The Rich and the Dead

by Liv Spector

  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

  WHEN LILA 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 tenn
is 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.

  And Effie Webster, the most predictable and homebound member of the group, was lounging poolside at the Delano Hotel.

  The moment Lila walked toward the Delano pool, she spotted Effie, sprawled out on a chaise longue, getting sprayed with Evian mist by a cabana boy. She was surrounded by a gaggle of bronzed and athletic men wearing the tiny Speedos that only those sculpted like Greek gods can get away with. Lila selected a spot by the pool so close to Effie that she could smell her suntan oil.

  With her Hermès beach towel, Fendi swimsuit, and oversize Gucci glasses, Lila hoped that she came across as a South Beach ingenue, but inside, she was cringing. She hadn’t ever been so naked in public, and kept nervously readjusting the tiny triangles of overpriced fabric covering her chest.

  Glancing around, Lila noticed that everyone at the pool was sizing her up. She closed her eyes instinctively, letting the hot, bright sun kick up a light show of orange and red-colored splashes beneath her fluttering eyelids. Suddenly, there was shade. She opened her eyes to find a cabana boy standing over her, the large Evian mister in his hand.

  “Care for a spritz, miss?” the boy said in a thick Cuban accent.

  “Yes, thank you.” Lila felt the delicate mist cool her skin as she kept her eye on her target.

  Seeing Effie Webster in the flesh—alive, beautiful, and unaware of the horrors awaiting her—felt strange, like seeing a ghost, or a fictional character. Lila had spent so much time reviewing everything she could about Effie’s death that she felt almost sick to her stomach at the thought of actually meeting her. Effie had very long, almost white-blond hair, which she was wearing in a casual topknot. Her dark blue eyes were deeply set into her oval face, and her delicate nose and chin were perfectly shaped by an expert surgeon’s scalpel. Her famous figure, which was artfully displayed in a silver string bikini, was a combination of good genes and utter devotion to exercise and diet. No one could look quite that good without it being the number one priority and guiding principle of her life.

  Lila watched as Effie flirted outrageously with the four gelled and waxed young men surrounding her. While one put tanning lotion on her back, she made eyes at another. The third guy was off getting her a drink from the bar, while the fourth sulked in the corner over her lack of interest.

  There was almost a childlike quality to Effie, Lila quickly realized. She was slouched with boredom one minute, then squealing with excitement the next. A fit of giggling would be quickly followed by several minutes of sustained pouting. She switched from mood to mood with all the permanence of the sun’s rays on the surface of the pool—and all the expertise of a master artist.

  Lila could see that, behind it all, Effie was expertly calculating. She kept a close watch on who was watching her, constantly pushing and pulling to make sure everyone gave her their rapt attention. As the richest and best-known of all the models, cool kids, and young aristocrats who hung out at the Delano, Effie was at the center of this particular social circle.

  Lila had to hand it to her, the girl clearly knew what she was doing.

  Getting on Effie’s radar would require strategy. Teddy had suggested a straightforward introduction, but Lila knew a girl like Effie wouldn’t take kindly to her walking over and saying hello. That would be the social equivalent of a cold call. She’d be setting herself up to be shot down. So, Lila came up with her own plan.

  After Effie’s murder, Lila had interviewed dozens of people connected in some way to the young socialite, and many had said the same thing—Effie was desperate to get back in the spotlight. She’d never recovered from the quick cancellation of her reality TV show, Hedge Fun, which followed her as she learned the ropes of her famous father’s hedge-fund business. Ben Oliver, one of the biggest producers in all of reality TV, had produced the show. He’d been relieved when it was taken off the air.

  “I mean, how compelling is it watching a dumb blonde cram for her Series 7 exam?” Oliver had asked Lila when she interviewed him. He mentioned that Effie and her agent had been stalking him since the show’s cancellation, in hopes that he’d get her back on the small screen. Oliver hadn’t answered their calls in months.

  Lila stood up and approached Effie, who was lying on her back with her eyes closed and an empty glass in her hand.

  “Effie Webster?” Lila said, in a voice full of fake surprise, as she reached the socialite’s beach chair. She had to sidestep Effie’s tiny swarm of male admirers, all of whom were trying to look totally relaxed while discreetly keeping their oiled-up muscles flexed.

  Effie’s blue eyes blinked sleepily open. “You’re in my sun,” she said, a dismissive curl to her upper lip. Lila felt a wave of annoyance rise up in her, but she managed a weak smile.

  “My name’s Camilla,” Lila offered.

  Effie said nothing, just stared at Lila with a blank, bored look on her face, as if she couldn’t believe Lila had the audacity to breathe the same air.

  “Did you not hear me?” Effie repeated. “I said, ‘you’re in my sun,’ which is a nice way of saying, move.”

  Lila took a step back, her smile disappearing. “Sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you hi from Ben. He said I’d find you here.”

  At the mention of that name, Effie sat up slowly. “You don’t mean Ben Oliver?” she asked, with false casualness.

  “Yeah,” Lila said, with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “How do you know Ben? Are you in TV, too?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Lila laughed, as if nothing could be farther beneath her than a career in television. “But Ben and I go way back to Georgetown,” she went on, using the biographical info she’d gleaned from researching Oliver last night. “When I told him I was coming to Miami, he said I had to connect with you.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Camilla.” Lila paused. “Camilla Dayton.” The sound of her new alias felt awkward as it came from her mouth.

  “Join me,” Effie said, gesturing to the chair next to her. “Stavros”—she scowled at the boy currently lounging in the chair—“can you get the fuck up?” The muscled boy in the Speedo lethargically rose to his feet and, without a glance backward, jumped into the crowded pool. Lila perched on the freshly vacant seat.

  A man in an all-white waiter’s uniform arrived with a tall drink on a silver tray. He carefully, deferentially, placed the sweating glass on the table between their two chairs. Without acknowledging him, Effie picked up the glass and sipped delicately from its thin straw.

  “So, when did you get to Miami?” she asked.

  “Yesterday,” Lila said, finding it somehow amusing that Effie had gone from bitch to sweetheart in one second flat at the mention of the right name.

  “Where from?”

  Lila knew that, no matter what her answer, Effie would discover some way to find it wanting. “New York.”

  “Upper East Side, I suppose.” Effie sighed as if nothing on the planet could be more tiresome.

  “Is there something wrong with the Upper East Side?” Lila hoped she was right about her approach to Effie, that it was best not to come on too strong or try too hard. In a weird way, she was doing the same thing she’d done with the guys on the force—letting them come to her, rather tha
n trying to win them over.

  “Most of the girls I know who come here from New York are just a bunch of stuck-up bitches. Though I’m sure you’re different,” Effie said in a tone that made it clear she believed the opposite to be true. She lowered her comically large sunglasses over her eyes and reclined on the lounge chair.

  “Yep,” Lila said. “That sounds just about right. My husband, or I guess my soon-to-be-ex-husband, was very fond of their company. You can’t swing a Birkin on Madison Avenue without hitting some bitch he’s slept with.”

  Lila couldn’t see Effie’s expression behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses, but she kept going.

  “That’s why I came here. My lawyer told me I shouldn’t leave the country while I’m filing for divorce, but I couldn’t stay in New York.” Lila paused, hoping Effie would join in.

  “What did Ben say about me?” she asked, proving that she hadn’t been listening to Lila at all.

  Lila shrugged noncommittally. “Just to look out for you while I was here.”

  Effie bit her overly glossed lip, clearly thinking. Lila started to stand up. She was playing it cool, but her heart was racing. She’d never been good at the whole hard-to-get game. She just hoped to hell she was right in her judgment of Effie.

  “Anyway, nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll run into each other around town,” Lila said, turning back to her chair.

  She took a single step forward, then another one.

  “Wait.” Effie’s voice came from behind her.

  Lila turned around, trying to suppress the sly smile on her face. “Yeah?”

  “Come sit,” Effie said. “Let’s have a drink.”

  “Sure,” Lila said with feigned indifference, settling back into the lounge chair and lowering her Gucci sunglasses over her eyes.

  CHAPTER 11

  LILA’S FIRST WEEK as Camilla Dayton was an incredibly busy one. Though only eight of the twelve Janus Society members were in the country at the moment, she needed to set up the infrastructure of her surveillance for all of them—placing tracking devices on their cars, hacking into their phone and credit card records, and compiling background information on people each victim had encountered. Between sifting through all this new data, studying Teddy’s database, and building her cover by circulating among the wealthy and powerful of Miami, she had no time to sleep.