Poor Little Bitch Girl

  I wondered where Annabelle was now and if I’d run into her. We hadn’t stayed friends for long. I was never cool enough for her – too work-oriented and different for her tastes. Her deal was trolling up and down Melrose Avenue and Robertson Boulevard searching for the new hot bag or the latest cool jeans, and that was hardly my scene. Even if I’d wanted to, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford the Maestro Princess lifestyle. In fact, it was a relief when Annabelle had started ignoring me and hanging out with a group of similarly rich girls with equally famous parents.

  Losing Annabelle’s friendship was no big deal. My mom was relieved; she’d never much liked Annabelle or all the things her family represented. Fame. Vast wealth. The full Beverly Hills scene. Mom was happier when I teamed up with Carolyn Henderson – a brainy kid whose father was a plastic surgeon, and whose mother worked in real estate. As soon as Carolyn graduated college she scored a job as an intern in Washington. She is currently personal assistant to Senator Gregory Stoneman. We are still close friends, even though we live in different cities. We keep in touch on a regular basis, although it isn’t always easy as we’re both major busy. Thank God for e-mailing and texting.

  This year, Carolyn has promised to make it out to L.A. for Christmas, in spite of a workload that makes me look like a slacker, and believe me, I am no slouch.

  I can’t wait to spend time with her, especially as we both recently broke up with our significant others, which means we’ll have plenty to talk about. Carolyn dumped her boyfriend, Matt, because she caught him cheating – which came as no surprise to anyone. Matt was an up-and-coming political journalist who everyone (except apparently Carolyn) knew had a major zipper problem.

  My break-up was a different story. Josh – a successful sports doctor – left me. He complained that I put work first and that he’d had it with always coming second.

  On reflection I have to admit that he was right, or maybe I simply didn’t love him enough.

  Josh and I were together three years, so the break-up came as kind of a jolt, but I’m not heartbroken. I have to admit that I do miss our Sundays devouring the newspapers in our sweats, taking long vigorous hikes up Malibu Canyon, watching Entourage and Dexter on TV, and gorging on my favorite Chinese food straight from the cartons.

  I do not miss the sex. Like most relationships it started off incredibly raunchy and hot, but after six months it had turned into kind of boring comfortable sex.

  Where did all the passion go? Hey, I’m no expert, but I did experience a couple of sizzling affairs in college – one with a married professor, and one with a major jock. Both times the sex was mind-blowing, so I certainly know the difference. Although sleeping with a married man on the side is not for me. Too many lies and complications.

  Sometimes I think our dog, Amy Winehouse, misses Josh more than I do. We came across Amy – a mixed breed – wandering on Venice Beach, lost and filthy, so we took her home and named her after my favorite singer because of her throaty growl that emulated Amy’s lowdown, sexy voice.

  When Josh left, I inherited Amy. “No visitation rights,” I informed him coldly, although what I really wanted to say was, “Piss off, asshole, you’re dumping me.”

  Josh gave me attitude about the dog – but hey, if he wanted out that’s exactly what he’d get. Out. Gone. History. I don’t believe in dragging things along; when something’s over, it’s best to make a clean break.

  This time, my mom was not happy. She was fond of Josh, as were the rest of my family, especially my three older brothers.

  Too bad. Josh was likeable as a friend, but he certainly wasn’t the man with whom I planned on spending the rest of my life.

  And who might that man be? Truth is, I haven’t found him yet, and the prospects in L.A. are hardly promising. The only men I meet are clients, and they’re usually married or gay. Then there’s the slick lawyers who drive gleaming Porsches or Mercedes and favor twenty-year-old nubile blonde models or actresses with all the attributes.

  Not that I’m a dud, lookswise. If I didn’t live in L.A. I guess I’d be considered extremely attractive. I have long, chestnut-brown hair with natural golden highlights, wide hazel eyes, I’m five foot seven and I take a size eight dress (large by Beverly Hills standards – small for the rest of the country!).

  Okay, so I’m no Pamela Anderson, but believe me – I have no desire to be. Fake anything grosses me out – lips, breasts, cheekbones and chins. Ugh!! What are these women thinking?!

  The truth is that if Josh hadn’t broken up with me I would have eventually dumped him, because comfortable is great for a while, but passion is definitely lurking out there somewhere, and I do intend to find it. That’s when I have time, ’cause as I might have mentioned before, I’m a dedicated workaholic.

  This all happened three months ago, and word is that Josh has hooked up with a new girlfriend – some blonde, anorexic stylist to the stars that he picked up in a club.

  Hmm . . . talk about not waiting around. Anyway, good luck to him, I couldn’t care less.

  I myself am a little more discerning. Right now I’m not interested in anything permanent. I’ve decided that I should have some fun while I’m waiting for Mister Right to put in an appearance.

  “You’re late,” my boss scolded, greeting me at the door.

  My boss, Felix Saunders – or Mister Shark Teeth as he is known around the office, on account of the fact that he recently had his teeth re-crowned, and they shine like a row of dazzling white beacons – is ready for action. Felix is an imposing-looking man with a sharp Roman nose and a shock of crazy silver hair that stands on end, making him kind of resemble a white Don King. He also has a penchant for light-colored Brioni suits, colorful shirts and pointy-toed lizard shoes dyed in a variety of outrageous colors. Most people regard him as quite a character.

  Saunders, Fields, Simmons & Johnson is the name of the law firm I work for. I started out clerking for them while still in law school, then after I passed the bar they hired me as an associate. Within three years I was promoted to senior associate.

  I hate to sound immodest – well, not really! – but I am good, very good, and I think that Mister Shark Teeth loves me. Not as a woman, but as his right hand – a hand he knows he can always depend on. The man is a brilliant lawyer with a killer mind, so over the years I studiously ignored the whiter than white teeth, the out-of-control hair and the overly expensive suits, and learned everything I could from him. He is an excellent teacher and I’m a quick study, so it’s turned out aces for both of us. Soon I expect to be promoted to junior partner.

  I guess Josh is correct. I do put work first, and right now I have no reason not to.

  I consulted my watch – a Cartier – a birthday present from Mister Shark Teeth. Personally I’m not into labels, but other people seem to hold them in high regard, especially in Beverly Hills.

  “Two minutes hardly counts as late,” I said crisply.

  Felix Saunders raised a bushy eyebrow. “Always an argument,” he said, verging on irritable.

  “Facts are facts,” I responded.

  “The girl who always sees things in black and white,” he said dryly, tapping his chin with his slightly crooked index finger.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I countered. Getting in the last word is one of my habits that drives people crazy. I don’t give a crap, I enjoy having the last word. Besides, again, I don’t wish to sound immodest, but I’m usually right.

  “Follow me,” he said. “We have work to do.”

  I am considered a hot-shot attorney because in the past eighteen months I have defended two high-profile men with great success. Client number one was a well-known studio executive accused of rape by a TV star whose career was on the downslide. The upcoming trial hit the front pages for months, culminating in a fast five days in court.

  The actress was not a popular woman; she’d portrayed a bitch on TV for several years. It wasn’t difficult for me to convince the jury that her role on TV came natura
lly to her, while also playing up the studio executive’s happy family angle, pointing out that as far as he was concerned, the one night of sex was consensual, he loved his wife and family, and that he deeply regretted the entire incident. Then I emphasized how much the actress needed – in fact, craved – the headlines of her past stellar career. And how she’d gone after Mr Big Studio Executive with a vengeance.

  “You saw the Beyoncé movie Obsessed,” I dramatically stated in my closing argument, fixing the jurors with my wide hazel eyes, which I’ve been told can be quite hypnotic. “Then may I suggest that you consider this as the real-life version. Put yourselves in this man’s position.”

  A long pause for effect.

  “Yes, it’s true, my client cheated on his wife, but he’s never claimed to be a saint. And that’s all he did. One night of weakness with a seductive actress determined to get her career back on track. So . . . because of one lapse, and a fading actress who feels she’s been rejected, is this innocent man supposed to lose everything?”

  Another long pregnant pause. More deep eye-contact.

  “I don’t think so. Do you?”

  The jury were sold.

  Result. A big victory.

  Everyone at the firm was more than pleased with the way I handled myself in court, and within six months I was handed another big newsworthy case. This time it was a beloved comedian accused of exposing himself to children in public places. I painted him squeaky clean. He had a family who was dear to his heart. A wife he doted over. Children of his own that he adored.

  Then I gave the impassioned closing argument about how this man – this gentle man who had raised so much money for children’s charities – would never harm a child or even think of doing so.

  Once again we won.

  Now this. A murder case. Although nobody had actually accused Ralph Maestro of killing his wife.

  Yet..

  “I think you’d better fill me in,” I said to Mister Shark Teeth as I followed him inside the Maestros’ imposing mansion.

  Felix stopped and patted me on the shoulder, while whispering confidentially in my ear.

  “Ralph Maestro is a very big movie star.” He paused to reconsider his words for a moment. “I mean, he was the biggest. Not so much today. But once a movie star it sticks, whether you’re still pulling in the big bucks or not.”

  “And is he?” I asked curiously.

  “Is he what?”

  “Still pulling in the big bucks?”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Felix said testily.

  I wondered if now was the time to tell him that I knew the Maestro family, had indeed attended school with their daughter. Then I decided it wasn’t necessary – they wouldn’t remember me anyway.

  Felix proceeded to tell me what had taken place. Apparently the Maestros had attended a major fundraiser the previous evening at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, returning to their home at eleven. Gemma Summer Maestro had gone straight upstairs to her bedroom, while Ralph had stayed downstairs watching TV and enjoying one of his expensive and most likely illegal Cuban cigars. Later, he’d walked outside to visit with his dogs – two fierce pit bulls who were not allowed inside the mansion.

  Around one a.m. he’d gone upstairs to his bedroom – the Maestros kept separate bedrooms – not unusual amongst affluent celebrity couples. There he’d watched more TV until finally he’d fallen asleep around three. When he’d awoken at six in the morning he’d gone straight to his private gym in the back of the house, and it wasn’t until their Guatemalan housekeeper, Lupe, discovered Gemma’s body – shot while lying in her bed – that Ralph realized anything was amiss.

  I quickly fired off a few relevant questions. “Have the police found the murder weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Any sign of a break-in?”

  “No.”

  “Were the Maestros getting along?”

  Felix shook his head. “Who knows? But once I shift the detectives out of here, we’ll soon find out.”

  There were two investigating detectives and a legion of cops crawling all over the house.

  The housekeeper, Lupe, was in the kitchen making wailing noises.

  Gemma Summer’s body was still upstairs in her bed, while the police photographer was on his way downstairs.

  I started talking to one of the detectives, an African-American guy with an older Will Smith look. My imagination told me that he’d come to Hollywood hoping to be discovered, and ended up becoming a detective. That seems to be most people’s stories. He was Detective Preston; his partner, an Asian woman, was Detective Lee.

  I wondered if either of them had called Annabelle and told her the devastating news.

  Suddenly I experienced a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. How does anyone make that call?

  “Good afternoon, Miss Maestro. This is the Beverly Hills Police Department. Your mother’s dead, shot in the head. Your father is the prime suspect. Oh yes, and may I take this opportunity to wish you a very Merry Christmas.”

  “What’s the matter?” Felix growled. He expected my full attention at all times; a wandering mind didn’t do it for him.

  “Has their daughter been notified?” I asked.

  Felix narrowed his eyes. “How do you know they have a daughter?”

  “It’s general knowledge,” I answered quickly, still not prepared to reveal my connection to the Maestro family.

  “As far as I know, nobody’s been notified yet,” Felix said, groping for a box of extra-strong breath mints in his jacket pocket. Without offering me one he popped a couple in his mouth before putting the packet away. “Do you have any idea how the press are going to bite into this one?” he said, minty breath wafting in the air. “It’ll make the Phil Spector and Robert Blake cases look like goddamn picnics.”

  “Do you think the police are planning on arresting Ralph Maestro?” I asked curiously.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” he answered, full of his usual unshakeable confidence. “There is absolutely no evidence that Ralph did it, none at all.”

  “Did he?” I was dying to ask.

  But I refrained from doing so. Sometimes you learn more by saying nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Carolyn

  “You told me you were going to leave your wife,” Carolyn Henderson said, her pale-blue eyes filling with tears as she confronted her boss, her lover, the man who had promised her everything and delivered nothing. “You faithfully promised it would happen before Christmas.”

  Senator Gregory Stoneman paced around his office, unable to look at the pretty girl with the honey-colored bob and the tears in her eyes. He was a tall man of fifty, with a thick head of greying hair, a sharp aquiline profile, and a politician’s ready smile.

  “Listen to me, sweetie,” he cajoled. “You must—”

  “I have been listening to you,” Carolyn interrupted, her voice rising. “I’ve listened to you non-stop for the last two years.” She stared at him accusingly. “You swore to me that we’d be together this Christmas. You promised you’d leave her.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You lied to me, Gregory,” she continued, her voice rising. “You still haven’t told her about us, have you?”

  Tears began to course down her cheeks in an uncontrollable torrent.

  Gregory Stoneman frowned; there was nothing more irritating than a crying female. Bad enough that he had to put up with it from his wife on occasion, now this one was starting to become extremely demanding. He didn’t need this kind of nonsense. Besides, he’d recently met a British journalist, the London correspondent for an up-market English newspaper. The girl was young and fresh, and looks-wise she put Carolyn to shame, although he had to admit that Carolyn did have a sensational body – great tits – which was one of the reasons he’d strung her along with all the false proclamations that one day he was definitely going to divorce his wife.

  As if.

  There was a game in Washington. And the game had s
tringent rules. An affair was an affair, and it never interfered with a marriage. Everyone who cared to play should learn to abide by the rules.

  “Hush,” he said soothingly.

  “Screw hush!” she shouted.

  “After Christmas—” he began.

  “No!” she shrieked. “You promised. And I expect you to keep that promise, or . . .”

  “Or what?” he asked ominously.

  “Or I’m telling your wife about us, since you can’t seem to do it.”

  Her words hung between them like a dark curtain.

  Gregory’s frown deepened. If only her boyfriend, Matt, had stayed around, this wouldn’t be happening. But no – Matt had made an abrupt exit. And where did that leave him? Stuck with a clinging girl who was starting to make demands he had no intention of meeting. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now she was making threats. Threatening him – Senator Gregory Stoneman – an upstanding member of the Senate with an unsullied reputation and a solid twenty-year marriage.

  Her behavior was unacceptable and he was not about to stand for it.

  “Kindly do not do this in my office,” he said, glancing agitatedly at the closed door.

  “Why not?” she demanded, her face reddening. “Everyone will know soon enough.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Oh yes they will.”

  He was getting severely fed up with her attitude. Who the hell did she think she was?

  “And how’s that?” he asked coldly.

  “Because I’m going to tell them,” she answered defiantly. “Your wife first, and then everyone else.”

  He caught hold of her arm in a vice-like grip. “No, you are not,” he said, his voice turning into a strict command. “Do not even think about it.”

  “Try stopping me,” she responded, determined to go through with this.

  “Why?” he asked, making a stringent effort to control his anger. “Why, after all this time, are you doing this to me now?”

  Carolyn stared at him, her lower lip quivering, hands shaking. She hadn’t wanted it to come out like this, but he had to know.