The Beautiful and the Wicked (30 page)

 

CHAPTER 28

A
WEEK PASSED,
maybe two. Possibly three. Lila couldn't be sure. Things began to blur.

Her final conversation with Teddy had unleashed a tsunami of regret and loss, which had knocked her down, pulled her under, and left her stranded in some dark, unknown place. She felt empty and numb. Without a case to obsess about or Teddy to ground her, she felt lost. There was nothing calling her out into the world, so she stayed holed up in her apartment with the blinds drawn and a bottle of Wild Turkey always within reach.

She didn't fight the self-­pity she felt engulfing her. Her mother was gone; her sister was a murderer on the run; and the one true friend she'd grown to love had just told her that she was too dangerous to be around. Lila thought she'd bottomed out before, but she now knew that she'd been mistaken. Here, right now, was the bottom, and Lila wondered if she'd ever be able to crawl out from this emotional muck.

As the days slowly crawled by, she started to digest what had happened on
The Rising Tide,
working through the details of the case and finally accepting the new, harsh reality that her sister had killed Jack. She felt foolish and betrayed. But the most acute feeling was loss. In one terrible moment the illusion that had kept her going—­that her sister was innocent—­had vanished. With her faith in Ava dashed, Lila now saw her undying belief in Ava's innocence for what it was: a crutch. And she was shocked to see that she could barely stand on her own two feet without it.

Everything she thought she knew about herself had been wrong. Everything she once believed to be real was only a shadow of her hopes and dreams. Her sister, Ava, wasn't an innocent victim. She was a murderer. And Lila wasn't some brilliant detective. She'd been average at worst, and lucky at best. In fact, Lila now considered that maybe she wasn't even as honorable as the rotten and corrupt cops she'd spent her career detesting. At least
they
were honest with themselves and with everyone else about who they were. They didn't delude themselves into thinking they were working to save the world, like Lila did.

The person she once believed she was—­a good cop, a moral person, a caring friend—­had wound up being just a bunch of false hopes, and Lila felt deeply ashamed.

And then there was Teddy.

Meeting him had saved her life. That was one thing she still knew to be true. His faith in her allowed her to, once again, have faith in herself. But she'd played fast and loose with his trust and had lost it. Now he would never give her another chance to go back in time. And without that—­without the mental challenge of solving those cold cases—­what would she do?

Inside her head an unrelenting voice cataloged her failures: not seeing her sister for who she was, pushing harder than she should have, forever falling for the wrong guys, alienating anyone who ever cared for her, and on and on and on. To pull herself away from the self-­flagellation, she turned on the TV, flipping mindlessly from channel to channel.

The television comforted her. She stayed on the couch for hours, guzzling Wild Turkey as her brain was soothed by the TV's undemanding companionship. As she was flipping channels, an image caught her eye—­a grand sailboat racing along a choppy sea underneath the Golden Gate Bridge.

Lila paused at the sight. The boat looked just like the one that Ben and Jack designed with that master builder, Kingston S. Duxbury, in the Caribbean. It had that telltale sail, which looked like an airplane wing. The wing sat stiffly atop a giant, space-­age catamaran that hydroplaned along the water. It was a mesmerizing boat. Lila watched, her head firmly pressed against the sofa cushion, intrigued, but not enough to sit up.

A blond reporter standing in Golden Gate Park walked toward the camera in that slow, purposeful pace they must teach ­people in journalism school. Spreading her arms out in front of her, she said, “Crowds have gathered with eager anticipation to witness the final leg of this year's America's Cup, held in beautiful San Francisco. Our country's hopes are pinned on one man, Ben Reynolds, the skipper and helmsman of the American team.” Lila couldn't believe her ears.

The camera then panned to Ben. That was enough to make Lila sit up. “What the fuck?” she said, her face creased from hours of being squashed against the pillow, her voice slightly slurred by whiskey. Ben looked almost exactly as he had in 2008, which for Lila was a mere two weeks ago, not the eleven years that had actually passed. His face was a bit narrower and the lines in his tanned skin were carved deeper. A few strands of gray hair could be seen in the riot of his dark curls.

Astounded, Lila watched as Ben brought the reporter onto the boat. But her heart nearly stopped when she saw another familiar face from
The Rising Tide
: Asher Lydon. Startled, she jumped to her feet. “Holy fuck,” she said as she turned up the volume to a near-­deafening level, anxious not to miss anything. Asher was only on camera for a fleeting second, but it was undeniably him—­the corn-­silk-­blond hair that he had kept boyishly long despite being a decade older, the affable smile, those model-­perfect features.

Asher and Ben, together? Lila couldn't believe what she was seeing. How was any of it possible? How did Ben achieve his dream of being skipper on his own multimillion-­dollar boat in the America's Cup despite the death of his only patron? And how was Asher, who was a sworn enemy of the Warren clan, sailing on a boat that had meant more to Jack Warren than practically anything in his life?

Nothing seemed to make sense. Then she wondered if she'd been wrong all along
.
It suddenly dawned on her. What if Ben murdered Jack? Her spinning mind quickly sifted through all the facts. That night, she'd found Ben naked in bed with Elise. Less than an hour later, Jack was dead. How could he have done it? Wouldn't Lila have seen Ben up there with Ava and Jack? And could he have managed to extricate himself from Elise fast enough to get to Jack? It didn't scan.

Still, something kept tugging at her. Seeing Ben and Asher together was enough to make Lila believe that there was more to the story. She kept her eyes on the TV, watching as Ben's handsome face and easy smile worked their charms on the blond TV reporter. Then it came to her. “Of course!” she exclaimed out loud to an empty room. What if Ben and Asher had been working together? What if Ben smuggled Asher back on the boat without anyone realizing it? They both knew the yacht well enough to keep Asher hidden. Then, while Ben made sure Elise was distracted, Asher could've stabbed Jack and then gone back into hiding, leaving Ava stunned and standing on the deck by a pool of blood while Jack fell into the water, dead.

There were plenty of reasons why either man would want Jack dead. He'd been a controlling, cruel, and abusive boss to both of them. And after Asher's plans to get to the Warren fortune through Josie backfired twice, he could have decided to take matters into his own hands. Perhaps Ben, knowing he was close to losing his plum position as helmsman on Jack's racing yacht, knew he had to get rid of Jack before Jack got rid of him. Had he been sleeping with Elise to make sure that she'd put him in charge of the America's Cup boat once he and Asher had murdered her husband?

The voice in Lila's head that had been beating herself up just minutes ago was now frantically trying to answer all these questions. But more than anything, she was thrilled that there was a flicker of possibility, no matter how small, that Ava might be innocent.

Feeling invigorated, Lila grabbed her laptop and searched Ben's name. Slowly, by visiting a few different sites, she began piecing it all together. It seemed that upon Jack Warren's death, Elise had given the racing yacht to Ben, just as Lila had suspected. Then, she read in an interview with
Sailing World
magazine, Ben declared that every day he worked to honor “the amazing legacy of all that Jack Warren did to innovate this most regal and gentlemanly of sports, yacht racing, and make it what it is today.” If he was really honoring Jack's legacy, why did he include Asher on the team, the very man who seduced and abandoned Jack's only daughter?

She'd seen enough. She booked a nonstop flight from Miami to San Francisco for the next morning. She'd be in the Bay Area by ten, giving her plenty of time to watch the final race of the America's Cup.

Teddy had told her it was over. But she couldn't let it go, not now, not when there was a fresh lead. A thought popped into her mind: What if this was just one more way to hold on to Ava's innocence? What if she was only grasping at straws, seeing a pattern where there wasn't one?

But she pushed these ideas out of her mind. As long as she had a doubt, it wasn't over. Not yet.

 

CHAPTER 29

B
Y THE TIME
Lila arrived at San Francisco Bay, securing a spot under the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge by the finish line was close to impossible. She had to squeeze past the thousands of ­people who were already packing the walkways. The crowd was humming as ­people talked excitedly about the race, leaning over the railings to get closer to the action on the water, waving small American flags, jockeying for a good vantage point to watch the last leg of this high-­stakes contest. Everyone wanted to be the first to see who would claim the America's Cup, this oldest trophy in sporting history.

With a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck, Lila pushed her way to an ideal spot by the finish line. It was a spectacular day, sunny and clear, which was a rarity for summertime in San Francisco. While she waited for the yachts to come into view, she scanned the scene . . . for what, she didn't know.

After an hour or so pressed up against the railing, searching both the crowds and the vast expanse of deep blue water, she heard someone in the crowd exclaim, “Here they come!” She trained her binoculars on the horizon, where, sure enough, two exquisite yachts suddenly came into view. Both had solid carbon sails that stretched up over two hundred feet into the sky. The Team USA boat had a red sail and a blue-­and-­white twin-­hulled catamaran racer. About forty feet of meshlike fabric was stretched between the two hulls, and a dozen or so sailors, all wearing helmets and sunglasses, rushed from one side of the boat to the other. Even with her binoculars, Lila couldn't identify Ben or Asher in the group scurrying frantically around the boat.

Team USA's closest competitor was Team New Zealand, which was just a ­couple dozen feet behind. The crowd began to cheer. Then the chant “USA! USA!” began to build and build. The throng of ­people standing behind Lila began to surge forward, pushing her, somewhat painfully, into the railing. She jabbed a ­couple of ­people with her elbows, trying to take up as much room as possible.

Lila watched both boats soar through the water. But they weren't like any boats she'd ever seen. They were more like magical flying machines. Team USA miraculously glided through the air at fifty miles per hour as its catamaran hovered an incredible five feet above water with only three small hydrofoils, which looked like upside-­down shark's fins, skimming along the surface of San Francisco Bay. Lila now understood why Ben was so excited by what the shipbuilder was cooking up that day he took her to visit Kingston S. Duxbury.

Team USA turned around a giant orange cone in the middle of the bay and then headed straight toward the now-­frenzied crowd. The New Zealand boat lost some speed on the same turn and fell farther behind. It was clear to everyone that Team USA had won the America's Cup. As this good news slowly dawned on all the spectators, the cheering of the crowd grew even louder. Everyone had their smartphones out, to record the moment of victory.

As the catamaran got closer, Lila was finally able to see Ben through her binoculars, at the helm of the large, red steering wheel. Despite his colorful helmet and his dark sunglasses, she knew it was him from the toothy smile overtaking his face. Victory was his.

The moment the boat crossed the finish line, the entire team began to whoop and wail, jumping up and down, throwing their arms wildly around one another. When they all stripped off their helmets, Lila was able to see both Asher and Ben more clearly. They embraced each other, and then, with their arms resting on each other's shoulders, they turned to the joyous crowd of spectators celebrating their monumental triumph.

Lila watched them carefully through the binoculars. She saw them searching the vicinity, clearly looking for something. Then they seemed to spot it. Both men looked directly at something, or someone. Her eyes pressed into the binoculars, Lila followed their gazes and found what they were looking at—­Kingston S. Duxbury, the West Indian shipbuilder Lila had met in the Turks and Caicos. He was conspicuous in his powder-­blue shirt and Panama hat. Then Lila noticed Kingston turn to shake a man's hand. From where Kingston was standing, Lila couldn't see who was next to him. All she could make out was that the stranger had a Team USA baseball hat pulled low over his face. The two men held each other's hands and laughed, in what Lila thought looked like pure delight. Kingston bent slightly back, allowing Lila to see the other man's face. He was wearing oversize aviator sunglasses and had a large, bushy beard. But there was something there . . .

Lila shifted her focus back to the boat, where Ben and Asher were jumping around triumphantly. She saw Ben give a thumbs-­up. Then Asher joined him. Again, they were both looking at a fixed point in the crowd. She whipped her gaze back to Kingston, only to see that he and the bearded man were returning the gesture in kind. She kept watching Kingston, wondering if he had played a role in Ben and Asher's bloody deeds. But something distracted her. The man with the beard had thrown his arm around Kingston—­and there was something about it that itched at Lila's brain.

She thought of the pictures she'd seen in Kingston's shop, the framed photos of him posing triumphantly in front of his boats. And in every picture, a man had his arm flung around Kingston's shoulders. That man was Jack Warren.

She moved her binoculars away from Kingston to look for the bearded man, but he had left Kingston's side and disappeared into the crowd. Lila scanned the vast throng of ­people. She had lost him.

But then she spotted him once more. He was moving through the crowd, pushing to get out to the street while the crowd surged in the opposite direction, hoping to get a better look at the boats. His head was mostly turned away from Lila, so she couldn't see his face. But, in one moment, she saw his profile. And with one glance at that long, aquiline nose, she was shocked by recognition. The man in the baseball hat was Jack Warren.

He was alive—­wearing a hat, beard, and glasses, hoping to remain unnoticed in the city that he'd once ruled.

Adrenaline flooded Lila's body as her focus became razor sharp. If Jack slipped out of her grasp, she was certain that she'd never locate him again. This was her one and only chance.

She took off like a shot, only to hit a brick wall of celebrating spectators. She ducked around them. A chorus of “Hey!” and “Watch it!” was left in her frantic, clawing wake. But Lila didn't hear them. She could only think of one thing, and that was finding Jack Warren, and getting an explanation for what the hell was going on.

She finally pushed her way through the massive crowd, but by the time she broke free, she'd lost sight of Jack. Her heart pounding in her chest, she ran around the perimeter of the crowd, searching for him.

Suddenly, in her peripheral vision, she saw him—­climbing up a steep flight of stairs that cut up a verdant hillside. He was about two hundred feet ahead of her. Then he stopped and turned once more to the water. He gazed out over the cheering crowds and watched as the Team USA boat made its way to the dock. She could tell he was relishing this victory. And in that moment, Lila hated him more than ever.

She sprinted after him, wishing she had a gun or handcuffs. But all she had was her wits and her strength. By the time she got to the long stairway, Jack was almost at the top. Lila raced to catch him, but he was too far away. Her only advantage was that he didn't realize she was after him. And that was an advantage she'd now have to give up.

As a last resort, she decided to call his name. It was risky. She knew it would definitely spook him and alert him to her presence, but it might slow him down for the split second she needed to gain on him. “Jack Warren!” she screamed as she pushed herself to climb the stairs faster.

Jack stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. She saw him look at her with total confusion. Then, suddenly, the shock of recognition came across his face.

“Remember me?” Lila shouted.

He took off, running faster than before. Her lungs began to burn in her chest. But she was gaining on him, taking the stairs two at a time. He was slower than her, now a man in his sixties struggling to escape, but not so slow that he didn't reach the top before her, disappearing out of sight.

The instant Lila reached the final step, she had to make a split-­second decision whether to go left or right. But before she could pick one or the other, she heard a loud crack, followed by a hissing whistle through the air. The stone step inches away from her shattered. She heard the terrified scream of a female bystander.

Jack Warren was shooting at her.

Lila reacted immediately, having no time to think. She threw her body to the ground just as another bullet ricocheted off the metal handrail. The shots were coming from behind a cement wall about twenty feet away. Looking around for some kind of shelter, she saw there was nothing but open green space. But then she spotted, about five feet away, a steel garbage bin. She kept flush to the ground, moving toward the bin in an army crawl. Another crack came from behind the wall. The last bullet was so close that she could pratically feel the sound.

She stopped dead for an instant, waiting for the searing pain of a gunshot wound to register. But she hadn't been hit. Before Jack fired another shot, she ducked behind the steel bin, gulping down air as she tried to catch her breath. Police sirens sounded, getting closer.

She waited a few seconds, then, with her pulse racing, leaped up and began running for the wall. No shots were fired. Jack, probably spooked by the sirens, had left his post, getting a head start on her once again. Then she spotted him, sprinting along the dirt path to a busy street just a hundred feet away.

Lila sprang over the hip-­level wall and kept racing after him. He looked back at her, causing him to lose his footing. He tripped forward and hurtled down to the ground, sending his gun flying across the grass. He scrambled up and kept charging ahead.

She was getting closer.

Then he hit the pavement. It was a major city street, with four lanes of busy traffic. Jack dashed out into the middle of the street, waving his hands. Lila realized he was trying to flag down a car so he could jump into it and make a final getaway. But his plan went horribly wrong. The car that he lunged in front of was slow to brake. Lila watched as the vehicle's wheels screeched and the driver swerved, in an attempt to avoid hitting anything, but ended up spinning out of control, sideswiping Jack as it did a three-­sixty in the middle of the road. Jack went flying through the air and fell to the pavement with a heavy thud.

Lila ran toward his splayed-­out body as ­people began to jump out of their cars, rushing to the ailing man's side. In the panic and horror of that moment, as she rushed toward Jack, all Lila could hear was her own voice saying over and over again, “Don't you dare die. Don't you dare die.”

If she was going to get the justice she so badly needed, Jack Warren had to be very much alive.

Lucky for her, he was.