Looks to Die For (15 page)

Oh, heck, who was I kidding? I was so desperate for information that if I’d found a tube-locked Sentry safe with an anchor bolt, I’d have nabbed a jackhammer to pry it open. A measly
PLAY
button wasn’t going to stop me.

The first message, recorded at 9:21
A.M
., was from an assistant in Chauncey Howell’s office, saying Chauncey wanted to meet with Dan as soon as possible. The second message brought ten seconds of silence, followed by a hang-up. The third message, which had come in less than a minute later, offered a man’s voice, speaking in a husky whisper: “Nothing has changed, Doctor. I know what you did. You’ve just got more reasons for silence.”

And then an abrupt hang-up.

I shakily hit the
PLAY
button again, skipped over the first two messages, and steeled myself as the husky voice resounded once more, filling every corner of the room.

This time I heard a slow intake of breath before the words. And then the same threatening message: “Nothing has changed, Doctor. I know what you did. You’ve just got more reasons for silence.” And the click as the mystery man hung up.

My hands trembled violently, but I managed to hit the
PLAY
button one more time and listen as the low, rhythmic voice offered its mesmerizing message. Whoever was speaking was a master of the game: his three simple sentences sounded subdued but threatening, quiet but terrifying. I couldn’t make any sense of them. I felt like a kayaker caught inside a wave, bouncing along with the sensations but way too disoriented to spin my head out of the water. I walked around the study trying to calm down, then went back to the desk and hit the button to listen again.

My brain was numb. If there was a key to understanding this message, I didn’t have it. I stared at the answering machine, as if I could unearth some meaning by concentrating hard enough on the radio waves. But nothing was coming through to me, not even static.

I needed to have a conversation with Dan. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t get it by guessing.

After dinner, I read Jimmy three bedtime stories about a happy rabbit family without letting on that our happy human family could split at the seams any moment. When he fell asleep, I went to my study, turned on the computer, and spent an hour paying bills. Someone had bought four pairs of outrageously expensive shoes at Charles Jourdan earlier this month, using my credit card. I sighed. Must have been me. But the days of carefree shopping on Rodeo Drive seemed a lifetime ago. I put my head down on the desk, trying to figure out what had happened to us.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

I jumped up. I hadn’t heard Dan come in and I swiveled around abruptly at the sound of his voice.

He was leaning in the doorway of my office, dressed in gray slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, and holding his navy blazer on one finger at his shoulder. His hair was slightly rumpled and there was the faintest hint of sunburn across his nose. He had all the elements for a Ralph Lauren ad — but his attitude wasn’t right. For once Dan looked defeated. I felt my heart breaking for him.

I took three steps across the room and kissed him on the cheek, determined to be cheerful.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “Did you have dinner?”

Dan shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get you something to eat,” I said. No crisis could keep me from being the good wife and hostess.

Dan nodded and then asked, “So what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Taking the kids to school, and then I’m supposed to meet a new client.” I’d been surprised when the new third wife of a hot Hollywood producer called. I reluctantly told her my situation and she didn’t care — she had a new mansion to furnish, and apparently a minor murder didn’t matter as much as finding the perfect Ming vase.

“Oh.” Dan looked around the room, glancing at the Warhol lithograph over my desk as if he’d never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. The huge black-and-white flower once had a yellow wash over it, but the color had faded, leaving only the stark lines of the drawing. Warhol’s studio offered to repaint it and authorize it as an original, but I hadn’t bothered. So much for the lasting value of modern art.

“I have a meeting with Chauncey at ten, and I thought you might come,” Dan said.

“Sure. I’ll change my client to the afternoon. Nothing’s more important than you,” I said quickly. I kissed him again. “Come to the kitchen.”

Dan tossed his blazer over the banister. I tried to be nonchalant as I bounced down the stairs, but I could think of only one thing. Had Dan stopped in his study on the way up? Had he listened to the messages on his machine?

Message number one had been about setting up a meeting with Chauncey for tomorrow, and he’d done that. But most likely the assistant in Chauncey’s office had tracked Dan down directly this morning, calling his cell phone or beeper number after she’d called here. If Dan hadn’t heard the messages yet — including the one from the mystery man — I could be there when he listened for the first time. I could watch his face and judge his reaction.

I pulled out a pan and placed it on the front burner of the Garland cooktop. No, that wasn’t fair. Dan was my husband, for heaven’s sake. We were on the same team. I didn’t have to trick him or track him or sneak around hoping he’d reveal himself. I could be direct.

“Dan?” I turned full square to face him across the counter island. He had opened a new Sharper Image catalogue and was flipping intently through the pages of robopets, massage recliners, and air purifiers. I’ve never quite figured out why men are mesmerized by air purifiers — and why the same ones who ignore the lingering reek of Montecristo Cuban cigars are absolutely determined to own an Ionic Breeze Quadra.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up.

“Um…” I stopped. My husband. Same team. Could ask him anything. I cleared my throat. “Um, honey, would you like the leftover pasta salad from dinner or should I just make you an omelet?”

“Either.” He closed the catalog, giving up his fantasy of ozone guards and cleaner air. “Whichever’s easier. Thanks for doing this, honey.”

I cracked three eggs into a bowl, then whisked in chopped onion, red pepper, and chunks of Jarlsberg. “Anything special happen today?” I asked. I was a wimp, no two ways about it.

“Not really. I saw some patients. Mostly, I worked on that article for the
Annals of Plastic Surgery.
Almost done.”

“What’s it on again?”

“Post-traumatic reconstruction. Giving a patient his face back after an accident. The editor says the work I’ve been doing is unprecedented. Genuine breakthroughs.” He sighed, and despite the compliment he sounded as deflated as the Big Bird balloon a week after the Macy’s parade.

I poured the eggs into the Calphalon pan and watched the cheese I’d mixed in beginning to melt while the eggs began to harden. That’s what happened when the heat was on. Some of us melted and some turned hard.

“Anything new with the…” I let the sentence trail off because we didn’t have a way to talk about this yet. Anything new with your murder? Anything new with your life sentence? Anything new with the girl you say you didn’t brutally strangle but someone did?

Dan didn’t need conversational arrows to follow me. He slumped deeper in his chair. “Nothing,” he said. “We’ll see what Chauncey says tomorrow, I guess.”

I flipped the omelet, slipped it onto the dish, and decorated the plate with fresh strawberries and blueberries. If interior decorating dried up, I could work at IHOP.

“That’s pretty,” Dan said when I put it in front of him. “Thanks.”

“Some toast?”

“Sure. If you wouldn’t mind.” My, we were being polite with each other.

I escaped back to the safety of the counter and got busy toasting, buttering, and cutting. Safer to talk when we didn’t have to look at each other.

“I know this sounds crazy,” I said, “but I was thinking today about whether somebody might have framed you for the murder.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. Because they could. Because they wanted to prove something. I have no idea.”

Dan continued to stare at his plate, eating slowly. “We’ll see what Chauncey says,” he repeated, without looking up.

I took the carefully arranged plate of toast over to the table, put it in front of him, and sat down.

“You must be thinking about this as much as I am,” I said, my face close to his. “You must have thoughts.”

Dan put down the fork. “Thinking, yes. Thoughts, no. I don’t know what’s going on, Lacy. I really don’t.”

For the first time in my life, I wondered if my husband was lying to me. Was I being influenced by the message I’d heard, or was this really a wifely intuition?

I cupped my chin in my hands. “We have to get through this together,” I said softly. “No secrets. I’m not going to turn on you, no matter what you tell me.”

“No secrets,” Dan said. But he didn’t look at me, and I wasn’t sure what could be so interesting about his empty plate.

When we got to his office the next morning, Chauncey didn’t have any breakthrough news for us, but he did have six forms for us to sign, which made it seem like we were closing on a house rather than coping with a murder. Then he showed us some of the documents he’d collected — including police reports and a backgrounder on Tasha Barlow.

After we studied them for a while, he took them back, put them neatly into piles on his desk, and folded his hands.

“We need to talk legal strategy,” Chauncey said, leaning toward us. “It’s still early, but I want you to understand some of the options.”

And he laid them out. Plea bargains. Pretrial deals. Judicial decrees. I tried to follow, but it all seemed beside the point, and after a while, I got impatient.

“Shouldn’t we be trying to find the real killer instead of going through all this?” I asked.

“That’s never a solid legal strategy,” Chauncey said. “It can backfire in a dozen ways.”

“So someone gets away with murder while we strategize?” I was seething and trying not to show it, but Chauncey had dealt with upset clients before.

“My focus is getting the best advantage for Dan,” he said.

“Which would be what?”

“Too early to say. But we have to be realistic. For example, we might be able to plea bargain to manslaughter, with a sentence of ten to fifteen years. Dan could be up for parole in as little as three years. I think the DA would listen to an approach from us.”

“Dan’s not guilty. Why would he plea bargain?”

“Because the alternatives are grim, Lacy. If he’s convicted of murder it’s a mandatory twenty-five years to life. Don’t forget that.”

“But he’s not guilty.”

“I understand that.”

I stood up and took a step closer to Chauncey, my voice getting louder. “No, you don’t understand that. If you understood, you wouldn’t be telling Dan to go to jail just for the fun of it.”

“You can know he’s innocent and I can know it,” Chauncey said gently. “But once a case goes to a jury, there are no guarantees.”

“But he’s not guilty,” I repeated again. I wanted to jump up and down to make him listen. Instead, I banged my fist hard against his desk. “Not guilty, okay? Do you hear me? Not guilty. That’s where we start.”

“Of course.”

I turned around and looked at Dan, who had slunk down into the sofa and wasn’t getting involved in my tirade. I took a deep breath and went and sat down next to him. Chauncey looked at me sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Lacy.”

I took another deep breath. I wasn’t going to cry. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult, I just want this to go away. And I keep thinking there’s a link to someone else that we’re missing. Some piece that Dan hasn’t connected.”

“Well, let’s start connecting,” Chauncey said.

We were all silent for a moment.

And then it occurred to me that facts were important, but so was getting to the essential truth about Dan.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Here’s what I’d like you to connect. A tank of gasoline.”

“Gasoline?” Chauncey opened a folder as if expecting to find some mention of fuel — diesel, premium, or regular — in the police report.

“I’m always rushing in the mornings, and one day a few years ago I came downstairs to drive the kids to school, and I noticed my gas tank had mysteriously gone from almost empty to full.”

I looked over at Dan, who gave a little smile, despite himself.

“Dan had filled it for me early in the morning, before he went to the hospital,” I explained. “I’m not much on taking care of cars, so he’d done it as a little surprise to cheer my day. He didn’t want any credit. It just made him happy to know he’d done something nice for me.”

Chauncey took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I could tell he wasn’t following, though for what we were paying, he’d let me rant about trains, planes, and automobiles if I wanted.

“Men don’t always say things straight out,” I said, trying to make my point. “They forget to bring flowers on your birthday. They don’t know that Valentine’s Day is in February. But they have different ways of expressing themselves. If you want a good marriage, you have to hear what your husband’s really telling you. With Dan, a tank of gas can say “I love you” better than any bauble from Buccellati.”

Chauncey glanced over at Dan, who looked slightly embarrassed.

“Lacy and I do things for each other. No big deal,” he said.

I sat back. It
was
a big deal. Any husband could call 1-800-Flowers. How many would drive to a Shell station at 6:00
A.M
.? Chauncey needed to understand what Dan was really like. He needed to listen better. And so did I.

Chapter Six

I
didn’t know I was heading
to Tasha’s place until I was almost there. After I left Chauncey’s office, I drove around aimlessly for a few minutes, then discovered I was on Pico Boulevard, heading west. The address I’d seen on the police report Chauncey showed us had stuck in my head. Living near the ocean seemed pretty swanky as the first stop for a girl from Twin Falls, Idaho, and I wondered how she’d afforded it. When I was a couple of blocks away, I stopped at a red light and looked around — a Jack’s 99 Cent Store, a 7 Eleven, a couple of bodegas selling fruit, and a tiny sign saying
PUBLIC BEACH
: 2
MILES
. So that was it. No oceanside mansions here. Tasha might have liked telling her friends that she lived on the water, but the only whiff of ocean she’d get was from the fish market next door.