Star Island (26 page)

“Are you kidding?”

Cops in Florida were trained to assume that everyone, crazy or not, carried a firearm. Reilly was more concerned about the suspect’s sadistic tendencies and radical political agenda. No cash, credit cards or valuables (except for cell phones) had been taken from the bus passengers, and nobody besides Jackie Sebago had been harmed.

“It’s definitely a buyer’s market,” the developer was saying. “Our units start in the mid six hundreds—those are the two-bedrooms, of course, and that’s a pre-construction quote.”

Reilly smiled politely. “Still too rich for my blood.”

“Man, it’s a steal. Trust me.”

The young detective, whose entire annual salary wouldn’t cover the down payment, remained determined to treat Jackie Sebago
the same as any innocent victim of violence. It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Did the attacker say anything about himself?” Reilly asked. “Did he give any clues about who he was, or where he came from?”

“No, but he sang a song. I forgot to tell you that.”

“A made-up song or a real song?”

Jackie Sebago said he hadn’t recognized the number, although some of the other passengers told him it was a well-known hit by the Allman Brothers.

“Something about a whipping post,” he said.

Reilly jotted down the information, which was probably useless. “What about the young woman who flagged down the bus—you think she was in on it?”

“Hard to say. She seemed awful damn calm about the whole thing.”

“The man did have a weapon.”

“Yeah, but still,” said Jackie Sebago.

From speaking to the investors who’d been on the hijacked bus, the detective knew they were unhappy with the slow progress of Sebago Isle, and also with Jackie Sebago’s slippery account of the finances.

“Is it possible somebody hired this individual just to frighten you?” Reilly asked.

“No way,” the developer said, though he privately wondered about Shea, the most vocal and disgruntled of the group.

Would the hot-tempered hedge funder go to all the trouble of setting up an elaborate highway abduction? Jackie Sebago was doubtful. Likewise, arranging the exotic perforation of a business partner’s privates seemed conceptually beyond the reach of Shea’s imagination. He was more the type to sue.

“A man in your position is bound to have enemies,” the detective suggested carefully.

Pointing at his swollen, pustular genitalia, Jackie Sebago declared, “Nobody hates me
this
bad.”

He would be reconsidering that possibility twenty-four hours later, after the Sebago Isle construction site was inexplicably red-tagged
and D. T. Maltby refused to take his phone calls and Shea was texting hourly from Providence with ugly threats.

Driving out of Ocean Reef, where Jackie Sebago lay convalescing in a borrowed villa, Reilly wondered if the elusive busjacker was truly a menace to the public, or just a cagey vigilante who was careful to select repugnant targets. Prosecutors would have a hard time finding a Florida jury that would be sympathetic to a real-estate viper like Sebago.

Still, Reilly wasn’t discouraged, and had no intention of backing off from the investigation. He was eager to track down the suspect and find out what made him tick.

Tanner Dane Keefe was afraid of Cherry Pye’s new bodyguard.

“He’s a stone psycho,” the actor whispered. “What happened to his face?”

“No duh,” Cherry said.

The two of them were lying in bed. He was using her bare bottom as a pillow.

“The man flushed all my dope. You believe that?”

“I asked for a black martial-arts dude,” she said petulantly. “A big bald one.”

“So get the scar dude fired. Tell Maury he tried to pork you or somethin’.”

“Uh, I did. It totally didn’t work.”

Tanner Dane Keefe shifted his head restlessly on her butt cheeks. “He’s, like, a serial killer. Swear to God.”

She laughed. “Yeah, like freakin’ Jason without the mask.”

The door opened and Chemo strolled in. The actor groped for the sheet to cover himself. Cherry raised up and said, “Can you, like, knock? What’s your problem?”

Chemo told Tanner Dane Keefe that it was time to leave. Cherry said she didn’t want him to go.

“That’s okay. I got my lava-rock massage at eleven,” the actor said.

She grabbed for his arm. “Tanny, don’t you dare move!”

Chemo had no patience for fuckwits. “Make me ask twice,” he
said, “and I’ll shave your ass to the bone.” He raised the weed whacker to instill motivation.

Tanner Dane Keefe managed a nod.

“You A-hole!” Cherry cried at Chemo, and hurled a chrome vibrator that flew past his head and dinged the wall.

The actor said, “Later, babe.” He pecked Cherry on her Axl-zebra tatt and scrambled to collect his clothes. He was out the door in sixty seconds.

Chemo ordered Cherry to get dressed. A person named Laurel was waiting.

“Tell her to come back later.” Cherry buried her face in the covers.

“Maury says now.”

“I hate you!”

Chemo winked. “My heart’s in tatters. Now get out of bed.”

Laurel was the new lip-synching coach. She had downloaded Cherry’s set list onto an MP3 player, which she plugged into a player dock in the sitting area of the suite. As a rehearsal aid she’d even brought a headset of the type Cherry would be wearing as a prop onstage.

“I already know, like, every song by heart,” Cherry insisted, although soon it became clear that she didn’t.

Chemo almost felt sorry for Laurel. The lyrics were brainless and repetitive yet Cherry kept getting lost, even on the refrains. Chemo made her chug a Red Bull, with no improvement. Eventually he had to leave the room. It was the most monotonous crap he’d ever heard, and he had once worked the door at a white rap club.

The Larks showed up and hovered curiously. Since leaving prison, Chemo had come to understand the power of his uncommon attraction; some women got turned on when they were creeped out. But his mind was strictly fixed on business; he was mulling what Abbott had told him about trading Cherry Pye for her double, wondering why the paparazzo had turned down a cash ransom. Obviously the douche bag was hot for Cherry, a condition that Chemo predicted would be cured after a short dose of her company.

But there also had to be more money involved—big money, Chemo reasoned, for a snake like Abbott to risk his own neck. One way or another, Chemo intended to grab a piece of the action. He felt he’d earned it. Every minute with Cherry was like a month at Raiford.

Lucy Lark said, “Tell her we’re here. And we haven’t got forever.”

“She’s busy practicing,” Chemo said.

“In there? Practicing what?” Lila asked.

“Moving her lips.” Chemo steered the twins outside to the hall and demanded to know what in the name of Jesus Harvey Christ had happened with the kidnap negotiation.

“When Janet and Maury get here,” Lucy said, “they’ll bring you up to speed.”

“So it’s a done deal?”

Lila nodded. “Ninety-nine-point-nine for certain.”

“Goddamn.” He kicked over a potted palm, causing the Larks to back away and reconsider their interest in him.

The elevator opened and out walked Maury Lykes and Janet Bunterman. At the same moment, angry shouts and yips erupted from the suite. Cherry’s mother bolted inside to rescue Laurel. She was followed by the twins, who were heading for the balcony to check their text messages and sneak a smoke.

Finding himself alone in the hallway with Maury Lykes, Chemo used the opportunity to jam the startled promoter against the wall and demand a full briefing.

“So, how’s this gonna go down?” he asked.

Maury Lykes had difficulty responding because the bodyguard was compressing his larynx.

“After he lets the girl go—the actress—then what?” Chemo said. “He just rides off into the sunset with your star client? I don’t get it. You trust this jerkoff?”

“Not for a minute,” the promoter wheezed. “That’s why you’re goin’ along on the shoot.”

Chemo released his grip. “Good call.”

“Oh, it gets better,” said Maury Lykes, rubbing his neck.

•   •   •

Bang Abbott wanted to use Ann DeLusia as the intermediary but she’d copped a major attitude toward Janet Bunterman, so he was forced to pick up the phone himself. Back and forth it went—Cherry’s old lady was obviously getting coached from the sidelines—but eventually the rules of the photo shoot were hammered out.

The session would go exactly six hours, including a lunch break, and take place at the big house being rented by Tanner Dane Keefe on Star Island. Cherry would be accompanied only by her bodyguard. If the goon laid a finger (or his hedge-trimming tool) on Bang Abbott, or if he interfered in any way with the photography, the deal was off and Cherry Pye as an entertainment franchise was history.

Bang Abbott’s leverage was the portfolio of crude needle shots featuring Ann, posed as Cherry, in the hotel bathroom. If the Star Island meeting went well, he would—in Chemo’s presence—delete the shocking images from his cell phone. He wouldn’t mention that he’d already sent a duplicate photo file marked “Toilet Art” to his desktop back in Los Angeles.

And if either the singer or her cheese-faced security man started any hassles, Bang Abbott would touch a button on his cell that would e-mail the ruinous JPEGs to every tabloid in the United States and Europe, with captions in English, Spanish and French.

“What about me?” Ann asked.

“As soon as Cherry gets there, you slip out the kitchen door. A car will be waiting.”

“Because they still don’t want her to know I exist. Nice.”

“Get over it.” Bang Abbott said he’d promised Janet Bunterman that he wouldn’t say a word to Cherry about her having a double, or about the trade.

“What’s she supposed to think when she shows up for the shoot?”

“They’re gonna tell her I’m working for
Vanity Fair
.”

Ann had to chuckle. “No offense, Claude, but
Hustler
would be a reach.”

He flipped her off and attacked his room-service pancakes.

“Getting back to me,” she said, “what happens if—”

“Relax, for Christ’s sake. You’re the last person they want to piss off, okay, because you know
everything.”
As he spoke, Bang Abbott spewed syrupy crumbs. “Cherry’s people, if they’ve got half a brain, they’re gonna take real good care of you when this is over.”

Ann picked listlessly at a plate of scrambled eggs. “So, overall, you’d say it was a smooth career move—getting kidnapped and chained to a commode and all.”

“What I’m sayin’ is, you’re a smart girl. Use your imagination.”

There was a knock on the door and Ann thought:
Here we go
.

But it was a maid, not the homeless guy with the shotgun-shell braids. Ann wondered where he was, and how he would make himself known. Having seen him in action against the busload of real-estate guys, she anticipated another memorable entrance.

After Bang Abbott sent the maid away, Ann lifted a handcuffed wrist and said, “Claude, here’s a thought. Why don’t you let me go now?”

“No can do.”

“How come? The deal’s a lock, right? They don’t care about me—all they want is those stupid pictures.”

He said, “They want you, too, missy. Most definitely.”

“Did Janet actually say that?”

“More than once. She can’t wait to see your smiling face.”

“Then I’ll grab a cab to the hotel.”

Bang Abbott shook his head. “It’s all set, so chill. One more day won’t kill you.”

“But I think I’m getting cramps.”

“That’s weak.”

“Claude, please?”

He forked a rubbery strip of bacon into his mouth. “Eat your breakfast,” he said.

Ann considered not warning him, just letting it play out. He was nothing but a low-rent parasite with a camera, and he probably deserved whatever fearsome shit was about to fly his way.

On the other hand, he hadn’t tried to rape her, which was what she’d feared the most. And he had sort of apologized for drugging her and locking her in the cramped car trunk (“I should’ve rented a midsize” were his exact words). As charmless and revolting as Claude could be, Ann wasn’t looking forward to watching him suffer, which was a likely scenario if he was ambushed by the man known as Skink.

“Here’s a news flash,” she said. “Somebody’s looking for me.”

“It’s about time.”

“I’m not bullshitting. This is nobody you want to meet.”

Bang Abbott fluttered his hands theatrically. “Oooooh. Then maybe I’ll just call the cops and give myself up.” He reached under the mattress, took out the secondhand Colt and, in a lame Austin Powers accent, said, “Bring it on, baby.”

Ann pushed away the cold eggs. “Fine. My conscience is clear.”

“So who’s your knight in shining armor?”

“Never mind.”

“And how the hell would he know where to find you? I mean, really.” Bang Abbott chuckled acidly. “Nice try, sugar pie.”

His phone rang. It was Peter Cartwill from the
Eye
. He needed someone to go to an impound lot in Medley and take a photo of the Range Rover that Larissa, the drunken Idol, was driving when she got busted. Bang Abbott told Cartwill to find himself another errand boy.

“Those days are over for me,” he said, and clicked off.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to get a picture?” Ann asked him. “The lowest of your low moves.”

The paparazzo thought about it for several moments. “I was on the Farrah death watch for a couple weeks. Sent her a humongous bunch of flowers and bribed the delivery guy to sneak some shots with his cell. She was asleep in the bed so you couldn’t really see her face, but I still made eleven grand off the worldwide rights.”

Ann said, “Okay, Claude, that’s pretty fucking awful.”

“She never knew it happened.” He shrugged. “No harm, no foul.”

“Wow.”

“But here’s the other side.”

“Regale me,” Ann said.

“One time I got a tip that Charlie Sheen was taking his kids to the doctor, okay—the twins? For their vaccines? So I get there early and pay one of these Brentwood moms two hundred bills to let me sit with her and her runny-nosed brat in the waiting room. She tells the nurse I’m an uncle or a godfather or some asinine thing.” Bang Abbott smiled ruefully, remembering how it had ended.