Looks to Die For Read Online Free Page B

“Short version or long?”
    “Short.”
    “Two cops showed up at midnight, crashed through the house to find Dan, and then put handcuffs on him. One of them drew a gun and pointed it right at him.” I started shaking, my voice quavering at the memory. I sniffled a couple of times and put my fingers over my lips to stop the trembling. “They took him down to a squad car and to the precinct house downtown, where they locked him up. They won’t let me see him.”
    Jack, still holding on to the Poland Spring, wandered over to the other side of the kitchen and slid onto a bar stool. I followed him like a puppy.
    “What’s the charge?”
    I tried to form the word, but my lips wouldn’t do it. Instead, a shudder went through my whole body. “Some woman named Tasha Barlow,” I whispered.
    Jack furrowed his brow. “She’s bringing charges against Dan? What are we talking about here, Lacy? Harassment? Sexual harassment?”
    I felt my cheeks getting warm, but I just shook my head. Jack thought he was helping, offering the most dramatic charge he could imagine so I could just nod and not have to say the words. “Worse,” I said, my voice barely a croak. “She’s dead.”
    Now Jack glowered at me as if I’d started spouting obscenities. “Murder?” he asked.
    Again his voice was loud, and it was all I could do not to cover my ears so I didn’t have to hear him. I offered a barely perceptible nod and felt my eyes fill up with tears. “There’s an arraignment within forty-eight hours. But the cop said maybe we could get it in the morning.”
    “Jesus Christ. You know I’m not the one to handle this, Lacy.”
    “So tell me who is.”
    “Dave Liggett comes to mind. He’s defended a couple of big sex suits lately.”
    “And you’re thinking what?”
    “I don’t know. False accusations by a woman. This Tasha Barlow…” He paused and shook his head. “Forgive me, I’m not completely awake. I guess if she’s dead she’s not making any false accusations against Dan. Those had to come from somewhere else.”
    “Of course. False accusations. That’s what’s going on. Or mistaken identity. I’ve thought of that one, too.” That Dan could be anything less than one hundred percent innocent hadn’t yet crossed my mind.
    “Chauncey Howell,” Jack said suddenly, snapping his fingers “Best criminal lawyer I know. The best.”
    I liked the name. He sounded like he was from an old New England family, the kind that sailed over on the Mayflower . “Can I call him now?”
    Jack didn’t bother to look at a clock, he just picked up the cordless phone on the counter and punched in a number. We both waited.
    “Chauncey? Jack Rosenfeld. Sorry to get you at this hour on your private line. But I need your help on a murder case.”
    Murder case. Uttered coldly into the phone in the middle of the night, the words hit me like exploding land mines. I clutched my chest and reeled back. With panic rising, I grabbed my bag and pulled out my cell phone.
    Jack, done outlining the situation to Chauncey, looked up and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “You don’t need your mobile,” he said. “You can talk to Chauncey on this line.”
    Jack held out the receiver, but instead of taking it, I frantically pushed the menu buttons on my Motorola until the small screen displayed my cache of digital photos. Dan hugging me at the beach. Dan and Jimmy lying on the grass. Dan playing tennis with Ashley. Dan — my husband who couldn’t be a murderer. He’d eaten lasagna tonight with me and the kids, said I looked sexy in my workout clothes, and kissed me gently before he got into our antique four-poster bed.
    I snapped my cell phone shut. Next time I was able to curl up next to Dan, I’d know that according to the cops, I was sleeping with a killer.

Chapter Two
     
     
    W hen I finally calmed down enough to take the phone, Chauncey Howell sounded coolly efficient, stunningly professional for someone asking questions of an