The Santangelos (11 page)

It all sounded like he was on the road to mega-fame and success.

*   *   *

There was a time when Willow would disguise her voice and call the paparazzi pretending to be a shopkeeper or a waiter alerting the paps to where they could find Willow Price. Now she didn’t have to do that anymore. The paparazzi automatically followed her everywhere, waiting impatiently for her next bad move. It was annoying, for now she always had to try to look her best, otherwise the haters on the Internet and the TMZ watchers would pull her to pieces with their vile comments.

She knew full well that she’d screwed up an extremely promising career, and that it was nobody’s fault but her own. Surrounding herself with the wrong people had not helped. Enablers were everywhere.

Want some coke?

Done
.

Pills?

Of course
.

Smack? Heroin? Speedballs? Molly?

Why not?

Oh God, there wasn’t a drug she hadn’t tried, and all it got her was nowhere. She’d lost jobs, money, friends. Spent too much time in rehab fucking the wrong male or female. Yet she still looked amazing, with a little help from the right dermatologist. She was only twenty-five, and maybe this movie thing with Alejandro would be her salvation, would put her back on top where she belonged. She was talented, of that there was no doubt.

She had to get a script, and she had to get it fast. Alejandro was full of enthusiasm now, but how long would that last? He was mercurial. He could change his mind, or someone could change it for him.

Oh yes, it was imperative that she act immediately.

She hurried home from Alejandro’s to her less luxurious abode—a small house off Fountain that she rented from a gay interior designer who doubled as a drag queen by night. The paparazzi were hanging around outside, as usual. She knew some of them by name, and there were times when she would arrange a setup shot and split the money with the photographer—that’s how far she had fallen.

“Hard night out?” one of them yelled. “Same outfit as last night.”

Ignoring the pesky pap, she hurried inside her house, took a quick shower, changed clothes, sat at her kitchen counter, and called Sam Slade.

“Sam,” she exclaimed, relieved he’d kept the same number. “It’s Willow—Willow Price.”

“Hey,” Sam said slowly. “Willow. Long time no hear from.”

She gave a girlish laugh. “I know. Time goes fast when you’re having a blast.”

They’d worked together on a low-budget movie he’d written. Sam was originally from New York and kind of geeky in a weirdly attractive way. He’d definitely liked her. She hadn’t reciprocated; underpaid screenwriters were not her thing. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, and now he was a big deal and her star had fallen. It was time to reconnect.

“I have a work proposition I’d like to discuss with you,” she said briskly. She could almost hear him groan on the other end of the phone.

“Sorry, Willow. My work card’s all jammed up,” he said, sounding pleasant, although not exactly ecstatic to hear from her.

“I’m sure.” She paused, then said, “Only this is something different and
really
exciting, Sam.” She paused again for effect. “Remember that script you told me about, the one you’d written on spec and said that one day you wanted to direct? Well, I might have exactly the deal you’re looking for.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You’ve got to call Denver for me,” Bobby informed M.J., confronting him in his hotel room.

“Jeez—don’t
you
look like dog shit,” M.J. exclaimed, adding a succinct, “Oh yeah, an’ thanks for comin’ back last night. I coulda really used your help. Like I said on the phone, I hope she was worth it.”

“Hey,” Bobby said, confused and angry. “Nothing happened.”

“Sure,” M.J. sneered.

“I think I was drugged,” Bobby said, flopping down in a chair, still feeling like shit.

“Jesus!” M.J. said, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I’ve heard excuses in my time, only you, my man, are takin’ it way too far.”

“I’m dead serious,” Bobby said, realizing how crazy he must sound.

“No, what you
are
is full of crap,” M.J. said sharply.

“I want you to listen to me,” Bobby said, attempting to keep his cool. “I drove that girl to the hotel, and the next thing I know I’m waking up in my car blocks away, and it’s morning.”

“I see you’ve still got your watch,” M.J. pointed out. “Your wallet too?”

“It wasn’t a robbery,” Bobby said flatly. “I don’t know what the fuck it was.”

“C’mon, man, whyn’t you just admit it—you got laid,” M.J. said. “An’ I’m not the one who’s gonna be runnin’ to Denver, so chill.”

“You’re not getting it, are you?” Bobby said, shaking his head.

“Gettin’
what
?” M.J. said, throwing Bobby a skeptical look.

“That for some reason I got slammed, and I have to find out why. But in the meantime you’ve got to call Denver and tell her I came down with some kind of stomach bug and that I’ll call her later.”

“What’s up with you not callin’ or texting her yourself?”

“’Cause I’m gonna have to explain what happened, and I’m in no shape to do that,” Bobby said, wishing that M.J. would simply do what he asked and stop questioning him. “She’ll be wondering why she hasn’t heard from me, so just do it.”

M.J. shrugged. “You really think Denver’s gonna believe me? There’s no way she’ll buy that you were too sick to pick up a phone. No fuckin’ way.”

“Do it anyway. Convince her,” Bobby said, trying his best to remain calm. “’Cause I gotta get myself over to the emergency room and try to find out what kind of shit they gave me.”

“‘They’? Who the fuck is ‘they’?”

“Nadia couldn’t’ve done it by herself,” Bobby said, his mind racing with possibilities. “She had to have someone help her. How else could I have ended up dumped in a car, for crissake? It must’ve been her and that lowlife cousin.”

“Jeez, you’re really serious.”

“You bet your ass I am, ’cause you should know I wouldn’t bail on you—not on our opening night.”

“Then let’s figure this shit out,” M.J. said. “If you
were
drugged, there’s gotta be a reason.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Whyn’t you tell me again what happened.”

“After I woke up in the car, I drove back to the hotel and tried to find her. Dead end. All I have is her first name. I gave it to the manager, who looked at me like I was batshit crazy.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

“For crissake, it happened,” Bobby said, fast losing patience. “I’m not hallucinating. This is for real.”

“Don’t go freakin’ out on me. I believe you. Your story’s too fucked up to be an excuse.”

“Damn right it is.”

“Here’s the deal,” M.J. said, finally on board. “I’ll call Denver for you. Then we’re headin’ straight to the emergency room.”

Bobby nodded. “Now,
that
sounds like a plan.”

*   *   *

After lunch with Sam, Denver headed back to the office, where she and Leon met with the female undercover agent, Sonia Gonzalez.

Sonia Gonzalez was Puerto Rican and verging on pretty, in a tough “don’t fuck with me” kind of way. Leon and she had partnered together before and they seemed to know each other well.

Denver couldn’t help wondering if they’d slept together. The vibe in the air was that they had. The two of them had been on an undercover assignment in San Diego two years previously and they’d brought down a major human-trafficking ring. They were obviously tight.

Sonia had long black hair tied back in a ponytail, full lips, and a taut body. Today she was dressed for real life in pants and a denim shirt. Denver could just imagine her in full regalia as a party girl. Sonia would own the role.

They circled around each other, both with their own agendas. Denver wanted to make sure that Sonia knew what she was getting herself into, while Sonia was going for trust. She only worked with people she was sure had her back.

Later, Leon revealed to Denver that Sonia’s older sister had also been an undercover agent, and had gotten shot and killed for her trouble. “Sonia’s the best,” he assured Denver. “If anyone’s gonna nail our boy, it’ll be her.”

“I wish you’d stop calling Alejandro ‘our boy,’” Denver said, her tone sharp. “He’s a douche-bag drug dealer who’s ruining people’s lives.”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Denver said, feeling her phone vibrate. She quickly reached for it and checked out the caller. It was M.J. What the hell did
he
want?

Then it suddenly occurred to her that maybe Bobby had gotten into an accident, and while she was out on a lunch date mildly flirting with an old flame, Bobby was lying in a hospital mortally wounded.

“I have to take this,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Leon replied, giving her space. “Later.”

“M.J.?” she said into the phone as soon as Leon was out of ear-shot. “Where’s Bobby? Is he okay? What the
hell
is going on?”

“Funny you should ask…”

“
What?
” Denver gasped, her imagination launching into overdrive.

“It’s nothin’ major,” M.J. said quickly. “Your man came down with an attack of the runs. He’s gonna call you later.”

Before she could get into it, M.J. clicked off, and she was left with the distinct impression that M.J. was covering for Bobby.

Now she was really angry. An attack of the runs indeed. What kind of lame excuse was
that
?

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, what are you doing? I thought we had something special going on, so why are you trying to sabotage it?

She sat still for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Then, on a sudden impulse, she called Sam. “I was thinking,” she said. “If you really need more info for your script, I guess I can meet up with you later.”

“Twice in one day?” Sam said, sounding delighted. “How come I’m getting so lucky?”

“Don’t get carried away,” she said crisply. “Nobody’s getting lucky.”

“I knew it was too good to be true.”

“We could meet at the Polo Lounge,” she suggested.

“I’d prefer somewhere quieter,” he said. “How would you feel about coming to my apartment?”

“Sam—”

“Strictly business,” he said. “I’ll even throw in a dish of pasta with my special sauce. You know you can’t resist my culinary skills.”

“Maybe not, but I can certainly resist everything else,” she said, determined that he know up front that she was not to be tempted.

“I get it,” Sam said. “You’re well and truly taken. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy my pasta. Right?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and quickly clicked off.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lucky awoke with a deep sense of foreboding and wondered why. She and Lennie had enjoyed a fantastic evening together—amazing sex, delicious food, a special kind of love and commitment. They were so in tune with each other. Everything was perfect.

Too perfect? There was a vibe in the air, an ominous vibe.

Instinct told her something was wrong.

Instinct told her to check on her family.

She slipped quietly out of bed, leaving Lennie sleeping on his back, his arms stretched above his head.

Her first call was to the camp where Gino Junior and Leo were spending the summer. A camp counselor assured her that both boys were fine.

Next she called Max in London. Max informed her she was off to Saint-Tropez the following day. Nothing wrong there.

Bobby didn’t answer his cell, so she called M.J., who told her that Bobby had a stomach bug. Nothing serious.

And finally—Gino.

No answer.

She tried his wife Paige’s cell. Straight to voice mail.

She tried the landline at their house in Palm Springs.

Nobody picked up.

A shiver enveloped her, a shiver of fear.

And yet … there was nothing to be fearful of. Both Gino and Paige hated cell phones—technology did not interest either of them. As for the house phone, they were probably on their morning walk, and their housekeeper had yet to arrive. At his advanced age, Gino claimed that walking was the key to his longevity.

Sure
,
Gino. It’s your stubborn spirit that’s the key—screw walking
.

Making her way into the open-plan kitchen overlooking the ocean, she considered what to do next.

Was she being paranoid? Should she start checking further afield? Maybe she should contact her half brother, Steven, who resided in Brazil. Or perhaps Bobby’s niece, Brigette, who’d recently moved to Barcelona with her girlfriend.

No way
.

Cool it, Santangelo
.

Nothing’s going on
.

She picked up the remote and turned on the TV. The morning news was all about a cheating politician who’d been caught at an orgy with a bevy of hookers. What a surprise! A raging forest fire in Oklahoma. Two vacuous movie stars getting a divorce. Who cared? And a violent home invasion in Calabasas.

Same old, same old. Bad news ruled. How about someone starting a good-news-only channel?

The thought intrigued her. Maybe it was a factor she could incorporate into her new venture. A streaming channel on the Internet featuring nothing but upbeat stories.

Lennie ambled into the kitchen wearing low-slung jeans and not much else. She enveloped him in a tight hug, loving the smell of him. There was something about the way their bodies were in perfect synch.

“What’s up with you?” he asked with a lazy half smile. “The sex wasn’t enough last night? My beautiful wife wants more?”

“I always want more,” she purred, running her fingers across his bare chest. “But only with you.”

“My wife—the sex addict,” he said, laughing.

“And don’t you love it,” she countered.

“Gotta admit—I do,” he said, kissing her.

His breath was minty fresh. She loved him so much. He was her soul mate, her anchor, the father of two of her children. He was her everything.

“Wanna take a trip back to bed?” he suggested.

“I wouldn’t say no,” she answered, putting all thoughts of a bad premonition out of her head.