting both my bag and Skye’s on a table, and slipping out of my shoes. All of the lights were burning bright, jolting the vivid colors of the room to life. Whoever had decorated this room lived by the motto “more is more.” Scarlet and tangerine and yellow and chartreuse rioted together from one end of the room to the other, all screaming for attention.

  The phone rang before I got any further. “Miss Moore, we have your dinner ready. May we bring it to you?” A minute later, the doorbell rang, and a trio of waiters bearing covered silver trays and a matching ice bucket came into the room. They marched through the living room and into the dining room.

  “This will only take a moment to set up,” one said. “Thank you, Miss Moore.”

  I decided to keep exploring while they laid the meal out. Stepping through another doorway, I found the bedroom. My carry-on bag stood against a wall; I’d almost forgotten that a bellman had disappeared with it when I’d arrived at the Hotel Cerón. The bedroom wasn’t as aggressively colorful as the living room, but it did boast a bedspread that was the same shade of red as a chili pepper. Lying against a pillow was a white envelope with the words for miss lily moore written in a calligraphic style on the front.

  As I reached for it, a champagne cork popped, making my head turn, and I noticed a framed photograph on the wall. It was a portrait of Ava Gardner. I stopped suddenly and stared, disconcerted. The other art I’d seen in the suite were bright paintings of Mexican landscapes; this black-and-white shot seemed very much out of place. I stared around the room, realizing that there was a shot of Ava with Frank Sinatra, and another that was a publicity still of Ava wearing a leopard-print bathing suit and posing on a leopard-skin rug. The presence of the shots didn’t feel accidental; it was hard to imagine that they weren’t deliberate choices made by someone who knew of my admiration for Ava Gardner. Had Denny asked the hotel to redecorate my room? She was detail-oriented, but this felt like overkill.

  “Everything is ready. Thank you, Miss Moore!” called a waiter. I hurried
out of the bedroom, because I’d left my purse in the living room, but the front door was already closing. The fact they hadn’t waited for a tip was startling, but the smell emanating from the red-walled dining room distracted me from everything else. On the oval dining table, they’d laid out salad, steak, and vegetables on white china plates with hotel cerón emblazoned on the edge; the crème brûlée sat in a blue ramekin, and an open bottle of champagne chilled in the silver ice bucket. I took a sip from the glass they’d poured for me and shook my head. Most of the time, travel writing was a job like any other, but there were days I wished I could live at a hotel forever.

  I sat down and took a bite of the steak. It was cooked to medium-rare perfection, even if it was slathered in a gravy it could have done without. Someone in the kitchen clearly had a heavy hand with sauces, because the salad was drenched in dressing, and there was even a creamy relish atop the grilled vegetables. I scraped off as much as I could, and I was halfway through the main course when a booming sound from the hallway made me freeze. Someone was banging on a door and yelling. I went to the foyer, silent as a ghost and glad I’d already abandoned my shoes. Through the peephole, I could see a large man. His back was to me; the door across the hall was the one he was attacking. He wore jeans and a black shirt, and his shoulder-length dark hair was shaggy.

  “Skye!” he bellowed, hitting the door again, knocking the side of his balled fist against it as if he were hammering a nail. “Skye!”

  CHAPTER 4

  It was only when he spoke that my heart stopped galloping and resumed its normal pace. I turned the lock on my door and pulled it open.

  “Pete, what are you doing?” I asked. “You sound like Marlon Brando shouting for Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.”