The Beautiful and the Wicked

PROLOGUE

I

T’S AN UNFORTUNATE

fact of life that the more you have, the more you want. That’s just how appetites work. Excess leads to insatiability. And whatever is true for humankind is writ large for the filthy rich. After all, it’s not hard to see that the wealthy are ravenous.

Just listen closely to the idle chatter buzzing about the charity balls, the art-­fair parties, and the gala benefits, which are the jet set’s lifeblood. Beneath the casual flirting, the backstabbing, the grandstanding, and the posturing, what everyone is really talking about can be boiled down to one central question: who has more? Be it money, companies, sex, homes, horses, serenity, charity, love—­whatever it is doesn’t matter. Everything can be quantified. Everything can be bought.

And no one had more of everything than Jack Warren. He made sure of it.

A rags-­to-­riches Silicon Valley billionaire several times over, Jack was both envied and reviled. He’d been called a tech genius, a megalomaniac, a messiah, and a monster, depending on whom you asked. But, be he savior, Satan, or sadist, he was above all viciously competitive. Whatever he put his energies toward, he made sure his was the best in the world—­no matter the cost.

This relentlessness wasn’t always charming. He was known by everyone, but loved by very, very few. But Jack didn’t mind the bad feelings—­indeed, he thrived on them. To him, every new enemy was a mark of distinction, for he deeply believed that great men must have a great number of adversaries. And he didn’t become the sixth richest man in the world by playing nice.

So, when the rumors began to circulate that Jack was turning his exacting attentions toward building a luxury yacht, everyone was anxious for details. How much would it cost? How big would it be? How could they get an invite? The two most interested parties were one Russian oligarch and a certain Middle Eastern emir who had spent the last decade waging a quiet two-­man war over who could build the largest superyacht imaginable. They weren’t excited to find out that Jack was crashing their private skirmish.

But they had no reason to worry. Size didn’t matter for Jack. That was a concern for men who were small of mind (and small in other departments, Jack would add with a wink). Let the Russian and the Saudi battle over whose behemoth was bigger. He was on a different quest—­a quest for audacious beauty. It would take six years, $500 million, and hundreds of artisans, designers, builders, and craftsmen to make Jack Warren’s dream a reality, but as always, he did what he set out to do. He built the most exquisite yacht the world had ever known: The Rising Tide.

In the early fall of 2008, the 423-­foot yacht set off on its maiden voyage. With its interiors designed by Philippe Starck, accented with lavish Baccarat crystal tables, stingray-­skin-­upholstered walls, hand-­stitched leather paneling, a helicopter pad, a swimming pool, a spa, and a three-­thousand-­square-­foot master suite with a retractable moonroof for stargazing, it was the most luxurious thing anyone had ever seen.

But among all the endless speculation about the boat, what no one could have guessed was that this pinnacle of luxury would be the very site of Jack Warren’s bloody murder. On a warm September night in 2008—­during a celebration for Jack’s fiftieth birthday—­as his guests drank Dom Pérignon under a canopy of stars far out in the Caribbean Sea, Jack would finally meet a rival he couldn’t best: death.

CHAPTER 1

L

ILA

D

AY WAS

plunged out of darkness into a blinding, prismatic light. She shut her eyes against the glare. Wild flashes of color danced and darted behind her eyelids. A searing pain sliced through her fingers before she realized it was from the death grip she had on the arms of the leather chair beneath her. Her breath was shallow, struggling. Her lungs burned. A deafening whir ripped through her eardrums. She opened her eyes, trying to locate the source of the metallic screech. Everything erratically illuminated, then darkened. Her eyes darted around this strange space. It was an egg-­shaped pod of sorts, about the height and width of an elevator.

Where am I? she wondered.

A small screen flickered to life before her blinking eyes, causing her nearly to jump out of her skin. The high-­pitched noise suddenly stopped, replaced by a silence more frightening than the commotion that had preceded it. Now all she could hear was the sound of her own shallow breath.

A man with an angular face and light brown eyes came into view on the screen. Lila could tell he was looking directly at her. His face was serious, searching.

Breathe, Lila, the man said. Breathe.

Lila? Her own name sounded unfamiliar to her. The man looked worried, making Lila feel even more anxious.

A whoosh of air blew her long hair back. She looked up to see a large door opening outward, revealing a thin crack of golden light in the ceiling above her. The sudden change in pressure made her ears pop painfully.

Lila? the man said, studying her. Are you okay?

I’m okay? she croaked, realizing it was more of a question than an answer. Her own voice sounded strange.

The man turned away, talking to someone else offscreen. She strained to hear what they were saying, unable to make out a word.

Another man’s face came into view, filling the entirety of the screen. He was much older than the first man, probably in his seventies. His broad shoulders were encased in a dark wool suit. Tufts of white hair peeked out from under a black chauffeur’s cap, which was pulled low on his head.

Your name is Lila Day, he said firmly. He had a crisp English accent. You have returned from the year 1998. You are back in the year 2019. Do you understand me?

She wondered if she was dreaming.

The man continued to speak calmly, as if he were gently waking her up from a hypnotic trance. You are experiencing a brief period of readjustment. Focus on your breathing. Nod if you understand.

Lila nodded.

The small crack in the ceiling above her yawned wider as the giant door slowly opened like a single petal peeling apart from a flower bud. Cold air rushed to greet her. Her lungs drank it in. Goose bumps sprang up on her chilled skin. As the door lowered outward, down to the ground, she could see that her little cocoon sat in a much larger room, every inch of which was covered in gold foil. She leaned forward, hoping to see more, but a harness around her waist restrained her. When she craned her neck, she saw that the outside of the pod was constructed out of panels of highly polished green stone—­jade or emerald, most likely. Her brain struggled to digest the incomprehensible reality of the scene.

Once the door opened completely, a metal staircase unfurled, giving her passage from the pod to the world outside. She undid the harness and started to stand up, eager to escape, but her legs were weak and buckled beneath her. She collapsed back into the chair.

The younger man came back on the screen. Don’t try to move, he said. I’m coming to you. Then he disappeared.

Lila struggled to stand once more, but it was no use. She felt like a helpless rag doll.

Seconds later, the man she’d seen on the screen materialized before her, climbing up the stairs into the pod. Something about him instantly calmed her nerves. She had an innate understanding that he was there to help. The moment he put his hand on her shaking arm, his familiar touch unlocked something in her brain.

Teddy? she said, suddenly realizing who he was. The man looked at her. A flash of relief and excitement flickered across his face.

You know who I am? he asked cautiously.

Lila nodded. She saw the heaviness of his worry drop away as if he’d just shrugged off a cumbersome coat. He wrapped his arm around her back and hoisted her up. You gave me quite a scare for a second, he said, with a relieved smile. She felt his warm breath on her face. She closed her eyes, taking in his now-­familiar scent and touch.

With each step down the industrial steel staircase, Lila’s memories began to unlock. What had felt foreign a mere second ago suddenly became familiar. Once again she remembered who she was, where she was, and what she was doing—­though the truth of it all was still strange. She was Lila Day, in the home of her friend and patron, the billionaire Teddy Hawkins, returning from the past after hunting down a wanted killer.

As the disparate puzzle pieces of her story began to cohere into a recognizable self, Lila’s brief moment of forgetting was forgotten.

Teddy placed her down in a straight-­backed chair, in a room full of blinking and buzzing computers. The control room. She sat facing the jade geodesic dome from which she’d just emerged. It was a wonder to behold, Teddy’s most brilliant creation—­a machine that could travel through time. She closed her eyes, listening to the beep and click of all the machines surrounding her. She’d spent countless hours in this very room with Teddy and his right-­hand man, Conrad, the distinguished gentleman in the chauffeur’s cap she’d seen earlier onscreen. And it was Conrad who approached her now, putting a thermometer into her ear and clamping a pulse reader over the tip of her index finger.

I hate to say it, but it seems the transient global amnesia is back, Teddy said to Conrad. Conrad nodded, prepping Lila for a few rounds of full-­body scans and neuroimaging.

Her vitals are weaker than I’d like, Conrad said.

Don’t fuss over me like a ­couple of mother hens. I’m fine, Lila slurred as she struggled to stay awake. She could barely keep her eyes open, and her head nodded to her chest. Conrad wrapped her up in a Mylar blanket, which crinkled as he tucked the silver sheet around the contours of her body.

We need to bring your body temperature up, he said.

I’m just going to close my eyes for one second, Lila murmured.

She heard Teddy agree gently. Of course. Rest.

Before the greedy hands of sleep pulled her down into the darkness, Lila raised her head and looked Teddy in the eye. I got him. I know who the killer is, she managed.

I wouldn’t doubt it for a second, Teddy said with a comforting smile. But Lila could see from the way he was tensing his jaw that there was something else on his mind.

Slowly and with great physical effort, she wrestled a thumb drive from the depths of her jeans pocket, holding it out toward Teddy. It’s all here. All the evidence the police need. She tried to toss it to him, but couldn’t summon any strength. The thumb drive slipped from her enervated hands and made a hollow clank as it fell to the floor.

Great, Teddy said, bending down to scoop it up. We’ll go into it all soon enough. First, you should relax.

But before he had finished speaking, Lila was asleep.

W

HEN SHE STARTLED

awake, she saw she was no longer in the subterranean confines of Teddy’s elaborate laboratory. She’d been moved to a chaise longue beneath a large umbrella in the shadow of Teddy’s estate on La Gorce Island, the hyperexclusive, hyperprivate Miami Beach enclave. She could hear the waters of Biscayne Bay serenely lapping against the seawall just a ­couple hundred feet from where she lay. The high, midday sun bleached out the lush landscape surrounding her.

She sat up groggily, shielding her eyes and looking around the vast manicured estate. She was all alone. Then she heard the telltale splash of water coming from the direction of the pool. Of course, she thought with a smile, he’s swimming. It was something Teddy could do in a seemingly endless loop, back and forth, for hours.

She walked along the soft grass to the edge of the long, slate-­gray pool that bisected the villa’s perfectly manicured lawn, pleased to feel that her strength had mostly returned. Teddy’s lithe form cut through the water elegantly, but ferociously. She could tell from the intense effort and concentration of his movements that he was blowing off steam. A bit of concern crept into her thoughts. Something was wrong.

Once Teddy noticed Lila, he pulled up short, hauling himself out of the water effortlessly. Conrad appeared as if by magic, holding out a fresh, white robe.

Thanks, Teddy said to Conrad with a nod, wrapping himself up in the terrycloth robe, which sported his initials monogrammed over the heart. Lila’s gaze was absentmindedly focused on the two crescent-­shaped indentations that Teddy’s swim goggles left below his eyes. It took a moment before she realized those eyes were now staring directly at her.

Lila? Teddy said, waving his hand in front of her face. Are you okay? You seem pretty out of it.

I do? she asked dreamily. Conrad and Teddy were giving her that concerned look again. What? she asked. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just . . . yeah, she admitted. Maybe a little out of it.

Teddy paused, giving her a sideways glance. It was the fifth time she’d traveled back from the past, and each go-­round left her a bit more dazed than the last, but it wasn’t a big deal. Nothing a few stiff drinks wouldn’t cure.

Let’s sit, Teddy said, pointing to a cluster of furniture huddled beneath a saffron-­colored cloth canopy. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

What’s wrong? she asked as they sat.

Wrong?

I know you, Teddy. Something’s on your mind. So you might as well spit it out. Lila paused, watching him carefully. If you’re worried about me, then don’t be. I’m fine. But Lila’s halfhearted reassurances did nothing. Teddy remained silent, preoccupied. She continued, I got a little more knocked around coming back this time. No big deal. It’s worth it, trust me. I’d suffer so much more to catch the Key West killer. I mean, that guy was sick beyond repair. A real—­

Yes. Yes, he said, cutting her off. Lila felt a prickle of irritation. She hated being interrupted. I had Conrad drop off your evidence at the police station for Detective Bellilo, just as we planned. I suspect they’ll make an arrest within the next ­couple of days. You did excellent work, Lila. Excellent. He took a deep breath, like he was trying to build up his courage. I’m just glad you’re okay. And I know you need to rest, but I’ve got something to tell you. I don’t think it can wait. He looked out to the ocean, his eyes following a kite surfer who was sailing twenty feet high in the cloudless azure skies.

What is it? Lila asked impatiently. Teddy usually wasn’t one to shy away from difficult conversations.

Something big happened when you were in the past. Teddy kept his eyes out on the ocean.

How long was I gone? Lila asked. She’d spent four weeks in 1998, but the present moved at a glacial pace compared to the time in the past. She had no idea how much of 2019 she’d missed.

Not long. A little under two days. Forty-­seven hours, thirty-­eight minutes, and five seconds, to be precise.

Just then, Conrad arrived carrying a large silver serving tray loaded with countless treats. Lila saw lobster tails, a bowl of caviar chilled over crushed ice, cucumber sandwiches, and slices of mango. As always with Teddy, it was a magnificent spread, but she was desperate to know what he had to say. Food was the furthest thing from her mind.

Wild Turkey for you, Conrad said to Lila, setting a crystal whiskey glass in front of her filled with one perfectly round ice cube submerged in her regular booze of choice.

You’re an angel, Conrad, Lila said, keeping her eyes on Teddy, who looked momentarily relieved by this brief interruption.

And a gin martini for you, sir.

Cheers, Conrad. Teddy immediately wrapped his fingers around the glass’s elongated stem and threw half the drink back. He breathed a deep sigh, then nodded at Conrad, who wordlessly returned to the main house. Teddy leaned over and took Lila’s hand in his, looking her squarely in the face. I’ve got something to tell you, but I want you to promise me that you’ll stay calm.

A nervous laugh burst from Lila’s lips. How could she ever hope to stay calm when he was acting like this? Just spit it out, she said, feeling her pulse begin to increase.

Teddy nodded. Then he downed the rest of his drink, still clearly stalling. Enrique Herrera was found dead yesterday morning, he said slowly.

Lila suddenly grew cold, despite the fact that she was baking in the hot Miami sunshine. What from? Her voice was flat. Serious.

Gunshot to the head.

Why didn’t you tell me earlier? She scrambled to her feet. She didn’t know where she was headed, but she had an overwhelming need to go . . . she’d figure out where in a second.

"When was I supposed to tell you? While you were passed out? Lila, a ­couple hours ago you didn’t even know where you were. Who you were! I thought it would be better for you to catch your breath before you shot off again. He sighed. I knew you’d react this way. Ready to leap before knowing where you’ll land."

She shook her head. Teddy should know better than to try to control her. Avoiding his gaze, she focused on the ice under the untouched caviar, watching it as it slowly turned to water.

What are the police saying? she asked.

That it’s suicide. The maid found him in his bedroom with the back of his skull blown off and a smoking gun in his hand.

Suicide! That’s bullshit, she spat. She was growing angrier by the second. Her nerves were electric. You and I both know he didn’t kill himself.

Let’s not jump to conclusions, Lila. You don’t know what happened. Teddy gave her a nervous look.

"I know exactly what happened. His wife killed him," she said defiantly.

Elise Warren? You don’t know that, Lila. He regarded her warily.

Like hell I don’t!

Teddy and Lila had known each other for a little over a year, and in that time he’d seen how her obsessions could get the better of her. And there was nothing Lila was more obsessed with than Elise Warren.

Lila’s mind was racing. She said, She’s done it before, Teddy. Twice. And she got away with it . . . twice. Two husbands dead. Are you trying to tell me she didn’t off the third? Lila had spent whatever spare time she had over the last ten years trying to prove that Elise Warren was guilty of murder in the first degree, and now, finally with Elise’s latest husband dead on the ground missing half his skull, she had a shot at making a murder rap stick.

Teddy gave her a skeptical look. This is exactly what I was worried out. I knew you’d think it was Elise. But sit down. Let’s talk things through . . . together.

Not a chance in hell. If Elise is guilty, and I can guarantee she is, she’s already using her money and connections to dig her way out of this mess. And I’ve got to catch her before it’s too late.

Before Teddy could say anything, Lila was already halfway across the lawn. She knew this was her chance for justice, and she had to take it. Finally.

Lila knew for certain Elise was guilty—­because ten years ago, she’d offed her first husband, Jack Warren.

And Lila’s sister had taken the blame.

CHAPTER 2

"

I

CAN’T TELL

you much about the Herrera case, but I’ll say it doesn’t look good for Elise."

That was music to Lila’s ears. She was on the phone with Mitch Kessler, an old buddy of hers from back when she worked homicide for the Miami PD.

But officially they’re still sticking to the suicide story? Lila asked.

Sure are. But from what I heard, it looks like there might’ve been some tampering with the crime scene. And all fingers point to Elise. Plus, the forensics report came in and there was zero gunpowder residue found on Herrera’s hand. The whole thing stinks to high heaven.

Lila had to stop herself from laughing out loud. Sounds pretty unlikely, right? That a guy can shoot himself without getting any gunpowder on his hand? It couldn’t get any better than this. It looked, finally, like Elise was going to get what was coming to her.

Exactly. Anyway, she’s here getting questioned now.

I’m on my way.

Lila drove her silver Karmann Ghia toward the police headquarters as fast as she could. She turned west on a causeway that sliced low across the turquoise shimmering of Biscayne Bay, the warm winds swirling around her, making thick swaths of her long, black hair dance like marionettes held aloft by invisible strings.

Listen, Kessler was saying, just be sure to keep my name out of this. If anyone found out I was giving you information about the case, they’d have my ass.

You’ve got my word, Lila said.

Maybe you’ll finally get her this time, Lila. I sure as hell hope you do.

Around the Miami Police Department, it was a well-­known fact that Lila Day had it in for Elise Warren—­and no one could really blame her.

O

N

S

EPTEMBER 11,

2008, at 2:20 A.M., the captain of The Rising Tide radioed the U.S. Coast Guard from the middle of the Caribbean Sea, 154 nautical miles northeast of Cuba. He was calling for help. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Captain Robert Nash on The Rising Tide. We are 23 degrees 10 minutes north. 79 degrees 21 minutes west. A passenger has been shot. Possibly fatally. And is now overboard. I repeat, Jack Warren has been shot and is overboard. Armed suspect still at large. This is The Rising Tide. We are requesting immediate assistance. Over."

Lila knew the recording by heart, as did most of the world thanks to the intense media coverage following Jack Warren’s death. TV stations and radio programs would play the Mayday call in a seemingly never-­ending loop. Over and over again, they’d play the captain’s slow and shaky voice stuttering out those now infamous words. His every gasping breath serving as proof that he knew just how bad it was to have one of the world’s most powerful men die on his watch.

An hour after the distress call was made, when the coast guard boarded the yacht, all that was left of Jack was a thick, viscous pool of his blood. Four bullet casings and a snub-­nosed .38 were also recovered from the scene of the crime. The ship’s captain confirmed that there were ten guests and fifteen crew on board when the yacht left Miami on the seventh of September, four days prior to the murder. When The Rising Tide was searched, everyone was accounted for. Except for Jack, of course—­and Ava Day, a twenty-­six-­year-­old landscape painter from Miami who just happened to be Jack’s latest in a long series of mistresses.

The bloody event occurred during Jack’s fiftieth birthday party. According to the police report, first responders noted that every person interviewed, be they passengers or crew, was either in a heavy state of intoxication or just sobering up from a heavy state of intoxication. Images from the crime scene showed a wild post-­bacchanalian spectacle: booze bottles were littered all over the main deck, furniture was splintered, upended, or overturned, dirty mirrors with traces of cocaine were found in several guest cabins. And there were unsubstantiated rumors that several members of the crew had ingested LSD on the night of the murder. But despite the impaired states of everyone on board, their stories matched in several key areas: five ­people heard a man and woman arguing, followed by several gunshots. One passenger saw Jack’s lifeless body fall overboard, hit the water, and sink down into the choppy seas on that moonless September night. And everyone verified that Ava Day, Jack’s mistress, had been on board. The fact that Jack had invited his girlfriend on a cruise along with his wife and their only child was something police investigators chalked up to an eccentricity of the upper class.

Rich ­people, they muttered, between interviews of the hungover or soon-­to-­be-­hungover passengers. They’re not just like us.

Jack’s wife, Elise, who the police report noted went from being cooperative to agitated during her interview, stated that she’d seen Ava flee the scene in a dinghy. That whore murdered my husband! she yelled. With any luck she’ll drown at sea!

The police searched the waters for both Ava and Jack for days, but came up empty-­handed. All that was found was the fifteen-­foot inflatable boat, which Elise identified as Ava’s escape vehicle. It was discovered capsized and drifting a ­couple miles offshore of a small Cuban fishing village. Ava was nowhere to be found, but forensics confirmed that her fingerprints were all over the interior of the boat.

After the prints found on the boat were linked to those found on the murder weapon, the commandant of the U.S. Coast Guard held a press conference naming Ava Day as the primary suspect in the murder of Jack Warren. The suspect remains at large, but we will use every air and sea craft available to search for Ms. Ava Day. And our search for the remains of the victim, Jack Warren, is ongoing.

When Warren’s body was never recovered, he was officially declared lost at sea.

The gory and sensational murder of the fifty-­year-­old tech titan by his lover shocked the world. Every news site and gossip rag was scrambling for details, desperate to know everything about this gun-­wielding mistress who had murdered one of the world’s Great Men. And as Ava was publicly vilified, picked apart, and condemned by public opinion, Jack was being canonized.

His good friend and golf buddy President George W. Bush released a statement: The world lost one of its greatest visionaries today. A heartbreaking tragedy. The Beach Boys announced they were going to write an album-­length opera-­bio about Jack. And Sean P. Diddy Combs, who was a frequent guest on The Rising Tide, tweeted, RIP to my homie Jack.

Jack’s face graced the cover of every newspaper and magazine around the world. On cable news shows, talking heads pontificated somberly about how the loss of such a genius would negatively impact the development of global culture. Mourners left tokens of remembrance and flowers at the gates of the Silicone Valley campus of Jack’s multitrillion-­dollar company, Warren Software. It might seem strange that all this outpouring of sentiment was for a man uniformly believed to be an egomaniacal narcissist whose relentlessness and deep political conservatism often put him on the opposite side of the good guy. But nothing, it seemed, rehabilitated a toxic public image better than being murdered.

Lila and her mom found out about Jack’s death when police came banging on her mom’s door in the middle of night, looking for Ava. Lila was twenty then, and still living at home. The news that Ava was romantically involved with the world-­famous Jack Warren came as a complete shock to both Lila and her mother. But no surprise touched the out-­of-­body bewilderment they felt when the police told them Ava was wanted for his murder. Slack-­jawed and blindsided, the two women stood holding each other, pajama-­clad and barefoot in their kitchen, weeping for Ava, as the police barged in, tossed things around, treated them roughly, accused them of lying, and threatened them with jail time for aiding a fugitive.

Lila never doubted her sister’s innocence for one second. How could the kindhearted, sensitive sister she knew be the violent and volatile temptress the police and newspapers were talking about? But the world had made up its mind. And leading the charge was Elise Warren, the former-­model-­turned-­failed-­TV-­actress who took to the role of sad and vengeful widow like she’d been waiting to play it her whole life. The woman whom the tabloids had previously painted as an ambitious gold digger was transformed overnight into a beautiful victim of lust and betrayal. There was a sympathetic Vanity Fair profile, and continual TV appearances with Elise demanding the capture of Ava Day for the murder of her beloved soul mate. She even put up a $25 million reward for anyone who provided information leading to the capture of Ava. In Elise’s hands, Jack’s death became a three-­ring circus, with her as the ringmaster. And with every maudlin and self-­serving interview Elise gave calling for Ava’s arrest, Lila hated the woman even more.

Amid the storm, Lila felt utterly helpless. And she hated that feeling. So a few months after her sister’s disappearance, she enrolled in the Miami Police Academy, hoping that becoming a cop would be the best way to fight for her sister—­to fight for every person unjustly accused of a crime.

As Lila worked her way up from a lowly beat cop to one of the most respected homicide detectives in all of Miami, she always kept tabs on Elise. She watched as Elise remarried the Austrian financier Helmut Stadtlander while police were still hunting for Ava. When Stadtlander tumbled down an alpine cliff to his death, on their honeymoon, Lila was sure that Elise would be charged with his murder. But nothing happened.

Now, with Elise’s third husband, Enrique Herrera, suspiciously dead, things would surely be different. In a little over a decade, Elise had buried three husbands—­and in the process, become one of the richest women in the world. But Lila was set on making sure that luck had finally run out for Elise.

B

Y THE TIME

Lila got to the Miami police station, she was so anxious to see Elise in handcuffs that she practically bounded up the station stairs. The first to greet her was Sergeant