“I need to score,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I’m like totally bummed.”
You need to clean up your act, he thought. Angie was heavily into drugs and he wasn’t. Been there. Done that. He had no desire to become the next Robert Downey Jr. or Charlie Sheen. Those guys were old enough to know better.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “I can’t go scorin’ drugs with you. It’s not good for my image.”
“You never do anything for me,” she complained.
“It’s time you dropped out of the drug scene,” he said, thinking about Lucinda Bennett and the movie they were going to make together.
“I don’t need a freakin’ lecture,” Angie snapped. “I just lost a very close friend.”
“I never heard you mention Salli.”
“That’s ’cause we had a big fight before you and I got together.”
“Big fight about what?”
“When I was sixteen we used to share an apartment,” Angie said. “Until she stole my boyfriend who wasn’t even worth stealing. He was a son of a bitch. I bet it was him who killed her.”
“What’re you talking about now?”
“Eddie Stoner.”
“Eddie Stoner,” Kevin repeated. “The actor?”
“You know him?”
“Think I worked with him once.”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
“Who remembers?”
“Anyway—he was a rough bastard, so I figured if Salli wanted him so much, she could have him. I moved out, and a couple of weeks later she and Eddie got married in Vegas.” Angie sighed her disgust. “Some dumb move. All he had going for him was a big dick and a sharp right hand. He used to beat the shit out of me, and as soon as they were married he started on her. I thought ’cause she was older than me she’d be able to handle him. But she couldn’t. One night she phoned me, and she was hysterical. I told her, ‘Don’t come cryin’ to me—you wanted the loser, you got him.’ And I didn’t help her. Then she started to get famous and all that shit. Eventually she divorced him. It was a real drag. I know she had to call the cops on him a few times, and that he threatened to kill her. Hey—he threatened to kill me when we were together. I’m surprised he didn’t come creeping back when I made it, considering I made it bigger than her.” She paused, then thoughtfully added, “Maybe I should tell the cops what I know.”
“You can’t go around accusing people,” Kevin said, frowning. “You want us both dragged through the tabloids?”
“Okay, Kev,” Angie said, her mind on other matters. “Let me score a gram or two an’ I’ll think it over.”
“You gotta get out of the drug scene,” Kevin repeated sternly.
“I can,” she answered defiantly. “Any time I want.”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You’re difficult, Angie, you never listen.”
“I know, you’ve told me a million times. But what would you do without me, Kev? You’d be running around this town with your dick in your hand, and they’d all be taking you for the ride of the century. Right?”
“If you say so.” And he wondered exactly how he should go about dumping her.
chapter 15
DETECTIVE TUCCI CALLED his wife, Faye, and told her that, just as he’d expected, the area around Salli T. Turner’s house was turning into a media circus. There were TV trucks with their news crews, reporters, and crowds of people milling around outside on the street. Everyone was contained behind police lines, while helicopters hovered overhead, and in the house the phone did not stop ringing. Even though it was late at night, word had spread fast.
Tucci swore softly under his breath. There would definitely be no dinner tonight, not unless it was take-out pizza, and he hated to do that to his stomach.
By midnight the police photographer had finished his grisly task, and the medical examiner was now in charge. Later Salli’s mutilated body was put on a stretcher and taken off in an ambulance headed for the morgue where an autopsy would take place and evidence would be gathered.
When the ambulance attendants loaded Salli’s body aboard, the crowds went wild, screaming and yelling her name. Tucci couldn’t help wondering if the murderer was out there somewhere, watching . . . waiting . . . getting his kicks.
The facts as Tucci knew them were such: There was no sign of a break-in, which meant that Salli had obviously known her killer, and had probably let him into the house. She must have been comfortable with him—if indeed it was a male—because she’d taken him into the living room and out by the pool. In the sink behind the bar Tucci had found two hastily washed glasses. He’d immediately put them into a plastic bag and sent them to the lab to be checked.
So, he decided, whoever the killer was had entered through the front door. Salli had greeted the person, they’d had a drink together, walked out near the patio, and then, for some unknown reason, he or she had worked themselves into a frenzy and stabbed her to death.
The houseman had probably been on his way to the house to see what all the noise was about, because according to neighbors, music had been playing extremely loudly and the dogs were barking nonstop. On his way to the house, Froo, the Asian houseman, had encountered the killer, who’d shot him point-blank in the face—which indicated that Froo would have recognized the man . . . or woman.
For the last two hours Tucci had been trying to contact Salli’s husband, Bobby Skorch. Apparently he was in a car somewhere on his way back from a gig in Vegas. His cell phone was turned off, and he appeared to be unreachable.
Tucci wondered if Bobby had murdered his wife. It wouldn’t be the first time a husband was responsible. Maybe Bobby Skorch had driven back from his appearance early, fought with Salli, stabbed her to death, then got back in his car, driven away and would turn up later—the distraught husband. It was hardly an uncommon scenario.
Tucci sat at a table in the kitchen making numerous notes. He was known for his detailed accounts and he enjoyed making sure that he didn’t miss one single thing.
Somewhere in this puzzle there was an answer, and he fully intended to find out what it was.
chapter 16
MADISON PARKED A couple of blocks from the house. There were TV camera crews and reporters everywhere, and of course huge crowds of onlookers. The police had already roped off the area around the house and there was a strangely festive atmosphere—as if people were reveling in the action.
She left her car and hurried over to the nearest cop. “Who’s the detective in charge of this case?” she asked, flashing her press pass.
“Can’t give out any information at this moment,” the cop said, barely glancing at her.
“I understand that,” she said evenly. “However, I know he’ll want to talk to me, so please would you get a message to him. My name’s Madison Castelli, I’m a journalist from New York and I spent the day with Ms. Turner in her house.”
“Really?” the cop said disbelievingly.
“Yes, really,” Madison replied.
“Can you prove that?”
“How am I supposed to prove it?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, there are a lot of people here trying to get into the house. . . .”
“I’m sure there are, but if you tell the detective that I was with her today, I’m certain he’ll want to see me.”
“I told you, ma’am—I can’t do that, there’s too much going on.”
“Look,” Madison said, fast losing patience. “I work for Manhattan Style, my editor is Victor Simons.” She handed him a card. “This is his number. If you give this to the detective in charge, he can check with my editor and verify my story. Other than that I don’t know what I can do, but I do know that he’ll want to see me.”
“Not tonight, ma’am. Maybe he’ll interview you tomorrow. Why don’t you leave your name and number and go on home.”
“Can I be sure he’ll get it?” she said, swallowing her aggravation, because she knew it wouldn’t do any good to lose her t
emper.
“Absolutely, ma’am.”
“I have an audiotape of Salli at my house. On it she talks about everything that’s going on in her life. I’m sure it will be helpful.”
The cop took another look at her. Maybe she wasn’t handing him a bullshit story, maybe she was legit. “Whyn’t you wait here a minute,” he said. “I’ll go check.”
“Thanks.”
She watched as the cop made his way into the house. Where were Natalie and Jimmy? They should be here already. She could see quite a few on-the-scene reporters standing on the street doing remotes to their TV stations.
The cop returned after a few minutes. “Detective Tucci says he’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Are you telling me he doesn’t want to see me now?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Then I guess I’ll write the story my way, and mention the detective on the case refused to see me. I’m sure the L.A. Times will be interested in a firsthand account.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“I’m merely telling you what I plan to do, so you can pass it on to Detective Tucci.”
“I’ll let him know.”
She returned to her rented car, drove to the nearest gas station, went into the phone booth and looked up Tucci in the phone book. Then she started making calls. Third time lucky.
“Is Detective Tucci there?” she asked the woman who answered.
“I’m sorry, he’s not.”
“Is this his wife?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“It’s most important that I speak to your husband. I have information pertaining to the case he’s working on. I talked to an officer in charge of crowd control, and I’m not sure if he gave Detective Tucci my message. I work for Manhattan Style magazine.”
“Oh, I know that magazine,” Mrs. Tucci interrupted. “I read it every month.”
“Glad to hear it. Then you might know me— Madison Castelli?”
“Certainly, Miss Castelli—I’ve read your work. I like it a lot.”
“Call me Madison. And your name is?”
“Faye.”
“Okay, Faye—well, um . . . tell your husband I had lunch with Salli today, I have an audiotape of our interview, and I’d really like to see him personally.”
“Oh, I’ll do that,” Faye said, impressed. “You can depend on me.”
Madison gave Faye her phone number, then, secure in the fact that she’d done her duty, she got in her car and drove back to Natalie’s.
Cole, Natalie’s brother, was sprawled on the couch in front of the TV staring at the screen. “You heard the news?” he said, as she walked in.
“Yes.”
“I used to train Salli, y’know,” he said dully.
“You did?”
“A coupla years ago, when she was married to her first husband, Eddie. He was a maniac. She was a peach.”
Madison sat down on the edge of the couch. “Tell me about him.”
“Salli used to tell me stuff,” Cole said. “To everybody else she’d say she got a black eye or all beat up walking into a door. One time he broke her arm and I had to rush her to the hospital. She called the cops on him a couple of times, but he’d always talk them round. She was lucky to get away from him.”
“Are you saying you think he did it?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Cole said with a shrug. “He had a way hot temper. That dude was always pissed about something.”
“Like what?”
“You know the deal. He was a small-time actor— worked plenty, but was never the star. This made him real sour. I stopped working out with her when Eddie began getting jealous.”
“Of you?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re gay.”
Cole laughed mirthlessly. “Try telling Eddie. He didn’t want her around any guy who looked good. He was into control, that’s all he wanted. I’m kinda surprised she got away from him; it took a lot of strength.”
“What was his name again?”
“Eddie Stoner,” Cole said grimly.
Madison got up and went to her laptop, where she put in a request to New York for information.
Eddie Stoner. Let’s find out exactly who you are.
chapter 17
“OH . . . MY . . . GOD,” Kristin murmured, stretching luxuriously. “That was pretty . . . damn . . . good.”
Jake pinned her arms above her head, holding her wrists tightly so she could barely move. “That wasn’t pretty damn good,” he said sternly. “That was sensational, and you know it.”
“Yes, of course I know it,” she said, giggling softly. “You don’t have to torture me to make me talk.”
“And what makes you think I’m about to torture you?” he asked, mock-serious.
“I don’t know, maybe you’ll make love to me again.”
“Would that be torture?”
“Oh, yes. Beautiful, incredible, fantastic torture.”
He laughed. “I guess I’m going to have to make you beg.”
“Really?” she said, attempting to roll out from under him.
“Yup,” he said decisively. “I’m gonna have to do it.”
“Okay, how do I beg?” she said, realizing she’d never felt so relaxed and carefree and happy as she did at that very moment.
“You say, ‘Please Jake.’ ”
“Please Jake,” she repeated, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.
“Now say, ‘I beg you, Jake, to give me more.’ ”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Don’t argue. I’m trying to teach you.”
“Dear Jake,” she said, smiling. “That was so damn good that I’m begging you for more.”
He bent his head to her left nipple, teasing it with his tongue. “Keep begging,” he said. “I like it.”
She felt his hardness against her naked thigh, and sighed with pleasure. “Isn’t it time you begged me?” she suggested, after a few moments of utter bliss.
“Huh?”
“I want to hear you beg.”
“You do?”
“Right now, soldier!”
“Hey—” A big smile spread across his face. “This is like we’ve been together for years.”
She laughed softly. “Well, we haven’t.”
“Oh, big surprise,” he said jokingly. “But we’re going to be—right?”
Why did he have to spoil everything? “Jake,” she said, searching for the right words. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Don’t want to hear about it now. You can be completely honest with me over lunch tomorrow. But right now, let’s just enjoy the moment.”
She tried to roll away again. He turned her back toward him and began sucking on her lower lip. “I never realized,” she gasped, “that kissing could be so erotic.”
“Then you’ve got a lot of learning to do.”
“Will you teach me, Jake?”
“You want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Well, first you’ve got to gently caress the lips with your tongue very very slowly. Like this.”
“Oh, you’re good,” she said, shivering.
“So I’ve been told,” he answered confidently.
“And who told you?”
“Huh?”
“Well, you informed me you hadn’t been with a woman for over a year,” she said curiously. “So who told you?”
A long pause before he spoke. “My wife,” he said at last. “She died in a car crash a year ago.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry—I didn’t know.”
“You know the old cliché—there’s nothing like time to heal. Anyway, we were separated when it happened.”
“Were you getting a divorce?”
“She was seeing another guy. In fact, she was on her way to visit him when a truck came out of a side street and totaled her car. She had no chance.”
“Are you telling me she left you for someone else
?”
“Yup, that’s exactly right. Which is why there hasn’t been anyone since. Because how could I trust anyone after that? Megan was my high-school sweetheart, we were married straight out of school. I thought we had a pretty good marriage, and then . . .” He trailed off.
“Jake, I . . . I’m really sorry.”
“When somebody lets you down, it’s difficult to trust again. But then I saw you sitting in Neiman Marcus, and you had this great luminous quality, and I knew you were special. And now, days later, here we are. God works in mysterious ways, huh?”
She was suffused with guilt. Why did this have to happen? Why did she have to fall in love with a man she could never tell the truth to? And how was she going to extract herself from this situation? Because there was absolutely no way she could ever tell him.
“Hey,” Jake said. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into a confessional. This is you and me starting out, it’s not about either of our pasts. But while we’re on the subject, is there anything you want to tell me?”
Plenty, she thought, suffused with guilt. But there’s no way I’m doing so.
She put her arms around him to hide her shame, and hugged him very tight. She was definitely going to make this a night to remember, because after this one night of passion, she’d decided she would never see him again.
“So,” Jake said, smiling. “What did I do to deserve such affection?”
“Everything,” she murmured.
And then he was kissing her again. And before she knew it they were making love for the second time. And it was so amazing, so different, so satisfying.
And just as she was heading toward another great climax, the phone rang, jangling her back to reality.
“Ignore it,” Jake said, still inside her, pinning her beneath his body, the feel of him driving her crazy.
She wondered who it could be, but she didn’t have to wonder long, because after three rings her answering machine picked up.
Oh God, she thought, panic-stricken, I forgot to turn the damn machine off.
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