“Very well.”
Darlene saw Linden to the door and went into her bedroom. Hildie had been such a sweet, fun-loving girl, almost innocent in a way. Why had she sent her out with Mister X? She knew the man was a pervert. Why hadn’t she chosen one of her more sophisticated girls? Then she remembered, it was Kristin he’d wanted.
Impulsively she went to the phone and dialed Kristin’s number. The maid informed her she was out. “I need to speak to her urgently, Chiew,” Darlene said.
“I sorry,” Chiew replied. “Miss Kristin no come home last night. I worried. No message, nothing.”
“Didn’t come home?” Darlene said, panic suddenly rising. It wasn’t like Kristin to vanish without leaving word where she was—she always made sure she was reachable in case there was an emergency concerning her sister. “Do you know where she went?” Darlene asked, attempting to remain unruffled.
“No, ma’am. A gentleman called. Jake Sica. When she come back, he want her to phone him at hotel.”
“Give me his number,” Darlene said abruptly. “And when she does come home, have her call me immediately.”
Darlene looked at the number as she put down the phone. She had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. Who was this Jake? Kristin didn’t go out unless it was business. She’d confided to Darlene that she had no need of a personal life, all that concerned her was making enough money to take care of her sister.
Picking up the phone, Darlene quickly called the number. It was a hotel. “Jake Sica,” she said, trying to get her mind around the name which sounded vaguely familiar.
He answered on the first ring.
“I understand you’re looking for Kristin,” Darlene said.
Jake immediately recognized the woman’s distinctive voice from Kristin’s answering machine. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. Do you know where Kristin is?”
“You’re her madam, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was there when you called on her machine. You wanted her to meet a Mister X. You said he’d pay her a lot of money.”
“Who the hell are you?” Darlene screeched, blowing her usual cool.
“Somebody who cares about her.”
“If you care about her so much, how come you don’t know where she spent last night?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but we got into a fight because of your message. Now I’m looking for her, too.”
Darlene slammed the phone down. She wasn’t about to get involved. This could only lead to trouble.
• • •
Lurking outside the bedroom, Junia Ladd, Darlene’s significant other, had been listening to the conversation with her ear pressed close to the door. Junia, a pointy-faced girl of eighteen, with delicate ivory skin and wispy fair hair, had been Darlene’s live-in lover for eighteen months, ever since Darlene had rescued her from a juvenile detention center.
Junia enjoyed the luxury of living with Darlene, but sometimes she had to break free, and when she did, she needed extra money. Making something on the side was most desirable, because although Darlene was generous, she always had to know exactly how Junia spent her money. Junia could go into Sak’s or Neiman’s and charge whatever she wished, but if Darlene suspected she was out spending her money on grass or coke, she threw a nasty fit.
Sometimes Junia stole the odd hundred from Darlene’s Prada purse when she thought she could get away with it. Other times she tried to do people favors in return for cash. Giving Mister X Kristin’s number was a favor for which she’d gotten paid five hundred bucks. Luckily Darlene had been in the bathroom when she’d answered the phone. It was Mister X tracking Kristin. He must have sensed Junia was someone he could manipulate, because the first thing he’d said was “Give me Kristin’s home number and I’ll pay you five hundred bucks.”
“How do I know you’ll do that?” Junia had said, glancing at the bathroom door, making sure that Darlene was not about to emerge.
“Go downstairs in an hour. The hall porter will have an envelope with your name on it. The money will be there. Leave another envelope with Kristin’s number for me. Mark it ’Mr. Smith.’ ”
“Okay,” Junia had said. “Only don’t you dare tell Darlene.”
The deal had taken place on Saturday. Now with all this stuff going on about Hildie getting murdered and Mister X being involved and Kristin not coming home all night, Junia had the shakes. She wondered if she should confess to Darlene what she’d done.
No, she couldn’t. She was too scared. Darlene had a vicious temper, and Junia didn’t want to get thrown back onto the streets. She liked her setup. She even liked the dyke action, although that wasn’t to say she was totally gay. Junia swung both ways, considering it prudent to keep one’s options open.
Then she thought again about Kristin, whom she really liked because Kristin was a genuinely nice person, unlike Darlene’s other girls, who were mostly stuck-up pieces of work Junia didn’t get along with at all.
She could hear Darlene banging about in the bedroom. This was probably not a good time to tell her about Mister X’s phone call, but Junia realized she’d better do something.
She ventured into the bedroom.
“Goddamn it!” Darlene screeched. “How dare the cunt drag me into this murder investigation. I’m suing her black ass right off television. You’ll never see her again.”
Darlene was on one of her rants. Once she got going there was no stopping her until she’d gotten satisfaction one way or another. Darlene, who presented a calm and sophisticated public image, was actually a raving bitch. However, over the eighteen months they’d been together, Junia had learned how to handle her moods.
“I am not happy,” Darlene said ominously. “And I look like shit. I’m going to change.” She stalked into her dressing room.
Junia hurried over to the notepad next to the phone. Darlene had a habit of writing everything down, and sure enough, there was the name of the guy she’d been talking to about Kristin—Jake Sica—and a number.
Junia didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t like she was a Good Samaritan or anything, but how could she sit back and do nothing? Hildie had been murdered, and indirectly it was probably Darlene’s fault. She was sure Darlene didn’t remember, but one night about six months ago she’d gotten drunk on a bottle of Cristal, and under the covers she’d confided to Junia the story of Kimberly and her connection to Mister X.
Junia had listened and said nothing. The next morning Darlene seemed completely oblivious to her ramblings of the previous night, and it was never mentioned again.
If Darlene went to jail, did that mean that she, Junia, would be left in the apartment with all the money and clothes and stuff?
Yes! She’d be the official custodian while Darlene was locked away. Wow! Not too bad a job.
Then reality hit. That’s not the way it would work. No, she’d be thrown out quick as shit. She’d have nothing.
Surreptitiously she copied down Jake’s phone number and slid it into the pocket of her jeans.
“Hey, Darl,” she yelled through to the dressing room. “Want me to go to the cop station with you?”
“Are you serious?” Darlene said, marching back into the bedroom wearing a La Perla bronze lace slip on her well-toned body. “You, my dear, will stay out of this. Let us not forget where I found you. So I suggest for the next few weeks you keep a very low profile indeed. In fact, I don’t even want you answering the phone. Let the service pick up.”
“It’s not like I have anybody calling me,” Junia grumbled. “You don’t allow me any friends.”
“That’s not fair,” Darlene said sharply. “We live a different kind of lifestyle than other people. You’re happy just to be with me, aren’t you?”
Junia wanted to say, “No, you’re twenty-three years older than me, and we’ve got nothing in common.”
But she didn’t. She knew she was living a cushy life, and she wasn’t about to bl
ow it.
At least not until she was good and ready.
chapter 14
THE FAMILY ENTERED FROM a private room in the back and filed into the first pew. They were led by the bereaved husband, Bobby Skorch, who was heavily sedated or maybe stoned—he could barely keep his balance. Bobby was clad in an ankle-length black leather coat and dark shades; his long, greasy, black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. He was smoking a cigarette.
Behind him came Salli’s father, a short stout man with a carrot-color crew cut and a nervous tic. And then followed two very young, fair-haired girls— pretty in an unsophisticated way. They were Salli’s half sisters. Their mother, an overweight woman wearing too much makeup and an unsuitable shiny blue satin cocktail dress, trailed closely behind them. And finally Grandpa, an old man with a wily gait, wearing a shabby, ill-fitting brown suit.
Tucci’s attention was on Bobby, the grieving husband, who’d been spotted last night picking up a girl on Sunset and taking her to a hotel. Some grieving husband, he thought. Hmm . . . he couldn’t wait to hear Lee’s report on the two strippers.
The more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to target Bobby Skorch as his prime suspect.
• • •
“That’s Angela Musconni with Salli’s ex,” Cole said, nudging Madison.
She took a peek at the exquisite young woman who was walking in from the side door accompanied by a wild-looking guy with a mass of dirty blond hair. Salli had obviously harbored a penchant for guys who resembled out-of-control rock-’n’-rollers.
“So that’s Eddie,” Madison said in a low voice. “Salli talked about him on the tape, said he used to beat her.”
“I told you that,” Cole said. “Hadda make the hospital run a coupla times myself. In fact, Eddie and I duked it out one day.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I kinda got on him ’bout the way he was treatin’ Salli, an’ he called me a fag. So I beat the crap outta him.” Cole laughed at the memory. “The dude deserved it. Treats women like shit.”
“Do you think he could’ve murdered her?” Madison asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
She watched as Eddie and Angela sat down, noticing that as soon as they were settled, Angela began running her hands through the back of Eddie’s hair and cooing in his ear. Obviously they were a couple.
Then Madison’s attention was drawn to talk show host Bo Deacon, whom she’d met on the flight to L.A. It was only a few days ago, but it seemed like months had passed. Bo made a noisy entrance, demanding seats in front. He was with a zaftig redhead in her forties who clung to his arm as if she expected him to make a daring escape at any moment.
“Bo was coming on to Salli on the plane—or trying to,” she whispered to Cole. “Only Salli wasn’t buying his bullshit.”
“Another slimeball,” Cole said.
“You know everybody.”
“In my job—sure. I’m kinda like a shrink or a barman—my clients spill the goods.”
“You trained Bo?”
“For about three months. He’s a lazy son-of-a-bitch. Didn’t wanna work it, then blamed me ’cause he continued to put on the pounds. So he fired me. That was the luckiest day of my life. He had hot and cold running women and a wife—a jealous wife.”
“Charming.”
“I used to work him out in his dressing room at the studio. There were all these little interns running in and out. His deal was to fuck ’em an’ fire ’em.”
Madison sighed. “Aren’t there any nice guys in Hollywood?”
“Me.”
“I mean nice straight guys.”
“Hey—didn’t you know?” Cole said with a big grin. “Straight guys are a dying breed.”
“Thanks!”
• • •
“Why are we here?” Mrs. Bo Deacon demanded. Her name was Olive, and she was a former showgirl.
“Out of respect,” Bo growled, wishing his wife would shut up. She was drunk as usual; he’d caught her slurping straight Scotch behind the bar at their house before they’d left for the funeral. “If I wasn’t here, people would talk. Salli was on my show countless times.”
I bet that wasn’t all she was on, Olive thought with a hidden scowl. Did her cheating no-good husband think she didn’t know what he was up to? If it wasn’t for the children, and the glory of being married to a famous man, she would have left him years ago.
“I hope you don’t expect me to go to the reception,” Olive said, her overly glossed lips turning down at the corners. “Salli T. Turner was nothing more than a cheap tramp.”
“How can you say that at her funeral for cris-sakes?” Bo objected, glancing around to make sure no one had heard.
“Because it’s true,” Olive hissed. “And I for one am not turning her into a saint now that she’s dead.”
“You’re a real bitch, Olive,” he said, getting a strong whiff of the Scotch on her breath.
“Yes, and don’t you love it. That’s why you married me.”
No, he thought, I married you because you had big tits and you were sexy as all get-out, and like a dumb schmuck I thought you’d stay that way.
Unfortunately, now Olive was about as sexy as a sack of old beans. Plus she was a true lush, and however many times she promised him she’d stop drinking, it never happened. Two stays at the Betty Ford Clinic and it still didn’t happen.
She muttered something to him. He wasn’t listening; he was too busy waving at everyone in sight. He’d found, over the fifteen years that he and Olive had been married, that the only way to deal with her when she’d been drinking was to ignore her. Sometimes it actually worked.
• • •
By the time Natalie arrived in Westwood it was too late to get anywhere near the funeral. The crowds were huge. She located her camera crew and took up a position with them behind the ropes. The trick was to catch the celebrities on their way back to their cars. Some would speak to her. Some wouldn’t. After all, this wasn’t exactly a big movie premiere. This was a funeral—a hot funeral.
Natalie was on a high. Her story had gone over big; even Garth was pleased. This could be the start of a whole new direction for her, and it was about time. She was ready. She’d been ready since college.
• • •
The widower in the black leather coat leaned back on the hard wooden bench and let his tears flow as he listened to Mick Jagger screaming out “Satisfaction.” He’d personally picked every track. They were not Salli’s favorite songs, they were his. He was the one who’d been left behind. He was the goddamn survivor, so he could choose the music.
Nobody could see his tears, because his heavy black Ray-Bans concealed the action.
He swiped a hand across his cheeks, destroying any evidence of vulnerability. On the back of his hand there were two words tattooed through a blazing heart. Salli Forever.
And while Mick Jagger continued to yell out “Satisfaction,” Bobby continued to wail his silent scream of unbearable pain.
chapter 15
STRUGGLING TO KEEP IT together, Kristin decided that lying on the floor and feeling sorry for herself was not going to help her situation. She was trapped—that much was obvious. She was naked, which made her even more vulnerable. And she was determined to survive this ordeal. She had to, for Cherie’s sake.
She got up and took a long, deep breath. Then she went over to the small bed and frantically ripped off the one sheet. Holding it taut, she punched a hole in it with her fist, and then forced her head through the opening. Next she punched out two more holes for her arms and ripped off the bottom. Now she was wearing some kind of tentlike poncho, but at least she wasn’t naked.
Next she inspected the wooden bed, dragging the sagging mattress onto the ground. The bed frame stood several inches off the floor, supported by four sturdy legs. Using all her strength she managed to tip the frame sideways. She inspected the legs closely. Yes! They screwed into the base. If she could dismantle the legs, she
would have several formidable weapons to use on Mister X when he came back.
She needed a screwdriver—but where was she going to get that?
Easy. She still had her jewelry. A ring. Small stud earrings. A Saint Christopher medal that she never took off.
Unclasping the chain on her pendant, she worked with the small gold circle, slowly but surely loosening the first leg.
The feeling of triumph when it finally came off was intoxicating.
After a few minutes of rest, armed with the small but lethal weapon, she made a pass at the window, giving it a hearty whack. The glass shattered—which really got her adrenaline going, so much so that she hardly felt the shard of glass which cut across her arm. The pain meant nothing. Determination meant everything.
Brushing the broken glass out of her way, she went to work on the boards covering the window. Using the wooden leg as a battering ram, she attacked the middle board, using every ounce of strength she Could muster. For a while she thought it wasn’t going to give, but after half an hour of solid slamming, the board finally began to sag in the middle, causing her to strengthen her attack, even though she was dripping with perspiration and quite exhausted.
The small room was like a sweatbox with very little air. Outside she could hear the pounding of the ocean. Where was she? she wondered.
And where was Mister X?
What was his devious plan? Was it murder?
Because if it was, he’d chosen the wrong victim.
chapter 16
THE FUNERAL SERVICE seemed never-ending. Many people insisted on speaking, including Salli’s agent, her manager, her publicist, her female and male costars from the television series, and finally her father—who mumbled a few almost unintelligible words, so intense was his grief. Bobby Skorch said nothing.
After the ceremony there was an air of frenzy. Everyone was up and socializing. The crowds outside were enormous, and as the celebrities filed out of the chapel, screams from nearby fans filled the air. Three or four helicopters hovered overhead, photographers were balanced in trees with telephoto lenses, while the cops went crazy trying to get everyone safely into their cars and limos and out of there.