A Job to Kill For (15 page)

Botox on her butt? If I were going to waste time (and money) on beauty treatments, I’d at least want to see the results in my makeup mirror.

“Sounds like shoplifting is Ashley’s way of acting out,” I said, sticking to the subject. “She’s trying to get her parents to notice her.”

“I guess,” said Ashley with a shrug.

I sat down at the edge of her bed, pushing aside half a dozen stuffed animals to make room. At fifteen and just starting high school, Ashley was still caught in that awkward, in-between phase: cool and grown-up one minute, but needing her security blanket the next. Right now, the only boy in her bed (thank God) was the beat-up purple Barney she’d had since age two. I wanted to preserve the wedge of innocence as long as possible.

“Do you remember when you were little and I used to tell you that you never had to cry to get what you wanted?” I asked. “If you needed me, you just had to say…”

“I want attention,”
Ashley said, in a three-year-old’s wail.

“And I’d drop anything else and give you attention.”

Ashley sat down next to me, comfortably tucking her legs under her. “You always kept up your end, Mom. You’d stop talking to Molly or Daddy or whoever else and play with me.”

We both smiled, remembering the toys and dolls spread across tables in restaurants and the dressing room at Saks. I never had any doubt that connecting with my daughter was priority number one.

“Sometimes we’d take your Barbies and have conversations with them,” I said, thinking of the lessons I tried to teach.

“One time you held up a Barbie in a bathing suit and insisted she’d just won the Nobel Prize for Economics,” giggled Ashley. “We had to get her dressed so she could go to Sweden. Somehow it made sense to me.”

“At least we didn’t have Bratz. A doll in a thong might have put me over the edge.”

We both laughed again, and I put my arm around my daughter’s slight shoulders. “It gets harder to ask for attention as you get older. What you want isn’t as clear. But I’m still here for you, honey. And always will be.”

Ashley picked up the ragged Barney and put her head on my shoulder. “Sometimes I hate being a teenage girl,” she whispered.

“All I can promise is that you’ll outgrow it,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Tara’s having a secret party at her house on Friday night,” Ashley blurted. “Her dad’s out of town on business and her mom’s going to Bacara for the weekend.”

Bacara? The lush resort in Santa Barbara offered romantic villas overlooking the Santa Ynez Mountains. Given that they could cost a thousand bucks a night, it was unlikely she’d be heading there alone. Tara had probably guessed right about her mom having an affair. But right now the mother’s morality didn’t worry me nearly as much as the empty, unchaperoned house.

“What do you mean, a secret party?” I asked.

“Tara’s allowed to have two friends over on Friday. Me and another girl. But everyone in school knows we’ll be there alone. A bunch of junior guys told Tara they’ll come by with beer, and the whole varsity lacrosse team’s going to show up and do vodka shots.”

My fifteen-year-old daughter hugging Barney and talking about vodka shots?

I needed to intervene. But given the reaction—or lack of one—when I’d phoned Tara’s mom about the shoplifting episode, I knew she wouldn’t cancel her getaway to supervise her daughter. Should I call the school? The police? Child Welfare?

I shook my head. So far, nothing had happened. I couldn’t get carried away, but I still had to protect my daughter. My scared, confused, defiant daughter. She’d told me about the party because she couldn’t handle this one alone. I had to help her save face.

“I guess it’s up to you,” I said carefully. “Tara’s your friend and all. But a shame about the timing. I thought you might come with me to Roger’s beach party Friday night.”

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.