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 cloisonne 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.