Shaquita put down her brownie and squinted at Felicity. “Who is she, then?”
“Willow Price.”
“Willow who?”
“Willow Price. Go ahead and google her. I’m telling you, she’s famous.”
“You sure about this?”
“Positive,” Felicity said with a triumphant smirk. “Do you think it’s okay if I ask for her autograph?”
“Certainly not,” Shaquita said sternly. “Right now the poor dear doesn’t even know her own name. She has a mild concussion, so it might take time before she remembers anything. We should inform Dr. Ferris an’ the police, so they can go about finding a relative or a husband.”
“Don’t think she’s married,” Felicity stated, wondering if she dared to take a selfie with the famous girl. “I’ll go check Wikipedia and find out.”
Shaquita frowned. “Wiki what?”
“It’s a place on the Internet where you can discover everything about anyone,” Felicity explained, thinking, Old people. They know nothing. “I might even be able to find her address or contact info.”
“Leave it to the police,” Shaquita admonished. “It’s not our job.”
Well, it might not be your job, Felicity thought. But why shouldn’t I make some money out of this?
An avid consumer of the tabloids, Felicity had often read about how they offered money for inside information, and what was Willow Price lying in a hospital bed in Barstow if not information?
Shaquita had no clue what a coup this was, and Felicity was determined to take full advantage of the situation. After a few moments she slipped away from the older nurse, who was now paging Dr. Ferris, and returned to Willow’s room with a paper cup of water and a straw.
Willow was attempting to struggle into a sitting position and not having much luck. “What’s wrong with my leg?” she whined. “What happened to me?”
“It’s broken,” Felicity said matter-of-factly, feeding her some water through the straw. “No biggie. Better a broken leg than dead.”
Willow’s eyes filled with tears. “Where’s my mom? I want my mom.”
“I guess you must’ve been driving?” Felicity said, probing for information.
“What?”
“Like I bet you were coming from some wild Hollywood party,” Felicity said, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of it all. “A party chock-full of movie stars.”
“Huh?” Willow mumbled.
“Do you know Justin Bieber?” Felicity continued. “I’ve read he’s supposed to be trouble, but it doesn’t matter to me. I like him anyway. Do you think he’ll ever get back with Selena?”
“My head hurts,” Willow said, pushing the straw away.
Abandoning the cup of water, Felicity decided it was time to whip out her cell phone. Switching it to camera mode, she began snapping a few random shots.
Willow raised up her hand to shield her face. “What’re you doing?” she cried out.
“We need photos,” Felicity said with an authoritative nod of her head as she moved in and took a couple of selfies next to Willow.
“For what?”
“For … um … the doctors.”
“Doctors,” Willow murmured, and once more she shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Time to make a phone call, Felicity thought.
* * *
There was nothing Jeff Williams liked better than a scoop. And Willow Price languishing in a hospital near Barstow was definitely a fresh story, which nobody else had. After getting the call from some young nurse, he’d thoroughly checked the Internet to see if anything had broken. Nothing. Nada. The Willow Price story was all his.
He called the nurse back. She e-mailed him the photos of Willow lying in a hospital bed. After seeing the photos, he’d offered her five hundred dollars not to talk to anyone else. She’d been so thrilled that he realized he could’ve gotten away with offering her two hundred.
I’m too freaking generous, he thought. Mustn’t make the same mistake again.
* * *
Pammy was luxuriating in Willow’s bed when the house phone rang. Most people didn’t have house phones anymore, but when Willow had rented the place it was there, so she’d kept it as a backup for when she forgot to charge her cell.
Pammy picked up and said a cautious “Hello.”
A male voice came back with “Who am I speaking to?”
Pammy considered the question. Could the voice belong to movie star Ralph Maestro? If it was him, as Willow’s mom, shouldn’t she tell him off for sleeping with her daughter? The age difference between them was disgusting. Surely he’d be more comfortable with a woman like her? A sexually mature woman with plenty of life experience.
“This is Willow Price’s mother,” Pammy said, putting on her best posh voice. “To whom am I speaking?”
Instead of announcing himself as movie star Ralph Maestro, the man said, “Jeff Williams from Truth and Fact.”
Truth and Fact magazine was Pammy’s bible. She read it from cover to cover every week. Was there anything better than devouring stories about celebrities who’d had horrible plastic surgery, and cheating spouses readying themselves for multimillion-dollar divorces?
“Oh,” she said.
“Hello, Willow’s mom,” he said.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Williams?” she said, still with the posh voice.
“We’ve received a report that Willow was in a bad car accident,” Jeff said. “I’m leaving for the hospital right now and I was thinking that you might wanna come along with me so’s we can run an exclusive family story.”
Car crash. Hospital. Exclusive family story. Pammy’s mouth dropped open. “Is … is she all right?”
“Banged up a bit, from the photos I’ve seen. Nothing life-threatening.” He paused, then said, “Of course we’re gonna pay you.” After another pause, he added, “You on?”
Pammy was already out of bed. “How much?” she asked.
And so a deal was made.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Everything was under control, and yet everything wasn’t. Lucky felt it, and she hoped Chris did too, for her intuition had never failed her.
She told Lennie about the matching note card. He didn’t seem at all concerned. “It’s gotta be a coincidence,” he said. “Besides, we’ve got security up the ass. According to Chris, this place is on lockdown. Nobody’s getting in without a pass, so no worries.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, forcing herself to sound calm, but filled with uncertainty because she had such a strong hunch that this two-bit king from a foreign country was in some way responsible for Gino’s murder. “Anyway,” she added. “Do me a favor and go be with the kids while I check on a couple of things.”
“What things?” Lennie asked, exasperated. “You know it’s time to get the service started. We can’t keep everyone waiting.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said, remaining calm, but seething inside.
Lennie left and Ian arrived—having been summoned by Chris.
Ian took one look at their severe faces and realized that something was up.
“Shouldn’t the service be starting now?” Ian said. “I am informed that all the guests are seated and everything is ready to go.”
“What time did King Emir leave the hotel?” Chris asked curtly.
Ian hesitated for a moment, sensing trouble ahead. He should’ve informed Chris that the king was still in residence, only it hadn’t seemed that important.
“The … uh … king and a few of his people decided to stay,” Ian said, nervously clearing his throat. “However, not to worry. His man, Faisal, assured me that they will not be leaving their accommodations. The king understands that a private funeral is taking place. He will not disturb us.”
“A private funeral of which he has a bird’s-eye view,” Lucky pointed out. “I’m sure you’re aware that the penthouse suites overlook the gardens where the service is taking place. Did he request those rooms?” sh
e added sharply.
Ian tried to remember. As the general manager, he didn’t usually deal with normal bookings, but yes—he did recall that the king’s travel representative had been very explicit about the king and his entourage occupying the penthouse floors.
“Yes. His man, Faisal, was here ahead of time to make sure the accommodations were exactly what King Emir required,” Ian said.
Lucky experienced a shudder of apprehension. “What date did they arrive?” she asked, although she was pretty sure that she already knew the answer.
Ian checked his computer and told her the date. It was the same day Gino was shot. Of course it was, and she didn’t have to look it up to know that Gino’s murder had taken place exactly one year after Armand had met his end in her hotel.
Why hadn’t she thought about this before? Why hadn’t she put King fucking Emir on Gino’s enemy list?
Because there was no reason for her to have done that. She wasn’t responsible for Armand’s death; he’d been targeted by someone else.
Only the king didn’t know that, and now it seemed that he held her responsible, which is why he could’ve ordered Gino’s murder—to punish her, although surely she should have been the target?
Perhaps she still was. Something was coming. What devious plan had been put into motion?
She turned to Chris, certain that she was on the right track. “It might be smart to get everybody out of here,” she said, her voice low and steady.
“That’s impossible,” Chris replied. “There are four hundred of your guests on the premises. What’s the threat? Tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
“If I knew, I’d tell you. But Chris, something’s about to go down. Something big. I can feel it. We should try to move everybody.”
“Move them where?”
“Anywhere away from here.”
“People will panic. You know that.”
“They’ll panic even more if anything happens.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sure this king person has something planned.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I suggest we pay the man a visit and find out exactly what it is.”
Lucky nodded, her face grim. “Let’s go.”
* * *
King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan was comfortably seated on the penthouse terrace overlooking the sea of people gathered below. His grandson Tariq sat beside him. On a glass table between them sat a two-way radio device and a cell phone. The king had ordered Tariq to touch neither of them.
It was a beautiful day—a perfect day, in fact, and as soon as the ceremony began it would be even better.
Tariq was an impatient boy. He asked too many questions. He wanted to know why he couldn’t have left with the others. He wanted to know what they were waiting for.
“You will see,” King Emir said, resplendent in a flowing headdress and a floor-length white robe, the hem decorated with intricate gold and silver embroidery. “You will understand.”
“Understand what?” Tariq argued.
“You will finally understand the meaning of retribution.”
Tariq didn’t understand at all. He was anxious to return to Akramshar and show off his new toys to his friends. He had in his possession the latest iPads and iPhones, and stacks of CDs, DVDs, and video games, plus all his downloaded music. American car magazines, American girlie magazines, and suitcases packed full of the hottest running shoes, sweatshirts, hoodies, and baggy pants. It was only on formal occasions at the palace that he had to wear the traditional long robe—other than at those times, he much preferred to run around in Western clothes. Tariq had fallen in love with America, and he had thoughts to persuade his grandfather to allow him to attend an American college. His father, Armand, had been hugely successful in the United States, and Tariq wished to follow in his father’s footsteps. Even better, his grandmother was American, so he could live with her.
“Why are we still here when everybody else has left?” Tariq asked for the third time.
The king was getting tired of the boy’s questions. Way below him he could see all the guests assembled for Gino Santangelo’s funeral ceremony. He beckoned Faisal and asked why there was a delay, why things weren’t starting.
Faisal shrugged. He didn’t know why. “Soon, my king,” he said, bowing slightly. “Very soon.”
* * *
The two young men, Nazeem and Salman, had been working in the kitchen at the Magiriano for the past nine months. Both in their early twenties, they were polite and extremely hard workers—unlike some of the other kitchen help who were constantly moaning and groaning about anything and everything.
Nazeem and Salman kept to themselves; they did not mix. Occasionally one of their coworkers would attempt to lure them out with promises of girls, booze, and strippers. Partying did not interest either of them. They had let it be known that it was against their religion to smoke, drink, or fornicate, unless the sex was with a woman who was their wife. According to them, they were in America to save money until they had enough to return to their homeland, where they both claimed to have a fiancée waiting.
Executive chef Kurt Schaefer, originally from Switzerland, was pleased that he had a couple of dedicated workers in his kitchen. He found most of the American help to be lazy and slapdash. He preferred hiring foreigners, who never complained about the long hours they were asked to work.
They’d started out as general kitchen help, but Chef Kurt had soon promoted Nazeem and Salman. They appreciated their promotions, working twice as hard as anyone else. Chef Kurt had grown to trust and depend on them.
Now, today of all days, with the funeral service taking place, followed by an elaborate party, they were late.
Chef Kurt was livid. This was no day for them to let him down when they were both supposed to be on duty—helping with the hors d’oeuvres and buffet tables in the grand ballroom.
Chef Kurt stomped around his kitchen and hoped they would turn up soon, for when they did, he had a few choice words waiting.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
On the way up to the penthouse suites in the elevator with Chris and an agitated Ian, Lucky called Lennie.
“What’s going on?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “The crowd is getting antsy. They’re not used to sitting around waiting. Everyone’s expecting you, Lucky. We gotta get the service started.”
“I told you—I’m looking into something,” she said. “And I was thinking you might want to get the kids out of there.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “Do you really expect me to get up and walk the family out of here for no reason?”
“Why not?”
“Come on, Lucky, you’re being paranoid. And for your information, Max is not here, and Danny tells me that she and her boss never checked into the Four Seasons last night. So if you want to look into something—look into that.”
“I’ll call you back,” she said abruptly as the elevator stopped at the penthouse floor.
Now she had something else to worry about. Max really was on the missing list, and that wasn’t good. Could this be part of King Emir’s plan? Because she was now absolutely positive that he had one.
If anything happened to Max …
Two security guards were stationed outside the doors to the main Presidential suite, both dark-skinned men with full beards. They wore formal suits and stony expressions.
“We’re here to see King Emir,” Chris said, flashing his detective badge as he approached them.
The two men exchanged glances before the taller one stepped forward and said, “Our king is not receiving.”
“I don’t give a fuck about what your king is doing,” Chris responded, his friendly demeanor long gone. “This is urgent hotel business.”
A nervous Ian hovered behind him while Lucky assessed the situation. Were the guards armed? Possibly. Were they prepared to use their weapons? Possibly not. If they were in their own country,
they wouldn’t hesitate, but here in America they would think twice.
She moved toward the door. One of the guards put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back.
She spun around, eyes dark and deadly. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she spat. “I own this hotel, and I can have you all thrown out. I am here to speak to King Emir about his son Armand, so let me through or you will live to regret it.”
For a woman to speak to them in such a way was a disgrace. If she was in Akramshar, she would be stoned to death for speaking so boldly.
But this wasn’t Akramshar, this was America, and they had been warned to be polite and stay out of trouble.
Lucky moved toward the door of the presidential suite again, and this time nobody tried to stop her.
* * *
“What is going on?” Senator Richmond snapped at his security detail. “Why isn’t this service progressing? I’m getting goddamn tired of sitting around.”
“I’m sorry, Senator,” the man replied. “The word is they’re waiting for Ms. Santangelo.”
Lucky Santangelo, Senator Richmond thought. Of course it’s her holding everything up. It would be.
How he loathed his former daughter-in-law. She’d never conformed to what he’d expected of her. From the moment she’d married Craven and moved into their house in Washington, she’d been nothing but trouble. Damn Gino Santangelo for forcing the little bitch into their lives. Gino had wanted to get rid of her, and Peter Richmond soon understood why. Teenage Lucky was willful and full of big ideas; she’d had no intention of settling down and giving Craven a family. The divorce had been a blessing as far as Peter was concerned.
Today Gino was gone, and Peter’s big worry was the whereabouts of the incriminating photos Gino had held over him all these years. Did Lucky have them? Would she use them if it served her purpose?
He was in Las Vegas—a city he hated—at Gino’s memorial service because he had to find out. He was ready to make a deal with Lucky to retrieve the photos, and this had seemed like the perfect opportunity to talk to her.
Now she was keeping everyone waiting. Showing all the important people who was the boss.
All these years later nothing had changed. She was still a little bitch.
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