Looks to Die For (34 page)

“Then how are you going to make your theory stick?” Grant asked.

“I have a feeling it’s going to stick like flypaper,” I said with a smile.

He looked at me through furrowed eyebrows, and I realized the kid had probably never heard of flypaper. Probably thought it was something to replace the button fly on Levi’s 501s. Didn’t matter. One way or another, I was going to zip up this case.

Chapter Fifteen

“S
o then Nora destroyed
the porn tapes to preserve her friend’s good name,” Molly said early the next morning, when I called her at home with my theory. “Or whatever was left of it.”

“Exactly,” I said. “She would have known about the tapes and known where they were. You can bet she wasn’t giving them back to Roy.”

“Well, that part adds up,” Molly said slowly. “And so does the rest of it, frankly. The killer definitely knew her way around that apartment. And knew that Dan was coming.”

Molly didn’t answer, and I realized she’d covered the phone and was chatting to someone on her end. A moment later, her companion grabbed the receiver.

“Lacy?” asked a man’s voice.

I was confused. “Um, yeah. Who’s this?”

“It’s Tim. I’m lying next to Molly, so I heard everything you said. And I think you might be off base.”

Off base? I could have been in the outfield for all I cared. “You’re lying next to Molly?” I asked, focusing on the more important point. “You mean like in
bed
?”

“No, on her divan. We never quite made it to the bedroom.”

Did I want to hear this? Of course I did — even in the middle of a murder case.

I could hear Molly giggling and snatching the phone back.

“Lacy, dear, we have you to thank for hooking us up,” Molly said. “Remember when you called me that first time and I checked with Tim to see what he knew? Turns out he knows everything. Anyway, we finally managed to go out for dinner, and once we started talking, we connected in a big way.”

“Very big,” Tim bragged in the background.

Molly snorted and ignored him. “What can I tell you? If you spend a lot of time talking about porn tapes together, you get ideas.”

“On the divan?”

“It was divine,” chirped Molly.

The sound on the phone changed as Tim hit the
SPEAKER
button to turn our call into a conference. Oh, great. Now Molly and Tim could have their hands free — or not free — while we talked.

“Back to your solution for the case,” Tim said. “I think it’s too pat. If I were on Dan’s jury, I’d think you were just trying to make a scapegoat of the dead woman.”

I swallowed hard. Dan’s jury? If I could help it, nobody was ever going to be sitting in judgment of my husband.

“And bereaved friend as the killer?” asked Tim, continuing. “I don’t know. The image is all wrong.”

“I don’t mind Nora as killer,” said Molly spiritedly. “I’d easily cast her for the part. She fits that whole against-type look that I like.”

“Except this is one of those rare jobs you’re not casting,” teased Tim. “It’s reality.”

“I love reality,” countered Molly. “I cast it all the time. Much more surprising than anything from Jerry Bruckheimer.”

“Nice woman turns killer bitch?”

“Happens more than you’d think,” said Molly.

“Then I better get out of here,” joked Tim.

“Come back!” called Molly in a sweet squeal, halting his faux exit from the divine divan. Whatever Tim did next — I guess he found a place for his hands — Molly gave a yelp and broke into a tinkling laugh.

I hung up quickly. They could finish their bedroom scene without me. Tough-minded Molly seemed to have morphed into a giggling girl overnight, but she’d be okay. Tim seemed like a good guy and it was time my friend found someone special. Especially someone who knew his way around a casting couch.

Predictably, Tim was in an excellent mood when I showed up at his office later in the day. But the smiles and hugs faded away when I told him what I wanted.

“A miniature recording device?” he asked warily. “You mean like a hidden camera?”

“Just something small that I can put in my purse,” I said. “Your investigative reporters must use them, right?”

“Sometimes,” said Tim carefully. “The law on making recordings without the second person’s knowledge is a little unclear. But I can almost guarantee you won’t be able to use it in court.”

“Still, I can play it for the judge at the preliminary hearing,” I said, having no idea whether I really could. “That’s three days from now, when the judge gets to look at evidence and decide if the case goes to trial. Our lawyer says the determination is based on whether or not there’s probable cause. I want it crystal clear that there’s not.”

Tim managed a little nod and went out of the room, coming back with two electronic toys. “The camera’s a little complicated and you have to think about where you’re going to put it. If you’ll be okay with just audio, I’d go with this.” He held out a flat device the size of a credit card.

“Perfect,” I said, fingering the shiny, smooth surface. “You’re sure this actually works?”

“Sure. Press the button, drop it in your bag, and record for an hour. But you can have it only if you promise that you don’t do anything stupid,” he said, touching one of the flat buttons.

“
Don’t do anything stupid.”
This time his voice echoed loud and clear from the digital mini-machine. I grinned and made the promise.

“So what’s the mission?” Tim asked, persisting.

“To talk to Johnny DeVito,” I admitted. “Dan says he hasn’t heard from him since the murder, except for one message that he left on the machine. Since then, silence. No calls, no emails.”

“Is that bad?” asked Tim.

“It’s odd,” I said. “And I’d like to find out what it means.”

Sammie was in an even better mood than Tim — but for a different reason.

“I’m leaving,” she told me exuberantly when I called. “I gave Julie my notice yesterday.”

“Better job?” I asked, thinking she deserved it.

“Not really a job, but I just sold my first screenplay. Even if the movie never gets made, the option is decent. I understand now why screenwriters call it ‘fuck you’ money.”

I laughed. “You told Julie to take her job and shove it?”

“No, I’m a proper Vassar girl, so I decided to leave on good terms. You never know who you’ll need again.”

“Well, I need you again,” I admitted. “I’m trying to track down that Johnny DeVito guy I asked you about last time. Think you can help me?”

I told her briefly what I wanted and Sammie said she’d try. “I don’t mind twisting the rules a little since I’m out of here,” she said, “but it’s probably better if I just leave him a message.”

“Fine,” I said. “Tell him I want to meet as soon as he can. But in a public place.”

“Will do,” she said.

“By the way, what’s your screenplay about?”

“An English major from Vassar who comes to L.A. and works for a bitchy boss,” Sammie said brightly. “I know, not much of a stretch. But when you started asking questions about Roy, I realized the twist. The boss has an affair with one of her stars. And then the young, dazzling assistant has an affair with him, too.”

I gasped. “Sammie, you and Roy didn’t —”

“Of course not!” she interrupted. “I had to make up
something
, didn’t I?”

I laughed, and after we hung up, I went back to fiddling with Tim’s recorder. Anything to make the time go. But I kept looking at my watch, counting down the minutes to the preliminary hearing. Why didn’t Sammie call back? All I really wanted to do was drive over to 17 Hillman Drive again, knock on the door, and confront Johnny DeVito.

And why not? I had to take action. I changed into low-slung black jeans and a pair of Pumas, to avoid the kitten-heel-mules problem of last time. Boy, I was learning a lot. If I didn’t become a private detective after this, at the very least I could be a costume designer on
CSI.

Halfway to the garage, I stopped myself. This wasn’t a movie — or even a TV show. Maybe in Sammie’s next screenplay, the heroine would jump in her blue roadster and return to the mystery house to solve the case. But I’d promised Tim I wouldn’t do anything stupid. And going back would definitely qualify as stupid.

I marched back inside and checked in with Sammie.

“I’ve left two messages at the number Julie gave me,” she reported. “It’s just an anonymous voice box, so I don’t even know if it’s his number.”

But finally at about six, she had a different report. “He called when I was out buying Julie an iced tea,” she said. “He’ll be at Sanford’s gym at seven thirty tonight. You can meet him there.”

I got directions off MapQuest rather than relying on the GPS, then popped the recorder into my Michael Kors clutch. The bag was much too dressy for jeans — even a pair that cost two hundred bucks at Barneys — but I didn’t think Johnny would care. And the clutch would be less noticeable than a big purse when I put it on the table to record.

Traffic was heavy and I crawled along the thruway, chiding myself not to tailgate. An accident wouldn’t help anything. When I got off, the roads looked familiar, but it wasn’t until I saw three huge silver trailers and a road sealed off for a movie crew that I knew where I was. The George Clooney set — and the very streets where I’d wandered around in bra and panties. I felt a flush of embarrassment, but then decided I didn’t have to worry. Anybody who saw me then wouldn’t recognize me now. My face wasn’t what they’d noticed.

Sanford’s gym was tucked back toward the industrial part of town. In the gathering dusk, the area looked more decrepit than I’d remembered, the streets rattling with a few trucks leaving warehouses. The gym itself had a faded sign over the metal door and pitted aluminum siding along the front. Through the streaked windows, I could see some bare bulbs hanging inside and a rack of old metal dumbbells lining the gym wall. Unless retro-chic had moved from furniture to fitness, Crunch didn’t have to worry about Sanford’s snagging celebrity clients. This wasn’t the place for the latest in vinyasa yoga.

I pulled into a parking space out front, turned off the motor, and nervously called Molly to tell her where I was. Somebody should know.

“Do you see any other people around?” Molly asked after she listened to my quick synopsis.

I squinted, trying to see what was going on inside the gym. “A few,” I said. “And there’s someone at a front desk, I think.”

“Any way I can convince you to turn around and come home?”

“My husband goes to court in seventy-two hours,” I said softly. “If I can prove Nora killed Tasha, we could get the case dropped. I’m convinced Johnny DeVito knows something.”

Molly cleared her throat. She knew not to argue. “Then here’s the deal. Call me every fifteen minutes to say you’re okay.”

“I can’t. With luck, I’ll be in the middle of an important conversation.”

“A text message that just says ‘OK,’” said Molly firmly. “You get five minutes grace. After twenty minutes, I call the police.”

I turned on the recorder and tried to look sure of myself as I strode toward the gym, but I doubted I was doing a very good job. The man at the front desk looked up at me without any curiosity. He was short and heavyset, his belly gone to flab but his arms bulging with the muscles of someone half his age. His black hair was slicked down and his white T-shirt unaccountably crisp for someone who’d been in a gym all day.

“I’m supposed to meet someone here. Johnny DeVito,” I said, with as much poise as I could muster.

He nodded, still unsurprised. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Jerry DeVito. His father.”

Whatever composure I’d gathered fell away. I hadn’t known what to expect in Sanford’s gym, but I definitely hadn’t expected this. I didn’t want to take his offered hand, but I did anyway, and instead of a simple handshake, he squeezed my fingers so tightly that I almost cried out. When he pulled back, I could still feel the impact of his potent grip. Either he was stronger than he realized or he wanted to make an impression.

“Johnny’s not here,” he said.

“Do you know if he’s coming?”

“No.” He looked across the gym as someone walked out from the back. “Why don’t you talk to my daughter.”

I turned to follow his gaze and saw a woman striding toward us, dressed in a perfect Prada pantsuit with a diamond pendant glinting at her neck. I let out a loud gasp. The outfit was nice, but that’s not what shocked me. It was the woman herself. Julie Boden.

“Th — that’s your daughter?” I asked, stuttering to get out the words.

Jerry nodded. “She’s a good girl. Helped me buy my new house.”

“On Hillman Drive?” I ventured.

He nodded again, and suddenly I realized I’d seen him once before. He was the man I’d glimpsed at the door, letting in Nora.

While I tried to get my bearings, Jerry DeVito ambled away and Julie pulled up short, inches away from me.

“You’re always turning up,” she said.

“I wasn’t…um, expecting to see you,” I said.

“Isn’t life interesting.” She started to walk across the gym again, expecting me to follow her. And of course I did. We went into the women’s locker room, which had the dank smell of a high school gym and about as much style — a couple of showers with flapping plastic curtains, two toilet stalls, and some metal lockers. A cracked mirror hung crookedly over a sink. Julie pointed to a wooden bench, and I sat down, too stunned to stay on my feet.

“So what did you want from my brother?” she asked bluntly. We weren’t making small talk. Not that I could, anyway.

“He’d been blackmailing my husband,” I said, “and I thought maybe we could make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Dan didn’t kill Tasha Barlow. I think her roommate Nora did. And I also think Johnny knows that and could help prove it.”

Julie raised her eyebrows. “I thought Roy Evans was your favorite suspect. Or Johnny.” She folded her arms and paced a few steps away from me, then came back. “Nora. Good for you.”

“You think I’m right?”

“I know you are. Nora killed Tasha.”