The Santangelos (24 page)

Ah … he could expect a world-class blow job in his future, and Eddie got off on anticipating.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, Willow had a puppy to deal with, and while it was cute enough, she was so not used to caring for animals—especially an untrained puppy.

True to his promise, Sam had dropped off his precious script, and after scanning it quickly, she’d decided it was definitely not the movie Alejandro or she would want to make. No sex. No violence. Mucho conversations between a man and his inner self. Boring and
so
uncommercial. It was hardly a surprise that no studio had picked it up. The script was Sam’s inflated ego trip, the movie
he
wanted to make, and nobody else would give a shit.

Damn it! What was a girl to do?

Blow Eddie Falcon and ask his advice, for if anyone knew the ins and outs of Hollywood, it was Eddie.

After shutting the cute little puppy in her bedroom, she left to meet with Eddie.

Arriving at his office, she was dressed for action in slinky satin wide-legged pants—sans underwear—and a sheer top, nipples on alert. With her new earrings and exceptionally high heels, her look was complete. Sexy with a touch of class.

Stepping out of Eddie’s private elevator into his well-appointed office, she was greeted by the man himself in nothing more than his underwear and a crisp white shirt, his hard-on standing at full attention poking hopefully through his shorts.

This did not surprise Willow; she was used to the sexual predilections of powerful and famous men. One studio head she’d serviced had worn a lacy ladies’ thong and a plunging bra under his severe business suit. A top industry lawyer had insisted that she draw a smiley face on his penis with a felt-tip pen. And a very well-loved family star had made her trample all over his back wearing spiked hiking boots and nothing else.

Who was she to judge? She was merely a girl—an actress—trying to keep her name above the title.

“Hey, sexy tits,” Eddie said with a smile as he released what he referred to as the big ride.

It was not big, it was average—but Willow always oohed and aahed as though it were the most exciting piece of real estate she’d ever seen.

“Somebody’s pleased to see me,” she purred. “And since you’re a married man now, I guess the wife is not putting out.”

Eddie’s smile vanished. His hard-on didn’t. “No mention of the wife,” he said sternly. “She’s off-limits.”

“Fine with me,” Willow murmured. Cheating husbands
never
wanted to talk about their wives, unless it was to complain about what a bitch they were. Annabelle Falcon
was
a bitch, according to Frankie Romano, Alejandro’s drinking buddy who’d recently gotten himself arrested for drug trafficking. And Frankie should know—he was Annabelle’s ex-boyfriend.

“Enough with the small talk,” Eddie said, gesturing toward his crotch. “Whyn’t you take a look at how much I’ve missed you.”

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink first?” she asked coyly, attempting to ignore his erection, which was still pointing directly at her.

“C’
mon
, sexy tits,” Eddie said with an agonized groan. “Let’s get this show started.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, realizing that this meeting was going nowhere until she’d given him what he was begging for. “But after we’re finished, we talk. Right?”

“You got it.”

Willow fell to her knees on the plush carpet.
If I wasn’t so ambitious, I would’ve made a fantastic hooker,
she thought as he jammed himself into her mouth.

Then it was on.

Willow took great pride in being the best little cocksucker in town.

*   *   *

Rafael spent a restless day going over how he was supposed to handle this new circumstance that had arisen. He was being blackmailed, pure and simple. Blackmailed by the idiot Alejandro, who now fancied himself a movie producer. What a moron Alejandro was. Did he honestly believe that money could buy him anything he desired? And how was he, Rafael, supposed to persuade Pablo Fernandez Diego that making a movie was a legitimate venture for the Diegos to become involved in?

Rafael was sickened by it all. He’d been had. Plied with liquor and God knew what kind of drugs to make him think he was making love to his precious Elizabetta. How could he have allowed this to take place?

Perhaps it was punishment for the girl in Chicago. Rafael had thought he’d hired a professional who knew what he was being paid to do, but the man had killed the girl instead of beating her up. It was not the result Rafael had wanted, although according to his informant in the DA’s office, it had gotten Denver Jones out of town, running to her boyfriend’s side.

He still had a bad feeling about what had taken place, and now he was paying for it. Not that he was a religious man, but his mother was, and she’d instilled a certain amount of guilt in him, guilt he’d learned to brush aside because he was in the drug business. He was involved in importing all kinds of drugs into America and consequently ruining people’s lives. It was not a profession he’d chosen, it was simply his lot in life.

These were the facts he usually chose to ignore. Only today was different—today he was being punished for his bad deeds. He felt it in his bones.

Alejandro was his problem, and there was nothing he could do about it, for if any harm came to Alejandro, Pablo would surely have Rafael killed. Rafael knew that for a fact.

He swallowed hard as he paced around his small office at Club Luna. There had to be an answer, and yet he was at a loss to know what that answer might be.

*   *   *

“Hey,” a fully satisfied Eddie Falcon said, tucking his dick back into his pants. “You haven’t lost your touch, babe. You always were the best.”

Willow emerged from his private bathroom, dabbing her lips with a tissue. “Thank you, kind sir,” she responded with a sly smile. “Positive reviews are always welcome.”

“We should get together more often,” Eddie noted with a pleased smirk. “Gotta say I missed your magic skills.”

At least he appreciates me,
Willow thought.
Now he can listen to me
.

“Eddie,” she said, dropping into an ultramodern steel-and-chrome chair. “I have a proposition you’re gonna
love
.”

Eddie did not sit. Eddie was too busy getting dressed.

“Make it fast, babe,” he said, shrugging on his Armani jacket. “I got a dinner to go to.”

“I’ll make it fast, all right,” Willow responded, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. “How does a million bucks cash—straight into your pocket—sound?”

And so Eddie listened.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“As soon as Lennie gets back from lunch with the boys, tell him I had to go out,” Lucky informed Danny, who was already hard at work making arrangements for the funeral service and the party that would follow.

“Should I come with you?” Danny asked, anxious to take a break since he was snowed under with everything he had to organize. “Or should I get one of the guards to accompany you?”

“Not necessary,” Lucky replied briskly. She had things to take care of, things that did not involve anyone except herself, and she certainly didn’t want security or Danny tagging along.

Danny was longing to ask where she was off to, even though he was well aware that his boss did not appreciate being questioned. “Will we be going back to Palm Springs later?” he inquired, wondering if he could bring Buff, his significant other.

Lucky was already striding toward the front door. “No,” she called over her shoulder. “Put together plans to set everything up in Vegas. We’ll be making that our next stop.”

Outside, her red Ferrari was parked in the driveway.

For a moment she paused before getting into the driver’s seat and revving the engine. She had things to take care of, and now was the time.

*   *   *

Chris Warwick considered himself an expert at his job. Dealing with people was his thing—sussing them out, gauging their reactions, figuring out whether they were telling the truth or not. He always knew; he had a finely tuned antenna for bullshit.

After arriving in Palm Springs, he went straight to work—checking out the street where Gino had met his end, observing that the area was no longer roped off with police tape. The sidewalk had been power-cleaned and showed no sign of the violent crime that had taken place. The affluent neighborhood was back to normal. Palm trees softly swaying, a slight breeze, bright sunlight, birds singing in the trees. A perfect Palm Springs day.

Nice place to live,
Chris thought.
That’s if you don’t end up with a bullet in the back of your head
.

With watchful eyes he surveyed the area, noting exactly which houses might have had a view of the crime scene—because in spite of the long driveways, there were plenty of landscape windows through which someone could have seen something.

Lucky had informed him that all the houses had been canvassed by a team of cops. However, they were both aware that cops were not always as thorough as they should be.

After a while, Chris zeroed in on two houses, noting that they both had a clear view of the crime scene.

He approached house number one—a fifties-style structure with a circular driveway and no menacing gates.

An older man wearing khaki knee-length shorts and a colorful Hawaiian shirt answered the door. Chris immediately recognized him as a once well-known crooner from the Sinatra era. His name was Bud something or other—Chris couldn’t quite recall his surname.

Bud something or other was fit and tanned, and except for a row of glistening overly white false teeth and badly dyed orange hair, he looked okay for a dude who had to be fast approaching eighty.

Adopting a detective stance, Chris flashed the phony badge he’d gotten off the Internet. He looked so accommodating and honest, nobody ever doubted him.

“Saw nothing,” Bud something or other said in answer to Chris’s question about the shooting. “Heard a pop, thought it was a car backfiring. Next thing I know, cops are swarming everywhere. It was like a movie happening on my own doorstep.”

“Must’ve been quite a shock when you found out what had taken place,” Chris remarked. “A brutal murder right on the street where you live.”

Bud something or other bobbed his head. “You can bet on that.”

“All you heard was a pop, right?”

“That’s it.”

Chris leaned forward. “Did you know Mr. Santangelo?” he asked.

“Sure I knew him. We played poker a coupla times a week.”

“How about his wife? Did you know her too?”

Bud something or other clicked his false teeth and looked perplexed. “What’s with the questions again? I told ’em yesterday I never saw nothin’.”

“Understood,” Chris said calmly. “We’re following up.”

“Well, go follow up somewhere else. I got a golf game to get to.”

“Thanks for your help, Mr.…?”

“Pappas. Bud Pappas.” With a sneaky grin, he added, “Don’t tell me you didn’t get laid playin’ my songs when you were in high school.”

Chris laughed. “Who didn’t?” he lied. “I was a big, big fan.”

Bud Pappas preened, suddenly forgetting all about his golf game. “Wanna come in, grab a cuppa java?” he said with a jovial chuckle. “I got stories that’ll make your cock-a-doodle-doo so hard, you’ll think you died and went to Viagra heaven!”

And so Chris walked into the fifties-style house with its mud-brown shag carpets and multiple frames hanging on the wall filled with photos of an era long past.

When he left an hour later, he had found out plenty. According to Bud Pappas, everyone had loved Gino Santangelo, whereas his wife, Paige, was not so popular. The consensus was that she was a conniving, cheating, snobbish bitch on wheels. And nobody would be surprised if it turned out that she’d paid to have Gino taken out.

Interesting. Suspect number one: Paige Santangelo.

Lucky would eat this information up.

*   *   *

The security room at the bank was located in the basement. Gino had taken Lucky there once so that she could sign in if she ever had to. Now that time had come. He’d used a different identity—smart—so nobody could put a hold on his safe-deposit boxes should anything ever happen to him.

A heavyset woman with graying hair and a name tag that read
MRS. CRISP
pinned to her blouse was sitting behind a desk. After an exchange of information, she asked Lucky to sign in and produce her key. Lucky did so, whereupon Mrs. Crisp got up, said, “Follow me,” and activated the automatic lock on the steel-barred gates leading to the inner sanctum.

They entered together and proceeded to the numbered slot where Gino’s safe-deposit boxes were. Mrs. Crisp inserted her key and Lucky did the same. The steel door opened, and Lucky slid the two boxes out.

“Do you require a private room?” Mrs. Crisp asked.

Lucky nodded. Mrs. Crisp escorted her to a small cubicle, where Lucky placed the two boxes on a table and waited for the woman to leave.

As soon as she was alone, her heart began to pound. She was nervous, not sure what secrets the boxes would reveal. Years ago, in Vegas when she was a teenager, she’d managed to get into Gino’s bedroom safe hidden behind a Picasso. She’d been shocked by what she’d found. Apart from photos of Gino with Maria, a couple of handguns, some jewelry, a collection of expensive watches, stacks of cash, gold coins, and pornographic photos of movie star Marabelle Blue, there was an envelope marked
THE RICHMOND FILE
. In the envelope, she’d discovered incriminating photos of Marabelle in bed with Senator Peter Richmond, the father of Craven, the man Gino had forced her to marry at sixteen.

She flashed back on how sick she’d felt discovering the photos that Gino had obviously used as a blackmail tool to facilitate her teenage marriage to the Richmonds’ dull son.

Now here she was again, faced with even more secrets.

*   *   *

After visiting with Bud Pappas, Chris noticed that the other house he’d targeted had an outdoor camera. According to the police report Lucky had gotten hold of, the owner of the house had stated that the camera was not operational on the day of Gino’s murder.