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chapter 1
THE MEDIA WERE IN A frenzy. A beautiful blond sex symbol, Salli T. Turner, star of TV’s Teach!, had been murdered, and the circus was in full swing. Her luxurious mansion in Pacific Palisades was surrounded on all sides by TV trucks, their crews, reporters, and the general populace held back behind police lines.
The slaying of Salli and her houseman, Froo, was already as high profile as the Nicole Simpson/Ron Goldman killings. The media liked nothing better than a good, juicy, violent murder to hang onto, and Salli T. Turner was the perfect victim. A blond goddess, she was known on every continent as the girl in the black rubber swimsuit, thanks to the worldwide success of her TV show and her many photo spreads in numerous popular magazines—including three Playboy covers.
Salli had been married twice. Her current husband was Bobby Skorch, a man whose profession was performing dangerous stunts. When Bobby had returned home from Vegas at three A.M., Tucci had confronted him with the shocking news. Bobby had appeared to be so distraught that he’d locked himself in the master bedroom and refused to come out.
Salli’s former husband, Eddie Stoner, a smalltime actor, was currently under arrest for parking violations. The arrest, however, was a scam—the police had wanted to get him into custody so they could question him, and thirty-four unpaid tickets had seemed a good way to accomplish it.
Detective Chuck Tucci had only managed two hours of sleep the previous night and was now feeling the effects. He was also aware that very shortly he’d have to give some kind of press conference to satisfy the hordes of media who hovered outside the murdered star’s home like hungry vultures waiting for something to be thrown into their gaping mouths. Detective Tucci knew exactly what he’d like to throw—several hand grenades.
Early in the morning his understanding wife, Faye, had packed him a care package—one corned beef, lettuce and tomato sandwich, his favorite, and a carton of her homemade coleslaw, which she knew he loved. He’d missed dinner the night before, and when he’d finally arrived home at some ungodly hour, Faye had been asleep. As soon as he’d made enough noise to wake her, though, she got up, and in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be on a diet, she’d hurried down to the kitchen and fixed him a delicious plate of scrambled eggs. Faye was a good woman, also a most attractive one; feisty, with hispanic blood, she was a pocket-sized Venus, with a mass of black hair and kind brown eyes. Detective Tucci often gave thanks for the day he met her: he’d been investigating a murder in Malibu, and she had been the social worker sent to collect the two children in the house. Three months later they were married.
Last night he’d wolfed down the plate of eggs she’d fixed him and begged for more. “You can’t eat anything else this late,” Faye had scolded, wagging a disapproving finger at him. “It’s bad for your stomach.”
Bad for his stomach? Given half the chance, he would’ve devoured everything in sight, in spite of the fact that he’d spent the evening in the company of two dead bodies—Salli T. Turner, hacked to death by her frenzied killer, and Froo, her houseman, shot in the face—two bloodied bodies he’d had to inspect and watch being photographed. Finally, when forensics were finished, he’d observed as the bodies were hauled off to be autopsied, and then he prowled around the house, making copious notes in his worn blue leather notebook. After that he interviewed the neighbors, and now, in the morning sunshine, all that was left were the chalk marks to show exactly where the unfortunate victims had fallen.
Detective Tucci shook his head and tried not to think about food. His care package was sitting in the kitchen where he had left it, and there it would stay until he got desperate. He was now waiting to interview the infamous Bobby Skorch. A few hours ago, Bobby’s lawyer, Marty Steiner, arrived at the house and rushed straight to the bedroom, where he’d been huddled with his client for the last two hours. Marty was smoothness personified, with his slicked-back silver hair, smug face and expensive jogging suit. A “dream team” reject, he was a man obviously determined to hit the headlines. One look and Tucci had immediately tagged him “Hollywood lawyer,” although he’d promised himself not to make such quick judgments. Faced with Marty Steiner, the temptation proved irresistible.
He glanced at his watch, noting that the brown leather strap was worn and that he needed to buy a new one. Maybe next weekend he and Faye would go shopping. Faye loved wandering along the Third Street promenade, checking out the stores, and as long as they got to stop for a hamburger or a hot dog, he didn’t object.
Now that his mind was back on food, his sandwich, tightly packaged in Saran Wrap, sitting quietly in the kitchen, was beckoning him. Finally he gave up and hurried into the kitchen.
Salli T. Turner’s plump, middle-aged Filipino maid, Eppie, sat at the end of a long marble counter, crying into a glass of milk and a plate full of cookies. Earlier he had questioned her; between sobs she told him she didn’t know anything. According to Eppie, she arrived at the house every morning at eight A.M. and departed at three P.M. When she left yesterday, Missy Salli—as she called her employer—had been happily having lunch out by the pool. He’d asked her about Bobby Skorch. “They very much in love,” Eppie had answered tearily. “Always laughing.”
Well Bobby Skorch wasn’t laughing now, Tucci thought grimly. And he wasn’t talking either. Not that he had any obligation to do so—but if he didn’t, it would cast a deep pall of suspicion over him.
Tucci’s eyes swiveled to the end of the marble counter where he’d left his sandwich. It was gone. So was his carton of homemade coleslaw. “I… uh … had some food I left here,” he said, trying to ignore his rumbling stomach.
“What?” Eppie said rudely, like she couldn’t believe he was thinking of food at a time like this.
“A sandwich,” he said, clearing his throat. “And a carton of coleslaw.”
“Oh,” Eppie answered vaguely, lowering her swollen and red-rimmed eyes. “I didn’t know it was yours. I ate it.”
“You ate it?” Tucci said incredulously.
“Sorry,” Eppie said, stuffing another cookie into her mouth. “It was only an itty bitty snack.” And then, noticing that the detective was not pleased, she burst into sobs again, almost choking on her cookie.
“Goddamn it!” Tucci mumbled under his breath, just as his partner, Lee Eccles—summoned back from a fishing trip—arrived.
“Jeez!” Lee exclaimed. “There’s a friggin’ circus goin’ on outside. What in hell happened here?”
chapter 2
MADISON CASTELLI SAT in front of her laptop at the kitchen table, diligently attempting to compose a story about Salli T. Turner. When they’d first met, Madison had considered Salli to be the definitive Hollywood bimbo, but after a while she’d changed her mind, and they got along fine. Later on, when Salli had found out that Madison worked for the high-concept magazine Manhattan Style, she’d immediately wanted to be in it, so they’d arranged to get together for an interview.
The day of Salli’s brutal murder, Madison had lunched with Salli at her palatial Pacific Palisades mansion, where they’d acted like a couple of girlfriends, chatting about everyone and everything. Actually, Salli had done most of the talking, while Madison listened—but that’s what good journalists did, and Salli certainly had plenty to say.
Now she was dead, and M
adison sat at her laptop staring blankly at the screen. She already had gone to Salli’s house and told the detective in charge of the investigation everything she knew. She also had given him a copy of the audiotape she’d made of her interview with Salli. He’d said he would listen to it later and call her if there was anything he wanted to discuss with her.
Pushing back her long dark hair, she sighed deeply. In a way, it was probably best to get it all out on paper, yet in another way, she was so upset by Salli’s death that she wasn’t sure she could remain completely unattached.
Drumming her fingers on the table, she wondered what to say about the girl everybody thought they knew but didn’t really know at all. Salli T. Turner, the sizzling platinum blonde who regularly appeared on E. T. and Hard Copy, and was a staple in every tabloid—photographed running into parties, emerging from clubs and discos, clad in revealing tight rubber dresses and exceptionally high heels, her bountiful cleavage always on show. She seemed always to be waving and laughing, her megawatt smile lighting up the night.
And yet, beneath the boobs and abundance of blond hair had lurked a very simple girl, a very nice girl. And even though they’d only known each other a short time, Madison had liked her a lot, for Salli had possessed a naïveté and freshness which was surprisingly endearing.
Abruptly she closed her laptop. She didn’t feel like writing; she felt like crying. This horrific murder was so senseless. Why had it taken place? What had Salli done to merit such a frenzy of violence?
Madison knew what she should do—forget about the murders and concentrate on Freddie Leon, since he was the main thrust of her trip to L.A., and she’d done virtually nothing about arranging an interview. Of course, the elusive Freddie Leon was notorious for not granting interviews, but Victor Simons had assured her he could set it up.
Yeah, Victor, she thought sourly. When?
To take her mind off Salli, Madison decided to call Freddie Leon’s longtime secretary, Ria Santiago—whose private home number she’d gotten from Max Steele. She had to stop thinking about Salli; it was all too dark and depressing, and she’d been depressed enough when she’d arrived in L.A.—what with David, her live-in love of two years, walking out on her. Damn David! Why couldn’t he have been honest with her? The cowardly skunk had gone out for a pack of cigarettes and failed to come back. Oh yes, he’d left her a stupid note about how he couldn’t deal with commitment, then five weeks later he’d gotten married!
Men! She’d had it with them. Why couldn’t she find one like her father, Michael, who at fifty-eight was the best looking and nicest man she knew? He and her stunningly beautiful mother, Stella, had an idyllic marriage. They’d been together thirty years and hardly ever spent a night apart. Madison missed them since they’d given up their elegant New York apartment and moved to Connecticut. It was far too long since she’d spent a weekend with them, and as soon as she was through in L.A., that’s exactly what she planned on doing.
Everyone told Madison she was a female version of her father, which secretly pleased her because she adored her dad—he was powerful and charming, two qualities she greatly admired. Besides, she had no desire to compete with her mother, who was fair haired and deliciously feminine. Madison liked being tall and rangy with smooth olive skin, jet-black hair and direct, almond-shaped eyes. And then there were her lips—men fell in love with her lips, which were full and seductive and ever so slightly pouty. However, Madison was a no-nonsense girl who played her looks down and concentrated on being smart. She loved competing with the boys and coming out on top. Maybe that’s what frightened David away, she thought ruefully. Couldn’t take the competition.
Before she could punch out Ria Santiago’s number, Cole, Natalie’s fitness-trainer brother, came into the room. Cole was gay in a fiercely masculine way and much too good-looking for his own good. Like everyone else in L.A. on this quiet Sunday morning he was thinking about her violent death.
“Hey,” he said, reaching for the coffeepot.
“Hey,” Madison responded.
“Didja go see the detective?” Cole asked, pouring himself a mug of black coffee.
“I sure did.”
“Anythin’ new?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“It’s shit,” Cole mumbled, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Salli didn’t deserve to get taken out like that.”
“I know,” Madison said in somber agreement.
Cole reached for the TV clicker and tuned into the E! channel, where they were already showing a quickly put together retrospective. There was Salli in red. Salli in blue. Salli in skintight. Salli in her famous black rubber swimsuit. And then the male star of Teach! appeared, an actor past his prime, who still thought he was a major stud. “Everyone was in love with Salli,” the actor said, Hollywood casual in well-fitting linen pants and a chest-baring silk shirt, his capped teeth catching the light. “Salli was a very special person.”
Commercial break.
“Would you switch to Natalie’s channel?” Madison asked.
Cole obliged. There was Natalie on the screen, vibrantly pretty, dressed in a shocking-pink jacket and short white dress.
“The Salli everyone knew and loved came from a little town outside of Chicago,” Natalie said. “And we have learned from family and friends that ever since Salli took her first steps, she wanted to be an actress.”
Cut to baby pictures of Salli. A fat little cutie. And then on came a “friend of the family”—a stone-faced woman with badly dyed red hair and an eyelid twitch. “I knew Salli since she was two years old,” croaked the woman, her voice a gin-soaked rasp. “An’ to know her was to love her.”
“Jesus!” Madison murmured. “They’ll be crawling out from everywhere.”
“Who?” Cole asked.
“People who met her once in their lives. It’s their chance for glory.”
“Guess you’re right.”
“It happens every time somebody famous dies.”
“Yeah,” Cole agreed.
“Where’s her family? Her mother?”
Cole rubbed his faintly stubbled chin. “Didn’t she tell you about her mom when you interviewed her?”
“She hedged—I didn’t pursue.”
Cole took a deep breath, his handsome features deadly serious. “Salli’s mom was murdered when she was ten. It was her big secret.”
Madison felt a cold chill creeping up her spine. “How do you know this?” she asked.
Cole was silent for a moment before replying. “There was a time Salli an’ I were pretty close,” he said, refusing to make eye contact. “She kinda viewed me as a challenge—y’know, the good-looking guy who wasn’t into having sex with her. It drove her nutty. Salli liked to think she could get any man she zeroed in on. Sex was her big validation, her comfort zone.”
Madison raised an eyebrow. “And did she get you?”
“We did it once,” Cole admitted sheepishly. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Natalie.”
“Of course not.”
“It was before she got really famous.”
“And that’s when her then-husband, Eddie, became jealous of you?”
“He suspected something was goin’ on, even though he knew I was gay. So he made her stop using me as her trainer.”
“I don’t get it,” Madison said, frowning. “If you’re totally gay, how did she—”
“Hey,” Cole said, throwing up his well-muscled arms. “I’m gay, not dead. And Salli knew exactly what to do to turn me on. She was an expert at sex. It was her game, and man—that girl always played to win.”
Madison nodded understanding^. Nothing really surprised her. And Cole was right, Salli had gotten off on all the attention.
Cole stood up. “I’m goin’ for a hike,” he said. “Wanna come?”
She shook her head; everyone was so energetic in L.A. Didn’t they know how to relax? “I’ll pass,” she said. “I’m hoping to interview Freddie Leon’s secretary.”
“You, gi
rl, are missin’ out,” Cole said, heading for the door. “Nothin’ like a good hike in the hills to set your head straight.”
“Thanks for the offer,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot and refilling her cup. “Maybe some other time.”
As soon as he left, Madison called Ria Santiago, identified herself and told the secretary she was writing a piece on Freddie Leon for Manhattan Style and would like an opportunity to sit down and talk.
Ria’s response was cold. “Does Mr. Leon know about this?”
“I’m hoping to meet with him tomorrow.”
Ria: “I doubt it. Mr. Leon does not give interviews.”
“I’m sure he’ll make an exception.”
“I’m sure he won’t.”
And the bitch hung up.
chapter 3
KRISTIN CARR SAT IN FRONT of her dressing-table mirror, staring blankly at her blond and beautiful reflection. She knew that at twenty-three she was undeniably gorgeous, but she also knew that what was reflected was merely her outer image. Inside she was a whore, and she was certain that everyone knew it.
Prostitute, hooker, call girl, whore. All names that described her profession.
I sell my body for the almighty dollar, Kristin thought sadly. I allow men to use me any way they want. I’m meat. They devour me. And everyone is happy. Everyone except me.
The sinister Mister X crossed her mind and she shuddered. His sick demands were beyond mere kinky, but he paid well for the privilege of humiliating her. And that’s why Darlene had phoned the night before, leaving a message on her machine that Mister X had asked to see her again—even though she’d been with him earlier that same evening.
The problem was that Kristin had taken it upon herself to have a life—much as her inner voice had warned her not to. Instead of listening to her gut feeling, she had gone ahead and fallen in lust with Jake Sica—a laid-back, award-winning photographer, whom she had met in Neiman Marcus. One and a half dates later they were in bed, her bed, then last night came the phone call from Darlene—loud and clear on her answering machine.