Looks to Die For

by Janice Kaplan

  Also by Janice Kaplan (with Lynn Schnurnberger)

  The Botox Diaries

  The Men I Didn’t Marry

  Mine Are Spectacular!

  TOUCHSTONE

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Janice Kaplan

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Sue Walsh

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kaplan, Janice.

  Looks to die for / Janice Kaplan.

  p. cm.

  “A Touchstone Book”

  1. Interior decorators — Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.) — Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.A5593L66 2007

  813’.54 — dc22 2006050556

  ISBN: 1-4165-3866-6

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To Ron,

  for walks in the woods

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The night the police came to arrest my husband for murder, I was upstairs, killing myself on the treadmill. If I kept up this pace, I’d finish my three miles in twenty-two and a half minutes, a personal best. So when I heard the doorbell ring, I ignored it, and then ignored it again. But whoever was chiming wouldn’t go away and the noise was going to wake up the whole house. Annoyed, I hit the STOP button, threw a Juicy Couture sweatshirt on over my pink running bra and matching shorts, kicked off my all-terrain cross-trainers, which were giving me blisters anyway, and headed downstairs. No personal best tonight.

  The Chinese cloisonné clock in the front hall foyer registered ll:50 P.M., not a typical time for guests to arrive at our gated community in Pacific Palisades. I tried peering through the peephole in the door, but the artistically cut crystal sphere had been designed for beauty, not usefulness. I could vaguely make out two men who seemed to be cops, and when I tentatively called out “Hello?” they waved their identification cards, not knowing that from my side, those IDs could have been Picasso graphics. I made a mental note to check out more practical security systems.

  Cops at my door? My first emotion was curiosity, not panic, since those I loved and worried about full-time were tucked in upstairs. Grant had turned in early to get some rest before a science test tomorrow, Ashley had communed with two girlfriends until just after ten then gone straight to her own bedroom, and little Jimmy had heard monsters rumbling in his closet but managed to get to sleep after I read him three picture books and pretended to fall asleep first. Even my husband, Dan, had spent forty-five minutes reading medical journals and then set his alarm for dawn so he’d be up for early-morning surgery.

  I twisted the ring on my right hand so that the big ruby and two small diamonds pointed into my palm, then opened the door, glancing first at the tall Hispanic cop who still gripped his identification awkwardly, then to the other cop, slightly older and shorter, dour and doughy-faced.

  “We need Dr. Dan Fields, ma’am,” the older cop said, his voice as rough-edged as his body.

  “What for?”

  “I’d like to explain that directly to the doctor.”

  I was sweaty and tired and not interested in conversing with cagey cops. But I had an idea what was going on here, since about a month ago, a three-car police escort had come to whisk Dan to the hospital to take care of a major actress who had sliced off her finger cutting a bagel. My husband was the Saint of Hollywood, the plastic surgeon whose skill at molding, reattaching, and reconstructing meant he could save any face or body part that was seriously endangered. This being Hollywood, he had also nipped and tucked some of the most famous faces on the planet, and the wait for a consultation at one point stretched to eight months. If you couldn’t get an appointment, you could at least read fawning articles about him in Vogue or Elle. No doubt written by editors who figured that with enough sweet talk, Dan would move them to the top of the waiting list.

  “Has somebody been hurt?” I asked the cop.

  “Someone’s been hurt real bad.” He took a step toward me, edging in front of his buddy, a sneer contorting his features. “Now go get Dr. Fields for us.”

  His menacing style wouldn’t work. “Look, Dan’s gone to sleep already,” I said, trying not to sound as intimidated as I felt. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  The Hispanic cop glanced back over his shoulder at his partner, who was pocketing his identification, then repeated, “Just get the doctor for us.”

  “If you’re looking for a favor from Dan, you could ask a little more politely,” I said.

  The cops exchanged looks, then the Hispanic one said, “It’s not a favor, ma’am. If you don’t call him down, we’ll go get him. We know he’s in the house.”

  The guy was a genius. I say Dan’s gone to bed and he figures out that he’s in the house. “If you don’t call it a favor to come by here at almost midnight and ask for Dan…” I stopped, because they were both looking at me oddly, and the message finally penetrated that I was off base. Way off base. Maybe not even in the right playing field.

  I took a deep breath and, looking again at the doughy-faced cop, noticed that his badge said Detective Vincent Shields and that his buddy was Detective José Reese. Shields quietly said, “I assume Dr. Fields is your husband. He’s wanted for questioning.”

  I stood there, unable to move, and Shields added, “We’re investigating a murder.” He pointed to the intercom by the front door. “Can you call him down?”

  I was suddenly so confused that the intercom might as well have been a moon rock that had dropped into my front hall. I cleared my throat. I pulled myself back together. “Uh, the thing is, we just remodeled the top floor and wiring it into the old system has been a problem, you know? The electrician kept saying he could do it, even though he couldn’t do it, so we probably need a whole new system or at least a whole new electrician, if you know what I mean….” I paused, wondering if I could make myself stop babbling. Maybe some action would do it. I stepped over to the intercom, touched the TALK button and the “Master Bedroom” light, and then said, “Dan? Honey? Can you hear me?”

  For a response, I got static. I ran my fingers through my curly hair, pushing it back from my forehead, which was still sweaty from the treadmill. And getting even sweatier from the fear suddenly coursing through me.

  “We need to go upstairs,” Reese said. “You want to lead us?”

  I didn’t want to do anything of the sort. Having the cops in my marble foyer was horrifying enough. But it didn’t really occur to me that I could say no to a man with a badge.

  “Mommy? Is it monsters?”

  I spun around and saw Jimmy standing at the top of the steps, peering down at us through a railing. His ankles stuck out of his too-short Su
perman pajamas at an odd angle, and he looked so skinny and vulnerable that I wanted to run right up the stairs and give him a hug. But the cops were eyeing me intently and sudden moves didn’t seem like a good idea.

  “No, honey, everything’s fine. No monsters, just these nice policemen.” I smiled bravely and tried to keep my lip from quivering. Jimmy had put on his old superhero pajamas tonight so he could fight any monsters who showed up in his room, but who knew that they’d take this form?

  “Jimmy, sweetie, can you do Mommy a favor?”

  He stepped back from the railing and eyed me carefully — even at five, he wouldn’t commit until he knew the dimensions of the request.

  “Go to Mommy and Daddy’s room and give Daddy a little shake. Tell Daddy that Mommy needs him to put on a robe and come down.”

  Jimmy ran off so quickly that I wasn’t sure if he’d taken it in or was simply fleeing to hide under his covers. Slowly, I turned to the cops again, but they were muttering to each other. Detective Shields glanced at his watch and said, “I don’t like this. In two minutes you go up.”

  “Lemme go now. No way the guy’s coming down.”

  Shields nodded, and the two of them headed for the staircase, clambering quickly up the steps two at a time, their smooth-soled shoes slipping on the Italian marble. At the top landing they stopped short, peering at the hallways that headed off in three directions. Reese turned to glare at me as I dashed up the stairs behind them.

  “Where do we find him?” he growled.

  Trying to catch my breath — lost to anxiety, not exertion — I didn’t answer.

  “Which of these damn hallways?” he bellowed.

  “Our bedroom’s to your right,” I said, gasping. Then, not meaning to scream, I did anyway. “Dan!” I hollered.

  From down the hall, my husband appeared at the bedroom door, his blond hair rumpled, his face blank from interrupted sleep. He hadn’t bothered with a robe, just a pair of sweatpants, and he took a moment to register that there were two cops approaching him. When he did, his deep blue eyes widened and he blinked hard.

  “What’s going on?” he asked groggily.

  The cops moved closer, surrounding him as effectively as two people can.

  “You’re Dr. Daniel Fields?” asked Shields.

  “Yes, I am. May I help you?” His refined accent grew more refined as the cops leaned in. Even bare-chested, he maintained his dignity. A well-toned, well-tanned chest can do that for you.

  “Well, doc, you can come down to the station house with us. Right now. Quietly,” said Shields, with a hint of threat in his voice.

  “Would you like to explain why?”

  Shields took a moment to answer, digging his toe into the fringe of the Persian rug, then looking at Jimmy, who had slipped out of the bedroom and was edging closer to his dad.

  “We need you for questioning,” Shields said, discreetly not elaborating while one scared Superman stared wide-eyed at him.

  “And it can’t wait until morning?” Dan asked.

  “No. Now.”

  “Help me out here, gentlemen. I don’t have any idea what this is about or why you need to talk to me.” Dan sounded composed and reasonable, as if he were sipping Chablis at his Princeton eating club, not confronting two LAPD cops.

  Jimmy anxiously rubbed his hand over the big S emblem on his chest. But the shield wouldn’t protect him, and neither would Reese.

  “You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Theresa Bartowski,” he said bluntly.

  “I don’t even know who that is. Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “She’s also known as Tasha Barlow.”

  Not the slightest wave of recognition crossed Dan’s face. “Is this a former patient of mine?” he asked.

  “We can discuss it all downtown,” Reese said.

  “No, let’s discuss it here. Or better still, why don’t you call me at my office in the morning? I’ll pull out my patient records and do whatever I can to help you. But right now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to bed. I have surgery scheduled for seven A.M. and I’m not eager to stay up all night talking.”

  Reese and Shields exchanged another look, and with a move too quick to allow either reaction or resistance, Reese whipped handcuffs out of his back pocket and snapped them on Dan’s slender wrists. “You’re under arrest in the murder of Tasha Barlow,” he intoned. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in —”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dan’s voice, suddenly shrill, warbled through the hall.

  “— a court of law. You have the right —”

  “Get these off me!” Dan staggered back, holding his arms outstretched like oddities that no longer belonged to his body. Trying to spin around and make his case for release, he accidentally slammed his handcuffed wrists against Reese, who hastily stepped back and reached for his gun. Shields had his weapon drawn the moment his partner was touched, and it was trained on Dan.

  Jimmy began wailing, a high-pitched, hysterical sound that perfectly mimicked what I was feeling. I rushed over and swooshed him into my arms, running down the hall with him, past the staircase, away from the police and guns, and into his room, which, even infested with monsters, seemed safer than where we had been. In a single motion, I slipped him into his bed and tucked in the covers, murmuring, “You’re fine, honey. Everything’s going to be fine.” He stopped crying, more from surprise at suddenly finding himself under the cozy sheets than from any deeper comfort I’d supplied. I yearned to crawl in next to him and hide my head under his pillow. But as I stroked Jimmy’s tear-streaked face, I could hear Dan’s plaintive voice from down the hall calling, “Lacy? Lacy?”

  My heart banged so furiously that I could hear the pounding in my ears. I’d been a G.I. Joe–banning, Second Amendment–doubting citizen long enough that the simple sight of a gun scared me beyond all reason. Having two of them aimed at my husband blasted me into total terror. I sat down on the bed trying to hide my shock. Jimmy lay suddenly still, as if monsters might be a welcome diversion from the real-life drama. His eyes were closed and his breathing placid, as if he had willed himself to sleep.

  I pulled myself together and hurried back down the long hallway to the group in front of our bedroom. The cops’ guns were back in their holsters, and Dan, still bound at the wrists, was trying to reason with Shields.

  “I have to get dressed,” Dan was saying quietly. “If you take off the handcuffs, I can be quick.”

  Shields looked skeptical for a moment but then nodded. “Okay, I’ll give you three minutes to put on some clothes. But we’re keeping you within eyesight. The door stays open so we can see you.”

  He nodded at Reese to unlock the cuffs, and the detective reached for the key reluctantly. “You want me to call for some backup to surround the house?” he asked, still holding the key. “Don’t want him escaping while he’s pretending to look for his Calvins.”

  “I think we’re under control,” Shields said.

  But Reese pushed into the bedroom before Dan. “I’ll just wait in here.”

  I stepped closer to Dan and touched his elbow. “What’s happening?”

  He turned around to look at me, and his face was tightly controlled, giving up nothing. “I have no idea. But apparently I’m going downtown with these fellows.”

  “Do you know what they want? Do you know who that woman is? Does this make any sense?” I asked, my questions tumbling on top of each other.

  “No,” said Dan, one firm negative covering it all. Then calmly, “I’ll have to straighten it out.”

  “How do you straighten it out when they’ve arrested you?” I asked, practically screeching.

  Dan picked up my panic, and anxiety briefly flickered over his face. “You should call Jack,” he said, meaning Jack Rosenfeld, family friend and attorney.

  “Good idea.”

  We filed into the bedrooom together, and feeling awkward under Shields’s gaze, I
tripped clumsily against the edge of the rug. But I steadied myself, picked up the cordless phone on the night table, and dialed Jack’s house. An answering machine beeped, and I left an urgent message for Jack to call me as soon as possible. I started to stutter out more details but then realized I couldn’t figure them out myself.

  When I hung up, Dan had pulled on crisp khakis and a navy blue polo shirt and was heading into the bathroom.

  “Just a minute,” Reese said. He pushed into the room ahead of Dan and jerked his head back in surprise, momentarily staggered by the gleaming marble and brass fittings of our high-tech bathroom. I used to cherish each fancy fixture, but now I couldn’t care less. If it would only make the cops leave, I’d gladly trade my Kohler commode for an outhouse.

  “A lot of windows in here,” Reese called back to his partner, staring up at the arched glass ceiling.

  “I’m not trying to escape,” Dan said mildly. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  Reese peered out one of the oversized windows, contemplating the two-story drop. Then he sauntered to the other end of the bathroom. “What’s through here?”

  “The spa.”

  Reese opened the sliding door, and the wall of mirrors on the other side reflected his astonishment as he took in the huge Jacuzzi whirlpool and natural-wood hot tub. “Nice setup you’ve got here,” he said acidly. “I’ll just wait on this side while you do your business.”

  The bathroom door clicked shut, and I edged toward the bed, reeling from this bizarre alternate reality in which I’d suddenly landed. Shields kept his back to me, not encouraging conversation, and I rubbed my finger back and forth on the duchesse quilt. If I were dreaming, would I be able to feel the silk fabric sliding against my fingers? I blinked hard a few times and then the bathroom door opened again to reveal Dan back in handcuffs, with Reese at his elbow.

  “We’re ready,” Reese said.

  Shields nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Dan took a few steps toward me. “Will you come with me?” he asked. His hooded eyes held mine, needing me.