Poor Little Bitch Girl

  The girl stood there watching her, a blank expression on her face.

  “If it’s money you’re after,” Carolyn said, attempting to speak slowly so this young girl would understand, “my father will pay. I can tell you how to contact him.” She paused for a moment. “Or my boss. My boss is a Senator, he’s a very important man – he’ll pay to get me back.”

  The girl still didn’t say a word.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of what you’re doing,” Carolyn said, making sure to keep her voice low and even, “but you and your friend have kidnapped me. Kidnapping’s a federal offense. The punishment is extremely severe, and I . . . uh . . . think I should tell you that I’m pregnant, so you’re not just kidnapping me, you’re—”

  The girl suddenly came to life. “I know you’re fuckin’ knocked up,” she blurted. “’Cuz that’s th’reason you here.” Then, realizing she’d probably said too much, she rushed out of the room.

  Carolyn felt waves of sickness overcome her. The only person who knew she was pregnant was Gregory. So how did this girl know?

  Then a thought entered her head, a thought so twisted and evil that she immediately tried to dismiss it.

  Did Gregory have anything to do with this?

  Was it possible?

  No.

  Yes.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  “No way I’m keepin’ the bitch around,” Benito announced the moment he awoke, a scowl crossing his face. “This mo’fuckin’ shit get me jailtime for sure,” he added, vigorously scratching his balls. “Gonna cut her loose.”

  “What about the Senator?” Rosa inquired, in her mind planning how she could get out of the house. She had a very bad feeling about what was going down, especially after the woman’s chilling words about kidnapping and severe punishment. She wasn’t responsible for any of this, it was all Benito. She was just doing what he ordered her to do. Besides, she’d already explored the contents of the woman’s purse, and there were prime pickings – including an iPhone and eighty bucks in cash. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on everything.

  “The asswipe don’t know how t’find me,” Benito said, full of bravado. “Prick can’t do nothin’.”

  “When you plannin’ on gettin’ her outta here?” Rosa asked, anxious to know.

  “We’re gonna dump her on the street tonight,” Benito said, stretching his heavily tattooed arms. “Soon’s it get dark.”

  “If she lasts that long,” Rosa muttered, wishing he’d stop including her in his plans.

  “What?”

  “She ain’t lookin’ too healthy.”

  “Bitch lose the kid yet?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck!”

  “I gotta go home,” Rosa ventured. “Spoke to my momma last night, my baby’s sick, an’ Momma’s gotta get to her job. Daycare won’t take the baby when it’s sick, so I gotta go.”

  “Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Benito said, still in full scowl. “Not till we get the puta outta here.”

  “You don’ understand. I gotta go, Benito,” she pleaded. “My momma’s gonna kill me if I don’t take the baby.”

  “Whyn’t ya stop with yo fuckin’ whinin’ an’ start doin’ what I tell ya for once?” he demanded.

  “But my baby’s sick,” she repeated, trying to squeeze out a tear or two, almost believing her own lie.

  “Don’ give a shit.”

  “What I gonna tell my momma?”

  “You ain’t tellin’ her nothin’,” he said, still scowling. “An’ why ya always gotta gimme such a hard time?”

  “Sorry,” she said sulkily, backing off.

  “Y’know,” he said with a sly smirk, “I got plenty wimmin chasin’ me. I can pick any puta I want, so’s ya better watch it.”

  “They gonna do you like I do?” Rosa said, standing up for herself.

  “It don’t take no degree t’suck me off,” he boasted, with a self-satisfied chuckle. “It be their pleasure.”

  “Hijo de puta,” Rosa muttered, the one Spanish insult she knew.

  Fortunately, Benito didn’t hear her.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Annabelle & Bobby

  Had Frankie seen a copy of Truth & Fact? That was the question on Bobby’s mind. And if Frankie had seen it, he must be going apeshit.

  Just in case, Bobby stashed a copy of the offending tabloid under his jacket, and impatiently waited to greet Annabelle and Frankie at the airport.

  The moment the two of them alighted from the Stanislopoulos private plane, Bobby could tell Annabelle knew nothing. She was all smiles and full of enthusiasm about spending the night in Vegas, hardly the picture of a grieving daughter.

  “I cannot wait to see Zeena’s show,” she said, giving Bobby a warm hug. “Zeena is such an amazing performer. I saw her show last year in Miami. She’s a true superstar, like Madonna.”

  Was it his imagination, or did Annabelle purposely rub her breasts against him?

  Frankie on the other hand definitely looked as if he knew something was up.

  “Gotta take a piss,” Frankie said as they approached the limo.

  “Why didn’t you go on the plane?” Annabelle asked, turning to him with a frown on her face.

  “’Cause I didn’t havta go then,” he said, left eye twitching. “Is it all right with the Queen of Everythin’ if I go take a piss?”

  “I’ll come with,” Bobby offered.

  “How cozy,” Annabelle drawled. “All boys together.”

  “We’ll be right back,” Frankie said.

  “There’s champagne in the limo,” Bobby offered. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  The two of them took off, away from the limo and into the airport building.

  “I guess you know,” Frankie stated.

  “Of course I fucking know,” Bobby replied. “It’s a screaming headline on every newsstand. They all carry Truth & Fact.”

  “Jesus!” Frankie exclaimed, as they headed into the men’s room. “For real?”

  “You’ve seen it, right?” Bobby asked.

  “Not yet. Your two flight attendants warned me it was out there, but they didn’t bring a copy on board.”

  “Prepare yourself,” Bobby warned. “It’s rough.”

  “No shit,” Frankie said glumly.

  “Here.” Bobby extracted the copy of Truth & Fact he’d kept under his jacket. “Read it and go slit your throat.”

  Frankie snatched the magazine and began reading. The headline was brutal enough, but he could not believe what was in the story. Times, dates, details of monetary transactions, the names of alleged clients and the girls who worked for them. And even worse were the private photos he and Annabelle had taken just for fun. Photos from their personal collection. Stolen photographs. Annabelle joking it up with some of the girls, holding up their masks. Intimate photos of them lounging in bed together. Photos from Annabelle’s childhood with Gemma and Ralph front and center.

  How the fuck had the stinking tabloid gotten hold of them?

  There was only one answer. Someone must have broken into their Park Avenue apartment and stolen them.

  Frankie could feel the fury building inside him like a volcano about to blow. Why the hell hadn’t Janey informed him there’d been a break-in at the apartment? What the fuck, he paid her enough, so how come she hadn’t called and warned him?

  Another dumb douche bag. Annabelle was right, he should never have hired her.

  “Gotta make a call,” he said to Bobby.

  “To your lawyer?”

  “No. To my half-witted cousin who’s supposed to be looking after things for me.”

  “May I say she’s doing a fine job.”

  “Fuck you,” Frankie said, thrusting the magazine at Bobby. “Y’see these photos, they’re all filched from our apartment. Annabelle’s gonna go freakin’ nuts.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, it’s out there now,” Bobby said, attempting to calm him. “Next week it’ll be old news.?
??

  “Fuck that shit,” Frankie said, burning with anger. “I’m gonna sue the ass off everyone involved.”

  “It’ll cost you,” Bobby pointed out. “Once you put yourself in the hands of lawyers—”

  “I’ve got the money,” Frankie responded, thinking of the stash in their safe in New York. “I’m takin’ this all the way.”

  “Yeah, but if you ignore it, it’ll go away.”

  “They’ve crapped all over my reputation, Bobby, an’ that kinda garbage stays around an’ stinks up my world. So fuckin’ ignore it – no way.”

  “I’m sorry, bro, this is a bad situation.”

  “Listen,” Frankie said, “do me a big one – go with Annabelle to the hotel while I try an’ work out my next move. Tell her I got the runs or somethin’.”

  “Nice.”

  “Maybe she won’t even see it. Right?”

  “C’mon, Frankie, get real. Someone’s bound to mention it, her father for starters. And don’t kid yourself – there’ll be a ton of press at the funeral.”

  “Thanks. You’re makin’ me feel a whole lot better.”

  “I’m just saying the way it is. You want the truth.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Okay then, take it easy. I’ll escort your girlfriend to the hotel. And remember – next week this’ll be yesterday’s news.”

  * * *

  Annabelle lounged in the back of the limo sipping champagne while considering her options.

  Bobby had certainly been happy enough to see her – his greeting had been very friendly and she liked that. She smiled to herself. Once she was rid of Frankie, Bobby would be easy pickings, and why not? Without Frankie hanging around she was a total catch. She’d give up the business and hand it over to her ex as compensation, because ever since the incident with Sharif Rani’s son, she was totally over it.

  Bobby would certainly be able to keep her in style, she wouldn’t have to run a stupid call-girl business. He was – or would be when he inherited everything – a freaking billionaire.

  Yes, as soon as they got back to New York she’d tell Frankie to move out. They’d split the cash in the safe, and then they could both get on with their lives.

  Thursday was the funeral. Friday they’d be on a plane back to New York. And Saturday she’d give her coke-addicted boyfriend the news.

  It’s over, Frankie. Have a nice life.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Bobby said, jumping in the back of the limo and settling himself next to Annabelle.

  “Hey yourself,” she replied, thinking how handsome he was, and what a smart decision she was making about her future. “Where’s Frankie?”

  “He’s got a bad case of the runs, sitting tight in the bathroom. He’ll meet us at the hotel.”

  Annabelle couldn’t believe her luck. Alone with Bobby so soon! It seemed the perfect time to start making her moves.

  “Y’know,” she ventured, lowering her voice so the driver couldn’t hear, “Frankie’s coke habit is veering out of control. I’m not sure how much longer I can take it.”

  “He seems okay to me,” Bobby said, determined to stay neutral, especially in view of what she was about to discover. Now was not the time for her to start worrying about Frankie’s coke addiction; she had bigger problems ready to slap her in the face.

  “You don’t have to live with him,” she said bitterly. “You don’t have to walk in on him snorting that disgusting white powder up his nose, and then swearing he hardly ever does it when I know it’s a constant thing.”

  “Yeah, that must be a drag,” Bobby said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “It’s more than a drag,” she said vehemently. “You know what, Bobby? I can’t deal with it any more. I want out.”

  Damn! This was something he didn’t wish to hear right now. Annabelle and Frankie had a shit-storm to face – and the best way to deal with it was to present a united front.

  “Have you talked to him, told him it upsets you?” he said.

  “Frankie’s not responsible like you, Bobby,” she said, reaching over and covering his hand with hers. “Have you ever tried talking sense into him?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Bobby remarked, wondering how he could get his hand out from under hers without it looking obvious.

  “Y’know,” she mused, “Frankie isn’t one of us, he never was. You, me and M.J. – we’ve always been tight. Remember high school? We were like the Three Musketeers – everyone wanted to be part of our group.”

  Bobby had no idea what she was talking about. He and M.J. had never hung out with Annabelle – only that one fateful prom night, and after that they’d gone out of their way to avoid her and the group of privileged princesses with whom she spent all her time.

  He slipped his hand out from under hers on the pretext of reaching for a bottle of Evian.

  “No champagne?” she said coyly, holding up her glass for a refill.

  “Can’t drink during the day,” he said, pouring her more champagne. “Gives me a hangover.”

  “Poor baby,” she crooned. “You’ll have to catch up tonight. Oh, and by the way, make sure I’m sitting next to you. I might need your moral support.”

  Jeez! What was up with Annabelle? Suddenly the prospect of spending the evening with Zeena seemed quite inviting. Anything was better than getting trapped with a needy Annabelle Maestro on the eve of her murdered mother’s funeral. Even another sex romp with the maneater.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Denver

  Wow! Ralph Maestro in a fury is a sight to behold. Big movie-star face all red and wrinkled. Eyes flashing venom. Voice a rough, tough growl. Huge frame overpowering and quite threatening.

  He was pacing around his living room, and he was not a happy man. His long-time publicist Pip – a small middle-aged man wearing a white suit and a jaunty Fedora – sat silently in an oversized armchair. Everything, except Pip, was oversized in the Maestro mansion, including Ralph.

  Ignoring me as usual, he pounced on Felix like a black panther trapping its prey.

  “I am outraged and horrified,” he bellowed. “This filth is purely a ploy to embarrass me. What are you doing about it?”

  “We’re hitting them with an injunction to stop next week’s issue,” Felix said, calm as usual.

  “Next week’s issue!” Ralph roared. “Are you telling me there’s more?” He turned angrily on Pip. “Did you know this?”

  Pip shook his head, his expression hang-dog.

  “’Fraid so,” Felix said apologetically. “Once these rags get a hold of a story, they hang on until all the blood is drained from the body.”

  Even I was surprised that there was more to come. I’d read the offending headline story on the way over, and it was pretty tawdry. How much worse could it get? And why hadn’t Felix mentioned to me that there was more? It pisses me off when he leaves me out of the loop.

  “Have you seen next week’s story?” I asked.

  Ralph’s heavy-lidded movie-star eyes swiveled to take me in. “You,” he boomed in his loud voice. “Weren’t you with my daughter in New York? Surely you knew what was going on?”

  “I . . . uh . . . merely escorted them back to L.A.,” I explained.

  “It’s her goddamn drug-addicted boyfriend,” Ralph thundered. “He’s the one that got her into this. I should put a hit out on the cocky bastard.”

  Pip huddled deeper into his chair. Felix and I exchanged shocked glances. Had Ralph really just said that?

  Yes. Unfortunately he had.

  Pip cleared his throat. “Be careful what you say, Ralph. Walls have ears, and if Annabelle’s boyfriend should end up on a slab in the morgue . . .”

  He didn’t have to say any more, the implication was quite clear.

  “Where are they?” Ralph yelled. “I called the Beverly Hills Hotel and I was informed that they won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  I remembered the text I’d received from Annabelle saying they were off to Vegas to s
ee Zeena’s one-night show and would be back in time for the funeral. Annabelle had added a cryptic P.S. stating that she expected me to accompany them to the funeral. Seems I’m a popular funeral date. First Felix wanted me to accompany him, and now Annabelle is insisting that I go with her and Frankie.

  I relayed the information about Vegas to Ralph.

  “Vegas!” he steamed. “For what? To pick up more dirty little tramps for their degrading business? How do you think this garbage reflects on me? I’m a big star, not the father of some goddamn whore. This could ruin my career.”

  Talk about exaggeration! Ralph was obviously a master.

  “They’ll be back early tomorrow,” I offered, hoping to diffuse the situation.

  “That’s not soon enough,” Ralph announced ominously. Once again he turned to Pip. “Get me a plane,” he commanded, as if he was requesting a cup of coffee. “We’re going to Vegas.”

  * * *

  One private plane later and we’re all on our way to Vegas. No time to go home and change. No time to do anything except call my neighbor – a martial arts expert – and ask him to walk Amy.

  Felix wasn’t pleased. I had a strong suspicion he too would’ve appreciated changing clothes – maybe put on a less colorful pair of shoes.

  Pip had arranged for Ralph to have use of a studio plane, but once Ralph was aboard he acted as if he owned it.

  As soon as we were airborne, Felix brought up the subject of George Henderson.

  “Of course I knew she was seeing him,” Ralph said, loud and abrasive.

  “You mean you were aware it was him in the tabloid photos?” Felix asked, quite put out. “Why didn’t you tell the police? Or at least you should’ve mentioned it to me. I am your lawyer.”

  “Gemma cherished her privacy,” Ralph replied, lighting up a foul-smelling cigar. “She didn’t want anyone knowing that she might be considering a few nips and tucks.”

  So that’s how she’d explained the intimate photos to her husband. Very clever.

  “The detectives need to know,” Felix said, a tad sharply. He was a stickler for always doing the correct thing.

  “They’re detectives, let them find out for themselves,” Ralph said, puffing on his cigar and blowing noxious fumes throughout the cabin before downing two large Scotches in a row.