Looks to Die For (28 page)

“Hell hath no fury like a forty-year-old woman who’s been bested by a bimbo,” said Molly. “Is that your new theory? Julie instead of Johnny or Roy?”

I rolled some bread between my fingers, making a white gummy ball to match Molly’s square. “I don’t know. Does Julie strike you as a killer?”

“I think anybody could be a killer, given the right circumstances. If the motive was money or power, Julie would be on top of my list. But I don’t see her risking her career — never mind her life — for a second-rate star. Remember, she fired him. It makes more sense to me that the love affair ended, and the drug affair began.”

The waitress clattered over and dropped off our plates. Molly looked at her meal — the hoped-for mashed potatoes and a brown square of what in college we called mystery meat. She stabbed the lumpy mess with her fork, then tentatively took a bite. My yolk yellow omelet featured a glob of fat congealing on the top and a huge scoop of greasy hash browns towering over the side of the plate. Maybe the chef was trying to drum up business for the local Jenny Craig. I played with the decorative orange peel, wondering if I could make it a meal.

“Okay, so let’s think about Roy,” I said. With no blood redirected to my stomach for digestion, at least my brain was working well. “Your theory is that he was making a porn tape with Tasha, tied her up, had one of his mood swings, and went too far. End of story. Simple enough for a jury to understand. I’d buy it. But then, I’d buy anything that doesn’t involve Dan.”

Molly nodded. “Want to run it by Chauncey Howell?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, I couldn’t bear to hear him be polite but patronizing again. To have him thank me for my nice opinions but note that the only real evidence still points to my husband. Any solution involving Roy doesn’t fit in with the evidence of the neighbor who heard Tasha screaming, ‘Stop it, Dr. Fields, stop it!’”

Molly pushed aside her plate, motioned to the waitress for a check, then left twenty dollars for the four bites we’d eaten between us. She didn’t say anything more as we strolled back to the car and she slid into the driver’s seat. We cruised silently through the grim town, then got back on the dark highway, with a Ray Charles CD providing the only sound.

“Lacy, I have a question,” Molly said finally. “What if Roy didn’t kill Tasha, and it wasn’t Johnny DeVito or Julie or a masked stranger? Are you going to be able to cope if Dan was somehow…involved?”

“Why would you even ask me that?”

“Well, we can make fun of Chauncey all we want, but he’s a pro. You hired him because he’s the best. If he says the evidence is against Dan, maybe it really is.”

So far I’d had some day. I’d traveled to this godforsaken part of the country, gone one-on-one with a gun, and risked dysentery to eat dinner. Now I felt a blinding migraine coming on, and I shut my eyes, trying to block out the whole world. Molly’s question was more than I could bear.

“I told you about Johnny’s blackmail and why Dan went to Tasha’s in the first place. Doesn’t that explain enough?” I asked

“Sure, but I thought of a problem. Dan said he went upstairs and into the empty apartment. You’ve been to that building, Lacy. How do you get in the main door?”

“There’s no doorman, just an intercom,” I said. “Somebody has to buzz you in.”

“But who?” Molly asked. “Roommate Nora had decamped to Idaho and Johnny DeVito’s got an alibi that puts him far away. An intruder or killer in the apartment wouldn’t welcome a stranger.”

Molly paused, as if she couldn’t get herself to finish the thought. But she managed it anyway. “So the somebody who buzzed Dan in was probably Tasha Barlow. Which means they would have been alone together in the apartment.”

I stared out the window, then bit my lip, suddenly furious.

“You’re supposed to be my friend, Molly. I can’t believe you’d say something like that.”

She sighed. “Sorry, honey. I’m your
best
friend. That’s why I said it.”

Lashing out at Molly wouldn’t get me anything but agitated. I leaned forward and adjusted the volume of the CD player, turning it high so we wouldn’t have to talk anymore. The car filled with the sounds of Ray Charles crooning his classic “Here We Go Again.”
“I’ll be her fool again…One more time,”
he sang soulfully.

Okay, one more time. Was I a loyal wife or a fool? A fool for love, a meddling fool, a fool rushing in where angels feared to tread. Dan had fooled some of the people some of the time — could it be that he’d fooled me all the time?

Outside the car window, I heard a coyote howling. In the mournful wail, I felt danger lurking, unseen forces moving closer. I needed to be the shield that protected my family from all threats. But how could I do that when the real menace might already be inside?

Chapter Twelve

L
ate the next afternoon,
Chauncey called, and I found myself clenching my teeth to get through the conversation. Lately, talking to Chauncey was like going to a bad masseur at a pricey spa — you spent a fortune and hurt more than ever when he was done.

“The district attorney shared Tasha Barlow’s bank records with me. He didn’t have to do that, but we have a good relationship,” Chauncey said, letting me know just how well connected he was.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Well, yes, Lacy, something very interesting. Tasha had made two five-thousand-dollar deposits recently. They were just around the dates Dan said he had made two blackmail payoffs. Though he claimed the money had gone to Johnny DeVito.”

“So Johnny gave Tasha the cash. That’s not a shock,” I said starchily.

“All I’m saying is that it doesn’t help our case,” Chauncey said mildly. “If you follow the money, it just makes another connection between Dan and Tasha, not Dan and Johnny DeVito.”

I slammed down the phone. I knew Chauncey lined up on our side, but he sometimes felt like a scout for the other team. Still, Molly was right when she said he was a pro. And he had a reason for giving me the report about the bank records. It could be that just like Molly, he was he trying to prepare me for the worst. I didn’t want to be prepared — I wanted to fight.

I went to Grant’s room and found him huddled at his computer with Jake, playing online poker.

“Hate to interrupt if you’re winning,” I said, “but I’ve got a question. I have an email that’s kind of important. Do you think you can trace the source?” Why follow the money when we could just follow the email?

Jake hit
FOLD
on the computer screen, ending his hand, and then adjusted his glasses. “I can try, Mrs. Fields.”

I went to Dan’s downstairs office and found the last email from Johnny. Dan and I had studied it together when he first told me about the blackmail, but it was curt — two lines telling Dan to show up at apartment 4C with five thousand dollars and giving the time and date. I erased the message — too much information to share with our son — and forwarded it to Grant’s computer, typing in “This is what I need traced.” An hour later, I wandered back down to Grant’s room.

“Got anything on the email from Johnny?” I asked them.

Grant cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes. “Well, Mom, you don’t really know it was from Johnny. Anyone could have sent it.”

Since I’d printed out the page, I looked at it now, studying the text as if it were the Book of Job.

“The address line said [email protected],” I said. “That kind of sounds like it’s from Johnny.”

“Or from someone who wants you to think that,” said Jake, pushing back his wire-framed eyeglasses. “You can alter the name on the
FROM
line pretty easily. This is one of those free sites, so I tracked it and found who signed up.”

“Who?”

“Drew Barrymore.”

“What?”

Grant gave a little smile and Jake sniggered. “Not a lot of security on these sites,” explained Jake. “It’s easy to register under any name. Johnny DeVito could have been trying to hide his tracks by using a fake name. Or someone else could have registered and been sending emails under his name.”

I couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would do that.

“Since the registration didn’t prove anything, I figured I’d try to track down the actual computer it came from,” said Jake. “It’s pretty easy.”

Jake exchanged a look with Grant. If he’d done something else illegal, I didn’t want to know about it. But I was curious.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Every computer has a unique signature, which can’t be changed. It’s called the IP address,” said Jake.

“It’s like tracking someone down by a fingerprint instead of a name,” added Grant helpfully.

Jake nodded. “So I tried to find the IP address that was used to register on the site. If you know which server it’s on, you can then trace it to the individual computer. That’s the hard part, but I happened to get lucky.”

“Not luck. More like all you computer nerds know each other,” said Grant.

“That, too,” admitted Jake. “Anyway, I know someone who has a friend at the server company who was able to find what computer had that IP address.”

I looked at him expectantly.

“The computer belonged to Tasha Barlow.”

The name fell hollowly into the room.

“So the email you gave us — that you thought was from Johnny — was written on Tasha’s computer,” said Jake.

I swallowed and looked at the boys, whose faces were both contorted in concern. “That doesn’t mean Tasha wrote it,” I said, trying to sound unworried. “Johnny visited her apartment a lot. Makes sense if he used her computer, doesn’t it?” I smiled, because the two of them were still staring at me. “Listen, guys, thanks for all the help. I’ll stake you in the next poker game. My treat.”

I left, trying not to be shaken by the news. Not information I’d share with Chauncey. I could already hear what he would say about Tasha sending emails to Dan telling him to show up at her place with money.

Over a pizza dinner with my kids that night, I made a proposal. Friday was Teacher Enhancement Day at their school (general rule: the higher the tuition, the more days off) so we had a long weekend free. While the teachers were enhancing, we could be enjoying.

“I have a great idea,” I said, flipping open the box and serving a plain slice to Ashley, a pepperoni to Jimmy, and the rest of the pie — mushroom and onion — to Grant. “How about a family ski trip?”

Grant stared at me as surprised as if I’d just suggested he spend a little less time on homework and a little more time on MySpace.

“You’re nuts, Mom,” he said. “You hate skiing, remember? Last time we went to Tahoe, you said you’d rather hop one-footed across the Grand Canyon than go up a chairlift again.”

“I can hop,” said Jimmy, standing up from his seat. He tucked one foot behind him and began bouncing around the room. When he got to me, I gave him a big hug.

“Maybe it’s not my favorite sport,” I said, thinking fast, “but we should go because Jimmy loves skiing.”

“He does?” asked Grant.

“He does?” asked Ashley.

“I do?” asked Jimmy.

Everyone stopped for a moment.

“He cried for an hour last time you took him to ski school,” Ashley said. “I don’t think he ever got on the mountain.”

“That’s because he was a little boy then. Now he’s a big boy.” I kissed Jimmy on the top of his head. “Right?”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. “Right,” he said, just a little uncertainly.

I crouched down into the snowplow position, knees bent and toes pointed inward.

“You can do this a lot better than me,” I said.

Jimmy imitated my stance.

“Let’s race,” I said, leaning forward and pretending to be moving forward. “I bet you’re really fast now. Whoosh!”

“Whoosh!” said Jimmy. He slid across the kitchen in his neat snowplow and grinned excitedly. “Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!” He looked back over his shoulder at me. “I’m faster than you. I
win
!”

“You win,” I conceded. “You’re going to be the champ on the slopes.”

“I can’t wait to go skiing for real!” Jimmy said, throwing his arms above his head, clearly elated now.

I smiled. Like everything else in life, parenting was all about spin. All Jimmy needed right now was a boost of confidence. He’d been through a lot in the last few weeks, but maybe something positive could come out of it. Compared with seeing cops running through the house and guns being pointed at his daddy, throwing himself down an icy mountain wouldn’t be such a big deal.

“If we’re going, I need a new ski outfit,” Ashley said.

“Your jacket’s practically brand-new,” I reminded her.

“But it’s so last year. Hot pink — and this season everyone has baby blue. And I’m thinking maybe a one-piece Gore-Tex jump-suit with a racing stripe down the side. And a little fur at the hood.”

“How much do you care?” I asked, looking for a way to avoid a fight.

“I care
desperately
,” Ashley said dramatically. “I’m
desperate
for a new one.”

“In that case, you can use your birthday money to buy it, instead of getting the new cell phone,” I said evenly. “Of course, another possibility is to use the money for a contribution to the Make-A-Wish foundation. Give a day of joy to a sick child. Probably more worthwhile than either a new Razr or a baby blue ski suit, if you ask me — but it’s your decision.”

Ashley glared at me, not blinking, and I expected another typical teenage tantrum. But instead, she suddenly relaxed. “Okay, I get it,” she said, sounding only slightly grumpy. “There are worse things than last year’s ski outfit.”

I nodded and gave her a little smile, which — miracle of miracles — she returned.

“So skiing it is. Tahoe, I guess?” asked Grant.

“I thought we’d try Sun Valley this time. Someplace new and a little more adventurous,” I said carefully, not revealing my real motive for this trip.

“Oh, cool!” said Ashley. “My friend Caroline has a house there, and she says there’s a private landing strip.”

“I’ll rev up the Gulfstream in the garage,” I said. “But just in case it’s not there, Delta has a direct flight. We can leave Thursday after school.”