Dangerous Kiss

  ‘No good protecting her,’ Detective Johnson said, ‘’cause the moment we get her in custody she’ll give you up like the school tramp on prom night. And you seem like a nice kid – in fact, from what I understand you didn’t participate.’ He gave Teddy a moment to think about that. Then he said, ‘Of course, being there makes you an accessory, and a sharp lawyer can turn this case around, and before you know it, you’ll find yourself doing time for murder. Ever seen those prison movies, Teddy?’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘’Cause if you have, then you know what goes on inside. So I strongly suggest you co-operate and tell us who the girl is, ’cause we’ll find out anyway. An’ if you’re trying to protect her, it’ll blow up in your face.’

  Teddy shuddered. Murder. He hadn’t murdered anyone, he’d just been along for the ride – that was all. And if they did find Mila, she’d tell them he was innocent, then they’d have to let him go. Yeah. Mila knew the truth better than anyone.

  ‘So . . .’ Detective Johnson continued. ‘Who is she? And where can we find her?’

  Teddy kept his silence, but they found her anyway. They discovered that Irena had a daughter, and when they saw her and noted her resemblance to the computer photo, she was arrested at her place of work in front of everyone.

  Mila did not go to the police station quietly, she informed anyone who would listen that Teddy had forced her to go on the ride that fateful night; that he’d plied her with cocaine and booze; that he’d been carrying his father’s gun, and that he’d shot Mary Lou. ‘He raped me, too,’ she added, for good measure, frustrated and angry that she hadn’t been able to find anyone prepared to put a hit on Lennie Golden, therefore she had not been able to claim the reward. Now she was in deep shit and what the hell could she do about it? Exactly nothing.

  Detective Johnson sat her down in the interrogation room and questioned her for three long hours.

  She stuck to her story.

  ‘Teddy says it was you who fired the gun,’ he said, regarding her carefully. ‘He says it was you calling all the shots.’

  ‘Liar!’ she snapped.

  ‘Wanna tell us about it?’

  ‘Teddy’s in denial,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He’s not thinking straight. I told you, he did the shooting. What would I be doing with his dad’s gun?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward after it happened?’

  ‘I was scared,’ she lied, lowering her eyes. ‘Teddy threatened to kill me if I talked.’

  Detective Johnson sighed. Nothing was ever simple.

  By the time Price Washington’s lawyer arrived, both Mila and Teddy were locked away for the night. Teddy in juvenile hall, and Mila in jail.

  ‘Too late for bail. Come back tomorrow morning,’ Detective Johnson said, hardly looking at the Beverly Hills lawyer, whom he disliked on sight.

  Howard Greenspan, a smooth-looking man with a tan, a two-thousand-dollar suit and plenty of attitude, bristled. ‘Price Washington won’t like this,’ he warned.

  ‘I said tomorrow,’ Detective Johnson repeated, refusing to be intimidated by the fat-cat lawyer in his expensive suit, reeking of costly aftershave.

  ‘Mr Washington has friends in high places.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Detective Johnson growled.

  The two men locked eyeballs.

  ‘What’s the charge?’ Howard demanded.

  ‘Accessory to murder,’ Detective Johnson said.

  Howard G. Greenspan nodded. Price was out of town anyway. He’d spring Teddy in the morning, and then they’d see who had the clout in this town.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  As soon as Lucky received word of the two arrests, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Lennie felt it too. ‘This is exactly what I needed, closure,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forget the hate in that girl’s voice, or the cold-blooded way she went ahead and shot Mary Lou like it didn’t mean a goddamn thing. When I see her put away for life that’ll do it for me.’

  ‘This is California,’ Lucky pointed out. ‘She might not get life.’

  ‘By the time I get out of the witness box,’ he said fiercely, ‘it’ll be life.’

  Lucky nodded, although she wasn’t so sure. California law was a strange and laughable thing. Criminal justice, more often than not, meant ‘justice’ for the criminal.

  Steven felt the same way. ‘When it comes to the trial we have to be there every day,’ he said. ‘It’s imperative that the jury sees the victim’s family as a united and ever present unit.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Lennie said.

  ‘Me too,’ Lucky said.

  Although she was happy about the arrests, she was still worried about Brigette, who was due to arrive in LA any day. After talking to Lina at Venus’ party, she’d immediately called Brigette’s agent in New York, who’d informed her the agency had no idea where Brigette was. So Lucky had tracked her down to the Dorchester in London, where the reception desk confirmed that Brigette had been staying there but had checked out and left no forwarding address. Lucky was alarmed. It wasn’t like Brigette to take off without telling anyone her whereabouts. ‘I’m flying to London,’ she’d informed Lennie. ‘I’ve got a feeling something’s wrong.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Lennie had said. ‘Brigette’s a grown woman grabbing some privacy, you can’t begrudge her that.’

  ‘Brigette’s an heiress,’ Lucky had reminded him, ‘due to inherit a billion-dollar fortune. Someone has to look out for her.’

  Before she’d made up her mind whether to go or not, they’d received a postcard from Brigette with no return address, saying she’d met someone special and would be travelling around Europe for a while.

  This did not satisfy Lucky, although Lennie seemed to think it was okay. ‘Hey, listen,’ he’d said, ‘the kid’s had all those bad experiences with guys. She wants to have fun. I’m glad she’s found herself a guy.’

  ‘Yes, but who is he?’ Lucky had said, worried. ‘For all we know he could be some fortune hunter in it for her money.’

  They heard from her again the next week. Another postcard. ‘Touring around Tuscany, having a fantastic time! Love Brigette.’

  And so it went on for the next few weeks, Brigette communicating by postcards with no return address, until finally she’d phoned.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Lucky had demanded. ‘And who’s this guy you’re with?’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Brigette had said. ‘I’m having a great time travelling around Europe. I’ll get in touch again soon.’

  In the meantime, while Lennie worked on his computer all day, Lucky busied herself reading the scripts sent over from Alex’s office. After several duds, she’d found one she liked in particular, a sharp romantic comedy about a very rich divorcee and a sexy male stripper, kind of a Pretty Woman in reverse. After reading it through twice, she’d messengered it to Venus, who’d immediately fallen in love with the female lead. ‘I’ve got to play her,’ Venus had said. ‘She’s me in another life.’

  Lucky called Alex to tell him, and two days later the three of them had sat down over lunch at the Grill to discuss it. Venus wanted several changes, Lucky had her own ideas and Alex was simply delighted that he and Lucky might get a chance to work together.

  ‘Have you told Lennie?’ he’d asked, over coffee.

  ‘No,’ Lucky said, waving at James Woods as he sauntered out of the restaurant with a pretty teenager. Probably his niece. Or maybe not. Who could tell with actors? ‘I’ll tell him when we’re closer to a deal.’

  Alex had smiled his lazy crocodile smile. ‘Really?’ he’d said, liking the fact that Lennie wasn’t in on this.

  ‘No big thing, Alex,’ Lucky had said crossly. ‘Lennie won’t mind.’ But, deep down, she’d known that he would.

  After thinking it over, she’d decided not to tell Lennie until the deal was set because the thought of producing a film and working with her two best friends was too exciting a prospect even to contemplate giving up.

  A few weeks after Brigette’s phone
call, they’d received a glossy ten-by-eight wedding photo of her with a tall, handsome, blond man. Brigette had scrawled across it in her own handwriting, ‘Count and Countess Carlo Vittorio Vitti!!’

  Lucky had raced straight into Lennie’s study. ‘You’re not going to believe this one,’ she’d said, waving the photo in front of him. ‘She married the guy. No pre-nup, nothing. This is insanity!’

  ‘Still no address?’ Lennie had asked, checking out the photo.

  ‘Nope. I can’t believe it, we don’t even know who he is. If it had been up to me I would’ve tracked her down weeks ago and found out all about him.’

  ‘I hate to keep telling you, sweetheart,’ Lennie had said, more interested in getting back to his computer than anything else, ‘it’s none of our business.’

  Oh, yes, it is, Lucky had thought. Somebody has to look out for her. And I guess that somebody is going to be me.

  She’d immediately phoned Lina, who’d just checked into the Bel Air Hotel ready to start shooting her movie with Charlie Dollar.

  Lina had no idea what Brigette was up to either. Like Lucky and Lennie, she’d received the occasional postcard with no real information.

  ‘Did Brigette send you a photo?’ Lucky asked.

  ‘No . . . but I’ve been in Paris for the collections,’ Lina explained. ‘Flew directly to LA.’

  ‘Do you happen to be free for lunch?’

  ‘For you, Lucky. Yes.’

  ‘Good. It’s important that we talk.’

  * * *

  They met in the garden of the Bel Air Hotel, a leafy paradise with attentive waiters and delicious food. Lucky sat down, ordered a Perrier, lit a cigarette, and as soon as Lina arrived, got straight to the point. ‘She married the guy.’

  ‘What?’ Lina exclaimed. ‘Who is ’e?’

  ‘See if you know him,’ Lucky said, handing her the photo. ‘This arrived today.’

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell!’ Lina squealed, peering at the photo. ‘It’s the Italian bloke she thought raped her.’

  Lucky stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’

  ‘No, that’s ’im all right,’ Lina said, still studying the photograph.

  ‘Obviously she must have been mistaken about the rape.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Lina agreed. ‘Oh, boy . . . ain’t love grand? I know ’is cousin – shall I talk to ’im, see what ’e knows?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Lucky said. ‘Maybe at the same time you can find out where she is.’

  As soon as she got back to her room, Lina called Fredo, who was as shocked as everyone else.

  ‘I will telephone Italy and get back to you,’ he’d promised.

  ‘Not a word about the whole drugged-drink thing,’ Lina said. ‘It can’t ’ave happened if she’s married ’im, can it?’

  ‘I understand,’ Fredo said, obviously anxious to get off the phone and find out the real story.

  He phoned back twenty minutes later. ‘It is true,’ he said, in shock. ‘They were married at the Palace.’

  ‘Are Brigette an’ Carlo still there?’ Lina asked.

  ‘No. They left on a honeymoon.’

  Lina reported in to Lucky, who immediately decided she’d better have Count Carlo Vittorio Vitti investigated. She contacted the private detective agency she used, and they immediately went to work.

  Finally, Brigette phoned. ‘We’re coming to LA,’ she announced over the phone from Portofino. ‘Carlo wants to meet everyone.’

  ‘And about time!’ Lucky exclaimed. ‘I’m so mad at you for running off the way you did and marrying in secret. I wanted to be at your wedding. So did Lennie and the kids. Not to mention you not conferring with your lawyers before you did it. Brigette, you have to realize, you are not an ordinary girl, you have big responsibilities. As soon as you get here, we must sit down and go over everything.’

  ‘You’re not my mother, Lucky,’ Brigette said, in a flat voice. ‘I’m aware of my responsibilities, so is Carlo. In fact, he’s the one who wants to meet with my lawyers. We’re stopping in New York on our way to LA.’

  Lucky was shocked at Brigette’s unfriendly tone. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I resent being told what to do.’

  ‘I’m merely pointing out that you’ll be inheriting a vast amount of money, and you have to be careful.’

  ‘I know,’ Brigette said impatiently. ‘Carlo and I will be there next week. We’re staying at the Four Seasons.’

  ‘We’d like to throw a party for you,’ Lucky said. ‘So we can all celebrate.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ Brigette answered tentatively. ‘I’ll have to check with Carlo.’

  ‘Does Carlo make all your decisions now?’ Lucky asked, unable to keep a sharp edge out of her voice.

  ‘No, Lucky, he doesn’t,’ Brigette snapped. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘The way you’re talking . . .’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll like him. He’s a count, very handsome. And Italian. Gino will be pleased about that.’

  ‘There’s more to a person than good looks.’

  ‘Don’t be mad at me, Lucky,’ Brigette pleaded, suddenly sounding like her old self. ‘I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me.’

  ‘What about your career?’ Lucky said, knowing how much Brigette’s success meant to her. ‘Your agent’s not exactly thrilled about you running off. You’d better call in and tell her where you are.’

  ‘Carlo doesn’t want me to work,’ Brigette said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He says it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Why? Is he jealous?’ Silence. ‘Oh, God! Don’t tell me you’ve married a jealous Italian, the worst kind.’

  ‘He loves me,’ Brigette said. ‘That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  How naïve and sweet. Typical Brigette. Her judgement of men was irreparably damaged; she always trusted the wrong ones.

  Lucky hung up, hoping and praying that Brigette hadn’t got caught up in another bad scene.

  Shortly after their conversation, the detective agency delivered a report on Carlo. According to their research he was from a good but impoverished family, had been a playboy around Rome before going to London to work in a bank, and had been engaged to an English heiress. They had parted abruptly on a sour note shortly after he met Brigette.

  Lucky feared the worst, that he’d homed in on Brigette for her money.

  Not that her goddaughter wasn’t beautiful – she was totally gorgeous and sweet and successful. But Lucky’s gut instinct told her it was the Stanislopoulos fortune Carlo was after. And control. Italian men got off on control.

  Oh, well, soon Brigette would be in LA, and there was nothing Lucky could do now except simply wait and see.

  And watch . . . very, very carefully.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  ‘Surely you are not wearing that?’ Carlo said, his voice filled with criticism. They were standing in the living room of Brigette’s New York apartment.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asked, smoothing down the waistline of her long-sleeved dress.

  ‘Makes you look fat.’

  ‘I am fat,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m almost four months pregnant.’

  Actually, she wasn’t fat at all, she was painfully thin. Only her stomach protruded. The heroin Carlo had been feeding her on a regular basis had sucked the energy out of her. She was still beautiful, but not the glowing beauty she’d been two months ago. Now she was deathly pale, with sunken cheeks and huge, bright blue staring eyes. She personified the currently popular heroin-chic look – but in her case it had become the real thing.

  ‘I’ll change,’ she said dully, realizing that whatever she changed into she had better keep her arms covered. The telltale tracks were becoming a problem. ‘If you’re sure you don’t like this dress.’

  ‘I suggest that you do change,’ Carlo said, sipping a martini as he continued staring at her critically. ‘Now that you are a contessa, Brigette, I would appreciate it
if you would make an effort to look the part. Right now you look like a puttana.’

  Sometimes he could be mean and cruel, other times kind and loving. She was never sure what sort of mood he’d be in.

  There were moments she considered him to be the most wonderful man in the world. Other times she hated him with a deep, dark loathing.

  Despite the mood, however, whatever he said, she did. It wasn’t worth upsetting him: his temper tantrums were too violent to endure.

  She sighed. Carlo was her life. He supplied the drugs that kept her happy, and the insidious heroin was all she cared about. She’d never known such euphoria, such a feeling of peace and joy each time after she shot up. Every trouble she’d ever experienced vanished – it was as if she were floating on a gossamer cloud of pure pleasure. She lived for the shots that Carlo’s acquaintance had taught her to administer to herself.

  The events of the last couple of months were more or less a blur. She vaguely remembered Carlo taking her to his apartment in London, where she’d been injected with drugs on a twice-daily basis, until eventually she’d been unable to function without them. And by the time he’d told her she was free to go, she’d had no desire to go anywhere. Carlo was the keeper of her heroin supply, and she had no intention of trying to stop using it, since it was the first time she’d felt free and alive and totally happy. Especially when Carlo made love to her, which he did frequently.

  She depended on Carlo for everything, conveniently forgetting that it was he who’d forced her into such a position, because when he was sure she was truly hooked, he’d lured her with his charm, constantly telling her how much he adored her, making love to her with a fiery passion that left her breathless.

  After a while they’d said goodbye to London and started travelling around Europe. Carlo was with her day and night, never letting her out of his sight.

  One morning, after a night of passionate lovemaking, he’d informed her they should get married, for surely it was as obvious to her as it was to him that they were destined to be together for ever. Somehow she’d agreed, and later that day he’d driven her to his parents’ palace outside Rome, where a priest had performed the simple ceremony in the garden, with only Carlo’s family and a few servants present.