A Santangelo Story (4 page)

“No.”

“Any sign of a break-in?”

“No.”

“Were the Maestros getting along?”

Felix shook his head. “Who knows? But once I shift the detectives out of here, we’ll soon find out.”

There were two investigating detectives and a legion of cops crawling all over the house.

The housekeeper, Lupe, was in the kitchen making wailing noises.

Gemma Summer’s body was still upstairs in her bed, while the police photographer was on his way downstairs.

I started talking to one of the detectives, an African-American guy with an older Will Smith look. My imagination told me that he’d come to Hollywood hoping to be discovered and ended up becoming a detective. That seems to be most people’s story. He was Detective Preston, and his partner, an Asian-American woman, was Detective Lee.

I wondered if either of them had called Annabelle and told her the devastating news.

Suddenly, I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. How does anyone make that call?

Good afternoon, Miss Maestro. This is the Beverly Hills Police Department. Your mother’s dead, shot in the head. Your father is the prime suspect. Oh yes, and may I take this opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas.

“What’s the matter?” Felix growled. He expected my full attention at all times; a wandering mind didn’t do it for him.

“Has their daughter been notified?” I asked.

Felix narrowed his eyes. “How do you know they have a daughter?”

“It’s general knowledge,” I answered quickly, still not prepared to reveal my connection to the Maestro family.

“As far as I know, nobody’s been notified yet,” Felix said, groping for a packet of extra-strong breath mints in his jacket pocket. Without offering me one, he popped a couple in his mouth before putting the packet away. “Do you have any idea how the press are going to bite into this one?” he said, minty breath wafting in the air. “It’ll make the Phil Spector and Robert Blake cases look like goddamn picnics.”

“Do you think the police are planning on arresting Ralph Maestro?” I asked curiously.

“Not if
I
have anything to do with it,” he answered, full of his usual unshakable confidence. “There is absolutely no evidence Ralph did it, none at all.”

Did he?
I was dying to ask. But I refrained from doing so. Sometimes you learn more by saying nothing.

There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers—Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.

Jackie Collins has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by
Vanity Fair
magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some twenty-six
New York Times
bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insider’s knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! “I write about real people in disguise,” she says. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre.”

Visit Jackie’s website
www.jackiecollins.com
, and follow her on Twitter at JackieJCollins and Facebook at
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.