Read Online Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janice Kaplan
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Times out of its plastic bag. The story about Dan had made page 1, just below the fold, with a screaming headline:
RESPECTED L.A. DOC ARRESTED
ON MURDER CHARGE
Underneath was a photo someone had snapped at a charity ball a few months ago, with Dan in his black Armani tuxedo and Harry Winston diamond studs. His blue eyes twinkled and his warm smile showed off his irresistible dimple. He looked heartbreakingly handsome — which explained why the picture filled most of the bottom of the page. So much for keeping Dan out of sight of the paparazzi last night.
Never-made-it-actress Tasha Barlow, whose goal had been to have her face in front of the world, was relegated to a tiny square. In the high school graduation photo, her nose looked obviously bigger and her breasts strikingly smaller than in the head shot Chauncey had showed me. When she moved to the coast, Tasha had paid some plastic surgeon a wad of money to make her into a different person. But that didn’t mean Dan had held the knife.
The type blurred in front of my eyes when I tried to read the article, so I shoved the newspaper under the sofa and flicked on the small Sony TV in the kitchen, flipping past Matt chatting with his new mate, Meredith, on NBC and the genial hosts bantering on CBS, until I caught a mention of Dan on one of the local news reports. The story was mercifully brief, a juicy headline but no sleazy footage to draw it out. But there was plenty of video for the next story, and I watched until Grant came downstairs.
“Who’s Mikita?” I asked, as soon as he came into the kitchen.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at me blankly. “What?”
“Have you ever heard of Mikita? She’s all over the news this morning. Come here.”
Grant joined me at the countertop television, where the slo-mo footage of a gorgeous young woman running naked down Sunset Boulevard was being replayed for at least the third time.
“She’s one of those models–turned–rock singers,” Grant said. “What happened?”
“Apparently she took a little too much Ecstasy and coke last night and washed it all down with a bottle of champagne. She left the Viper Room, pulled off all her clothes, and…” I nodded at the TV. “The rest you’ve seen.”
Grant laughed and went to the refrigerator for orange juice. “Did she push Dad off the news, at least?”
“Mostly.” I cleared my throat. “Come eat.” I put Wheaties with strawberries on the table, but Grant looked around the kitchen.
“Where’s the newspaper?” he asked.
I didn’t answer immediately, and, misinterpreting, Grant said, “Want me to go outside and get it?”
“I already did,” I admitted. I fished out the paper from under the sofa. “Unfortunately, the L.A. Times gets printed before two A.M ., which is when Mikita did her strip act.”
Grant grabbed the front section from me and sat down at the kitchen table, propping the paper between his cereal bowl and his glass of juice, just like he did every morning. But today, instead of analyzing the Lakers’ losing streak, he was perusing a story about a dead girl and a maybe murderous doctor — who happened to be his dad. Grant’s face grew paler and paler, and finally he folded up the newspaper and pushed it away.
“I didn’t know she’d been strangled,” he said finally, his voice so broken and soft that I could barely make it out.
“Strangled?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t. It never came up.”
“That’s what the article says.” Grant’s chest heaved with emotion and he rubbed his eyes.
“I didn’t read the article. I’m not as brave as you thought.”
Grant jabbed his spoon at the few shreds still floating in his bowl. “All night I thought about how Dad doesn’t have a gun,” Grant said in a pained rasp. “He couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder because he’s just like you — he hates guns and wouldn’t know what to do with one. But I guess now that doesn’t matter.”
I slid the
RESPECTED L.A. DOC ARRESTED
ON MURDER CHARGE
Underneath was a photo someone had snapped at a charity ball a few months ago, with Dan in his black Armani tuxedo and Harry Winston diamond studs. His blue eyes twinkled and his warm smile showed off his irresistible dimple. He looked heartbreakingly handsome — which explained why the picture filled most of the bottom of the page. So much for keeping Dan out of sight of the paparazzi last night.
Never-made-it-actress Tasha Barlow, whose goal had been to have her face in front of the world, was relegated to a tiny square. In the high school graduation photo, her nose looked obviously bigger and her breasts strikingly smaller than in the head shot Chauncey had showed me. When she moved to the coast, Tasha had paid some plastic surgeon a wad of money to make her into a different person. But that didn’t mean Dan had held the knife.
The type blurred in front of my eyes when I tried to read the article, so I shoved the newspaper under the sofa and flicked on the small Sony TV in the kitchen, flipping past Matt chatting with his new mate, Meredith, on NBC and the genial hosts bantering on CBS, until I caught a mention of Dan on one of the local news reports. The story was mercifully brief, a juicy headline but no sleazy footage to draw it out. But there was plenty of video for the next story, and I watched until Grant came downstairs.
“Who’s Mikita?” I asked, as soon as he came into the kitchen.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at me blankly. “What?”
“Have you ever heard of Mikita? She’s all over the news this morning. Come here.”
Grant joined me at the countertop television, where the slo-mo footage of a gorgeous young woman running naked down Sunset Boulevard was being replayed for at least the third time.
“She’s one of those models–turned–rock singers,” Grant said. “What happened?”
“Apparently she took a little too much Ecstasy and coke last night and washed it all down with a bottle of champagne. She left the Viper Room, pulled off all her clothes, and…” I nodded at the TV. “The rest you’ve seen.”
Grant laughed and went to the refrigerator for orange juice. “Did she push Dad off the news, at least?”
“Mostly.” I cleared my throat. “Come eat.” I put Wheaties with strawberries on the table, but Grant looked around the kitchen.
“Where’s the newspaper?” he asked.
I didn’t answer immediately, and, misinterpreting, Grant said, “Want me to go outside and get it?”
“I already did,” I admitted. I fished out the paper from under the sofa. “Unfortunately, the L.A. Times gets printed before two A.M ., which is when Mikita did her strip act.”
Grant grabbed the front section from me and sat down at the kitchen table, propping the paper between his cereal bowl and his glass of juice, just like he did every morning. But today, instead of analyzing the Lakers’ losing streak, he was perusing a story about a dead girl and a maybe murderous doctor — who happened to be his dad. Grant’s face grew paler and paler, and finally he folded up the newspaper and pushed it away.
“I didn’t know she’d been strangled,” he said finally, his voice so broken and soft that I could barely make it out.
“Strangled?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t. It never came up.”
“That’s what the article says.” Grant’s chest heaved with emotion and he rubbed his eyes.
“I didn’t read the article. I’m not as brave as you thought.”
Grant jabbed his spoon at the few shreds still floating in his bowl. “All night I thought about how Dad doesn’t have a gun,” Grant said in a pained rasp. “He couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder because he’s just like you — he hates guns and wouldn’t know what to do with one. But I guess now that doesn’t matter.”
I slid the
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