Obsession

by Jackie Collins

  He squeezed her hand. “I’ll get the check.”

  chapter 8

  BY THE TIME JIMMY AND Natalie reached their TV station, news of the Salli T. Turner murder was spreading across L.A. like an out-of-control brushfire, which really pissed Jimmy off because he’d expected to be first to announce the killing on air.

  Madison followed them into the news room, still dazed by the shocking murder. She kept on thinking of Salli when they had lunch earlier in the day—so vibrant and alive. Now Salli was dead, and it didn’t seem possible.

  Garth, the news director, a tall man with angular features and sparse yellow hair plastered to his scalp, was not pleased either. “What the hell took you so long?” he screamed at Jimmy, ignoring both Natalie and Madison.

  “I live in the goddamn Valley for chrissakes,” Jimmy retorted bad-temperedly. “Pay me more money and I’ll move closer.”

  “Never mind,” Garth growled. “You’re going on a special news break. Get moving.”

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said sarcastically, taking off for the makeup room.

  “As for you, sweetie,” Garth said, turning to Natalie. “Prepare me a eulogy for the eleven-o’clock news. Something that’ll break everyone’s heart and keep ’em watching.” He licked his thin lips. “We’ll use plenty of footage of Salli bouncing along the beach in her sexy black rubber suit. Nothing like T and A and a good murder to guarantee megaratings.”

  “I was thinking,” Natalie blurted. “Maybe Madison should do it; she was with Salli today.”

  Madison threw Natalie an amazed look. “I’m not going on TV,” she objected. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Garth took notice of Madison for the first time. “Who’re you?” he asked rudely.

  “Someone with better manners than you,” she shot back, not thrilled by his brusque attitude.

  “Madison’s my journalist friend from New York,” Natalie quickly explained. “She flew out on the same plane as Salli. And today she was at Salli’s house having lunch.”

  Garth’s long, thin nose smelled an exclusive. “You were?” he asked, practically salivating.

  “That’s right,” Madison replied curtly. “And I can assure you I have absolutely no intention of talking about it on TV.”

  “Why not?” Garth demanded.

  Madison frowned. What was wrong with Natalie for suggesting she go on the air? And who was this total idiot? “Don’t you people care that a beautiful young woman has been murdered?” she said furiously. “What is this to you? Nothing more than a ratings race?”

  “Now, now,” Garth said gently, realizing she could be useful. “Understandable you’re upset. But the public has a right to know. As a journalist, you should understand that.”

  “Sorry,” Madison said shortly. “I don’t think they have a right to anything.”

  Garth scratched his head. Nothing worse than a stubborn woman—especially a stubborn female journalist. “How much?” he asked wearily, like money could solve any problem.

  “How much what?” she said, still frowning.

  “Money. For you to get on air.”

  She gave him an icy glare. “You just don’t get it, do you.”

  “No, honey,” he answered patronizingly. “It’s you who don’t get it. News is news, and if you were with her today, we’re sitting on dynamite. So tell me what it’s gonna take to get you in front of the camera?”

  Madison couldn’t believe what a moron this guy was. “Nothing you have to offer,” she said, throwing him a dismissive look.

  “Drop it, Garth,” Natalie said, sensing that Madison was about to lose it. “It was a dumb idea. Sorry, Maddy.”

  “No, honey,” Garth sneered. “For once you got it right.”

  “Hey—” Madison said, directing her words to Natalie. “I’m out of here. You work for this asshole, I don’t.”

  “Who’re you calling names?” Garth said, a plum red flush spreading up from his neck.

  “Forget it,” Madison said. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a pleasure.”

  “Maddy—” Natalie began. But it was too late— Madison was on her way out.

  Angrily she made her way to the front desk and requested the young man at reception to order her a cab. Then she used her cell phone to reach her editor, Victor Simons, in New York, where it was now one-thirty in the morning.

  “Listen to me, Victor,” she said, her words tumbling over each other as she was overcome with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

  “What?” Victor mumbled, half asleep and disoriented. “It better be important.”

  “It is,” Madison said, finally realizing that she did have a hot story, and she’d better pursue it. “Salli T. Turner was murdered tonight. Stabbed to death.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “Weren’t you having lunch with her today?” Victor asked, sounding a lot more alert.

  “Yes. I was at her house earlier.”

  “Then it must’ve—”

  “—happened after I left,” Madison said, finishing the sentence for him.

  “You should—”

  “Don’t worry, Victor, I’m on it. In fact, I’m heading for the murder site right now. Expect to hear from me later.”

  chapter 9

  MAX STEELE WAS NOT about to be lectured to by the likes of Freddie Leon—or “the Snake,” as everyone referred to him behind his back. Screw Freddie. Screw ’em all. Max was on an “I hate everyone” roll.

  The plain truth was that Ariel was right: people always had regarded Freddie as the major partner in I.A.A.; Max Steele always came second. Oh, he knew what they said—“If you can’t get to Freddie, settle for good old Max.”

  Dammit! He’d had enough; he was glad he was splitting. When he was ensconced as studio head he’d be a man to be reckoned with, not some little pissant agent. Then everyone would kiss his ass big time.

  Before he’d left, Freddie had made an attempt to edge him into the library. Instead he’d stormed out—he had nothing to say until he’d figured out exactly how he was going to say it.

  Now he was in his red Maserati cruising along Sunset, listening to All Saints on his CD player, wondering what the hell he was going to do to calm down.

  He shouldn’t have pissed Ariel off—he knew that for sure. She was a cunt—but she was a cunt with connections.

  No bad karma. That was his new motto.

  I need a snort, he thought, a touch of the magic white powder to calm me down and make me feel smooth as velvet.

  Howie would have what he needed. But hadn’t Howie mentioned he was going to Vegas with his old man?

  Yeah. Maybe. One never knew with Howie—he was a number-one degenerate fuckup, typical son of a rich man. Money no problem, there was always more where that came from. Never kept a job for longer than two weeks. Never met a beautiful woman he didn’t want to sleep with. Never encountered a drug he wasn’t willing to try. Max reckoned Howie had brain damage from all his excesses.

  Still . . . you could relax with a guy like Howie, have some laughs. And sometimes Max needed laughs when business got too intense.

  He pulled his Maserati up outside Riptide, on Sunset, and left it with an eager valet. Max was known around town as an excellent tipper.

  Riptide was the latest place to hang—a restaurant club with good food, crowded bar, and many beautiful and available women. Not that beautiful, available women were hard to come by in Hollywood. Truth was they were everywhere—would-be models and actresses who flocked into town hoping to become the next Pamela Anderson or Claudia Schiffer, and ended up posing for Playboy or getting walkons in some horny producer’s movie. Then there were the women who’d made it—the television stars with their own series, and the supermodels with their lucrative cosmetic contracts. And above all of them were the megastars like Sharon Stone, Michelle Pfeiffer and Julia Roberts—talented females who’d gotten to the top in spite of the odds.

  Max liked to sample all levels. Howie usually settled fo
r the would-be’s, claiming they were more grateful.

  Bianca, Riptide’s shapely Brazilian maître d’, greeted him warmly, as well she should—he’d gotten her the job after a night of interesting sex on a friend’s yacht in the Marina. Banking favors was Max’s specialty.

  “Hi, Max—joining Howie’s table?” Bianca asked, gold hoop earrings jangling on exceptionally small earlobes.

  “Thought he was in Vegas,” Max replied, giving her a friendly pat on her black-satin-clad ass.

  “He’s here,” Bianca said, leading him through the crowded restaurant. “You know,” she said, over her shoulder, “I can’t believe the news about Salli T. Turner. She was in here all the time with that shitheel husband of hers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who did it.”

  “Did what?” Max asked blankly, waving at various friends and acquaintances as he trailed Bianca through the room.

  She stopped short. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “What?”

  “Salli was stabbed to death,” Bianca said, lowering her voice to a horrified whisper. “They’re saying whoever did it cut off one of her breasts.”

  Max shuddered. “Jesus!”

  “It’s so horrible! Did you know her?”

  Max nodded, remembering the time Salli T. had come to the office with the intention of seeing Freddie. Naturally Freddie was completely disinterested, so Max had ended up feeling sorry for her, and taken her for a drink in the bar at the Peninsula, where he’d given her career advice. In return she’d offered him a blow job. He’d turned her down. Not his type. Too obvious with the fake boobs and cascades of platinum hair. But sweet with it, almost naive in a way.

  “When did this happen?” he asked.

  “Earlier tonight,” Bianca answered. “I’m getting myself a gun. If it can happen to her it can happen to anyone.”

  “Now, don’t go getting paranoid,” Max said, not mentioning that he’d had a hidden compartment specially built into his Maserati which housed a fully loaded Glock.

  “Why not?” Bianca demanded, dark Brazilian eyes flashing. “It’s the truth.”

  “Was it a break-in?”

  “Nobody seems to know. It’s all over the TV.”

  And then they were at the booth. And there sat Howie in a three-thousand-dollar Brioni suit, a four-hundred-dollar Lorenzini shirt, and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar Armani tie. There was nothing cheap about Howie—especially when he was spending his old man’s money.

  On the table in front of him was a half-empty bottle of Cristal in a silver ice bucket, with two glasses and a large glass dish filled to the brim with the best beluga caviar.

  Lounging next to Howie on the comfortable leather banquette was Inga Cruelle, Max’s erstwhile date, a blank expression on her perfect, supermodel face.

  “Jesus!” Max exploded.

  This was not turning out to be his perfect day.

  chapter 10

  ANGELA MUSCONNI WAS bored. She’d had enough of watching the goings-on at the grown-up table. She was nineteen years old, for chrissakes, too young to sit around with a bunch of boring old farts.

  Kevin Page had talked her into coming with him. “C’mon, babe,” he’d persuaded, still impressed with his own sudden fame. “It’s a movers-and-shakers deal—we gotta go.”

  “What do I care?” she’d answered with a couldn’t-care-less shrug. She’d met enough so-called movers and shakers on her way up. They were no big surprise, star fucks, every one.

  When she’d first come to Hollywood, nobody had wanted to know her. Oh yeah, a blow job was acceptable to certain producers who’d promised her everything and then forgotten her name. Apart from that, she was treated like a nothing—a dumb little street kid.

  Now they all wanted to suck up to her, including Brock Martin, who really thought he was hot shit on a plate. Of course Brock didn’t remember two years ago when he’d tried to pick her up at the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday morning, and offered her money for a hand job. Pervert! Out trolling for teenagers when he had a wife and two kids at home.

  She’d been broke at the time and quite tempted; now she could reject him and enjoy watching him beg. But it was amusing for five minutes; after that it was a yawn.

  She didn’t get it. What fun was there in sitting around a fancy dinner table with waiters serving all kinds of gourmet crap, when she and Kevin could be making out, eating pizza or cruising the clubs?

  And what was with Kev brownnosing Lucinda Bennett’s saggy ass? She was old enough to be his grandmother, for chrissakes.

  Angie sighed. Sometimes Kev was so out of it. Even though he was five years older than her, he was not nearly as street-smart. If she was planning on staying with him, she’d have to teach him how to operate.

  Restlessly she got up from the table. “Goin’ to the john,” she mumbled. Like anyone cared. Kev certainly couldn’t give a rat’s ass.

  She wandered through the ornate living room, taking in the silver frames filled with signed photos of presidents and movie stars. Then she checked out the expensive art hanging on the walls—tastefully lit. There was a Picasso here, a Monet there. Bo . . . ring.

  The only place any sounds were coming from was the kitchen, so she gravitated in that direction. Peeking around the door, she was amazed at the size of the industrial-looking room. Holy shit! The fucking kitchen was bigger than her entire New York apartment!

  A bunch of people were busy, busy, busy. Ah, the staff—her kind of people. She’d grown up in New York, where her mom worked as a maid and her dad drove a union truck. Recently she’d moved them from Brooklyn to a house she’d bought them in Paramus. They’d hated it. Too bad.

  “Hi, guys,” she said, wandering into the enormous space filled with industrial ovens, several dishwashing machines, thick wood-block cutting boards and two giant center islands. “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  Ronnie, the barman, who was stationed in front of the TV, dragged himself away. “Sure, Miss Musconni,” he said, groping in his pants pocket for a pack of low-filter Camels. “Only don’t smoke it around Mrs. Leon, she don’t allow smoking in the house.”

  “Really?” Angie said with a wicked grin, plucking a cigarette from his crumpled pack. “I’d like to see her try to stop me!” She got off on the clout that came with movie-stardom—it gave her a constant high. “Hey,” she said, edging nearer the TV. “What’s going on?”

  “Big murder in Pacific Palisades,” Ronnie announced. “Up the street from Steven Spielberg’s place. We’re watching live coverage from outside the house.”

  “No shit,” Angie said, moving closer to the small screen. “Who got wasted?”

  “Salli T. Turner,” Ronnie answered, twisting his head to make sure Diana Leon wasn’t creeping up on him. Mrs. Leon was the most demanding of Hollywood wives; she had a nasty habit of appearing unexpectedly.

  Angie’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “God, no!” she gasped. “Not Salli!”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Yes,” Angie whispered, her face ashen.

  “That’s too bad,” Ronnie said.

  “Who . . . did . . . it?”

  “They don’t know, Miss Musconni.”

  “I do,” Angie said fiercely. “He always threatened he was going to kill her. Now the bastard has.”

  “Who?” Ronnie asked, hoping for some inside scoop he could sell to one of the tabloids.

  But Angie was already on her way back into the dining room.

  * * *

  Diana threw Angela a furious look. Wasn’t it bad enough that Freddie had tried to ruin her dinner party by fighting with Max? Now this so-called actress had burst back into the room, telling everyone about the murder.

  Diana knew exactly what would happen next: they’d all be dying to go home and huddle in front of their televisions. Damn! Why couldn’t Salli T. Turner have gotten herself murdered on another night?

  Angie announced the news, then immediately dragged Kevin off, barely saying goodbye.

 
Good riddance, Diana thought sourly.

  Soon all the remaining guests were talking about the O.J. case—reliving the most notorious murder trial of the century. Everyone who lived in L.A. had an opinion. But the discussion didn’t last long, because after Angie and Kevin’s abrupt exit—just as Diana expected—they all wanted out. Brock Martin was first on his feet, anxious to run over to his TV station. Lucinda was next, television junkie that she was. And Ariel couldn’t wait to split.

  Freddie was not at all fazed by everyone making a fast exit, but Diana was seething, although she put on a good act of saying goodbye graciously.

  As soon as the last person left, she turned on Freddie. “I don’t ask much of you,” she said, tightlipped. “But one thing I do expect is that when we’re entertaining, you behave like a gentleman. My dinner parties are important to me, and you ruined tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?” Freddie snapped, in no frame of mind to suffer one of Diana’s moods.

  “How dare you air your problems with Max in front of my guests,” Diana said, her voice rising.

  His eyebrows rose. “Your guests, Diana?”

  She backed down. “Our guests,” she conceded.

  “I hope you’re not telling me how to run my business,” Freddie said, grim-faced.

  “No . . . But Max is your partner, your friend . . .”

  “Bullshit,” Freddie said harshly. “I made him— and let no one forget it. He thinks he’s capable of running a studio. Ha! Any moron could run a studio better than him.”

  “It’ll be in Army’s column tomorrow,” Diana fretted. “It doesn’t make you look good.”

  “Diana,” Freddie said coldly. “Stay out of my business.”

  “Fine,” she replied, turning her back on him and hurrying upstairs, wondering if any of the staff had overheard their argument. God! That’s all she needed. Ronnie, the barman, running around the Bel Air and Beverly Hills circuit telling everyone that the Leons had a big fight. Freddie was as high profile as any movie star. Mr. Superagent. Mr. Power. He was as big as Mike Ovitz had once been, before the debacle at Disney.