“Why they going in there?” he grumbled.
“Something about the woman who lives there not showing up at work.”
Reluctantly, Mr. Mahoney heaved himself off the couch, walked into the bedroom, and grabbed a bunch of keys from the top of his dresser. “They’re numbered,” he said, handing the keys to his wife.
She took them out to the cops and stood there while they opened the door.
As soon as the door swung open, her little dog darted past everyone and raced into the apartment. It immediately started barking and scratching at the closed bathroom door.
Gingerly, the cops entered the apartment, followed by Sam and Mrs. Mahoney.
“What’s that smell?” Mrs. Mahoney asked. “It’s disgusting.”
“Dunno,” Sam said, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
“She must be away,” Mrs. Mahoney said. “I haven’t heard that loud music she plays lately.”
The cops exchanged glances. They checked out the small living room and kitchenette, peered into the bedroom, and finally they turned to the closed bathroom door, where the dog was still furiously scratching.
“I got one of my feelings,” the black cop said.
“Yeah,” the white cop agreed. “Me too. Sometimes I hate this job.”
They opened the door.
Pattie was hanging from the shower rail, tethered by her wrists. She was naked and covered in dried blood. Her throat was slit.
Chapter Thirty-nine
* * *
AND SO THEY POURED into Las Vegas for the official opening of the Desert Millennium Princess hotel and Lissa Roman’s show. Among them was the big action star who’d spent his entire life pretending to be straight. The innocent-looking ingenue who was into whips and chains. The TV executive who screwed around on his wife with the stars of his shows. The mother/daughter combination who’d double-teamed their way to the top by blackmailing certain studio executives. The hot young actor hopelessly addicted to crack cocaine. The skinny TV actress with a bad case of bulimia. The other skinny TV actress with an even worse case of anorexia. And the madam, whose little black book was worth more than anybody would care to guess.
Lights, music, action. When Lissa Roman hit the stage, it was a major event. The audience was jam-packed with celebrities, all jostling for the best seats.
Lissa made her entrance on a golden swing, wearing a daring red catsuit slit down to her navel. With her platinum hair and gorgeous face she looked like she could conquer the world. The audience went crazy as her dancers surrounded her for the opening number.
Standing by the side of the stage, Michael watched her in wonderment. He was trying to be logical about everything, but the truth was that he’d fallen hard, and what was he planning to do about that? Right now everything was fine, but maybe he was Rebound Man, and maybe she was going to regret the fact that she’d taken him into her bed.
Christ! Carol was pregnant in L.A. Quincy would shake his head, and Amber . . . well, he didn’t even want to think about what Amber would say.
Anyway, what was he worrying about? Lissa would probably say good-bye to him the moment they hit L.A. So he might as well take it for what it was—a weekend romance. Exactly what he’d tried to avoid.
He checked with the rest of security via his two-way radio. Everything seemed to be under control. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that it was Gregg who’d sent her the threatening letter. It was exactly the kind of attention-getting stunt he’d pull. What an asshole he must be.
Fabio grabbed Michael as he walked past. “Isn’t she divine?” Fabio gushed. “The most beautiful woman. The most talented. Isn’t she unbelievable? She belongs to her public, see how they love her.”
That’s all Michael needed to hear. He was sleeping with a woman who belonged to her public. Great.
The show went by quickly, and since the audience was in such a frenzy, screaming and stamping for more, Lissa performed three encores.
When she finally came off she was coated in a thin film of sweat. Two dressers rushed to attend to her. Michael hovered outside her dressing room next to Danny, who held the official guest list of who was allowed in and who wasn’t.
Michael had already checked out her dressing room; it was huge—bigger than his entire apartment in L.A. There was the inner sanctum, then there was a large reception room with tables loaded with caviar and champagne for her visiting guests.
James and Claude were the first to appear.
“Hello, Mr. St. Lucia,” Danny groveled, almost bowing as he ushered them in.
“Who was that?” Michael asked.
“The tall one is Madam’s best friend,” Danny confided. “And the other gentleman is Claude St. Lucia, the record mogul.”
Michael found Danny’s choice of words quite archaic. Who used the phrase “record mogul”?
He recognized a few of the celebrities as they began filtering in. The very pretty Britney Spears, James Woods with a young date, singing star Al King, Lucky Santangelo, Dennis Hopper, Lara Flynn Boyle, Nick Angel, Hugh Grant. A mixed bag, but all paying their respects.
It made Michael realize how much he was not a part of her world. There was no way this could be anything other than a one-or two-night fling. No way at all.
And yet . . . he didn’t regret anything.
•
“I’M IN JAIL,” Gregg yelled over the phone.
“What?” Belinda said.
“I said I’m in fucking jail,” he repeated at full volume. “Get me a fucking lawyer.”
“What are you doing in jail?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“For crissakes, later. Just get me the fuck out.”
Belinda put down the phone and immediately called Patrick. “I think we might have another hot story,” she said.
“I’ll be right over.”
•
LISSA RECOVERED from her show in the inner sanctum, attended by her dressers and Fabio, who began putting her back together, fussing with her hair and makeup as she changed into a slinky black après-show dress. She felt exhausted and triumphant and happy, and she wished she could share her happiness with Michael.
Soon, however, she was greeting the well-wishers and accepting congratulations. In no time she’d be whisked off to her party, which was in the Desert Millennium Princess’ Infinity Room, a circular rooftop space with an unbelievable view of Las Vegas.
Surrounded by her friends, she looked around to see if she could spot Michael. Surely he was watching her? After all, it was his job.
Stella was carrying on about her twins. Taylor was confiding that Larry had finally agreed to help her with her movie. Kyndra was talking about the clothes Lissa had worn in her show and how she was planning on using the same designer. And James was busy complaining about Claude.
Then she saw Michael, and everything stopped for a moment.
She caught his eye. They exchanged secret smiles, and she couldn’t wait for the party to be over.
•
NICCI’S EYELIDS fluttered and very slowly she began to regain consciousness. Her throat felt dry and parched and her eyes were stinging. If this was Saffron’s idea of a joke, she was not amused.
She was lying on a filthy blanket in a windowless, dimly lit room. The light was coming from a weak naked bulb hanging from the high ceiling. Her limbs felt stiff and lifeless, and she had a strong urge to throw up.
Shivering, she hugged her arms across her chest. It was freezing, and all she had on was a skimpy tank top, low-rider jeans, and combat boots.
Shit! Saffron had gone too far this time, and she wanted to put an end to it now!
•
“LISSA!”
“Antonio.”
It was a touching reunion as they faced each other after twenty years of separation.
“Allow me to present my wife, the Contessa Bianca De Morago,” Antonio said.
“It’s a plea
sure,” Lissa replied, shaking the Contessa’s rather limp hand. “So, Antonio,” she said, turning to her ex-husband. “You finally did it again.”
“It took me a while,” Antonio said, flashing his whiter-than-white teeth. “And now I have my beautiful Bianca beside me.”
Lissa checked the woman out. As Nicci had said, she was obviously very rich and much older than Antonio. But still, if he was happy, that was the main thing, because in spite of their rocky past, she bore him no ill will, and he was Nicci’s father.
“You look wonderful, Antonio,” she said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Nor have you, my exquisite one,” Antonio said. “And your show—it was divine.”
Bianca nodded her agreement. “You are so . . . how do I say it . . . energetic?”
“Yes, I guess you could say that,” Lissa said with a slight smile. “It’s a hard show to do. What saves me is that I have a magnificent troupe of dancers around me, and they make me look good, which is what’s important.”
“So modest,” Antonio said fondly. “My little Lissa, how well you have done.”
“I met your daughter,” Bianca said, toying with a thick diamond bracelet clamped around her wrist. “She is lovely.”
“Yes, she is,” Lissa agreed, smiling proudly at Antonio. “We did one thing right, didn’t we?”
“We certainly did,” Antonio replied.
“She looks like you,” Lissa allowed.
“Ah, but she has your lips,” he said, his eyes lingering on the lips he’d once known so well.
“Is this your first trip to America?” Lissa asked, turning to Bianca.
“It is,” Bianca replied, her mammoth diamond ring catching the light. “And I am very happy to see such amazing sights such as Las Vegas.”
“This isn’t typical of America,” Lissa said, remembering her discussion with Michael about everyone being fat. “You’ll have to spend time in L.A. Bring Bianca up to the house, Antonio. I’ll throw a dinner for the two of you.”
“That would be very generous of you, Lissa,” he said.
She couldn’t help wondering if he was still the same old womanizer he’d always been. Probably. Leopards never changed their spots, nor did Antonio.
And as they stood talking, an imposing woman in a bright orange patterned dress and rhinestone-studded spectacles bore down on them. “Pm introducing myself,” she said in a loud voice. “Lynda Richter. Evan’s mother. Evan. Your soon-to-be son-in-law.”
“Oh,” Lissa said politely. “Nicci’s told me all about you.”
“Seems like a nice enough girl,” Lynda said, her voice getting louder. “Too independent, but that’ll change when they’re married.”
“It will?” Lissa said, frowning.
“I must say that your show was quite something,” Lynda continued, oblivious to Lissa’s frown. “I don’t know where you get the energy at your age to do all those things you do on stage. You must have been an acrobat in another life.”
“Not quite,” Lissa said, hardly warming to the woman. “I’d like to introduce Antonio and Bianca. Antonio is Nicci’s father.”
Lynda peered at Antonio, noting his Mediterranean complexion. “Are you foreign?” she asked.
“Foreign?” Antonio said, puzzled.
“Antonio is Spanish,” Lissa said.
“I didn’t know that,” Lynda said. “Evan never told me there was mixed blood in the family.”
“Well, now you know,” Lissa said. How dare she make a thing about Antonio being Spanish. What kind of attitude was that?
“I’m here by myself,” Lynda announced. “So, since we’re going to be relatives,” she added, holding onto Antonio’s arm, “you can look after me.”
Lissa was rescued by James. “Meet my new friend,” he said with an imperious toss of his head.
“And who might that be?” Lissa asked, noting the trim young blond man standing beside him.
“This is Kane, the magician.”
“Hi, Kane,” Lissa said.
“Kane is headlining at the Rio,” James announced. “We have a mutual friend, so I looked him up, and here we are.”
“Where’s Claude?” Lissa asked, remembering James’ vow to get his revenge.
“Who knows?” James said with a dismissive shrug. “And quite frankly, my dear, who cares?”
•
MICHAEL CIRCLED the party, his eyes ever alert. He would never be able to fit into this kind of lifestyle. All these high-powered people, the women dripping in diamonds and dressed to the hilt, the men talking business deals and movie grosses. It was a whole different world.
A couple of the women came on to him. One was an extremely thin TV actress whom he immediately recognized.
“And who are you?” she asked, giving him an appraising once-over with her flinty eyes.
“Security,” he said.
“You can check my security anytime you want,” she said with a thin smile. “What are you up to later?”
“Busy,” he said.
“Are you turning me down?” she said, surprise written all over her pointy face.
Why was it that whenever he said no to a woman she got insulted? “I’m afraid so,” he said. “Got a wife and three kids at home.”
“Oh,” she said. He waited for her to add, “You don’t know what you’re missing,” but she was too smart for that.
Ignoring him, she walked away, on the lookout for her next victim.
•
“I’M LEAVING,” Larry said.
“It’s still early,” Taylor said. “We’re in Las Vegas, Larry. Can’t we play the tables?”
“I’m going back to the suite. Are you coming with me or not?”
This was not the Larry she was used to. This Larry was bad tempered and remote. She knew what she needed to do. A session in the bedroom put a smile on his face every time.
“It seems a shame that we’re only in Vegas for one night, and you’re anxious to get back to the suite,” she said, touching his arm.
“You don’t have to come,” he said flatly. “You can go gamble with your friends. I don’t care.”
“No, no—of course I’m coming with you,” she said quickly. “I’ll run over and say good-bye to Lissa.”
“Whatever you want, Taylor.”
I want to know why you were asking me about Oliver, she thought.
Lissa was surrounded by people. It took Taylor a while to get close to her, and when she did, she asked if she was flying back with them the next morning on Claude’s plane.
“I think I’ll spend an extra day here,” Lissa said offhandedly. “I’ve got things to take care of.”
“The show was sensational!” Taylor enthused. “I can’t say it enough times. You deserve everything you get.”
“Thanks, Taylor.”
“And I’m truly sorry about what happened with you and Gregg. The good news is that he’ll fade away, and you’ll go on to bigger and better.”
I already have, Lissa thought.
Larry was waiting by the door.
“Are you all right, honey?” Taylor asked as they headed for the elevator. “You seem rather quiet.”
“It’s funny you should ask,” he said. “Because I’m not all right.”
“You’re not?” she asked, full of wifely concern. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?”
“No, Taylor. I’m beginning to see the light.”
“And what light would that be?” she asked, wondering what he was talking about.
“Allow me to show you something,” he said, fishing in his pocket and producing the check Oliver had given her. “What’s this?” he asked, waving it in front of her.
“Never seen it before,” she lied.
“It’s made out to you, and it’s signed by Oliver Rock.”
“Really?” she said vaguely. “I can’t imagine how that happened.”
“Taylor, you don’t seem to get it. This check is dated before you even met Oliver. Wh
y was he giving you money?”
“I . . . I have no idea.”
“It was in your drawer. I found it when you sent me back for your jewelry.”
“I don’t appreciate you snooping through my things,” she said, trying reverse psychology.
“I wasn’t snooping. The check was lying there. So what do you have to say about it? Because if you can’t explain it to me, perhaps Oliver can.”
“Oh dear, you’ve caught me,” she sighed, thinking that she’d better come up with a fast explanation. “You see, Larry, I didn’t want to spoil your surprise, but um . . . an agent set up a meeting with me and Oliver a while ago—before he made his big score. The truth is he did look at my script and hated it. I didn’t want to tell you, because you were so pleased about hiring him. I paid him a small amount for an evaluation, and since he didn’t do any work on the script, I asked for my money back. That’s all there is to it.” A short pause, then, “What did you think? That I was having an affair with him?”
Larry stared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I should’ve. I was being stupid.” She took his hand. “Now, please can we go back to our suite, climb into our sumptuous oval bed with the mirrored ceiling, and let me show you exactly how much fun Vegas can be.”
•
ERIC VERNON sat in a pokey, smelly room with Arliss and Little Joe. There was nothing much in it except a few chairs, a big wooden table, and a TV. Big Mark had gone to work and would return later. Davey was getting rid of the car.
So far, all had gone smoothly, and Eric was satisfied. Although now was the time he could not afford for anything to go wrong.
For a moment there it had been touch and go as to whether Nicci would come home or not. As much as Eric had studied her movements and routines, there was always a wild card. Brian Richter had turned out to be the wild card—sniffing around the girl like a dog around a bitch in heat.
Finally Brian had brought Nicci home, and Eric had allowed himself an inward sigh of relief, because it wouldn’t do to let the morons he was stuck in the car with suspect that he’d been nervous she wouldn’t show.
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