Looks to Die For (22 page)

“OUCH!” I screamed for the second time.

A searing pain snapped through my arm, and I lurched back against my seat. I instinctively rubbed my stinging right shoulder.

What the hell had happened?

My hand burned, and when I looked down, I gasped again. However fast I’d moved, my visitor had been faster — clamping a metal handcuff around my right wrist, chaining me to the steering wheel. I stared in disbelief. First the dog collar, now this. Was I the only one in Los Angeles County without a mania for manacles?

“Who are you?” I cried. “What do you want?”

“I want you to drive,” he repeated quietly.

The sunglasses had jerked to the side and I could see gruesomely raised scars around his eyes and thick, irregular lumps along the side of his face. And then I got it. Ugly Johnny DeVito was sitting next to me.

“Start the car and let’s go,” he said in a low, intimidating voice that was oddly familiar.

I didn’t turn the key. “Where’s Nora?” I croaked. Of the fifty thousand questions in my head, that’s the one that popped out.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. And then in the same calm, terrifying voice he said, “Just do what I tell you.”

My head was spinning, trying to formulate an escape plan. Something better than I’d managed with Roy. Driving off, maybe I could holler out the window or honk my horn to attract attention. On the other hand, safety articles always warned to kick and fight and resist right where you were. Once you’d moved to a new location a killer would be more likely to attack.

And I was pretty sure that Johnny DeVito was a killer.

He also had a knife in his hand — and now he held it flat against my bare arm. I struggled, trying to shimmy away from him, but he pushed the blade down harder until I felt the sharp edge starting to slice into my skin. Small drops of blood popped out in an even line on my upper arm.

“Stop!” I screamed. “I’ll drive!”

Amazingly, he took the knife away, holding it calmly in his hand, inches away from my oozing arm. I awkwardly started the car and put my foot carefully on the gas, crawling away from the curb at five miles an hour.

“Drive normally,” he said.

I didn’t normally drive with a swollen ankle, a knife wound in my flesh, and my hand chained to the steering wheel. But I just nodded and increased my speed. Then it occurred to me that I was in control of the car. I could keep upping the speed — maybe smash into a telephone pole or roll the car down a hill.

No, I wouldn’t do that. Not when I was chained to the steering wheel and couldn’t escape. Johnny DeVito had outsmarted me. I sniffled and looked at my arm. He’d stopped before creating any real damage. Only one streak of blood had dribbled down and was pooling at my elbow.

He directed me to turn left, and I did. Then two rights and another left. Otherwise he stayed silent, still holding the knife. But at least it was in his lap, not at my face.

Human contact. Maybe that’s what we needed. Make a personal connection with the killer. A while ago, it had been all over the news when a woman calmed a kidnapper by reading him
The Purpose-Driven Life
. I didn’t have a book handy, but I did have a purpose — to save my life.

“I don’t know this neighborhood at all,” I said, trying to sound calm. My voice broke just a little, but I could do this. “Very nice. Interesting houses.”

He didn’t say anything, but from the corner of my eye, I saw his thumb playing with the knife blade. Not a good sign. What else could we talk about? A neutral subject.

“I see you’re a Dodgers fan. Great team, don’t you think? You know, my dad was originally from New York and he loved the Dodgers when they were the Brooklyn Dodgers and he refused to watch them play in L.A. Couldn’t forgive them for moving. Isn’t that something?”

Johnny DeVito stayed expressionless, unmoved by my dad’s charms. He probably also wouldn’t care that my dad had died when I was twelve — even though I cared a lot. But I didn’t plan to discuss death with a man holding a knife.

New topic. Something so he wouldn’t think I posed any danger to him. Which at the moment — let’s face it — I didn’t.

I took a deep breath. “You might be wondering how I ended up outside your house. I mean, I don’t really know it’s your house. It could be anyone’s house. I only came because Nora wanted to. And we got here by the GPS, so I really couldn’t find the place again if my life depended on it.”

I gulped. Maybe my life did depend on it.

But I had no reason to stop now. I wanted to keep going. I did keep going. Without trying to look at him, I just babbled on.

“Now that you’re telling me where to go, you’re the GPS, if you know what I mean. Ha ha,” I said. Very funny. But he didn’t laugh. “Anyway, if you want me to drop you off someplace, I can do that, and then I’ll just flick on the direction program and get home. We can forget all about this. Of course you’ll have to take off this little handcuff.” I wriggled my wrist. “Not that it’s bothering me or anything, but if you get out, it would help if you take it with you.”

He stared straight ahead. “Shut up,” he said softly.

“Pardon me?”

“Shut up.”

I clamped my mouth tight. Maybe I should have talked about the weather.

A few more minutes passed as I drove down a fairly bleak street that seemed just this side of deserted.

“Turn right at the next corner and pull over to the side. Right next to the Dumpster.”

I brought the Lexus to a stop right where he told me. If he planned to murder me and throw my body into the garbage, I’d just made it very convenient for him. My mind whirled as I tried to come up with options, but I didn’t see any. Johnny held the knife at the ready again.

With the motor off, the silence was startling.

“I saw what your husband did to my Tasha,” Johnny DeVito said, in his low, growling voice. “I should do the same thing to you.” He suddenly swatted his right hand across my face — not a strike so much as a full-on push, as if he were throwing a banana cream pie at me. He crushed his fingers — surprisingly smooth — against my nose and ground his palm into my lips. I tried to bare my teeth and bite him, but he gave a final angry shove and pulled back his hand. My pink twelve-hour-formula lipstick was now smeared on his palm, and that seemed to infuriate him. He slapped me twice hard across my chin and cheeks. I felt tears spring to my eyes.

With a deep, vile sneer, Johnny sat back and brandished the knife.

“He humiliated her. Exposed her. Same for you. Take off your pants,” he said.

I stared at him in shock but didn’t move.

“You never listen the first time,” Johnny said, and he slashed at the edge of my Donna Karan capris with his blade, slicing through the thin fabric — and grazing my skin.

I screamed — and once again, he stopped.

“Take them off or I cut them off,” he said. “The top, too.”

Shaking and crying, I wriggled out of the bottoms and fumbling with my free left hand, started to unbutton my blouse.

Johnny stared at me, open-mouthed. The black silk embroidered La Perla bra with its sheer netting underneath was meant to cause exactly that expression on men, but right now I would have been happier wearing a Hanes T-shirt. He hadn’t noticed the panties yet, which were sheer in the back and had a matching lace ruffle across the front.

I tried to look businesslike, as if I weren’t stripping for a man with a knife.

“I can’t get the shirt off over the handcuffs,” I said.

“Do the best you can.”

I took off one sleeve, then let the other drop down until it was caught at the steering wheel. Johnny nodded, then leaned over and with a small key snapped open the lock. He threw the shirt and pants in the backseat and held the knife at my leg.

“Get out of the car,” he said. “Now.”

This time I decided to listen the first time. I flung open the door and jumped out. Without looking back, I started running away from the car, moving as fast as I could on my aching ankle, ready to set another personal best despite my kitten-heeled mules. I would have kicked them off, but I could feel hard bits of gravel digging into the thin soles, and bare feet wouldn’t make it better. So I ran. If Johnny DeVito had a gun, let him shoot me from behind. I had to get away.

But he didn’t come after me. When I finally dared to look over my shoulder, the car was gone. He’d left.

I stopped running and tried to catch my breath. At first, all I felt was relief. I was out of the handcuffs and out of his clutches. He hadn’t killed me. But as I kept walking, the weirdness of the new situation finally struck me. I was walking through an industrial street in five-hundred-dollar lace underwear, without a cell phone or a penny to my name. I was still half terrified that Johnny DeVito would reappear and wreak whatever vengeance he thought I deserved for Tasha’s death.

I walked in the middle of the street, waving my arms wildly at the few cars passing by. Two of them just swerved around me, one beeping loudly. Then a swarthy Hispanic man in a beaten-up white van slowed down and called out, “You okay, lady?”

“No!”
I screamed to him. “I need help!”

He leaned out the window, staring at me. Maybe he’d never seen French lingerie up close before, but he didn’t need to leer quite so insistently. Then the leer turned to a big grin and, sounding pleased with himself, he asked, “You competing in one of them reality shows? If so, I’m your man. Ready for the next challenge.”

I shook my head. “This is real life!”

He looked up and down the street, checking for cameras, and seemed disappointed when he didn’t spot any. I started walking over to the van, but he put out an arm to stop me. If he wasn’t going to be on TV, he wasn’t wasting his time. He drove off.

Exhausted and shaking now, I kept walking, teetering from side to side like a drunk. The slash mark on my arm had started bleeding again, but I didn’t have any way to stop it. No way was I taking my bra off to use as a tourniquet.

I turned a corner and ahead of me saw a long Silver Star trailer, the kind actors use as dressing rooms on a movie shoot. Usually four or five are lined up amid miles of curling cable and glaring lights, the center of a buzz of activity. But here it was quiet. No union workers scarfing coffee and glazed doughnuts while ogling clipboard-carrying assistants in tight Seven jeans. No actors’ stand-ins waiting patiently on their marks, pretending to be stars. No studio executives loitering by their limos, trying to look like they were paid to do more than show up. No sounds at all. Just a double row of orange cones that might be marking the site for future frenzy.

I walked slowly over to the trailer, carefully climbed the rickety metal steps, and knocked on the door.

A heavyset, jowly security guard in a blue-and-gold uniform opened it, and when he saw me, he laughed.

“They’re not starting to shoot for another week,” he said. “Mr. Clooney hasn’t even arrived yet. If you want to write him a fan letter, I’ll put it in his pile.”

“I don’t want to meet George Clooney,” I said. “Actually, I’ve met him. Twice. But that’s not why I’m here. A couple of hours ago, I was abducted and driven over here and forced to take off all my clothes. I need someone to help me.”

The security guard looked mildly amused. “Abducted by aliens?” he asked.

“No. By a scarred man with a knife. A former convict.”

“Aliens would be a better story,” the guard said thoughtfully. “Might interest Mr. Clooney, but probably not. He seems to prefer serious topics these days. But I give you credit for trying. Once the movie starts, we get three women a day in underwear showing up trying to meet him.”

“I was attacked,” I said, pointing to my bloodied arm.

“Laser gun or light saber?”

“Neither. Knife.”

The guard sighed. “You’re not trying.” He started to shut the door, but I stuck an elbow in just in time.

“Listen, my name is Lacy Fields. My husband is Dan Fields, the plastic surgeon. The alien stole my Lexus, too, and I need a car service to get home. Can you call for me? We use Royal Wheels when we’re going to the airport, so I have an account with them. But any one will do. Really.”

The guard looked at me in disbelief, then firmly shut the door.

I sat down on the metal trailer step. The weak sun hadn’t done much to warm the plating, and I was suddenly chilled. I wrapped my arms around my middle, wondering if I could ask the guard to borrow a shirt. But he’d figure I just wanted a George Clooney souvenir to sell on eBay.

I sat for a very long time, hoping he’d made the call and waiting for a Royal Wheels Lincoln Town Car to pull up. But when a car finally glided toward me, it was a blue Chevy. And instead of a capped and uniformed limo driver, two men in slacks and shirts got out. One dough-faced, one handsome with hard eyes.

“Mrs. Fields,” said one of the men, just a trace of irony in his voice. “We meet again. I’m Detective Reese. Looks like you need some help here.”

But not this kind of help. Reese and Shields were the cops who had arrested my husband.

Chapter Nine

I
’d been at the station house
for three hours when Reese came in to say they’d found my stolen car.

“Located it around the corner from where we picked you up,” he said, swinging one leg around a chair next to me. He straddled the seat, sat down, and then folded his arms over the backrest. He lowered his head so his chin was propped in his hands and his penetrating green eyes were staring into mine. A nice maneuver that he’d learned either in detective school or watching
Law & Order
.

“Was it damaged?” I asked.

“Nope, it seems to be in perfect condition.” Reese blinked once, his long lashes fluttering up and down. “But given your story, it’s pretty strange that we found it there, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. It fits in exactly with what I told you.” I tugged at the sleeve of the shapeless, vomit-green shirt Reese had given me to wear, along with matching pull-on pants that wouldn’t stay up on my hips. The only other option had been an orange prison jumpsuit and I wasn’t going for that. “I guess DeVito drove away after he dumped me and then got out himself.”