A Job to Kill For Read Free Page A

Roger.”
    The cop—whose nametag identified her as Officer Erica McSweeney—pulled out a clunky phone that doubled as a walkie-talkie. “What’s the husband’s phone number?”
    “No idea,” I admitted. “Maybe I can find it on Cassie’s cell.” I stood up shakily, headed back to the foyer, and grabbed Cassie’s bag from where she’d casually abandoned it on the gold-flecked eighteenth-century table. At another time, I would have paused to admire how the bold shades of the leather-and-alligator Louis Vuitton purse played gracefully against the mellow-colored antique. Now I just grabbed the bag (which, according to Vogue , cost fourteen thousand bucks and had a four-month waiting list) and rummaged inside, finding a slim silver phone tucked inside a perfectly sized felt pocket. With Officer McSweeney peering over my shoulder, I scrolled down, found an entry for ROGER—CELL, and hit the button.
    Three rings. Four. Just as I started to hang up, I heard Roger’s voice.
    “Cassie, hello,” he said. The caller ID must have flashed on his screen, and I noticed a slight chill in his voice.
    “It’s not Cassie. It’s Lacy Fields.”
    No reply, but I could hear noise in the background and a waiter saying, “May I get you another glass of wine?”
    “Lacy Fields, the decorator. I’m at your apartment, and Cassie…”
    “I know who you are, Lacy,” Roger said, his voice unexpectedly warmer. “In fact, I’m having lunch at The Grill, and you’ll never guess who’s with me.”
    He repeated my name to someone, and suddenly I heard gales of female laughter. Roger chuckled, said something sweet to his companion, and handed the phone over.
    “Lacy, you caught me having a drink with my darling Roger,” said a familiar voice. It took me only a second to place it.
    “Molly, is that you?” I asked. Molly Archer, my best friend since college, my Tri Delta sorority sister.
    “Yes, darling, of course it’s me.”
    As fresh-faced kids just out of Ohio State, we’d moved to LA together, and while I got married and had babies, Molly built one of the most powerful casting agencies in Hollywood. She had recently made Variety ’s list of the town’s most powerful people—well below Jerry Bruckheimer, but several spots above Paris Hilton’s hairdresser.
    Next to me, Officer McSweeney shifted uncomfortably, anxious to do her job.
    “Molly, tell Roger something happened to Cassie,” I said firmly to my friend. “Something awful. She’s just been taken to the hospital.”
    “Oh my God.” The flirtatious tone drained from Molly’s voice, and I heard her repeat the ghastly news to Roger. He got back on the line, and I handed the phone to the concerned cop.
    “Officer McSweeney here. LAPD. Am I speaking to Cassie Crawford’s husband?” she asked, as if worried that I’d mistakenly dialed Cassie’s chef, chauffeur, or masseuse. Roger must have said yes, because she reported that Cassie had suffered a medical emergency and the ambulance had taken her to Cedars Medical Center.
    “EMT usually goes to LA General, but your friend insisted on Cedars,” McSweeney said, looking at me. Cedars was the best hospital in town—the place where my husband, Dan, had been a plastic surgeon for most of his career.
    From my position five feet away, I could hear Roger firing questions at McSweeney. How had this happened? How serious was it? Would she be okay? His loud voice sounded scared.
    “She stopped breathing from unknown causes,” said McSweeney, avoiding any specifics. “You should get over to the hospital right away.”
    “I’m on my way,” Roger said.
    When she hung up, I shakily shoved some papers and fabric samples back into my own Coach tote—not as classy as Cassie’s, but functional—and got ready to leave.
    McSweeney casually put herself between me and the door.
    “Um, Ms. Fields, if you wouldn’t mind, I could use your help. You’re the only one who might have a clue what happened.”
    I should have