Nora sat down on the ratty sofa, scrounged for a tissue that was half buried under one of the pillows, and blew her nose loudly.
“I want to tell Johnny how much Terry loved him,” she said. “I have a lot of things to tell him. But he hasn’t called or anything. I guess he’s scared.”
“Is he the ex-con?” I asked. Now that could be interesting.
“Yup, but he was completely reformed. Johnny DeVito. Six years in jail, I think. Or maybe eight. He told Terry everything. Bought her everything she wanted. Everything in that bedroom came from him. He told her how beautiful she was all the time, and he couldn’t believe she loved him because he’s so…” Her voice trailed off and she rubbed at her nose with the tissue.
“He’s so what?” I asked.
“Ugly,” Nora said bluntly. “He’s ugly. And the one thing he wouldn’t tell is how he got all the scars on his face.”
I put down the shopping bag of tapes that I was still holding and plopped on the sofa next to Nora. Since she needed to talk and I was handy, she wasn’t going to send me away.
“Have you told all this to the police?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I was in Twin Falls, remember? By the time I got back, they had the guy. The doctor guy. My friend Tony says once the police know who did it, they don’t care about anyone else. They just build the case. Like with Robert Blake. Or O.J.”
Did Nora think that the cops had the right guy or wrong guy in those cases? Guilty or innocent? Well, we weren’t going there, as Ashley would say.
“If the police are building a case against this doctor, what’ve they got?” I asked instead, trying to keep my voice steady. Chauncey had said the prosecutors didn’t have to share their information with him yet. Maybe I could provide him some details.
“Everything,” Nora said, biting at the cuticle on her thumbnail. “Eyewitness identification. Fingerprints. DNA. Gracie Adler next door saw him coming into the apartment. Gracie heard her screaming at the top of her lungs —” Nora paused, then, raising her voice half an octave to imitate Tasha, said, “ ‘Stop it, Dr. Fields, stop it! Stop it, Dr. Fields, stop it!’”
I felt myself trembling from head to toe. “There must be more than one Dr. Fields in L.A.,” I said, just to say something.
“But there was the car,” Nora said importantly. “Gracie had noticed it in the parking lot two or three times — a navy blue Mercedes 520 with the license plate BESTDOC. Can’t really miss that, can you? Gracie had asked me about it before. She says she wasn’t being nosy, but at her age she could use the Best Doc, so when she saw him pull in, she watched where he went.”
The vanity license plate had been a gift to Dan from his office staff one Christmas. He’d been embarrassed at first, but they’d kept renewing it — and now it was his calling card.
“Maybe someone else was driving the car,” I said, my voice raspy. “Someone other than the doctor.”
“The police artist made a sketch from Gracie’s description, and it turned out that the doctor looked exactly like the picture. Plus his fingerprints were on a wineglass.” She pointed to a dilapidated buffet littered with liquor bottles and beer cans. “They found two glasses right there — one had his fingerprints and the other had Terry’s.”
“DNA?” I asked weakly.
“He’d thrown a tissue in the wastebasket. That matched, too. He was here. He killed her. And if only I’d been around…” She started crying again, and I stood up and walked over to the window, just to make sure my limbs were functioning. The rest of me was numb. I’d heard enough.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, my voice barely registering now. “I’ll let myself out.”
Nora tried to pull herself together. “Wait,” she said. She sniffed loudly and stared down at the thumb she’d been biting. “Could you ask Roy one thing for me? Ask him if he ever gave Terry any money.”
“Money?” I repeated the word dumbly. “For what?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe for some weird stuff he liked. The cops found an envelope from the doctor that was stuffed with cash. A lot — like five thousand dollars. Now they think that all the men paid her and Terry was…a professional, if you know what I mean. For all that money, the doctor must have wanted something really kinky. Even kinkier than Roy. And probably that’s how she ended up strangled.”
I staggered back, feeling as if Nora had just delivered a hard punch to my head. Everything went black for a moment, and I grabbed dizzily for the sofa, trying not to fall over.
“I couldn’t bear it if Terry became a whore,” Nora continued, not noticing that I was reeling. “She pierced her tongue and she showed me the gold stud. But that doesn’t mean she was being paid for blow jobs. The men loved her for herself. Probably even the doctor. She used to say she had to do what she had to do but —”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I took the Whole Foods bag and left.
Devastated, I drove up the coast and got out at the Santa Monica Palisades, joining the parade on the promenade path. Taut young women in spandex jogging shorts and paunchy middle-aged producers walking well-groomed dogs eased by homeless men sprawled on the park grass, where they’d been welcome ever since Jerry Brown was mayor. I turned down the long staircase carved into the cliff, crossed under the Pacific Coast Highway, and came out on the beach. Kicking off my shiny Sigerson Morrison sandals, I made my way across the hugely wide beach, avoiding skate-boarders, bikers, and volleyball players, and didn’t stop until the chilly Pacific was lapping at my ankles.
I stood staring out at the ocean. Suddenly, everything had changed. Nora’s information wasn’t pretty — but it was probably pretty accurate. How could I keep pretending that Dan had nothing to do with Tasha Barlow? Despite his whispered protestations and hang-dog eyes, I had to face facts.
I took another step into the water, watching a leaf drift back and forth on the gentle surf. What was I supposed to do now? I was the wife of a man who might have committed a murder. I rubbed my foot back and forth, creating small eddies of water and sand. The good news was that I could kill myself. Just swim straight out until the ocean engulfed me and I reached oblivion. Like Virginia Woolf, though maybe without the stones in the pockets. Or answer the call of the seductive sea like the heroine in Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. Great novel. And boy, I’d had an awakening from Nora.
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 flip
pant 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 of
f 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.
Looks to Die For Page 13
