A Santangelo Story (3 page)

My name is Denver Jones, and I am a twenty-five-year-old so-called hotshot attorney, summoned to be part of the defense team being put together to save Ralph Maestro—a mega-famous action movie star—from a murder rap, should he be arrested.

His beautiful wife, Gemma Summer Maestro—also a movie star—is dead. Shot in the face, her ethereal beauty no more.

It is early December, and in spite of the blazing California sun, the fake snow is already stacked neatly along the Maestro driveway as I make my way up it. It doesn’t surprise me, as I have been here before, many years ago when I was a scrawny twelve-year-old attempting to curry favor with the most popular girl in school, Annabelle Maestro.

“Fake snow!” I remember exclaiming the first time I’d visited the Maestro mansion. “You mean your parents have fake snow brought in and pile it all along your driveway?” I’d stared at my new best friend in disbelief.

Twelve-year-old Annabelle Maestro had stared back at me defiantly. “Denver Jones,” she’d said, wrinkling her freckled nose, the braces on her teeth catching the afternoon sunlight. “You are
sooo
dumb! This is Beverly Hills, stupid. We don’t
have
real snow in Beverly Hills.”

“You don’t?” I’d mumbled, fresh out of Chicago with my not-so-normal parents: Dad, a maverick lawyer; Mom, a political activist and sometime homemaker.

“No way!” Annabella had huffed, as if I were the town idiot. “You’re so dense!”

“Sorry,” I’d muttered, although I’d had no clue what I was supposed to be apologizing for.

Annabelle had picked up a fist full of fake snow and pitched it forcefully into my face. It felt like cotton candy.

“Come on,” she’d said, her long legs racing up the snow-covered driveway. “I’m starving!”

I’d trailed behind her, brushing the fake snow off my face and out of my hair.

That was then, and this is now, and I am no longer that naive twelve-year-old girl, but I’ll never forget Annabelle and her freckles and the way she used to wrinkle her nose. I haven’t seen her in years. We lost touch right after high school, then later I heard she’d left L.A. to attend college in Boston. After dropping out, she’d apparently moved to New York, where she was doing something involving fashion.

I wondered where Annabelle was now and if I’d run into her. We hadn’t stayed friends for long. I was never cool enough for her—too work-oriented and different for her tastes. Her deal was trolling up and down Melrose and Robertson searching for the new hot bag or the latest cool jeans, and that was hardly my scene. Even if I’d wanted to, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford the Maestro princess lifestyle. In fact, it was a relief when Annabelle had started ignoring me and hanging out with a group of similar rich girls with equally famous parents.

Losing Annabelle’s friendship was no big deal. My mom was relieved; she’d never much liked Annabelle or all the things her family represented. Fame. Vast wealth. The full Beverly Hills scene. Mom was happier when I teamed up with Carolyn Henderson, a brainy kid whose father was a plastic surgeon and whose mother worked in real estate. As soon as Carolyn graduated college, she scored a job as an intern in Washington. She is currently personal assistant to Senator Gregory Stoneman. We are still close friends, even though we live in different cities. We keep in touch on a regular basis, although it isn’t always easy as we’re both majorly busy. Thank God for e-mailing and texting.

This year, Carolyn has promised to make it out to L.A. for Christmas, in spite of a workload that makes
me
look like a slacker, and believe me, I am no slouch.

I can’t wait to spend time with her, especially as we both recently broke up with our significant others, which means we’ll have plenty to talk about. Carolyn dumped her boyfriend, Matt, because she caught him cheating, which came as no surprise to anyone. Matt was an up-and-coming political journalist who everyone (except apparently Carolyn) knew had a major zipper problem.

My breakup was a different story. Josh, a successful sports doctor, left
me
. He complained that I put work first and that he’d had it with always coming second.

On reflection I have to admit that he was right, or maybe I simply didn’t love him enough.

Josh and I were together three years, so the breakup came as kind of a jolt, but I’m not heartbroken. I do miss our Sundays devouring the newspapers in our sweats, taking long, vigorous hikes up Malibu Canyon, watching
Entourage
and
Dexter
on TV, and gorging on my favorite Chinese food straight from the cartons.

I do
not
miss the sex; it wasn’t that great to begin with. Like most relationships, ours started off with incredibly raunchy and hot sex, but after six months it had become kind of boring and comfortable.

Where did all the passion go? Hey, I’m no expert, but I did experience a couple of sizzling affairs in college—one with a married professor and one with a major jock. Both times the sex was mind-blowing, so I certainly know the difference. Although sleeping with a married man on the side is not for me. Too many lies and complications.

Sometimes I think our dog, Amy Winehouse, misses Josh more than I do. We came across Amy, a mixed breed, wandering lost and filthy on Venice Beach, so we took her home and named her after my favorite singer because of her throaty growl that emulated Amy’s low-down, sexy voice.

When Josh left I inherited Amy. “No visitation rights,” I informed him coldly. Although what I really wanted to say was,
Piss off, asshole,
you’re
dumping
me.

Josh gave me attitude about the dog—but, hey, if he wanted out, that’s exactly what he’d get. Out. Gone. History. I don’t believe in dragging things out. When something’s over, it’s best to make a clean break.

This time my mom was not happy. She was fond of Josh, as was the rest of my family, especially my three older brothers.

Too bad. Josh was likable as a friend, but he certainly wasn’t the man I planned on spending the rest of my life with.

And who might that man be? Truth is I haven’t found him yet, and the prospects in L.A. are hardly promising. The only men I meet are clients, and they’re usually married or gay. Then there’s the slick lawyers who drive gleaming Porsches or the latest Mercedes, and favor twenty-year-old nubile blond models or actresses with all the attributes.

Not that I’m a dud looks-wise. If I didn’t live in L.A., I guess I’d be considered extremely attractive. I have long chestnut brown hair with natural golden highlights, wide hazel eyes, I’m five feet seven, and I take a size eight dress (large by Beverly Hills standards, small for the rest of the country!).

Okay, so I’m no Pamela Anderson, and believe me, I have no desire to be. Fake anything grosses me out—lips, breasts, cheekbones, and chins. Ugh! What are these women
thinking
?!

The truth is that if Josh hadn’t broken up with me, I would have eventually dumped
him,
because comfortable is great for a while, but passion is definitely lurking out there somewhere, and I
do
intend to find it. That’s when I have time, ’cause as I might have mentioned before, I’m a dedicated workaholic.

This all happened three months ago, and word is that Josh has hooked up with a new girlfriend, some blond anorexic stylist to the stars that he picked up in a club.

Hmm…talk about not waiting around. Anyway, good luck to him. I couldn’t care less.

I myself am a little more discerning. Right now I’m not interested in anything permanent. I’ve decided that I should have some fun while I’m waiting for Mister Right to put in an appearance.

“You’re late,” my boss scolded, greeting me at the door to the Maestro mansion.

My boss, Felix Saunders—or Mr. Shark Teeth, as he has become known around the office since he had his teeth recrowned and they shine like a row of dazzling white beacons—is ready for action. He is an imposing man with a sharp Roman nose and a shock of crazy silver hair that stands on end; he kind of resembles a white Don King. He also has a penchant for light-colored Brioni suits, colorful shirts, and pointy-toed lizard shoes dyed in a variety of outrageous colors. Most people regard him as quite a character.

Saunders, Fields, Simmons & Johnson is the name of the law firm I work for. I started out clerking for them while still in law school; and after I passed the bar, they hired me as an associate. Within three years, I was promoted to senior associate.

I hate to sound immodest…well, not really! But I am good, very good, and I think that Mr. Shark Teeth loves me. Not as a woman, but as his right hand—a hand he knows he can always depend on. The man is a brilliant lawyer with a killer mind, so over the years I studiously ignored the whiter-than-white teeth, the out-of-control hair, and the overly expensive suits and learned everything I could from him. He is an excellent teacher and I’m a quick study, so it’s turned out aces for both of us. Soon I expect to be promoted to junior partner.

I guess Josh is correct: I do put work first. And right now I have no reason not to.

I consulted my watch—Cartier, a birthday present from Mr. Shark Teeth. Personally I’m not into labels, but other people seem to hold them in high regard, especially in Beverly Hills.

“Two minutes hardly counts as late,” I said crisply.

Felix Saunders raised a bushy eyebrow. “Always an argument,” he said, verging on irritable.

“Facts are facts,” I responded.

“The girl who always sees things in black and white,” he said dryly, tapping his chin with his slightly crooked index finger.

“Nothing wrong with
that,
” I countered. Getting in the last word is one of my habits that drives people crazy. I don’t give a crap, I
enjoy
having the last word. Besides, I don’t wish to sound immodest, but I’m usually right.

“Follow me,” he said. “We have work to do.”

I am considered a hotshot attorney because in the past eighteen months I have defended two high-profile men with great success. Client number one was a well-known studio executive accused of rape by a TV star whose career was on the downslide. The upcoming trial hit the front pages for months, culminating in a fast five days in court.

The actress was not a popular woman; she’d portrayed a bitch on TV for several years. It wasn’t difficult for me to convince the jury that her role on TV came naturally to her, while also playing up the studio executive’s happy family angle. I pointed out that as far as he was concerned, the one night of sex was consensual, he loved his wife and family, and he deeply regretted the entire incident. Then I emphasized how much the actress needed—in fact
craved
—the headlines of her past stellar career. And how she’d gone after Mr. Big Studio Executive with a vengeance. “You saw the Beyoncé movie
Obsessed
,” I stated dramatically in my closing argument, fixing the jurors with my wide hazel eyes, which I’ve been told can be quite hypnotic. “Then may I suggest that you consider this as the real-life version. Put yourselves in this man’s position.” A long pause for effect. “Yes, it’s true, my client cheated on his wife, but he’s never claimed to be a saint. And that’s
all
he did. One night of weakness with a seductive actress determined to get her career back on track. So…because of one lapse, and a fading actress who feels she’s been rejected, is this innocent man supposed to lose everything?” Another long, pregnant pause. More deep eye contact. “I don’t think so. Do
you
?”

The jury was sold.

Result: a big victory.

Everyone at the firm was more than pleased with the way I handled myself in court, and within six months I was handed another big newsworthy case. This time, it was a beloved comedian accused of exposing himself to children in public places. I painted him as squeaky clean. He had a family who was dear to his heart. A wife he doted on. Children of his own that he adored.

Then I gave the impassioned closing argument about how this man—this
gentle
man who had raised so much money for children’s charities—would
never
harm a child or even think of doing so.

Once again, we won.

Now this. A murder case. Although nobody had actually accused Ralph Maestro of killing his wife.

Yet.

“I think you’d better fill me in,” I said to Mr. Shark Teeth as I followed him inside the imposing mansion.

Felix stopped and patted me on the shoulder while whispering confidentially in my ear, “Ralph Maestro is a very big movie star.” He paused a moment to reconsider his words. “I mean he
was
the biggest. Not so much today. But once a movie star, it sticks, whether you’re still pulling in the big bucks or not.”

“And is he?” I asked curiously.

“Is he what?”

“Still pulling in the big bucks?”

“That’s irrelevant,” Felix said testily.

I wondered if now was the time to tell him that I knew the Maestro family, had indeed attended school with their daughter. Then I decided it wasn’t necessary; they wouldn’t remember me anyway.

Felix proceeded to tell me what had taken place. Apparently, the Maestros had attended a major fund-raiser the previous evening at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, returning to their home at eleven. Gemma Summer Maestro had gone straight upstairs to her bedroom, while Ralph had stayed downstairs to watch TV, enjoying one of his expensive and most likely illegal Cuban cigars. Later, he’d walked outside to visit with his dogs—two fierce pit bulls who were not allowed inside the mansion.

Around one a.m., he’d gone upstairs to his bedroom—the Maestros kept separate bedrooms, not unusual among affluent celebrity couples. There he’d watched more TV, until finally he’d fallen asleep around three. When he’d awoken at six in the morning, he’d gone straight to his private gym in the back of the house. It wasn’t until their Guatemalan housekeeper, Lupe, discovered Gemma’s body—shot while lying in her bed—that Ralph realized anything was amiss.

I quickly fired off a few relevant questions. “Have the police found the murder weapon?”