“Tell you about whom?”
“Listen,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Three months ago I broke up with my boyfriend. Or rather he broke up with me. Now believe me, I know it takes time to get over something like that. I’m almost there; you’re obviously just starting.”
He considered denying it, then thought—why not be honest? She was too smart and too nice to try and fake it. So he began telling her his story, while she listened attentively—interjecting an occasional wise comment.
“That’s it,” he said when he’d finished his sorry tale. “And like an idiot, I told my asshole brother, who announced it to everyone at our dad’s wedding. Now I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.”
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Your reaction was perfectly understandable. You felt out of control and betrayed.”
“That’s exactly it!” he said excitedly. “Hey—were you ever a shrink?”
“No—but I write stories, so I know people. My father taught me how to analyze situations and sum up the players. He’s a brilliant man.”
“So … what’s my next move?”
“You call her up, apologize for bolting like a frightened rabbit and make a date for lunch on neutral territory.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You have to give her a chance to explain why she didn’t tell you.”
“Good,” he said, relieved. “I can’t wait to hear what she has to say.”
“Remember,” Madison said sternly. “No accusations. Simply hear her out.”
“I’ll do it,” he said, finishing off his steak.
“You won’t be sorry,” she said, taking a quick peek at her watch. “Now, do you mind if we leave? I want to catch the ten o’clock news, see if there’s anything new on Salli’s murder.”
“No problem,” he said, calling for the check. Then he looked at her long and hard. “Y’know, if this was another time, another place—”
“I know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to say a word. We’ll get together again when we’re both feeling a little less vulnerable. How’s that?”
He grinned. “You’re a great lady.”
She grinned back. “And you’re a great guy. So let’s get the hell out of here!”
chapter 15
SINCE CAPTAIN MARSH was demanding an arrest in the murder of Salli T. Turner within twenty-four hours, Detective Tucci knew that he had to put the rest of the day to good use. The fact that Bobby Skorch had summoned his lawyer and refused to talk to them had aroused Tucci’s suspicions. If Bobby had nothing to hide, then why wouldn’t he allow himself to be questioned? he wondered. And why wasn’t he anxious to find out the details of his wife’s brutal murder?
After their meeting with Captain Marsh, Lee decided he should get on the next plane to Vegas so he could thoroughly check up on Bobby Skorch’s every move from the previous day.
While Lee was taking care of things in Vegas, Tucci interviewed Eddie Stoner, Salli’s ex. The good news was that Eddie’s lawyer had not arrived to bail him out. The bad news was that Eddie was in a vile mood.
“What the fuck am I bein’ held for?” Eddie demanded, wild bloodshot eyes bulging with fury as he sat at the interview table.
“Parking tickets,” Tucci said, pulling up a chair. “Too many of ’em.”
“So where the fuck is my lawyer?”
“You had your phone call, Eddie.”
“Well,” Eddie said truculently. “I want another goddamn phone call.”
“You know the rules—one call.”
“This is a joke,” Eddie snarled. “I’m tellin’ my fuckin’ union ’bout this shit.”
“What union?”
“The Screen Actors Guild, that’s who. No way they’ll let their members be treated like this.”
“Where were you last night, Eddie?”
“I want a lawyer present before I answer any questions.”
“Why? You got something to hide?”
“I need a cigarette.”
“Sure, Eddie. Let me get you one.”
Tucci got up and left the room. He could see that Eddie Stoner was a nervous wreck, and it wasn’t just for the want of a cigarette—he was obviously hooked on something stronger than nicotine, and he was starting to miss it badly.
Tucci bummed a cigarette from the desk sergeant and reentered the interview room. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Eddie said, grabbing the cigarette and lighting up.
Tucci took a moment to study him. Eddie was good-looking in a dissolute way. Although only thirty, he had bags under his eyes that you could take on a trip, a long mane of dirty blond hair, flat blue eyes and a mean scowl. He was wearing an old Nike T-shirt, jeans that had seen better days and scuffed sneakers.
“I’d like to see you go home today,” Tucci said. “So let’s make this easy on everybody and you tell me where you were last night.”
“Let me ask you somethin’,” Eddie said, dragging hungrily on his cigarette. “What’s so important about where I was last night? You hauled me in on parking tickets, not a fuckin’ murder.”
Tucci studied him. From that remark, it would appear that he didn’t know about Salli T. Turner’s murder. Or maybe he was playing it smart. “What’s preventing you from answering?” the detective asked.
“ ’Cause I don’t ’predate bein’ dragged outta bed in the middle of the night. You guys have fuckin’ balls of steel.”
“Just doing our job.”
“Yeah, well, when I do my fuckin’ job, I don’t hassle people in the middle of the night.”
“Y’know,” Tucci said. “Unrelated to this little mess, you’re a very good actor. I’ve seen you in a couple of movies. Shame you never got that big break.”
“You bet your ass it’s a shame,” Eddie said excitedly. “I look at the assholes who make it an’ I gotta say to myself—why the hell isn’t it me? Jean-Claude Van Damme: what the fuck’s he got that I haven’t? I’m better lookin’, an’ I’m certainly a better actor.”
“Right, Eddie,” Tucci agreed. “You’re also an American.”
“You bet your ass.”
“So, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Eddie. Since your lawyer hasn’t responded, I’ll let you make another call if you tell me where you were last night.”
Eddie ran a hand through his long hair. “Let me think,” he said. “I picked up a coupla chicks at a club on Sunset. Went back to their place ’round midnight, got crazy outta my skull. I musta got home around three.”
“Who were the girls?”
Eddie laughed dryly. “You think I ask their names?”
“You mean you spent the night with two women, and you don’t know who they are?” Tucci asked, knowing he must sound like some out-of-touch old fogy.
“This is Hollywood, man—chicks are everywhere. Who gives a shit what they’re called?”
“Try to remember, Eddie.”
“Hey—you’re not listenin’ to me,” Eddie said irritably. “I dunno who they were. Picked ’em up in a club. They were horny—I was horny. We all got off.”
“Do you remember what club it was?”
“I was in the Viper Room earlier. Maybe it was a place called The Boss.”
“Does The Boss have a doorman?”
“They got a bouncer.”
“Would he know who the girls are?”
“Hey, man, he’s not lookin’ to identify no one. All he’s lookin’ for is a big, fat tip.”
“Okay, Eddie.”
“Do I get my call?”
“Yes. Only I don’t want you leaving town. Oh, and by the way—”
“What?”
“Your ex-wife—”
“Salli?”
“She was murdered last night.”
“Oh, fuck!” Eddie said, his upper body slumping onto the table. “Oh, fuck! Now you’re gonna tell me you think I have somethin’ t’do with it?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Tucci said. “But don’t leave th
e city. Is that clear?”
“How’d it happen?” Eddie asked, sitting up. “Was it that moron she married? I warned her he was trouble.”
“When did you last see her?” Tucci asked.
“Hey, man,” Eddie said, throwing up his hands. “I may look stupid—but I know when it’s time for no more questions. I need a lawyer.”
Tucci got up and headed for the door, where he stopped for a brief moment studying Eddie’s expression. “She was stabbed to death,” he said. “Multiple times. I’ll make sure you get your phone call.”
chapter 16
AS SHE DROVE TO MAX’S house in Bel Air, Kristin made another attempt to listen to the Bob Evans biography on tape. Once again she couldn’t concentrate and turned it off. She tried to steer her thoughts away from Jake, thinking instead of Cherie and the nursing home. Her sister had looked paler than usual today. The doctor who took care of her had left a message with one of the nurses that he wished to speak with her. Since Dr. Raine was never at the nursing home on Sundays, her only real day off, she knew she had to call him, but she kept putting it off; whatever he had to say she was certain it would not be good. Dr. Raine was a nice man, but he didn’t understand about miracles.
She often thought about the day she and Cherie had gotten in their battered old car and set off for Los Angeles. Cherie had been so excited; in fact, it was she who had instigated the trip. “We’re going to be famous actresses,” Cherie had promised, her pretty face glowing with anticipation. “Both of us. And we’ll never be jealous of each other. We’ll never have any of that stupid sibling rivalry.”
Three months after they left home, their parents were killed in a train wreck, so there was no going back. The tragedy had drawn them even closer, since they then had no one except each other—at least until Howie Powers entered their lives, a man Kristin hated with a burning intensity. She’d neither seen nor heard from him since the accident. He obviously couldn’t have cared less whether Cherie lived or died.
Kristin wondered what Cherie would think of what she was doing now to make a living. There was no doubt that her sister would disapprove, but what choice did she have? The nursing home bills had to be paid, and she couldn’t make a living as an actress—too tough a profession by far. Besides, she’d never studied, nor ever had any ambition in that direction. Cherie had been the ambitious one. Cherie had envisioned stardom for both of them.
The gates to Max’s house were closed. Strange how in the affluent neighborhoods of L.A. everyone surrounded themselves with iron gates, guard dogs and elaborate alarm systems, Kristin thought. They lived in fortresses. Who did they expect was coming to get them?
She got out of her car and rang the outside buzzer. No reply. She rang it again, then glanced at her watch. It was almost five o’clock, and she’d told him she would be here at four. Had he not bothered to wait?
She rang again and again. Nothing.
After ten minutes of trying she realized nobody was home. Had Max Steele changed his mind? Was that it? He’d invited a hooker to move in, and then he’d reconsidered.
Angrily she got back into her car. Why was it that every man she met let her down? How come they were all a bunch of selfish, sex-crazed, perverted bastards?
Then it occurred to her. If she was going to deal with bastards, she may as well get paid for it.
Mister X’s words ran through her head. I’ll pay you double.
Double was good. In Mister X’s case, double meant a great deal of money.
Who needs you, Max Steele? You couldn’t even leave a note for me. Whatever happened to common courtesy?
Backing her car out of the driveway and into the winding street, she drove home.
• • •
When the bullet hit Max it was like a sharp blinding jolt from hell. He felt as if his shoulder was being torn away from his body, and he screamed out in pure agony. This wasn’t a movie. This was the real thing. And he could not believe it was happening to him.
He had given the bastard his Rolex, much as he hated doing so. He had handed over his money as well—all twenty bucks of it—which was every dollar he had on him.
The meager sum clearly had made the guy mad. “You’re drivin’ a freakin’ Maserati,” the robber snarled, ski mask concealing his face. “A cocksuck-in’ Maserati, an’ you’re walkin’ around with twenty pissin’ bucks. Don’t jack me off, mothafucker.”
“That’s all I have,” Max had responded with a shrug.
“Fuck you, you rich bastard!” the robber screamed. And then he had fired a shot—just like that.
Max fell to the ground. The robber didn’t seem to care whether he died or not. He kicked him in the groin with the sharp tip of his cowboy boot before he grabbed the keys of the Maserati and drove off, leaving Max lying there in a pool of blood.
He lost consciousness almost immediately, until somewhere in the distance he heard a child’s voice yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! There’s a man lying down. Mommy! Mommy!”
And the worried mother’s voice answering, “Don’t look, darling. Stay away from him. Get in the car and lock your door.”
Oh Jesus! What did they think he was—some falling down drunk bum? He tried to speak, his voice weak as he managed to croak, “Somebody … gotta help me.”
The woman said, “You should be ashamed of yourself!” Then she must have noticed the ever widening pool of blood, because she suddenly gasped, “Oh, my God! You’ve been shot!”
“Get… the … police …” he mumbled. “Go for help… .” And he slumped back, wondering if he was dying.
The woman jumped in her car and phoned the police on her cell phone. She even waited until they arrived.
The next thing Max remembered was lying in an ambulance as it raced him to an emergency room, sirens screaming.
He couldn’t believe it. He, Max Steele, had gotten himself shot.
Then everything went black.
chapter 17
LUCINDA’S CALL CAUGHT Freddie by surprise. He was in his study, contemplating Diana’s foul mood and Max’s unconscionable behavior when she phoned. “Darling,” she drawled, as only a superstar of Lucinda’s caliber could. “I desperately need a favor.”
“What?” he asked, suspicious as always of movie stars courting favors.
“Manhattan Style is doing a cover story on me,” she informed him. “The editor, Victor Simons, is an old friend, so I know it’ll be a positive piece. However, Victor has asked me to do him a personal favor which involves you.” A dramatic pause. “Darling, the magazine wants to profile you.”
“Lucinda, you know I don’t do publicity,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant and even.
“Yes, Freddie, darling, I do know that. But if you did this for me, they’d give you full copy approval, so what’s to lose?”
“My privacy,” he said grimly.
“What privacy?” she retorted, as if it was the most amusing thing she’d ever heard. “You’re acknowledged to be the most famous agent in Hollywood. You should do it, Freddie. After all, Sumner Redstone is in all the media; so is Michael Eisner.”
“Sumner owns the world, Michael runs a studio,” Freddie pointed out.
“Who knows,” Lucinda said. “Perhaps that’s what you’ll do one of these days.”
“Mike Ovitz already made that mistake,” he said, annoyed because he knew he was going to have to say yes. Recently he’d persuaded Lucinda to sign for a movie she really didn’t want to do. It was a twelve-million-dollar deal—which meant almost a two-million-dollar commission for the agency. How could he turn her down?
“Well, anyway,” Lucinda said, bored with the conversation. “I would like to tell Victor yes, that you’ll meet his reporter tomorrow at eleven. Can you accommodate me, Freddie—please? I hardly ever ask favors. Please?”
“What’s the name of the reporter?” he asked resignedly.
“Madison something or other. Apparently she’s very good.”
“Is she aware I get copy approval?”
“It doesn’t matter whether she knows or not. Victor Simons is the editor.”
“Only for you, Lucinda,” Freddie said, sighing. “Have Victor send me a fax confirming I have copy and headline approval.”
“Thank you, darling,” she cooed. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
When she hung up, it occurred to him that the woman she’d mentioned must be the same journalist Ria had told him about. That’s all he needed—an interview with some nosy journalist prying into his life.
The phone rang again. “Yes?” he said impatiently.
“Mr. Leon?”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m phoning from Cedar Sinai.”
Freddie felt his stomach turn. Why was he getting a phone call from a hospital? “What is it?”
“Max Steele was recently admitted. We thought you should be informed immediately.”
“Admitted for what?”
“Mr. Steele was shot during a robbery.”
Freddie was silent. He didn’t know how to digest this piece of informations it seemed so unreal. “How bad is he?” he asked at last.
“It’s critical. We have him in intensive care.”
“I’ll be right there,” Freddie said, slamming the phone down and jumping up from his desk. “Diana!” he yelled. “Diana!”
She was sitting in the living room reading a book on Oriental art, studiously pretending to ignore him.
“You won’t believe this one,” he said. “We have to get over to Cedar’s immediately. Max has been shot.”
Diana leaped out of her chair. “What!” she exclaimed, the color draining from her face. “How? Where?”
“Apparently it was a robbery.”
“How serious is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s go.”
“Oh, my God!” she said, her face crumpling. “Oh, my God!” And suddenly she burst into tears.
“Pull yourself together,” Freddie said tersely. “Hysterics aren’t going to help anyone.”
And even though he was mad at Max and felt he’d been betrayed, Freddie was panicked at the thought of anything happening to him.
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