The Santangelos

  “You’re not getting it, are you?” Bobby said, shaking his head.

  “Gettin’ what?” M.J. said, throwing Bobby a skeptical look.

  “That for some reason I got slammed, and I have to find out why. But in the meantime you’ve got to call Denver and tell her I came down with some kind of stomach bug and that I’ll call her later.”

  “What’s up with you not callin’ or texting her yourself?”

  “’Cause I’m gonna have to explain what happened, and I’m in no shape to do that,” Bobby said, wishing that M.J. would simply do what he asked and stop questioning him. “She’ll be wondering why she hasn’t heard from me, so just do it.”

  M.J. shrugged. “You really think Denver’s gonna believe me? There’s no way she’ll buy that you were too sick to pick up a phone. No fuckin’ way.”

  “Do it anyway. Convince her,” Bobby said, trying his best to remain calm. “’Cause I gotta get myself over to the emergency room and try to find out what kind of shit they gave me.”

  “‘They’? Who the fuck is ‘they’?”

  “Nadia couldn’t’ve done it by herself,” Bobby said, his mind racing with possibilities. “She had to have someone help her. How else could I have ended up dumped in a car, for crissake? It must’ve been her and that lowlife cousin.”

  “Jeez, you’re really serious.”

  “You bet your ass I am, ’cause you should know I wouldn’t bail on you—not on our opening night.”

  “Then let’s figure this shit out,” M.J. said. “If you were drugged, there’s gotta be a reason.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Whyn’t you tell me again what happened.”

  “After I woke up in the car, I drove back to the hotel and tried to find her. Dead end. All I have is her first name. I gave it to the manager, who looked at me like I was batshit crazy.”

  “Can’t blame him for that.”

  “For crissake, it happened,” Bobby said, fast losing patience. “I’m not hallucinating. This is for real.”

  “Don’t go freakin’ out on me. I believe you. Your story’s too fucked up to be an excuse.”

  “Damn right it is.”

  “Here’s the deal,” M.J. said, finally on board. “I’ll call Denver for you. Then we’re headin’ straight to the emergency room.”

  Bobby nodded. “Now, that sounds like a plan.”

  * * *

  After lunch with Sam, Denver headed back to the office, where she and Leon met with the female undercover agent, Sonia Gonzalez.

  Sonia Gonzalez was Puerto Rican and verging on pretty, in a tough “don’t fuck with me” kind of way. Leon and she had partnered together before and they seemed to know each other well.

  Denver couldn’t help wondering if they’d slept together. The vibe in the air was that they had. The two of them had been on an undercover assignment in San Diego two years previously and they’d brought down a major human-trafficking ring. They were obviously tight.

  Sonia had long black hair tied back in a ponytail, full lips, and a taut body. Today she was dressed for real life in pants and a denim shirt. Denver could just imagine her in full regalia as a party girl. Sonia would own the role.

  They circled around each other, both with their own agendas. Denver wanted to make sure that Sonia knew what she was getting herself into, while Sonia was going for trust. She only worked with people she was sure had her back.

  Later, Leon revealed to Denver that Sonia’s older sister had also been an undercover agent, and had gotten shot and killed for her trouble. “Sonia’s the best,” he assured Denver. “If anyone’s gonna nail our boy, it’ll be her.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling Alejandro ‘our boy,’” Denver said, her tone sharp. “He’s a douche-bag drug dealer who’s ruining people’s lives.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good,” Denver said, feeling her phone vibrate. She quickly reached for it and checked out the caller. It was M.J. What the hell did he want?

  Then it suddenly occurred to her that maybe Bobby had gotten into an accident, and while she was out on a lunch date mildly flirting with an old flame, Bobby was lying in a hospital mortally wounded.

  “I have to take this,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” Leon replied, giving her space. “Later.”

  “M.J.?” she said into the phone as soon as Leon was out of ear-shot. “Where’s Bobby? Is he okay? What the hell is going on?”

  “Funny you should ask…”

  “What?” Denver gasped, her imagination launching into overdrive.

  “It’s nothin’ major,” M.J. said quickly. “Your man came down with an attack of the runs. He’s gonna call you later.”

  Before she could get into it, M.J. clicked off, and she was left with the distinct impression that M.J. was covering for Bobby.

  Now she was really angry. An attack of the runs indeed. What kind of lame excuse was that?

  Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, what are you doing? I thought we had something special going on, so why are you trying to sabotage it?

  She sat still for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Then, on a sudden impulse, she called Sam. “I was thinking,” she said. “If you really need more info for your script, I guess I can meet up with you later.”

  “Twice in one day?” Sam said, sounding delighted. “How come I’m getting so lucky?”

  “Don’t get carried away,” she said crisply. “Nobody’s getting lucky.”

  “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “We could meet at the Polo Lounge,” she suggested.

  “I’d prefer somewhere quieter,” he said. “How would you feel about coming to my apartment?”

  “Sam—”

  “Strictly business,” he said. “I’ll even throw in a dish of pasta with my special sauce. You know you can’t resist my culinary skills.”

  “Maybe not, but I can certainly resist everything else,” she said, determined that he know up front that she was not to be tempted.

  “I get it,” Sam said. “You’re well and truly taken. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy my pasta. Right?”

  “We’ll see,” she said, and quickly clicked off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lucky awoke with a deep sense of foreboding and wondered why. She and Lennie had enjoyed a fantastic evening together—amazing sex, delicious food, a special kind of love and commitment. They were so in tune with each other. Everything was perfect.

  Too perfect? There was a vibe in the air, an ominous vibe.

  Instinct told her something was wrong.

  Instinct told her to check on her family.

  She slipped quietly out of bed, leaving Lennie sleeping on his back, his arms stretched above his head.

  Her first call was to the camp where Gino Junior and Leo were spending the summer. A camp counselor assured her that both boys were fine.

  Next she called Max in London. Max informed her she was off to Saint-Tropez the following day. Nothing wrong there.

  Bobby didn’t answer his cell, so she called M.J., who told her that Bobby had a stomach bug. Nothing serious.

  And finally—Gino.

  No answer.

  She tried his wife Paige’s cell. Straight to voice mail.

  She tried the landline at their house in Palm Springs.

  Nobody picked up.

  A shiver enveloped her, a shiver of fear.

  And yet … there was nothing to be fearful of. Both Gino and Paige hated cell phones—technology did not interest either of them. As for the house phone, they were probably on their morning walk, and their housekeeper had yet to arrive. At his advanced age, Gino claimed that walking was the key to his longevity.

  Sure, Gino. It’s your stubborn spirit that’s the key—screw walking.

  Making her way into the open-plan kitchen overlooking the ocean, she considered what to do next.

  Was she being paranoid? Should she start checking further afield? Maybe s
he should contact her half brother, Steven, who resided in Brazil. Or perhaps Bobby’s niece, Brigette, who’d recently moved to Barcelona with her girlfriend.

  No way.

  Cool it, Santangelo.

  Nothing’s going on.

  She picked up the remote and turned on the TV. The morning news was all about a cheating politician who’d been caught at an orgy with a bevy of hookers. What a surprise! A raging forest fire in Oklahoma. Two vacuous movie stars getting a divorce. Who cared? And a violent home invasion in Calabasas.

  Same old, same old. Bad news ruled. How about someone starting a good-news-only channel?

  The thought intrigued her. Maybe it was a factor she could incorporate into her new venture. A streaming channel on the Internet featuring nothing but upbeat stories.

  Lennie ambled into the kitchen wearing low-slung jeans and not much else. She enveloped him in a tight hug, loving the smell of him. There was something about the way their bodies were in perfect synch.

  “What’s up with you?” he asked with a lazy half smile. “The sex wasn’t enough last night? My beautiful wife wants more?”

  “I always want more,” she purred, running her fingers across his bare chest. “But only with you.”

  “My wife—the sex addict,” he said, laughing.

  “And don’t you love it,” she countered.

  “Gotta admit—I do,” he said, kissing her.

  His breath was minty fresh. She loved him so much. He was her soul mate, her anchor, the father of two of her children. He was her everything.

  “Wanna take a trip back to bed?” he suggested.

  “I wouldn’t say no,” she answered, putting all thoughts of a bad premonition out of her head.

  “Such enthusiasm,” he teased. “Where’s the girl I used to know?”

  “Do you realize how much I love you?” she said quietly. “Do you even understand?”

  He caught her sense of unrest and leaned toward her. “What’s up, sweetheart?” he asked, putting his arms around her. “Something bothering you?”

  “It was,” she admitted. “Although I’m okay now.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s just that I woke up this morning with a bad feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  “Knowing you, I’d be the last to find out.”

  “That’s ’cause there’s nothing to find out. I called everyone, and they’re all fine.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You called everyone?”

  “Just to make sure.”

  “You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head. “If something was up, don’t you think they’d all be calling you?”

  “You’re right,” she agreed.

  And at that exact moment, the phone rang. And Lucky knew for sure it could only be bad news.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “You’re an extremely fortunate young man,” the Indian doctor informed Bobby. He wasn’t that old, probably late forties, with prematurely gray hair cut short and a wise expression. He wore a white coat, and had a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

  When Bobby and M.J. had arrived at the emergency room and revealed what they were there for, a nurse had whisked Bobby into a curtained-off cubicle, asked him to put on a hospital gown, and taken his temperature and blood pressure. Then another nurse had drawn blood and requested a urine sample.

  Now, after a long wait, Dr. Sanjay had appeared.

  “Fortunate how?” Bobby asked, feeling ridiculous that he was stuck in a hospital bed like some kind of invalid. It wasn’t necessary. All he’d wanted was for them to find out what he’d been drugged with.

  “It seems that you were given a very large dose of gammahydroxybutyrate,” Dr. Sanjay said, clearing his throat. “Or in layman’s terms—GHB.”

  “I knew it!” Bobby exclaimed, shooting M.J. a triumphant look.

  M.J., sitting in a bedside chair, nodded, as if he’d known all along.

  “What is it normally used for?” Bobby asked.

  “Sometimes a general anesthetic, or to treat alcoholism, clinical depression, and insomnia.”

  “Jesus!” Bobby said, shaking his head.

  “And of course,” Dr. Sanjay added, “it’s well known as the date rape drug.”

  “Shit!” Bobby exclaimed.

  “You must have a very strong constitution,” Dr. Sanjay continued. “For I should warn you that such a large dose of GHB can be lethal.”

  “It can?” Bobby managed, experiencing a quick shudder of fear.

  “Yes. It can cause unconsciousness, respiratory depression, and cardiac arrest,” Dr. Sanjay said matter-of-factly. “In other words, it can kill you. And for your further information—if mixed with alcohol, it is even more dangerous. Had you been drinking?”

  “A couple of vodkas, that’s all.”

  Dr. Sanjay tapped the side of his nose. “Once again I must say that you are extremely fortunate.” After a long pause, he added, “Are you aware of who gave you this drug?”

  “No clue,” Bobby said, shooting M.J. a warning look not to say a word.

  “I should really inform the authorities,” Dr. Sanjay mused.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t,” Bobby said, mustering his most persuasive powers. “We own a club here, and last night was our big opening. It wouldn’t be good for business if this got out.”

  “And I am sure that it wouldn’t be good for business if something like this happened again and someone died,” Dr. Sanjay said curtly, his expression stern.

  Bobby wondered if the doctor was bribable, and decided he wasn’t.

  “Look,” he said quickly. “I’ll be honest with you. What happened was just a stupid prank my girlfriend played on me. It’s something she would never do again.”

  “An extremely foolish prank indeed.”

  “I know,” Bobby said with a sincere nod. “Believe me—she’s mortified.”

  “As well she should be.”

  “We were … uh … experimenting,” Bobby said, warming to his story. “Our experiment obviously went too far.”

  “Yes, it did,” Dr. Sanjay said, his thick eyebrows knitting together to signal deep disapproval.

  “I’d really like to get out of here,” Bobby said. Now that he felt better, he was ready to go back to the hotel with more questions. Fuck it. He was desperate to know why this had happened to him.

  “Very well, then,” Dr. Sanjay said, nodding. “I suppose I can allow you to leave without taking this any further.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it.”

  “Although I must insist that you drink plenty of liquids and rest up. It’s possible that you could have a delayed reaction. If you feel anything unusual, you must return here immediately. Do you understand?”

  “Got it. I’ll be following your orders all the way,” Bobby said, still thinking that he couldn’t wait to investigate further, find out why he’d been chosen as a victim. A victim who could’ve died. Son of a bitch!

  “Think of your body as a finely tuned machine that needs to take time to recover,” Dr. Sanjay said. “Also, tell your girlfriend that if the authorities had been brought in, she would most likely be under arrest.”

  “I think she knows that. And, uh … maybe I can make a donation to the hospital, or one of your favorite charities?”

  “Not necessary,” Dr. Sanjay said.

  “Okay, then,” Bobby said, sliding off the bed. “Thanks for everything.” He glanced quickly at M.J. “Well, I guess we’re outta here.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sleep was impossible, so as soon as light began creeping into the apartment, Max jumped up, hurriedly dressed, and shook Tim awake. He was quite a sight with his lank mousy hair and pale complexion, still clad in Athena’s leopard-print Dolce & Gabbana pj’s.

  “Wake up,” she hissed. “We’ve gotta get him out.”

  “What time is
it?” Tim groaned, opening his eyes.

  “Never mind the time,” Max said impatiently, brushing a lock of dark hair back from her forehead. “Put on your clothes.”

  “Oh God!” Tim complained. “I knew it was a mistake staying here. You American girls are so damn bossy.”

  “I try, only it’s not doing me much good,” Max lamented, wishing that Athena were around to take care of things. Athena would kick everyone’s ass. It was her way of getting things done, and it always worked.

  “What about my hot breakfast?” Tim demanded, reluctantly sitting up.

  “As soon as you’ve removed the problem,” Max promised, although she still had no intention of cooking him anything.

  Tim threw her an alarmed look. “I’m not becoming involved in anything physical,” he warned. “That sort of stuff is not for me.”

  “You don’t have to,” Max assured him. “Simply tell him you’re my boyfriend. That should be enough to shift his Italian butt.”

  “Very well,” Tim said, acquiescing. “Is he awake?”

  “Not yet. We’ll catch him off guard. He’ll probably be sober and mortified.”

  By the time they reached Max’s bedroom, Carlo was neither of those things. He was lying on top of the bed, eyes open. He stared up at Max and Tim—who was now fully dressed—and gave a pleased smirk. “Buon giorno, bellissima,” he said, zeroing in on Max. “Bene, sì? We will kill. Yes?”

  “What?” Max said, a frown spreading across her pretty face.

  “I came here last night to tell you,” Carlo offered, raising himself onto one elbow. “Perhaps I maybe overstayed my welcome.”

  “What welcome?” Max spluttered, thinking that Carlo was totally delusional. Or maybe he was simply an idiot.

  Carlo yawned, acting as if everything was totally normal.

  If only he wasn’t such a dick, Max thought, he’d be kind of attractive in a down and dirty brooding kind of way.

  She could almost like him. Only almost. He was no Billy Melina.

  “You rolled in here last night—pissed out of your mind—and fell into my bed,” she informed him, in case he didn’t remember. “You told me nothing. So now you can shift your ass and get out.”