Poor Little Bitch Girl (48 page)

Whatever. The man was in a distressed state.

Even though I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, we embraced, and in a choked-up voice he said, “Thanks for coming, Denver. It means a lot to me and Clare.”

As he spoke, Clare, his wife, emerged from the bathroom. Once a very attractive woman, I was shocked at her appearance. She was thin and gaunt, with dark shadows under her eyes and a mass of tangled, graying hair.

It occurred to me that this deterioration in her appearance could not have taken place in the last twenty-four hours. This was a disturbed woman. Whatever she was going through, Carolyn’s disappearance had only added to the mix.

“Hi,” I said, taking a firm step toward her, ready to hug her too.

She backed away like a nervous filly. After an awkward moment, she said, “Where do
you
think my daughter is?”

There was almost an accusatory note in her voice, as if I
should
know, and if I didn’t I was of no use to her.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Henderson,” I said quietly. “I don’t know where Carolyn could be.”

“But you girls talked all the time, I know you did,” Clare said, a malevolent gleam in her weary, red-rimmed eyes.

“No, we didn’t,” I said, shocked at this bitter angry woman who in no way matched up to the soft-spoken woman whom I remembered from my youth. Carolyn and I used to hang out at the Hendersons’ house, and sometimes Clare Henderson baked us cookies and drove us to the mall. That woman with the softly-styled hair and kindly demeanor was long gone.

“Perhaps you can bring me up to date on everything,” I said, turning to George.

“Oh, he can bring you up to date all right,” Clare said, her voice rising. “He can tell you all about the affair he was having with his murdered movie-star girlfriend.” She paused to glare at him. “
That’s
why Carolyn is missing. It’s karma. George’s punishment – and mine.”

Finished with her rant, Clare collapsed on the end of the unmade bed, sobbing hysterically.

George looked at me despairingly. It was a look that said,
What’s done is done. I can’t take anything back.

“I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice. “But shouldn’t we be concentrating on finding Carolyn?”

“Of course,” George said. “I received a call from a Detective Lennox. He’d like us to come over to the precinct as soon as possible. From the sound of him, he certainly seems more cooperative than yesterday when we arrived. I’m hoping they’ll have good news for us.”

Being summoned to the precinct didn’t sound like good news to me. Had they found Carolyn’s body? Was
that
the good news?

Suddenly the enormity of what was going on washed over me. My best friend was missing. And there was a strong possibility she could be dead.

T
he recession had hit everyone hard, especially Hank Montero – former actor, stunt-double, property-master, mechanic, and finally house painter.

Hank, a good-looking guy in a rough and ready way, had always managed to pull down a steady income. First as an actor – not successful. Second as a stunt-double – that is, until he got badly injured and was on Social Security disability benefits for a year. Next he’d gotten himself a job as property-master for a TV commercial company, but cash went missing, and unfortunately Hank got the blame. He’d tried being a mechanic, but after he’d taken some rich dude’s Ferrari on a joy-ride and smashed the car to pieces against a brick wall, breaking a leg in the process, he’d gotten fired.

Finally, an old acquaintance from a short spell he’d done in prison for grievous bodily harm (he’d beaten the schmuck with the Ferrari – long story) offered him a part-time job house-painting. That job lasted until he screwed the woman whose house he was painting, and the woman’s husband had come home unexpectedly and caught him rear-ending his devout Christian wife.

Jobless, he’d jumped on anything that came his way.

Meanwhile his third wife was pissed, his two teenage kids were pissed (a Goth and a slut) and his house was in foreclosure.

Hank Montero was a desperate man when he got an offer that was to change his life.

And change his life it did.

But that was before his insane nineteen-year-old ex-stripper current wife had tried to shoot him in the nuts with his own unlicensed stolen handgun – a move that forced a nosy neighbor to report the incident to the cops. And since they had nothing better to do, two cops had turned up at his house and after ascertaining he had no permit for his gun, and noticing the hefty stash of cocaine that his wife had left in full view on the kitchen table, they’d hauled him down to the precinct.

Which would’ve been fine.
If the gun hadn’t been the same one that shot the big movie star, Gemma Summer
.

Hank Montero was fucked.

B
enito hit the street fast, his anger propelling him through the driving rain until he reached the rundown house where Rosa’s mama lived.

Sure enough, her beat-up old Buick was parked right outside. He tried the handle and since the lock was broken, the door swung open easily.

The interior of the car smelled like old cabbage and sweat, and one of the side windows was shattered.

What did he care? He had only one purpose in mind, and that was finding the Senator’s bitch.

After hot-wiring the car, he eased out of the parking space and took off.

* * *

Feeling quite desperate, Carolyn shut her eyes and tried to pretend she was safely home, but the noise of cars roaring past kept her on alert. Down the street a bunch of gang-bangers had appeared, and they were conducting some sort of drag race. They were screaming and yelling at each other as their souped-up cars raced up and down the street. She could hear glass breaking, and girls shouting their encouragement in shrill drunken voices.

Would they help her?

No. She didn’t think so. Self-preservation told her it was safer to stay exactly where she was until it started to get light.

* * *

The Buick was an even worse piece of shit than his own car. Benito reached the conclusion that if he was hot-wiring a car, he certainly could’ve done better.

In his mind he blamed Rosa – it was all her fault. Never again would he hook up with teenage pussy, it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Sticking near the curb, he crawled along the street in the Buick, keeping a sharp watch for the Senator’s bitch.

She had to be close by, she couldn’t’ve gotten that far. Besides, he was feeling lucky. And when Benito felt lucky, nothing stopped him.

* * *

Rosa’s mother, Florita, got to the hospital very late, way beyond visiting hours. But after Florita explained to the night-duty nurse that she’d had to find someone to sit with her daughter’s baby, and then discovered that her car had been stolen, the nurse let her through.

Rosa sobbed when she saw her mama, genuine tears of regret that she’d never listened to anything her mama had to say, and that she’d always thought she knew better.

Florita, a small compact woman with a ruddy complexion and work-worn hands, hugged her only daughter, tears filling her eyes.
“Mi chiquita,”
she crooned, rocking Rosa back and forth in her arms.
“Mi amorcito.”

Then she’d begun a rant in Spanish all about how Benito was the lowest of the low. He must be the one responsible for this terrible thing. She should never have allowed Rosa to spend so much time with such a
bastardo
.

Rosa was too beaten-up to argue. She wasn’t fluent in Spanish, although she got the gist of what her mama was saying, and she was inclined to agree with her. In Rosa’s heart she knew that what Benito had done was criminal and bad. Kidnapping the Senator’s woman was wrong, and lying in a hospital bed, Rosa realized she had to tell someone, explain that it wasn’t
her
doing.

“Mama,” she whispered. “I have something to tell you . . .”

* * *

The more noise the gang-bangers made, the tighter Carolyn squeezed into her corner, terrified that one of them would spot her. She’d often read stories about homeless people being tortured, then set on fire simply for sport. And she was well aware that’s exactly what she must look like, a homeless person with nowhere to go.

The fear she felt now was even worse than when she was tied to the bed.

What had she done to deserve this?

Why was she being punished so harshly?

* * *

Benito continued to hug the curb, driving as slowly as possible without the piece-of-shit car stalling, while also keeping a sharp eye out.
She couldn’t’ve got far
, he kept telling himself. He’d seen her lying on the bed less than an hour before she’d vanished.

He should’ve kept her trussed up like a chicken, but Rosa had said securing her wrist would do.

Rosa – another dumb bitch. He would surely punish her for running out on him.

As he drove down the main street he noticed activity ahead – a group of dudes drag racing. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d ventured out of his comfort zone into a part of town that was ruled by Rosa’s baby daddy and his cohorts.

It was
their
territory.
Their
street.

Shit! It wasn’t as if he was in his own car, thank God.

No . . . but he was in Rosa’s mama’s Buick.

Fuck! Better get out of here before they saw him. Better get out
fast
.

* * *

Carolyn heard the sound of tires squealing on the wet street. The noise, the yelling. And then suddenly she heard gunshots somewhere in the distance.

She covered her ears. This had to be her worst nightmare.

Huddling deep into her corner, she prayed for morning.

P
rowling restlessly around the suite, Bobby wasn’t used to being sidelined. He would’ve preferred going with Denver to see the Hendersons, but as she’d decided it wasn’t a good idea, he’d stayed behind.