Hollywood Wives--The New Generation

by Jackie Collins

  Surprisingly Big Mark and Little Joe had handled the snatch like professionals. They’d gotten her into the trunk of the car within minutes. And when they’d reached the building, Big Mark had carried her in through the gloomy and deserted underground car park without a hitch.

  Now they had her locked in the room that Arliss had set up. And all Eric had to do was contact the bitch mother and demand the ransom.

  With any luck he’d be a rich man on a plane out of there within twenty-four hours.

  Chapter Forty

  * * *

  DETECTIVE FANNY WEBSTER had been stuck with an unfortunate name. Christened Frances, she’d been called Fanny from a very early age. It was okay as a kid, but now as a homicide detective, and one of great repute, she hated her name.

  Fanny was a skinny woman in her forties, with a Jennifer Lopez ass—another thing she hated—and swollen ankles. She had short, reddish hair that always looked as if it needed combing, clothes that always seemed to need pressing, and a big, friendly smile. Her smile was her greatest asset. It drew people in, persuading them to tell her everything.

  The one thing Fanny hated more than anything else was violence against women. And she saw it all the time. The wife, beaten to death with a baseball bat. The girlfriend, shot in the head. The little kids, sexually abused and tortured. Fanny had never grown immune to violence, and the day she inspected Pattie’s body hanging from the shower rail in her bathroom with her throat slit, she felt nothing but sadness.

  What was it that drove people to commit such fiendish acts of violence? She didn’t know, but she certainly knew that she was very adept at catching them.

  The first thing she did after her team went to work was question everyone in the apartment building. Nobody seemed to know anything, including the Mahoneys.

  “You heard no screaming? Saw no strangers coming in the day before yesterday? Nothing like that?” Fanny asked, making notes in a weathered notebook.

  Both of them shook their heads. “I usually have the TV turned up loud,” Mr. Mahoney admitted. “My hearing’s not as sharp as it was.”

  “I see,” Fanny said. “And you, Mrs. Mahoney? Did you hear anything unusual?”

  “No,” Mrs. Mahoney said. “Except . . .”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Well, somebody did ring my doorbell.”

  “Who was it? Do you know?”

  “It was a man. He was asking for Pattie.”

  This was exactly the kind of information Fanny was looking for. “Do you happen to know who it was?”

  “I’m not nosey,” Mrs. Mahoney said a touch priggishly. “Nobody would call me a nosey neighbor, because as far as I’m concerned, people have to do what they have to do, and it’s not my place to interfere. But . . . I did take a look through the peephole.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, and I saw the man.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He had one of those forgettable faces. And he was sort of medium height and build, with brownish hair. I didn’t think anything of it, because,” Mrs. Mahoney lowered her voice, “she has had gentlemen callers before.”

  “A lot?”

  “No. She was mostly alone, always playing her music too loud. She worked in the bar around the corner, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know that, Mrs. Mahoney. Sam’s the one who put out an alert she was missing.”

  “Nice man, Sam,” Mrs. Mahoney remarked. “We don’t go in his bar much, but since it’s around the corner, we try to pop in on special occasions.” She lowered her voice again. “He has topless girls working there. She was one of them. I don’t think that’s right, do you?”

  “I’m meeting with Sam shortly,” Fanny said. “If I showed you some pictures, do you think you could recognize the man who was here?”

  “I might,” Mrs. Mahoney said, puffed up with her own importance. “Does that mean you want to take me down to the station and show me a book of mug shots?”

  “Perhaps,” Fanny said. “You’ve been very helpful. There’s nothing else you can think of that’s unusual?”

  “No, that’s all. I was wondering why he rang my bell. Of course, they’re not marked downstairs. I’ve told my husband he should mark them, but he never gets around to it. Too busy watching TV.”

  “I know what you mean,” Fanny said, giving her the friendly smile.

  “Men,” Mrs. Mahoney said. “They’re a lazy lot.”

  “Right,” Fanny said. She was actually a lesbian, so she couldn’t care less whether men were lazy or not.

  She checked on her team again. The photographer and the fingerprint boys had done their job, so had the DNA expert. Everything had been done that had to be done, and the body had already been taken away. There would definitely be an autopsy on this one.

  Fanny wandered around the small, depressing apartment. Pattie was into old-fashioned music. There were several Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow CDs. She was not exactly up to date with her musical tastes.

  Fanny picked up a picture of Pattie with a tall boy in a Marine uniform. Brother or boyfriend? Who knew? Who cared? Did Pattie have anyone who cared about her?

  Now Fanny had the job of calling the parents, if they were still alive.

  Methodically, she went through the kitchen drawers, finding nothing of interest. Then she spotted a trash bin jammed in next to the fridge. She emptied out the contents. The usual stuff. Dirty Kleenex, chocolate wrappers, an empty Sparkletts bottle, two Diet Coke cans, and some crumpled pieces of paper.

  Fanny smoothed out the papers on the table. There were several drafts of a letter to someone called Eric. And judging by the tone of the letters, Eric was someone that Pattie had obviously liked a lot.

  Eric . . . the name stuck in Fanny’s mind. She had a strong suspicion that he might be the man she was looking for.

  Now all she had to do was find out where he lived, and she’d bring him in for questioning.

  That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?

  Chapter Forty-one

  * * *

  EXHAUSTION SWEPT over Lissa like a wave. She’d had enough. She managed to catch Michael’s eye and signal that it was time to leave. He headed toward her at the same time as Evelyn and Walter Burns. They all reached her at the same time.

  “Fabulous!” Evelyn enthused. “Fabulous! Fabulous!” She was clad in a too-tight red cocktail dress, black fishnet stockings, red four-inch-heel ankle-strap shoes, an abundance of rubies, and a long sable stole. “Did you get my present?” she asked anxiously.

  “Thanks so much,” Lissa said, wondering how she was supposed to dispose of twenty pairs of hooker shoes.

  Walter began telling her how sensational he thought her show was.

  Evelyn turned to Michael. “Did you get my present?” she asked in a low voice, a mischievous smile playing around her overglossed lips.

  “Your present?” he questioned.

  “Cindy,” she said, winking. “I know you’re supposed to be working, but a little hanky-panky never hurt anyone, and Cindy deserved a treat.”

  So that’s where Cindy had come from. “Oh, yeah—thanks.”

  “Thanks! Is that all I get?” she said, edging nearer and giving him a sexy look.

  This was all he needed, the wife of the owner of the hotel coming on to him. He’d met men like Walter Burns before, Walter would think nothing of crushing anyone he thought disrespected him.

  He quickly turned to Lissa. “I’m afraid I’ve gotta get you out of here,” he said. “You have a phone interview to Australia in your suite.”

  “I do?” she said.

  “Max arranged it.”

  “Oh yes, right,” she said, catching on.

  “I thought I was teaching you to play craps,” Evelyn wailed. “I promise you’ll win.”

  “Another time,” Lissa said.

  “Maybe later?” Evelyn questioned, ever hopeful.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  It took Michael twenty-five minutes to m
ove her through the crowded room toward the door. Everyone—men and women—wanted a piece of her.

  They finally made it to the private elevator. Once the elevator doors closed, she sighed with relief. “It’s over!” she said. “Thank God!”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

  “Stamina,” she answered, smiling. “Besides, it’s what I’ve always done, I’m used to it.”

  “I don’t mean the show, I mean socializing with all those people.”

  “Some of them are nice,” she said, leaning forward and pressing the stop button. The elevator ground to a halt between floors.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fulfilling the fantasy I’ve been imagining all night.”

  “And that is . . .”

  “You, Michael,” she said softly, reaching over to touch his face. “Why wait until we get upstairs?”

  He was instantly hard, she had that effect on him.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching up and blocking the tiny security camera with a packet of book matches. “Who am I to argue?”

  And then they fell into each other’s arms, hungry for everything they could get.

  •

  SAFFRON WAS in a mild fury. How many times had she told Nicci about the bachelorette night? How many times had she warned her to be prepared for anything?

  And now here she was, standing outside Nicci’s door, with three girlfriends waiting in a limo and ready to rock, and Nicci was nowhere in sight.

  “Dammit!” she complained. “Where is the bitch?”

  Kimberly jumped out of the limo and joined her at the front door. “Maybe she went for a swim and drowned,” she said helpfully. “Her car’s here, so she must be in the house . . . or the pool. Whatever.”

  Saffron threw Kimberly—a friend from high school—a withering look. Ever since she’d been dating that writer guy she’d become even more stupid. Saffron wished she’d gone with her original idea and invited gay guys only. They were far less trouble and double the fun.

  Still . . . perhaps she should check the pool.

  Trailed by Kimberly, she walked around to the back. Pool. Empty.

  A glass door overlooking the pool was unlocked, so she let herself into the house and began calling Nicci’s name. Then she did a quick check of the house. Nobody home.

  House. Empty.

  By the front door she discovered a shopping bag full of CDs from a record store in Santa Barbara, and next to it, Nicci’s purse, containing her phone, her wallet with everything in it—driver’s license, credit cards, money, a picture of the two of them with Lulu.

  Something wasn’t right, Nicci never went anywhere without her purse, it was like her security blanket. If she didn’t have her phone and credit cards, she claimed she couldn’t function.

  “Where d’you think she is?” Kimberly asked.

  “Dunno,” Saffron said. “But I got a weird feelin’ somethin’s not right.”

  •

  DANNY WAS TIRED; however, he was not too tired to hit the casino again when the party, was finally over. Why waste time sitting in his room when he could be out experiencing exciting adventures in Las Vegas?

  He sat at the roulette table until he’d lost the five hundred dollars he’d won the night before. Then, depressed, he left the table and reluctantly went upstairs.

  He wasn’t in his room five minutes before the phone rang. Lissa had not wanted any direct calls going to her suite, so everything was routed through him.

  He picked up the phone, and a muffled voice mumbled words he couldn’t make out. “What?” he said impatiently. “Speak up.”

  “Get me Lissa Roman.”

  “I’m sorry—who is calling?”

  The voice got louder. “This is an emergency regarding her daughter.”

  “An emergency?” Danny said officiously. “In that case you can tell me, I’m Miz Roman’s personal assistant.”

  “Get me Lissa,” the muffled voice repeated. “Otherwise Nicci will die.”

  “Oh my God,” Danny said, his heart jumping into his throat. This was obviously a matter for security. “Wait a minute,” he said into the phone, and on the other line he buzzed Michael’s room. There was no answer.

  Damn! What should he do now? He didn’t want to wake Lissa, she’d be asleep by this time, and yet . . . he was not equipped to deal with such a call, he needed advice. He tried Chuck’s room, no answer there either.

  Wasn’t one of them supposed to be on duty looking after her? This was a horrible situation to find himself in.

  He picked up the phone again, taking it off hold. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” the muffled voice said. “If she’s not on the line when I call back in fifteen minutes, Nicci’s one dead girl. And no cops—if anyone calls the cops, believe me, she’s gone.”

  •

  TAYLOR HAD A LITTLE TRICK she played on Larry, she’d been doing it for the last year. Before any kind of sexual activity, she handed him a glass of fine brandy, and unbeknownst to Larry, in the amber liquid, she’d crushed a Viagra pill.

  It worked like a charm every time. Half an hour later he was ready to go all night. And he thought it was because of her that he was suddenly Mr. Virile.

  Taylor did not consider this duplicity. She considered it helping out a man who was very insecure sexually.

  Fortunately she’d brought the blue diamond-shaped pills with her, and while Larry was in the bathroom, she poured them both a glass of brandy from the minibar, crushing the pill into his. Then she changed into a peach negligee with a plunging neckline and a daring slit to her thigh. Larry was very into visual stimulation.

  When he emerged in his pajamas, she tried to hand him his drink. “Don’t want it,” he said brusquely.

  Which presented her with a dilemma. She could still get him hard, but not rock hard the way the Viagra made him, and unfortunately, he wouldn’t have any staying power.

  This was not good. Tonight she wanted the sex to be special.

  “Come lie beside me,” she murmured, lounging back on the circular bed.

  “What?” he replied, still in a bad mood.

  “Come over here, Larry, and let’s relax.”

  He did so, and once more she offered him the glass of brandy. This time he took it, and she toasted him with hers, clinking glasses. “We should celebrate you becoming involved with my movie,” she murmured. “It’s exciting for me, and I know you’ll probably think I’m crazy, only it’s kind of sexually exciting too.” As she spoke she allowed the strap on her negligee to slip, exposing her left breast. “The thought of us working together is making me hot, Larry,” she whispered. “Hot and sexy. Maybe it’s time to play one of our games.”

  Their games were another device she used to keep Larry interested. She would pretend to be someone else, and he’d do the same. She’d noticed that when he adopted the role of the plumber or repairman, he could become quite aggressive.

  “I think I’ll be a Vegas hooker tonight,” she said lightly. “How about you? What will your role be?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Taylor,” he said. But she could tell he was weakening.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, turning on her side, revealing even more flesh. “We can lie here, watching ourselves in the overhead mirror, and enjoy our drinks.”

  He sipped his brandy, his eyes straying toward her exposed breasts.

  Hmm . . . she thought. Not in the mood for games, huh? Give me half an hour and you’ll be all mine.

  •

  CLAUDE ST. LUCIA was not a man to be trifled with. As far as he was concerned, James’ behavior was unacceptable. Running all over the place with that magician person. Flaunting him in front of their friends. It was humiliating.

  Claude left the party and went to his suite, where he immediately contacted his pilot. “We leave in an hour,” he said. “Have the plane ready. I’ll meet you at the airport.” Then he cal
led one of his assistants in L.A. “I’m coming back tonight,” he informed the young man. “Alert Mr. and Mrs. Singer, the Domingos, and the Rossiters. Tell them if they wish to fly back with me to L.A., they should be at the airport in an hour. If they prefer to stay, I understand.”

  “Where will I find them?” the assistant asked.

  “That’s for you to discover,” Claude said, and hung up.

  James and he had been together for ten years.

  He was beginning to get the feeling that ten years was long enough.

  •

  “YOU’D BETTER TELL HER, and you’d better do it the moment you get back to L.A.,” Abbey Christian said, swinging her long legs off the bed and prancing across the room quite naked.

  “I can’t tell her the moment I walk into the house,” Evan objected, staring at Abbey’s buff body. “We’re supposed to be married in two weeks.”

  “So I found out,” Abbey said, a bitter twist to her America’s-sweetheart mouth. “When were you going to tell me, Evan? Or was it your plan to string me along until I finished your movie?”

  “Since Nicci isn’t here, I didn’t think I had to deal with it until I got back,” Evan explained.

  “She’s living in your house,” Abbey exploded, her small nipples disturbingly erect. “You’re supposed to be getting married in two weeks, and you didn’t think you’d have to deal with it?” Her voice rose even higher. “It’s a good job Brian filled me in, isn’t it?”

  Evan could kill his goddamn brother. If there was one person who should have understood, it was Brian. But no, as soon as Brian found out, he’d run straight to Abbey and blabbered about Nicci. If Brian hadn’t done that, Abbey would never have known. They would have gotten back to L.A., and he would have eased out of the affair, because he did want to marry Nicci. She was a far better candidate than Abbey Christian, who was a movie star, a cokehead, and a lunatic.

  Admittedly Evan was having the greatest sex of his life, but great sex did not make her a suitable bride.

  Now Brian had ruined everything. Probably because he was pissed off he wasn’t banging her. And to hold the movie together, Evan had been forced to pretend he was dumping Nicci and staying with Abbey. Fortunately, she hadn’t mentioned marriage.