Lethal Seduction (23 page)

“I do. He deserves to be punished for lying to me all these years.”

“If that's how you feel.”

“It's
exactly
how I feel.”

“Then you must follow your instincts.”

“You know,” Madison said hesitantly. “We haven't discussed it, but about Stella and her boyfriend . . .” She paused, it was difficult voicing her fears, saying the words aloud made her
feel weak and vulnerable—emotions she was not used to and didn't like. “You uh . . . don't think Michael could've had anything to do with their deaths, do you?”

Kimm was silent for a moment. “It's possible,” she said. “I have a friend who was able to check out the police report. There
was
a break-in. They were both shot execution style—in exactly the same way your real mom was murdered.”

“Oh God!” Madison groaned. “This is insane.”

Kimm put a comforting hand on her arm. “Distance yourself,” she said. “Let it go. That's what I had to do.” A long beat. “I'm warning you—if you can't do that, you'll be pulled under and drowned.”

“What do you have on your office door?” Madison asked wryly. “Private eye slash shrink?”

“I have no office door,” Kimm replied with a faint smile. “I work out of my apartment; it's more discreet that way.”

“Of course,” Madison said. “You do everything your way.”

“And why not?” Kimm responded. “It works for me.”

“Here's the thing,” Madison said. “Do we tell the detectives what we know?”

“No point in rushing to do anything you might regret,” Kimm said thoughtfully. “After all, what
do
you know? Nothing concrete.”

Madison nodded her agreement. “So,” she said. “What do you have for me today? More good news?”

“Maybe,” Kimm said, taking another long swig of water. “I've found out that your mom had a twin sister. I've got her phone number. She lives in Miami. I thought you might want to speak with her.”

“God, yes!” Madison said, and found that she could barely breathe.

W
EARING DARK GLASSES
and a cashmere scarf over her tell-tale red hair, Rosarita entered the coffee shop to meet with a man who'd been recommended by her dentist as a person who could take care of anything. Of course, her dentist had not realized what she wanted taking care of, and neither did the man—a sorry specimen in a grubby raincoat, with coarse flyaway hair and a bad facial tic. She loathed him on sight.

“What can you do for me?” she said, choosing her words carefully in case he turned out to be an undercover cop.

“Anythin' you be wantin', ma'am,” the creature said. “Garbage disposal, pet cleanup, gutters, drains, roofs.”

“What's pet cleanup?” she asked, thinking it sounded kind of promising.

“If you got animals who done messed up your rug—that kinda thing,” he said, facial tic going full force. “I be your man t'take care of it.”

“How about . . .” she said, speaking very slowly and precisely, trying to make sure he understood what she was getting at, “if I had a . . .
dead
animal?”

“We can be removing the body, ma'am,” he said, oblivious to her hint.

She laughed, trying to keep it light. “And . . . if it was a dead . . .
person?”

His facial tic accelerated. “Oh no, no, wouldn't be dealin' with that kinda thing,” he said. “That be work for an undertaker.”

Rosarita slammed down some money for the coffee, got up and left. It was obvious that her dentist had no idea what she was looking for.
Damn!
How did you go about hiring a hit man when your father refused to help? She was very mad at Chas. He could take care of her problem with no trouble at all. So why wouldn't he? Bastard!

That afternoon she had an appointment with her gynecologist. Not her favorite way of spending the day, but a boring necessity.

Dr. Shipp was a distinguished-looking man with silvery sideburns and a gentle touch. Rosarita was sure that he found her extremely attractive. Well, why wouldn't he, when she was lying with her feet in the stirrups, and he was getting a bird's-eye view of paradise?

“How are you feeling today, Rosarita?” Dr. Shipp inquired, entering the examining room, his prissy-faced nurse hovering discreetly by his side.

“How would
you
feel, Doc, if
you
were lying here with your feet up in stirrups, exposed for all to see?”

“I would be glad that I had such an understanding doctor,” he said, putting on a pair of thin rubber gloves.

She wondered if he could tell by examining her that she'd been indulging in a flurry of activity. Husband every night, boyfriend every other day. Although for the last week she hadn't heard from Joel, and had been unable to reach him—which was pissing her off.

“You look a touch inflamed down there,” Dr. Shipp said, probing and poking with his rubber-covered fingers.

“I have a very enthusiastic husband,” she replied with a saucy wink.

“I'll prescribe some cream,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Make sure that whenever you have sex you're always fully lubricated. It's most important.”

Oh, he should only know!

After a few more minutes Dr. Shipp was finished with his examination. “Let's take a look at those breasts of yours,” he said. “Any unusual lumps?”

Yes, Joel's balls,
she wanted to say.
Two little lumps of sugar, which I love trying to cram into my mouth. And I miss them.

“No, Docter, everything's fine,” she said as he palpated her perky man-made breasts. “Although I have been feeling tired. It's probably because my in-laws were in town, driving me totally nuts. Extremely demanding people.”

“That could be it,” Dr. Shipp said. “I'll take a urine sample anyway, check what's going on.” He left the room while she dressed.

Outside his office, she used her cell phone to call Joel.

“Not in,” snapped Jewel. “Won't be back today.”

“Have you given him my messages?” Rosarita demanded, wondering where the hell he was.

“Sure have,” Jewel replied.

Rosarita didn't believe her. The girl was a bitch. That was obvious to anyone.

She hurried out of the building, hailed a cab and sulked all the way home.

•

“That was your Mexicana honey again,” Jewel announced, hovering in the doorway of Joel's office, her cornrowed hair newly blond in the front. “She doesn't give up, does she?”

“Keep saying I'm out. She'll go away,” Joel said. “I had to change my home phone number.”

“I know,” Jewel said, tapping her lethal nails against the door jamb. “You forgot to give it to me.”

“Has Varoomba called?”

“Varoomba?” Jewel shrieked, penciled eyebrows shooting up. “What kind've a name is
that?”

“You heard,” Joel replied. “Did she call?”

“Not as far as
I
know.”

“If she does, put her right through.”

“Yes,
sir,”
Jewel said, returning to her post.

As soon as she was gone, Joel opened his desk drawer and took out a small glassine envelope of coke. Emptying out the contents, he arranged the white powder neatly on his desktop. Then he snorted it line by line.

He couldn't believe that some dumb stripper was giving him a hard time. Varoomba had promised she'd call and come to his office. He'd offered her five hundred dollars to do so. So where was the bitch?

Joel was unused to women letting him down. He picked up the phone and spoke to one of his supermodel girlfriends. If they weren't away on some highly paid modeling gig, one or the other of his harem of supermodels was usually available. They liked to be seen as much as
he
liked to be seen with them. It was a mutual “let's get our photo in the gossip columns” society. And they got off on the coke and champagne and all the other perks of going out with Joel Blaine. Frankly, he found most of them sexually unexciting—too stick thin and certainly not into public sex. Try fucking a supermodel in the back of your Rolls with an avid audience, and you'd get exactly nowhere. Plus they
never
gave head, they considered themselves far too famous and pretty.

There
were
exceptions. Joel knew most of them.

He fixed up a date with an anorexic brunette for that evening, then decided to leave early.

Jewel was sitting at her desk outside his office painting her alarming nails in intricate red and white stripes.

“If anybody needs me, I've gone to a meeting,” he said, thinking that any guy who got his cock within two feet of those lethal nails needed serious therapy.

“Sure, Joel,” Jewel said, thinking,
Who is he kidding?
The last legitimate meeting he'd attended had been months ago.

Joel pressed the elevator button and waited impatiently for the car to arrive while trying to make up his mind how to spend the rest of the afternoon. He had choices. He could drop in on a weekly poker game with the guys; or he could go work out at the gym—
not
one of his main priorities. Then again he could drive
straight home, settle down on his oversize couch in front of his oversize TV and watch sports. Maybe place a few bets with his bookie.

As these thoughts went through his head, the elevator doors opened and there stood his unfavorite person in the world—Marika, his father's significant other.

Marika was a very tall, very thin Asian woman with ebony hair pulled back into a severe bun, deadly slanted eyes, thinly penciled eyebrows and the expression of a sphinx. She and Leon Blaine had lived together for several years, ever since Leon had dumped his wife of thirty-five years, giving her almost a billion dollars and the opportunity to start anew. Joel's mother had promptly hotfooted it to New Zealand, where she'd shacked up with a farmer and was currently living happily ever after.

Joel had visited his mother once. Once was more than enough.

“Hello, Joel,” said Marika, barely cracking a smile.

“Hello, Marika,” he replied, stepping into the elevator.

“Going down?” she said.

Oh, did he have an answer for her!

He nodded.

“Your father and I were discussing you this morning,” Marika said, snapdragon eyes boring right through him.

“Really?” Joel answered. He hadn't run into Leon for a few weeks, and he certainly didn't miss him. “What were you saying?”

“Your father has decided to go to Vegas for the upcoming championship fight. He'd like you to accompany him.”

Shit!
Joel thought. What the hell was
Leon
going to Vegas for? Joel already had his ringside ticket for the fight, and plans to spend time with the guys—not to mention hitting all the casinos and strip clubs. Now, if Leon wanted company, he'd have to be there for him. What a goddamn
waste!

That was the problem with having a rich and powerful father—if he wished to inherit, he had to jump, exactly like the girls he dated. Trouble was, he'd been jumping ever since he could remember, and he was getting tired of it.

“Sounds good,” he mumbled, attempting to summon up a modicum of enthusiasm.

“We'll take the plane early,” Marika said, still staring. “That way we can have dinner and see a show.”

We,
Joel thought. Was Leon dragging along the prison guard? Well, if that was the case . . . “Should I bring someone?” he said.

“Do you have someone . . . suitable?”

Boy, would he like to ram it to this cunt! She was so fucking rude he couldn't stand it. “How about Carrie Hanlon?” he said, naming the top supermodel of the moment.

“Are
you
dating Carrie Hanlon?” Marika asked, barely able to conceal her surprise that he could score such a prize.

“No big deal,” Joel said casually. “Carrie and me—we see each other on a fairly steady basis.”

“Does Leon know?”

“Dunno.”

“She's very pretty,” Marika allowed, her tone indicating that she was amazed that a successful supermodel like Carrie Hanlon would choose him.

“Yeah, she is, and uh . . . nice too.”

The truth of the matter was that he had met Carrie Hanlon once at a party, and she was an utter bitch. She'd turned down his offer of a date, and a movie actor friend of his who'd taken her out on two occasions had told him she gave ball-breaker a whole new meaning. But still, every woman had her price . . . and it shouldn't be too difficult to find out what Carrie Hanlon's was.

“I'll tell your father it's all arranged,” Marika said as the elevator reached ground level and she swept out. “He'll be pleased.”

Marika, of course, had a chauffeured car waiting outside the building. Joel had not managed to score such a perk, although he
did
drive a Maserati, a car that his mother had bought him for his last birthday.

“Good-bye, Marika,” he muttered as the elevator continued down to the parking level. “Always a pleasure.”

Now he had to work on getting Carrie Hanlon for the Vegas trip.

Oh well, at least it gave him something to do.

•

Two days later Rosarita awoke with a feeling of deep gloom. She hated having Dex home all day, hated seeing his handsome face lying beside her in bed when she woke up, abhorred having to eat every meal with him.

“I'm staying in bed today,” she announced. “I'm not feeling well.”

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I have a headache,” she said. “And my stomach's queasy. It was that Chinese food last night.” She glared at him accusingly.
“You
picked the restaurant. I
told
you it was shit.”