Five days a week Hubert got off duty at 7 a.m. Today he drove slowly down the long winding driveway in his old Packard, his mind occupied with personal concerns.
A few minutes after leaving the estate he was startled to come across a wrecked Porsche blocking his way. Pulling his car to an abrupt stop, he got out and went over to inspect the damage.
As he approached, it occurred to him that it looked like Jordanna Levitt's Porsche. Now, she was trouble. Coming and going at all times, driving too fast, blasting her music. And look what had happened to her now, she'd gotten her car smashed up.
He wondered how he'd missed her when she'd arrived home last night. He'd been on duty, but sometimes his eyes grew heavy, and maybe he'd closed them for a second or two. Still, he was sure he would have seen Jordanna if she'd come home by foot.
He walked around the white Porsche, noting quite a bit of damage. Yanking open the passenger door he was surprised to discover a woman's purse on the seat, which he thought was strange, because women always took their purses with them.
He picked up the purse, opened it and checked out the wallet, searching for a driver's licence. Sure enough the licence belonged to Jordanna.
For a brief moment he thought about putting the purse back, getting in his car and going home. But Hubert was too conscientious for that kind of behaviour. Duty was duty, and he was obliged to investigate.
Placing Jordanna's purse under his arm, he got back in his car, made a U-turn, and headed back to the Sanderson estate.
* * *
Michael rolled out of bed at seven thirty, exactly six hours after hitting it the night before. His plane had landed after midnight, so by the time he'd arrived home it was past one thirty.
It gave him a good feeling being back in LA. Especially as it was one of those perfect smogless mornings - the kind he'd grown to love.
Seeing his family would soon be a distant memory. The one positive thing was that Bella had seemed quite content where she was now. Maybe Sal and Pandi would turn out to be OK parents after all. He could only hope and pray.
Today is the beginning of my new life, he told himself. No more hanging on to the past.
It was too early to call Kennedy.
He picked up the phone and called her anyway.
* * *
On his way to the studio Bobby reflected on the night before. He'd had a wonderful time with Jordanna, she was exciting and different, but in the cold light of day he wondered if it was wise to get involved just as she was about to star in his movie. He'd made one mistake with Barbara Barr, he didn't want to repeat it.
Not that Jordanna was anything like Barbara - there was no way he'd even think of comparing them.
It niggled him that Jordanna hadn't phoned him last night when she'd gotten home. Eventually he'd called the Sanderson place, and the butler had informed him that everyone appeared to be asleep, and did he really wish to disturb Ms Levitt. No, he'd said, he did not wish to disturb her.
So she'd forgotten to call him - big deal, he'd see her for lunch.
He was kind of edgy because today was the first time he'd be working with his father as an adult. The last time he'd appeared in one of Jerry's movies he'd been eight - playing Jerry as a boy. That was a thrill a minute - with Jerry's encouragement the entire crew had nicknamed him 'Jerry's kid' and laughed at everything he did. Including Jerry, to whom humiliating his son was sport.
Well, he was no longer 'Jerry's kid', and this was going to be an interesting experience, because this time it was his set, and he made the rules.
If anyone was about to be humiliated, it certainly wasn't going to be him.
* * *
First thing every morning George Randall jogged. Even though he knew it was good for him he loathed every step of the way. The only reason he did it was for his wife. She was twenty-six. He would soon be fifty-six. Well, in Hollywood what was thirty years between lovers?
Nobody ever mentioned their age difference, but George was extremely aware of it, especially as he was in the youth business. George was an extremely successful plastic surgeon.
Running down the driveway of his three-million-dollar home on Lexington, he activated his remote control to open his automatic gates, and as he hit the street he was annoyed to find a silver BMW half-blocking the entrance to his driveway.
What kind of nonsense was this? How was he supposed to get his Rolls out when he left for work an hour later?
George decided that maybe he wouldn't go jogging after all. He'd go straight back inside and summon the police. They were quick enough to give him tickets whenever he left his car in the wrong place, let's see how quickly they could remove a car from his own personal driveway.
* * *
Kennedy wanted more. She always wanted more. As information came through, she checked it out, diligently searching for something to make her story fly.
Zane Marion Ricca being Luca Carlotti's nephew was a big plus. It was possible that only she and her researcher knew.
How close was Luca Carlotti to his nephew? A good question.
Right now she was working on the Hollywood connection. Like how had Zane first gotten to Hollywood and landed a role in The Contract? It was hardly likely he'd walked in off the street - a New York actor with little experience. It was more than luck. Was it possible Luca Carlotti had ties to the film industry?
She'd found out Nanette Lipsky was the casting director on The Contract - a movie directed by Mac Brooks. Nanette was currently working on Thriller Eyes. Kennedy planned to speak to her.
She wished she could view the scenes between Zane and the murdered actress. They'd both been cut from the finished movie, their roles recast and reshot, but somebody had the original footage.
Hmm... she'd really like to talk to Mac Brooks, too, although it might not be so easy, as Bobby Rush was producing and starring in Thriller Eyes, and she could just imagine his reaction if he heard she was trying to interview Mac.
She'd give Mac Brooks a shot anyway, tell him she was writing a story for Style Wars, and see what he had to say.
The worst he could do was turn her down.
* * *
Luca had forgotten the real purpose of his visit to LA. He'd been so busy thinking about Bambi that he'd let Zane out of the loop, and he needed to bring him back in and get rid of his dumb nephew before he did any more damage.
Bambi had captivated his heart. She might be a hooker, but at least she was top of the line, and he was prepared to forget about her past in exchange for her undying fidelity. When Luca gave his heart - not to mention his house - it was a permanent arrangement until he said it was over.
Since Priscilla's death he'd been alone. There'd been a series of women, but none of them had got his juices flowing the way Bambi did. She might be a little young, but he was sure she was the woman for him. And he hadn't even fucked her yet. He had plans to fly his personal physician to LA, have him check her out, make sure she was disease free, and then he'd go for it. Bambi was in for a big treat.
Right now he had to concentrate on finding Zane and eliminating him, only then could he devote all his attention to Bambi.
He knew she'd accept his offer. The truth was he'd give her no choice.
When Luca wanted something there was no question that he'd get it.
* * *
Detective Carlyle was not having a good day. He had this goddamn murder case to deal with, and Boyd Keller, the hot-shot asshole heading up the task force, was no help. Headquarters had been formed in his precinct, and Boyd Keller was all over him. Yesterday Boyd had told him to contact the other two witnesses who'd helped put Zane Marion Ricca away, warn them about what was going on, and offer them police protection.
He'd tried. First he'd left a message for Cheryl Landers at her home, and then one for Jordanna Levitt at the production office where she worked. Neither had bothered phoning him back.
Now he was personally going to have to shift butt and track down the little darlings.
The only problem was, if anything did happen, everybody would blame him.
Since the task force had been formed his life had turned to shit. Boyd Keller had reamed him out in front of a group of his colleagues. 'Two of these murders were in your division,' he'd snapped at him like a fucking drill sergeant. 'How come you didn't figure out they were connected?'
Screw you, he'd wanted to say. Who do you think I am - Perry fucking Mason?
As far as the two girls were concerned, how could he put them in protective custody when he couldn't even get them to return a phone call?
Dammit! There was only one thing to do, and that was visit them both this morning.
He got in his car, put on the radio and treated himself to a sharp jolt of early morning reality. Howard Stern at his best.
Maybe there was time to stop off for a Danish and coffee. The diner on Third had a new waitress working there, and she always winked at him in a most provocative fashion.
What the hell, a man had to have some fun.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Jordanna slept in fits and starts waiting for daylight. It wasn't until six in the morning that light began filtering in from a small grill high up on one side of the cellar wall. Only then did she realize that Cheryl was the other person trapped in the cellar with her.
Overcome with relief that she was not alone, she rolled over as close as she could, giving Cheryl an urgent shove with her feet. 'Wake up,' she said quickly. 'It's me, Jordy. C'mon, wake up, get with it. We're in big trouble.'
Cheryl stirred slightly.
'C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,' Jordanna urged.
'Oh, Jesus!' Cheryl groaned, attempting to move. 'I don't feel so good. I think I've been poisoned.'
'Don't panic,' Jordanna said, keeping her voice low. 'We're handcuffed and trapped in a cellar. I think we've been kidnapped.'
'It's worse than that,' Cheryl said weakly, recalling what had happened to her.
'What do you mean?'
'Remember when we gave evidence against that weirdo actor who murdered Ingrid Floris?'
Jordanna felt her stomach drop. She knew she wasn't going to like what she was about to hear.
'Yes.'
'It's him. It's Zane Ricca.'
Oh, Christ, they really were in trouble. 'How do you know?'
'He told me,' Cheryl said, her voice rising. 'This isn't just kidnapping. He intends to do us real harm.'
'No way,' Jordanna said, refusing to believe the worst. 'There's two of us and one of him. We'll get out of this.'
'All right for you to say. But, how?'
'Don't lose it, Cheryl. Above all, we have to stay strong.'
'How can we when we're handcuffed and tied up? He won't give us a chance.'
'How did he get you here?'
'I was on my way home... my car ran out of gas. I got in his car to use the phone. He had a gun, brought me here and forced me to drink something - it must have been drugged. That's the last I remember. How about you?'
'He rammed my Porsche, and like an idiot I got out to see the damage. The next thing I know he'd chloroformed me.'
'He must've planned this whole thing,' Cheryl said.
'We'll be OK,' Jordanna responded, her mind racing. 'Eventually he'll have to let us go to the bathroom and give us food. There'll be an opportunity, and when it comes we'll be ready to take advantage of him. Did you ever go to a self-defence class?'
'No.'
'I did a couple of times. They taught me that in an attack situation the important thing is to stay calm and wait for the windows of opportunity.'
'What's that mean?'
'Search out his weak points. Like in the case of rape a man has to unbuckle his belt - so that's a weak moment. It's then that you strike.'
'Oh, God...' Cheryl groaned. 'I think I'm going to throw up.'
Jordanna kept on going. 'Let's talk about his two most vulnerable areas - his eyes and his balls. We go for either.'
'I've definitely been poisoned,' Cheryl mumbled, once again attempting to sit up, screaming with horror as a cockroach scurried across her leg.
'When you're kidnapped or in a hostage situation,' Jordanna said, 'the essential thing is to become friendly with your captor. Make human contact. We have to get him talking, pretend we're his friends.'
'Friends?' Cheryl exclaimed. 'You can't be serious.'
'Concentrate,' Jordanna said, willing her to do so. 'It's more difficult to harm people if you know them.'
'You do it,' Cheryl said, starting to shiver. 'All I want is to get out of here.' Her coat slipped open, revealing her sexy ensemble.
'What the fuck have you got on?' Jordanna demanded.
'Stop staring,' Cheryl said, embarrassed. 'It's my sex outfit.'
Jordanna couldn't believe it, if the situation wasn't so desperate it would be funny. She shook her head. 'Oh, that's really good. That's a fine outfit to get kidnapped in.'
'Thanks. When I put it on I wasn't planning on being kidnapped,' Cheryl retorted, recovering some of her snap.
'Here's what we'll do,' Jordanna said, glancing at her watch. 'It's early, so he might not come down here until seven or eight. We should get some sleep, 'cause we'll need all our strength. When he comes down and removes our handcuffs, we go for him. Remember - eyes and balls. We've got to do this together, Cheryl. It's imperative we back each other up.'
'I feel so bad,' Cheryl moaned. 'I don't know what he gave me, but I feel like pure shit.'
'It's just an allergic reaction.'
'I don't know... I never felt this bad...'
'Hey, hang in there, we'll get out of this,' Jordanna said encouragingly. 'Don't you worry about it.'
She sounded strong and cheerful, but deep in her heart she was terrified.
* * *
The Man slept for seven straight hours. He knew it was important to get his rest, his mother had taught him that. She'd taught him a lot of other things, too, most of which he wished to forget.
Now that he had the two girls safely secured in the cellar, he wasn't quite sure what he would do with them. Eventually he was going to kill them, but he enjoyed the idea of playing with them first. Making them suffer as he had suffered over the last seven years.
Ah, yes, bringing them to their knees, and wiping their rich smug faces clean would be a pleasure.
He hadn't quite decided how he was going to do it. Perhaps keeping them trapped and shackled in the cellar was enough. Psychologically they would expect him to do something. And yet, what if he did nothing? Merely kept them chained like wild animals until they died a slow and agonizing death.
The idea appealed to him.
Being in control was a heady feeling.
* * *
Grant never surfaced before noon, and when he did get up he usually had a major hangover. On Thursday morning he awoke before ten, and lay in bed willing himself to go back to sleep.
It occurred to him that although he'd left a message for Cheryl to call him, she hadn't done so. Abandoning more sleep he reached for the phone and gave her a buzz.
Her machine picked up. He hated machines, on principle he never left a message.
Sometimes Cheryl could be extremely aggravating. She should have called him back last night since he'd gone to the trouble of leaving her a note. He wanted to alert her that there was a detective on the prowl, because if there was some kind of investigation going on, she might be able to deflect it. Cheryl had power, or at least her father did. More power than his father, who was only a mere movie star.
He tried Cheryl again. Surely she wasn't stupid enough to have stayed the night with her client?
No, not even Cheryl would do that. They'd often played dangerous games, but never this crazy.
It occurred to him that he shouldn't have allowed her to go off on an app
ointment with some John, and she shouldn't have done it. She was just as much to blame as he was.
Now he'd have to start checking up on her.
He climbed out of bed, stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, pushed back his long hair, and decided to drop by her house, just to make sure she was OK.
* * *
'Can I come over?' Michael asked.
'Excuse me?' Kennedy said.
'This is Michael. Remember me? I'd like to come over and bring you breakfast.'
'I don't eat breakfast.'
'Make an exception.'
'It's awfully early.'
'You're up, aren't you? I didn't wake you.'
'That's because I'm working on a story.'
'What story?'
'Zane Marion Ricca. The LA Strangler. They're about to put out an arrest warrant.'
'Really?'
'I'm running background on him. There seem to be some interesting tie-ins.'
'Why don't you tell me about it when I get there?'
'Aren't you listening, Michael? I don't eat breakfast.'
'How about calling it an early lunch?'
'You're persistent.'
He hoped he sounded as sincere as he felt. 'I missed seeing you last night, Kennedy. I know I didn't call, but I had to fly to New York - it was about my daughter.'
'Have you found her? Is she all right?'
'Yes, she's fine.'
'That's great news.'
'I need to talk to someone.' He paused, then turned on the charm, only this time it wasn't bullshit, he meant it. 'And the truth is, you're prettier than Quincy.'
Hollywood Kids Page 44
