Revenge

  “What time will you be home?”

  “Maybe I’ll stay overnight,” he said abruptly. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Whyn’t you take Diana with you?” Max mumbled. “I’m sure there’s a bunch of gorgeous nurses on call, an’ your wife’s been here all night.”

  “No,” Diana said stubbornly. “I want to stay.”

  “You look tired, Diana,” Freddie said. “Max is well taken care of. I’ll drop you at home.”

  Diana realized this was neither the time nor the place to take a stand. First she’d better deal with the fiancée situation; then, when Max was out of the hospital, they could talk about their future together. “Very well,” she said, deeply disappointed. “I’ll come back later if you like, Max.”

  “Don’t like,” he slurred, almost out. “You’ve been great, but, please, I gotta sleep.”

  “Then I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Yeah, a stack of Playboys to cheer me up.” Her mouth slid into a tight, disapproving line. “Only kidding,” he said. “What’s the problem? You don’t approve of Playboy?”

  “The name says it all,” Diana said primly. “You’re not a boy and you don’t play.”

  “C’mon,” Max said. “Lighten up.” He gave them both a weak wave, waited until they were out of the room, then rang for the nurse and requested a phone.

  “You’re not allowed any calls, Mr. Steele,” the nurse said. “Don’t forget, you’re only just out of intensive care. Rest and sleep—that’s all you’re supposed to do.”

  “Anybody ever told you you’ve got a great—” He yawned and settled back on the pillow. “Nah— forget it.”

  “A great what, Mr. Steele?”

  “I’m changing my ways,” he mumbled, and fell into a deep sleep.

  chapter 19

  LEE ECCLES STOPPED TUCCI as soon as he entered the station. “What in hell’s going on?” he asked, falling into step beside him.

  “Big brawl at the funeral,” Tucci said, hitching up his pants. “I’ve got ’em all coming in. Everyone wants to press charges.”

  “Who’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Bobby Skorch, Eddie Stoner—those are the only two that matter. If we move fast, we can throw a few questions at ’em before their lawyers arrive.”

  “Got it,” Lee said. “Let me take Bobby.”

  “What’s the story with the strippers?”

  “They flew in with him, he checked ’em into a hotel, then he split a coupla times—which gives him the opportunity. As an alibi they’re less than zero.”

  “The more I see him, the more I think he could’ve done it,” Tucci said. “I got a blood sample—one from Eddie, too.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “They’re both bleeding. I did a little mopping up with my handkerchief and jacket. Bobby’s the handkerchief, Eddie’s the jacket. Faye’ll kill me when she sees I’ve ruined her favorite jacket.”

  “Oh yeah, Faye,” Lee said with a knowing smirk. “Mustn’t piss her off.”

  Tucci shot him a look. He didn’t want to hear Faye’s name coming out of Lee’s mouth. If there wasn’t so much going on he would’ve gotten into exactly what Lee meant every time he mentioned his wife.

  As it was, there was no time for anything. Eddie and Angie came rolling into the station, Angie still screaming about assault charges. They were followed closely by Bobby, who wanted Eddie arrested. And then came Bo Deacon with his wife.

  Trailing closely behind them were hordes of media, but they had to stay outside, jockeying for position, waiting for when the principals emerged.

  Captain Marsh poked his head out of his office. “What in hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  It was at that exact moment that Darlene and her lawyer chose to arrive.

  • • •

  “Why’d you do it, Bobby?”

  Slouched on a chair in the interview room, determined to get Eddie Stoner’s ass slung in jail, upset from the funeral, depressed and suicidal about Salli, Bobby Skorch stared blankly at the tall, stoop-shouldered detective with the weather-beaten face and exceptionally large hands.

  “What?” he said, his eyes blank and red-rimmed, with no shades to hide his pain or his worsening black eye from the world.

  “Why’d you kill her?” Lee Eccles demanded, leaning over the table and eyeballing Bobby with a ferocious glare.

  Bobby’s head snapped back. “Who the fuck d’you think you’re talkin’ to?” he said in a low, angry voice. “What the fuck is this shit?”

  “Your two little scum-buckets from Vegas blew your alibi out the window,” Lee said, scrambling for a used toothpick in his jacket pocket.

  “Hey—” Bobby said, reality hitting home through his conflicted haze of self-hatred and drug-induced euphoria. “Get me my fucking lawyer.”

  “Your fucking lawyer ain’t here,” Lee said, not trying to hide his loathing for the famous person sitting before him. Loathing him because he had everything Lee didn’t—including a sex-symbol wife who any red-blooded American male would give his left ball to fuck. Excuse me, Lee thought, angrily chewing on his newly found toothpick. Dead wife. Murdered wife. Hacked-to-pieces wife.

  “You’re outta line,” Bobby said harshly. “I came here to straighten out a situation. You can’t accuse me of shit.”

  “I’m only askin’, Bobby. Thought you might wanna make a confession.”

  “Go fuck yourself in the ass. You wanna know who killed Salli? It was Eddie Stoner, an’ you got him here now—so do somethin’ about it.”

  “Where did you go Saturday night when you got back? Didja go to your house an’ catch Salli with another guy? Was that what happened?”

  “Jesus!” Bobby screamed. “Don’t you understand English? Eddie Stoner murdered my wife, and I want him in jail. Got it, moron?”

  • • •

  Oblivious to the scene going on in the next room, Tucci was attempting to calm Angela Musconni. Eddie Stoner slumped in a chair beside her, clutching a blood-soaked wad of Kleenex to his mouth. It was almost as if he’d lost his balls along with his two front teeth.

  Angie, however, more than made up for his silence. She was acting like a wildcat, jumping up and down, pummeling the air with her fists to get her point across. “You gotta arrest the prick,” she yelled. “Eddie said Bobby did it, an’ Eddie knows what he’s talkin’ about. An’ if you can’t arrest him for the murder, you can sure as crap arrest him for personal assault. He knocked Eddie’s teeth out and hit me too. I was lying on the ground unconscious! I’m pressin’ charges. Arrest the prick! I demand it!”

  “If we arrest him, Miss Musconni,” Tucci said candidly, “it won’t look good for you or us. The man was leaving his wife’s funeral. He was provoked into a fight. There are dozens of witnesses who saw exactly what took place. His lawyer will bail him immediately, and then there’ll be a long, drawn-out court battle with all the attendant publicity. Are you sure you want that?”

  “No!” Eddie managed to say, spitting out more blood.

  “Yes!” Angie insisted.

  Tucci regarded the two of them, trying to decide who had the power in the relationship. Right now it was probably Angie—she was certainly the more vocal. But if she pressed charges against Bobby at this particular moment, it would complicate things. When the time came, they’d nail Bobby Skorch, but it would be for murder, not this petty stuff.

  “Can I be frank with you both?” Tucci said. “Can I trust you?”

  “Huh?” Angie said, suspicion narrowing her eyes.

  “Mr. Skorch is indeed a suspect in the murder of Salli T. Turner, so an arrest at this time for assault would do nothing but hamper our investigation.”

  “Why?” Angie demanded.

  “Because if we arrest him on a minor charge, it would not help us.” He watched her carefully; she seemed to be listening, which was a good thing. “This is
what I’d like you to do,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’d like you to go home, think about it, and if you still wish to press charges you can do so tomorrow. Is that fair?”

  Eddie nodded vigorously. Angie was still not convinced.

  “Miss Musconni,” Tucci said in his most persuasive voice. “Do the smart thing. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  • • •

  “Get me to a plastic surgeon,” Bo Deacon whimpered as Olive drove their Rolls erratically down Wilshire Boulevard.

  “I’m taking you to the emergency room,” Olive said, not at all upset at her famous husband’s predicament.

  “Don’t wanna go to emergency,” he groaned. “I want a plastic surgeon.”

  “Shame your little sweetie is dead,” Olive said, weaving erratically from one lane to the other. “I’m sure she was an expert when it comes to plastic surgeons. Let’s see, she had silicone tits, pumped-up lips, false cheekbones, a new chin—probably a brand-new pussy after all the action the old one got.”

  “Jesus, you’re a bitch,” Bo said, wishing he was anywhere else. “She was twenty-two years old for God’s sake. And she’s dead.”

  “Good,” Olive said.

  “Good?” Bo repeated, not quite able to believe she’d said such a thing.

  “Did you fuck her?” Olive inquired, tossing back her red hair.

  “What?”

  “Did you?”

  “You’re crazy,” he said, disgusted.

  “Did you do her on the plane, Bo Bo, did you?”

  “Jesus, Olive, I can’t even talk to you anymore.”

  “You went to her house, I know you did.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Oh, yes. Saturday. You were there, sniffing around while her husband was away.”

  “You’ve lost it.”

  “Have I?”

  “I’m in pain.”

  “I don’t care,” she said with a drunken smile, nearly smashing his precious Rolls into the back of a truck.

  “You’re drunk,” he said, stating the obvious. “Stop the car and let me drive.”

  “I’m drunk,” she singsonged. “And you’ve been fucking around on me. Who’s the baddest, Bo Bo?”

  “Come on, Olive, not now.”

  “When?” she demanded, taking her eyes off the road and giving him a long, pained look. “When’s my time?”

  “My nose is broken!” he screamed. “I’m warning you, Olive, don’t get into this now!”

  “I hate you!” she bellowed, her face contorted with drunken fury as she hit the gas even harder. “Hate you! Hate you! Hate you!”

  “For God’s sake, Olive!”

  And before he could do anything to stop her, she swung the wheel of the powerful car toward the oncoming traffic, and smashed head-on into a gold Mercedes.

  chapter 20

  IT HAD TAKEN HER HOURS, but Kristin had finally managed to remove the middle board in the window. Unfortunately the space was only four inches high and two feet across, not big enough for her to squeeze through, but at least she could get some idea of where she was. As far as she could tell she was in some kind of guardhouse halfway down a cliff. The undergrowth on the cliff was unkempt and wild, which made her think that nobody ever came to this building. Several hundred feet below her was the ocean, and there seemed to be no other properties in sight.

  She’d tried desperately to pry the rest of the window boards loose, but after a while she’d given up. It was impossible. Her hands were cut and bleeding, and there was a gash on her arm. She was lucky to have gotten the middle board out of there without breaking a bone.

  Being able to look out and get some idea of where she was struck her as a major triumph.

  What she couldn’t figure out was why she’d allowed herself to be led down a dangerous cliffside blindfolded. She must have been crazy. One false step and she could’ve fallen hundreds of feet to her death.

  Little lamb goes quietly to the slaughter.

  What kind of a monster was Mister X anyway? she asked herself. Did he get a sexual kick out of this? Whatever. Clearly his motives were evil. He was evil.

  The good thing was that she no longer felt like a victim. She had a plan and a weapon, and even though she was hungry and thirsty, she was determined to remain strong.

  Now that she had some light, she could explore the room properly. Not that there was much to explore—bare floorboards, the bed, one sheet that she was now wearing, and nothing else.

  She’d thought long and hard about what she would do if and when Mister X returned, and she’d finally decided her only move was to take him by surprise, try to knock him out, and escape. If she could do that and make it to the highway, she’d be able to summon help.

  The thought of Cherie depending on her gave her strength.

  Her inner voice had stopped screaming vile things in her head. Now it urged her to be strong.

  Don’t be frightened. You can do it. You’re a survivor.

  Yes. She was. And she would survive.

  Of that she was sure.

  chapter 21

  “THAT’S HER,” MADISON said, striding confidently toward the open-air restaurant.

  “How do you know?” Jake said, squinting at the fair-haired girl sitting at a table by herself leafing through a copy of Movieline.

  “One, she’s alone. Two, she’s wearing an orange sweater. Pretty easy to be smart under these circumstances. Did you get her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, okay, let’s go over.”

  Jake put his hand on her arm, stopping her. “She’s expecting me to be by myself. She’s also expecting ten grand, which I don’t have.”

  “We’ll suss the situation out,” Madison said. “Let me do the talking.”

  He wasn’t sure if he liked Madison’s new take-charge attitude. “You can be incredibly bossy,” he remarked.

  “You wanted help, didn’t you?” she fired back. “Come on, let’s do it.”

  Together they approached the girl in the orange sweater. She was busy reading an article on Vince Vaughn, and did not look up until Madison said, “Hi.”

  “Yes?” Junia said, her eyes darting this way and that.

  “Meet Jake Sica,” Madison said. “I’m his sister.”

  “Sister?”

  “We’re twins. We do everything together.”

  Junia wrinkled her forehead. What kind of a kinky scene was this? “Where’s my money?” she said, putting down the magazine.

  “Safe,” Madison said matter-of-factly. “But of course, as I’m sure you’re aware, we can’t hand it over without knowing what we’re paying for.”

  “I told him to bring the money,” Junia said, slamming her delicate fist on the table.

  “He did,” Madison said calmly, pulling out a chair and sitting down—gesturing for Jake to do the same. “Here’s the deal. Why settle for ten grand when you can make a lot more?”

  “How?” Junia asked suspiciously.

  “Did you ever hear of Watergate?”

  “What’s that, a bridge?”

  “No. Watergate was an event in history. People with the right information made plenty of money out of Watergate.”

  “I don’t get it,” Junia said, intrigued in spite of herself, and starting to feel quite important.

  “Do you work for Darlene?” Madison asked, thinking that this waif of a girl was the least likely looking call girl she’d ever seen.

  “Work for her?” Junia snorted as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “No way! S’matter of fact, I live with her.” As soon as she’d said it, she regretted her words. She wasn’t supposed to tell them anything about her. No way. Her plan was to get the money and take off.

  “You mean you’re her girlfriend?”

  “S’right,” Junia said, nodding vigorously.

  “Platonic or otherwise?”

  “What d’you think?” Junia said with a sly smile.

&nb
sp; “Where’s Kristin?” Jake said, getting impatient.

  Junia ignored him, more interested in what the woman had to say. “What do you mean I can make more money?” she questioned.

  “I’m sure you have a very interesting story to tell,” Madison said. “And if you’re prepared to reveal details about Darlene and exactly how she runs her business, well, I think we could be talking about a lot of money.”

  Junia’s eyes popped. “A lotta money, huh?”

  “Right,” Madison continued, silencing Jake with a warning look. “I work for Manhattan Style magazine. If you agree to give us an exclusive, I’m sure I can get my editor to pay you twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Wow!” Junia exclaimed reverently.

  “Here’s my card,” Madison said, fishing in her purse.

  Junia took the engraved card and studied it. “How do I know this isn’t a fake?” she asked.

  “Why would I go to that kind of trouble?” Madison replied. “You see, we’ve been planning on writing an exposé on the call-girl industry for quite some time. My brother Jake’s a photographer, that’s his involvement. He was about to take some photos of Kristin for the magazine.”

  “Was she cooperating with you?” Junia asked.

  “She certainly was,” Jake said, getting Madison’s drift and joining in. “Which is why it’s so disturbing that she’s vanished.”

  “I’m glad you’re smart enough to get out now, while you can,” Madison said, speaking fast. “We can put you in a hotel for your own protection. I’ll have a contract from the magazine FedExed here immediately. Only thing is—you have to tell us how to find Kristin.”

  “Dunno where she is,” Junia said. “But I do know that Mister X got her home number, and he’s the client who had a date with Hildie. And . . .” She stopped, realizing she might be saying too much. “There’s more about him, but I need t’see money first.”

  “Who’s Mister X?” Jake asked with a distinct note of urgency.

  Junia shrugged. “Nobody knows, not even Darlene. He calls every so often, whenever he wants a girl.”

  “The phone company,” Jake said. “If he called Kristin, maybe they’ll have a record of his number.”