The Rich and the Dead

by Liv Spector

  So here she was, spending yet another Friday afternoon sitting by the pool at Effie’s Star Island house while Effie pounded back shots of tequila. In six days it would be Thanksgiving. Time was running out. As the sun retreated toward the horizon, Lila wondered for the thousandth time whether focusing on Effie had been a mistake. Was she wasting her time?

  Ever since the night at Fisher Island when Effie had become so upset, she’d been acting strange and secretive. She’d also been drunk and high more often than normal, which, given Effie’s appetite for altered states, was slightly alarming to Lila.

  “So,” Effie continued, now rolling a joint on the cover of an Italian Vogue she had balanced on her thighs, “if Meredith says there’s another offer on the house, you have to match it, right?”

  The sun had become magenta, and the evening sky was darkening with purple clouds. Sunsets gave Lila a pure physical pleasure, like diving into the ocean on a hot summer’s day.

  “First thing tomorrow, Ef,” Lila promised. “I just don’t want to get into a back-and-forth with her tonight.” Though the whole farce of bidding on the house was a good way to keep Meredith around, Lila had absolutely no intention of spending that kind of actual money while here. It didn’t seem right.

  “Speaking of exhausting. I’m going to your old stomping grounds to be with my dad and stepmonster for Thanksgiving.” Effie rolled her eyes, so Lila rolled hers while Effie watched. Effie required active listening from those she deemed lucky enough to hear her stories. By this point, Lila knew when to gasp, clap, roll her eyes, nod, frown, and smile.

  “I’ll be forced to breathe the same air as Coleen Mathewson Webster, a.k.a. my stepmother, and her three little horrific children. They’re about as pleasant as a tornado, and slightly more destructive. My dad will be at the office the whole time while Coleen bosses everyone around, including me. It’s excruciating. Meanwhile, my real mom is in an ashram somewhere in Costa Rica sleeping on a tatami mat and trying to embrace the now with a guy named Swami Gerry. What a joke.”

  “Thanksgiving just as the Puritans intended,” Lila said, which got a meager smile out of Effie.

  “Hey,” Effie said as she lit the joint. “Aren’t you going somewhere for Thanksgiving?”

  “Me?”

  “I know you said your mom and dad aren’t around anymore, but you’ve got to have someone else, right? Or are you my little lost orphan?” Effie put on a big faux pout, the facial equivalent of the emoticons she included in so many of her texts.

  Lila thought of her own Thanksgiving in 2014. The tiny house with the paper-thin walls in a dying part of Fort Myers. Her mother, looking thin and tired but assuring Lila she was fine. Lila should’ve known better. That was the last Thanksgiving she ever had with her mom.

  She let out a big sigh. “I mean, I’ve got the fat aunts and the bitchy cousins just like anyone else. It’s just that, being in the middle of a divorce and all, I don’t want to have to go into everything with them. You know?” Lila figured it was as good an excuse as any. Luckily Effie seemed to eat it up.

  “I’m with you there.” Effie nodded. “Some people like to be around family when they’re down. But my family attacks the weak like a pack of wild animals.”

  The two women sat gloomily on chaise longues as evening began to engulf the air.

  Lila jumped when her cell phone vibrated. Assuming it was Meredith, she was about to silence the phone. But she didn’t recognize the number.

  “Who is it?” Effie asked, hungry for some distraction from her sour state.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, answer it, for Christ’s sake!” As a woman who was constantly on her phone, talking, texting, tweeting, and documenting her every move, thought, and half-baked opinion, Effie believed that if the phone was making a ring, beep, or chirp, it had to be tended to like a baby bird.

  When Lila answered, she was startled to hear Dylan’s voice.

  “Who is it?” Effie mouthed.

  “Dylan,” Lila silently mouthed back. Effie scrunched her face to convey confusion. Lila shrugged a bewildered look right back at her. She hadn’t told Effie about the afternoon she’d spent with Dylan at Key Largo. She had tried not to think of it at all. Or if she had, she’d convinced herself that the chemistry she had felt was imagined.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to call. I’ve been . . . out of the country,” Dylan said. “But I was hoping I could convince you to join me for dinner tonight.”

  “Ummm . . .” Lila stalled, trying to figure out what to say. Part of her wanted to see him, part of her knew it was a bad idea, and part of her was reminded that she had plans tonight. According to Teddy’s information, Rusty Browder was attending a fund-raising event for the University of Miami. She was planning on crashing it, hoping to get some one-on-one time with yet another member of the Janus Society.

  “Thanks so much, but I’m busy tonight.” As Lila said these words, Effie began to vigorously shake her head no. “I’m—”

  Effie got up and ripped the phone out of Lila’s hand.

  “Hi, Dylan. It’s Effie. Camilla would love to join you for dinner tonight.” She smiled wolfishly at Lila. “Great. How soon can you be here? Perfect. Ciao!” With smug satisfaction, Effie handed the phone back to Lila.

  “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes!”

  “Oh, relax. Just throw on a dress, tie your hair in a bun, and put on some lipstick. It’s not like a man is going to object if you’re a little slapdash. Plus, I have my own plans tonight. And I don’t think my date would appreciate you tagging along.”

  As Lila was getting ready in her room, she found herself becoming nervous and excited, like a teenager before prom. “You’re a cop, goddamnit,” she scolded her reflection. But the woman in the mirror, with her golden hair braided and pinned (thanks to Effie’s quick handiwork), the flowing couture dress that revealed her long, bare neck and bronzed shoulders, and the Jimmy Choo heels, was as far from a cop—and as far from herself—as she could get.

  Ten minutes later, Dylan pulled up in a silver vintage convertible Mercedes. A perfect car. But as she watched him get out and walk to her, Lila tried to quell any excitement she might feel. This is just part of the mission, she forcibly reminded herself. She was here to get intel, and that was it.

  Dylan kissed her on the cheek. He smelled like woodsmoke and cedar shavings, a scent that was so anti-Miami, Lila wondered if he had a cologne called Lumberjack.

  “Camilla,” he said. “You look like a dream come true.”

  He took her to The Villa by Barton G., housed in the South Beach mansion where Gianni Versace had lived and then died—shot dead as he was coming home from his morning walk along Ocean Drive. No murder had brought Miami that much attention until the Star Island massacre seventeen years later.

  They sat under an awning by the gold-lined pool. Dylan ordered cocktails and then leaned forward, getting closer to Lila than she liked.

  “It’s funny seeing you here tonight, all dolled up,” he said as the waiter set down their elegant appetizers. “You’re so much different than the day I ran into you at Key Largo.”

  “I wasn’t myself that day.”

  “See, I was thinking the exact opposite. You seemed much more yourself to me.”

  Lila remained uncomfortably silent. The way Dylan looked at her made her nervous. He seemed to see through her, which was the last thing she wanted.

  “Are you liking the food?” he asked, noticing Lila push her truffled asparagus salad around the hand-painted china.

  “The food’s great.” That wasn’t a lie, the food was delicious, but Lila wanted to make sure this dinner counted. She needed to see what Dylan knew about the Janus Society.

  “I saw you talking to Johnny Oluwa the other day at the club. Effie said you two went to school together?”

  Dylan gave a faint smile. “Does that mean you’re asking Effie about me? I’ll take that as a good sign.”

 
He hadn’t answered her question. Just as she was about to ask it again, she heard a thickly accented voice cry, “Ay Dios mio!”

  Lila turned and immediately recognized Javier Martinez. One of the Janus Society members, the walking dead. He was standing by their table with a horrified look on his face.

  “Dylan, it seems this woman is immune to your ample charms.”

  “I’m not sure you’re really helping me out any, Javier,” Dylan said with a smile. He stood up, and the two men embraced warmly.

  “Javier, let me introduce you to the lovely Camilla Dayton. Camilla has just moved here from Manhattan.”

  “I thought I knew all the stylish women in the city. How did you slip under the radar?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lila said, feeling relieved. The whole evening she had been chastising herself for wasting her night with Dylan when she should have stuck with her original plan, but now Javier was here. This was her chance. Javier curled his hand gently around her fingers, bowed deeply, and kissed her hand.

  “Javier here is the city’s top guy when it comes to art,” Dylan said.

  “Not just art, my dear Dylan. I collect all things beautiful. I’m like a magpie. Always bringing shiny things back to my nest.”

  “Then you’re just the man I need,” Lila exclaimed.

  “No, darling, the man you need is right there.” Javier pointed at Dylan. “He’s the man we all need, actually.”

  “For decorating, I mean.” Lila smiled. “I’m buying a place soon and I’m desperate for help filling it up with some beautiful things.”

  “Well, that’s music to my ears, sunshine to my eyes!” Javier exclaimed. He tucked his hand into his perfectly tailored suit coat and produced a business card. “Come by my gallery tomorrow, if you can. I’m free in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there. Is two good?”

  “Glorious. Now, I must go back to my dining companion,” Javier said, waving his hand toward a strong-featured, darkly tanned man, the spitting image of a young Picasso. The man was looking around peevishly. “My amour is allergic to solitude. If I’m gone for more than five minutes, he’ll find someone else to entertain him. So, I’ll let you two get back to having no fun whatsoever.”

  “He’s a charmer,” Lila said, watching Javier drift back to his pouting boyfriend. “So, how do you two know each other?”

  “From around.” Dylan sighed. He was becoming annoyed, Lila could tell.

  Before she could continue, the sommelier stopped by with a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. “Compliments of Señor Martinez.”

  “From around where specifically?” Lila asked as the waiter poured. She was anxious to get something valuable out of Dylan.

  Dylan took a large gulp of the champagne, then raised the glass to Javier across the mosaic patio. The two men silently nodded at each other. “I’ll answer this last question, but then we’ve got to talk about something other than my social connections.” He paused and gave Lila a stern look until she nodded her acquiescence to his demand. “Javier is one of the world’s top yacht racers. But, of course, if I may be so bold, so am I. We were both on the same team, years ago, for the America’s Cup.”

  “Did you win?” Lila asked, taking a large sip of champagne.

  “Not quite. Our boat flipped over off the coast of Auckland. It got absolutely destroyed. Total humiliation. We all had to be scooped out of the ocean by a rescue boat with the world’s cameras trained right on us.” He smiled ruefully. “That was the last time someone trusted either of us with a four-million-dollar boat.”

  As the meal progressed, the champagne began working on both of them, ironing out their wrinkles and relaxing their limbs. Smiles came more easily to both of their faces. Whenever Lila the detective came out, Dylan expertly sidestepped her direct questions. And Lila started to forget that she wasn’t supposed to enjoy herself.

  “Do you ever sail?” Dylan asked.

  “Never.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that, and soon. Miami is at its most beautiful when you see it from the ocean.” Just then, Chase Haverford walked into the restaurant. The moment Dylan saw him, he got up from his seat. “Camilla, will you excuse me for one second?” She watched as he walked over to the waiter and then disappeared into the Rococo mansion.

  After Lila had been sitting by herself for a few minutes, sipping champagne, her phone rang. It was Dylan.

  “Come meet me out front,” he said, before quickly hanging up.

  Walking down the mansion steps where Versace had been murdered in cold blood, Lila spotted Dylan waiting for her with a take-out bag under his arm, his car at the ready. As she descended the stairs, he moved toward her, grabbing her hand. “I had to get out of there,” he murmured, his fingers trailing along her bare arm. “And it seemed like you wanted to leave, too.” Lila felt dizzy from his touch, and from the champagne. As Dylan climbed into the car and put his warm hand gently on hers, she felt her defenses against him weakening. She didn’t pull away from his touch, but she didn’t acknowledge it either.

  They sped down Ocean Drive in silence. The gentle warmth of the air felt neither hot nor cold on her skin. It was perfect, like there was no boundary between her and the night. They were floating together.

  Dylan stopped the car at Lummus Park. They got out and strolled down to the ocean, Dylan carrying the bag. The sound of the wildly crashing waves was the only noise punctuating the placid night. Farther down the beach someone had made a bonfire.

  “Let’s climb up there.” Dylan pointed to a lifeguard’s stand painted to look like the American flag.

  “Okay,” Lila said, smiling at the spontaneity of it.

  When they were perched at the top of the lifeguard stand, Dylan reached into the bag and pulled out a take-out box, placing it on Lila’s lap.

  “I thought we’d have dessert by the ocean,” he said. “I love the food at those ritzy restaurants, but sometimes I can’t stand the atmosphere. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Nothing could’ve pleased Lila more. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the briny sea air fill her lungs.

  “This is perfect,” she said, reclining on the wooden slats with a long, contented sigh.

  They sat together, shoulder to shoulder facing the ocean, and carefully ate their pristine desserts forkful by tiny forkful. As Lila bit into a gold-dusted beignet, the taste of rich chocolate and cinnamon flooded her mouth.

  Just then, Dylan leaned over to kiss her. A jolt shot through her, along with an immediate impulse to pull away. But she didn’t. He put his hand in her hair, his full lips pressed on hers. His mouth tasted of ripe strawberries. Her head was telling her to act smart, to end it now, to focus. But instead her arms wrapped around him as she pulled his body closer.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE JAVIER MARTINEZ Gallery was in a run-down industrial section of North Miami, sandwiched between a boarded-up auto repair shop and a vacant lot, not very far from Teddy Hawkins’s storage-space/time-portal. As Lila parked her treasured car in the empty street full of abandoned businesses, she wondered why a man as old-school refined as Javier would choose this seedy spot for his gallery.

  It was an exceptionally hot day for late November, so Lila was relieved when she entered Javier’s ice-cold and cavernous gallery. Filling the entirety of the room were hundreds of pink fluorescent tubes placed at various angles along the walls. The windowless space echoed with that particularly unpleasant buzz that fluorescent lighting gives off. The card affixed to the wall read:

  JACK MOLINA

  “HORIZONTAL OF PERSONAL ECSTASY # I”

  FLUORESCENT TUBING

  $30,000

  Feeling about as comfortable around conceptual art as Pat Robertson in a drag bar, Lila took an involuntary step back.

  “Camilla! Darling!” Javier cried. He hurried toward her, dressed in an orange-and-white-checked shirt and lime-green polka-dot bow tie, and grabbed the sides of her shoulders, placing a quick kiss on e
ach of her cheeks. “What do you think of this piece?” he asked. “The artist, a personal friend, created it specifically for this room.”

  “I feel like I’m being microwaved,” Lila blurted out.

  Javier let out an enormous laugh. “So do I,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I tell the gallery girls who work here to limit their time in this room. I’m convinced too much exposure will make them infertile! But come. Let’s get out of this assault. I’ll show you the rest of my gallery.”

  Lila followed as Javier led her into a smaller room. It was dominated by two enormous canvases, covered in thick layers of rich-hued paint that dripped down in kaleidoscopic fields of color.

  “This is incredible!” Lila said, surprised to feel genuinely excited by these paintings.

  “Gerhard Richter. He’s a genius.” Javier held his hands close to the surface of one of the paintings, as if to feel its energy field. “It saddens me that I only have two. These will go for around ten million each.”

  “No shit,” Lila muttered, then cursed internally. Camilla Dayton wouldn’t bat an eyelash at such a sum. She looked at Javier to see if he’d noticed her slip, but he was only smiling at her.

  “No shit,” he agreed. “Most of the people who can afford art this masterful don’t deserve it. With the rare exception, such as yourself, my darling. This is why artists trust me with their paintings. I make sure they go to the right people. It’s more like an adoption agency than an art gallery. Not every asshole who can afford a Gerhard Richter will get to have one, if I have anything to do with it.”

  Javier led Lila into yet another room, this one filled with samurai swords and ornate horned fighting helmets. He picked up a silver blade with a red bamboo handle, which was mounted on the wall. “This one’s from the Edo period. That’s about four hundred years ago.” He swung the heavy sword over his head and then cut it through the air with great effortlessness and agility. “Wall Street types just love this samurai shit. I think half the CEOs in the Fortune five hundred have one of these in their offices. So predictable.”

  “How’d you get so comfortable with a sword?” Lila asked. Racer of yachts, dealer of art, wielder of weapons. What else, Lila wondered, fell into Javier’s realm of expertise? How close an eye should she keep on this jack-of-all-trades?