Poor Little Bitch Girl (28 page)

* * *

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Annabelle asked as the limo whisked them toward the Maestro mansion.

“Uh, not exactly a live-in,” Denver replied, unwilling to reveal any details of her love-life to Annabelle.

“Very wise,” Annabelle nodded as she lit up a cigarette. “But then you always were the smart one. Who needs a man cluttering up your apartment, or do you have a house?”

“No house.”

“Apartments are better.”

“I suppose so,” Denver said, hating this conversation that was going nowhere.

“I have a fantastic apartment in New York,” Annabelle boasted.

“I know, I saw it.”

Annabelle quickly shut up. She was talking about her stunning Park Avenue spread, not the SoHo dump. Denver probably wouldn’t even understand the difference.

They rode the rest of the way in silence until they reached the Maestro estate. As they waited for the gate to open at the end of the driveway, a couple of stray paparazzi fell out of the shrubbery and began snapping away.

Annabelle immediately covered her face with her hands. “Oh God!” she worried. “I can’t be photographed. People in New York have no idea who I am. This is impossible.”

Denver decided not to point out that at the funeral they’d be inundated with TV crews, photographers and press. It would be media frenzy.

Once they reached the house, Lupe, the Maestros’ housekeeper, answered the door. She escorted them up the main staircase to Gemma’s sumptuous dressing room – a room almost as big as Denver’s entire apartment.

Annabelle plopped herself down on a fancy pink love-seat and with an exhausted sigh said, “I simply can’t do this – you’ll have to do it for me.”

Suddenly Denver was overwhelmed with a rush of bad memories. Annabelle whining to her in high school,
“I can’t do this history test, you’ll have to do it for me.” “I can’t make it to the cafeteria today, you’ll have to get lunch for me.” “I can’t go to Carolyn’s party, you’ll have to tell her for me.”

Denver found herself in bad memory hell and she didn’t like it. Once upon a time she’d been desperate to be one of the cool girls – so desperate that she’d done everything Annabelle had asked. But things were different now, and all she wanted to do was to get back to her office and catch up on her work.

“Guess what!” she exclaimed, tapping her watch. “I forgot a very important meeting I’m supposed to be at this morning. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“But I need you!” Annabelle wailed. “You can’t leave!” “Don’t worry, I’ll send my assistant Megan over. Megan is super-competent, she’ll handle everything. You’ll love her.” And before Annabelle could object further, she was heading for the door.

Annabelle was livid. She could not believe she’d been deserted in her time of need. Denver Jones should be kissing her ass, not running out on her. Fine friend she’d turned out to be.

* * *

Sitting in a private cabana at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Frankie surveyed the action. There was not much going on; however, it was still early. There was plenty of time for a parade of movie stars to appear and hang out. Preferably Jessica Alba and Megan Fox in the smallest Brazilian bikinis.

A lounger had been laid out for him by the pool, so after slathering on some sun protection, he took himself outside the cabana, first ordering a Bloody Mary.

Last night he’d gotten caught up in quite a scene. Talk about pussy heaven – L.A. was
it
. Girls galore. Girls in backless, almost topless, short skimpy outfits. Girls with long blonde hair and obvious fake tits. Girls with long dark hair and obvious fake lips – desperately trying to emulate their Goddess Angelina. Too bad none of them succeeded.

Frankie had hit a couple of happening clubs. At the second club he’d taken a seat at the bar and surveyed the action. After slipping the barman his card, he’d inquired if there were any owners around.

Eventually Rick Greco – the guy who ran the club and was also a part-owner – had appeared and introduced himself.

Frankie thought there was something vaguely familiar about Rick, but he couldn’t quite place him.

“Sorry, dude, we’re not lookin’ for any deejays,” Rick said, giving him a friendly pat on the back.

“Don’t sweat it, ’cause I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Frankie responded. “I’m in town for my girlfriend’s mother’s funeral. Gemma Summer. You probably read about it. Big case.”

“Shit,” Rick said, duly impressed. “That’s some bummer.” A short pause, and then – “Her daughter really your girlfriend?”

What did the jerk think – that he’d made it up?

“’S’right,” he said, casually surveying the room. “Annabelle Maestro. We live together in New York.”

Rick snapped his fingers for the barman. “Can I buy you another drink?”

“Sure,” Frankie said amiably. “Why not?”

And so they’d got to talking, and Frankie had decided that Rick might be an excellent connection – especially when Rick revealed he was a former teen idol who’d been big on TV in the nineties.

“Y’know, I thought I recognized you,” Frankie said, flashing back to his early teen years. “Weren’t you on that show with the smokin’ hot mom an’ the two obnoxious asswipe kids?”

“That was me,” Rick said, basking in the memory of his former glory. “We had a three-year run. It’s something I’ll never forget.”

Frankie took a second look at the man perched on the bar-stool next to him: Rick was in his late thirties now, but there were still traces of the former teen idol. Cow-like brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Sandy brown hair groomed into a semblance of style. And clothes that certainly favored the nineties – a buttoned-down pink shirt, skintight Levis, and pointy-toed cowboy boots.

What a douche
, Frankie thought.
This town is ripe for a takeover, and I am just the man to do it. But I need help, and this schmuck could be it.

“So . . . Rick,” he ventured. “You an’ me should get together.”

“Yeah, really,” Rick said, nodding. “I’d like that.”

“How about tomorrow?” Frankie suggested. “We could do lunch around the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I got a business proposition you might find interesting.”

“Why not?” Rick said. “I’m always open for new ideas.”

Frankie smiled. He was king of the freaking connections. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and already he was in action.

Life was good.

Life was
very
good.

I
received a text from Sam and read it on my way to the office.
Miss my red-nosed Los Angelino. Our time together was special. You’re special. Who am I supposed to make pancakes for now?

A smile spread across my face. I couldn’t help liking that he missed me. Well, he must do, to send a text like that.

I contemplated my reply. Had to hit exactly the right note, couldn’t sound wimpy. I finally came up with –
Hmm
. . .
memories of special pancakes. I’m certainly in the mood for more.

Ambiguous. Just right.

I was still smiling when I entered the office.

Mister Shark Teeth soon wiped the smile off my face with a tart lecture about the importance of client/lawyer relationships.

I stood firm. Told him enough was enough, and that I was no trained babysitter.

He finally accepted the fact that I was done, and then informed me that we would both be attending the funeral on Thursday as a show of respect. I agreed, even though it would mean missing my family dinner.

I finally made it into my office and summoned Megan – my own personal intern who unfortunately was not the competent assistant I had promised Annabelle. Megan was the daughter of a business associate of Mister Shark Teeth, and she was about as dense as they come. I’d tried to teach her a thing or two, but getting through to her was like slogging through the desert at noon in ski-clothes.

Megan was a Valley Girl with nothing but shopping, clubbing and boyfriends on her mind. Her heroes were Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton. She worshipped Zac Efron and considered George Clooney and Brad Pitt to be two very old men.

Actually, after thinking about it, she’s probably the perfect person to hang out with Annabelle. Two spoiled brats together.

I sent her off to the Maestro mansion with a brisk warning to behave herself and try to represent the firm in a suitable fashion.

Megan was thrilled to escape boring office duties.

After she’d left, I sat at my desk and reviewed the work I had piling up. A shoplifting case involving a TV has-been and a small boutique. And an aggravated assault case between a rapper and a fine upstanding member of the paparazzi. Nothing too exciting, but since both cases involved fairly well-known people, I would try to make the most of them.

In a way I regretted the fact that Ralph had not been accused of his wife’s murder. It would’ve been one hell of a case to help defend. Felix would’ve done an excellent job, and I would’ve been right there beside him watching and learning.

After a while I called the vet to inquire about my dog, Amy Winehouse. Amy did not take kindly to being boarded at a kennel, so whenever I traveled I boarded her at my vet, because they treated her like the queen she thought she was.

“I’ll pick Amy up later today,” I informed the receptionist.

“Uh, Miss Jones, your friend came in with his cat yesterday morning, and when he spotted Amy he said he’d take her. He told me you knew about it and everything was arranged.”

“My friend?”

“Mr Meyer.”

For a moment shock and fury overcame me. Mr Meyer.
Josh
Meyer. My ex live-in.

“What?” I managed.

“Amy seemed pleased to see him,” the receptionist said. “Her tail was wagging like crazy. Is it okay that I released her?”

No, it’s not okay, you stupid cow. Josh always wanted to keep Amy and I told him not a chance in hell. Hanging onto Amy was my way of punishing Josh, letting him know that he couldn’t always get his own way. And now he’s just taken her. Well, screw him. This is war.

“Uh . . . actually, in the future, please do not release my dog to anyone but me,” I said, trying not to lose my temper.

“I’m so sorry,” the receptionist wailed. “I do hope—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ll deal with it.”

After slamming down the phone, I called Josh on his cell. Fortunately he had not changed numbers, but unfortunately I didn’t get him, I got his damn voicemail.

“This is Denver,” I said, employing my best ice-cold voice. “You took Amy, and I do not appreciate it. You know we agreed the dog would stay with me – so what the fuck, Josh. Call me as soon as you get this.”

I clicked off steaming at his audacity. How dare he kidnap
my
dog.

* * *

By five o’clock Josh had still not called back.

Sonofabitch!

Dognapper!

Major asshole!

I realized a confrontation was in order if I wished to retrieve Amy. I knew where Josh worked, taking care of the limbs of some of the biggest sports stars in the city, but I figured going to his home would be a better bet to get my dog back. So a few minutes after five I took off and drove to his house in Hancock Park. Yes, after we split, Josh had purchased a house – something he’d never considered doing while we were together.

I hadn’t visited his house before, although I have to admit that after I found out he’d bought it, I did do a couple of drive-bys. Not that I cared, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I’d wanted to see what he’d been saving up for.

From outside, the house looked nice. It was set back from the street with a well-kept green lawn and plenty of trees. The house itself featured Old Colonial-style architecture, quite impressive.

I parked on the street, marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

A frighteningly skinny short woman with long golden curls and a tough expression opened the door. She was in her late twenties, with the obligatory fake L.A. tan. She was dressed designer casual from head to toe.