Looks to Die For Read Online Free Page A

small silver earring glinting in the moonlight that crept in from the edges of the shade. He looked like a Hollywood surfer boy, but under the golden tan was a smart student who had a physics midterm tomorrow. I somehow had to get him off to school in the morning without prattling on hysterically about the police. No use upsetting him before his test. With college applications coming, he needed good grades, and nothing mattered more. I took a deep breath. Nothing mattered more? If only. Whether Grant ended up at Stanford or Swarthmore suddenly didn’t seem as serious as Dan’s ending up at Sing Sing.
    Heading back to my own bedroom, I decided I’d try Jack again at 6:30 A.M . or so. He should be answering by then — Los Angeles is an early-morning town. I lay down on the bed, trying to muster the energy to undress and wash my face, but instead I just closed my eyes.
    And then opened them again.
    Who cared about the time? With my husband stuck in a cell, I couldn’t worry about waking his lawyer. I fumbled in my closet for a pair of no-blister Hogans to replace the broken-heeled mules, then crept quietly down the stairs and back to my Lexus.
    Jack lived in Beverly Hills, just north of Sunset on elegant Roxbury Drive, and at this hour, zipping along at a conservative seventy miles per hour, I was there in ten minutes. A thick hedge of trees blocked the neo-Colonial mansion from the quiet street, but Jack, less pretentious than his neighbors, had no gate. I pulled into the driveway, marched up to the front door, and rang the bell.
    Nothing. Could they be away? No, his son attended the same private school as Grant, and no self-respecting family with Ivy League aspirations would leave town in March, during midterms of junior year. I rang again. And again. From where I stood on the front porch, I saw the faint glow of a light going on in a distant window, and then a woman’s voice over the intercom — at least theirs worked — saying uncertainly, “Who’s there?”
    “It’s Lacy Fields. I need Jack. There’s an emergency.”
    “Lacy?” The voice — Jack’s wife, Gina — seemed to perk up. “Hang on, I’ll wake him up.” The intercom went dead long enough for me to wonder if he was a sound sleeper or in a different bed, but then the front door was opening and Jack was there, tying on a thick terry robe.
    “Geez, Lacy, what’s going on? Are you all right?”
    Jack put his sturdy arm around me, and I felt myself trembling, ready to cry. But I held it together, sensing that if I collapsed now, I’d never get up again.
    “I’m okay,” I said. “But Dan’s in jail.”
    “What?” His voice ripped through the quiet night, and I envisioned neighbors bounding up from their beds, thinking they’d heard a shot. Jack recovered quickly enough to grab my arm and pull me over the threshold, closing the heavy door behind us with a thud. In the dim light of the foyer, he looked at me uncertainly.
    “I want to hear this. Come on in. Do you need a drink? Should I have Gina put on some coffee?”
    “Just water,” I said. Jack looked dazed, and since he was now dealing with a woman who had shown up unannounced at his doorstep at three in the morning, I couldn’t really blame him. We walked down a hall, past the sleekly modern dining room, and then Jack flipped on an overhead light in the kitchen. Gina had been calling me for months to get my professional opinion as a decorator on her room renovation. She had a good eye herself, and now that the kitchen was finished, I could practically picture Martha Stewart coming in to whip up some cream puffs. Good manners demanded I rave about the stainless steel stove and free-form granite counters, but in my current state, I simply wasn’t capable of making kind comments about custom cabinetry.
    Jack opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of lemon Poland Spring. “What do you mean Dan’s in jail?” he asked, saving me from any small talk.
    I took a deep breath.