‘Hmm…’ Detective Rodriguez said, picking up his notebook again. ‘Oh, yes, remind me,’ he added, chewing on the pencil stub. ‘Did you say you were unaware that Irena was related to your ex-wife?’
‘I was completely unaware of it.’
The female detective returned to the room and sat down. She was no longer coughing. Max found it unnerving that she’d hardly said anything.
‘Have you spoken to Irena since the murder?’ Detective Rodriguez inquired, scribbling something else.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Max snapped. He’d had enough and was anxious for them to leave.
‘You might want to.’
‘Why would I?’
‘If Mrs Diamond was her daughter, then that makes Lulu her granddaughter, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ Max said, reluctant to give that thought any credit.
‘Irena is carrying on about missing money. It seems Mrs Diamond was her sole means of support. Apparently she paid her in cash every week. Irena says there was a stash of cash in the apartment.’ A short silence. ‘We can’t locate it,’ Detective Rodriguez said, in an almost accusatory tone. ‘Strange, don’t you think?’
‘Not at all,’ Max answered smoothly. ‘You said it was a robbery. Obviously if there was cash lying around, the burglar or burglars took it.’
‘Hmm…maybe.’ A beat. ‘Irena never lived in, did she?’
‘No. I think she came three times a week to take care of Mariska’s clothes and personal items.’
‘Did she have a key?’
‘Surely you’ve asked her?’
‘Just double-checking,’ Detective Rodriguez said, finally standing up.
Max stood also.
‘Um, by the way, was Irena working for your ex-wife when you first got married?’
‘No,’ Max said, tired of the questions. ‘Mariska brought her in a year after that. I was under the impression that she’d hired her from an employment agency.’
‘I can’t think of anything else for now. Can you?’ the detective said, glancing over at his colleague.
The female detective shook her head.
Detective Rodriguez moved towards the door. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he promised.
Max walked behind him.
‘Oh,’ the detective said, stopping for a moment. ‘And you’re sure you didn’t happen to notice that phone book lying around?’
‘I’m positive,’ Max said.
‘Good night, Mr Diamond.’
‘Good night, Detective.’
While Max met with the detectives, Chris shut himself in the guest room and started making numerous phone calls, attempting to catch up.
One of the first was to Roth Giagante to check that Roth’s people were handling all the proper preparations for Birdy’s upcoming Vegas wedding.
‘Don’t worry ’bout it,’ Roth said, in his raspy voice. ‘Worry ’bout payin’ me my fuckin’ money.’
‘Red sends you his best regards,’ Chris said evenly. ‘We both enjoyed the joke. You should’ve been an actor, you missed your calling.’
‘What fuckin’ joke?’
‘The putting on the pressure and the hooker. By the way, I think I told you she stole my Rolex. Next time hire a better class of girl. Thieving doesn’t reflect well on you.’
‘Shit!’ Roth growled.
‘Yeah, shit,’ Chris agreed. ‘When I fly in for the wedding I’ll have your money.’
He hung up, feeling satisfied. Screw Roth Giagante. He’d thought they were friends, but one word from Red and it was over.
At least something positive had come out of it. The experience had definitely cured him of gambling fever.
Next he called Jett. He’d spoken to him earlier and invited him for dinner with Max, but Jett had explained that he and Gianna had to get together with Sofia Courtenelli and her boyfriend. Chris hoped his baby brother wasn’t bullshitting him. It wouldn’t be cool if he was sniffing around after Amy although, according to Max, Amy was spending the evening with her mother.
There was no answer from Jett’s cell, so Chris called Birdy, who was in a sweet-as-apple-pie mood, all giggly and girly and full of Las Vegas wedding plans.
‘Rocky’s flying to Vegas a few days earlier,’ she revealed. ‘Some of his guys are throwing him a bachelor retreat. Isn’t that like the coolest?’
‘What’s a bachelor retreat?’ Chris asked, inwardly groaning because he knew it would turn out to be trouble.
‘Y’ know, the guys sit around, play cards, run movies, hit a few balls, take a boat out on Lake Mead.’
Translation: The guys go to Vegas, get totally blasted on tequila shooters and visit every strip club in town.
‘Are you happy about him doing that?’ Chris asked.
‘Course,’ Birdy trilled. ‘My girls are booking us a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and we’re like going to have mani-pedis, facials, mud baths, all kinds of girly stuff.’
Translation: The girls sit out by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel downing cosmopolitans and bitching endlessly about their boyfriends.
‘Sounds great,’ Chris lied.
‘I know!’ Birdy said enthusiastically. ‘I’m flying back to L.A. tomorrow. You should come with. My record company’s sending me a plane.’
‘Is Rocky on it?’
‘No. He’s gotta see some family, then he’ll go directly to Vegas.’
Why not fly with Birdy? Chris thought. He couldn’t stay away forever, and Max seemed intent on doing his own thing.
He’d spoken to Andy several times. The rain had finally stopped, and Andy informed him that he’d managed to salvage quite a lot from his house–including his safe. He had arranged for everything to be cleaned and put in storage, except the safe, which he’d had transported to his own apartment for safe-keeping.
Fortunately the house itself had not slid down the hillside. That was a major bonus.
Andy was a smart kid: he’d already hired architectural contractors to see what could be done about securing the foundations and repairing the damage. A big fat raise was definitely in his future.
Yes, Chris decided, there were many reasons he should get back. ‘What time are you taking off?’ he asked Birdy.
‘Around noon,’ she chirped. ‘Please come.’
‘I’ll meet you at the airport,’ he said.
He’d tell Max later, he was sure his brother would understand.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Soviet Club was a home away from home for the many Russian expatriates who had made New York their place of residence. The food was good, the vodka the finest, and the atmosphere reminiscent of a fancy European nightspot.
Sonja Sivarious always enjoyed spending time at the Soviet Club: she felt comfortable there. It was light years away from her real life of girl-on-girl shows and sleeping with rich old men for money. At the Soviet Club she was regarded as a beautiful woman who loved to enjoy herself. Most people thought she was a beauty consultant, and sometimes if she liked a man she met there, she would sleep with him for free.
Her cousin Igor, when he bothered to dress properly, was quite a handsome escort in spite of his tendency to put on weight. Vladimir, Igor’s friend, always managed to look shabby, although tonight he, too, had made quite an effort. Sonja knew it was on account of Famka. The poor man lusted after Famka, who usually chose to ignore him. Tonight something was different. Tonight Vladimir had acquired a certain energy that he did not usually possess.
Famka, dazzling in a purple cocktail dress, noticed it too. Swilling back her second White Russian, she hiccuped delicately, and said to Sonja, ‘What is with Vladimir? You notice change?’
‘Yes,’ Sonja agreed, resplendent in a clinging yellow jersey dress, her new pearls fastened proudly round her neck. ‘Igor says he has something to tell us.’ Lowering her voice, Sonja added, ‘Igor says he is getting plenty money.’
‘No!’ Famka said. ‘Not Vladimir.’
‘Yes,’ Sonja insisted. ‘Igor is
sure.’
There was a noisy group at the next table: three very young American girls with two older Russian men. Sonja knew one of the guys, Alex Pinchinoff, a man to steer clear of. Russian Mafia. Dangerous. She’d slept with him once, and that was enough. He’d handcuffed her to his bed and practically choked her to death with his enormous member. She felt sorry for the three young girls sitting at his table. One was going to get very unlucky indeed.
After a hearty meal of borscht and blinis, beef Stroganoff and red cabbage, Vladimir said he had an announcement to make.
Sonja downed her third shot glass of vodka and gave him a challenging look. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Surprise us.’
‘I will!’ Vladimir said boldly, shooting an admiring glance at Famka. ‘I surprise you good.’
Famka leaned a little closer to him, her large breasts almost popping out of her purple dress. ‘Go ahead,’ she murmured, wondering how he’d be in bed. Plain men were usually better at sex than handsome ones. Famka enjoyed a man who could make her come. Her clients never did, hard as some of them tried.
‘My wife,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘She die.’
‘Wife?’ Famka said scornfully. ‘You not have wife. Who would marry you?’
‘Go on, tell them,’ Igor encouraged, his eyes bulging.
‘Famous woman, my wife,’ Vladimir boasted. ‘Famous and rich.’
‘Julia Roberts,’ Famka teased.
‘Nicole Kidman,’ Sonja said, joining in the fun.
‘Or Angelina Jolie. She veree sexy,’ Famka said, licking her lips. ‘Good for me, not you.’
‘Vladimir is not shitting with you,’ Igor said, defending his friend. ‘Vladimir was married to woman in newspapers. Murder victim. Famous murder victim. And rich.’
‘Yes, rich,’ Vladimir agreed. ‘And she was my wife. I am legal husband, so all money is mine.’
‘No!’ Famka said, laughing derisively. ‘You make up story.’
‘Show them the document,’ Igor urged, giving Vladimir a sharp nudge. ‘Show it to them. Then the bitches will believe you.’
‘Who you calling bitches?’ Sonja objected, while Vladimir dug into his pocket and came up with a crumpled marriage certificate. He handed it to Sonja.
‘Who’s Paulina Kuchinova?’ Sonja said, studying it. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Mariska Diamond, the society woman who get herself murdered,’ Vladimir said.
Now Sonja burst out laughing. ‘You full of shit.’
‘I can prove it.’
‘How?’
‘I have wedding picture that tell story. She was prostitute–like you.’
‘I not prostitute,’ Sonja said angrily. ‘I am therapist to very rich men. Prostitutes work the street. They dirty girls.’
‘You not dirty girl?’ Vladimir said slyly.
‘Show me picture, or you nothing but lying scum,’ Sonja said, picking up the bottle of vodka from the table and pouring herself another shot.
‘I get picture to show you,’ Vladimir said.
‘Then what?’ Famka asked, curious as to why he would invent such a story. ‘You go to police and tell them she your wife?’
‘After they catch murderer, yes.’
‘How you know they catch him?’ Sonja asked, with a sly wink. ‘Mebbe they think it you. Mebbe they arrest you.’
‘Me?’ Vladimir said, outraged. ‘I do lot of bad things, but not murder.’
‘Yeah,’ Sonja said, beginning to feel horny, and not believing Vladimir’s pathetic story. She glanced over at the gangster sitting at the next table.
Alex Pinchinoff caught her eye and raised his glass to her. Apparently he’d enjoyed a better time than she had during their previous encounter in bed.
Maybe she should give him a second chance, after all. There were no other likely prospects in sight.
‘Hi,’ Amy said, throwing open her front door.
‘Hey,’ Jett responded, stepping inside. ‘For you,’ he said, thrusting a bunch of yellow roses at her.
Why had he bought her flowers? It was a romantic gesture he should not be making. And yet–who was she kidding? It was a sweet thing for him to do.
‘How are you?’ she asked, in her best polite voice.
Dumb question because she’d only left the photo shoot an hour ago and he’d been fine then.
‘Okay,’ he said, wandering into her living room.
‘Uh…would you like a glass of wine?’ she asked, feeling awkward as she followed him, clutching the roses, which were beginning to drip.
‘I don’t drink,’ he said, realizing how little they knew about each other. Should he confess that he was once a raging alcoholic? A stoned-out-of-his-mind, sex-crazed, drugs-and-booze junkie? Or should he wait and let her discover his nefarious past for herself?
The diplomatic move was to wait. But what the hell? He was determined to be up-front about everything. ‘I’m in the programme,’ he blurted.
‘Oh, uh…sorry,’ she said, taking the flowers into her small kitchen and searching for a vase.
‘Sorry that I’m in the programme? Or that I don’t drink?’ he asked, walking in behind her.
‘I’m not big on drinking,’ she said, finding a vase and filling it with water.
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ he said lightly. ‘The other night you were certainly feeling no pain.’
Just like that he was bringing it up. And now it was up to her to defend herself and her actions. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, trying not to get uptight. ‘I was drunk, and I guess that’s why I did what I did.’
‘You weren’t that wasted,’ he said, leaning on the countertop, watching her as she arranged the flowers.
‘Yes, I was,’ she said, trying not to look at him.
‘Does this mean that every time you have too much to drink, you fall into bed with a stranger?’ he asked, gently teasing her. ‘Is that what I’m getting here?’
‘No. But—’
‘Tell me, Amy,’ he said, becoming serious, ‘I gotta know–what happened between us?’
‘I…I don’t know,’ she managed, thinking, I’m not ready for a confrontation.
‘It’s kinda obvious you’re not sleeping with Max.’
She didn’t answer.
A long beat. ‘Do you love him?’
‘It’s–it’s none of your business,’ she said, picking up the vase and carrying it into the living room.
‘Well, that’s a resounding no,’ he said, once more right behind her.
‘Do not put words into my mouth.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she said crossly. ‘Max and I are very happy together.’
‘So that’s why you slept with me. Now I understand, it’s ’cause you’re so wildly happy with him.’
‘You know what, Jett?’ she said agitatedly. ‘Meeting like this was a mistake. We have nothing to say to each other and I don’t care to fight. What happened–well, it just happened. We should leave it at that.’
‘What if I can’t?’ he said, moving closer to her.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, backing away.
‘What if I can’t, Amy?’ he said insistently. ‘What if I’ve fallen for you in a big way? What if you’re the girl I’ve been looking for?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she murmured, shaking her head as if to convince herself that what he was saying was nonsense.
‘Is it?’
‘You’re with Gianna,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m with Max. We had a moment—’
‘Hey,’ he interrupted, giving her a long, intense look, ‘it was a lot more than a moment and you know it.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said, totally flustered.
‘Yes, you do,’ he said, moving closer again.
And before either of them realized what was happening, he was touching her shoulder, and somehow his touch turned into an embrace, and the embrace turned into a frenzy of passionate kissing. I’m sober, Amy thought, and I’m doing this. What’s wrong
with me?
But she couldn’t stop kissing him, didn’t want to. And soon his hands were on her breasts, then they were under the silk camisole top she’d changed into as soon as she’d stepped out of the shower. She’d wanted to look pretty for him. Deep down, she’d known this was going to happen.
No! screamed her inner voice.
Yes! it screamed back at her.
He started kissing her neck, causing her to shudder with the anticipation of what was to come.
Half-heartedly she attempted to push him away. ‘We can’t do this,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It’s not fair to Max.’
‘I know,’ he said, and then he was kissing her again, and somehow or other they made it to the bedroom, magically losing their clothes along the way.
‘You are so fucking perfect,’ he muttered, rolling on the bed with her, stroking her breasts, kissing her nipples, moving his lips down to her flat stomach, then moving further down and slowly but surely spreading her legs. Within seconds his head was between her thighs, his tongue doing unbelievable things.
She grabbed a pillow, covering her face, waves of desire flooding her senses.
He was taking her on a trip, a trip so exciting and sensual that she could barely contain her groans of sheer pleasure, until finally she gave it up, moaning with delight as she reached the ultimate peak.
He emerged from between her thighs, hair rumpled, a pleased look on his face. ‘Good, huh?’
‘Beyond good,’ she murmured, embarrassed to look at him.
‘Hey,’ he said, removing the pillow she was attempting to hide behind, ‘There’s more where that came from.’
And then he was moving on top of her, and she made no attempt to stop him. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel him close to her.
And once again it was everything and more, even better than the first time.
After it was over, and they were lying on her bed in the dark, the guilt began creeping back.
‘Jett…’ she said tentatively.
‘What, baby?’ he asked, reaching over to touch her.
Lovers & Players Page 39
