Lethal Seduction (37 page)

“I'm sure.”

“Anyway, it's nice to see you,” Warner said.

Is it?
Madison thought.
I've got a strong suspicion there's something you don't want to talk to me about.

“Unfortunately,” Warner continued, “this is not the greatest of times for us to get together, because I have an appointment.” She glanced at her watch. “In exactly five minutes. Then after that, I'm taking a buyer from Houston to dinner.”

“Can we make a date?” Madison said. “I'm leaving on a trip Friday morning, and I'd like to get together before.”

“Bad timing,” Warner said regretfully. “As I mentioned before, this is the busiest time of the year for me.”

“You can't clear an hour for us to sit down and talk?”

“I know it seems foolish,” Warner said apologetically. “It's simply that I'm running from one buyer to the next, my designers are driving me crazy . . . and uh . . . my spring line of silver and turquoise is not yet finished. Oh yes, and if that isn't enough, the factory in Hong Kong is behaving badly. Can our meeting wait until you get back?”

“You're giving me no choice,” Madison replied coolly.

“I knew you'd understand,” Warner said, standing up. “I'll call you, or
you
call me. This time I promise I'll get back to you. By then my desk should be clear—not to mention my head.”

Madison nodded, walked toward the door, then stopped. “By the way, Warner,” she said on impulse, “did you ever sleep with Michael?”

“What?” Warner said, paling.

Madison fixed her with a long, steady stare.
“Did
you?”

“I . . . I don't understand that question,” Warner stammered, losing her cool—but only for a moment.

“It's very simple,” Madison said, speaking slowly. “A yes or a no would do nicely.”

“No,” Warner said, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “Good-bye, Madison.”

“Good-bye, Warner.”

Madison hit the street not knowing why she'd asked, but it had occurred to her that Warner had something to hide. What could it be after all these years? Had Michael gotten to her? Warned her not to talk?

When she got back from Vegas, she was definitely getting into it further. She was also planning on persuading Victor to allow her to write an investigative piece on the old crime families of New York. If she was legitimately researching a story, she could find out plenty. And why not find out about the Giovanni family? Especially Don Carlo Giovanni—the man Michael had supposedly worked for. Maybe that way she could discover the truth about her father.

And when she had all the answers, that would be the time to sit down with Michael and listen to exactly what he had to say.

J
OEL
'
S DINNER PARTY
was a blast. Testio certainly knew how to get things going. Not only did he bring the delectable Carrie, but he also had a couple of other supermodels in tow, both girls Joel had been anxious to get acquainted with.

Joel himself had invited a young, sexy singing sensation of the Latin persuasion, two other models and a card-playing friend of his.

The ratio of guests was not exactly to Carrie's liking—six girls to three men. In the middle of complaining to Testio, she spotted Eduardo, and her mood improved. “Who's the pretty boy?” she whispered.

Testio shrugged, “Dunno,” he said, playing his part well. “You'd better ask Joel.”

“Do I have to?” she groaned.

Testio looked at her quizzically. “What's this thing you got against Joel?”

Carrie wrinkled her nose. “He's so . . .
crass.”

“Nah, he's an okay dude once you get to know him.”

“I don't
want
to get to know him.”

“Yeah, well you should. His old man's one of the richest dudes in New York.”

“That's his father, not him.”

“I know Joel likes you.”

“All men like me,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, followed by a superior smile.

Man,
Testio thought,
this one brings conceit to a new level.

Joel had hired one of the best chefs in New York to cook dinner. He had taken the trouble to find out Carrie's favorite foods, and he'd made sure they were all served.

He introduced Eduardo as his nephew from Puerto Rico. “My mother's side of the family,” he said with a wink. Then he sat Eduardo on one side of Carrie at the dinner table, and himself on the other.

Before long, Carrie and the boy were engaged in animated conversation.

Testio signaled Joel across the table—mouthing, “I told you so.”

Soon Carrie began to relax. Several glasses of her favorite wine, followed by the exquisite Château Yquem, another of her favorites, then peach brandy.

Eduardo played his part to perfection. Although he looked no more than a well-built fifteen, he was actually nineteen. When Madam Sylvia employed someone, she had them expertly trained before she sent them out on a job. Eduardo was well versed on his mission.

Joel was paying handsomely to make sure Eduardo made Carrie Hanlon very happy indeed. Only not too soon. He had to persuade her to come away with him first.

After dinner he got his opportunity. “I'm flying to Vegas for the big fight Saturday night,” he said with Joel Blaine full-on sincerity. “I'd love it if you'd accompany me. Separate suites at the hotel, everything straight up. We'll fly there on my father's plane.”

“Why would I go to Vegas with you?” Carrie asked, tossing back her third peach brandy.

“Maybe 'cause Eduardo will be there,” Joel said slyly. “I know
he'd
like you to come, only you'd better not mention him to my old man. As I said, he's from my mother's side of the family—an indiscreet, illegitimate fling.”

Carrie smiled her all-American, girl-next-door-by-way-of-Julia-Roberts smile. “Wish I had a joint,” she sighed.

Joel, ever the magnanimous host, said, “You can have whatever you want.”

“Then I'll take a hit of your best stuff,” she said, stretching luxuriously.

“Is that a yes to Vegas?” he said, nailing her decision down. “I'll have a limo pick you up at your apartment. There'll be plenty of press and some great parties. Leon's very generous when it comes to giving money to the ladies to gamble—not that you need it, but it's kind of a kick that he hands out thousands of dollars just so you can lose on his behalf.”

“Hmm . . .” Carrie said languidly. “And you say Eduardo will definitely be there?”

“Waiting in your suite, if you want,” Joel said, puzzled as to why she'd prefer to fuck a fifteen-year-old when she could have him.

“Well,” Carrie said, dazzling him with a smile, “you
do
make things tempting.”

“I try to please,” Joel said, ever the perfect host.

“Maybe I was wrong about you,” Carrie mused. “I always heard you were like this model-chaser, you know—every new girl in town and Joel Blaine's the first to score.”

“That's for publicity purposes only,” Joel said, kind of getting off on his new, respectable image. “Truth is I have a steady girlfriend.”

“You do?” Carrie said, surprised.

“Yeah, but once again, I can't tell my old man about her. Sure, I'm old enough to know better, but uh . . . I gotta play by his rules, 'cause when I inherit the billions—and baby, I plan to—I'll be free to do whatever I want.”

“Who's your girlfriend?” Carrie asked, amused.

“Privileged information,” he answered. “She's uh . . . married.”

God, if Rosarita could hear his lies, she'd be creaming her skimpy, little thong thinking he meant it!

Carrie seemed intrigued by his stories. By the end of the evening she'd agreed to the trip.

“Can I trust her?” Joel asked Testio.

Testio, who was completely stoned, mumbled, “Sure, man, s'long as you got Eduardo on alert.”

“It's all taken care of.”

Before Carrie left his apartment, Joel spotted her in the bathroom with Eduardo, snorting coke and grabbing a quick feel.

Fortunately, Eduardo knew the rules—no way was he allowed to give it up until Vegas.

•

Rosarita visited her post office box twice daily, even though the man behind the counter assured her there was only one delivery a day. While it was a drag traipsing all the way to SoHo, she still felt it was important to make the trek. Whenever she went there she wore a clever disguise: huge, black wraparound sunglasses, a long coat and a floppy hat. God, she would have made a fantastic spy! How clever she was at covering her tracks.

“I'm expecting something from Holland,” she informed the man three days in a row. “It could arrive at any moment.”

“Fine, lady,” he answered, fed up with her pestering. “But I keep on tellin' ya—yer wastin' yer time. It'll take a coupla weeks.”

Just when she was about to give up hope, the package was sitting there, the box marked tulip bulbs—handle with care.

She had a large Gucci bag with her, and she quickly threw the package inside without opening it. Then she marched up to the man at the counter and closed her account.

As soon as she got home she hurried into her bathroom, locked the door and opened the package. They'd sent one small bottle of the stuff. She picked it up, handling it gingerly. It didn't look so lethal.

The bottle was accompanied by a list of instructions in Dutch, which meant nothing to her. It didn't matter, she knew what she had to do. Slip it in his drink, and good-bye Dex. That's all there was to it.

She spent an hour in the bathroom, shredding the instructions
and flushing them down the toilet, then trying to dispose of the cardboard box in the same way. It wasn't easy; she had to soak the hard cardboard in hot water, then get rid of it piece by piece. Finally, all that was left was the small bottle of lethal poison.

She took a plastic bottle of bath oil from the bathroom cabinet, emptied out the contents, rinsed the bottle thoroughly until there was no odor left, then, slipping on a pair of Conchita's rubber work gloves that she found stashed under the sink, she transferred the poison into the empty plastic bottle.

Next she wrapped the bottle in layers of Kleenex and placed it carefully at the bottom of her travel vanity case, which she then shut and locked.

A job well done,
she thought when everything was completed.

Soon . . . soon . . .

•

Dexter sat in Annie Cattatori's office and scowled. The fat woman was not being very cooperative. He told her about Silver's script, and that Silver had asked him to raise money, and Annie rudely laughed in his face.

“That's a ridiculous idea,” she scoffed. “Don't you
dare
get involved. She's trying to use you.”

“How is she trying to use me?” Dexter asked, perplexed.

“She wants
you
to raise the money for her, then she'll take that money and run with it. Honey, you've got no chance of being in her movie. Besides, who do you think's going to put up big bucks for
her?”

“Thanks, Annie,” he said. “It's nice to have an agent with confidence in me.”

“Merely being realistic,” Annie said, playing with an oversized gold earring attached to her rather plump earlobe.

“I'm not an idiot,” Dexter said heatedly. “I'd get a lawyer to draw up a legal agreement saying that if
I
find the money,
I
appear in the film.”

“Jesus!” Annie exclaimed. “You're so naïve.” She groped for a cigarette. “How you've survived in this business as long as you have I don't know.”

“I haven't,” he said sulkily. “I got canned, remember?”

“Did my acting coach call you?” she asked, lighting up her cigarette.

“No.”

“Then
you
call
him.
No use sitting around. Forget about Silver Anderson and start taking acting classes;
that's
important. Do that, and before you know it, you'll be working again.”

“That's what I like about you, Annie.”

“What?” she said, blowing smoke rings across her desk.

“Your enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm
and
I know what I'm doing,” she said with a pleased smirk. “Listen to me, soap boy, and we'll get you somewhere big.”

He had no intention of listening to Annie. Silver's script was too exciting an opportunity to blow. Besides, Annie had better quit calling him soap boy, or he'd be quitting
her.

As soon as he left her office, he contacted his father-in-law from a pay phone. “I'd like to come see you about something,” he said.

Oh, Christ,
Chas thought.
The schmuck's havin' a kid, so now he wants a loan.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm at my office,” Chas growled.

“Where's that?” Dexter asked.

“Queens. Ya wanna make the trip, or ya wanna wait till later?”

“I'll make the trip,” Dexter said, deciding his mission was too important to wait. “This is business.”

“Business, huh?” Chas said, scratching his balls.

“Yes,” Dexter said firmly. “I have a proposition for you.”

Christ!
Chas thought.
Dumb soap-opera son-in-law with a proposition.

Nothing he liked less.

“H
E
'
S DOING IT
, all right,” Kimm announced over the phone.

“Oh shit!” Madison said. It was the day before her Vegas gig, and she was busy packing. “Does this mean you've got proof?”

“Unfortunately,” Kimm said. “Shall I come over?”