With a sudden burst of strength Kristin hurled herself against the door like she’d seen heroes do in movies.
It didn’t budge. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t even a heroine. She was just a lonely whore locked in a room with an envelope filled with cash.
I’m going to die in this room. The thought seemed to hover over her like a black shroud.
She slumped to the floor. And then she screamed—a long, piercing wail of a scream.
But there was no one around to hear.
chapter 11
CAPTAIN MARSH WAS yelling about the news story on the Mystery Malibu Blonde. “Where’d they get their information?” he shouted. “We only just identified the girl. How come they’re on air with a full story before we gave out an official statement?”
Tucci shrugged. “I got a funeral to go to, Captain. Can we get into this when I come back?”
“No!” Marsh snarled. “Where’s this Darlene woman? I want her questioned pronto.”
“We’ve already contacted her lawyer. He’s agreed to bring her in later to answer some questions. We had to put on the pressure. She apparently has . . . connections.”
“Fuck this shit!” Marsh stormed. “Salli T. Turner. Now, this. I need some fuckin’ arrests around here.”
Tucci stifled a yawn. “Yes, sir.”
“Where’s Eccles?”
“Questioning the lap-dancers who flew back with Bobby Skorch.”
“He would be,” Captain Marsh growled.
Tucci glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to be late—”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
Tucci was only too glad to leave. He felt like crap. Hungry. Tired. Overworked. There’d been a spate of murders over the last month. He’d been lucky enough not to have pulled duty on any of them—but now this.
Faye said it was a good thing. “You’ll solve them,” she’d told him in a quietly confident voice. “You’re the best.”
It was nice to have a woman who believed in him all the way.
On his way to Salli T. Turner’s funeral, he stopped at a Winchell’s and bought three glazed chocolate donuts. Faye’s disapproving face flashed into his brain. Jesus! It wasn’t as if he’d had time for lunch. The donuts were in place of lunch—a poor substitute, but certainly better than nothing.
• • •
Meanwhile, in a luxury hotel on Sunset, Lee Eccles knocked on the door of Suite 300 and pre-pared to interview the two lap-dancers/strippers who’d flown to L.A. with Bobby Skorch. He’d tracked the limo driver, who told him where he’d deposited Bobby and the girls.
The two women answered the door together. Lee flashed his badge and informed them he was there on official business. They mentioned they were about to take off on a shopping spree, but at his insistence they reluctantly backed into the untidy suite and he followed them in.
Their names were Gospel and Tuscany, both blondes, both stacked. Gospel, who was clad in a red cat suit with several gold crosses hanging round her neck and two giant crosses hanging from her ears, had long, straight hair down to her waist. She was stoned.
Tuscany, pneumatic body poured into a crotch-skimming leopard skin dress and hooker heels, had short bubble-cut hair.
“This won’t take long,” Lee said, checking out the spacious suite which was costing somebody a buck or two. “I only have a few questions.”
“Don’t you need a warrant t’do this?” Tuscany said, obviously the brighter of the two.
“Want me to get one?” Lee countered, shooting her his best “I’m a cop—get outta my face” look.
“If it’s about that old guy in Vegas,” Gospel interrupted, feigning outrage. “Wasn’t my fault he had a heart attack. Dunno why his old cow of a wife is suing me. You from the insurance company?”
“No, he’s not from the insurance company,” Tuscany said irritably. “He’s a cop. Didn’t you see his badge?”
“Cop, insurance company—all the same to me,” Gospel said, absentmindedly stroking her left nipple through the thin material of her cat suit.
“What do you want anyway?” Tuscany demanded, staring him in the eye.
Lee didn’t answer for a moment. He was fantasizing about how they’d be girl on girl. Pretty raunchy if he knew his women. Yes, this was definitely a dynamic duo. “You flew into L.A. Saturday night with Bobby Skorch, is that right?” he asked, eyeballing Gospel’s ample cleavage.
“Who told you that?” Tuscany said suspiciously, tugging down her leopard skirt.
“The Secret Service,” Lee drawled sarcastically.
“Bobby said we weren’t supposed to tell anybody,” Gospel whined.
“Why you wanna know?” Tuscany demanded.
“Routine,” Lee said. “Did Bobby give you money?”
“Whaddya think we are—hookers?” Gospel said, clearly insulted.
“Not at all,” Lee said with a smirk. “I know you’re two nice young ladies who simply happen to strip for a living—right? You make a buck here, a buck there. Why not? If you’ve got it, show it.”
“We’re good at what we do,” Gospel said defensively. “That’s why Bobby chose to fly us to L.A. with him, and not any of those other bitches.”
“After you got off the plane Saturday night, what happened?” Lee asked. The limo driver had already told him he’d driven all three of them to the hotel, but he wanted to hear their version.
Gospel giggled. “What didn’t happen?”
“You came directly to the hotel?”
“Yeah, we came straight here,” Tuscany said. “So what?”
“Can you recall what time you arrived?”
“Dunno,” Gospel said with a careless shrug. “Maybe seven or eight. We had a coupla shots, then Bobby hadda go out.”
Tuscany shot her a warning look.
“He told us not to tell anybody that either,” Gospel added lamely. “Said we was to say we were with him all night.”
“Aren’t you supposed to give us a warning or something?” Tuscany said. “You know, like one of those ’anything you say may be used as evidence against you’ kinds of deals. That’s what cops do in the movies.”
“That’s only if I’m planning on arresting you,” Lee said. “Which I’m not.”
“Ooh, good, I’m so relieved,” Tuscany said sarcastically.
It was as if neither of them knew what was going on. “You do know about the murder?” he said, exasperated.
“What murder?” Gospel said, her eyes widening.
“Salli T. Turner.”
“Horrible!” Gospel squeaked. “We watched some of the coverage stuff on TV.”
“And you do know that Salli was Bobby Skorch’s wife?”
Both girls went into dumb overdrive.
“Didn’t know that,” Tuscany said.
“Me neither,” Gospel said.
“Didn’t even know he was married,” Tuscany added.
These girls were plain stupid, but then he hadn’t expected a couple of Einsteins. “So, ladies,” he said, “you’d better think very carefully about what you’re about to tell me and be completely honest about it. Because otherwise, you girls could find yourself in a shit-load of trouble. Get it?”
chapter 12
OUTSIDE PIERCE BROTHERS cemetery in Westwood there was a line of limos and cars stretching for blocks. It was always that way at a celebrity funeral. In Hollywood, celebrity funerals were regarded as an event—people attended them to be seen; it validated their very existence.
Tucci bypassed the line, showing his badge to security, who waved him by. He’d devoured all three donuts on the way there, and now he felt bloated and guilty. If Faye knew what he’d eaten for lunch she’d kill him. Maybe death’s better than deprivation, he thought with the shadow of a smile.
He fell in with the other guests entering the already overcrowded chapel. Although he was early, there were only a few places left. He recognized the journalist who had brought him the audiotape of Salli. She was sitting near the back, so he quickly slid
in beside her.
“Good afternoon, Detective Tucci,” Madison said, turning to give him a quick once-over.
He acknowledged her with a nod, unable to recall her name—which infuriated him because he was good at remembering names, although in the last few months this had happened to him several times. A couple of weeks ago he’d complained to Faye. His wife had prodded him gently in the stomach and said teasingly, or so he’d thought, “Alzheimer’s. You’re nearly fifty, you know.”
Screw nearly fifty. He was forty-nine years old, he had another ten months to go before he was fifty. Sometimes Faye exhibited an uncharacteristic mean streak.
“Miss Castelli—Madison,” he almost shouted, so happy was he to suddenly remember her name.
“Yes?” she said, startled.
“Uh . . . how did the piece you were about to write on Salli turn out?”
“I’ve done better,” she said wryly.
“I’m sure it was excellent,” he responded. “My wife raves about your work. Reads your magazine every month.”
“Thank you,” she said with a pleased smile.
Tucci considered Madison Castelli to be a very beautiful woman with her dark hair and almond-shaped eyes—not to mention her lips, which gave “seductive” a whole new meaning. Not that he was interested in other women, but he could look and admire, couldn’t he?
He leaned forward to see who she was with.
“Hey, man,” Cole said, noticing he was getting checked out. “How ya doin’?”
Tucci nodded briefly and leaned back. Then he began surveying the room, noting one famous face after the other. Faye would have a great time here; she loved stars and gossip, her one failing.
“This is so very sad,” Madison sighed, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe it.”
“I know,” he agreed.
“Do you have any leads?”
“We’ll be making a statement soon.”
“Was my tape helpful?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
All of a sudden raucous, old-fashioned rock and roll began blaring through the speakers, silencing any further conversation. Mick Jagger. Metallica. Rod Stewart. Kiss.
Tucci thought his eardrums might burst. Funerals today—you couldn’t trust ’em.
• • •
Eddie Stoner insisted they attend Salli’s funeral, and Angie didn’t argue. After all, she was in his bed again, why shouldn’t she go along with what he wanted to do? If she’d been working, it might have saved her from falling back into his life, but her new movie didn’t start shooting for six weeks so she had plenty of time to play.
Her immediate problem was Kevin. What to do about Kevin? By this time he must have realized something was amiss since she’d run out in the middle of the night. She knew she had to call him eventually, and she did so reluctantly when she was in the car on the way to the funeral. “Uh . . . listen, Kev,” she said cheerfully when he answered. “Some-thin’ came up.”
“Where the fuck have you been?” Kevin exploded; he sounded like he’d been waiting by the phone.
“I bumped into an old friend, and, uh . . . I won’t be back ’til later.”
“Later when?”
“Dunno,” she said evasively.
“Hey—” he said furiously. “How about not bothering to come back at all?”
“Go screw yourself,” she said, her temper rising. “It’s my house, too. I paid half the money.”
“Y’know, Angie, this isn’t working for me,” Kevin said grimly.
“Not working for you,” she said indignantly. “I’m the one who’s checking out.”
“Oh, you’re leaving? Good. I’ll keep the house.”
“No freakin’ way,” she objected, her voice getting shriller by the minute. “We bought the house together, remember?”
“Tell you what,” Kevin said, relieved to have this sudden escape hatch. “I’ll call my lawyer, you call yours—let them work it out. Right now I don’t want to see you here.”
“You don’t get it,” Angie yelled. “I don’t want to see you there. Anyway,” she added, lowering her voice, suddenly remembering that Eddie was sitting right beside her. “I can’t talk about it now. I’m on my way to Salli’s funeral.”
“Oh, your good friend Salli,” Kevin jeered. “Isn’t that the girl you used to nonstop trash?”
“Can’t you speak well of the dead?” Angie said contemptuously.
“Goodbye,” Kevin said, and hung up.
Eddie, who was pretending to concentrate on driving her Ferrari, stared straight ahead. “Problems?” he said, casually patting her on the knee.
“I was plannin’ on dumpin’ him anyway,” Angie muttered. “His ego’s bustin’ out all over. The ass-hole’s startin’ to believe his own publicity. Jerk! Some people can’t handle stardom.”
“Not like you, huh?” Eddie said, tossing back his luxuriant mane of dirty blond hair.
“I handle it, ace,” Angie boasted. “All these sex-crazed producers tryin’ to jump me. Not that I’m exactly Miss Sex Symbol 1998, but they’re horny dogs—they all wanna know if they can still get it up. Ha! Dumb old cockers—they pop Viagra with their morning coffee. Think gettin’ a boner makes ’em more of a man.”
“Now, now,” Eddie said, laughing to himself. “Don’t go gettin’ bitter on me.”
When the car turned off Wilshire Boulevard, Eddie immediately noticed a long line of limos ahead of them. “We should’ve taken a car and driver,” he moaned. “This is gonna be a rat fuck.”
“Thought you wanted to drive the Ferrari,” Angie retorted, her mind still half focused on Kevin.
“I did,” he said, opening the window, leaning out, and attracting the attention of a young Hispanic traffic cop. “Hey, excuse me, friend. I’ve got Angela Musconni in the car. She’s tryin’ to avoid gettin’ mobbed or set upon by the photographers. Anything you can do for us?”
“Sure, man,” the cop said, attempting to peer into the passenger seat and take a good look at Angie, whom he’d recently seen in a movie where she’d strutted around half naked. “Leave your car. I’ll get a parking valet to take it. You can sneak her in through the back.”
“ ’Predate it,” Eddie said.
“Very smooth,” Angie said, jumping out of the car.
“Yeah, well, don’t see why my darling should wait around,” said Eddie. Then he leaned over and gave her a long, slow French kiss.
Angie surfaced with a stupid grin on her face.
It was great being back with Eddie, especially now that she was in the boss position.
chapter 13
“I’M SUING EVERY SINGLE stinking one of them. I’m suing that black bitch, and the TV station, and anyone else who dares cross me.
“Calm down,” said Darlene La Porte’s lawyer, Linden Masters, a tall man with piercing blue eyes and a distinguished white beard. Linden had an air of respectability about him, which went down well with judges, considering he represented some of the most notorious people in Hollywood, including Darlene, who’d come to him when she’d grown tired of using cut-price lawyers, and had realized that paying for the best got her the services she required.
“That bitch practically accused me of killing Hildie,” Darlene fumed. “I know nothing about it.”
“Which is exactly why we’re visiting the police station later today,” Linden said in an irritatingly calm voice. “You’ll tell them you don’t know anything, after which they’ll leave you alone. Cooperation is the key. If you avoid speaking to them, Darlene, they’ll think you have something to hide.”
“What do you mean?” she asked crossly.
Linden pulled on his beard. “Did you send Hildie out to meet a client?”
“No,” Darlene said, pacing up and down the thick pile carpet in her luxurious living room.
“You’re sure? Because if you did, you’d better tell me. As your lawyer I’m here to protect you. And if you’re concealing any evidence at all . . .”
??
?Oh, God, Linden,” she said, collapsing into an overstuffed armchair. “Of course I’m not.” What she really wanted to say was “Yes, I sent her out with the one client I know nothing about. He calls himself Mister X. I hear from him only occasionally. He pays big bucks. All cash. The girls think he’s weird, but he’s never done any of them harm.” But, of course, she said no such thing.
“Good,” Linden said.
Darlene jumped up and walked over to the large picture window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard. She gazed out, watching the cars race by at great speed. For a moment her mind drifted back to a year ago and Kimberly. She’d fixed Kimberly up with a client. That client was Mister X. A week later the girl’s body was fished out of the ocean.
In her mind Darlene had always refused to connect the two, imagining Kimberly had gone off with her friends after her appointment with Mister X, and died or been murdered at one of the drug parties she always hung out at. Now this.
“I help these girls,” she said, speaking rapidly. “If I wasn’t around to supervise their lives they’d be out on the street or mud wrestling in some seedy place by the freeway, I save them from themselves. Thanks to me they live in nice apartments, wear beautiful clothes. I’m good for them.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Linden said, sure that Darlene believed her own lies. But as long as she paid his exorbitant bills, what did he care?
“What will this do to my reputation?” she wailed, turning toward him. “Can I sue? I have no desire to become another Heidi Fleiss.”
“There’s not much chance of that,” Linden said. “They caught Heidi on alleged tax evasion. You pay your taxes.”
“Yes, yes, I’m a good citizen,” Darlene said, convincing herself that she was. “I own a successful flower shop, which is where my income comes from. And I pay plenty of taxes. Plenty. Now my reputation has been besmirched and I want retribution.”
“Don’t worry,” Linden said. “We’ll get it. But you’ve got to remember, Darlene, you do have a record, and that’s not in your favor.”
“Dammit, Linden,” she snapped. “I pay you a lot of money to keep my reputation clean.”
“I’ll be back to fetch you in two hours,” Linden said, anxious to escape her bad mood. “In the meantime, don’t speak to anyone. No public comments. Tell your service to handle all calls.”