Looks to Die For: A Lacy Fields Mystery - Softcover

Chapter One

The night the police came to arrest my husband for murder, I was upstairs, killing myself on the treadmill. If I kept up this pace, I'd finish my three miles in twenty-two and a half minutes, a personal best. So when I heard the doorbell ring, I ignored it, and then ignored it again. But whoever was chiming wouldn't go away and the noise was going to wake up the whole house. Annoyed, I hit the stop button, threw a Juicy Couture sweatshirt on over my pink running bra and matching shorts, kicked off my all-terrain cross-trainers, which were giving me blisters anyway, and headed downstairs. No personal best tonight.

The Chinese cloisonné clock in the front hall foyer registered ll:50 p.m., not a typical time for guests to arrive at our gated community in Pacific Palisades. I tried peering through the peephole in the door, but the artistically cut crystal sphere had been designed for beauty, not usefulness. I could vaguely make out two men who seemed to be cops, and when I tentatively called out "Hello?" they waved their identification cards, not knowing that from my side, those IDs could have been Picasso graphics. I made a mental note to check out more practical security systems.

Cops at my door? My first emotion was curiosity, not panic, since those I loved and worried about full-time were tucked in upstairs. Grant had turned in early to get some rest before a science test tomorrow, Ashley had communed with two girlfriends until just after ten then gone straight to her own bedroom, and little Jimmy had heard monsters rumbling in his closet but managed to get to sleep after I read him three picture books and pretended to fall asleep first. Even my husband, Dan, had spent forty-five minutes reading medical journals and then set his alarm for dawn so he'd be up for early-morning surgery.

I twisted the ring on my right hand so that the big ruby and two small diamonds pointed into my palm, then opened the door, glancing first at the tall Hispanic cop who still gripped his identification awkwardly, then to the other cop, slightly older and shorter, dour and doughy-faced.

"We need Dr. Dan Fields, ma'am," the older cop said, his voice as rough-edged as his body.

"What for?"

"I'd like to explain that directly to the doctor."

I was sweaty and tired and not interested in conversing with cagey cops. But I had an idea what was going on here, since about a month ago, a three-car police escort had come to whisk Dan to the hospital to take care of a major actress who had sliced off her finger cutting a bagel. My husband was the Saint of Hollywood, the plastic surgeon whose skill at molding, reattaching, and reconstructing meant he could save any face or body part that was seriously endangered. This being Hollywood, he had also nipped and tucked some of the most famous faces on the planet, and the wait for a consultation at one point stretched to eight months. If you couldn't get an appointment, you could at least read fawning articles about him in Vogue or Elle. No doubt written by editors who figured that with enough sweet talk, Dan would move them to the top of the waiting list.

"Has somebody been hurt?" I asked the cop.

"Someone's been hurt real bad." He took a step toward me, edging in front of his buddy, a sneer contorting his features. "Now go get Dr. Fields for us."

His menacing style wouldn't work. "Look, Dan's gone to sleep already," I said, trying not to sound as intimidated as I felt. "Why don't you tell me what this is about?"

The Hispanic cop glanced back over his shoulder at his partner, who was pocketing his identification, then repeated, "Just get the doctor for us."

"If you're looking for a favor from Dan, you could ask a little more politely," I said.

The cops exchanged looks, then the Hispanic one said, "It's not a favor, ma'am. If you don't call him down, we'll go get him. We know he's in the house."

The guy was a genius. I say Dan's gone to bed and he figures out that he's in the house. "If you don't call it a favor to come by here at almost midnight and ask for Dan..." I stopped, because they were both looking at me oddly, and the message finally penetrated that I was off base. Way off base. Maybe not even in the right playing field.

I took a deep breath and, looking again at the doughy-faced cop, noticed that his badge said Detective Vincent Shields and that his buddy was Detective José Reese. Shields quietly said,

"I assume Dr. Fields is your husband. He's wanted for questioning."

I stood there, unable to move, and Shields added, "We're investigating a murder." He pointed to the intercom by the front door. "Can you call him down?"

I was suddenly so confused that the intercom might as well have been a moon rock that had dropped into my front hall. I cleared my throat. I pulled myself back together. "Uh, the thing is, we just remodeled the top floor and wiring it into the old system has been a problem, you know? The electrician kept saying he could do it, even though he couldn't do it, so we probably need a whole new system or at least a whole new electrician, if you know what I mean...." I paused, wondering if I could make myself stop babbling. Maybe some action would do it. I stepped over to the intercom, touched the talk button and the "Master Bedroom" light, and then said, "Dan? Honey? Can you hear me?"

For a response, I got static. I ran my fingers through my curly hair, pushing it back from my forehead, which was still sweaty from the treadmill. And getting even sweatier from the fear suddenly coursing through me.

"We need to go upstairs," Reese said. "You want to lead us?"

I didn't want to do anything of the sort. Having the cops in my marble foyer was horrifying enough. But it didn't really occur to me that I could say no to a man with a badge.

"Mommy? Is it monsters?"

I spun around and saw Jimmy standing at the top of the steps, peering down at us through a railing. His ankles stuck out of his too-short Superman pajamas at an odd angle, and he looked so skinny and vulnerable that I wanted to run right up the stairs and give him a hug. But the cops were eyeing me intently and sudden moves didn't seem like a good idea.

"No, honey, everything's fine. No monsters, just these nice

policemen." I smiled bravely and tried to keep my lip from quivering. Jimmy had put on his old superhero pajamas tonight so he could fight any monsters who showed up in his room, but who knew that they'd take this form?

"Jimmy, sweetie, can you do Mommy a favor?"

He stepped back from the railing and eyed me carefully -- even at five, he wouldn't commit until he knew the dimensions of the request.

"Go to Mommy and Daddy's room and give Daddy a little shake. Tell Daddy that Mommy needs him to put on a robe and come down."

Jimmy ran off so quickly that I wasn't sure if he'd taken it in or was simply fleeing to hide under his covers. Slowly, I turned to the cops again, but they were muttering to each other. Detective Shields glanced at his watch and said, "I don't like this. In two minutes you go up."

"Lemme go now. No way the guy's coming down."

Shields nodded, and the two of them headed for the staircase, clambering quickly up the steps two at a time, their smooth-soled shoes slipping on the Italian marble. At the top landing they stopped short, peering at the hallways that headed off in three directions. Reese turned to glare at me as I dashed up the stairs behind them.

"Where do we find him?" he growled.

Trying to catch my breath -- lost to anxiety, not exertion -- I didn't answer.

"Which of these damn hallways?" he bellowed.

"Our bedroom's to your right," I said, gasping. Then, not meaning to scream, I did anyway. "Dan!" I hollered.

From down the hall, my husband appeared at the bedroom door, his blond hair rumpled, his face blank from interrupted sleep. He hadn't bothered with a robe, just a pair of sweatpants, and he took a moment to register that there were two cops approaching him. When he did, his deep blue eyes widened and he blinked hard.

"What's going on?" he asked groggily.

The cops moved closer, surrounding him as effectively as two people can.

"You're Dr. Daniel Fields?" asked Shields.

"Yes, I am. May I help you?" His refined accent grew more refined as the cops leaned in. Even bare-chested, he maintained his dignity. A well-toned, well-tanned chest can do that for you.

"Well, doc, you can come down to the station house with us. Right now. Quietly," said Shields, with a hint of threat in his voice.

"Would you like to explain why?"

Shields took a moment to answer, digging his toe into the fringe of the Persian rug, then looking at Jimmy, who had slipped out of the bedroom and was edging closer to his dad.

"We need you for questioning," Shields said, discreetly not elaborating while one scared Superman stared wide-eyed at him.

"And it can't wait until morning?" Dan asked.

"No. Now."

"Help me out here, gentlemen. I don't have any idea what this is about or why you need to talk to me." Dan sounded composed and reasonable, as if he were sipping Chablis at his Princeton eating club, not confronting two LAPD cops.

Jimmy anxiously rubbed his hand over the big S emblem on his chest. But the shield wouldn't protect him, and neither would Reese.

"You're wanted for questioning in the murder of Theresa Bartowski," he said bluntly.

"I don't even know who that is. Why would you want to talk to me?"

"She's also known as Tasha Barlow."

Not the slightest wave of recognition crossed Dan's face. "Is this a former patient of mine?" he asked.

"We can discuss it all downtown," Reese said.

"No, let's discuss it here. Or better still, why don't you call me at my office in the morning? I'll pull out my patient records and do whatever I can to help you. But right now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to bed. I have surgery scheduled for seven a.m. and I'm not eager to stay up all night talking."

Reese and Shields exchanged another look, and with a move too quick to allow either reaction or resistance, Reese whipped handcuffs out of his back pocket and snapped them on Dan's slender wrists. "You're und...