The Beautiful and the Wicked

by Liv Spector

  Lila walked quickly down the narrow hall of the building. There was no sign of life except for the playing-­card-­size cockroach traps scattered here and there. She could hear sheets of rain barreling down upon the building’s metal roof. Teddy had told her that a category-­two tropical storm was moving up the coast of southern Florida, causing high winds and rain, but that it would clear in a ­couple hours.

  Nothing makes predicting the weather easier than being from the future, Lila thought as she descended the stairs.

  The Rising Tide’s crew was scheduled to assemble on the boat at 5:00 P.M. on that very day, August 23. Teddy had programmed Lila to arrive back in 2008 on the twenty-­third, but a few hours earlier, so she didn’t have much time. She always cursed Teddy’s ferocious strictness about how long she could spend in the past. It seemed that he never gave her long enough, but he claimed that every second she was back in time created an infinite number of ways that her presence could damage the known future. To limit the risks, he reduced her time in the past. It wasn’t to Lila’s liking, but it also wasn’t in her control.

  First things first, she needed to call a cab. Once she hit the ground floor, she entered the storage building’s spare, fluorescent-­lit office. The small room was dominated by a faux-­wood counter, behind which a middle-­aged man was napping. There was no sign of a pay phone, only a poor ficus tree busy shedding its few remaining dead leaves onto the gray linoleum floor. The rain beat against the windows, giving Lila the feeling of being in a giant car wash.

  She nosily cleared her throat, hoping to wake the man who was now lightly snoring. He didn’t move. As she got closer to the desk, she noticed that only half of his face had been shaved that day. The smell of mouthwash and cheap aftershave hung in the air. Probably a drinker, she thought.

  “Hello?” she said. “Excuse me?”

  Nothing.

  Lila peered over the counter looking for a phone. The man’s half-­shaved chin was jutting up and his slack mouth was slightly open. He had a thin, almost wasted body, but his short-­sleeved, button-­down shirt was stretched tightly across his basketball-­size stomach. A name tag with CHUCK handwritten in childlike block print sagged by his shirt pocket. Her eyes seized upon a pair of car keys sitting right in front of him attached to a big, gold Playboy Bunny key chain.

  Without thinking, she went for the keys, but just before she could grab them, the man snorted awake. Lucky for her, she was able to withdraw her hand before he noticed anything.

  “Welcome to U-­Store-­It, yer twenty-­four-­hour storage-­needs expert. How may I assist you?” he said automatically, as if he were a talking doll and Lila had pulled his string.

  “I need you to call me a cab, right away,” she said, using the clipped and commanding tone that always overtook her in the company of slow-­witted reprobates. It was a lingering habit from her years on the force.

  “I’ll be happy to call,” he said, smiling. He had the syrupy accent of the deep, deep South and, Lila thought, a sweet dopey face. “But ain’t likely you’ll get anyone coming out here in this weather anytime soon.”

  “Possibly,” she said as they both turned to look at the winds tossing the palm trees to and fro outside. “Still, I’d appreciate if you call.”

  “Chuck,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “You’d appreciate it if I called you a cab. And I’d appreciate it if you called me ‘Chuck’ instead of bossing me around like some snotty-­nosed lady.”

  “Okay,” Lila said, silently congratulating herself for not throttling him on the spot. “Would you mind very much calling me a taxi, Chuck?”

  “Sure thing.” He picked up the phone and dialed the number. He hung up and dialed it again, looking confused by the busy signal Lila could hear plain as day.

  “Is the line busy, Chuck?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “Can you please try another taxi ser­vice, then?”

  “All right, but I gotta get the phone book first,” he said, his neck craning around as his eyes searched the desk. There was a bluegrass cover of a song by Nirvana playing from a set of blown-out speakers installed above a vending machine. “I know I put it somewhere around here. But, gosh, I’m just not sure where it could be hiding.”

  As Lila watched Chuck paw around his desk drawers for the phone book, seconds slowed down to a crawl. There was no time for this.

  “Can you look online?” she asked impatiently.

  “Not sure that would be of help,” he said, now with his head buried in a file cabinet.Lila let out an exasperated exhale that she hoped he heard. The world, she thought, could be broken down into two kinds of ­people: those that are helpful and those that are Chuck. Then she realized there was another option.

  “How much would you want for your car out there?” she asked, nodding toward the ancient, red Pontiac sitting rusting in the otherwise empty parking lot.

  “My car?”

  Lila quietly popped open the briefcase that she was holding out of his sight and grabbed a stack of bills. She slapped it on the counter.

  “Would ten grand work for you?”

  Chuck’s mouth dropped open. Lila thought it would be very safe to assume he’d never seen that much in cash before in his life. Before she got mixed up with Teddy Hawkins, Lila could have said the very same of herself. Now she threw stacks of hundreds around like they were nickels and dimes. “It’d . . . it’d a work for me,” he stuttered, “but it’d a make a damn fool of you.”

  “Chuck, I’m sad to say that I’ve done plenty of things more foolish than this,” she said as she reached down and grabbed the keys.

  “Wait,” he said, putting his palm over them right before she swooped down to scoop them up. “Those’ve got my house keys on them, too. Those ain’t for sale.”

  “Of course,” she said, standing impatiently as the man slowly worked each needed key off the tight key ring.

  She anxiously stood there, dumbfounded, as she watched Chuck fumble through this as he probably fumbled through most things. The thought crossed her mind that if Teddy could invent a simple time machine that gave ­people back these lost moments of life he’d deserve the Nobel Peace Prize.

  Soon enough, the transaction was settled and Lila found herself puttering south down a nearly empty, rain-­soaked highway toward Miami Beach, in search of Nicky Collins.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE $10,000 DRIVE along the rain-­ravaged streets of Miami took Lila exactly fifteen minutes and ended at the El Cordova Hotel, a run-­down and shabby slice of old Miami on Collins Avenue just a few steps from the currently churned-­up ocean. It was a favorite spot for midlevel con men, down-­and-­out gamblers, escorts aging out of desirability, and budget-­minded tourists scrambling to remedy their bad choice of hotel.

  She knew from the police files on the Warren murder that Nicky Collins told police she had checked into the El Cordova a little before 11:00 P.M. on August 22, but details about her whereabouts started and ended there. The only other information Lila knew was that just a few short hours from now, Nicky would board Jack’s yacht, The Rising Tide. Lila didn’t have that much time to bump Nicky out of the picture.

  Lila pulled up to the hotel. She slipped the valet a hundred bucks to keep her car out front. She figured she’d have to tail Nicky sooner or later, and she needed her car ready when it was time. She entered the hotel’s dingy lobby and went straight to the back, picking up the guest phone next to the empty concierge’s desk. It was 10:45 in the morning.

  “El Cordova, may I help you?”

  “Can you connect me to the room of Nicky Collins?”

  “One moment, please.”

  After two rings, a woman picked up. Lila was relieved that Nicky was still in her hotel room. “Hello . . . Hello?” Her voice was deep and croaky, a smoker’s voice, as if she’d been awakened out of a profound sleep. Li
la stayed silent, listening intently.

  “Who’s this?” Nicky said after a long pause. “Hello?” The paranoia in her voice was almost palpable.

  Lila put on a phony southern accent and gave a fake name, saying she was calling from the staffing agency that hired her for The Rising Tide.

  “Okay?” Nicky said, sounding confused.

  “You’ll need to be at the marina by noon, not five P.M. as previously instructed.” Lila needed Nicky up and out of her hotel room, so she decided to set a little fire under her ass.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? That’s impossible.”

  “I’m just passing on the instructions. Have a good day!”

  Just as Lila was about to hang up, she heard Nicky mutter, “Fuck me.” Then the line went dead. Now that Nicky thought she had to be on the yacht in a little more than one hour, Lila knew she’d come down in the next handful of minutes. She grabbed a seat in one of the cheaply upholstered lobby armchairs, sure to select the one that had the best view of the elevators.

  As she waited, a tingle of excitement overcame her. She was never happier than when she was working a case. And here she was, back in 2008, after slipping through the creases of time, about to come face-­to-­face with the woman whose identity she’d soon assume. This was life at its most invigorating.

  Five minutes later, she snapped to attention when the elevator doors opened and Nicky stepped out. The first thing that struck Lila was how ghastly she looked. Her eyes were ringed with puffy, dark circles and her complexion was both pale and flushed, like she’d just been on a booze and drug bender and didn’t have time to pull herself together. She was dressed in oversize blue jeans that were barely held up by her thin, boyish hips, and despite the terrible rain, heat, and humidity, she wore a slim-­fitting black leather jacket. As it was on her passport picture, her hair was bleached blond and cut very short into a pixie haircut, though the dark roots were severely pronounced.

  Nicky had an unlit cigarette dangling inelegantly from her lips and a blue duffel bag in her hand. She quickly cut across the lobby, exiting the hotel through the revolving door, lighting her cigarette as the door spun around her. Lila, careful to keep off Nicky’s radar, waited until she was outside before getting up to follow her. Nicky handed the valet a ticket for her car, all the while taking deep, satisfied drags, as if she hadn’t smoked in weeks.

  With a nod to the valet, who winked back, Lila hopped into the old rusted Pontiac, observing Nicky the whole time. As she stood waiting for her car under the hotel’s awning, Nicky seemed very jumpy. Her hands were constantly fidgeting, so much so that she accidentally dropped her cigarette on the pavement two times. And her eyes kept darting around, looking for what, Lila couldn’t guess. But with her mannerisms and her strung-­out looks, it was a safe bet that Nicky was dipping into some pretty heavy drugs—­probably meth or crack from the looks of her.

  After Lila had watched Nicky twitch and scratch and smoke two cigarettes down to the filter, the valet finally pulled a 5-­series black BMW up to the curb. Lila was shocked to see Nicky climb into the driver’s-­side seat. Lila knew that a young, strung-­out woman with an entry-­level job on a boat could never afford an $80,000 car. Maybe her stint in prison for drug possession was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Nicky’s misdeeds.

  Lila spent the next hour tailing Nicky in the pouring rain as she drove around Miami, gathering the gear and supplies she’d need before setting sail. All throughout these errands, she made a mental note that Nicky had not once let go of her grip on that large blue duffel bag. There was the trip to the pharmacy to pick up deodorant, sunscreen, toothpaste, tampons, and a ­couple prescriptions, which Lila wasn’t quick enough to ID. Walmart for socks, underwear, and a ­couple paperback books. In a 7-­Eleven, she bought two prepaid disposable cell phones, four cartons of Marlboro Lights, and several cans of Red Bull.

  “Not so into the healthy lifestyle, are you, Nicky?” Lila said to herself as she sat in the idling Pontiac. She looked at the time. It was getting close to noon, which meant she needed to settle on a concrete plan to get Nicky to give up her spot on the yacht.

  As she watched Nicky walk her quick, nervous walk across the 7-­Eleven parking lot to her car, she decided that she’d need to go with her fallback plan—­offer Nicky fifty grand to get lost, so Lila could assume her identity and board The Rising Tide. The plan had its holes, for sure. It could leave too many loose ends, especially once Jack’s murder took place and the police got involved. Once the murder made international news, the real Nicky Collins might come out of the woodwork and tell the press or, even worse, the police that a strange woman had paid to be on the yacht in her place. That was a complication Lila would much rather avoid. But if it was the only option open to her, Lila would take it and deal with the consequences.

  Just as Teddy had said, the rain finally began to let up a little before noon as Lila tailed Nicky down the South Dixie Highway. The black BMW got off at the Kendall exit, heading into the mostly Colombian section of town. When Nicky pulled up in front of a small, aluminum-­sided house with a black El Dorado in the driveway, Lila couldn’t believe her good luck.

  “No shit,” she muttered as she pulled her own car over, a few houses down. She watched Nicky grab the duffel bag and enter the house through the side door without bothering to knock. Clearly, she was expected.

  Grabbing her gun from the metal briefcase, Lila got out of the car and swiftly ran down the street toward the humble ranch house she knew so well. In 2009, a few months after this very moment, Detective Lila Day would take part in a raid on this house. The police would seize 33.17 kilos of cocaine, 10.09 kilos of heroin, and enough weapons and ammunition to take down a small city—­all of it belonging to the extremely dangerous and powerful Colombian Cali cartel. It would be one of the most heralded moments of Lila’s already stellar police career.

  “What are you mixed up in, Nicky?” Lila wondered as she made her way to the back of the house. She quickly ducked next to a window; then with her gun drawn, peeked inside. There she saw the man she recognized as Fernando Henao, a foot soldier for the Cali cartel, standing in the kitchen with Nicky. Two duffel bags sat on the table between them. Lila ducked back down. She went around, looking in all the windows, careful not to be detected.

  She couldn’t believe her luck. Just when she was worrying about how to get rid of Nicky, the perfect out presented itself to her. It was so good it should’ve been wrapped in a red, shiny bow. Once Lila confirmed that Fernando and Nicky were in the house alone, she knew just what to do.

  She kicked in the side door to the kitchen. “Freeze! Police!” she shouted, trying to hide the delight on her face.

  Fernando lunged for his gun as Nicky reflexively crouched under the table. Lila aimed and fired right where Fernando’s hand was reaching, making him jump back. Nicky’s scream came out from underneath the table.

  “Hands on your head!” Lila shouted, but Fernando didn’t move. “I said now!” she yelled, pointing her gun right in his face.

  Lila bent down to see Nicky shivering under the table. “Nicky, you can come out from under there,” she said, consciously sweetening her tone. “Here,” she said, reaching the hand that didn’t have the gun out to her, “let me help you up.”

  Nicky took Lila’s hand, eyeing her cautiously. She had no idea why this stranger with a gun was being so nice. Once she got to her feet, Lila said, “Nicky, is this the man you’ve identified to police as Fernando Henao?”

  “What?” Nicky said, her eyes wide with confusion, her breath coming in rapid gulps. “What are you talking about?”

  “Cut the shit, Nicky,” Lila said, instantly switching her mode from sweet to stern. “You reported to me that a drug deal was going down today between you and Fernando Henao at approximately noon.”

  “What?” Nicky stood there slowly blinking as what was happening started to sink in. She loo
ked from Lila to Fernando and back again. “No. No. NO! I didn’t say shit, I swear.” She was shaking her head no as tears sprang to her eyes. She knew as well as Lila that if the Cali cartel had even a tiny suspicion that she was a snitch, she’d be dead within the hour. “Fernando,” Nicky said, rushing up to him. “You believe me, right? I didn’t tell the cops nothing.”

  But Fernando wouldn’t look at her. “Puta,” he said, spitting in Nicky’s direction as he kept his gaze trained on Lila’s gun.

  “Backup will be here in five minutes,” Lila lied as she checked her watch. “Fernando, get on your knees.” But he didn’t move. His face was locked in a defiant grimace. “Now!” Lila said as she shot one bullet into the floor right in front of his feet. Cursing loudly in Spanish, he fell to the floor..

  “Put your hands behind your back and lie flat on your stomach.” This time he quickly acquiesced. “Nicky, grab that duct tape over there by the sink.”

  “I’m not doing fuck all for you,” Nicky said. Her face had drained of all color, her body was visibly shaking.

  “Cooperate or you won’t get that deal we talked about,” Lila said, giving her a conspiratorial grin.

  “I’ve never seen you in my life!” She crouched down to the floor, putting her face close to Fernando’s. “You hear that, Fernando, I’ve never seen this bitch before in my life.”