Hollywood Kids (58 page)

'You seen or heard from Zane?' he asked the maid who was busy sweeping the front hall.

She stopped what she was doing and slowly shook her head.

'What didja say your name was?' Luca asked, rocking impatiently on the heels of his handmade shoes.

'Eldessa, Mr Carlotti.'

'OK, Eldessa, I gotta big fat reward for anyone who tells me where my nephew is. We're talkin' bucks here. Five thousand of 'em. Anyone comes up with the information is gonna get this reward. Cash. You understand me?'

Eldessa tried to imagine all the things she could do with five thousand dollars. 'Yessir, Mr Carlotti.'

'How long you worked for me?'

'Many years, Mr Carlotti.'

'OK, OK, just makin' sure you know where your loyalties lie.'

'I know that all right,' she said, nodding stoically.

Luca turned to Bosco. 'Go take another look through his room. An' fuckin' find him, will ya. It's enough already.'

'I'll find him,' Bosco said confidently, although he had no clue where to start looking.

He and Reno swept the room without discovering much of anything. A few movie magazines - mostly with Steven Seagal on the cover, a flyer from a hardware store on Santa Monica, a dirty old pair of white sneakers and that was about it.

Luca knew Zane couldn't go too far because he didn't have enough money. He'd been keeping him on a tight rein, sending him the occasional cheque. The only way Zane could have any serious money was if he'd taken up a life of crime like his no-good father. And Zane Marion Ricca didn't have the balls. Killing defenceless women was one thing. Putting himself out there was another.

Back at the hotel there was a message from Mac. Luca reached him on the set.

'I'm on the portable,' was the first thing Mac said.

'So?'

'So, I don't know what they do in New York, but in LA they listen in.'

'I got it.'

'Did you take care of our mutual friend yet?'

'Funny you should ask.'

'Why?'

'Our mutual friend has done a vanishing act.'

'I thought you were in control of the situation.'

'I thought so, too.'

'Can we talk?'

'I'll come by an' visit you. Never watched a movie bein' shot.'

'Not a good idea.'

'So I won't come by, big deal. See me at the hotel when you're through.'

'I'll be there around seven.'

Luca wasn't that interested in seeing Mac, he'd hoped for a more enthusiastic reaction when he'd told him about their relationship. But no. Mac Brooks was a cold sonofabitch when it came to family. Fuck him.

Luca was disappointed, but so what? He had Bambi now. Maybe he'd leave
her
his money.

Now that was a thought. He had to settle matters with her, set her up in his house and arrange to put her on permanent payroll. The dumb broad should be kissing his balls instead of saying she'd let him know. But he got off on her independent attitude, plus she had exactly what he required. Class. And she was going to be his - soon - because he couldn't stick around LA for ever. He had business to take care of in New York. Big business.

They were sitting at the kitchen table when Michael leaned back, stretched and said, 'I've been talking too much.'

'No, you haven't,' Kennedy replied, sipping a tall glass of orange juice while watching him closely. He had been talking a lot, but she didn't mind, even though he'd been speaking nonstop for an hour, telling her about the situation with Bella, the problems with his family, and finally his drinking, which he seemed to have under control. It was painfully obvious he'd struggled along without ever finding true happiness, and she didn't know why, but she had a strong desire to reach out and make it all better.

'It's a bad habit of mine,' he said, feeling very much at ease in her company.

Regarding him seriously, she said, 'You had to tell somebody. I'm glad it was me.'

Michael realized that now he'd started spilling everything, he couldn't stop, and she was such an understanding listener he didn't want to. 'I loved Bella,' he said. 'And I still
do
, but you're right - I gotta let her go, and stop thinking about it.'

'Yes, Michael, and if what you've told me is true, then in my opinion you've behaved admirably.'

'You think so, huh?'

'Absolutely.'

'Your opinion means a lot to me, Kennedy,' he said, getting up and pouring himself more coffee. 'Mind if I smoke?'

'Go ahead.'

He came back to the table, lit a cigarette and continued talking. 'My brother was always into giving me shit, but I never thought he'd do anything as bad as this. As for my mother,' he paused for a moment, remembering the hurt, 'yknow, there was never one time she stood up for me. She let my stepfather bust my ass whenever he felt like it, and he felt like it plenty. There were times when I was a kid that he'd wake me up just to scream at me about something I'd supposedly done. Couldn't wait until morning - dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night and beat up on me.'

'It can't have been easy.'

'Soon as I was old enough, drinking became my escape, and, believe me, it worked good for a while.' He laughed ruefully. 'So, my childhood was a mess and I guess that's why I have a difficult time making any kind of commitment.'

'You've been emotionally abused, Michael,' she said understandingly. 'It takes time to get over that type of damaging treatment.'

'How
do
I get over it?' he asked, putting his elbows on the table and studying her face, deciding she was more than beautiful, she had compassion and soul and the most seductive lips he'd ever seen.

'By forming meaningful relationships. Knowing you're a good person and that you
can
share things - affection, love, whatever. Not everybody is like your mother and stepfather. One day you'll meet somebody and realize there are such things as good relationships.'

He looked straight at her. 'Maybe I already have.'

She chose to ignore his knowing look, finding his scrutiny unnerving. 'Well,' she said, slightly flustered. 'Breakfast was certainly interesting. Bananas, croissants and Danish. I'll be suffering from a sugar fit all day!'

He laughed easily. 'It's the cop in me coming out. On stakeout that's all we ever ate.'

'How unhealthy.'

'You should see my partner, Quincy. His wife's always putting him on a diet - trouble is, he never sticks to it.'

Kennedy decided that Michael was illegally handsome and probably had women falling all over him. There was no way she planned on adding herself to the list. 'Hmm...' she murmured, wondering why she'd suddenly lost all interest in work.

'Hey, I'd like you to meet Amber and Quincy one of these days. They're real people - you'd like 'em.'

'I know some real people of my own,' she said defensively.

He smiled, stubbing out his cigarette. 'I wasn't insulting you.'

'I know.'

They held another long look. Kennedy broke it by getting up from the table. She was definitely losing it, had to get back on track. 'Uh, this story I'm working on, Michael, I've discovered an intriguing connection.'

'Tell me about it,' he said, following her into the living room.

'I found out that Zane Marion Ricca's uncle is Luca Carlotti. Do you know who he is?'

'Hey, my personal life might be totally fucked, but I
am
aware of what's going on out there,' he said, wondering why Mac Brooks had failed to reveal this pertinent piece of information.

'Glad to hear it.'

'Do the police know?'

She walked over to her computer. 'I have no idea. Should I contact them?'

He was right behind her. 'Well... if they're looking for him he might be easier to track through Luca.'

She turned around. He had great eyes, she tried to avoid them. 'The
L.A. Times
want to run my piece tomorrow. That means if I
do
inform the police, I'd still have the story out there before anyone else.'

He was doing it again, studying her intently. 'Is that what does it for you? The thrill of getting the news out there first?'

'You could say that.'

He moved a little closer. 'It's exciting, huh?'

Her green eyes finally met his and didn't look away. 'Yes, Michael, it's very exciting.'

He was getting closer every second. 'So are you, Kennedy, so are you.'

When they kissed it was the most natural move in the world.

Grant let himself into Cheryl's house and soon realized she had not been home all night. The house was undisturbed, and her bed hadn't been slept in.

He paced around, unsure about what to do. Was his first thought right? Had she lost her mind and stayed the night with her client?

No, even Cheryl wouldn't do such a crazy thing. Although lately she'd been in a strange mood, nothing she did would surprise him.

It was time for somebody to talk some sense into her. Reluctantly he supposed it would have to be him. Of course, she never listened to him, but this time he would make her.

Pouring himself a slug of vodka he settled on the couch, switched on the TV and waited for her to arrive home.

'I think I hear him coming,' Jordanna whispered. 'Stay alert. Try to remember everything I said.'

'There's nothing we can do,' Cheryl said mournfully. 'He's got us, Jordy, we'll never get out of here.'

'Don't... talk... like... that,' Jordanna replied through clenched teeth. "We're going to survive. I refuse to be a fucking victim.'

The door at the top of the steps opened, and they heard footsteps descending.

Jordanna began psyching herself up.

Stay strong.

Make eye contact.

Get him talking.

Treat him like a human being.

Which was more than he'd done to them. They were still handcuffed, their ankles bound tightly together, trapped in a dark cellar.

She had to go to the bathroom and was desperately thirsty. Cheryl must have the same needs, but Jordanna knew it was important they didn't beg. She was determined to get this situation under control.

Zane Ricca. She remembered him well. She'd watched him strangle Ingrid Floris, and known he'd done it without an ounce of regret. And then she and Cheryl had fought their respective fathers to allow them to appear as witnesses for the prosecution, and made sure Zane Ricca was properly punished for the heinous crime he'd committed. The day he was sentenced they'd thrown a wild celebration party.

Now - all these years later - he was out of jail and back in Beverly Hills.

What did he want? That was the question.

At first she didn't recognize him. Surely Cheryl was mistaken? Zane Ricca had been a puny-looking specimen. This man descending into the cellar dressed all in black was stronger and tougher, with long hair scraped back into a ponytail, a hardened face and bulging muscles.

Yes, she suddenly realized, it
was
him. The eyes were the same. Flat, dead eyes, completely devoid of emotion. She'd never forget those frightening eyes.

Stopping on the bottom step, he surveyed them coldly.

Jordanna stifled an urge to scream obscenities at him. In spite of her fear she managed to remain cool. Following her own advice she immediately attempted to create some kind of rapport.

'I... I don't know why we're here,' she said, her voice sounding surprisingly calm. 'But whatever the reason, I know we can work something out.'

Silence.

'Look,' she said persuasively, 'take the handcuffs off and let's talk.'

More silence.

'OK, so don't let's talk, but we need to go to the bathroom.'

His zombie eyes registered nothing.

'I must have something to drink,' Cheryl pleaded weakly. 'My throat's so dry... I'm sick... please...'

Turning his back, he walked slowly up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

'Jesus!' Jordanna exploded. 'He really is a fucking psycho.'

'I told you,' Cheryl said hopelessly. 'There's nothing we can do.'

'Oh, yes there is,' Jordanna responded fiercely. 'We're getting out of this. That's a promise.'

Getting the police to have the silver BMW towed was no easy task, but George Randall complained long and hard, until eventually they promised to have the car impounded just to get him off the phone.

He was triumphant.

'I don't know why you're making such a fuss,' his exquisite twenty-six-year-old wife said. We could always use our other gate.'

She was too young to understand the perverse thrill of forcing the cops to do something they really couldn't be bothered with.

He decided that since he was late for the office anyway, and had blown his appointment with Taureen Worth, the fifty-something sex symbol who wanted him to make her look twenty-two again, he might as well enjoy a leisurely breakfast with his lovely wife.

'I'll take you to The Peninsula for champagne and orange juice,' he suggested, imagining a romantic morning that could possibly develop into an even more romantic afternoon.

'Sorry, hon,' she replied, trying to think of a suitable excuse, because she was having an affair with a nineteen-year-old grocery clerk who gave the greatest head in the world. 'I'm late for my psychic.'

'Your psychic!' he exclaimed.

Before he could get into it further, he noticed the tow truck had arrived. Puffed up with his own importance he hurried off down his driveway to witness the removal of the offending BMW.

It happened so naturally that they were both taken by surprise. Neither Kennedy nor Michael had expected to end up in bed together, but here they were - caught in a mood - enjoying every passionate, sensual moment.

The kissing had gone on for a long time, until he'd found himself so aroused he couldn't stop. And neither could she. They'd headed for the bedroom without saying a word, divesting their clothes on the way. It was like something came over both of them and there was no stopping the inevitable.

Now she found herself hungry for his touch, yearning for him to be inside her. And he didn't hold back because this woman was his destiny and somehow he knew it.