Revenge

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  chapter 1

  THE GIRL WAS BARELY MORE than sixteen. The pupils of her large hazel eyes were enormous. So was her sexual appetite.

  Bobby Skorch had picked her up on Sunset as soon as he’d been able to get out of the house, which had been a hassle due to all the fuss over his wife— superstar sex symbol Salli T. Turner—who had gotten herself murdered the night before.

  That Salli, Bobby thought, his mind mired in a drugged-out haze, you never knew what she was going to do next, always full of surprises.

  Finally he’d managed to sneak out of the house by lying on the floor in the back of his maid’s car. She’d dropped him off at a hotel where he kept a permanent penthouse suite in his manager’s name.

  Later he’d taken a cruise along Sunset in the black Ferrari he kept in the basement parking area of the hotel—also registered in his manager’s name.

  The girl had been hanging around outside a club, and she’d willingly accompanied him back to his hotel. Now she was riding his dick like she was competing in some kind of equestrian event. He didn’t have to do a thing except lie back and tolerate the ride, because he certainly wasn’t enjoying it. This girl wasn’t Salli. Nobody was Salli. She was one of a kind. The others were all slags and sluts and whores.

  He had no idea what the girl’s name was, or whether she had AIDS or the clap—he didn’t care.

  Bobby was into taking risks. He’d taken a big risk marrying Salli, whom many people had considered a joke with her large fake tits and cascades of dyed platinum hair.

  But hey, a lot of her friends had considered him a risk. Bobby Skorch, the original danger man, with tattoos from here to Cuba, including one on his famous dick.

  All he knew was that together they were an awesome sight. S’long, Pammy and Tommy, Heather and Richie. The Skorches ruled.

  And he’d loved her with a burning passion. Now she was gone.

  The girl spread her legs even wider, practically balancing her mothlike weight on his dick. Then she moaned—a prelude to ecstasy.

  He wasn’t there. Not even close. He was hard and angry and stoned and in the worst pain of his life.

  When the girl’s moans turned to orgasmic cries and he felt her coming, he screamed his anguish so loud that two maids working on the penthouse floor came running to hover outside the door of Suite 206, their eyes bulging with fear and curiosity.

  Satisfied and more than a tiny bit alarmed, the young girl rolled off him, quickly scurrying to get into her clothes. When she reached the door, she looked back at the man, still spread-eagled on the bed, still erect.

  There was no release for Bobby Skorch. He was in hell.

  And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  chapter 2

  “THE GUY HAS PUSSY FOR breakfast,” Detective Lee Eccles said, chewing on a ragged toothpick.

  “What?” said Detective Tucci, distracted as he pored over his copious notes on the Salli T. Turner murder.

  “Salli’s old man, Bobby Skorch. His cock is bigger than the Empire State Building—an’ every broad in Vegas has had herself a slice.”

  Tucci removed his glasses, glanced up at his partner—whom he didn’t particularly like—and nodded. “I know. He has quite a reputation.”

  Tucci’s wife, Faye, had informed him last night— when he’d gotten home after midnight—that Bobby Skorch was the king of the tabloids. “Not that I read those rags,” she’d quickly assured him. “Only Sometimes I can’t help it when I’m waiting in the checkout line at the market.”

  Sure, Faye, he’d thought affectionately. Why don’t you admit that it’s your secret vice? You’re like a teenage boy hiding his Playboy magazines.

  But then he had his secret vices too, food being one of them. Especially since Faye had put him on a rigid diet. No fats. No sugars. Life was hardly worth living.

  He’d already checked out Bobby Skorch. It turned out that Salli’s husband had quite a rap sheet. Two arrests for drunken driving; assault with a deadly weapon—the weapon being a broken vodka bottle with which he’d made an unprovoked attack on a photographer; unlawful possession of a firearm; driving with a suspended license; and sexual battery of a teenage girl. The usual celebrity list of misdemeanors.

  Tucci sighed and looked up at Lee, who was now perched on the edge of his desk, cleaning his dirty fingernails with the wooden toothpick. “What else did you find out in Vegas?” he asked.

  “Plenty,” Lee said, digging deep. “Saturday afternoon our boy performed a motorcycle stunt, jump-in’ over like a hundred and three cars—some kind of crazy shit. Came out of it without a scratch. After that, he took himself to a lap-dancin’ joint, where he picked up three strippers an’ ferried ’em back to his hotel. Then I guess he partied for a coupla hours, an’ when he finally left, the doorman told me he still had two of the girls with him.”

  “You mean he brought them back to L.A.?” Tucci asked, considering the possibilities.

  “They were in his limo when he left the hotel.” Lee paused for dramatic effect. “But here’s the kicker. Bobby didn’t drive back to L.A. like Marty Steiner said. He took a private plane. So why is his asshole lawyer tellin’ us he was in the car for five hours? The fucker flew back. I already questioned the pilot—he told me they arrived in L. A. at eight— which just might have given him time to get to the house, kill his wife, an’ who knows what else.”

  “The strippers were on the plane?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who met them at the airport?”

  “A limo. I’m tryin’ to locate the driver. The jerk’s taken off on vacation. Limo company’s trackin’ him for me.”

  “And the strippers?”

  “I’m on it.”

  I bet you are, Tucci thought. When it came to women, Lee was a disrespectful dog, given to making sexist and derogatory remarks. It was one of the reasons Tucci couldn’t stand him. That and the fact that Lee had once had a date with Tucci’s wife— long before they’d met—but it still bothered him, especially since Faye refused to discuss it.

  He’d already decided that as soon as this case was put to bed he was requesting a new partner.

  “Any action on the lab reports?” Lee asked.

  “She had consensual sex shortly before her death. Put up quite a struggle when the stabbing frenzy began. The lab is analyzing the skin under her fingernails and fibers found on her body. There’s also blood that isn’t hers.”

  Lee nodded, hitched himself off Tucci’s desk and strolled over to the coffee machine. Tucci watched him go. All day long he’d had a weird feeling. He’d investigated twenty-six murders and this one was giving him the most trouble. He couldn’t help picturing Salli’s hacked-up body, lying in a pool of blood. Salli T. Turner. So young and vibrant and pretty. So horribly butchered.

  Salli T. Turner was headline news, and not just in the tabloids. Her image was everywhere. The blonde of the day. Little Miss Murdered TV Sex Symbol. The girl in the black rubber swimsuit. Star of the hit TV show Teach! and a hundred magazine covers.

  Who’d killed her in such a vicious and unconscionable way? he wondered. The public wanted answers. So did Tucci’s captain—not to mention the mayor. And Tucci wouldn’t mind knowing himself.

  The two chief suspects were her current husband, Bobby Skorc
h, and her recent ex, Eddie Stoner. Both men had a proclivity toward violent behavior—especially concerning women.

  Eddie had his own rap sheet—which included getting busted for possession of cocaine, assaulting a police officer, and several domestic abuse arrests. Salli had certainly picked herself a couple of charmers.

  Tucci bent over his desk, concentrating on his closely written notes. He had always found that when investigating a murder, it was of major importance to write even the smallest thing down while the evidence was still fresh. Not that he had much evidence to work with: No fingerprints. No witnesses. No murder weapon.

  Where was he supposed to start? Ah yes, the bullet extracted from the wall near Froo the houseman’s residence. The unfortunate man had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Probably alarmed by the loud music and the frantic barking of Salli’s two small dogs, he’d gone to investigate. Maybe he’d even heard her screams, although none of the neighbors had mentioned hearing screaming—only the music and the dogs. Of course, in Salli’s neighborhood the houses were so goddamn big he was surprised they’d heard anything at all. The bullet that had obliterated Froo’s face had embedded itself in the wall. Tucci was checking on any guns registered to Bobby or Eddie.

  He’d already decided to interview the neighbors again. Sometimes a twenty-four-hour break would give people time to remember things they hadn’t considered important.

  Details—that’s what solving a murder case was all about. Details.

  Detective Tucci was known for his detail work.

  chapter 3

  THE OFFICE BUILDING THAT housed I.A.A. was impressive. Designed by the premier modern architect, Richard Meier, the man who was also responsible for the splendid new Getty Museum, the clean lines were superb. Acres of Italian marble and pristine white walls with just the right amount of glass block. Dominating everything was a huge David Hockney painting of a swimming pool hanging in the massive lobby.

  Madison Castelli took all this in as she approached the front desk. “I’m here to see Mr. Leon,” she announced.

  The Asian woman at the reception desk glanced up. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I certainly do,” Madison replied.

  “Please take a seat,” the woman said.

  Instead of going straight to the seating area, Madison strolled across the lobby and stood under the Hockney painting, gazing up at the impressive work of art. As a journalist she loved observing visual images. Capture those and you had your reader hooked. She found Hockney’s work to be arresting and very Californian—which was interesting considering he was from England.

  Well, here I am in the lobby of I.A.A., she thought, her mind working overtime. She glanced at her watch, noting that it was exactly eleven o’clock, the time of her appointment. She wondered how much time Freddie would grant her, and if he was as intimidating as his reputation.

  Freddie Leon was known as the most important agent in town. He was also known as the most reclusive, and it had been tough arranging this interview. Finally, Victor Simons had called in a favor, and now here she was. She was intrigued at the prospect of meeting him, but also anxious to get on with it. She wanted to get out of there in time to attend Salli T. Turner’s funeral this afternoon.

  She glanced over at the reception desk. The Asian woman was busy on the phone. Hmm . . . It was her experience that the more important the subject, the less they kept you waiting. She made a mental bet that Freddie would summon her to his office within five minutes, and she was right. “Miss Castelli,” the woman called out less than two minutes later. “Somebody’s on their way down to fetch you.”

  “Thanks,” Madison said.

  Moments later a young black man in a spiffy suit and expensive horn-rimmed glasses appeared at her side. “Miss Castelli?” he asked politely.

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “Please come with me.”

  She followed him to a glass-enclosed elevator. They traveled up three floors, then walked down a long corridor flanked with many open door offices. Finally they reached the desk of Ria Santiago, Freddie Leon’s executive assistant and sentinel.

  “Good morning, Miss Castelli,” Ria said. She was an attractive Hispanic woman in her mid-forties with a stern expression.

  “Good morning, Ms. Santiago,” Madison responded. “I’m sorry I disturbed you by calling you at home yesterday. I was under the impression that everyone knew about my visit here.”

  “Apparently they do now,” Ria said, with a thin smile. “Mr. Leon’s expecting you. Please come with me.”

  Madison followed her into a spacious office with an incredible view of Century City. The room was decorated more like a library than a working office; there were large couches on either side and expensive art on the walls. In the middle of the room was the great Freddie Leon, seated behind a magnificent steel and glass desk, poring over papers. He did not look up when she entered.

  “Take a seat,” Ria Santiago said, indicating a Biedermeier chair to the side of his desk.

  Madison had a feeling that if she didn’t exert herself immediately she would be hustled out within fifteen minutes.

  “Mr. Leon,” Ria said, all business. “Your eleven-thirty called to say they’ll be five minutes late. I’ll alert you three minutes before they’re due.”

  Hmm . . . Madison thought. Does he really think I’ll be satisfied with half an hour? No way.

  Ria left the office. Freddie continued to study the papers on his desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Leon,” Madison said, determined to make her presence felt. “I’m delighted you agreed to see me.”

  Freddie put down his pen and looked up at her for the first time. He saw a beautiful, slender woman in her twenties, with jet hair pulled back, large eyes and full lips.

  She stared right back at him, taking in his appearance. She saw a poker-faced man in his forties, with cordial features, straight brown hair and a quick bland smile, which she noticed was not reflected in his eyes.

  “Good morning, Miss Castelli,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m seeing you as a favor. I don’t normally give interviews.”

  “I understand, Mr. Leon. I’ve sat down with a lot of people who don’t normally give interviews. Sometimes my subjects find it an enjoyable experience, sometimes they hate it.” She smiled. “Let’s hope you find it enjoyable.”

  He smiled back—once again the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m really extremely boring and very dull,” he said, tapping his index finger on his chin.

  “Isn’t that for me to say?” she said, slightly amused.

  “It depends. What kind of a journalist are you?”

  “Maybe you should ask some of my other subjects,” she answered calmly. “Henry Kissinger, Fidel Castro, Margaret Thatcher, Sean Connery. Take your pick.”

  “Quite an eclectic group,” he said. “I’m duly impressed.”

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t be if you read the pieces.”

  “I’d like to read them.”

  “Then I’ll make sure they’re faxed to you this afternoon.”

  He was summing her up, trying to decide what he thought of her. “Now,” he said, “before you start bombarding me with questions, I should tell you that I do not discuss the money my clients make. In fact, I do not discuss my clients period. I don’t talk about my family, politics, sex, or my personal opinions on anything.”

  Madison laughed politely. “Wow! This is going to be some story!”

  He liked the fact that she didn’t seem to be in awe of him; it made for a refreshing change. “You don’t seem to understand, Miss Castelli—I do not want to be a story in your magazine.”

  “Mr. Leon,” she said patiently. “There’s a great amount of public interest in what goes on in Hollywood, and you are the absolute power broker. People have heard about you, you have a famous name. Sometimes, when we achieve greatness in our lives, we have to give up our privacy.”

  “I don’t have to give up an
ything, Miss Castelli.”

  “I wish you’d call me Madison.”

  There was something in her eyes that drew him in. She was not the normal pushy journalist he was used to encountering at openings and parties. This was an intelligent woman who knew what she wanted and had no fear of pursuing it. For a moment he forgot she was the enemy. “Can I offer you a drink? Apple juice, Diet Coke . . .”

  “How about I buy you a coffee, somewhere other than your office.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, please,” she said lightly, playing with him. “I know the game. Your eleven-thirty is running five minutes late—I don’t think so. Why don’t we get out of here, drive somewhere, grab a coffee and talk about how you got into this business? People would kill to know how you got started.”

  “Now let’s not get dramatic.”

  “I promise I won’t pry into your personal life. I merely wish to portray you as an ordinary human being who has achieved great power, not as some ice-cold Hollywood mogul—which is the impression everyone has of you.”

  He couldn’t help laughing, which he found to be a relief after the stress of the last twenty-four hours. “You’re very persuasive . . . Madison. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind getting out of here, it’s been one of those mornings.”

  “Can I buy you a coffee then?” she asked, fixing him with a strong gaze.

  She was a beautiful, smart woman, and smartness had always intrigued him. “Why not?” he said, surprising himself. “I suppose I can live dangerously for once.”

  He got up from behind his desk, and together they walked out of his office.

  Ria gave him a stony stare. “Mr. Leon,” she said, her voice full of disapproval. “What about your eleven-thirty?”

  “Postpone it,” he said easily. “I’ll be back in an hour. Miss Castelli has persuaded me to play hooky.”

  Ria frowned. It was unlike Freddie Leon to be so lighthearted. “Very well,” she said, tight-lipped. “If you’re absolutely sure.”