A Santangelo Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

He had a family who was dear to his heart. A wife he doted on. Children of his own that he adored.
    Then I gave the impassioned closing argument about how this man—this gentle man who had raised so much money for children’s charities—would never harm a child or even think of doing so.
    Once again, we won.
    Now this. A murder case. Although nobody had actually accused Ralph Maestro of killing his wife.
    Yet.
    “I think you’d better fill me in,” I said to Mr. Shark Teeth as I followed him inside the imposing mansion.
    Felix stopped and patted me on the shoulder while whispering confidentially in my ear, “Ralph Maestro is a very big movie star.” He paused a moment to reconsider his words. “I mean he was the biggest. Not so much today. But once a movie star, it sticks, whether you’re still pulling in the big bucks or not.”
    “And is he?” I asked curiously.
    “Is he what?”
    “Still pulling in the big bucks?”
    “That’s irrelevant,” Felix said testily.
    I wondered if now was the time to tell him that I knew the Maestro family, had indeed attended school with their daughter. Then I decided it wasn’t necessary; they wouldn’t remember me anyway.
    Felix proceeded to tell me what had taken place. Apparently, the Maestros had attended a major fund-raiser the previous evening at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, returning to their home at eleven. Gemma Summer Maestro had gone straight upstairs to her bedroom, while Ralph had stayed downstairs to watch TV, enjoying one of his expensive and most likely illegal Cuban cigars. Later, he’d walked outside to visit with his dogs—two fierce pit bulls who were not allowed inside the mansion.
    Around one a.m., he’d gone upstairs to his bedroom—the Maestros kept separate bedrooms, not unusual among affluent celebrity couples. There he’d watched more TV, until finally he’d fallen asleep around three. When he’d awoken at six in the morning, he’d gone straight to his private gym in the back of the house. It wasn’t until their Guatemalan housekeeper, Lupe, discovered Gemma’s body—shot while lying in her bed—that Ralph realized anything was amiss.
    I quickly fired off a few relevant questions. “Have the police found the murder weapon?”
    “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