Poor Little Bitch Girl (42 page)

“Lucky?” Annabelle sneered. “I think not.”

The flight attendant moved away. She’d had a tough day and was in no mood to deal with a difficult passenger.

“I hate this!” Annabelle complained in a loud voice. “Who are all these ugly people dragging so much crap aboard?”

“It’s called hand-luggage,” Frankie said, wishing she’d be quiet. He was trying to figure out their next move, and it wasn’t easy. Should they run back to New York? Or should they stick it out and stay around for the funeral?

“Hand-luggage!” Annabelle sniffed. “More like the entire contents of their miserable houses.”

“Excuse me,” said a middle-aged woman with a bad perm sitting across the aisle. “Aren’t you that movie star’s daughter turned hooker?”

Annabelle visibly blanched. Was some fat old hag calling her a hooker! How could that possibly be?

“You got the wrong person, lady,” Frankie said quickly, leaning forward to shield Annabelle from the woman’s prying gaze.

“No,” the woman insisted in a shrill voice. “I haven’t. I was reading about you two this morning in the hotel coffee shop.” She wagged her finger at them. “Naughty! Naughty!”

“You got it wrong,” Frankie said gruffly, willing her to butt out.

Their annoying fellow passenger had no intention of doing so. “It’s you. I
know
it’s you,” she said, nudging her husband who was slumped in the seat next to her trying to pretend he had no idea what was happening. “It’s them, Fred,” she shrieked. “I told you so! Should I get their autograph?”

“Leave it be, Gladys,” Fred said irritably.

“Why should I?” the woman argued. “Their autograph could be worth a few bucks on eBay, you never know.”

“I doubt it,” Fred said, burying his head in the airline magazine.

“Oh,” she said dismissively, “
you
doubt everything I say. But I’m telling you, it’s them, and I should get them to sign
something
.”

Frankie tuned the couple out. He had too much going on to care about the likes of a loud-mouthed old bag who wouldn’t quit bothering them.

Annabelle hunkered down in her seat and ordered Frankie to get her a glass of champagne.

“Not on this flight,” he said, thinking that she lived in a dream world. “You’ll have to wait until we get to the hotel.”

In his mind he was formulating a plan. What if he was able to use this story to their advantage? Milk it for free publicity. Turn up at Gemma Summer Maestro’s funeral and brazen it out. Annabelle would be the one garnering all the attention. Annabelle would be the star, making Ralph an also-ran. The media got off on big juicy scandals, and this was a huge one. Beautiful daughter of two mega-famous parents – one of them recently murdered – caught peddling the flesh of New York’s most elite women.

If Annabelle was the star, then there had to be a villain. He could play the villain, why not? It hadn’t gone too badly for the couple from
The Hills
reality show. Heidi and Spencer – or Speidi, as the press had christened them.

Yeah. This story could launch them into the fame stratosphere he’d always dreamed of. So what if it was a fame based on scandal? They’d still be famous.

What they needed to point them in the right direction was a smart manager, a savvy person who would guide and protect them. A person who would get them out there in the right way.

No
Howard Stern Show
or
Access Hollywood
for Annabelle. Her first interview should be with Barbara Walters or Diane Sawyer. After that exclusive, the couch on
The View
, Annabelle explaining her story to the women. Her story would be all about poor little rich girl – or, in Annabelle’s case – poor little bitch girl! The women of
The View
would eat it up.

This would lead to an appearance on
Oprah
, and after that, a multi-million-dollar book deal. If it all fell into place, they’d be sitting on top of everything they’d ever dreamed of.

Frankie’s adrenalin was fast moving into overdrive. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

Now all he had to do was convince Annabelle.

O
ne or two more swigs of cheap Scotch from the bottle, and glancing outside, Benito was satisfied that it would soon be dark enough to smuggle the Senator’s bitch out of the house and dump her somewhere – anywhere far away from him.

He’d been sitting around drinking all day, brooding about Rosa running out on him, leaving him with nothing to eat except a few stale crackers and half a jar of rancid peanut butter.

He couldn’t believe Rosa had the stones to treat him this way. Little whore. They were all dirty little whores – including the one taking up space in his bedroom and stinking it out. He could smell her – the stench was creeping out from under the closed bedroom door. The sooner he got rid of her, the better off he’d be.

He was sick of being trapped in the house, unable to take care of business, stuck in front of the TV watching all kinds of dumb shit. The boredom was getting to him. What he needed was some porno to change things up.

He moved over to a rickety table standing next to the TV and rifled through his cousin’s collection of DVDs stacked on the floor.

Sure enough, between
Rambo I
and
II
and a pile of wrestling DVDs, he came up with a promising title.
Fat Black Pussies
.

Not that he was into black bitches, he wasn’t. But this was no time to be particular.

After slotting the disc into the player, he took another swig of Scotch, and sat back ready to enjoy himself.

* * *

“Any identification on her at all?” Detective Lennox asked the female doctor, a petite brunette.

They were both standing next to Rosa’s bed in the hospital. The detective was a tall man, with sparse grey hair and sharp features. In a strange way he reminded the doctor of Clint Eastwood; he had that reassuring, take-charge quality about him.

Dr Glass shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, wishing she had more information to give him. “Whoever beat this poor girl even took her shoes. All she had on was her top and skirt.”

“Gotta tell ya, the street violence in that particular neighborhood is out of control,” Detective Lennox remarked, jotting something in his notebook. “Gangs, addicts, thieves, hookers – the
real
low-lifes – they’re out there in force, an’ they prey on anyone they can. Nobody’s safe.”

Dr Glass nodded, and found herself wondering if he was married.

“Y’know something?” Detective Lennox continued. “Even
I
wouldn’t walk around there after dark. It’s that bad of a cesspit.”

“This didn’t happen when it was dark,” Dr Glass pointed out. “It was daylight when they brought her in.”

“Poor kid,” Detective Lennox said, handing the doctor his card, while thinking she was an extremely attractive woman. “Do me a favor an’ have someone call me when she starts talking.”

“You mean
if
she starts talking,” Dr Glass said.

“Yeah,” Detective Lennox said with a weary shake of his head. “Can’t hurt to hope for the best.”

* * *

Keeping a sharp eye on the fading light behind the tacked-up curtain covering the window, Carolyn had almost freed herself from the ties binding her wrist. The fear was building. Her heart was pounding out of control, and so many new questions were running through her head.

Did she have an escape plan?

What was she going to do when she finally broke free?

Where was she running to?

Her plan was to escape through the window, since the door was no doubt locked. Besides, on the other side of the door were her captors.

More thoughts –
what if the window had bars outside, or if there was a window lock? And what if the space was too tight for her to climb through?

There were so many unknowns to contend with, and even if she did manage to get out, what was she supposed to do then? Especially as she had no idea what part of the city she was in.

It didn’t help that she had no money, no phone, and her clothes were soiled, filthy and covered in sticky grease – the result of being locked in the trunk of a car. On top of everything else she was starving hungry, thirsty, exhausted and worried for her baby.

But most of all, she was determined.

Determined to somehow or other get out of this degrading and disgusting trap and confront Gregory, for now she was almost sure that he had to be responsible.

If he was, she would make him pay for his betrayal of what she had imagined was their mutual love.

She would make him pay with his career, because she’d finally reached the conclusion that his damn career was the only thing he really cared about.

Senator Gregory Stoneman
, she resolved,
you are in for a nasty shock.

B
obby was hardly surprised that everyone warmed toward Denver. She was smart and engaging – and damn, she looked hot! A little too hot, because not only was M.J. ogling her cleavage, but Kris had eyes for her too. Brigette didn’t seem to notice, nor did Cassie, they were both so psyched to be on their way to Zeena’s show.

Bobby was not psyched. The last thing he had any desire to do was sit and watch Zeena perform for two hours. But how to get out of it?

No suitable excuse came to mind.

Renee and Susie, the owners of the Cavendish, met them in the lobby of their hotel when they arrived.

“Zeena’s looking forward to seeing all of you after the show,” Renee said. “I’m sad Lucky won’t be joining us.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Lucky sends everyone her love.”

“Oh my God! I can’t wait to see Zeena on stage,” Cassie exclaimed, full of girlish enthusiasm. “She’s
such
an icon. I’ve been listening to her music and watching her on TV and in the movies since I was five!”

“Don’t tell
her
that,” Renee warned. “No artist needs to be reminded of how old they are, especially coming from a pretty little thing like you.”

“Hands off my wife,” M.J. said,
sotto voce
to Bobby.

“You’re safe,” Bobby replied, then remembering something Lucky had told him, he added, “Susie might look mild, but if Renee even thinks about straying – watch out!”

“Good to know,” M.J. said.

* * *

Bobby’s friends seemed nice. I remembered M.J. from high school – he was always the cool dresser with the hot car. His girlfriend was very young but sweet, and she was in a high state of excitement about seeing Zeena’s show.

I have to admit that I’m not that into Zeena’s kind of music. It’s a little too dance-techno for me. I’m more of a John Mayer, Jason Mraz kind of girl. Also I’m very into old eighties soul.

I wondered what kind of music Bobby liked. Rock? Rap? Soul? A combo? There was so much about him I didn’t know.

“Hey,” he said, holding onto my arm as we headed for our seats, which happened to be front and center. “If you don’t like the show we can always duck out and catch up with everybody later.”