Poor Little Bitch Girl (7 page)

Brilliant
,
outstanding
! I preened a little. This was the first time I’ve heard such a positive statement of my talents coming from my boss, although I’m not thrilled that he referred to me as a “girl.” Surely “woman” is more appropriate?

Ralph Maestro was unimpressed. “She looks awfully young,” he grumbled, hardly a man bent double with grief. “And what kind of name is Denver?”

It’s
my
name, asshole. So don’t even go there.

He didn’t, and neither did Felix, who knew better than to do so. We’d had the name discussion a few months after I’d joined the firm. “Maybe you should change your name to something less strange,” Felix had suggested.

Strange? I’d never considered Denver strange. In fact, I was very fond of my name. According to my parents I’d been named for the city I was conceived in, and Denver suited me just fine.

The two detectives had left the room, but they remained in the house, huddling in the front hallway, no doubt trying to decide their next move. To arrest or not to arrest. That was the question.

No weapon. No apparent motive. No witnesses.

My guess was that they wouldn’t risk it. Ralph Maestro is famous. He has clout. He knows all the right people. And in Beverly Hills having connections means everything.

“Nothing wrong with being young,” I said brightly, which was probably not a wise thing to say, because after that Mr Maestro froze me out and spoke only to Felix, even when
I
asked the questions.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a big fat chauvinist, and even though Ralph Maestro is not fat – still surprisingly buff, actually – he’s an obvious chauvinist.

I started wondering if he’d done it. Shot his beautiful wife in the face. Killed her beauty and her future.

Bang. Bang. You’re dead.

He’d always had a thing about guns. I can recall Annabelle dragging me down to the basement one day where there was a locked room dedicated to his gun collection. Naturally Annabelle was adept at picking the flimsy lock; she was one of those girls who did anything she wanted and always got away with it. And on that particular day she’d been intent on showing off her famous dad’s gun collection.

I decided it was time to jog Mr Maestro’s memory. What the hell,
I
certainly had nothing to lose.

“Uh, Mr Maestro,” I ventured. “Or do you mind if I call you Ralph?”

He threw me a baleful glance. Yes, he minded, it was written all over his movie-star face.

“Do you still have your gun room downstairs?” I continued.

“Huh?” Felix said, quite startled.

“Excuse me?” said Ralph, also somewhat surprised.

“Your gun room,” I repeated.

“What gun room?” interrupted Felix, almost spitting out a mint.

“How do you know about that room?” Ralph demanded, shooting me a very action movie-star-ish suspicious look.

At least I finally had his attention. “Your daughter Annabelle and I used to be friends,” I volunteered. “We were at school together.”

Now it was Felix’s turn to shoot me a look – a look that said,
“How come I’m only just finding this out?”

“You and Anna were friends?” Ralph asked as if to say,
“How is that possible?”

“Yes, we hung out for a short time.”

“And you came to my house?”

I noticed he said “my house,” not “our house.” Interesting.

“That’s right,” I said, feeling that
I
was the one being questioned.

“So you’re saying that my daughter took you into my private gun room?” he went on, his tone verging on outraged that she would do such a thing.

“She was probably showing off on your behalf,” I answered. “You know how kids are.”

Ralph shook his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

I took the time to study his face. It was definitely a face meant for the big screen. Larger than life and craggy, with a strong jawline and enormous white teeth. Ralph Maestro was handsome in that older action movie-star kind of way. He possessed a Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis vibe. Kind of sexy if you’re into older dudes. Actually I’m not. I prefer them young and way hotter than this old guy.

“Showing off on my behalf, huh?” Ralph said at last.

“Well . . .” I ventured. “Like I said – you know how kids are.”

“No, I don’t,” he sneered, curling his lip. “How are they?”

Ralph Maestro was being facetious. His beautiful wife was lying dead upstairs, and he was behaving like a major asshole without anything on his mind except being pissed at a couple of kids who’d invaded his privacy years ago.

I shut up, because I knew if I said anything more I’d be history. And I wanted to be involved in this case – it had major potential.

Later in the day, the press descended. Not that they could get in the house or even up the long, winding, fake-snow-decorated driveway. But the security cameras showed that they were out on the street with a vengeance. TV camera trucks, on-air talent with hand-held microphones and plenty of pissy attitude, paparazzi darting around like a trail of furtive ants, with their long-lens cameras at the ready.

Bad news travels fast, and this happened to be a juicy story. A brutal shooting of a beautiful woman. Two mega movie stars. Money. Fame. Hollywood. Oh yeah – this one’s a surefire headline grabber.

I’d better remember to call my parents. There is nothing they like less than catching a glimpse of me on the TV news without fair warning. My dad was horrified when I became a highly paid defense attorney. He thinks I should have followed the path of righteous prosecutor and eventually become a D.A.

I obviously didn’t agree with him.

Defending people is a challenge, and I always get off on challenges. Besides, my dad is a civil prosecutor – an excellent one – so when I decided to study law I did not want the comparison. There is nothing more soul-destroying than attempting to follow a member of one’s family into the same profession.

The thing is, I love my dad – but doing the same thing? No way.

As we walked down the winding driveway on our way out, Felix gave me one of his long penetrating looks. “Well?” he asked, clearing his throat. “I always rely on your intuition. What do you think, Denver? Did he do it or did he not?”

I took my time answering because I honestly wasn’t sure. And whether or not Ralph Maestro
had
killed his wife really didn’t matter, since we were the defense team; we had a job to do, and that was to protect Ralph Maestro at all costs.

“I’m not sure,” I answered hesitantly. “He certainly doesn’t seem at all broken up.”

Felix popped another mint, still not bothering to offer me one.

“They won’t arrest him,” he said knowingly. “Too many connections.”

“
She
must’ve had connections too,” I pointed out.

“Ah, but
she’s
dead.”

Oh really, who would’ve guessed?

“We’ll keep a sharp watch on this one,” Felix added. “Be on alert. I gave Ralph your cell-phone number. Told him he can reach you at any time of the day or night.”

Thanks a lot! Why am
I
on call? What’s wrong with
your
cell phone?

“The press’ll go to town on this one,” Felix continued. “But I can guarantee that Ralph won’t be arrested.”

Note to self:
If I ever decide to murder someone I must first become famous, then make sure to commit the crime in Beverly Hills. Movie stars can get away with anything. Or so it seems.

The crowd of press people jumped when they spotted us emerging through the imposing wrought-iron gates. Felix is well-known to the media, and since my two high-profile cases, I like to think that I am too. However, I always follow my boss’s lead, and his lead is to hold up a firm hand and announce in sonorous tones, “No comment, people. Kindly back up.”

I know it’s shallow, but I kind of get off on seeing my photo in the newspapers.

“Hey, Denver,” one of the on-air reporters called out. “What’s
your
opinion on this?”

I did a fast double-take. I’d been checking this guy out on TV for the past few weeks. He was new to the L.A. job from a popular news show in San Diego. Now here he was in the flesh. And I have to admit that the flesh was quite tempting for a girl who’s been on a sex-starvation diet. He’s Latino with a buff bod, smoky eyes and a cocksure grin. Even better, he felt comfortable enough to use my name – and that boosted my ever-needy ego.

I decided that he’s probably great in bed. Latino men usually are – or so I’ve heard.

Hmm . . . perhaps the time has come to put it to the test.

“Sorry, I don’t have a take yet,” I replied, incurring a disapproving glance from Felix, who would prefer me to stay silent.

“When you do, how about giving me a call?” suggested Mr Latino, swiftly handing me his card.

We’d reached Felix’s car, a conservative black Bentley. My boss got in, and with a terse, “See you back at the office,” he took off.

I turned around and headed for my four-year-old silver Camero, a twenty-first birthday present from my parents.

“Nice wheels,” Mr Latino murmured, trailing me curbside.

I took a surreptitious glance at his card.
Mario Riviera
. Quite a memorable name.

I couldn’t help wondering if there was anything else about him that was memorable, what with sex being on the missing list and all.

I think I need it – in fact, I damn well
know
I do.

“Thanks,” I said casually, aware that he smelled of grass and sweat, a potent combination. I imagined that he must’ve been running or lifting weights when he was called to work, and he’d not taken the time to shower.

The very thought turned me on.

“How about we get together for a drink later,” Mario suggested, moving closer. Obviously he was as into me as I was to him.

Hmm
. . .
a drink – isn’t that a euphemism for sex and “Let’s get it on”?

Of course it was – so why not? Because I am certainly ready, especially as Josh has moved on like a freaking express train, and here
I
am fast becoming a nun!

Enough is enough. I’m ready for action, and plenty of it. So bring it on, Mister Reporter.

“Sure,” I answered casually, thinking,
He’s way hot, I’m horny, and we’re both available
.

Or are we?

I quickly checked his hand. No ring.

Okay then – as far as I’m concerned it’s a done deal.

C
arolyn Henderson drove to her apartment in a happy daze. She’d told him. She’d actually told him.

It was such a relief. And the greatest news of all was that Gregory had agreed with her that it was for the best and that he would finally inform his wife of their affair – an affair that would eventually culminate in marriage!

Well . . . he hadn’t actually mentioned marriage, but she was sure that when his divorce came through, and he was a free man, and their baby was born . . . that yes, marriage was definitely in their future.

She smiled to herself, almost running a red light.

God! She was so excited. She’d been sleeping with this man for over a year, and during that time he’d made countless promises to leave his wife, never keeping one of them. Soon it was about to happen, and she was dizzy with anticipation.

Of course, she wasn’t naïve, there was always the possibility that he could break his promise yet again.

But this time she was positive he wouldn’t. This time there was a baby to consider, and the fact that she was carrying his child made all the difference.

This time she was home free.

* * *

“Fucking devious cunt!” Gregory Stoneman muttered under his breath as he got into his dark-blue Lexus and set off on his drive home. Did Carolyn honestly believe he would leave a woman like Evelyn for a snip of a girl like her? She might possess a great set of tits, but Carolyn Henderson was a nobody, a nothing – whereas Evelyn was cultured, a woman of great style, a well-established Washington hostess, and even more important, she hailed from a powerful and extremely affluent family, the Bamberrys.