Ashley opened her eyes wide. I smiled at her excitement—which, of course, immediately turned it off.
“Why would I want to go to some old people’s party?” she asked.
“The Dixie Chicks are singing,” I said, trying to recall some of the cool-factor details Molly had provided. (They hadn’t seemed relevant at the time.) “And someone else. Joss Stone, I think.”
“Oooh, I looove Joss Stone, don’t you?”
“You bet,” I said brightly, even though I wouldn’t know a Joss Stone from a Rolling Stone. “I love him.”
“Her.”
“Did I say ‘him’? I meant ‘her.’”
Ashley crossed her arms. “Omigod, Mom, you’ve never even heard of Joss Stone, have you?”
I made a face. “Nope. It will be a cool party. The downside is that you’ll have to go with your very uncool mother.”
“You’re cool, Mom. You are.” She smiled. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Sure, honey.” I hadn’t even walked out of the room before she grabbed her cell phone to call Tara.
“Hey, listen, I can’t come on Friday,” I heard her say. “I’m going to a party with Joss Stone and a killer.”
I closed the door quietly. A killer at the party? I didn’t even want to ask.
Two days later, Roger’s assistant Vince called to say his boss wanted me immediately at the penthouse on Wilshire. Vince didn’t know the topic. And no, Roger couldn’t wait. Now meant now.
I thought I’d passed the age when I’d drop everything because a man called. But I decided to make an exception. If Roger wanted to talk, I wanted to listen.
When I arrived, a large bald man wearing black pants, black shirt and the kind of earpiece that bouncers sport at bars opened the door of the penthouse. If I’d had to guess his previous profession, I’d go for football lineman or thug. His current role seemed to be a cross between butler and bodyguard.
“Your guest is here,” he said.
“Pardon?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly and I realized he’d been talking into the wireless microphone attached to his earpiece, probably informing Roger of my presence. Technology had changed all our perceptions. If you saw someone walking down the street talking to himself, he could be crazy—or just have the latest Bluetooth connection.
“You Lacy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, figuring that one had to be directed at me. “I’m here to see Roger.”
“Raise your hands above your head.”
I hesitated, but since Vince didn’t seem the type to be fooling around, I tentatively bent my elbows, putting my hands at shoulder height.
“That ain’t above your head,” he said.
I pushed them up higher and he immediately clamped his own big, meaty hands just under my shoulders. I felt his hairy knuckles at the bare skin above the armhole of my sleeveless blouse, and I giggled.
“Something funny?” he growled.
“I’m ticklish. Particularly under arms. Sorry.”
He twisted his mouth into a scowl and ran his hands down my side. When he got to my waist, I let out another yelp of laughter.
“Sorry,” I said again. “You’re tickling.”
“I’m not tickling,” he protested, trying to raise his status with me. “I’m patting you down and checking for weapons.”
“Not really patting,” I protested. “More like rubbing.” Then, to distract myself as his hands continued down my legs, I continued, “Most women I know go to spas all the time for massages. Thai massage, rose-oil massage, full-body massage. But the way I see it, if somebody’s touching me, he better be in love with me.”
I’d barely finished the sentence before the thug/masseuse took his hands off me and leaped away. I snickered. Easiest way to get rid of a guy was to lament about love. The very word drove most men away faster than a Ferrari Spider.
“I guess you’re clean. Not packing any weapons,” he said.
“You should probably check my pocketbook,” I suggested helpfully. “More likely I’d have something there.”
He grabbed my bag and peered in. I thought of mentioning that the two-sided gold-tipped tube in the makeup case was an exact replica of the James Bond gadget that concealed a gun. This one hid matte lip color on one end and a touch-up gloss on the other. But he didn’t seem interested. We’d had enough of each other.
“All clear,” he said into his wireless. “Should I bring her back to you?”
Roger must have assented, because the bodyguard (as I’d now assumed he must be) lumbered ahead, leading me to the library.
Not much had changed in the room since the last time I saw it. I noticed the chipped edge on the Rothko frame and the ladder that Cassie had climbed. The floor had been refinished—a tone too deep—and all trace of stains removed. Two new leather chairs had been added to the decor, and Roger sat in one, in almost the exact spot where Cassie had lain dying.
“Hello, Roger,” I said politely.
“Lacy Fields,” Roger said, barely looking up. “Why have you been making inquiries about me and my late wife?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I didn’t owe Roger Crawford any explanations.
After a few seconds, the silence in the room felt awkward, and so Roger started talking again. “I’m very wealthy,” he said, more as fact than boast. “People in all walks of life want to get on my good side. So of course I got calls about your little investigations.”
Instead of asking who had called him, I ran through the possibilities in my head. Elsa Franklin, definitely. Andy Daniels, maybe. Billy Mann, no way.
Roger waited, but once again the dead air hung heavy. After a few beats, Roger said, “I’m trying to figure out if you’re looking for evidence against me,” he said. “And if so, why?”
Not a bad interviewing technique I’d just learned. I could get more information by keeping quiet than my usual babbling.
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” I said, finally. “I mean, is there evidence against you to find?”
“Better people than you have looked,” Roger said, an edge in his voice. “I’ve been checked out by the SEC, the FBI, and the Secret Service. All found me pure as snow.”
“Why were they looking?”
Roger seemed to puff up in pride. He couldn’t help bragging. “The SEC weighed in when I did a private equity deal for a ten-billion-dollar public company. I had a standard FBI background check after a major bank asked me to join the board of directors. And the Secret Service weighed in before my dinner at the White House.”
He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.
“So how was dinner?” I asked. “Decent menu?”
“Small portions,” he admitted.
“I guess nobody goes for the food.”
“Or the company. I sat next to Justice Scalia of the Supreme Court. Hard to say which is more insufferable—his politics or his personality. At least he enjoyed the conversation. Gave me his home number.”
I laughed but also got the point. Roger hobnobbed in high places. If I caused too much trouble for him, he’d call out his buddies at the FBI, the SEC, the Secret Service and the United States Supreme Court. Best-case scenario: I’d have my taxes audited for years.
But really, what could anyone do to me? Roger Crawford’s threats didn’t have to scare me. I obeyed laws, paid my taxes, and didn’t lie. Sure, I claimed the navy Akris suit as a business expense on my last 1040, but I couldn’t exactly wear T.J. Maxx to meet wealthy clients, could I?
“Well, I’m glad you’ve been cleared by so many sources,” I said. “Has anybody checked out your life with your wife?”
“None of your business,” he said harshly.
“Of course it is. Cassie’s dead and you’re involved with Molly. It’s pretty ridiculous that she’s a suspect in your wife’s murder, but she is. The bad publicity has already closed down Molly Archer Casting. I’m trying to help. She’s my best friend.”
“Pfft,�
� Roger said, making a dismissive gesture. “I’m her best bet. I’ve told Molly not to worry about what happens to her company. I’ll give her whatever she needs to get through.”
“It’s not only about money,” I said.
“It’s always about money,” Roger replied.
I snorted. “Isn’t it also about who killed Cassie?”
Roger nodded. “I want to find the real killer,” he said, without a trace of emotion. I wondered if he had any idea how hollow his words sounded. Probably not. Roger had smarts, savvy, and sacks of money. But none of those necessarily added up to self-awareness.
“Look, maybe we can help each other,” he said, softening. “We could share information.”
“Fine.”
He shifted in his chair, glanced down at his BlackBerry, and shot off a quick message. No reason his search for justice should interfere with any business deals.
“Tell me what you’ve found out so far,” he said, putting the BlackBerry aside.
I tucked a stray hair behind my ear, then took a moment to disentangle it from my dangly earring—and to think. Roger wanted to know what I’d found out. He might be interested in my information from genuine concern. Or he could be trying to make sure that he’d covered his traces well.
“Go ahead,” he urged.
Since I’d already decided that Elsa Franklin had spoken to Roger, I could start there. Better to be straight and see where it led.
“I met with someone who used to be Cassie’s boss,” I said. “Name of Elsa Franklin.” I sat down on a leather chair angled next to his and started filling him in on the details of our discussion.
As I talked, I watched Roger carefully. He seemed to relax just a bit—obviously relieved that my version of the conversation matched hers. It seemed unlikely that Elsa Franklin had mentioned Billy Mann, so I didn’t either.
“Talk to anybody else?” Roger asked.
“Her other boss,” I said. I gave him a quick summary of Andy Daniels and how Cassie had worked on a TV show called World’s Worst Ways to Die.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Roger said when I’d finished.
I had the feeling I’d passed some test, because he pulled an envelope out of his pocket.
“You’re a good investigator. I’d like to hire you. Make this official.”
He pushed the envelope across the desk.
“I’m sure you can find better investigators than me,” I said, eyeing the envelope but not picking it up. “I’m an amateur.”
“An amateur with good instincts and an eye for detail.” He gestured around the room, taking in everything from the gold-serpent drawer-pulls on the desk to the eighteenth-century wall sconces I’d used as book lights around the library shelves. I’d bought the inlaid brass sconces at an all-comers flea market in Orange County, spotting their incredible quality despite layers of tarnish and mud. I’d bought them for twenty bucks each and had them polished and restored. An expert on Melrose Avenue appraised them for eleven thousand and begged to buy them from me. Old, rare, and museum quality, he said.
“Decorating’s my job. Detecting is just sort of my hobby,” I said now. But I had to admit that one skill had led me to the other. If I could search a flea market and find the unpolished gem, maybe I could march into an ordinary situation and find the unexpected killer.
“Open the envelope,” Roger said.
I did. A bank check for ten thousand dollars had been clipped to ten crisp hundred-dollar bills marked “daily expenses.” I stared at the pictures of Benjamin Franklin. How come he graced the big bucks and Honest Abe got stuck on a penny?
I closed the envelope again. I probably could be bought off—everybody’s morality has a price. But mine happened to be many orders of magnitude more than this.
“Roger, I’m not taking your money,” I said. “I can’t work for you.”
“Why not?”
Why not? I could think of at least three reasons. One: I didn’t have a private investigator’s license. Two: I’d gotten involved only to help Molly. And three, I couldn’t be beholden to Roger Crawford. Not as long as I thought he might be the killer.
My face must have given me away—no World Series of Poker in my future—because Roger reached over and took the envelope back. But he hadn’t become a billionaire by losing negotiations. He had his next bid ready.
“Here, then,” he said, pulling a small box out of his pocket. “Take this. Not a payment. A sign of goodwill.”
Not waiting for me to respond this time, he flipped open the velvet box. I looked inside and gasped. The bracelet coiled inside the jewelry case couldn’t have been more perfect. Small diamonds in the shape of flowers, rimmed with gold.
Perfect—because I’d picked it out myself. The trinket glimmering in front of me happened to be the very one I’d joked about with Jack Rosenfeld that day at the jewelry store. The one I admired but hadn’t even tried on.
“Who told you about this?” I asked softly.
Now Roger laughed, finally triumphant.
“You understand now, Lacy, right? You can’t do anything without my knowing. You might as well take this. It’ll just be a reminder.”
He reached for my arm to slip the bracelet around my wrist, but I jerked away. The gorgeous diamond strand might as well have been metal handcuffs.
“Keep it,” I said.
“Oooh, why, Lacy?” Roger asked, his voice a smarmy croon. He had dropped his professional veneer and seemed vaguely ominous now. “You know you want this. And I want you to have it.”
“No.” I felt a sudden fear coursing through me, as if taking the bracelet would bind me to evil and put Molly in even more danger.
“Last chance,” he said.
“No. No, thank you,” I repeated.
Roger’s eyes turned cold and angry. He got up, opened the library door and motioned to his bodyguard, who stood outside. The thug took the bracelet and, in one swift move, yanked it in two. Gleaming bits of gold and diamonds scattered across the floor, and for good measure, Vince ripped it again. I gasped. I didn’t care about the bracelet, but the violence of the act left me stunned.
Roger took a single diamond flower from his thug’s meaty hand. He held it out to me on his palm.
“Don’t make me take what’s beautiful and destroy it,” he said in that same sinister whisper. “Don’t be so stupid.”
I stood up straight and tried to get my shaking body under control. “You destroyed that all by yourself, Roger,” I said. “You didn’t need me. But what’s the lesson I’m really supposed to take? That you don’t mind obliterating something beautiful? Maybe even something as beautiful as Cassie?”
“Get out,” Roger said.
Prepared to make sure his boss got his way, the thug grabbed my upper arm. But with unexpected strength, I shook him off.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I said, striding toward the door on my own.
I yanked it open, and as I stepped out, I heard Roger and his bodyguard laughing, the snide, angry laughter of two nasty boys who didn’t get their way.
Chapter Ten
I left Roger’s place and came straight home, driving quickly down Wilshire Boulevard while I replayed the scene over and over in my head and pictured the broken gems gleaming on the wooden floor. Maybe I should have just taken the damn bracelet. Had I proven anything this way?
Well, sure. I’d found out that Roger had a dark side. Not getting his way elicited a swift and ugly response. I’d also discovered that he kept his own hands clean and let his hired bully do the actual dirty work. Nobody would ever find his fingerprints on a bottle of Kirin—but he might have written the check that bought it.
I pulled into the driveway and noticed Jimmy’s skateboard upside down on the lawn and Grant’s twenty-four-speed Trek mountain bike leaning against a tree. The kids were around, so it was time to clear my head and focus on them. My rule number one of being a mom: Work hard when you’re working, but give 110 percent to family when you’re hom
e.
I’d barely made it halfway up the long flagstone walk when Grant flung open the patio door and burst out, as eager as a racehorse bolting from the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby.
“Hey, Mom, look what I found for you,” he said, rushing down the path and waving a piece of paper at me. He handed me the printout from a web page, showing a heart-shaped pendant necklace. Maybe it was karma. Turning down one expensive jewel just got me another.
“Pretty,” I said. “What did I do to deserve it?”
“You’re the kind of mom who should have a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond,” he said, grinning.
With it raining diamonds, maybe I should call Elizabeth Taylor. I handed the page back. “Is it real?”
“Certified twenty-carat yellow diamond. F grade for clarity, which sounds like failing but is apparently good. It’s up for auction at Christie’s in two weeks. I figure I’ll buy it for your birthday.”
“My birthday’s not for months and you already promised me a gift certificate to Ben & Jerry’s,” I said. “Even the Chunky Monkey isn’t as rich as this.”
“And not as rich as Cassie Crawford,” said Grant.
I looked from him to the picture. “It was hers,” I said, making the connection. “She wore it the first time we met. I’d recognize it anywhere. There can’t be two like that.”
Grant nodded eagerly. “I figure you could use some help, Mom, so I have a computer program that alerts me every time Cassie Crawford’s name gets mentioned online. That’s how I found it.”
“Where’d you get the program?”
“Jake and I wrote it,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mom. All legal.”
Grant’s best friend, Jake, the computer genius, had a blog, a personal website, and so many videos up on YouTube that he rivaled the Disney Channel. I sometimes worried about the kids creating tracks that would live forever online. But that was the new generation gap: Grown-ups fussed endlessly about identity theft and privacy; teenagers cheerfully invaded their own privacy and felt most alive when they lived online.
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