“What’s up, ladies?” he asked, thinking that the younger flight attendant was kind of hot in an exotic way.
“This is quite awkward, Mr Romano,” Gitta said. “But we’ve decided that it will be better for all concerned if we advise you of the situation.”
The goddamn plane was going down. His fucking luck.
“What situation?” he managed. And where’s the fucking pilot?
“There’s a headline story in one of the tabloids,” Hani said, crisp and to the point. “It’s about you and Miss Maestro.”
So . . . their relationship had finally made the rags. What was so awkward about that? Annabelle had never courted publicity, but he didn’t mind at all. He imagined the headlines.
FRANKIE ROMANO – STUD AT LARGE
HANDSOME BOYFRIEND OF
MURDERED MOVIE STAR’S DAUGHTER
TAKES OVER HOLLYWOOD
The truth was that being famous had always appealed to him.
“I’m afraid it’s not a very reputable story,” Gitta continued, bursting his bubble. “The truth of the matter is that it’s quite scandalous, which is why we thought we should warn you before you de-planed.”
“Not very reputable how?” he questioned, wondering if he’d done anything to rock the boat.
“Well,” Hani said hesitantly, “they’re calling Miss Maestro a notorious madam, and they’re also saying that you are a drug addict, and that you procure girls for the prostitution business the two of you run.”
“Naturally we understand that none of this is true,” Gitta said, hastily joining in. “But we thought it best to tell you before the paparazzi descend.”
“I do hope we’ve done the right thing,” Hani added, wondering if any of the story was true.
Frankie stood quite still. He was in total shock. A headline story in the tabloids about their private business venture. Calling Annabelle a notorious madam, and him a drug addict and a procurer. How could this be?
Annabelle would go fucking nuts. And she’d blame him, because according to his lovely girlfriend, everything was always his fault.
“Where is this lying piece of crap rag?” he demanded, his voice a low angry growl.
“I’m sorry, Mr Romano,” Gitta said. “We didn’t bring a copy aboard.”
“Why the fuck not?” he said, suddenly losing it. “You feed me this shit story, an’ now you got nothin’ to show me. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Mr Romano—” Gitta began.
“Don’t Mr Romano me,” he raged. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your dumb fuckin’ mouths shut, an’ not mention a word about this made-up crap to my girlfriend. You understand?”
“Whatever you say,” Gitta said, throwing an “I told you so” look in Hani’s direction.
Hani was not happy with Frankie’s reaction. How dare he speak to them in such a rude fashion. The tabloid story was probably true, and then she started wondering how someone as nice and low-key as Bobby Stanislopoulos could be friends with such an uncouth man.
Frankie Romano was a pig. As usual, Gitta was right. They should not have said a word – merely allowed him to find out on his own time.
* * *
Annabelle slept right through the landing. Frankie did not bother waking her. The further he kept her away from the two big-mouthed flight attendants, the better.
His mind was in overdrive, but he realized there was nothing he could do until he got a look at the offending article and read every word.
Bastards! He’d sue the shit out of them and then some. He’d hire the sharpest fucking lawyer in New York. Ralph would pay. Ralph would be as outraged as he was that his daughter’s reputation was at stake.
Where the fuck had the tabloid gotten its information?
Christ! He needed to know exactly what they’d printed. The timing couldn’t be worse, what with the funeral coming up the next day. Ralph would shit himself.
He had to phone Janey, see if she knew anything. But right now his main thrust was to get Annabelle off the plane, stash her in the limo Bobby was sending to the airport, and go pick up a copy of whichever tabloid it was that had printed the story.
It couldn’t be that bad.
Or could it?
Chapter Forty-One
Denver
To say I was furious would be putting it mildly. More humiliated, mortified and degraded. How could I have allowed myself to be caught in such a shocking trap?
I am no prude, but a threesome, without my knowledge? No! No! No! Another woman sneaked into the bedroom by Mario – my knight in very tarnished armor? I think not.
What a douche! What an asshole! How could I have ever liked him? Me, who has always considered myself to be an excellent judge of character.
And guess who the third wheel was?
Yes, you guessed right – Hollywood Blonde herself, sans True Religion jeans and lacy top. Lots of blonde hair on her head, and nothing down below. Men like them fully shaved in Hollywood – that way, they can pretend they’re screwing a twelve year old!
Once I realized the situation, I was out of there in a flash. Racing from the bedroom I grabbed my clothes off the living-room floor, and dashed out the front door, a naked Mario in full pursuit, yelling, “Come back! What’s up, baby? I thought you’d be into some harmless fun.”
Harmless fun! Was he kidding me?
Harmless fun with Hollywood Blonde or any other female for that matter was simply not my scene.
I made it to my car and drove off with a still-naked Mario running alongside hammering on the passenger window. Once home I stood under the shower for a good ten minutes trying to wash all memories of Mario’s trickery away.
Now it’s Wednesday morning and I am still pissed. I felt like I’d been made a fool of – and I also felt violated and super-dumb for allowing it to happen. The clue should’ve been Mario coming back to bed without telling me who was at the door. And silly me – for some reason I didn’t press him to find out. God! How stupid could I get?
After taking another long shower I threw on a comfortable tracksuit, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and sans make-up, ran an eager-for-activity Amy Winehouse around the block a couple of times.
Amy’s tail began wagging as soon as we headed back to my apartment.
I quickly discovered there was a reason: my loving ex, Josh, was lurking outside. Exactly who I didn’t need to see, especially as I was not dressed for an old boyfriend confrontation.
Josh was balancing two Starbucks containers of coffee, and a bag of bagels, and he obviously had every intention of coming in.
Amy Winehouse leaped on him, full of doggie excitement. I threw him a stony look.
“Hi,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” I responded curtly, deciding that I didn’t even care that he was seeing me in my make-up-less state.
He handed me a coffee. “Peace-offering,” he said, going for the friendly approach. “I was out of line taking Amy, and I wanted to apologize.”
Josh always had perfect timing. Not.
“Can I come in?” he asked, bending down to pet Amy.
“Actually,” I began, making a show of consulting my watch, “I need to get ready. I’m running late.”
“Five minutes,” he implored. “That’s all I ask.”
I weakened. Not that I wanted Josh to come in, but I have this stupid thing about hurting people’s feelings, and he had brought me coffee. Besides, I could quite fancy a toasted bagel before facing the rest of the day.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Five minutes only.”
“She’s a hard woman,” Josh said, going for his jokey voice which did not impress me.
We headed into my apartment – once our apartment.
I indicated the paper bag. “Bagels?” I questioned.
“From your favorite place,” he said, quite pleased with himself. “Shall I do the toasting honors?”
“Go ahead,” I said, suddenly feeling tired and weary. I had
no clue why Josh was visiting, and frankly I didn’t care.
Josh went behind the counter that divided my living room from the kitchen area, and popped two bagels into the toaster.
“You bought a house,” I stated blankly, sitting down at the counter.
“What did you think of it?” he asked cheerfully, as if we were the best of friends.
“Very nice. Lucky you,” I said, unable to keep the venom out of my tone, because what I really wanted to say was – You bought a house without me, and that’s not fair.
“It’s a sound investment,” Josh remarked. “Especially in this economy.”
“Why? Are you getting married?” I asked in full bitchy mode.
“No way,” he said vehemently. “Tori and I, we’re merely temporary.”
Tori. Of course!
“Does she know that?” I asked, mildly curious to find out if he was stringing her along.
Josh decided to ignore my question. Typical Josh. He extracted the bagels from the toaster, slightly burned, exactly the way he knew I liked them. After spreading butter on mine, he put it on a plate and handed it to me.
This was just like old times. If it was Sunday we’d be reaching for the New York Times by now and settling in for a long leisurely read.
But it’s not Sunday, it’s Wednesday, and I have a ton of stuff to get done. Besides, Josh and I are no longer together, so what the hell is he doing in my apartment?
“You look great,” he said, scratching his chin while he eyed me up and down. “Have you lost weight?”
Was he saying that last time he saw me I was fat? Sonofabitch!
“No,” I answered shortly, thinking that he’d definitely put on a few pounds. “Still the same old me.”
“The same old beautiful you,” he said, with a strong emphasis on the beautiful.
Man, what was it with the compliments lately? Getting laid definitely sends out mad signals.
I munched my bagel, sipped my coffee, then said, “Thanks for coming by, Josh, but I really do have to get going.”
“Yes, sure,” he said obligingly, before adding a slightly tentative – “We should do this again, right?”
Wrong! But I nodded anyway.
Later, at the office, I wished I’d told him to screw off. He had a lot of nerve, dropping by my apartment without an invitation. Who exactly did he think he was?
Megan knocked on my office door and entered bearing a huge vase of red roses.
“Somebody likes you,” she sing-songed, placing the roses on my desk. “And Mr Saunders has requested your presence, pronto.”
I grabbed the note attached to the roses.
Sorry seems to be the hardest word.
Mario.
Yeah, right.
Then I checked my cell for the fifth time to see if Carolyn had replied to my text. She hadn’t. Nor was she answering her phone, and when I’d tried her office earlier they’d informed me that she had not come in. I wondered if she knew about George and Gemma. She’d always been close to her father – maybe he’d confided in her.
Hmm, I had to give Mister Shark Teeth the name of the man in the photo with Gemma. No more holding back, it was full-disclosure time.
* * *
Felix was sitting behind his massive desk, a grim expression on his pointy face, lizard-clad feet up on his desk. Today the lizard shoes were dyed a bright shocking pink, so wrong for the workplace.
Before I could say a word he tossed a tabloid magazine across his desk and said, “Have you seen this?”
I picked up the copy of Truth & Fact and took a look. The headline was enough to horrify me.
MURDERED MOVIE STAR’S DAUGHTER
RUNNING PROSTITUTION RING
WITH DRUG ADDICT BOYFRIEND
And next to the headline was a photo of Annabelle wearing a slinky evening dress and a seductive expression.
My mouth must have dropped open, because Mister Shark Teeth said, “I presume you did not know about this?”
He presumed right. I was in total shock.
“Uh . . . no,” I managed.
“Weren’t you with them in New York?” he asked accusingly, like in the short time I’d spent with them I should have found out everything. I mean, I’m smart, but not that smart.
“Yes, in time to pick them up and take them to the airport,” I explained. “I hardly spent a week or two hanging out with them, so how on earth would I know about their so-called business?”
“A good lawyer knows everything,” Felix said, shooting me a critical look.
A good lawyer should not wear shocking-pink lizard shoes. It’s totally wrong. Besides, the color hurts my eyes.
“Sorry that my private detective skills are not quite up to par,” I said snippily. “However, I do have the name of the man in the Malibu photos with Gemma Maestro.”
This perked Mister Shark Teeth’s interest. “You do?” he said, tapping his gleaming front teeth with a long thin index finger.
“His name is George Henderson,” I continued. “He’s a plastic surgeon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” I answered confidently. “Actually he’s the father of a friend of mine, Carolyn Henderson. Carolyn, me and Annabelle all went to the same high school together.”
“Seems you know everyone,” Felix said, his tone caustic.
“Well, I’ve lived here since I’m eleven.”
“Anyway,” Felix said, removing his feet from the desk, “Ralph is expecting us. He’ll want damage control on this tabloid nonsense. And let’s see exactly how much he knows about George Henderson.”
“Are you thinking that I should come with you?” I asked, willing him to say no.
Naturally he didn’t. My damn luck.
So, Maestro mansion, here I come – again!
All I needed was Mario hanging around outside and once again my day would be perfect.
Chapter Forty-Two
Carolyn
After enduring a long and restless night listening to the pouring rain outside, and feeling desperate about the situation she was caught in, Carolyn wasn’t sure whether she’d actually slept or not. Her stomach ached badly, and she was beginning to be concerned for the welfare of her baby.
Light was peeking through the torn covering on the window, so she assumed it must be morning.
She started thinking about the girl who’d brought her the bread and water the night before. The girl wasn’t doing this alone; there was a man involved, a man who didn’t want her to see his face. After the girl had blindfolded her, the man had taken her to the bathroom and stood there while she’d urinated. Another humiliation.
Who were these people? And even more important – what did they want with her?
Awash with waves of deep despair, Carolyn attempted to think more clearly and work out a timeline. She’d knew she’d been taken early afternoon on Tuesday, and after that she’d been driven around stuffed in the trunk of a car for endless hours. A couple of times she must have passed out, for when she awoke she was lying on this filthy bed, with her right wrist tied to the bedframe with strong electrical cord.
Now it had to be Wednesday, so people should be missing her. Kerri would know something was wrong when she’d failed to pick up Nellie’s meds and then not met her for breakfast. Muriel would surely be suspicious when she didn’t come into the office. And as for Gregory . . .
She wondered what he was doing, thinking.
When he’d turned up to meet her at the deserted gas station and she wasn’t there, what was his reaction?
It all depended on whether her car was still there. If they’d abandoned her car, and she wasn’t in it, then he had to know that something was horribly wrong, and surely he would have immediately called the police?
Or would he?
* * *
Benito spent Tuesday night sleeping in his chair in front of the TV, while Rosa curled up on a beaten-up old couch. She’d tried to go home, but Benito was having none of it. “Yo! You�
�re stayin’ here,” he’d yelled at her in a threatening fashion. “An’ don’ go givin’ me no shit.”
Before going to sleep he’d made her take a peek at their captive to make sure she was still breathing.
The woman – shackled to the bedframe – had stared up at her with fear-filled eyes and begged for water.
For one brief moment Rosa had felt sorry for her. She’d fetched her a mug of water and a couple of slices of stale bread.
After gulping down the water and devouring the bread, the woman had requested to use the bathroom.
Rosa had run to Benito and asked him what she was supposed to do.
“Don’ want her pissin’ in my bed,” he’d grumbled. “Blindfold her, we’ll take her.”
Why did he keep saying we? It really got to Rosa, but she’d reluctantly done as he asked. When she was finished, Benito had come into the room, untied the woman and roughly half-dragged her to the toilet.
As soon as he got her back in the bedroom he’d secured her wrist to the bedframe once again and made a fast exit.
Rosa had realized she was as trapped as the woman on the bed. Why did she have to be involved in Benito’s business? It wasn’t her shit, it was his.
After ripping the blindfold from their captive’s eyes, she’d taken off before the woman could say anything, and joined Benito in front of the TV.
Now it was morning, and Rosa decided she’d better take the woman more bread and water. Didn’t want her dying on them, that wouldn’t be cool. And because of Benito, she could end up getting half the blame.
* * *
With her mind veering off in all different directions, Carolyn didn’t know what to think. One moment she was panicked, the next she somehow or other forced herself to remain calm.
When the young girl came back with a couple more slices of stale bread and a half-bottle of tepid water, she decided that she’d better try and forge some kind of communication between them. She’d read somewhere that if ever you found yourself in a hostage situation, you had to attempt to bond with your captors – make them realize that you were a human being.
“Thanks,” she muttered, gratefully swigging the water. “My name’s Carolyn.”
Poor Little Bitch Girl Page 23
