‘What I used to do has nothin’ the fuck t’ do with you,’ Price yelled, eyes bulging. ‘Don’t look at me to be your example in life, ’cause I ain’t no shinin’ angel.’
‘Never said you were,’ Teddy muttered.
And outside his room he saw Mila flit by, ever watchful.
He knew she was listening, spying on him to see if he’d weaken.
He had a plan.
He was going to take off.
It was the only answer.
* * *
Mila Kopistani did not know who her father was, but she had her suspicions. Irena, her mother, refused to discuss it. All she’d managed to get out of her was that her father was a Russian ex-boyfriend who’d visited America, knocked Irena up, and then returned to his homeland. Mila didn’t believe her for a moment: there had to be more to it than that.
Growing up, she hadn’t thought about it that much. However, once she reached school age and the other girls started questioning her, she’d grown curious. At first, she’d thought her father might be Irena’s boss, Price Washington. But no. He was black and she was white, so she’d abandoned that idea. Then she’d considered Father McBain, the priest at the local church. He and her mom seemed pretty damn friendly. ‘Impossible,’ one of her girlfriends informed her. ‘Priests aren’t allowed to do it. He can’t be your dad.’
Another dead end.
Desperately, Mila tried to discover the truth. Whenever Irena left the house, Mila searched through her things but couldn’t find anything worth shit.
Mother and daughter did not have a warm and wonderful relationship. Irena was a cold woman, who ran the house with a rigid hand. Two maids came in daily, and she bossed them about as if she were a queen. She treated the gardener, the pool man and any other workers who came to the house the same way. Nobody liked her except Price, and Mila was sure he only put up with her ’cause she was his faithful work slave. She often wondered if they were sleeping together. Sometimes she thought yes, sometimes no. If they were sleeping together, they certainly kept it a secret.
Mila had hated Price’s two wives. Ginee, the first one, was as bad a druggie as he was at one time. And his second wife, a bimbo blonde, was a joke. A Playboy centrefold with fake tits, cascades of dyed blonde ringlets, and a big stupid smile. Mila had spent many an amusing day pinning the bimbo’s naked photographs up all over the school, much to Teddy’s embarrassment and humiliation.
Mila had always toyed with Teddy, teased and taunted him. Why not? He was a male, wasn’t he? He had a father. She didn’t. It wasn’t fair.
Everyone at school knew she was only the housekeeper’s daughter. It irked her that she had no standing while Teddy had a famous dad. Sometimes she made him pay for it. Unfortunately, he was too dumb to understand that she wasn’t his friend, that she actually loathed him. And she loathed her mother too, because Irena had never had any time for her. Her mother always put Price Washington first, like he was a fucking king and they should all bow down to him.
When Mila had taken Teddy out with her that other night, her intention had been to get him drunk and mess with his head. She certainly hadn’t meant to kill anyone, although she had to admit it was a wild feeling. Snuffing out a life had given her a jolt of tremendous power. Price had lorded it over her and Irena all those years, yet she’d produced a gun and managed to end somebody’s life, just like that.
She could do it to him if she wanted. She had her own kind of power now.
She wouldn’t mind shooting Price.
Shooting him or fucking him.
She couldn’t decide which would be the worse punishment.
She’d never attempted to turn her mother’s boss on, although she knew she could if she tried. Men chased after her all the time, especially at work where she got several propositions a day. She was young, and well aware how to flaunt it. Tight little tank tops, short clingy skirts – all the better to show off her long legs and big bosom. Her cropped dark hair brought out her hazel eyes, and she piled on the makeup when she wanted to look her most alluring.
Men were always checking her out. A few of them had even gotten lucky. Nobody she gave ten cents about, though: she was saving herself for the one who would take her away from being the housekeeper’s daughter.
She never wanted to end up like her mom – some rich, famous asshole’s work slave. Mila was after money and power. She wanted to be the mistress of the house. She wanted to have it all. Sometimes she looked at Teddy and saw him as her future. That’s if nothing better came along. If she and Teddy got married when they were older, eventually Teddy would inherit all his father’s money which meant he’d be rich because Price Washington must have stashed away a bundle. But marrying Teddy would be her last resort. He was never going to change. Even when he was twenty he’d still be a weak loser.
Right now she was worried about him opening his mouth and spilling everything. It was just the kind of dumb thing he was likely to do.
It occurred to her that being mean to him was not helping her case. So she decided to go in the opposite direction and lure him in. A little sex would go a long way towards keeping him on her side. Sex would make him realize where his real loyalties lay.
Yeah. Maybe she’d give him a taste of what he was always lusting after. That way she’d have him totally hooked.
Either that or she’d shut his mouth permanently.
Mila could not make up her mind which would be better.
Chapter Thirty
Lucky took out a full-page ad in the LA Times, offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information concerning the hold-up and Mary Lou’s murder. She also had posters printed and pasted all over the city, concentrating on the mid-Wilshire area, where the crime had taken place. And on either side of the reward sign were the computer-generated images of the two suspects the police sketch artist had come up with.
Detective Johnson warned her they’d be dealing with a lot of cranks and crazies. ‘People crawl out of the sewers when they smell money,’ he said.
‘So be it,’ Lucky said. ‘Let ’em come. I’ve got a hunch that, for a hundred grand, we’re about to get some answers.’
‘I don’t usually condone doing this,’ Detective Johnson said. ‘Makes people greedy. Gives us a lot of extra work, too.’
‘Hey,’ Lucky said restlessly, ‘if it gets results, what do you care?’
She went home to Lennie, who was in his usual blue funk, sitting upstairs in the master bedroom flipping channels with the remote. ‘It’s a good job I love you,’ she said, flopping down on the couch next to him, wondering when he was going to snap out of it.
‘Huh?’ he said, still changing channels.
‘I said,’ she repeated, ‘that it’s a good job I love you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, staring at the TV. ‘You had enough?’
‘Enough of what?’
‘Me.’
‘I want the real you back, Lennie,’ she said softly. ‘Is that a major felony?’
‘I can’t help the way I feel.’
‘You should see somebody.’
‘Who?’
‘There’s this woman – she’s a shrink and, uh . . . it’d be a good idea for you to talk to someone, and get it all out.’
‘Fuck!’ he said, standing up. ‘You know I don’t believe in that crap.’
‘Nor do I, but I think you need it.’
‘How come you don’t?’ he said belligerently.
‘’Cause I’m not the one sitting around the house sulking,’ she answered, not happy with the way this was going.
‘Sulking?’ he repeated, furious. ‘I was with a woman who got blown away, and you think I’m sulking. What the fuck is wrong with you, Lucky?’ And with that he marched out of the room.
She shook her head. This was getting ridiculous. Lennie’s anger was out of control, and there seemed to be nothing she could do.
She went downstairs to the family room, where the kids were excitedly get
ting ready to visit Gino and Paige in Palm Springs for the weekend. Carioca was going with them. Bobby was not. He finally had a date with the sitcom star he’d been lusting after. And then in the morning he was flying to Greece to spend time with some of Dimitri’s relatives.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Lucky enquired, playing good mom, although Lennie had deeply disturbed her with his nonstop bad mood.
‘Dunno,’ Bobby said. ‘Can I borrow your Ferrari?’
‘Are you insane?’ Lucky said, trying to decide if now was the time to give him a lecture on safe sex and the use of condoms. ‘You’re not borrowing my Ferrari. You’ve got your jeep.’
‘Everyone has a jeep.’ Bobby groaned. ‘Why couldn’t I have gotten a Porsche?’
‘So you could’ve been held up like Lennie?’
He shrugged. ‘I feel stupid taking a girl like her out in a jeep. She’s, like, a big TV star, Mom.’
‘Bobby!’ Lucky said forcefully. ‘I hope you’re not turning into a Hollywood kid. A jeep is cool, so don’t give me any more of your crap.’ Now it was her turn to march out of the room. In the background she heard Maria imitating her. ‘Don’t give me any more of your crap, Bobby,’ squeaked Maria, before dissolving into fits of giggles with Carioca.
Lucky couldn’t help smiling. Maria reminded her of herself when she was a kid, feisty and bold, never afraid of anything.
After seeing them off, she looked for Lennie and found him standing on the deck overlooking the ocean. Sliding open the heavy glass doors she went and stood beside him. ‘Don’t let’s fight,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Fighting doesn’t help anybody – especially Steven. He’s coming for dinner tonight.’
‘No, no, I can’t see him,’ Lennie said, panicking. ‘Every time I see him it makes me feel worse.’
‘That’s pretty damn selfish. Steven’s all by himself. Remember – he lost his wife?’
‘Fuck!’ Lennie shouted. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
‘Do what?’
‘Any of this shit. I’m taking a drive.’
She almost stopped him, but didn’t. She’d never been the clinging type.
On the other hand, she wasn’t about to sit around waiting for him to come home so he could scream at her some more. If she wasn’t so goddamn understanding, she’d be screaming back.
She called Steven at his office. ‘Would you mind if we switched to a restaurant tonight?’ she said. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘I’d like that,’ Steven said. ‘How come?’
‘The kids have gone to Palm Springs, and Lennie’s not feeling great. So how about you and I go to La Scala and tell each other our problems?’
‘You got problems, Lucky?’
‘Not as big as yours, Steven. I’ll pick you up at the office.’
An hour later they sat in a cosy booth in La Scala, eating spaghetti and chopped salads.
Lucky stared at her half-brother intently. ‘Steven,’ she said, placing her hand over his, ‘I want you to know how much I love you and that I truly feel your pain. I wish there was something I could do, but obviously there isn’t.’
‘I love you too,’ Steven said. ‘But loving you doesn’t bring back Mary Lou.’
‘The reason Lennie isn’t here,’ Lucky continued, ‘is because he’s consumed with guilt. I’m trying to help him get over it, but it’s not easy.’
‘Lennie has nothing to feel guilty about.’
‘I keep on telling him that.’
‘Should I talk to him?’
‘No. He’s a big boy, he’ll have to figure it out on his own.’
‘If you change your mind, just say the word. I can talk to him.’
‘Let’s see how it goes. The important thing is how are you doing?’
‘I have good days, mostly bad nights.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I’m getting through it.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘Tell me.’ He picked up a piece of bread and tore it into pieces. ‘How’s Carioca?’
‘Sensational. When do you want her back?’
‘She’s better off with you, Lucky. She has such a good time being with your kids. What can she do with me? Sit in the house by herself?’
‘You’re her father,’ Lucky said quietly. ‘She loves you.’
‘I know that. But if you could keep her a little longer . . .’
‘I will, only you’ve got to remember that it’s tough for her, too. The last thing you want is for her to feel abandoned. Believe me, I know what that’s like.’ She paused while the waiter refilled their wine-glasses. ‘I’ll never forget the day I discovered my mother floating on that raft in the swimming-pool . . .’ For a moment her black eyes clouded over. ‘Everything stopped. You can’t imagine . . .’ Another pause. ‘Maybe you can.’
‘When I think about what you went through, Lucky, it gives me the strength to keep going.’
‘I still miss her,’ Lucky whispered softly. ‘The pain never goes away, it’s always there, it simply gets pushed into the background.’
Steven squeezed her hand. ‘Love you, sis.’
She managed a wan smile. ‘You too, bro.’
By the time she returned to the house, Lennie was in bed asleep. She hovered beside their bed for a moment, wondering if he was faking it. Since he didn’t stir, she decided he wasn’t.
This is what marriage is all about, she thought. For better or worse. Right now it was for worse, and she had to get him better. If they could only find the attackers, she was sure that would help Lennie feel good again.
Tomorrow she’d badger Detective Johnson, something he was getting used to because she did it every day. And she couldn’t care less if he was getting sick of her, since she was convinced that unless she kept bothering him, this case would never get solved.
She went into her bathroom and slipped into black silk pyjamas. Tonight sex with her husband, the love of her life, might be nice. And there was no reason why they shouldn’t make love. By withholding himself sexually, Lennie was punishing her, and she didn’t appreciate it one bit.
She climbed into bed and snuggled up behind him.
He groaned in his sleep and moved away.
This was a first.
Lucky had always been under the impression that she had the perfect marriage. Maybe she was wrong.
She closed her eyes, attempting to sleep. But sleep was a long time coming, and by the time she did drop off she was hurt and angry.
Lennie better get his act together or, as far as she was concerned, they were heading for serious problems.
Chapter Thirty-One
Brigette had breakfast in the living room of her hotel suite with Horace Otley, a short, sweaty-palmed man in his mid-forties, who looked like an out-of-work hack for one of the tabloids. However, Horace was not an out-of-work hack. Horace was probably the best private detective in England.
Brigette had hired him two weeks ago from America.
‘It’ll cost you,’ Horace had told her over the phone.
‘I don’t care,’ she’d answered. ‘Privacy is my main issue. I’ll want you to sign an agreement that you’ll never reveal anything about this investigation.’
Horace had agreed, so she’d had one of her lawyers draw up a paper and fax it to him. Horace signed and faxed it back. After that she’d faxed him Carlo’s full name and where he worked, and requested every bit of information Horace could come up with. Now here they were, finally getting together.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Otley,’ Brigette said politely.
He bobbed his head, quite startled to be faced with such a gorgeous female, and a famous one too. Naturally he recognized her, and so he should, considering she’d appeared on magazine covers the world over.
‘I didn’t realize who you were when you hired me,’ he said, thinking that he couldn’t wait to tell his life partner, Will, about this. Will would cream when he heard who Horace was dealing with.
‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘Now perhaps
you understand my need for privacy.’
‘I protect every client’s privacy,’ Horace said pompously. ‘Every one of them is just as important to me, whoever they might be.’
‘That’s nice to know, Mr Otley. Would you care to order breakfast?’
He put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and perused the menu, deciding on toast, eggs, bacon, sausages and grilled tomatoes.
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said, calling room service and ordering the same.
Soon she was picking at her food while Horace stuffed his into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. ‘I’ve got every bit of information you could possibly need,’ he said, between mouthfuls.
‘Excellent,’ she said, sipping orange juice.
‘Carlo Vittorio Vitti. Count Carlo Vittorio Vitti – you did know he has a title?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, he’s a count,’ Horace said, ‘although the family has no money.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘His parents reside in Italy, in a run-down palace outside Rome. They’re down to two servants and a chauffeur. Both parents are alcoholics.’
‘Sounds like a pleasant family.’
‘Carlo was sent to London eighteen months ago.’
‘How come?’
‘There was a big disgrace in Italy.’
‘What was it?’
‘Carlo was seeing a twenty-year-old married woman, whose eighty-year-old husband was found asphyxiated in his own garage. The suspicion fell on Carlo.’
‘Why? Did he do it?’
‘There was talk . . . scandal. Before the police acted, his father sent him here to London, which, from what I can ascertain, he hates. He’s looking for a rich woman. He’s found one, but she’s not his ideal. However, they are engaged.’
‘So he is engaged?’
‘She’s a dog,’ Horace said, chewing on a piece of bacon. ‘Need I say more?’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mr Otley,’ Brigette scolded. ‘A woman might not be the best-looking in the world, but she can have a lovely personality.’
‘This one doesn’t.’
‘How do you know?’