Looks to Die For (17 page)

But no, I’d lost the right to that kind of self-indulgence (even in fantasy) long ago. I had three good children. I’d want them to know that bad news wasn’t the end of the world. No matter what happened, you had to pull yourself together and keep going.

I took a few steps back and plopped down on the sand, oddly satisfied to feel the wet muck seeping through my silk Escada skirt. Dan had been at that apartment the night Tasha Barlow was killed. Been by with a wad of cash. Had a glass of wine. Spent time with a woman who — according to the police report — was found naked except for a pink marabou-trimmed robe. Tasha Barlow was willing to indulge a man’s fantasies if she could get something for it, whether that meant a reference on a résumé or an envelope of cash. If Dan had come to Tasha’s place for kinky sex, a lot of the pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.

The waves splashed rhythmically onto the beach, little peaks swirling in and out, in and out. A few boats sailed gracefully in the distance, but mostly the sea remained calm and uninterrupted, a deep blue expanse stretching on forever. For some reason, it reminded me of a day a month after I arrived in Los Angeles. Dan and I had met at a party and just started dating. As we strolled together in Malibu, getting to know each other, Dan had stretched his arms out and murmured, “Looking at the endless ocean always makes me ponder the vastness of the universe.”

The vastness of the universe? Young and perky, I’d thought about that for the briefest moment then teasingly responded, “Really? I’m from Ohio. Looking at the endless ocean always makes me ponder whether I could learn to surf.” Dan had paused and I’d felt my heart stop, worried that I’d been too flippant for this handsome, brilliant man who could be serious even on a sunny beach day. But he’d smiled and said, “That’s probably a much better thought.” Later that night we went to a tiny room in the Sunset Vue Motel and made love for the very first time. When we finally lay wrapped in each other’s arms, well sated and newly in love, I whispered, “Whatever you just did, I’m suddenly feeling the vastness of the universe.”

It became our joke ever after — the vastness of the universe. Life and love were infinite, boundless. So many options, so many grains of sand. I scooped up a handful of the smoothly glittering particles now and let them glide through my fingers. How many of those possibilities was I considering right now?

Okay, try again. Maybe Dan had been to Tasha’s place, but that didn’t mean he’d come for kinky sex. Or that he had killed her. Accepting that scenario meant discarding everything I knew about my husband. When Dan said at the beginning of this mess that he didn’t know Tasha Barlow by name or face, he meant it. He’d been genuinely baffled. No DNA evidence the police could gather was as compelling as the truth a wife knew.

Or was it? How many men led secret lives that their trusting spouses didn’t suspect? I’d watched
Jerry Springer
a few times. I knew about men who liked to cross-dress or visit the local dominatrix now and then. I’d read the article in
Vanity Fair
about the married English lord who died of asphyxiation after hiring a prostitute to bring him to new orgasmic peaks.

But those wives didn’t know their husbands like I did.

I left the beach and made my way back to my car. I wanted to go home and talk to Dan, but I had something else to do first. I turned east, retracing my route down Pico, and drove to Beverly Boulevard, to the now too familiar law office. With my wet and sandy skirt sticking to my legs and my makeup streaked from the beach mist, I took the elevator directly from the parking garage, called out, “Just seeing Mr. Howell,” as I sauntered by the receptionist, then smiled brightly at Chauncey’s assistant as I walked in his open door. So much for security.

Chauncey looked up, startled, but ever the implacable lawyer, he quickly got his expression under control.

“Lacy, come on in,” he said cordially, as if he’d invited me over for afternoon tea and was happy I’d finally arrived. He took off his reading glasses and gestured for me to sit down. But instead I kept my ground, standing sturdily in my dirty sandals on his antique Tibetan rug.

“Jimmy wet his bed last week,” I said, not bothering with hello. “He hasn’t done that since he was two.”

Chauncey opened his mouth — maybe to point out that he was a lawyer, not a child psychologist — then closed it again.

“Ashley’s turned punk and started skipping school,” I continued. “Grant’s trying to remain sane, but God knows how he’ll focus enough to take SATs next month. My family’s falling apart.”

“This is a difficult time, and it doesn’t get easier for a while,” Chauncey said evenly.

“Is that why you suggested a plea bargain this morning? To keep us from self-destructing during a trial?”

“I wasn’t
suggesting
a plea bargain. I was presenting options for you to consider.”

“And maybe you considered it a good option because you know what I know,” I said. “That Dan had gone to see Tasha Barlow the night she died.”

Chauncey put the cover on his Mont Blanc pen — about six hundred dollars more expensive than the Bic he used in court — and looked at me. “You know for a fact Dan was there?”

“Pretty much. And you knew that, too, didn’t you?”

After the briefest pause, Chauncey said, “I’d surmised.”

“Why didn’t you say so this morning? Why didn’t you ask Dan about it?”

“I don’t have all the official reports yet. The DA doesn’t have to provide them, but he and I have known each other a long time. When I find out more about his case, I’ll present it carefully to Dan. Right now, I don’t want your husband saying anything — to me or anyone else — that he may need to change later.”

“So you’d rather not know if he’s guilty.”

“This morning you were incensed that I didn’t feel strongly enough about his innocence. What I’ve learned in twenty years as a lawyer is not to jump to conclusions. Much of life and law is subject to interpretation,” he said, as if he were reading from Mr. Morland’s bulletin board.

“Okay, interpret this,” I said, walking toward him. My skirt swirled damply, sprinkling sand like fairy dust at every step. “I think Dan’s innocent. I don’t care where he was that night. Maybe the killer’s Johnny DeVito. Ever hear of him? He’s an ex-con who Tasha hung out with and he used to be violent. He gave her a lot of presents and she was in love with him. Doesn’t it make more sense to think he killed her than Dan?”

Chauncey made a note on the pad in front of him.

“A violent ex-con hangs out with a woman and she ends up dead,” I said, persisting. “Suspicious, isn’t it?”

“It could be,” Chauncey said noncommitally.

“Did you know about Johnny DeVito and Tasha? Does anybody? Are the police investigating him or are they just focused on Dan? Really, Chauncey, I think we need to know all this, don’t you?” I spit out my spiel too fast, my voice so high-pitched it could have shattered the Baccarat crystal clock on his desk.

Chauncey just sighed. “Look, Lacy, I don’t know where you got all your information. I’ll check him out. But you have to take tips like this with a grain of salt.”

“It comes from a good source.”

“I’m sure,” Chauncey said. But he didn’t ask what it was.

“Something else for you to check,” I said, louder now, and raising the pitch yet another octave. Maybe I could at least crack the crystal candy dish. “I’d like to know if Johnny DeVito’s fingerprints were on the envelope that the police say came from Dan.”

Chauncey wrinkled his brow. “What envelope?”

“The one with the money in it.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Lacy.”

I felt a surge of triumph. Chauncey didn’t know all the facts the police had told loyal roommate Nora. Suddenly I was the one in the know. Someone had to be.

“Dan left an envelope stuffed with money in Tasha’s apartment,” I said authoritatively, tossing back my salty, stringy hair. “The police theory, I guess, is that Dan had gone to…um, buy favors from Tasha Barlow. But that’s crazy. Come on, Chauncey, you’ve seen Dan. He’s the last man in Hollywood who needs to pay for sex.”

As the words tumbled out, I knew how pathetic I sounded — the deceived suburban housewife who didn’t understand that if handsome Dan shelled out for kinky mistress maneuvers, he could count Hugh Grant, Charlie Sheen, and scores of other shouldn’t-have-to-pay-for-it guys as his comrades.

Chauncey rubbed his temple. “There’s definitely been some talk that the victim might have died during sexual activity.”

“Dan wouldn’t —” I stopped and bit my lip. Dan wouldn’t pay out to have some woman put out. Wasn’t his style. But I couldn’t discuss Dan’s sex life with Chauncey Howell or anyone else.

I turned and walked out of the office.

Back home, I slunk upstairs, flicked on the computer, and Googled Johnny DeVito. Sixty-three thousand references. I scanned the list, but the search engine wasn’t on my side. Nothing about Johnny DeVito, ex-con. Or Johnny DeVito, gone missing. I clicked on the third site, and suddenly my computer flashed “
Johnny Dangerously.
”

I sat back, stunned. Is that what I was facing — a man known as Johnny Dangerously? Then I got it. Google was a search engine, not a psychic.
Johnny Dangerously
was a 1980s movie starring Danny DeVito and the searching software had juxtaposed the two names and sent me to this site. Still, looking at the name gave me a chill. Johnny Dangerously. What if the name really did describe him — and nobody else but me realized it?

“Hi, Mom.”

I jumped, hearing Grant’s voice at the door of my study. Before I could turn off the computer, he ambled into the room and looked over my shoulder.

“
Johnny Dangerously
? Whoa, Mom. What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” I said. “At least, the wrong thing. I tried to get information on a Johnny DeVito, but I got the movie, not the man.”

“Next time put quotation marks around the name,” said Grant knowingly.

I nodded, still getting used to the idea that my son was grown up enough to know more than me about something. Or when it came to computers, iPods, and Xbox, more than me about everything.

“So who’s the guy?” Grant asked, moving from the tech topic to the touchy one.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Something to do with Dad?” Grant asked, zeroing in immediately.

“Could be. Johnny knew the…victim. And he’d been in jail.”

Oh, damn, why was I discussing this with my teenage son? Probably because he was here and cared and was smarter than any of us. “Anyway, I was looking for some background on him.”

“Let me try.”

I stood up and Grant slid into the chair in front of the iMac. He hit buttons on the keyboard, leaped quickly through websites, and then hit
PRINT
. A couple more minutes and he printed again. For Grant, the computer wasn’t any more intimidating than a number 2 pencil. And why should it be? He’d been weaned directly from Beech-Nut applesauce to a Pentium PC.

“I found some newspaper articles,” Grant said, taking the pages out of the printer. “Archives of the
L.A. Times
. Two stories from when your guy went to jail.”

We looked them over together. Johnny Dangerously (as I now thought of him) had gone to prison for selling drugs. One of the articles hinted about a tie to organized crime and the possibility that he’d gotten away with murder a few years earlier. There weren’t any pictures and not a lot to go on.

“Makes sense if he’s the guy who did it,” Grant said. “That’d be cool.”

I looked carefully at the dates on the articles. Something was nagging at my mind, but I couldn’t place it.

A little after midnight, I fell asleep waiting for Dan to come home. Under the goose-down comforter, I dreamed that I was lying at ocean’s edge in Malibu, watching Johnny Dangerously ride the waves on a Spyder surfboard. He did a double half-pipe and skidded up onto the too sunny beach next to me. I glimpsed his scarred face and my heart pounded a drumbeat of recognition. I knew this man. I’d seen him before. I tried to memorize the features, but he got back on his surfboard and paddled into the swirling ocean. I ran into the water, but the sun — too bright — glared in my eyes, and in the scorching light, Johnny’s face began to fade, replaced by a blazing halo. Johnny Dangerously had disappeared in a scrim of dazzling white light. The face — mysterious, half forgotten — was gone. I made a visor of my hand, trying to protect my eyes and see into the radiating mist, but it was too late.

I woke up abruptly and blinked hard, trying to eliminate the bright red dots that were bursting behind my eyelids. It took a few moments to realize that I wasn’t on a beach. Nobody was surfing. The dazzling sun in my dreams must have been a mental transposition of the halogen spotlights above the bed, which were now blazing directly into my eyes.

I sat up and squinted, trying to get my bearings.

“Dan?” I called out hesitantly. Shading my eyes against the brightness, I saw my husband standing by his dresser, an intricately carved nineteenth-century Fujian province chest, tugging off his socks. That wasn’t an activity that typically required a thousand watts of illumination. Usually when Dan came home late, he undressed by the soft glow from the bathroom light. But tonight he’d blasted on the overheads — and not bothered about the Auto-Glo dimmer dial, either.

“What’s going on?” I asked groggily.

Dan turned around, his face a frozen mask of anger. “You went to Chauncey’s office this afternoon. Why the hell did you do that?” His voice was icy and deadly soft. I could hear the steel edge of rage under the coldly modulated tone.

“I wanted to talk to him,” I said lamely.

“We all talked together this morning. Then you charged in on him later, looking like something the cat dragged in.”

Is that how Chauncey had described me? One wet Escada skirt and suddenly I was challenging Courtney Love for top spot on the world’s worst-dressed list? But that was beside the point.

“Chauncey needed to know some things,” I said stoically. “I just wanted to help.”

“Don’t.” Dan spat out the word like a bullet. “Don’t help.” His face was rigid with anger, deep lines etched into his cheeks. He slammed the dresser drawer — not a way to treat a nineteenth-century original — and as he stormed toward the bed, I recoiled against the pillows, reflexively raising my hands to my chest as if to protect myself.