gold-stud earrings, and a tattoo on his muscular arm burst out of the shop.
“Help you, lady?” he asked, rubbing his index finger against the side of his nose.
“Um, yes,” I said, “I’m looking for Billy Mann.”
“Well, lucky you. You’re looking at Billy Mann.”
Staring, more like it. He had the handsome, sexy appeal of Russell Crowe playing ultimate bad boy: worn black leather jacket, tight but tatty jeans, and scruffy beard. If Molly had been with me, she’d have cast him in something immediately.
“I’m Lacy Fields,” I said, extending my right hand. Instead of shaking it, Billy grabbed my fingers and pulled them close to his face. Inspecting my pale-pink nail polish, now slightly chipped, he gave a loud snort.
“I skipped my manicure this week,” I said, apologetically. “I’ve been busy.”
He snorted again. Could he possibly be au courant enough to scoff because I liked natural shades instead of Chanel black satin? Really, that fad was going to be replaced faster than Justin Timberlake’s girlfriends.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I run a bike store. You’re not a biker.” He ran his thumb across my fingers. “Soft skin. Long nails. No calluses anywhere.” He dropped my hand and took a step back. “You a plainclothes cop?”
“Not a cop,” I said. For his information, these weren’t exactly plain clothes, either. My simple silk skirt happened to be Escada, and the ruffled blouse came from the first collection of a talented young designer with her own section at Fred Segal.
“Why would I be a cop?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been expecting one to show up since Cassie died.”
I nodded. “I did come to talk about Cassie. But only as her friend.”
“Lacy Fields?” He looked at me suspiciously. “If you’re a friend, why don’t I recognize the name?”
“I probably got to know her long after you two had split. She hired me to decorate her penthouse.”
“Oh, sure. The decorator.” He nodded knowingly. “We talked about you.”
“You did?” I wondered what they’d said. Had Cassie mentioned my talent for tracking down antiques? Vanity aside, the bigger point didn’t escape me. They’d talked in the last couple of months.
“Yeah, Roger had recommended you, right?” He looked me over carefully. “She always got nervous when Roger talked about a woman, because she worried that he screwed around. It wouldn’t have been with you, though.”
“It could have been,” I blurted, unexpectedly insulted.
He gave his sly, Russell Crowe smile. “Sure, it could have been. I didn’t mean it that way. I’d screw around with you anytime.”
Well, that was better. I mean, not really better. I didn’t want to screw around with him. But I took yoga, waxed my legs, and highlighted my hair. I got rose-petal facials and never went to sleep with my makeup still on. I shouldn’t be immediately dismissed.
“I’m just trying to figure out what could have happened to Cassie,” I said, getting down to business. “I’m making some inquiries to get to the bottom of it. She collapsed in the apartment when I was there. Horrible.”
“Goes to show you,” Billy said, kicking a pebble underfoot with the edge of his square-toed boot. “I always say, ‘Live fast and free, because tomorrow you may die.’ But I’m the one who was supposed to die young.”
“Why?” I asked.
Billy looked surprised. “Why? Because I ride hogs and compete in dangerous races where people smash and crash. I spent two weeks in intensive care once, but other than that, I’ve never had a scratch.”
“Good for you.” Then trying to be delicate, I said, “I understand you and Cassie used to date.”
“Date?” Billy smiled, and his teeth were unexpectedly straight and white. Either he had good genes or biker dudes in LA went to cosmetic dentists.
“Not date,” I amended, realizing I’d used a word that was, well, dated. “So how would you describe it?”
“Probably as
“Help you, lady?” he asked, rubbing his index finger against the side of his nose.
“Um, yes,” I said, “I’m looking for Billy Mann.”
“Well, lucky you. You’re looking at Billy Mann.”
Staring, more like it. He had the handsome, sexy appeal of Russell Crowe playing ultimate bad boy: worn black leather jacket, tight but tatty jeans, and scruffy beard. If Molly had been with me, she’d have cast him in something immediately.
“I’m Lacy Fields,” I said, extending my right hand. Instead of shaking it, Billy grabbed my fingers and pulled them close to his face. Inspecting my pale-pink nail polish, now slightly chipped, he gave a loud snort.
“I skipped my manicure this week,” I said, apologetically. “I’ve been busy.”
He snorted again. Could he possibly be au courant enough to scoff because I liked natural shades instead of Chanel black satin? Really, that fad was going to be replaced faster than Justin Timberlake’s girlfriends.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I run a bike store. You’re not a biker.” He ran his thumb across my fingers. “Soft skin. Long nails. No calluses anywhere.” He dropped my hand and took a step back. “You a plainclothes cop?”
“Not a cop,” I said. For his information, these weren’t exactly plain clothes, either. My simple silk skirt happened to be Escada, and the ruffled blouse came from the first collection of a talented young designer with her own section at Fred Segal.
“Why would I be a cop?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been expecting one to show up since Cassie died.”
I nodded. “I did come to talk about Cassie. But only as her friend.”
“Lacy Fields?” He looked at me suspiciously. “If you’re a friend, why don’t I recognize the name?”
“I probably got to know her long after you two had split. She hired me to decorate her penthouse.”
“Oh, sure. The decorator.” He nodded knowingly. “We talked about you.”
“You did?” I wondered what they’d said. Had Cassie mentioned my talent for tracking down antiques? Vanity aside, the bigger point didn’t escape me. They’d talked in the last couple of months.
“Yeah, Roger had recommended you, right?” He looked me over carefully. “She always got nervous when Roger talked about a woman, because she worried that he screwed around. It wouldn’t have been with you, though.”
“It could have been,” I blurted, unexpectedly insulted.
He gave his sly, Russell Crowe smile. “Sure, it could have been. I didn’t mean it that way. I’d screw around with you anytime.”
Well, that was better. I mean, not really better. I didn’t want to screw around with him. But I took yoga, waxed my legs, and highlighted my hair. I got rose-petal facials and never went to sleep with my makeup still on. I shouldn’t be immediately dismissed.
“I’m just trying to figure out what could have happened to Cassie,” I said, getting down to business. “I’m making some inquiries to get to the bottom of it. She collapsed in the apartment when I was there. Horrible.”
“Goes to show you,” Billy said, kicking a pebble underfoot with the edge of his square-toed boot. “I always say, ‘Live fast and free, because tomorrow you may die.’ But I’m the one who was supposed to die young.”
“Why?” I asked.
Billy looked surprised. “Why? Because I ride hogs and compete in dangerous races where people smash and crash. I spent two weeks in intensive care once, but other than that, I’ve never had a scratch.”
“Good for you.” Then trying to be delicate, I said, “I understand you and Cassie used to date.”
“Date?” Billy smiled, and his teeth were unexpectedly straight and white. Either he had good genes or biker dudes in LA went to cosmetic dentists.
“Not date,” I amended, realizing I’d used a word that was, well, dated. “So how would you describe it?”
“Probably as
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