Picture Perfect (20 page)

“Mrs. Tate, if you like, we could continue our discussion at the station. But I think your office might prove more comfortable.” Detective Fallbrook extends his hand to me.

“I have a lot of work to do,” I say, half in a fog.

“So do we, ma’am,” Detective Wilson asserts, his tone clearly accusatory.

“I’d prefer to have a lawyer present with me,” I say, suddenly finding my wherewithal.

“Do you think you need a lawyer, Mrs. Tate?” Detective Fallbrook drops his outstretched hand. “We’re just having a chat right now. It’s important to our investigation. I know you want us to do a thorough job, right?”

I glance up at him. The winter sun is behind his head, casting his face in deep shadows. It’s clear from his condescending tone that he’s looking at me as his prime suspect. But I’ve seen enough episodes of
Law & Order
to know that he has no right to question me without a lawyer if I request one.

“What makes you think I’m your killer?” I demand, the words coming from some place I don’t recognize. A place of self-assured confidence. Or complete lunacy. “Because we were getting divorced? It might be motive, but it isn’t evidence. And until you have some, I prefer to be treated with some respect. I requested a lawyer, and I will not speak with you further until I have one present.”

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Tate,” he says as they both turn and head for the door.

Another wave of nausea washes over me, and I nearly introduce my breakfast to my shoes. As I lift my chest off my thighs and again inhale the smoke-scented air, a tall blonde in a crisp suit approaches me. She digs into her coat pocket and pulls out a card, handing it to me.

I peer at the business card. Crisp, white, thick stock. Clean lettering.

Tanya Fielding, JD

Attorney at Law

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she says. “Tanya Fielding, at your service.”

***

Seated across the table from Tanya Fielding, Attorney at Law, I can’t keep the uneasy panic out of my voice. “Yes, we were divorcing, yes it was nasty, yes he was threatening to ruin my career, but that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“Of course it doesn’t. But the prosecution isn’t concerned with proving your innocence. I am,” she says, authoritatively stabbing her fork into her cobb salad.

After discussing her qualifications (stellar) and my circumstances (tragic), Tanya invited me to lunch to talk about my case. I told her of everything from the morning I was served divorce papers to the moment I was informed of Alan’s death, and accused of his murder. I left nothing to her imagination, even when it came to sex with Jack Ford, despite my sense that that was treading into the area of too-much-information. But she insisted on knowing every single move I’d made over the past week. 

“And where is he now? Jack, I mean,” she asks.

“I don’t know. He hasn’t returned my texts.”

“Give me his number. I have a private investigator on staff. He’ll find him.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

“It certainly doesn’t help your case to have him missing in action. Tell me,” she leans in, “do you think he’s involved?”

“With Alan’s death? Of course not. He’s about as dangerous as a housecat.”

“Still. Curious how he took off suddenly in search of some damning information regarding Alan’s family.”

“Yes, but I can’t imagine he would ever hurt anyone.”

“He attacked Alan. He knows where the Malibu house is. He has motive.”

“Motive?”

“To protect you. He only went after this ‘hunch’ of his after he learned of Alan’s latest threat against you. Things may have gotten out of hand if he tried to confront Alan.”

“Maybe,” I say, reluctantly. “But I don’t think he would do that.”

“It’s worth looking into,” she says, shoving a forkful of lettuce into her mouth.

I push my plate to the side, unable to stomach it. This is perhaps the very first time in my life that I haven’t been able to eat. Generally, stressful situations have me heading straight for the refrigerator, but this…this murder investigation has put my appetite on ice. Just watching Tanya masticate her meal is enough to toss my cookies. Had I any cookies to toss, that is.

“I’ll look at the police report,” she says, “both the assault allegation against Jack and the homicide.”

Panic roars through my chest at the sound of that word.
Homicide
. It isn’t a word that I ever believed could be uttered in connection with my name. And the enormity of the task before us, proving my innocence, hits me so hard I slump back in my chair, all hope swiftly draining from my consciousness.

“Don’t worry,” Tanya says, apparently picking up on my despair. “I’m sure there’s enough reasonable doubt here to keep this from even getting to trial. I have a friend in the lab that the police use. I’ll get expedited copies of all the reports.”

“A friend?”

“An acquaintance. Someone with whom I have a special arrangement. You might say, he’s one of the reasons I rarely lose.”

“Is that legal?”

“All evidence is subject to full disclosure. It just helps when I have a head start.”

“I see.”

“Make sure you eat something,” she advises, indicating my untouched plate of food. “You’ll need your strength.”

I nod.

She pulls a hundred dollar bill from her purse and sets it on the table underneath the salt shaker. “I need to get to work, but please stay and enjoy your meal. Oh, and don’t discuss this case or your relationship with Alan or Jack with anyone.”

I look to her, the helplessness overwhelming me, and say, “I swear I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill Alan. That’s the honest truth.”

“The truth doesn’t matter, Lauren. Appearances do.”

***

“Come back to New York,” Justine says, her normally vibrant voice as weak as my alibi—home alone watching
Downton Abbey
on my DVR—and almost as unbelievable. She’s never been one to reveal the slightest bit of worry or fear no matter how hard life comes at her. So, of course, the tinny sound echoing into my ear has to be the fault of my wireless carrier. Right?   

“I’d be there already if the police hadn’t advised me not to leave the city. I’m the fucking prime suspect in Alan’s murder,” I say all too loudly into my cell phone. A woman in a pair of Uggs and wearing an orange bubble jacket (Giles would
not
approve) swiftly deposits the bag of corn chips she’d been eyeing into her shopping cart and hurries off down the aisle. “Fuck. My life is falling apart, Justine.” 

I lean against the grocery store shelf. The wire handle of the red basket full of cookies and various chocolate-covered treats digs into my arm. After my lunch with Tanya and once again being dismissed from my office (for my own benefit, Rebecca assured me), my appetite returned with a vengeance. Like an old familiar friend, my sugar cravings came calling in my hour of need. A little bit of pleasure, of comfort, awaiting me inside each individually wrapped goodie. I was almost to the point of tearing into the packaging with my teeth when I decided to call Justine and fill her in on my latest dramas, despite Tanya’s warning not to discuss them with anyone. If I couldn’t tell my best friend what was happening, I think my head would explode. Or my stomach.

“It may seem like it’s falling apart,” she says, “but you didn’t do this, and the police will figure that out.”

I press the phone closer to my ear, straining to hear her over the buzz of my local supermarket. Usually, I have to turn the volume down whenever I talk to Justine. Her voice booms with authority and crackles with sharp criticism more often than not. But this reedy, thin, insecure tone emanating from my iPhone is barely audible.

This is serious. If Justine is worried about me, I’m certainly doomed. The weight of this realization drags me even further into my despair, and I shove a box of Ding Dongs into my basket.

“It doesn’t even matter if I’m proven innocent, don’t you see? My life as I know it is over. You can’t be accused of murder one day, cleared the next, and then just go on like nothing ever happened. I’ll have to leave the industry, Los Angeles. I’ll never work again,” I say near tears.

“That’s complete bullshit. Look at Roman Polanski. The guy is still making hit movies thirty years after having been accused of rape.” But the high pitch of her words belie her confidence once again, and I am close to having a full-blown, tabloid-worthy meltdown in the middle of the snack food aisle. 

“Yeah, and he hasn’t stepped foot inside the United States since, either. Besides, he was a hugely famous director. Who am I? I’m nobody. I’ll be replaced by some brown-nosing intern next week.”

“Stop beating yourself up. You are an award-winning producer. Your films make people happy. You make people believe in love, Lauren. That’s not nothing. In fact, that’s pretty fucking incredible.”

I am momentarily struck dumb by Justine’s comment. She rarely has a kind word for the types of films I make—romances—and she never once in all the years I’ve known her has ever had anything good to say about love. Love and religion were about the two worst things ever to happen to mankind, in her opinion.

“Listen, don’t let those fuckers in the Sherriff’s Office push you around. And don’t start bellyaching until you really have something to whine about,” she says, her ironfisted advice slamming down on me like a hammer, the authority finally returning to her voice. This is the Justine I know. The Justine I need to hear on the other end of the line. The woman who bolsters my spirit whenever it sags with tough talk and rum cocktails. The woman who forced me to jump a turnstile to catch the last ferry from Jersey City to Manhattan before it left the dock two years ago so we wouldn’t have to fork out fifty bucks in cab fare, despite the fact that both of us could easily have afforded it.

Justine is strong. Determined. Daring. And beautiful. The heart of an ox in the body of a gazelle. Sometimes, I wish I was more like her. Some people call her brash, arrogant and bossy. But she’s the only one I’ve ever known who could right my world whenever it’s gone wonky. This time, though, I’m not sure even the great and powerful Justine can calm my chaos. 

“Okay,” I say softly into my phone. “I won’t.”

“You won’t
what?
” she demands.

“I won’t let those fuckers in the Sherriff’s Office push me around,” I say, weakly.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I won’t let those fuckers in the Sherriff’s Office push me around,” I say a little louder.

“I can’t
hear
you!” she barks at me like some Army drill sergeant.

“I said, ‘I WON’T LET THOSE FUCKERS PUSH ME AROUND!’” I shout at the top of my voice, feeling miraculously victorious. That is, until I turn around to see the whole of the supermarket gaping at me in wonder.

“Shit. I gotta get out of here, Justine.”

“Where are you?”

“The grocery store.”

“Lauren, put the Twinkies down.” I hear the unmistakably disapproving voice of Giles behind me. I spin on my peep toe heels to find him, arms folded across his chest, scowling at me. “I knew you’d be here.”

“What’s going on?” Justine calls through the cell phone. “Who is that?”

“Shit,” I say again, feeling like a twelve-year-old kid caught sneaking Oreos from my father’s stash. “Justine, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait—” I hear her say before I click off and shove the phone into my purse.

Giles takes the basket full of junk food from me with a shake of his head.
Tsk tsk tsk.
He knows me all too well.

“Sally told me you got sacked.”

“Sacked? No. Just taking a leave of absence,” I say, unconvincingly.

“You’ve got some
‘splainin’
to do, missy,” he says. “Come on. There’s a wisp of a woman in Beverly Hills just dying to walk all over you.”

***

“Oh, Christ! Yes, yes! There! Deeper!” I moan as Fumie, a ninety-pound Japanese woman, jams her toes beneath my shoulder blade.”

“My God, Lauren. Would you shut up? You sound like you’re making a porno over there,” Giles says from the other side of the creamy, muslin curtain separating our futons.

Giles took me to a posh Beverly Hills spa where he had booked two Shiatsu massages, one for me and one for him. Aki, a very attractive young Japanese man, was assigned to Giles, much to his delight, while I got a woman who barely looked old enough to drive and certainly nowhere near strong enough to work the kinks out of my shoulders. Oh, how deceiving appearances can be.

She managed to get her fingers into all the right places on my body, and just when I thought she couldn’t possibly go any further, she ordered me onto my belly. Walking up and down the length of my five-foot-seven frame, her tiny feet and strong toes sank deep into every taught and tense spot so effectively, I truly thought I’d seen God.  

“Giles, you have no idea,” I groan as Fumie’s magic feet tap dance on my spine.

“Yes, I do, honey, and so does everyone else. Put a cork in it.”

“I can’t help it. This is heaven on a futon, I tell you.” My words vibrate through my chest as my Shiatsu she-wonder straddles my back and pummels me with her hands, karate chop style. “Fumie, you are a goddess!”

“Girl, you either really need a lay or a chiropractor. Either way, this isn’t the place.”

“Oh, shut up. You know the hell I’m going through. Let me live my joy!”

Giles lets out a laugh. “Live your joy? You sound like some self-help guru hawking your latest bestseller. Okay, Lauren. Live your joy. But you do still have your clothes on, right?”

Giles and I were outfitted with T-shirts and crazy huge Thai fisherman’s pants that looked like some sort of origami-inspired futuristic fashion faux pas that both of us had a hell of a time figuring out how to wear. Unlike Swedish and other western massage styles, Shiatsu is not done while lying naked on a table, your head supported by a donut-shaped pillow. Instead, you lie on a futon, fully-clothed, while the therapist uses nearly every appendage she has to ring the tension from your body. I was skeptical at first, but quickly became convinced of Shiatsu’s healing powers once Fumie’s fingers dug deep into my neck.