Both men decided it should be my job to discover where Annabelle and Frankie were staying in Vegas.
Who’s the detective now?
As soon as we landed I called Annabelle’s cell. No answer. Next I tried Frankie. He picked up immediately, as if he was expecting my call.
“Frankie?” I questioned.
“Who is this?” he asked, fully suspicious.
“It’s Denver.”
“What do you want?”
Charming! Such a lovely greeting.
I decided not to mention the tabloid. Too risky. He might lose it – that’s if he even knew about it.
“Just checking in about tomorrow,” I said casually. “Annabelle told me you’re in Vegas for the night. What time will you be returning to L.A.?”
“Dunno,” he said. “You’ll havta ask Bobby, we’re flying back on his plane.”
So Bobby had a plane. What was that about?
“Where can I find Bobby?” I asked, keeping it light.
“At The Keys.”
“Are you all staying there?”
“Gotta go,” Frankie said abruptly.
I had my answer.
Yes, I think I would’ve made an excellent detective.
* * *
On the way from the airport in a white ultra stretch limousine which could’ve comfortably accommodated fifteen people, I checked my texts and voicemails, while Pip called The Keys and instructed them to have a suite available for Ralph Maestro’s use.
There were still no texts from Carolyn, and I was starting to feel a little bit worried about not hearing from her. Taking off without a word to anyone was not Carolyn’s style, so why wasn’t she answering me? How often did I say urgent in a text?
I made up my mind that once we reached the hotel I would find a quiet corner and call her office again. If she was away, surely they’d know where she’d gone?
In the meantime I sent her another text.
I had several voicemails to get through, most of them business-related, plus two calls from Mario asking if I got his flowers and when could we get together again.
Uh, how about never?
Then came the surprise – a call from Carolyn’s dad, George. Wow! Had he somehow or other found out that I knew he was the man in the photo with Gemma? This was crazy. I quickly listened to his message.
“Denver. It’s George Henderson. I’m sorry to bother you, but Clare and I received a very disturbing call from the Washington police. Apparently Carolyn’s car, which is registered in my name, has been found abandoned. I can’t seem to reach her, and since I know you two are close, I wondered if you have any idea where she is. Please call us as soon as you get this message.”
My heart did a skip and a jump. Intuition told me that this was not good news. I slid along the endless leather side seat and finally got near enough to the driver to ask how long it would be before we reached the hotel.
“Five minutes or fifty,” the driver announced, flashing me an annoying smirk. “It all depends on our Vegas traffic.”
“See if you can make the five work,” I said, curt and to the point. “Mr Maestro is in a hurry.”
“Sure thing, Miss.”
Did I look like a Miss? Shouldn’t I be addressed as a Ms. Or at least a Ma’am?
My mind was wandering, it always does that when I’m stressed. I needed to call Carolyn’s dad back, and I didn’t want to do it from the limo, therefore I’d just have to wait – frustrating as that was.
I attempted to think about other things. Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos drifted into my head. So . . . he had his own plane. How did that happen?
Then I remembered, not only was he the infamous Lucky Santangelo’s son, but apparently the word around school had been that his father was some kind of billionaire Greek shipping tycoon who’d died when Bobby was young, and that Bobby and his niece were destined to inherit everything when they reached a certain age.
Hmm . . . I guess the plane is part of everything.
“Are we almost there?” Ralph growled, sounding more like an angry dog than a worldwide movie star.
“Five minutes or fifty,” I replied, trying not to breathe in too many cigar fumes. “It all depends on the Vegas traffic.”
“Fuck the Vegas traffic,” Ralph fumed. He turned to his brow-beaten publicist, who was ageing by the minute. “Pip,” he commanded. “Call someone and get me a police escort. I need to be there now!”
Chapter Forty-Five
Carolyn
Senator Gregory Stoneman carried on as normal. To the outside world he was his efficient, hardworking self, dealing with business as usual. However, inside he was a mess, hoping that an unpregnant Carolyn would soon put in an appearance, and everything would return to the way it was. Well . . . almost to the way it was, minus one baby – not even a baby – a fetus growing inside Carolyn.
She’d given him no choice except to do something about it before it was too late. He’d had no alternative but to think of some way to stop her from ruining his life and the lives of his family – especially of his two precious children, who deserved to be protected at all costs.
Hiring a drug-dealing gang-banger was hardly the perfect way to deal with the situation, but it was the only solution that presented itself to him. And at the time, it had seemed so easy.
Now he was starting to fear that he might have gone too far. Thank God he’d warned Benito not to hurt her, simply shake her up enough to lose the baby, and when that was done, set her free.
But surely it couldn’t be taking so much time?
She’d been snatched just after noon on Tuesday, and now it was late Wednesday afternoon, so where was she?
He had a cell number for Benito, but he didn’t dare use it. Cell calls could be traced, and it was imperative that he was not connected to Carolyn’s disappearance in any way.
As Gregory was mulling this over, Muriel entered his office.
“Senator,” she said, a worried expression on her face, “there is a police detective who wishes to have a word with you. Is it all right if I show him in?”
* * *
Rosa managed to get out of the house on the pretext of going to the market and buying food. Benito had a voracious appetite for junk food. He always had a yen for Twinkies and donuts and packets of salty chips which he dipped into big tubs of spicy salsa. Prison had taught him nothing about healthy eating.
Rosa didn’t care. She too existed on junk food – it was satisfying and cheap.
Before leaving the house she’d transferred the contents of Carolyn’s leather purse into her fake Louis Vuitton bag, purchased from a street vendor for fifteen bucks. The pickings were excellent, the prize being the woman’s iPhone. A freakin’ iPhone with music and photos and all kinds of other shit. Rosa was in heaven. She already possessed a cheap cell that did exactly nothing. Now she had her own personal iPhone!
The drag was finding out how to work the stupid thing. It seemed complicated. She managed to turn it on and pressed the iTunes icon. So cool! Lists of songs came up, so she tapped “Boom Boom Pow” by the Black-Eyed Peas.
Listening to the song with a smile on her face, she danced her way toward the corner market, oblivious to what was going on around her. So oblivious, in fact, that she didn’t notice the three teenage girls who surrounded her out of nowhere, snatched her purse, grabbed the iPhone out of her hands, knocked her down, kicked her in the face, head and stomach and took off.
The last thing Rosa remembered thinking was, Benito is going to kill me. Then everything faded to black.
Chapter Forty-Six
Bobby & Annabelle
“Hey, kiddo, you’re on your own,” Lucky informed Bobby. “I’m handing over the tickets for Zeena’s show, and please don’t forget that Renee and Susie are throwing a private dinner after the event, so be sure to make it. Renee is expecting all of you.”
“Jeez, Mom, they’re your friends,” Bobby complained. “An’ now you’re running out on us. What’s that
about?”
“Lennie is stopping off in L.A. for exactly three hours en route to his New Zealand location,” Lucky explained. “And I plan on spending all three hours with him. Okay with you, number one son?”
“I guess that’s why you’ve got the greatest marriage in town,” Bobby said, wondering if he’d ever have a relationship that good.
Lucky smiled her brilliant smile. “Yes, Bobby, that’s exactly why. Lennie comes first.”
Which meant that he was stuck. Concert. Private dinner. Zeena. Zeena. Zeena.
All his guests couldn’t wait to see her show. Brigette and Kris, M.J. and Cassie, and Annabelle and Frankie. What a group!
Why couldn’t he fly back to L.A. with Lucky and leave them all to it?
Because he’d invited them, and that would be rude and inconsiderate.
So . . . there was no escape.
He wondered how Frankie was doing. Had he found out who gave the tabloid the story? Had he told Annabelle? Would he have the balls to tell her? And when he did so, would he have any balls left? Annabelle was already muttering about splitting with him, so the Truth & Fact story could seal the deal.
Deciding to find out what everyone was up to, he called Brigette, who told him that she and Kris were just about to hit the casino floor.
“Kris has never gambled before,” Brigette said excitedly. “I’m going to teach her blackjack.”
Bobby hoped she wasn’t bankrolling her girlfriend’s gambling fling – that wouldn’t be cool.
Next he reached M.J., who informed him that he and Cassie were going to hang out in the suite until show-time.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven,” Bobby said. “Don’t be late.”
“Yeah, man, we’ll be on time,” M.J. assured him. “Cassie’s real excited.”
I bet she is, Bobby thought. M.J. was a total catch.
When Lucky had first built The Keys he’d considered buying an apartment in the luxury condominium building attached to the hotel. Now he was glad that he hadn’t done so – Vegas was for bachelor parties, getting married in either a lovesick haze or a drunken stupor, and losing money at the tables. Lucky loved Las Vegas but Bobby wasn’t such a fan, although the challenge of making Mood the hot club in town was quite appealing. He’d already made the decision that he’d commute for the first few months, get the club up and running, then put in a manager he could trust to run things his way.
Bored with his own company, he thought he’d make his way downstairs and join up with Brigette and Kris. It was a better prospect than doing nothing.
* * *
By the time Frankie reached Janey on the phone, he’d developed strong misgivings about her involvement in the tabloid story. She had to know about it, so why hadn’t she called him? Even worse, she wasn’t picking up the phone at the Park Avenue apartment where she was supposed to be looking after things. It was only after three attempts that she finally answered her cell.
“What the fuck, Janey?” he screamed down the phone. “Who did this?” And even as he said the words, it suddenly came to him. Janey’s lazy, good-for-nothing, devious motherfucking son.
“It’s Chip, isn’t it?” he yelled. “That moron sold us out.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t know anything about it,” Janey said, immediately defensive.
“Don’t fuck with me, Janey,” Frankie warned. “You know you don’t wanna do that.”
“Well,” Janey said reluctantly, “if it was Chip, then he must’ve gone behind my back an’ done it.”
“Stop feedin’ me shit,” Frankie said, his left eye twitching with anger. “How’d he get the photos if you didn’t help him? There’s no way. You’re the one with the run of the apartment. You must’ve helped him.”
“He stole them,” Janey admitted, starting to snivel. “He had to have gone through everything while I was passed out.” A pregnant pause. “Frankie,” sob sob, “I got a horrible feeling he drugged me – his own mother! How could he do such a thing?”
“Where is the prick?” Frankie said, imagining exactly what he would do to Chip when he got hold of him. “An’ you’d better find out, ’cause when I get back I’m gonna snap his scrawny neck in two.”
“Oh Frankie,” Janey wailed in desperation. “Please don’t say things like that. Chip is family, you know he’s a good boy at heart.”
“Bullshit! He’s a born loser.”
“Somebody must’ve gotten to him, offered him lots of money. He’s young, he doesn’t understand.”
“Do you honestly think I give a fast crap in hell? When I get hold of your demented baby boy, he’s gonna understand good. In fact, he’s gonna be sorry he was born.”
“No, Frankie,” Janey pleaded. “Please don’t do anything rash. I beg you.”
“Shut the fuck up, Janey. I suggest you shift your fat ass an’ go find him. Chip is gonna pay for this. Our fuckin’ business is ruined, not to mention my reputation.”
“I’m so sorry, Frankie,” she sniveled.
“You should be, for givin’ birth to the little bastard,” Frankie said, before snapping his phone shut.
He was still in the airport men’s room, and several men going about their business were staring at him.
Shoving the phone in his pocket he stared back.
“Bad day?” one man ventured.
“Fuck off,” Frankie muttered, before marching outside, where the first thing he saw was a newsstand – copies of the offending tabloid, Truth & Fact, piled high.
With one big sweeping gesture he knocked them to the ground, scattering them everywhere. Then, muttering under his breath, he set off to find a cab.
* * *
The suite Bobby had gotten them in The Keys was pure luxury – even more so than the Beverly Hills Hotel which for Annabelle’s taste was a touch too traditional in style.
The Keys suite featured an enormous circular bed covered in fur throws (fake of course, Lucky was a strong supporter of PETA), a giant flat-screen TV and a full shelf of the latest DVDs, CDs, and bestselling books.
The bathroom was all pale-green marble, with a TV in the ceiling above the tub so that a guest could comfortably lie back, soak and watch their favorite programs.
Annabelle wished they were staying longer. She also wished that she would be sharing the bed with Bobby, not Frankie.
Soon . . . yes, soon . . . she was sure of it.
Where the hell was Frankie, anyway? He was taking his time coming from the airport and she didn’t appreciate being kept waiting.
She thought about creating a big fight when he finally arrived and getting it over with. Or was it wiser to wait until after the funeral?
Probably. But Annabelle was into instant gratification, and that meant dumping his sorry ass the moment he hit the suite.
But no, she had to do the smart thing and wait until they returned to New York. If she did it now, he was perfectly capable of running back to New York without her and clearing out the safe. She wouldn’t put that kind of move past him, and there was a lot of cash stashed in their safe – a few hundred thousand at least.
Then the thought occurred – why was she even considering splitting it with him? She was the brains behind the business. Why shouldn’t she keep everything for herself?
It was an excellent thought. Before dumping him she’d remove the cash and put it in a safe-deposit box at the bank registered in her name only. Frankie would go nutzoid, but there would be nothing he could do about it. Too bad, Frankie.
Annabelle realized that she had plenty to think about before making any rash moves.
* * *
Testing his luck, Frankie stopped by a roulette table on his way up to the suite and placed a two-thousand-dollar bet on black. It came up. He let the four thousand dollars ride, and black came up again. Six thousand dollars’ profit in a matter of minutes – not bad for a two-thousand dollar initial bet. Maybe his luck was changing and this whole tabloid thing would blow over without anyone noticing.
Yeah, sure, and roses would grow out of President Obama’s ass.
Still testing himself, he let the full eight thousand ride once again. And to his shock and amazement, black hit again!
Grabbing his sixteen thousand dollars in thousand-dollar chips, he headed for the cashier station. On the way he spotted Brigette Stanislopoulos sitting at one of the blackjack tables. Next to her was a statuesque blonde.
Never one to miss an opportunity, he made his way toward them. “’Scuse me,” he said, tapping Brigette on the shoulder. “Brigette, right? We met at Mood in New York a few times. I’m Frankie Romano, close friend of Bobby’s. We’re all gettin’ together tonight.”
“Of course. Frankie,” Brigette said with a polite smile. “Bobby told me, and I do remember you. You’re the superdeejay.”
Jeez, she was so damn pretty, a little older than he would’ve liked – thirty something – but she was mega-rich like Bobby. He’d heard so many stories about Brigette Stanislopoulos and her fatal attraction to losers. If he wasn’t with Annabelle, a woman like Brigette with her startlingly bright blue eyes, cascades of blonde hair and extreme mega-bucks, might be exactly what he needed. There was nothing wrong with a little older-woman action. Yes, he could definitely go for the voluptuous heiress.
“This is my partner, Kris,” Brigette said, introducing him to the other blonde sitting next to her, another stunner.
Bummer! The heiress had turned dyke. Too bad. Although . . . the potential for a threesome flashed before his eyes, and he was major into what he saw.
Bobby interrupted his fantasy by coming up behind him and saying, “You’re back.”
“Yeah, I’m back,” Frankie said.
“And I see you’ve met Brigette.”
“Listen, guys,” Brigette said with a good-natured smile, “much as I’d love to sit around and chat, I’m trying to teach Kris to play blackjack, so can we catch up later?”
“You got it,” Bobby said, grabbing Frankie’s arm. “Let’s go, bro.”
They walked across the casino.
“I just won a shitload of money,” Frankie said, still slightly dazed by his big win. “Gotta cash in.”
Poor Little Bitch Girl Page 25