Poor Little Bitch Girl (25 page)

R
eturning to L.A. brought back a rush of memories for Annabelle. As she stepped off the plane she stood still for a moment and inhaled the still familiar L.A. smell – a mixture of smog and jasmine. Taking a deep breath she braced herself for the homecoming – such as it was.

Fortunately they would not be staying at the family house. Frankie had been smart enough to arrange for them to have a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Ahh . . . the Pink Palace, as the luxurious hotel was called back in the day. Many the times Annabelle had skipped school and hung out at the downstairs snack bar in the hotel, scoffing hamburgers and milk shakes and the hotel’s famous Neil McCarthy chopped salad. She’d often hit on a random male who was into spending time with a fifteen-year-old truant – and that had been a blast, especially when she’d eventually revealed who she was.

One old producer she’d hit on had practically crapped himself when she’d told him her dad was Ralph Maestro. She’d been blowing him at the time in his poolside suite, and his cock had all but vanished up his own asshole.

Good times!

Now she was returning to the Pink Palace with her boyfriend, Frankie, and who knew what surprises lay ahead.

Denver checked them both in and accompanied them to their suite. “Your father is expecting you at the house for an early dinner,” she informed Annabelle.

“With you?” Annabelle asked.

“No, not with me.”

“But you must be there,” Annabelle wailed, clinging onto Denver’s arm. “I can’t go unless you come too. You’re my support system. I need you.”

“I’m not invited,” Denver explained.

Frankie threw her a piercing look. “
She’s
inviting you,” he said, putting his hand on her arm and guiding her toward the door. “Don’t we all want this to go as smoothly as possible?”

“I’m one of Mr Maestro’s lawyers, not a babysitter,” Denver argued.

“Do this for her,” Frankie insisted. “She’s vulnerable right now, needs all the help she can get. An’ you’re one of her oldest friends.”

“Bullshit I am!” Denver said hotly.

“It doesn’t matter. Just do it,” Frankie said, giving her a gentle exit shove through the door.

Annabelle was busy exploring the suite. Fortunately it was to her liking. After testing the bed she ordered a dozen more pillows and a fresh duvet. Then she inspected the marble bathroom and ordered three dozen large bath towels and extra toweling robes. After that she made an appointment at the La Prairie spa.

Meanwhile Frankie took a walk around the hotel. It surpassed his wildest dreams. The grounds were a magnificent tangle of bougainvillaea, wild roses and exotic palms of all varieties – he’d never seen anything like it. The weather was balmy and clear with a slight cooling breeze. The pool in all its Olympic glory was surrounded by private cabanas. He immediately booked one, charging it to the room. Then he made his way to the famous Polo Lounge and checked that out. He thought he spotted Justin Timberlake sitting in a booth with a delicious-looking blonde.

Shit! This was his kind of town, his kind of action. Frankie could definitely see himself setting up shop in this town. Frankie Romano – purveyor of Grade A flesh princesses to a parade of horny guys who preferred paying for it rather than playing the dating game. Horny,
famous
guys who would soon become his asshole buddies. Frankie imagined Cruise, Clooney, Snoop Dogg – yeah – maybe even Timberlake.

Frankie grinned to himself. L.A. was where he belonged. And with a little help from Annabelle he was going to make sure they were here to stay.

* * *

Simon Waitrose leaned back in his beaten-up leather swivel chair situated behind a crowded desk, and stared at the shifty-looking youth who’d recently slunk into his office. “What have you got for us, Chip?” he said.

Chip Bonafacio blinked several times in quick succession. This Simon Waitrose man with the English accent and shrewd eyes made him uneasy – he reminded Chip of the infamous Simon Cowell on TV. Direct, challenging and rude. But Chip wasn’t visiting Simon’s office to make friends. No. He had a story to sell, and he’d already made a tentative deal to get paid a shitload of money. All he had to do was produce proof that the story he was selling was the truth and nothing but.

He’d already had two meetings at
Truth & Fact
, one with Simon’s right hand – an abrasive woman with buck teeth and an unfortunate squint – and the second with Simon himself, who’d informed him that if he could produce solid proof that Annabelle Maestro was involved in running call girls, then he’d get his pay-out.

Solid proof. What constituted solid proof?

Well, for one thing, his timing couldn’t be better. With Frankie and Annabelle out of town, and his mom staying at their Park Avenue apartment, he’d had a perfect opportunity to search out whatever he could find. First he’d had to put his mom out of action. She was a nosy one, always butting into his business.

No problem, he had a plan, and late Monday afternoon he’d activated it – slipping two Ambien into her tea – a move which soon sent her to the Land of Nod, leaving him free to roam around the damn apartment, searching for anything he could find to collaborate his story.

And search he did – starting in the master bedroom, where he found nothing but designer clothes, shoes and handbags. Annabelle Maestro obviously spent money as if it was going out of style.

He’d moved on to Frankie’s crap, discovering two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ties with the price tag still affixed; Hugo Boss jackets; Brioni suits; expensive sports clothes and a dozen matching black cashmere long-sleeved sweaters.

Between the two of them they must’ve blown a fortune.

Chip felt distinct twinges of envy. He did all the goddamn work, driving the whores wherever they needed to go, while Miss Nose-in-the-Air Maestro and her coked-out boyfriend reaped all the benefits.

Well, fuck ’em both. Chip was exposing their twisted game, and to hell with the consequences. Soon he’d have his own big bucks to splash around.

The locked drawers in the library room gave up all the proof and photos he’d ever need.

“Here’s your proof,” he said, trying to sound macho as he thrust a manila envelope across Simon’s messy desk.

“And what exactly do we have here?” Simon said, opening the envelope and tipping the contents onto his desk-top.

“Plenty,” Chip boasted. “All juicy stuff.”

“Juicy, eh?” Simon questioned. “It had better be, because wasting my time pisses me off.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Chip responded with a feeble chuckle.

“No, mate, you wouldn’t,” Simon said, sorting through the items from Chip’s envelope. He held up a photo of Annabelle with her famous parents and scrutinized it. She was about fifteen at the time the photo was taken. “Pretty girl,” he remarked. “Got something more recent?”

“Keep lookin’,” Chip said.

Simon picked up another photo. This one was of Annabelle with Frankie and two of the girls who occasionally worked for them – one a vaguely well-known singer, one an actress on a weekly series – both of them recognizable faces.

“Those two are workin’ girls,” Chip said. “I’ve driven them to many appointments.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. They’re into scorin’ extra bucks – they get around eight grand a pop. In cash.”

“Proof?” Simon said.

“You’ll see,” Chip replied. “I got photos of ’em with their masks on – I got hotel receipts. I got dates, times, client names. Everything’s there.”

“Okay then,” Simon said, leafing through more photos. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a big kick-ass story. And here’s the good news: if I rush it through, we’ll make it for the front page of Wednesday’s edition – just in time for Thursday’s funeral.”

M
y freaking luck, Annabelle has decided that I am her best friend in the world, and Felix seems to think that this is excellent news. Anything to keep number one client Mr Ralph Maestro happy – including sacrificing me for the benefit of the case.

Not that there is a case as such, because while I was freezing my ass off in New York, two suspects were pulled into the mix. Swift work by the Beverly Hills Police Department. I was impressed.

Suspect number one – usurping Ralph from that prime position – is a stalker/fan who apparently had done all his stalking (letters, gifts, threats, declarations of love/hate) from New Orleans – so nobody had taken the threats seriously. But after Gemma’s highly publicized murder, the stalker/fan’s sister had come forward to reveal that said stalker/fan had set off for L.A. two days earlier, intent on meeting the woman of his dreams/nightmare.

Suspect number two – dropping Ralph even further down the ladder – was a mysterious man the paparazzi had caught Gemma lunching with at a secluded restaurant in the hills above Malibu. The photos were taken the day before her murder, and nobody – including Ralph – knew who the man was.

Was Gemma having a secret affair? Was she cheating on Ralph? Was the perfect movie-star couple not so perfect after all? The internet gossip sites were in overdrive.

But back to me and my new best friend, Annabelle Maestro.

“I have a life,” I informed Felix. “Why do you think it’s so important that I go to this dinner tonight with Annabelle? Ralph doesn’t even like me, he treats me as if I’m your assistant. I’m an excellent lawyer, Felix, I deserve respect.”

Felix Saunders, AKA Mister Shark Teeth, talked me down in his slightly supercilious fashion. It was all about how important client/lawyer relationships were, how the client depends on his lawyer not only as legal counsel, but as a loyal friend and confidant.

Eventually I caved in, because the truth is I wouldn’t mind observing the interaction between Annabelle and her famous dad. As a keen watcher of human behavior, in a perverse kind of way I was sort of looking forward to it. One of the things I do in court is to always keep a sharp eye on the jury and their reactions to even the smallest piece of information. I find that when it comes to the crunch, it always pays off.

Mario had texted me back.
Dinner on. Can’t wait!

I contemplated phoning him, then decided against it. Another text would do. Brief and to the point.
Sorry. Dinner off due to work. How about tomorrow night?

I didn’t really care that much. Mario was a diversion – certainly not the start of something meaningful.

Carolyn had sent me another text while I was on the plane.
We must talk!! So much happening!!

She was due to arrive in L.A. for the Christmas vacation in two weeks. I was looking forward to catching up, spending all my time with her doing plenty of girly things that I never seem to find the time to do on my own. I envisioned a lazy and relaxing day at the Korean spa. A mindless shop at The Grove. Plenty of movies. Maybe even a long weekend in Palm Springs with my main gay friend Teddy – hairstylist supreme. Carolyn was a true friend, the kind of person who would always be there for me no matter what. I could tell she was really psyched about something, and I couldn’t wait to hear her news.

* * *

While we were waiting at the entrance to the hotel for the limo, Annabelle grabbed my hand and said, “Thanks for doing this, Denver. I do know it’s not part of your job description, and I truly appreciate it.”

Annabelle. Appreciating something. Definitely out of character.

Then she added, further confusing me, “Did you know that at school I always used to envy you? Your life seemed so normal compared to mine. You had parents that actually came to school events, and they seemed to
care
about you. I was majorly jealous.”

Was she freaking kidding me? Annabelle Maestro, jealous of me! Absolutely no way.

Before she could say anything more, Frankie loped over, having just introduced himself to a famous basketball player who was standing by the entrance waiting for his car.

“Jeez!” Frankie exclaimed, pleased with himself for having spotted another celebrity. “That Rick Fox is one tall motherfucker. I invited him to stop by
Mood
next time he’s in New York. Gave him my card.”