“BYE, HONEY DOLL.”
“Goodbye, Howard,”
“Take good care of the ring.”
“Of course.”
“Give me two days an’ I’ll be there all ready to fuck your brains out.”
“Such a romantic,” Inga said with a superior smile. The only one getting fucked in this relationship was Howie. She’d put her true fiancé on hold while she collected as much jewelry as possible in as short a time as possible. Then she’d have the marriage annulled. Howie was an obvious playboy—she was merely getting revenge for all the women he’d used and abused.
Howie made an attempt to kiss his new wife on the lips. She not so gently shoved him away. “Please, Howard, not in public,” she scolded. “People are always watching me.”
He lifted up her hand where the ten-carat diamond ring sparkled. Ten carats of cubic zirconia. When they’d been married a year and she presented him with a child, he’d buy her the real thing. People thought he was Howie Powers, schmucko playboy. They were wrong. There was much more to Howie than that.
He left the airport and drove back to town. The traffic was deadly, but Howie didn’t care, he had the rest of the day all planned out.
• • •
Freddie Leon headed for Malibu, cursing the heavy traffic. He’d dropped Diana home first. There was something going on with her; she wasn’t acting like herself. And what was this sudden attachment she had toward Max?
Maybe he should consider giving her more attention. He always put business first and she knew it.
And when he wanted to relax . . . well, it wasn’t Diana he turned to. No. There was somebody else.
And today he desperately needed to relax.
• • •
Olive Deacon clutched Tucci’s hand. “I killed him!” she wailed. “He’s dead because of me!”
Her alcohol-drenched breath caused him to take a step back. “Who?” he asked.
“My husband, that’s who!” she sobbed.
“Mrs. Deacon, I’m going to read you your rights. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You have the right to a lawyer. If—”
As he droned on she disintegrated before his very eyes. Her face crumpled, mascara coursed down her cheeks, lipstick stained her teeth.
“Mrs. Deacon,” he said quietly, feeling sorry for her. “Do you want to contact your lawyer before we talk?”
“No lawyer,” she said between sobs. “It’s my fault Bo’s dead. I’ve been punished, and I have to tell you everything.”
“You wish to make a formal statement?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well.”
And before he could get his pen out, she began talking.