The Beautiful and the Wicked (5 page)

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

T
HE
$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. Lila 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 looked 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.”

He slowly, calmly, turned his face away from hers.

“Just do what I say,” Lila said. “Now, wrap his wrists and feet up in the tape. And, Fernando, if you so much as move a hair on your head, I'll shoot you dead, and that's a promise.”

Nicky's hands were shaking so hard that it took a few minutes to steady herself enough to hog-­tie Fernando. But after she'd wrapped the tape several times around his wrists and his ankles, Lila said, “That's good enough. Now grab both bags and let's get out of here.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” Nicky said.

Lila pointed the gun at her head. “Do it. Now. You don't have much time.”

Nicky dropped her head and her defiant posture sank into a defeated slouch. She slunk to the table and threw both duffel bags over her narrow shoulders.

“Fernando, don't you fucking move,” Lila warned. “This place will be swarming with cops in two minutes, and if they see you've moved an inch, they have orders to shoot first, ask questions later.”

“Whatever,” he said. “You two bitches will be dead and buried before the day is over. No doubt about that.”

“Not likely,” Lila said as she hustled Nicky out of the house and then down the street.

When they got to Lila's rusted, dented Pontiac, Nicky's suspicions were confirmed. “This ain't a cop car. You want to show me that badge of yours?”

“Just get in.” Lila was growing impatient. She had to dispense with Nicky and be in her place on the yacht in a little under five hours. All Nicky's protestations and foot dragging weren't making life easier for either of them.

As they drove north up the South Dixie Highway, back to Miami, Nicky continually oscillated between scowling and pleading for her life. One second she'd be cursing Lila, the next she'd be weeping, begging for her freedom. “I can't go to jail again,” she cried.

“What were you going to do with those drugs?”

“If you don't know, I ain't telling you a damn thing,” she said, feeling brazen. But then a moment later, her defiance was replaced by despair. “But what does it matter anyway? It's all over. If Fernando thinks I'm a rat, I'm done.” She looked out of the car window, slowly shaking her head. “That bullshit you pulled today made me a dead woman. Simple as that.”

Lila's conscience twisted inside of her. She really had put Nicky in a bad situation, but what choice did she have? Her sister's freedom depended on it. “Is someone on Jack Warren's boat expecting those drugs?” she asked. She weaved in and out of traffic along the highway, always keeping Nicky in her sights.

Nicky arched one eyebrow and shot Lila a suspicious look. “How the fuck do you know about my gig on the boat?”