Lovers & Players

by Jackie Collins

  ‘When you come?’ she asked. He could almost imagine her rubbing her hands together in anticipation of the riches she was about to inherit.

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour. And I expect you to tell me everything you know.’

  Just as he was leaving the apartment, Chris phoned. ‘Dinner with me and Jett,’ Chris said. ‘I left you a message.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ he replied abruptly. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be in L.A. tomorrow.’

  ‘Then we’ll have lunch before you leave, after the meeting with Red.’

  ‘You’ll be at the meeting?’ Chris asked.

  ‘If you and Jett are going, I’ll be there. What do you think the canny old bastard wants now?’

  ‘When I spoke to him on the phone he mumbled something about my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Max said, frowning.

  ‘Why do you think I turned round and came back? I was almost at the airport when he called.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He intimated that her death was due to more than just a plane crash.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it?’ Chris said slowly. ‘Do you ever think about your mother’s death?’

  ‘Well, of course I do. But you’re not saying—’

  ‘Hey, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s Red Diamond we’re dealing with, so consider the man and what he’s capable of.’

  Max hung up the phone and slumped into a deep depression. All his life he’d wondered about his mother’s untimely death. Rachel, an exquisite twenty-six-year-old woman who’d died in her sleep six months after giving birth to him. The official word was heart failure, and when, at the age of thirteen, Max had started asking questions, Red had told him that his mother had always suffered from a defective heart, and that he was never to mention her again.

  The only way Max knew his mother was through the few photographs he had been able to find of her. Rachel. His mother. Dark hair. Huge eyes. A Madonna-like smile.

  He missed knowing her with a deep wrenching hurt in his gut. And if Red was in any way responsible for her death…

  It was a thought he almost couldn’t face.

  Chapter Sixty

  The tabloids were due to hit the street on Thursday, so Red Diamond had copies–straight off the press–delivered to his house Wednesday night.

  The headlines were scandalous.

  THE DIAMOND DYNASTY!

  EX-MODEL STABBED TO DEATH!

  BILLIONAIRE MEDIA TYCOON RED DIAMOND’S FAMILY SECRETS THAT LED TO SEX, DRUGS AND MURDER!

  WILD DAYS OF THE DIAMOND BROTHERS!

  MURDER IN MANHATTAN!

  BEAUTIFUL SOCIETY WOMAN SLAIN!

  WHO KILLED MARISKA?

  Truth and Fact, the most scurrilous rag of all, had unearthed plenty. Mariska–the beautiful murder victim–was the only one spared, although they’d managed to dig up several semi-nude pin-up photos of her, taken when she’d first arrived in America and had apparently harboured hopes of being a model.

  Maxwell Diamond was portrayed as a business-obsessed, real-estate tycoon, with a years younger fiancée who was due to inherit millions when her über-rich society grandmother passed. The implication being that Max had divorced Mariska to get his hands on Amy’s inheritance. There were pictures of Max and Amy taken at their rehearsal dinner, and a large photo of Max, Mariska and Lulu on a skiing vacation when Lulu was three.

  Chris Diamond was written about as a playboy Hollywood lawyer with gambling connections to Vegas and the Mob. There were photos of him with Birdy Marvel, and several ex-girlfriends–including Holly Anton. The article even insinuated that the emancipation of Birdy Marvel had been brokered by Chris, so that he could get a large cut of her money and as many nights as he wanted with the teenage pop diva.

  Jett came off worst of all. Along with several bare-chested modelling shots taken when he’d first arrived in Milan, there were photographs of him from his wild New York days–falling down drunk at various clubs and parties, mostly with girls in barely-there dresses who looked like under-age hookers.

  Red Diamond was featured heavily. The billionaire patriarch of the family was a tempting target. Diligent journalists had no trouble digging up a wealth of information, including his many wives, their unfortunate deaths, the scandalous divorce and subsequent affair with Lady Jane Bentley, and numerous business machinations, including a slew of hostile takeovers and fraught relationships with other media moguls who considered themselves his peers.

  Red Diamond was an old-fashioned, ego-driven, megalomaniac, and the rags relished the chance of putting their investigative skills to work–especially Truth and Fact, which happened to come under the umbrella of a host of publications owned by one of Red’s arch-rivals, of which, over the years, he’d had quite a few.

  When Red saw the tabloids–particularly Truth and Fact–he went berserk, stamping around his house in a frenzied fury, shouting and yelling obscenities. The entire household heard him, Lady Jane Bentley, sequestered in her room, Diahann, who’d been hoping for another chance to speak with him privately, the cook, the laundress, the maids.

  ‘Fuck the dirty, lying, cocksucking bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Fuck Mariska, that Russian cunt! And fuck the stupid boys I should never have allowed my dumb fucking wives to bring into this world!’

  After venting for a while, he made a call, summoned his driver and stomped out of the house.

  Nobody cared to deal with Red Diamond when he’d worked himself up into one of his turbulent frenzies.

  Jett turned up for dinner an hour late and totally wasted. Watching him weave his way towards the table, Chris groaned inwardly. With all that was going on, Jett had to choose this moment to slide out of sobriety and turn into the drunk he used to be.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jett slurred, as he arrived at the table. ‘Hadda go see my mom.’

  ‘Edie’s in town?’ Chris questioned, wondering if mother and son had been out on a drinking binge together.

  ‘Kinda. Sorta,’ Jett said, attempting to pull out a chair and almost losing his balance. ‘You know Edie, she had me trapped on the phone.’

  Chris realized there was no sense in pretending he didn’t know what was going on, that would just be a monumental waste of time. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying not to sound too judgemental. ‘What made you do it?’

  ‘Huh?’ Jett said blankly. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Take a drink.’

  ‘Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me?’ Jett said, managing to look outraged. ‘Y’ know I’m in the goddamn programme.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Chris answered calmly. ‘And exactly when did you last attend a meeting?’

  ‘A meetin’,’ Jett mumbled. ‘Ah…let me see. A meetin’…’ His eyes glazed over. ‘Who’m I meetin’?’

  Chris clicked his fingers for the check. ‘I’m taking you upstairs.’

  ‘Why we doin’ that?’ Jett grumbled. ‘I gotta eat, gotta call my girl.’ His voice started getting louder. ‘Gotta call my goddamn girl.’ Without warning he was on his feet, swaying and shouting. ‘Amy. Where the fuck are ya? Amy baby. Amy bitch!’

  Other patrons turned to stare.

  Jumping up, Chris grabbed his brother’s arm in a vice-like grip. ‘We’re outta here,’ he said, steering him towards the entrance. ‘Do not say another word.’

  Before Sonja had a chance to contact Red Diamond, Famka phoned.

  ‘He wants us,’ Famka stated, sounding quite pleased with herself.

  ‘Who wants us?’ Sonja asked. After her long night of rough sex with Alex Pinchinoff, she wasn’t in the mood for new action, even if it meant big bucks.

  ‘The old guy, of course,’ Famka said triumphantly. ‘I knew he couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Red Diamond?’ Sonja questioned. If it was Red, how convenient was that?

  ‘Mr Viagra himself,’ Famka said, with a brittle laugh. ‘The old man sound agitated. I tell him two thousand apiece, double we stay al
l night.’

  ‘He agreed?’

  ‘Bring rubber handcuffs and special lotion–I run out. Had important client from UN, he want lotion head to toe, ’specially around his balls. No sex, just lotion.’ She gave another brittle laugh. ‘Asshole.’

  ‘They’re all assholes,’ Sonja said.

  ‘Where you been?’ Famka asked.

  ‘Alex Pinchinoff.’

  ‘Ah, the dangerous one.’

  ‘Dangerous and sexy.’

  ‘You don’t get enough at work?’

  ‘It make change.’

  ‘I call for cab, you want I pick you up?’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

  This couldn’t have worked out better. Now she could blackmail Red to his face. Well, maybe not blackmail–that was too harsh a word. Merely allow him an opportunity to pay to have certain information suppressed.

  But what about Famka? She couldn’t do it in front of her.

  Damn! She’d have to figure something out.

  Driving into a certain area of Brighton Beach at night was scary. The restaurants and nightclubs were lit up, while noisy, half-drunk patrons spilled out onto the sidewalk.

  Searching for a parking spot, Max became very aware that he was carrying a box–which he’d put inside a canvas bag, then locked into the trunk–a box that contained half a million bucks in cash, plus a few priceless gemstones. The only items he’d removed from it were Mariska’s address book, filled with the numbers of all her Russian acquaintances, along with her birth certificate and marriage certificate to Vladimir. The moment he got home he would burn them–burn away all traces of her duplicitous past.

  Damnit, he was turning into a criminal, planning to destroy what could turn out to be very valuable evidence in a murder case. Shades of Red Diamond. It was the kind of thing Red would do without a second thought.

  He didn’t want to become like his father, but all rational thought seemed to have deserted him. He was convinced that this was something he had to do to protect his daughter–if indeed Lulu was his daughter. The thought that she might not be paralyzed him. She was all he had, her and Amy.

  A green Buick conveniently slid out of a parking spot. Max backed his Mercedes into the vacant space, bumping the fender of an old Cadillac parked behind.

  Almost immediately a man emerged from the Cadillac zipping up his fly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ the man yelled. He was big, bald and bad-tempered. ‘You need a fuckin’ compass to park your shitty German car?’

  Max got out of his Mercedes. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. The last thing he wanted was a scene. ‘I don’t think there’s any damage.’

  ‘You don’t, huh?’ the man sneered belligerently. ‘That’s where you an’ I differ, my friend. Take a look at my bumper! There’s a coupla hundred bucks’ worth of damage.’

  Max attempted to peer at the supposedly damaged car. It was too dark to see anything.

  A young girl emerged from the Cadillac, young enough to be the bald man’s daughter–although she obviously wasn’t, as her clothes were askew, and her lipstick smudged across her chin.

  ‘Here’s my witness,’ the man said triumphantly.

  ‘Where’s my twenny?’ the girl demanded in a tinny voice, pulling on his sleeve.

  ‘Shut up,’ the man hissed, glaring at her. ‘You’ll get your money. We’re not finished.’

  Max got the picture. ‘Will two hundred cover it?’ he asked.

  The bald man thought about it for a nano-second. ‘Make it two fifty an’ I won’t bother callin’ the cops to report an accident,’ he said, adjusting his crotch.

  ‘Right,’ Max said. He hated giving in to this oaf’s blackmail, but anything to avoid more of a confrontation. Turning away from the man, he pulled out his wallet, extracted the right amount of money, then handed it over.

  The bald man shoved the bills into his pocket and said, ‘What you down here lookin’ for? Mebbe I can help ya find it.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Max said. ‘I’m visiting a relative.’

  ‘A relative, huh?’

  ‘Are we doin’ it or not?’ the young girl whined, tugging on the bald man’s shirt-sleeve.

  ‘Yeah, we’re doin’ it,’ he said, throwing Max a lascivious wink.

  The two of them got back into the Cadillac.

  Max waited a few minutes before he opened the trunk of his Mercedes. Then he quickly took out the canvas bag, crossed the street and entered Irena’s building.

  Standing astride Red Diamond, wearing nothing but sheer black stockings, a leather garterbelt and ridiculously high stilettos, Sonja thought the old man looked unusually pale. Of course, he had just indulged in a series of sexual activities with two beautiful women, activities probably far too taxing for a seventy-nine-year-old man–she’d discovered his age by reading the newspapers–and then there was the matter of the Viagra he’d been taking on what seemed a regular basis. It couldn’t be healthy for a man his age.

  Sonja was worried about his well-being. What if he had a seizure or a heart-attack? Either could turn out to be deadly, and where would that leave her and the major pay-out she hoped to extract from him?

  Right now he was demanding that she handcuff and punish him. It was one of his favourite scenarios–smack his wrinkled old ass until it was rosy.

  Famka was in the bathroom taking a leisurely shower–or so she said. Famka worked hard with her clients, but she claimed they never made her come, so whenever there was a break, she locked herself away and pleasured herself.

  This suited Sonja fine, because it gave her the opportunity she was looking for. ‘How much you pay for Vladimir story to stay quiet?’ she ventured.

  ‘What?’ Red growled, staring up at the woman who stood astride him. She wasn’t supposed to talk. He didn’t appreciate talkers.

  ‘Your daughter-in-law’s real husband.’

  ‘My daughter-in-law’s what?’

  ‘Legitimate husband.’

  He ran his gnarled hand up her thigh. ‘Is this part of the punishment?’

  ‘No. This real stuff,’ Sonja said quickly. ‘Mariska no marry Max, she already married to my friend Vladimir. That make her bigamist. Not only bigamist–in Moscow she prostitute.’ Sonja paused to let her words sink in. ‘How much you pay for story to stay quiet?’

  ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ Red asked incredulously, then burst into derisive laughter. ‘You honestly think I didn’t know who Mariska was? She was a cheap whore, like you. I understood that the moment I saw her.’

  ‘I am not cheap,’ Sonja muttered, her dreams of scoring a fortune crashing around her.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Red agreed. ‘Now, put your mouth where it’s supposed to be and shut the fuck up.’

  The same smell of cat piss and stale beer assailed Max’s nostrils as he entered Irena’s building. The question occurred to him–why had Mariska allowed her mother to live in such squalor? Then again, it was unlikely that Mariska had ever visited the dank apartment in Brighton Beach, so he’d give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she hadn’t realized how bad it was.

  He climbed the darkened stairs, clutching the bag tightly to his chest. This was so unlike anything he’d ever done before. Was he losing his mind? It was insane behaviour. Chris was right, he could get himself arrested for concealing evidence.

  At least by giving the box to Irena he was no longer responsible for it. And who could prove that he’d taken it from her apartment? No one.

  Half-way up the second flight of stairs, a woman in a sloppy housecoat burst out of a door yelling in a foreign language. She was being chased by a skinny runt of a man wielding a leather belt. The two of them shoved their way past Max as if he didn’t exist.

  He took a deep breath and made it up the rest of the stairs fast.

  If Irena was smart, she’d move out of this dump tomorrow. She’d have enough money to do whatever the hell she wanted, although he should
warn her not to do anything with the gemstones for a while. Who knew where they had come from? He should also tell her to take off Mariska’s diamond ring and put it away.

  Then another question occurred to him–how had she got the ring? She must have stolen it, so did that mean she had been in Mariska’s apartment after she was killed? Had she taken the ring off Mariska’s lifeless finger? Or was she actually there when Mariska was stabbed to death?

  At least it was kind of poetic justice that Mariska’s money–and where it had come from he didn’t even want to think about–was going to her mother, a woman for whose welfare she’d obviously cared nothing.

  He made it to Irena’s apartment and knocked on the door. It swung open and her cat darted out, hissing angrily.

  The stench of burned milk hit him as he entered, calling her name.

  She was sitting in the one rickety chair watching her black-and-white TV. Her back was to him. The sound of the TV was too loud, and sparks were coming from the hot-plate in the corner.

  ‘Irena,’ he said loudly, ‘something’s burning.’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Can you turn the TV down?’ he shouted.

  Still no answer.

  He moved in front of her.

  She was dead. A single neat bullet-hole right in the centre of her forehead.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  It took him a while, but Chris finally managed to sober Jett up. After gallons of coffee, an icy cold shower, several Tylenols and a major sweat-out in the hotel gym, Jett started groaning. How could he have done it? What was the matter with him? He was one big fucking loser.

  ‘Shit happens,’ Chris assured him, as they sat around in his suite. ‘You made a wrong move, and now it’s up to you to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘I feel like such a dumb jerk.’ Jett groaned, pushing his hands through his hair.