Hollywood Sinners (39 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

W
ithout hesitation, Robert issued orders. It was a discreet operation, had been practised countless times that way, and it was vital they stay calm. If an intruder was here, he would be found in a matter of minutes. Robert knew his own hotel and every place in it. He had security walking the building. There was nowhere for a man to hide.

Lana.

Robert had to find her. If someone was in his hotel, someone who shouldn’t be, he wasn’t taking any risks. Lana should be downstairs by now. The fact she wasn’t didn’t sit easily with him. It wasn’t his job. Cole would surely be with her by now, they’d be making their way down to the car—maybe they’d already left. But he needed to know she was safe. It would make this thing a whole lot easier.

He summoned the elevator to the thirtieth floor. In his office he extracted the weapon from his desk drawer, slipping it into the band of his suit trousers.

On his way up to the Pagoda Suite, floors building beneath him as he climbed higher, he tried to hold down the horror that came with owning a hotel of this scale. Explosives.

Whatever you do, don’t have a bomb.

Robert alighted far into the tip of the blade. He knew exactly where he was heading.

Lana.

To his surprise, Cole was there, pacing the corridor, red in the face.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Robert.

Cole shot him a look. ‘I can’t get in. She must have already gone.’

‘She can’t have, I’d have seen her.’

Cole barked a hysterical laugh. ‘You’d think she could just make this easy for me, wouldn’t you? One damn night, that’s all it is.’ Checking himself, he added, ‘Excuse me, I’ve got a wife to find.’

Robert held out an arm. ‘Wait a minute. Have you tried to get in?’

‘It’s locked.’

‘I know that. Do you have a key?’

‘What?’

‘A key. Do you have one?’

‘Lana has it. But she’s not in there, I told you—I already knocked, no response.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Unless she’s gone to sleep. My God, if she’s gone to sleep I’ll… She keeps getting tired, she’s dead to the world with it these days…’

Robert drew a card out his inside pocket. ‘Do I have your permission?’

Cole nodded. ‘Go on.’

In a swift movement Robert sliced the card and pushed the door. There was a strange smell, weirdly familiar.

The first thing he noticed was that the terrace doors were open, white curtains billowing in the night air. A lamp lay in glass shards on the floor; a chair was kicked over on its side; a crimson slick smeared across the wooden boards.

And then, at their feet…

Cole reacted first. ‘What the hell…?’ The colour drained from his face. He backed up, tripping over a carpet, flattening himself against the far wall.

For Robert, movement was impossible.

It was Lana. Her dress was torn. Her face was beaten. Her eyes were closed.

Dead to the world.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

T
he man stood over her, hands gripping her wrists, dragging her limp body out into the night. He was thin and small, his back arched. He was bald on the top, but at the back of his head strings of hair curled round the starched white collar of his shirt, damp with sweat. Where it parted Robert could see a scar, pale and jagged, that ran from one side to the other.

Slowly, deliberately, without taking his hands off Lana, the man turned to face him. His profile came into view, the long, beak-like nose and thin, cruel line of his mouth. When his pitiless eyes fixed on Robert’s, the younger man’s heart stopped.

‘
Lester Fallon.
’

A whisper before the floor rose up to meet him. He put out his hands, feeling for support. Grabbing a dresser, he pulled the sheet of linen off its surface and with it came a crash of glass.

‘Do something!’ screamed Cole from behind. The sound reached Robert from miles away, as if it had travelled for a long time down a dark tunnel. ‘For Christ’s sake, do something!’

Lester Fallon, the man he had killed a decade ago, put a hand to his waist and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at Robert’s forehead.

‘Hello, Mr St Louis.’ He turned his head. ‘Remember me?’

Outside, Cole wet himself. ‘He’s got a gun, you hear me?’ he spluttered. ‘A
gun
! We’ve gotta get out of here
now
!’

Robert heard running footsteps. They were going to be rescued. They had been found.

But the footsteps were moving further away, further and further until he couldn’t hear them any more.

Lester Fallon.

The bastard was still alive.

‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this,’ he said, his face twisted in sick pleasure. ‘And you’re
very
considerate—I didn’t even need to come find you.’ He released the safety catch. ‘You just walked straight into the last thirty seconds of your life.’

Robert refused to be afraid. Later there would be a time for fear. And there would be a later. He could not give up on Lana. It wasn’t possible that she should die here, like this. Not after everything they had been through.

A pulse began, a flame catching in the pitch. Weak at first and then getting brighter, becoming hotter, until he could hear the rush of blood in his ears, spreading through his muscles and into his heart like fuel.

This isn’t how it ends.

He charged at the man with the full force of his body. Lester toppled backwards, winded, knocking his head against the table. He went to roll out the way but the other man was too fast, driving at him, sending them both crashing through the window. A wall of glass fell behind them, quick as water. The cold air was like a smack.

Robert punched Lester’s face twice, slamming his head into the terrace. Lester tried to hit back but he was too slow. Robert caught his wrist, turned it on his own face and delivered two crunching blows to his jaw. Blinking, the sweet thick taste of blood in his throat and coming out of his nose, Lester hammered the butt of the gun into Robert’s shoulder. He pushed him off, kicking him in the stomach, driving his foot into the cavity beneath Robert’s rib cage. Robert fell backwards against the iron railings, struggling to breathe, every lungful freezing in his windpipe. Thousands of feet below the bright lights of the Strip; the bleating car horns seeping up; the carpet laid out, blood red.

Lester stood, his chin dripping.

‘Surprised?’ he rasped. A dark bubble popped at his lips.

Robert gasped for air. One push and he’d be over the edge. With dreadful understanding he realised that was where Lana had been heading.

Lester limped towards him, raised the gun and waved it in his face, mocking him. He started laughing, a high, manic sound. It would be easy to knock the bastard out right now, he thought. One blow to the head. But he wanted Robert St Louis alive when he put a bullet in him.

‘Take a look at this face,’ rasped Lester, gesturing wildly with the gun. ‘Take a long, hard look, you murdering sonofabitch. Because this is the last face you’re ever going to see. You hear me? The last face you’ll ever—’

This isn’t how it ends.

As if in slow motion, Robert drew the weapon from his waist.

The gun he had never had to use before now but had been meant for this moment. The gun he had taken from outside the trailer that night, scooping it up in a panic so they would never find out. The gun he’d taken and never told her about. The same gun Lester had pulled on him and Lana on her birthday twelve years ago.

God help me or I will kill you again.

He aimed it at Lester, took aim and fired. The impact blasted Lester’s weapon from his hand, sending it flying into the night sky.

Fast as a snake, Robert sprang at him. He knocked Lester backwards, struggling to get a grip on his wrists, fighting to restrain him. Lester’s upper body went thrashing over the railings, grappling with the gun, wrestling the other man’s hold, the weapon weaving in the night air. With a roar Lester tore at Robert’s fingers, prising them open, feeling the trigger return home.

Lester was strong. He had come back from the dead. He was the resurrected; the all-powerful, the unstoppable. He was ending the world tonight.

The gun turned.

A single shot rang out.

EPILOGUE

Hollywood, spring 2012

C
hloe French pulled back her shoulders, lifted her head and awarded a glittering smile to the cameras. At her first Awards she looked every inch the part in floor-length cream Dior, her hair a jet-black sheet, an emerald locket at her cleavage.

‘Chloe, Chloe, this way!’

‘Chloe, over here!’

Moving on the carpet like a pro, she turned this way and that, her arm linked with the man standing next to her. She felt like a queen. Chloe French was one half of America’s most celebrated power couple.

Tonight was significant not just to her, but to all Hollywood. The industry had been rocked to its core by the events that took place eight months ago in Vegas—this was the first time they had all been brought together since. Memories of that night at the Orient were hard to shake. It was the movie premiere that never was.

Eastern Sky
had gone on to break box-office records, though arguably for the wrong reasons. Lana Falcon was now being hailed as one of the finest actresses of her generation, possessing a grace and style reminiscent of the greats. Her performance had, as anticipated, earned her a nomination tonight. After what she’d been through, the world held its breath that she’d take it.

Cynical critics attributed the attention surrounding Lana to what happened on the night of her premiere: they claimed that her work was viewed in a favourable light given the circumstances under which the film had been released. More hare-brained conspiracy theorists maintained that the whole episode had been nothing but a cleverly executed stunt. Exactly what had happened in Lana’s suite that night was never fully known to the public.

But now, close to a year on, it was impossible to forget the devastating outcome. Thanks to a host of gathered TV crews, the tragedy had been broadcast across the world in a series of shaky, indistinct shots. The best footage belonged to the team who had been interviewing Kate diLaurentis on the red carpet: one moment they were discussing her imminent comeback; next, close by, the sound of smashing glass and the screech of a car alarm. A flicker of uncertainty on the actress’s face, before the camera had whipped round, closing in on the action in a chain of trembling frames. People were screaming, running, pushing past each other, not knowing what they were escaping from. They were shouting, ‘Run for your lives!’ Panic bred panic and it had spread down the Strip, through the streets, an unstoppable force. Terrorists. A bomb.

Only it wasn’t that.

The man had fallen from the sky, thousands of feet from the Orient Pagoda, and crashed through a news van’s windshield at nearly a hundred miles an hour. The bullet between his eyes showed he had been dead long before he’d hit the ground.

Amid the fear and confusion, the premiere had been abandoned. Anchors had reported from Vegas, but it was a solemn account they’d delivered, not the star-studded story of just a few hours before. Police and paramedics were called. The area sealed. Several fragile guests had needed counselling. News of the event was broadcast across the planet: this movie, its stars and the Orient Hotel became household names overnight.

The time had come to turn the page. Organisers of tonight’s event knew it was the first step of a long journey: it wasn’t just insiders who needed affirmation that the untouchable glamour of this world still existed—it was the public, too.

Chloe looked adoringly at the man as he embraced her. They laughed together for the cameras, their foreheads touching, bulbs flashing all around. She leaned back in his arms, delightedly sliding into a series of rehearsed poses.

Chloe French and Cole Steel had been dating for just six weeks. Two months after Vegas they had begun filming together on Cole’s new action picture and romance had—to their surprise, so the story went—blossomed. According to the papers, Cole’s marriage had been rapidly falling apart, understandably so, and Chloe, sweet English girl with a heart of gold, had become a shoulder to cry on. Out of respect to Lana they’d waited until the divorce papers had come through before going public with the relationship. In the press Cole referred to the period as ‘without doubt the most difficult time of my life’.

For him, she was a heavenly proposition. Young, beautiful and at just the right level to take the contract as bait. Just the previous week he had confessed his eternal devotion on a popular TV chat show, reciting an ode he had penned for Chloe entitled ‘At My Weakest, You Were There’. The performance had gone on to smash viewer ratings on YouTube.

For her, it was the ultimate Hollywood goal. It didn’t get better than being Cole Steel’s wife. Marriage, security, a family, it was all she had ever wanted. Real life didn’t work that way, there were too many unknowns, too many people you couldn’t trust. Cole’s way was reliable, an offer of safety she had long been craving. And despite the no-sex clause, which of course he had to put in as a formality, she was looking forward to getting to grips with the Hollywood crown jewels. How hard could it be to go to bed with Cole Steel every night? Not very. He was every woman’s fantasy.

But all that would come. Cole was a true gentleman, practised in the art of chivalry. For weeks they had been dating and he still hadn’t tried to get her into bed. It made a refreshing change. Chloe had no doubt he was waiting for their wedding night and, boy, did she plan to give him a night he would remember.

Cole, too, was living the publicity dream. After Lana lost the baby his critics backed off, accepting that even celebrities were vulnerable to tragedy. To all intents and purposes, the trauma of Lana’s ordeal had sadly brought their marriage to a close. The shock of her appalling attack by a crazed stalker and the circumstances under which her child had died would change her for ever: Cole was the desperate, loving husband who tried to make it work; Lana the woman who could never find a way back. It was heartbreaking. Cole had been waiting all his life for the right woman with whom to have children and, just as he had found her, the privilege had been snatched away. Choking back tears, he hoped that one day he and Chloe could share that joy.

He cared for Lana, in his way. He was sorry she had lost her baby, and for the terror and grief she must have endured that night. Nobody should have to go through that.

And in the aftermath of the tragedy, he had decided not to pursue his plans for Parker Troy. The guy had committed a crime against him, but he had lost a child as well as Lana. Now that Cole had Chloe and, despite the odds, things had worked out favourably, he decided to exercise a little charity. Whatever the papers might say, he did have a heart.

But fortunately for Chloe, his charity ended there. She’d had her share of drama at the now infamous premiere, had been forced to miss her first red-carpet appearance due to food poisoning, but any publicity attached to her absence was swallowed in the aftermath of Lana’s story. When she had confided the reasons for this to Cole, Kate and the rock star Nate Reid had both received letters by private courier informing them that if either went within fifty yards of Chloe French again, they could rest assured that they had already seen their last sunrise.

Cole and Chloe were an institution, and as such they were invincible.

He took Chloe’s chin in his hands and kissed her. Out the corner of his eye he saw Michael Benedict looking on, a hunched figure over his stick as he was interviewed by TV crews. The old man was shaky—this had to be his last Awards, thought Cole, he surely couldn’t last another year. Surely he couldn’t.

Chloe gazed up at him as the crowd hollered her name, adoring his handsome grin and sparkling eyes. With Cole there would be no lies, no secrets, no heartache; no bitter vengeance; no hidden pasts. A new start.

Theirs would be the perfect marriage. She’d show the world it could be done.

* * *

Kate diLaurentis stepped out of the limousine to a cacophony of screaming fans. Her husband, last month voted Comedy’s Sexiest Man by a women’s lifestyle magazine, followed, his arm hooked protectively round her waist.

Paparazzi swooped in on the fresh blood.

‘Kate, look this way! Give us a smile, Kate, that’s beautiful!’

Kate
knew
she looked beautiful, she didn’t need these leeches to tell her. Fashion magazines, now touting her new range as cutting-edge style, praised her chic, fresh-look wardrobe; critics fell on her performance in George Roman’s new movie as ‘inspired’ and ‘extraordinary’; gossip rags loved nothing more than to pick over her appearance, hoping to find traces of surgery, fillers, enhancers, anything that could account for her looking so good. But she’d given all that up a long time ago—along with the prescription drugs. She’d seen what they did, the tragic, too-young deaths they were responsible for. Now, just returned from a promotional tour in Europe, Kate diLaurentis was right back in the spotlight, where she belonged.

Cole and his new accessory were at the other end of the runway, clinched in an elaborate PDA for which the cameras were going wild. It was amusing, really. The girl imagined it was the best thing that had ever happened to her—they all did at first. With Cole she got fame, a stellar career, protection…but getting looked after was a double-edged sword. Cole’s threatening letter made Kate suspect that he’d watch this new acquisition with a fierce eye, and something told her that Chloe French wouldn’t like it one bit.

For this reason their partnership pleased Kate. The Vegas stunt had failed to glean the negative publicity she’d been hoping for—the whole thing had been overshadowed by Lana Falcon—and Cole’s abominable note had put an end to any further plans she might have harboured. It was neat, therefore, that Chloe had walked right into her own bespoke punishment.

Kate felt for Lana, especially since her divorce united them as members of an exclusive, two-woman club. How on earth Lana had ended up pregnant was something even she couldn’t work out.

Jimmy Hart squeezed his wife’s waist.

‘Careful with the dress, Jimmy,’ she instructed, not letting her smile falter for a second. Hers was one of Hollywood’s stable families and Kate wanted the world to know all about it. She wanted to be the envy of every woman in town who suspected their husband was doing the dirty. Kate was testament to the fact that, with a little careful planning, a Hollywood wife could do anything.

* * *

Jimmy Hart relaxed his grip on Kate. That cute little backing dancer he’d been shagging certainly had no qualms about being handled rough. He grinned into the cameras and delivered a playful thumbs-up, a gesture everyone liked to see accompany a comedian.

OK, so he’d stayed away from women for a while—Kate had returned to the bedroom with enthusiasm and it had kept him occupied for a record amount of time. But at the end of the day he liked girls. What could he do about it? So long as he was discreet, and he’d learned that he really
had
to be, then he didn’t see the problem. He’d hurt Kate before and he didn’t want to do it again—after all, he loved her—but what she didn’t know couldn’t harm her. As long as he spent time with the kids, serviced his wife every once in a while and made sure his next film was a long-awaited triumph, he didn’t see the problem.

Kate had insisted on keeping on that sneaking cow Su-Su, but what was he going to do about it? He felt sorry for her—she’d wanted more than he’d been prepared to give and when he’d gone off her, she’d freaked. It was understandable, she was only human.

‘Jimmy, this way, Jimmy!’ He gave the cameras every angle, leaning in to kiss Kate’s neck. The cameras sparked.

Jimmy was about to work with Sam Lucas for the first time, the director hot on everyone’s lips after
Eastern Sky
. This was a more serious role than his previous endeavours, and he hoped it would be the same vehicle for Hart as
The Truman Show
was for Carrey. Jimmy felt that someone up above was finally on his side. Gone were the days of self-loathing and drink. He had a gorgeous wife and two adorable kids, a great job, and on top of that he had beautiful girls queuing up to share his bed. This was most definitely the life. And long may it continue.

* * *

Nate Reid, his hair in a state of dishevelment that appeared to be unpremeditated but, in fact, had taken an hour to achieve, showed off his newly whitened teeth to the cameras. The girl on his arm, a brunette actress and famed burlesque dancer known only as the Pink Lady, dared to bare all in a shocking-red floor-length gown that was split up to the thigh. Her glossy mane was swept over one pale shoulder; her lips bruised purple. Together they were LA’s anti-couple, a dazzling combination of raw talent, sex and couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude. Nate worried that his state-of-the-art gnashers might compromise this, but decided that at this point in his career, he was immune to criticism.

Where other twosomes were chastely pecking at each other, Nate grabbed his beau and proceeded to lodge his tongue down her throat. The paps went crazy. Easy. He’d be front page news tomorrow.

Speaking of chastity, he caught sight of Chloe and Cole Steel, working up a PR storm at the other end of the red carpet. They were talking to fans and greeting media contacts, smiling and laughing like they were with old friends. She was good at it, he had to admit. And he was prepared to take the credit: if it weren’t for him toughening her up, she would never have landed with a powerhouse like that.

It wasn’t as if he’d enjoyed what had happened to her in Vegas. On the contrary: at times he’d been absolutely shitting himself. At one point back there he’d thought Chloe had gone and croaked on him—that would
not
have been good. Fortunately, with a few bouts of cold water chucked on her face, she had eventually come round.

But it had been a mistake getting caught up with Kate diLaurentis, he saw that now. Sure, their shared cause had been sweet, but she had revealed herself since then to be a bitter old tart. He had tried to contact her several times, even showed up at her mansion when Cole’s letter came through, but the old lady claimed never to have met him. He’d been escorted from the premises and that had been that.