“I don’t think it works that way,” Madison said.
“We can give it a shot. It’s better than doing nothing.”
Madison turned to Junia. “Listen,” she said. “You shouldn’t go home. We’ll check you into a hotel, all expenses paid.”
“Why can’t I go home?” Junia whined. “Darlene doesn’t know I’m meeting you.”
“Darlene’s in trouble,” Madison said. “She’s all over the TV. You’ll be better off in hiding until we get your story. And remember, it’s exclusive, or no big check.”
“Well, okay,” Junia said reluctantly. “But I’d better get paid tomorrow, otherwise the deal’s off.”
“Done,” Madison said.
There was nothing that excited her more than a hot story. And she could tell this was going to be a good one.
chapter 22
“I’VE BEEN KEPT WAITING for forty-five minutes,” Darlene said, although Linden had warned her it was not smart to complain. “Forty-five minutes,” she repeated icily, not particularly caring whether it was smart or not.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Tucci said politely, sitting down across from the well-groomed, extremely attractive woman and her Beverly Hills lawyer. “Emergency situation arose.”
“I was forced to rush my lunch to be here on time,” Darlene said, pushing her point home.
Christ! She was complaining. All he’d had to eat all day was three lousy donuts, and the way things were going he’d be working straight through dinner. Hopefully Faye would save him something. Lately he’d been daydreaming about her pot roast. The good thing was that over the last few days he must have lost at least ten pounds. Goodbye diet. Hello food.
“We understand you have some questions you’d like to ask Ms. La Porte,” Linden said. “Can we kindly proceed.”
“Certainly,” Tucci said. It had taken him a while, but he’d finally convinced Angela Musconni not to press charges against Bobby Skorch. She’d left with Eddie—reluctantly.
Meanwhile, Lee had managed to upset Bobby, who’d stalked out of the station just as his lawyer arrived. Marty Steiner was not a happy camper, furious that they’d had Bobby to themselves for an hour. Marty would be even more furious if he knew that even now the lab was running blood-sample tests which could possibly connect his client to Salli’s murder.
Tucci was in no mood to conduct an interview with some Hollywood madam, who probably had more connections than a multi-purpose vacuum. He knew the way these things worked. These women always had clients in high places who eventually put on the pressure to get the charges dropped. Not that they had anything to charge Darlene La Porte with. She was a known madam, but right now they had no concrete proof. Her girls wouldn’t talk, nor would her rich and famous clients. To nail Darlene they’d have to put some kind of entrapment plan in the works. And now was not the time.
“We appreciate you coming in,” Tucci said.
“Appreciate away,” Darlene said, shooting him a haughty look. “The sooner I’m out of here, the better.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t call me ma’am.”
• • •
Madison was on a roll. In her mind she visualized the story she was going to write about L.A. and it had her adrenaline pumping. For the time being she forgot about Freddie Leon, because right now she was into investigating the call-girl business. It had all the ingredients for a killer story. Power. Obsession. Murder. Revenge. Her kind of deal.
And Junia—Darlene La Porte’s almost underage lesbian lover—was set to spill everything.
They’d stashed Junia in a room in Jake’s hotel, made sure she had Spectravision and room service; then they’d gone to Jake’s room, where Madison sat on his bed and called Victor in New York.
“Have I got a story for you!” she bragged.
“Freddie Leon was that interesting?” Victor boomed in his annoyingly loud voice.
“Not Freddie,” she said excitedly. “Bigger and better. Only you’ve got to come up with a check for twenty grand pronto.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have a songbird from the inside of an exclusive call-girl operation. And she’s ready to Whitney Houston it.”
“You know, sometimes I don’t understand a word you say.”
“That’s okay,” she said breezily. “Make the check out to cash and FedEx it to me at once. We’ll have a story that’ll blow the magazine off the stands.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“No waiting, Victor. And I want to work with a great photographer who just might be available.” She winked at Jake, who couldn’t believe this was the same Madison he’d gotten used to. “He’s expensive, but you should definitely consider signing him. His name’s Jake Sica. I’ll let you know if we can get him.”
“Madison—”
“Bye, Victor.” She hung up and turned to Jake. “Why work for some popular crap mag when I can get you a gig on Manhattan Style?”
“What happened to you?” he said, shaking his head at her metamorphosis. “You’re all fired up.”
She beamed. “I feel good. In fact, I feel great. I’m back in action. This story’s going to be sensational. Let’s go tell Junia the good news.”
“I need to find Kristin,” he said. “That’s the only important thing to me.”
For a moment she felt a shiver of disappointment. Just when she’d thought she and Jake were a great team . . .
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “You’re right, and I have an idea.”
“What?”
“We should go by her apartment, see what we can find.”
“The maid’ll never let us in.”
“Jake,” she bragged. “Doncha know? You’re working with me now, and when I’m into it, I can do anything.”
chapter 23
PROPPED UP IN BED, WATCHING the unbelievable goings-on at Salli T. Turner’s funeral on the TV news, Max Steele was completely comfortable and out of pain thanks to the miracle of modern drugs. The nurses were all fans. Well, how often was it that they got their hands on a genuine eligible Bel Air bachelor? They kept on popping into his room, two at a time, to take a peek at him and ask a question or two, such as did he know Matt Damon? And was Anne Heche really gay or was she just going with Ellen for the publicity? Normal questions the general public liked to ask.
Max got off on being the center of attention. He had his eye on the pretty black nurse—she had a Halle Berry quality about her, and he liked her personality, not to mention her perky tits.
Yes, all in all, it wasn’t that bad getting shot, and now Freddie wasn’t mad at him anymore, which was a good thing, and as soon as he recovered and recuperated at say—the Four Seasons in Maui—it would be back to business as usual.
He kept on drifting in and out of sleep, which was quite pleasant. Gotta call Kristin, he thought. She must’ve wondered what happened to me. Gotta call her . . .
Boom. His eyes closed. He was asleep again, which is how Inga Cruelle and Howie Powers found him when they burst into his room.
“Jesus, man,” Howie exclaimed, waking him up. “You frightened the shit outta us.”
Us? Did that mean the delectable Inga and his erstwhile friend—the brain-dead playboy—were an us?
“How’d you find out?” he mumbled.
“Your maid told me when I dropped by your house,” Howie said, picking at a bunch of grapes on the bedstand. “What a bummer!”
“When was that?”
“ ’Bout an hour ago, soon as we got back from Vegas.”
“Didja win?”
Howie beamed, and put his arm around Inga’s waist, pulling the exquisite Swedish supermodel close. “I won the prize of all time. Inga did me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“Whaaat?” Max tried to sit up, but sharp stabs of pain prevented him from doing so. “You got married?”
Inga gave a supermodel sneer—the one she’d perfected on runways all over the world. “That is right, Max dear. Howard and I are joi
ned in matrimony.”
Max could not believe what he was hearing. Howie Powers and Inga Cruelle married? Impossible. He, Max Steele, hadn’t even fucked her, and she’d married a major jerk like Howie. What was going on in the world? This was insanity.
“Show him the ring, honey,” Howie urged.
Inga waved her hand under his nose. On her engagement finger was an enormous diamond, at least ten carats.
“Congratulations,” Max managed, the words almost sticking in his throat. “What happened to your fiancé, Inga? The Swedish guy you told me you’ve been with since high school?”
She shrugged. “Howie is very sweet,” she said. “And persuasive. He came to see me last night at midnight. So touching.”
“With the ring?”
“Naturally.”
“Yup,” Howie said happily. “I got to thinkin’, I’ve been a bachelor long enough. We flew to Vegas this morning, did it, and the first person we came to tell was you, ’cause you’re my best friend, buddy.”
Yeah, sure, Max thought. You came to show me your prize. Because for once in your life, you rich little asshole, you got a girl before me. Well, good luck, ’cause this one’s gonna take you for a lot more than a diamond ring. And you’re such a schmuck, I bet you never had her sign a pre-nup.
“I couldn’t be happier for you,” Max said, full of insincerity.
“Howard,” Inga said, glancing at her Patek Phillipe diamond watch—a wedding present Howie had presented to her on the flight home. “I have to go.”
“Gotta get my bride to the airport,” Howie said. “She’s off to Milan for the collections.”
“You’re not going?”
“Havta take care of some business first. I’ll join her in a coupla days.”
As if Howie, the playboy jerk, had any business to take care of. All Howie did was watch his trust funds grow, that was about it.
“Well . . .” Max said. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Your turn next,” Howie said, winking.
Ha! Max thought. Wait until he sees Kristin. She makes Inga look like a skinny version of truly gorgeous. No contest.
“I’ll see you guys,” he said.
Inga blew him a kiss. Nice of her. Howie winked again and mouthed, “Somethin’, huh?”
And then they were gone.
Max waited a minute and summoned Halle Berry. Life wasn’t all that bad.
chapter 24
TUCCI WAS SITTING AT HIS desk when he got the call that Bo Deacon had been killed in a horrendous car accident on Wilshire. His wife, Olive, who had been driving at the time, had been rushed to Cedars with multiple cuts and bruises, but nothing life-threatening.
She was conscious, hysterical and insisting on seeing one of the detectives in charge of the Salli T. Turner murder investigation.
Since Lee had gone off to re-interview several of Salli’s neighbors, Tucci guessed he was it. What a day this was turning out to be. Bo Deacon killed in a car wreck. Talk about bad karma. You leave a funeral and run right into your own death.
Fate. The twists and turns of life. Never predictable.
Tucci left the station and drove to the hospital, calling Faye from the car. “Do you miss me?” he asked wistfully.
“Yes, I miss you,” she answered. “When will you be home?”
“Not soon enough.”
“How was the funeral?”
“Hectic. Did you see the news?”
“I’ll turn it on.”
“Faye?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to do this diet thing anymore.”
“Why?”
“Life’s too short.” A beat. “Are we too old to have a baby instead?”
She laughed softly. “What’s a baby got to do with dieting?”
“Thought we could get fat together.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I love you. Can I have pot roast for dinner?”
“You can have anything you want.”
By the time he reached the hospital he had a big smile on his face. Sometimes it was nice to goof off, have nonsensical conversations, fall in love with his wife all over again.
There was a uniformed cop stationed outside Olive Deacon’s room. “What’s going on?” Tucci asked.
The cop spoke out of the side of his mouth like he didn’t want anyone to hear. “She’s hysterical, Detective, and drunk.”
“So?”
“So she’s confessing to Salli Turner’s murder.”
• • •
“Hi,” said Madison, standing at Kristin’s front door. “I spoke with Kristin and she asked me to tell you that she’ll be home shortly.”
Chiew, Kristin’s maid, stared at her blankly, guarding the entrance to her boss’s apartment with her sturdy body.
“She also asked me to wait for her here, but if you’re not comfortable with me coming inside . . .” Madison shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.
Chiew stared at her for a few more seconds, and then decided that she looked perfectly honest, so surely access to Kristin’s apartment was in order? Especially as Chiew needed to take off early to visit her boyfriend in prison.
As soon as the maid left, Madison called Jake in the car and he came right up from the underground garage. The first thing they did was play back Kristin’s answering machine. Right away they hit pay dirt: the second recorded message was from Mister X, requesting that Kristin meet him at the end of Santa Monica Pier on Sunday night.
“Let’s go,” Jake said.
“Where?” Madison said. “If she did meet him, it’s highly unlikely they’re still there.”
“Maybe somebody saw them together.”
“Then we need a picture of her. Did you take any?”
“No, but there’s one of her with her sister in a frame in the living room.”
“Get it,” Madison said, still in her bossy mode, but now just as anxious as Jake to find out what had happened to Kristin. She kept on hoping they wouldn’t turn on the TV and hear about another body washed up on the beach.
While he was getting the photo, she took a quick look around. Nothing unusual. No clues. No jotted-down notes that might tell them more.
Jake brought her the photo. Kristin was indeed a dazzler—Madison had gotten a brief glimpse of her when she’d stopped by Jimmy Sica’s to meet Jake for their date, but she’d honestly not appreciated how gorgeous the girl was. Fresh and natural with cascades of golden hair and a glowing smile. Nobody in their wildest dreams would tag her as a call girl.
“Whadda we do now?” Jake asked.
“Call Darlene,” Madison said. “Let’s see what it’ll take to get her to cooperate.”
chapter 25
HE’S NOT COMING BACK and there is no way I can escape from this room where I’m being held a prisoner.
The words ran through Kristin’s head as she lay on the mattress in the small space, which was now like an oven. She was trying to reserve her strength.
I’m tired, hungry, thirsty, hot, dispirited, exhausted. And yet, I’m still alive. And so is Cherie. For her sake I have to get out.
But if he doesn’t come back . . .
If he’s left me to rot...
How long could a person last without food or water? Was it days, weeks, months? How long?
She wanted to scream and cry out. Yell for help.
But no. She couldn’t do that. Had to stay strong for when HE came.
Mister X.
And he would come.
She knew he would.
chapter 26
“BYE, HONEY DOLL.”
“Goodbye, Howard,”
“Take good care of the ring.”
“Of course.”
“Give me two days an’ I’ll be there all ready to fuck your brains out.”
“Such a romantic,” Inga said with a superior smile. The only one getting fucked in this relationship was Howie. She’d put her tru
e fiancé on hold while she collected as much jewelry as possible in as short a time as possible. Then she’d have the marriage annulled. Howie was an obvious playboy—she was merely getting revenge for all the women he’d used and abused.
Howie made an attempt to kiss his new wife on the lips. She not so gently shoved him away. “Please, Howard, not in public,” she scolded. “People are always watching me.”
He lifted up her hand where the ten-carat diamond ring sparkled. Ten carats of cubic zirconia. When they’d been married a year and she presented him with a child, he’d buy her the real thing. People thought he was Howie Powers, schmucko playboy. They were wrong. There was much more to Howie than that.
He left the airport and drove back to town. The traffic was deadly, but Howie didn’t care, he had the rest of the day all planned out.
• • •
Freddie Leon headed for Malibu, cursing the heavy traffic. He’d dropped Diana home first. There was something going on with her; she wasn’t acting like herself. And what was this sudden attachment she had toward Max?
Maybe he should consider giving her more attention. He always put business first and she knew it.
And when he wanted to relax . . . well, it wasn’t Diana he turned to. No. There was somebody else.
And today he desperately needed to relax.
• • •
Olive Deacon clutched Tucci’s hand. “I killed him!” she wailed. “He’s dead because of me!”
Her alcohol-drenched breath caused him to take a step back. “Who?” he asked.
“My husband, that’s who!” she sobbed.
“Mrs. Deacon, I’m going to read you your rights. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You have the right to a lawyer. If—”
As he droned on she disintegrated before his very eyes. Her face crumpled, mascara coursed down her cheeks, lipstick stained her teeth.
“Mrs. Deacon,” he said quietly, feeling sorry for her. “Do you want to contact your lawyer before we talk?”
“No lawyer,” she said between sobs. “It’s my fault Bo’s dead. I’ve been punished, and I have to tell you everything.”
“You wish to make a formal statement?”