Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  “So . . . Rick,” he ventured. “You an’ me should get together.”

  “Yeah, really,” Rick said, nodding. “I’d like that.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Frankie suggested. “We could do lunch around the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I got a business proposition you might find interesting.”

  “Why not?” Rick said. “I’m always open for new ideas.”

  Frankie smiled. He was king of the freaking connections. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and already he was in action.

  Life was good.

  Life was very good.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Denver

  I received a text from Sam and read it on my way to the office. Miss my red-nosed Los Angelino. Our time together was special. You’re special. Who am I supposed to make pancakes for now?

  A smile spread across my face. I couldn’t help liking that he missed me. Well, he must do, to send a text like that.

  I contemplated my reply. Had to hit exactly the right note, couldn’t sound wimpy. I finally came up with – Hmm . . . memories of special pancakes. I’m certainly in the mood for more.

  Ambiguous. Just right.

  I was still smiling when I entered the office.

  Mister Shark Teeth soon wiped the smile off my face with a tart lecture about the importance of client/lawyer relationships.

  I stood firm. Told him enough was enough, and that I was no trained babysitter.

  He finally accepted the fact that I was done, and then informed me that we would both be attending the funeral on Thursday as a show of respect. I agreed, even though it would mean missing my family dinner.

  I finally made it into my office and summoned Megan – my own personal intern who unfortunately was not the competent assistant I had promised Annabelle. Megan was the daughter of a business associate of Mister Shark Teeth, and she was about as dense as they come. I’d tried to teach her a thing or two, but getting through to her was like slogging through the desert at noon in ski-clothes.

  Megan was a Valley Girl with nothing but shopping, clubbing and boyfriends on her mind. Her heroes were Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton. She worshipped Zac Efron and considered George Clooney and Brad Pitt to be two very old men.

  Actually, after thinking about it, she’s probably the perfect person to hang out with Annabelle. Two spoiled brats together.

  I sent her off to the Maestro mansion with a brisk warning to behave herself and try to represent the firm in a suitable fashion.

  Megan was thrilled to escape boring office duties.

  After she’d left, I sat at my desk and reviewed the work I had piling up. A shoplifting case involving a TV has-been and a small boutique. And an aggravated assault case between a rapper and a fine upstanding member of the paparazzi. Nothing too exciting, but since both cases involved fairly well-known people, I would try to make the most of them.

  In a way I regretted the fact that Ralph had not been accused of his wife’s murder. It would’ve been one hell of a case to help defend. Felix would’ve done an excellent job, and I would’ve been right there beside him watching and learning.

  After a while I called the vet to inquire about my dog, Amy Winehouse. Amy did not take kindly to being boarded at a kennel, so whenever I traveled I boarded her at my vet, because they treated her like the queen she thought she was.

  “I’ll pick Amy up later today,” I informed the receptionist.

  “Uh, Miss Jones, your friend came in with his cat yesterday morning, and when he spotted Amy he said he’d take her. He told me you knew about it and everything was arranged.”

  “My friend?”

  “Mr Meyer.”

  For a moment shock and fury overcame me. Mr Meyer. Josh Meyer. My ex live-in.

  “What?” I managed.

  “Amy seemed pleased to see him,” the receptionist said. “Her tail was wagging like crazy. Is it okay that I released her?”

  No, it’s not okay, you stupid cow. Josh always wanted to keep Amy and I told him not a chance in hell. Hanging onto Amy was my way of punishing Josh, letting him know that he couldn’t always get his own way. And now he’s just taken her. Well, screw him. This is war.

  “Uh . . . actually, in the future, please do not release my dog to anyone but me,” I said, trying not to lose my temper.

  “I’m so sorry,” the receptionist wailed. “I do hope—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ll deal with it.”

  After slamming down the phone, I called Josh on his cell. Fortunately he had not changed numbers, but unfortunately I didn’t get him, I got his damn voicemail.

  “This is Denver,” I said, employing my best ice-cold voice. “You took Amy, and I do not appreciate it. You know we agreed the dog would stay with me – so what the fuck, Josh. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  I clicked off steaming at his audacity. How dare he kidnap my dog.

  * * *

  By five o’clock Josh had still not called back.

  Sonofabitch!

  Dognapper!

  Major asshole!

  I realized a confrontation was in order if I wished to retrieve Amy. I knew where Josh worked, taking care of the limbs of some of the biggest sports stars in the city, but I figured going to his home would be a better bet to get my dog back. So a few minutes after five I took off and drove to his house in Hancock Park. Yes, after we split, Josh had purchased a house – something he’d never considered doing while we were together.

  I hadn’t visited his house before, although I have to admit that after I found out he’d bought it, I did do a couple of drive-bys. Not that I cared, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I’d wanted to see what he’d been saving up for.

  From outside, the house looked nice. It was set back from the street with a well-kept green lawn and plenty of trees. The house itself featured Old Colonial-style architecture, quite impressive.

  I parked on the street, marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

  A frighteningly skinny short woman with long golden curls and a tough expression opened the door. She was in her late twenties, with the obligatory fake L.A. tan. She was dressed designer casual from head to toe.

  “Yes?” she asked, one hand on her bony hip. Her tone was as friendly as a bucket full of shit.

  “Hi,” I said, attempting to peer past her. “Is Josh around?”

  She narrowed her flinty over-mascaraed eyes. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do, actually.”

  “And you are?”

  “Denver.” No sign of recognition crossed her pinched face. “Denver Jones,” I added, because I am sure he must have told her about me. Still nothing. “Josh’s ex.”

  The information finally hit her pea-brain. Am I being unfair? I don’t think so. She’s an idiot, I can just tell.

  “He has my dog,” I said evenly. “I want it back.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Miss Skinny. “I can’t stand the mangy creature. Dogs bring out all my worst allergies.”

  As if to prove she was telling the truth, she sneezed twice and glared at me as if it was my fault.

  Lucky Josh, he’d found himself a winner.

  “Where is Amy?” I asked, tightly wound.

  “Amy?” she questioned vaguely.

  “My dog.”

  “Oh, that thing. I locked it in the shed at the back.”

  My fury was slowly building. I wanted to smack her. “Why did you do that?”

  “I told you. Allergies,” Miss Skinny said, stifling a yawn. “Plus the stupid dog never stops barking. How do you stand it?”

  “Amy is barking because you’ve locked her up,” I said. “Where’s Josh?”

  “On his way home, I guess.”

  “Then I’ll take my dog and leave.”

  “Does Josh know?”

  “Does Josh know what?”

  “That you’re taking the dog.”

  “Yes,” I said shortly. “I
t’s all arranged.”

  “Well then,” she said. “You’d better come in, ’cause I’m not opening the shed door. The dumb dog’ll probably bite me.”

  I wish!

  I stepped into the interior of the house, which was a mix of styles. It was also one big mess. Racks of clothes stood around the living room, and various piles of accessories littered every table. Miss Skinny Stylist to the Stars, had certainly marked her territory. The only sign that Josh lived there was a huge flat-screen TV and his comfortable old chair, the chair I’d never been able to persuade him to dump.

  Ha! He’d never dumped the chair, but he’d had no problem dumping me.

  Not that I cared. Honestly, I couldn’t care less.

  In the distance I could hear Amy barking. Suddenly Josh came bounding into the house.

  Josh Meyer. My ex. The man with whom I’d once spent several precious years.

  I looked at him. He looked at me. For a moment it was as if time stood still and we were back together and nothing had changed.

  “What’s going on here?” Josh asked, breaking the spell. “What are you doing here, Denver?”

  I gave him a cold stare. How dare he thieve my dog and then have the nerve to ask me what I was doing in his house.

  I observed that he’d put on weight, at least ten pounds, and I couldn’t help feeling pleased, because I know that I look good, although I probably look like a huge giant standing next to Miss Skinny who wasn’t an inch past five feet.

  “You took my dog,” I said accusingly.

  “Our dog,” he snapped back.

  “No. My dog.”

  “You left Amy at the vet. I could see she wasn’t happy, so I took her out of there.”

  “You had no right to do that.”

  “I had every right. We found Amy together, remember?”

  “Yes, and when you left, I kept her. It’s what we agreed.”

  “It’s what you agreed.”

  “Your little girlfriend doesn’t even like dogs, so why would you take her?”

  “There you go, always trying to control everything,” Josh sneered. “Amy was our dog, I’m entitled to take her.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Pul-ease!” Miss Skinny said, inserting her non-existent body between us. “Take your dog and go. The two of you are giving me a migraine.”

  Allergies, migraines – Josh had found himself a real prize.

  “Yes, Josh,” I said, weary of fighting. “Give me my dog.”

  Josh’s mouth went into a thin straight line – a sure sign he was majorly pissed.

  Had I ever really loved this man?

  I guess so, but not any more.

  “Fine,” he said, still tight-lipped.

  “Fine,” I responded, staring him down.

  A few minutes later I was out of there with Amy Winehouse, both of us happy to be on our way.

  I had to make a quick stop at the office, and then after that I had a late dinner with Mario planned. He’d already texted me confirming we should meet at Ago. I would just have time to go home and change into something suitable for an evening out with Mario, which would probably end up at his place.

  Hmm . . . After my Josh confrontation I needed a little loving care, and Mario was the guy to supply it.

  I drove straight to the office, left Amy with my favorite parking attendant, and took the elevator all the way to the forty-second floor.

  Megan was back and beaming. “I had the best time,” she enthused. “Annabelle is awesome!”

  Ah yes, there’s nothing like going through a murdered movie star’s clothes with the star’s daughter to put a smile on a girl’s face.

  “Mr Saunders asked for you to take a look at these photos,” Megan added, handing me an 8 × 10-inch manila envelope.

  “What are they?”

  “He didn’t say. Can I leave now?”

  “Sure,” I said, ripping open the envelope.

  Felix had enclosed a short note.

  Denver. View these photos of Gemma Summer. Any thoughts? Ralph is anxious to know who the man is.

  Of course Ralph was anxious to know. His beautiful wife had been photographed with another man the week before her murder.

  I took a long look at the photos. There were four of them. Gemma looking beautiful, obviously enjoying herself – clinking glasses with the stranger – a man barely visible, just his profile on show. They were taken at a secluded restaurant high in the hills above Malibu. The photographer must have followed Gemma there, then hidden in the bushes to get his shots.

  I looked once, twice, three times, and then it struck me.

  Mystery Man was Carolyn’s father.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Carolyn

  The last thing Carolyn remembered was stopping her car outside the deserted Shell station – long since shut down – and waiting patiently for Gregory to arrive. She truly couldn’t recall what had taken place next, although she had faint memories of a girl knocking on her window – a young Hispanic girl who’d seemed agitated and maybe in some kind of trouble. Being the Good Samaritan that she was, Carolyn had rolled down her window to see if she could help, and that was it – no more memory.

  Now she found herself waking up in the dusty trunk of a moving car, her hands and ankles bound, a filthy rag stuffed in her mouth.

  Panic immediately overcame her. Was this a nightmare? Surely she would wake up any minute? But no. She was trussed up in the trunk of a car, and the vehicle was on the move.

  Bile filled her throat, but she swallowed it down, fearful that she might choke.

  She attempted to move. Impossible.

  Her hands were tied behind her back with electrical cord. The cord was cutting into her wrists and hurting her.

  Please God, help me.

  She was desperate to say the words out loud, but that was impossible too, so she silently chanted them in her head like a comforting mantra, and hoped that somehow He would hear her.

  * * *

  “You sure she ain’t gonna die on us?” Rosa, Benito’s sixteen-year-old girlfriend asked. Rosa was a pretty girl – her prettiness marred by a thin white scar running the full length of her left cheek – the result of an all-girl gang fight. Her mama had punished her for that one, kept her locked in the house for two whole weeks.

  “How many times I gotta tell ya,” Benito answered with a vicious scowl. “We just puttin’ a scare in the puta so she lose the mo’fuckin’ baby.”

  “All she hadda do was get the dude to pull out,” Rosa offered. “Works every time.”

  “An’ that’s why you got a ten-month-old baby livin’ with your mama,” Benito said, his expression sour. “’Sides, she don’ wanna dump her baby, it’s what the Senator prick wants.”

  “Some asswipe,” Rosa mumbled, swigging from a can of Red Bull, then wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why’s you doin’ it for him, anyway?”

  “I be doin’ it ’cuz I ain’t gettin’ my ass thrown back in th’joint,” Benito said impatiently.

  “What you supposed t’do with her?” Rosa asked, opening her purse and taking out a CoverGirl powder compact she’d recently swiped from the drugstore.

  “Ya think I know?” Benito said, blinking rapidly. “How long it take t’lose a fuckin’ baby?”

  Rosa shrugged, then began carefully examining her face in the compact mirror.

  “Dunno,” she said at last, discovering a zit that needed squeezing. “But a girl in school went to some Irish dude – she got an abortion for fifty bucks. Whyn’t we take her there?”

  “’Cuz it gotta look like an accident,” Benito insisted, wishing Rosa would keep her mouth shut for once.

  “Why?” Rosa asked, running her tongue over her lips.

  “Quit with the fuckin’ questions,” Benito growled.

  He’d been seeing Rosa on and off since she was fifteen, almost six months – a record for him. She was obliging, didn’t nag too much, an
d sucked him off like a seasoned trouper.

  The downside was she’d had a baby with a rival gang member, and anytime the opportunity arose, the fucker attempted to blast his ass from here to the White House. It was an ongoing feud, and Benito was seriously thinking about dumping Rosa because of it.

  But not now, not with the Senator’s pregnant bitch trussed up in the trunk of his car. That wouldn’t be smart.

  * * *

  “It’s black tie tonight,” Evelyn Stoneman reminded her husband over the house intercom.

  Another black-tie event was the last thing Gregory needed. But he was well aware how prudent it was for him to attend, because while Carolyn was on the missing list, he had to make absolutely certain that every move he made was accounted for.

  Not that anyone had reported Carolyn missing. Considering she lived by herself, that could take days – and by that time she would no doubt be back with no baby growing in her belly. Upon her return Gregory would commiserate with her, make noises about how there should be tougher laws to combat crime. And then – when the time was right – he’d break up with her.

  If luck was with him, the shock of being abducted should make her lose the baby fast – perhaps within hours. And when that happened she would be set free, and Gregory would also be set free. It was the perfect plan.

  He’d instructed Benito not to harm her, merely to shake her up. Not that Benito was the most trustworthy human being on the planet, but Gregory had been given no choice. The baby had to go, and Benito seemed to be his only way out.

  Evelyn appeared at the door to his dressing room clad in a long white Carolina Herrera gown and tasteful diamonds. “You’re not ready,” she admonished, wagging a beringed finger at him.

  “Give me five minutes,” Gregory said gruffly, reaching for a crisp white dress-shirt on a nearby hanger. “That’s all I need.”

  * * *

  Once again Carolyn felt the bile rise in her throat, and once more she managed to swallow it down.

  The car was traveling over rough terrain, and she was unable to protect herself from being thrown around in all directions.

  She attempted to calm herself and think rationally. When Gregory arrived to meet her and realized she was missing, surely he would report her disappearance to the police?