Poor Little Bitch Girl (38 page)

Hmm . . . I guess the plane is part of everything.

“Are we almost there?” Ralph growled, sounding more like an angry dog than a worldwide movie star.

“Five minutes or fifty,” I replied, trying not to breathe in too many cigar fumes. “It all depends on the Vegas traffic.”

“Fuck the Vegas traffic,” Ralph fumed. He turned to his brow-beaten publicist, who was ageing by the minute. “Pip,” he commanded. “Call someone and get me a police escort. I need to be there
now
!”

S
enator Gregory Stoneman carried on as normal. To the outside world he was his efficient, hardworking self, dealing with business as usual. However, inside he was a mess, hoping that an unpregnant Carolyn would soon put in an appearance, and everything would return to the way it was. Well . . . almost to the way it was, minus one baby – not even a baby – a fetus growing inside Carolyn.

She’d given him no choice except to do something about it before it was too late. He’d had no alternative but to think of some way to stop her from ruining his life and the lives of his family – especially of his two precious children, who deserved to be protected at all costs.

Hiring a drug-dealing gang-banger was hardly the perfect way to deal with the situation, but it was the only solution that presented itself to him. And at the time, it had seemed so easy.

Now he was starting to fear that he might have gone too far. Thank God he’d warned Benito not to hurt her, simply shake her up enough to lose the baby, and when that was done, set her free.

But surely it couldn’t be taking so much time?

She’d been snatched just after noon on Tuesday, and now it was late Wednesday afternoon, so where was she?

He had a cell number for Benito, but he didn’t dare use it. Cell calls could be traced, and it was imperative that he was not connected to Carolyn’s disappearance in any way.

As Gregory was mulling this over, Muriel entered his office.

“Senator,” she said, a worried expression on her face, “there is a police detective who wishes to have a word with you. Is it all right if I show him in?”

* * *

Rosa managed to get out of the house on the pretext of going to the market and buying food. Benito had a voracious appetite for junk food. He always had a yen for Twinkies and donuts and packets of salty chips which he dipped into big tubs of spicy salsa. Prison had taught him nothing about healthy eating.

Rosa didn’t care. She too existed on junk food – it was satisfying and cheap.

Before leaving the house she’d transferred the contents of Carolyn’s leather purse into her fake Louis Vuitton bag, purchased from a street vendor for fifteen bucks. The pickings were excellent, the prize being the woman’s iPhone. A freakin’ iPhone with music and photos and all kinds of other shit. Rosa was in heaven. She already possessed a cheap cell that did exactly nothing. Now she had her own personal iPhone!

The drag was finding out how to work the stupid thing. It seemed complicated. She managed to turn it on and pressed the iTunes icon. So cool! Lists of songs came up, so she tapped “Boom Boom Pow
”
by the Black-Eyed Peas.

Listening to the song with a smile on her face, she danced her way toward the corner market, oblivious to what was going on around her. So oblivious, in fact, that she didn’t notice the three teenage girls who surrounded her out of nowhere, snatched her purse, grabbed the iPhone out of her hands, knocked her down, kicked her in the face, head and stomach and took off.

The last thing Rosa remembered thinking was,
Benito is going to kill me
. Then everything faded to black.

“H
ey, kiddo, you’re on your own,” Lucky informed Bobby. “I’m handing over the tickets for Zeena’s show, and please don’t forget that Renee and Susie are throwing a private dinner after the event, so be sure to make it. Renee is expecting all of you.”

“Jeez, Mom, they’re
your
friends,” Bobby complained. “An’ now you’re running out on us. What’s
that
about?”

“Lennie is stopping off in L.A. for exactly three hours en route to his New Zealand location,” Lucky explained. “And I plan on spending all three hours with him. Okay with you, number one son?”

“I guess that’s why you’ve got the greatest marriage in town,” Bobby said, wondering if he’d ever have a relationship that good.

Lucky smiled her brilliant smile. “Yes, Bobby, that’s exactly why. Lennie comes first.”

Which meant that he was stuck. Concert. Private dinner.
Zeena
.
Zeena
.
Zeena
.

All his guests couldn’t wait to see her show. Brigette and Kris, M.J. and Cassie, and Annabelle and Frankie. What a group!

Why couldn’t he fly back to L.A. with Lucky and leave them all to it?

Because he’d invited them, and that would be rude and inconsiderate.

So . . . there was no escape.

He wondered how Frankie was doing. Had he found out who gave the tabloid the story? Had he told Annabelle? Would he have the
balls
to tell her? And when he did so, would he have any balls left? Annabelle was already muttering about splitting with him, so the
Truth & Fact
story could seal the deal.

Deciding to find out what everyone was up to, he called Brigette, who told him that she and Kris were just about to hit the casino floor.

“Kris has never gambled before,” Brigette said excitedly. “I’m going to teach her blackjack.”

Bobby hoped she wasn’t bankrolling her girlfriend’s gambling fling – that wouldn’t be cool.

Next he reached M.J., who informed him that he and Cassie were going to hang out in the suite until show-time.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven,” Bobby said. “Don’t be late.”

“Yeah, man, we’ll be on time,” M.J. assured him. “Cassie’s real excited.”

I bet she is
, Bobby thought. M.J. was a total catch.

When Lucky had first built The Keys he’d considered buying an apartment in the luxury condominium building attached to the hotel. Now he was glad that he hadn’t done so – Vegas was for bachelor parties, getting married in either a lovesick haze or a drunken stupor, and losing money at the tables. Lucky loved Las Vegas but Bobby wasn’t such a fan, although the challenge of making
Mood
the hot club in town was quite appealing. He’d already made the decision that he’d commute for the first few months, get the club up and running, then put in a manager he could trust to run things his way.

Bored with his own company, he thought he’d make his way downstairs and join up with Brigette and Kris. It was a better prospect than doing nothing.

* * *

By the time Frankie reached Janey on the phone, he’d developed strong misgivings about her involvement in the tabloid story. She
had
to know about it, so why hadn’t she called
him
? Even worse, she wasn’t picking up the phone at the Park Avenue apartment where she was supposed to be looking after things. It was only after three attempts that she finally answered her cell.

“What the fuck, Janey?” he screamed down the phone. “Who did this?” And even as he said the words, it suddenly came to him. Janey’s lazy, good-for-nothing, devious motherfucking son.

“It’s Chip, isn’t it?” he yelled. “That moron sold us out.”

“It’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t know anything about it,” Janey said, immediately defensive.

“Don’t fuck with me, Janey,” Frankie warned. “You know you don’t wanna do that.”

“Well,” Janey said reluctantly, “if it
was
Chip, then he must’ve gone behind my back an’ done it.”

“Stop feedin’ me shit,” Frankie said, his left eye twitching with anger. “How’d he get the photos if you didn’t help him? There’s no way. You’re the one with the run of the apartment. You must’ve helped him.”

“He stole them,” Janey admitted, starting to snivel. “He had to have gone through everything while I was passed out.” A pregnant pause. “Frankie,” sob sob, “I got a horrible feeling he drugged me – his own mother! How could he do such a thing?”

“Where is the prick?” Frankie said, imagining exactly what he would do to Chip when he got hold of him. “An’ you’d better find out, ’cause when I get back I’m gonna snap his scrawny neck in two.”

“Oh Frankie,” Janey wailed in desperation. “Please don’t say things like that. Chip is family, you know he’s a good boy at heart.”

“Bullshit! He’s a born loser.”

“Somebody must’ve gotten to him, offered him lots of money. He’s young, he doesn’t understand.”

“Do you honestly think I give a fast crap in hell? When I get hold of your demented baby boy, he’s gonna understand good. In fact, he’s gonna be sorry he was born.”

“No, Frankie,” Janey pleaded. “Please don’t do anything rash. I beg you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Janey. I suggest you shift your fat ass an’ go find him. Chip is gonna pay for this. Our fuckin’ business is ruined, not to mention my reputation.”

“I’m so sorry, Frankie,” she sniveled.

“You should be, for givin’ birth to the little bastard,” Frankie said, before snapping his phone shut.

He was still in the airport men’s room, and several men going about their business were staring at him.

Shoving the phone in his pocket he stared back.

“Bad day?” one man ventured.

“Fuck off,” Frankie muttered, before marching outside, where the first thing he saw was a newsstand – copies of the offending tabloid,
Truth & Fact
, piled high.

With one big sweeping gesture he knocked them to the ground, scattering them everywhere. Then, muttering under his breath, he set off to find a cab.

* * *

The suite Bobby had gotten them in The Keys was pure luxury – even more so than the Beverly Hills Hotel which for Annabelle’s taste was a touch too traditional in style.

The Keys suite featured an enormous circular bed covered in fur throws (fake of course, Lucky was a strong supporter of PETA), a giant flat-screen TV and a full shelf of the latest DVDs, CDs, and bestselling books.

The bathroom was all pale-green marble, with a TV in the ceiling above the tub so that a guest could comfortably lie back, soak and watch their favorite programs.

Annabelle wished they were staying longer. She also wished that she would be sharing the bed with Bobby, not Frankie.

Soon . . . yes, soon . . . she was sure of it.

Where the hell was Frankie, anyway? He was taking his time coming from the airport and she didn’t appreciate being kept waiting.

She thought about creating a big fight when he finally arrived and getting it over with. Or was it wiser to wait until after the funeral?

Probably. But Annabelle was into instant gratification, and that meant dumping his sorry ass the moment he hit the suite.

But no, she had to do the smart thing and wait until they returned to New York. If she did it now, he was perfectly capable of running back to New York without her and clearing out the safe. She wouldn’t put that kind of move past him, and there was a lot of cash stashed in their safe – a few hundred thousand at least.