Looks to Die For (6 page)

Chauncey played with his pen, rolling it around on his finger. “Look, Dan, the prosecutor didn’t give me too many details of his case this morning. We’ll hear some of the evidence at the preliminary hearing, but I’d like to put that off as long as possible. He did say there’s material evidence that places you at the scene of the crime.”

He paused to let that sink in. Dan just rubbed his eyes.

“An eyewitness connected you with the victim,” Chauncey continued, speaking slowly. “She saw you going into the apartment — and Tasha turned up dead in her bedroom less than an hour later.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact he might have been talking about the price of shirts at Brooks Brothers. So maybe I’d heard wrong. Because if Chauncey had announced that someone saw Dan in the dead girl’s apartment, wouldn’t there be screeching violins and quick cuts of shocked faces? Hadn’t anyone seen
The Maltese Falcon
?

“It’s impossible,” Dan said finally. “I don’t even know the victim. I couldn’t have been in her bedroom.”

“What’s the motive supposed to have been?” I asked in a small voice.

Chauncey put down his pen. “We may not hear anything about motive until the trial. But I’d say the prosecutor has a couple of ways to go. Dan’s a plastic surgeon accused of killing a young actress. The obvious answer is surgery gone wrong or sex gone wrong.”

“But I didn’t —”

“I know,” said Chauncey, interrupting Dan before he could offer another denial. “But let’s think along those lines.” He asked some questions about Dan’s schedule, the number of patients he saw, and the amount of time he spent at home. He got the names of various doctors and nurses Dan worked with at the hospital and asked about malpractice cases.

“None that I’ve lost and only one that was ever filed against me. That was back when I was a resident and a woman who’d had a rhinoplasty didn’t like the way her nose turned up at the end. We went to mediation, and instead of a financial settlement, the chief surgeon I’d been with agreed to do it over for her.”

“Nothing else?” asked Chauncey.

Dan shrugged. “Maybe I’ve been lucky. But I’m also not one of those surgeons who shows up to cut and never talks before or after. I’m involved with my patients. I try to build a relationship with them.”

Chauncey cleared his throat. “What
kind
of a relationship?” he asked.

Dan stared at him, getting his implication. “Professional,” he said curtly.

Chauncey tapped his pen against the desk. “Fine. But when you talk about getting involved with patients — well, all I can say is you have to be careful.”

Dan sat back, silent. I’d heard him explain a thousand times that he became a doctor because he cared about people, not paychecks. Medicine had changed, but he wouldn’t. He took calls in the middle of the night, rushed to hospital bedsides, and worried about surgical complications at all hours. I used to tease him that if I really wanted his full attention, I should be his patient, not his wife. But it was just a joke.

“Is the risk of malpractice why you limited the cosmetic side?” asked Chauncey, moving on.

“Not really.” Dan didn’t elaborate. The
Vogue
editors still lined up at his door, but lately he’d pared his practice to focus on serious surgery, treating accident victims and the badly scarred. He got kudos for his global good works, but the more he said no to cosmetically inclined clients, the more they clamored, begging for his magic touch.

“Let’s talk about a few personal things now,” Chauncey said, adjusting his glasses. “Any particular problems in your marriage I should know about?”

I popped up from my chair. “Listen, I think I’ll wait outside, after all. That way Dan can be completely honest with you.”

Dan shook his head. “Sit down, Lacy. There’s nothing I can’t say in front of you.”

I sat. This jack-in-the-box act was starting to get a little old.

“Lacy and I have an unusually good marriage,” Dan said. I waited for more, but that was it. Actually, it wasn’t bad.

“Just the normal arguments that any couple has?” Chauncey asked.

Dan thought for a minute. “I guess that’s right. Nothing major for the neighbors to complain about.” He gave a little smile. “Lacy’s good-natured and even-tempered. The kids can be difficult and I can be moody, but she puts up with that and keeps all of us going.”

Wow — nice testimonial. Definitely made up for not sleeping last night.

“You and Lacy have been married how long?” Chauncey asked.

“Almost eighteen years. We got married when she was twenty-two and I was twenty-five. Pretty young. I was still in medical school. My father didn’t approve.”

Didn’t approve? Dan’s father had raged against me like King Kong on the streets of New York. He fumed because I’d gone to a state college on scholarship, had loans to repay, and had a bank account balance of zero. Three strikes even before he knew I was an art major. Dan’s tight-lipped mother was too cowed by her husband to suggest that a good marriage needed more than a hefty 401(k). Dan told his father he loved me because I was funny and free-spirited and opened his soul to the world. His father said to worry less about his soul and more about his surgery. Since neither of his parents would come to a wedding and my single mother couldn’t pay for one anyway, Dan and I got married on a beach in the Bahamas surrounded by a few friends (including maid of honor Molly) and a crowd of college kids on spring break. In one of the wedding photos, Dan was holding a ring in one hand and a Bud Light in the other. He claimed it was the first — and maybe only — time in his life that he was raucous, rowdy, and unrelentingly happy.

“My parents softened a little,” Dan said to Chauncey now, “but when I need to count on someone, it’s Lacy.”

From across the room, Dan caught my eye, and we exchanged a knowing smile. When Grant was born, Dan’s parents sent a sterling silver baby spoon from Tiffany’s — but never called. We put it in a drawer, used baby-safe plastic utensils, and always understood that our real family was each other.

Chauncey jotted a few notes and glanced up at me. If he noticed Dan’s gaze locked with mine, the warmth of the connection didn’t register.

Chauncey fired off a few more questions and Dan offered careful answers. I squirmed impatiently on my chair, not sure how discussing sex, social life, and surgery could solve the murder of Tasha Barlow.

When Chauncey finally finished and put down his pen, he walked us out to the lobby, saying he’d call later. He left and I tossed Dan my car keys.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

“Home?” Dan looked as surprised as if I’d just nominated Clarence Thomas for an honorary membership in the ACLU.

“Home. You remember the place. Spanish roof that pings when it rains. Pool in the backyard. Two flat-screen TVs with Dolby digital stereophonic surround sound, so you can watch
Star Wars
day or night.”

Dan smiled. “I definitely like the place, but I thought I’d head to my office.”

“Your
office
?”

“Come on, Lacy, I had to cancel my surgeries this morning, but I have to catch up on a lot of paperwork. And I need to check my files for any mention of Tasha Barlow. No reason for me to miss a whole day of work.” He fingered the keys. “I guess I’ll drop you off and then pick up my own car.”

Here’s what I’ve learned from almost two decades of marriage: Telling your husband he’s being ridiculous (even when he’s being ridiculous) doesn’t do any good. Dan had gone to work in the midst of Malibu mud slides and a Richter-rocking earthquake, so a minor murder charge wasn’t going to stop him — no matter what I said.

On the car ride home, we made slightly stilted conversation, sticking to safe topics that didn’t involve prison, perps, or dead actresses. When we got to the house, I noticed black scuff marks on the otherwise smooth, highly polished front foyer floor and I felt a little chill. The heavy-footed cops had left their mark. What would it take to get rid of the gashes and restore the flawless finish — to our lives, never mind the floor? No amount of scraping and waxing would undo the collateral damage.

Seemingly oblivious to the metaphoric mess, Dan came over to kiss me.

“I’m off, sweetheart,” he said blithely. “Thanks for being such a champ.”

A champ? Right now I felt more like a chump. “I wish you’d stay home this afternoon,” I said, trying not to whine.

“It’s a workday,” he said. “I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t work.”

“Should I give you a whole list?”

“Nope,” he said and ducked for the door.

Four years dissecting corpses in medical school, five years treating the mauled and maimed during round-the-clock residency, and nearly two decades in private practice had given Dan a certain detachment. Clinical distance was necessary in an operating room, I suppose. But right now the ice water in his veins made my blood boil.

I changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt and puttered around the house for the rest of the afternoon, trying to distract myself by paying bills and making out invoices to clients. Grant got home from school and tennis practice a little before five, called out, “Hi, Mom, I’m home!” and disappeared into the kitchen. I joined him a moment later as he wolfed down a leftover piece of cheesecake then dug into a two-pound package of cherries.

“I did okay on the physics test, but I made a couple of stupid mistakes,” he said, spitting a pit into his hand. “One question on quarks got me crazy because I couldn’t remember if a proton has two up quarks and one down or if that’s a neutron. Isn’t that stupid? Who forgets something like that?”

“Who doesn’t? When I was in high school, a quark was still the sound a duck made.”

Grant laughed and started talking about electromagnetic forces. When he switched to gravitational pulls, I realized that sooner or later, I had to sink his high spirits.

“Sorry if I’m boring you, Mom,” Grant said, sensing my distraction. “I guess force fields aren’t your favorite topic.”

“It’s fascinating,” I countered quickly. “All that physics about positive and negative pulls makes sense. Unfortunately, I’m feeling a pretty negative drag right now.”

“Bad day?” Grant asked.

“Very,” I admitted.

“Stuck with a client who wanted Louis XIV when you thought Danish modern?” asked Grant, teasing.

“Danish modern didn’t deserve a comeback, and I never recommend it,” I said reflexively.

Grant grinned, went to the refrigerator, and poured himself a glass of Gatorade. “I was just joking, Mom.”

“Right.” I took a deep breath. “I did, however, have a bad day. As did your father. Who spent part of the morning in jail.”

Grant put down the glass and stared at me.

Don’t flinch, I told myself. Make it sound normal.

“What happened?” Grant asked, getting his composure before I did.

“A mistake or something. Some kind of confusion. We don’t know what’s behind this yet. The police came in last night and arrested him.”

“Last night? How could that be? You didn’t say a word this morning.”

“You had school to think about. And that midterm. So I really am glad if you did well, despite the quirky quark.”

“Dad gets arrested and you’re thinking about my physics exam?” Grant looked at me in complete amazement, stunned to discover that his mother was behaving like a very unstable molecule.

“Now I’m thinking about Dad,” I confessed.

Grant suddenly paled. “Where is he?”

“At his office. You know your father never stops working.”

“What’s the charge against him?”

Suddenly, a loud scream echoed from upstairs, followed by another and another. Grant charged for the door and I followed close behind, bounding up the back staircase as the bloodcurdling yells continued. We were storming down the hall when Ashley flung open her bedroom door and barreled out.

“Daddy murdered a girl! Daddy killed someone!” she hollered hysterically. “Oh my God! Daddy killed a girl!”

Grant grabbed her by the shoulders. “Shut up,” he said loudly.

“Daddy killed her! My daddy!”

Grant shook her, not loosening his grip. “Shut up,” he said, more forcefully this time.

Ashley burst into sobs, not dissolving onto Grant’s handy shoulder, just standing straight and hollering and crying.

I went into Ashley’s bedroom, where breaking TV news had interrupted a
Friends
rerun. Onscreen, a reporter stood in front of an office building that looked a lot like Dan’s.

“I’ll have more on this exclusive story of the Deadly Doctor as the information develops,” she said. “I’m reporting live from Beverly Hills. Now we go to Amy Chin outside the murder victim’s apartment.”

Ashley had taken a breath from her screaming, but now she started again, and I couldn’t hear a word that Amy Chin reported, but I was riveted to the video images that flashed on the screen — several pictures of Tasha Barlow, some shots of a slightly shabby apartment, and then the crime scene footage.

I understood why Ashley had become hysterical. Instead of
Friends
, she’d tuned into enemies.

Back in the hall, Grant had wrestled Ashley to the floor, and she was whimpering now, not fighting off Grant, who had one arm firmly around her shoulders. I remembered using the same tactic to stop her tantrums as a toddler.

They both looked up at me, but I sank down next to them on the floor so I could look Ashley in the eye. “What did you see on TV?” I asked, my tone harsher than I’d intended.

Ashley started sobbing again.

“Did you see Daddy?”

“Yeees,” she wailed.

Shit, I thought.

The phone rang. I grabbed it from Ashley’s desk and heard Chauncey Howell.

“My secretary just saw Dan on TV.”

“So did my daughter.”

“What the heck is he doing?”

“He went to his office. I assume they ambushed him outside.”

“He talked to the reporter,” said Chauncey, as if announcing that Dan had personally placed one of his polished loafers in a steaming pile of horse manure. “Has he gone mad? Your husband apparently claimed he was completely innocent and the police had made a mistake.”