"Kill him."

She was joking. I think. There wasn't a trace of a smile on her face. Or a humorous lilt in her voice. We would just have to cross that bridge if we came to it.

Luckily Charlie was in the shower when Laurette called at five-thirty the following morning to alert me to the fact that Juan Carlos was on the move. He was on his way to Gold's Gym in Hollywood, and had an audition for a national Home Depot commercial at ten-thirty. He was particularly vague about his afternoon schedule, so Laurette was convinced that if he was going to meet Dominique, it would be sometime after lunch. I arrived at Gold's in a rather drab, nondescript neighborhood just south of the multimillion-dollar renovation projects in downtown Hollywood, including the upscale Cineplex, the Arclight, built around the historic Cinerama Dome; and Hollywood & Highland, a trendy mall full of shops, theaters, restaurants, and the spacious Kodak Theatre, the new home for the Academy Awards. But even with all the opulent new developments a few blocks north, the street where I parked outside of Gold's was washed out and depressing. I was stuck there a solid two hours. I should have known Juan Carlos was a gym rat, completely obsessed with his physique. He was obviously in there pumping every kind of iron there was, not to mention chatting up a few pretty faces too.

Finally, around eight, he strolled out the front door, conversing with a couple of other well-built actors showing off their sculptured pecs in form-fitting T-shirts. Juan Carlos waved good-bye to his buddies, hopped in Laurette's white SUV, and drove west. I pulled out behind him, but tried staying a few cars behind him so as not to arouse suspicion.

He pulled into a Starbucks just outside the Farmers' Market, and I watched as he had coffee with a man and a woman, both in sharp Italian business suits. Agents or managers. Definitely. I watched them through the window from outside, and Juan Carlos never stopped talking. He was probably talking about his career goals and himself in general. For over an hour. The agents looked relieved when Juan Carlos checked his watch, and jumped up to leave.

Then, it was off to his audition on the west side in Culver City. It was in a brick building, home to several casting agencies. He primped in the SUV a good ten minutes before donning his Armani sunglasses, adjusting one stray hair on his head, and then finally marching confidently inside. He was in there an hour.

When he finally came out, he looked excited as he spoke feverishly into his cell phone. My guess was he got the part. Or at least a callback. There was almost a skip in his step as he headed for the SUV.

After lunch with another out-of-work actor I recognized from an MCI commercial, I was beginning to think Juan Carlos was exactly as he came across. A self-absorbed player who used his looks to get ahead, but in the end, a faithful husband. That was before he headed over the hill to the San Fernando Valley. I thought he might be driving to a last-minute audition, but when he drove north to a middle-class neighborhood near the Burbank Airport, and parked on a quiet street called Screenland Drive, I perked up. Something was happening.

Juan Carlos got out of his car, and walked up to a one-story pea green house that would never see the pages of Architectural Digest. He rapped on the door, and a stunning young blonde, spilling out of a bright pink tank top, welcomed him inside. As she closed the door, I saw Juan Carlos lean in and kiss her. On the mouth. Jackpot.

I leaped out of the car, and ran up the walk to the house. The blinds were drawn so I couldn't see inside, but after maneuvering around some shrubbery, I came across an open window leading into the kitchen. I could hear them in the living room. Their voices were faint, but distinguishable.

"It's got to be tonight," the blonde said. There was an urgency in her voice.

"So soon? We can't make any mistakes. I could lose everything," Juan Carlos said.

"Don't worry. We'll make it look like an accident. Something quick and easy."

"What kind of an accident?"

"Oh, keep your voice down," the blonde said. "Do you remember that woman who tried to kill herself on Fire Island?"

"So?"

"I took it away from her, remember?"

"Took what?"

"What she tried to kill herself with."

"What good does that do us?"

"I got it. I saved it. I'll show you. See? Poison. And it works fast."

This couldn't be happening. It was all so surreal. Juan Carlos and this blond woman were plotting some kind of murder. And I was ready to bet my house on two things. The poison was monkshead. And the intended victim was my best friend, Laurette.

I whipped out my cell phone to call Laurette and warn her when I heard a low, steady growling. I looked down to see a pit bull, ears back and teeth bared, ready to lunge for my throat. I dropped the phone. My only weapon. Perfect. I slowly raised my arms to protect my face (an actor's first thought), when the shades in the open window rolled up.

"Badger, what are you growling at?"

The blond woman stared at me. And then she let out a scream. A long, piercing scream. Juan Carlos was at her side in a second.

"Jarrod?"

"Hi, Juan Carlos," I said.

"You know him?" the blond woman said, shaking.

"Yes. He's a friend of my wife's. What are you doing here?" He didn't look angry. Just confused. He had no idea I was on to him.

"Does that really matter? I heard everything," I said with an accusatory look on my face.

"Heard what?" he said.

"The accident. Tonight. Laurette."

It took a minute for him to process what I was talking about. And then it dawned on him, and his eyes went wide. I probably should have dived for my phone and dialed 911, but I stood my ground. Juan Carlos looked at the blonde, and then, they both laughed. Big, hearty, guffawing laughs. I didn't see the humor in the situation, so I remained stone-faced.

Juan Carlos disappeared back inside and then returned with a DVD. He tossed it out the window and I grabbed it. It was a classic fifties melodrama, Sudden Fear, starring Joan Crawford, Jack Palance, and Gloria Grahame. What this had to do with anything was lost on me.

"You ever see it?" Juan Carlos said.

"Yes," I said. It was actually quite a potboiler. Playwright Crawford rejects actor Palance for her play, he returns later to romance her and plot her murder with his ex-girlfriend Grahame . . . Oh no.

I slowly raised my eyes to Juan Carlos, who had a big grin on his face. I didn't dare ask. I didn't have to.

"We're doing a scene for our acting class."

The blonde piped in. "Our teacher's a Crawford fanatic. Everyone's doing scenes from her films. It's so funny that you thought . . ."

I shrugged. The joke was on me.

Once Juan Carlos and his scene partner stopped laughing, and Badger finally stopped growling, there was a deadening silence. I knew what was coming.

"So what are you doing here, Jarrod?" Juan Carlos folded his arms and his eyes narrowed. There was no getting out of this one.

Chapter 7.

As I stood in the hedges, caught, embarrassed, and totally screwed, my mind raced with a number of scenarios I could attempt to use to explain my way out of this botched stakeout. But I decided the truth was probably the best way to go. Well, almost the truth. I had to protect Laurette at all costs. So I would just leave out the part where she asked me to tail her husband and find out if he was a lying, cheating cad.

The blond woman, whom Juan Carlos finally introduced me to as Tammy, rushed outside to retrieve her pit bull, Badger. She flashed me a look of warning, as if I were the one who was growling at her precious four-legged soul mate. Badger snapped at my leg as she pulled him by the collar back into the house, and I heard her murmur under her breath, "Good boy."

That left me alone with Juan Carlos, who looked down at me from the kitchen window, not budging, frustration rising the longer it took me to offer up an explanation.

I let out a deep sigh. "The thing is, Juan Carlos, I love Laurette with all my heart."

"As do I," he said emphatically, a hint of defensiveness in his inflection.

"Well, I've known her a long time, and she can sometimes be impulsive, and well, when she rang me up to tell me she was marrying you after only knowing you such a short time, naturally I became suspicious of your motives."

Juan Carlos didn't flinch. His brown eyes, almost empty of emotion, stared at me. I pressed on. "And, well, I just wanted to make sure you're sincere about your feelings for her because the last thing I want is for Laurette to get hurt."

"I would never hurt Laurette. She's my life now, my whole life," he said.

"But surely you can understand where I'm coming from," I said.

Nothing. Not even a slight nod. Apparently he didn't understand.

"With your ex-girlfriend showing up at the wedding and a dead body at the reception, I mean those are pretty big red flags."

"I already told you and the police. It's over between Dominique and me. It has been for a long time. And I don't even know that man who died at the wedding."

"He didn't just die. He was murdered."

Finally. A slight reaction from Juan Carlos. His eye twitched and he shifted in the window, a little uncomfortable hearing the word "murder."

"Poisoned. Didn't you hear?" I said.

"How could I? Laurette and I just got home last night." His patience with me was waning. "Look, Jarrod, as you can see, Tammy and I are just scene partners, not secret lovers. Dominique is long gone. I have no idea where. And I had nothing to do with that man who died . . . excuse me . . . was murdered at my wedding. You should be talking to the hundred other people who were there that day."

"You're right. I'm sorry," I said. "I've been very foolish."

He softened a bit, and even offered me a slight smile. It wasn't sincere. He was just the kind of guy who liked to keep his enemies close.

"I accept your apology," he said, rather condescendingly.

I needed to ensure that he didn't suspect Laurette of any wrongdoing.

"Please, Juan Carlos, don't tell Laurette what I've been up to. She'd never speak to me again."

He paused, and thought long and hard. He really wanted to make me squirm while he decided my fate. Finally, he gave me a wink. "Fine. This will remain between us."

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you."

He waved me off, and returned to continue rehearsing his dramatic scene with Tammy. What a prick.

I walked back out to the street, where the blinding valley sun made my eyes ache. I squinted as I climbed back into my car and donned my sunglasses. Starting up the Beamer, I pulled out from the curb to make my way over the hill back home, when I passed a Mazda 626 with an Enterprise rental car sticker on the rear bumper that was parked on the west side of the street. A tiny woman was in the driver's seat, watching the pea green stucco house I had just left. It was Dominique.

I turned the corner and drove back out onto the main strip just east of Screenland Drive, a major street called Hollywood Way, where I immediately U-turned in a strip mall parking lot, and double backed. I rolled to a stop on the opposite side of the street from Dominique's rental car. She didn't notice me. She was too busy studying Tammy's house.

About twenty minutes passed before Juan Carlos and Tammy emerged from the house. Dominique sank low in her seat, not wanting them to spot her.

Tammy gave Juan Carlos a peck on the cheek, and he flashed her a smile before hopping into Laurette's SUV and driving off. Dominique jammed her Mazda into gear, and roared off after him.

I followed Dominique. Juan Carlos, ignorant to the fact he was leading a caravan, steered onto the Ventura Freeway West toward the ocean. It was still early in the day, so traffic wasn't heavy. Juan Carlos exited onto Topanga Canyon, a loopy, rustic road that eventually spilled out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and the vast beaches of Malibu. It took over an hour to get there, and Juan Carlos kept driving north, to a remote spot just past the Malibu Colony, home to many of Hollywood's elite. He parked on the side of the road, jumped out, stripped off his shirt and jeans to reveal a tight black swimsuit, and padded down the sand to the surf.

Dominique pulled off the road, the car rolling over gravel until she was about twenty feet from the SUV. She turned off the car and stared down at the beach, where Juan Carlos bravely ventured into the cold, numbing water. When he was knee deep, he dove into a small wave and disappeared.

I was so busy watching Dominique eye Juan Carlos that I almost tapped the rear end of the Mercedes in front of me that was stopped at a red light. I slammed on the brakes, jerking to a halt, nearly causing the motorcyclist behind me to do a double flip over my roof. He screamed a couple of obscenities at me as he swerved out around me and passed by. I shrugged, mouthed, "I'm sorry," and took the hint to get off the road.

The sun was assaulting and the temperature must have been upwards of ninety degrees. Sweat dripped down my brow as I kept my eyes focused on Dominique, who had lost sight of Juan Carlos in the surf, and was starting to get antsy. She got out of the car, and wandered down to the beach, keeping one hand above her eyes to block out the sun. I had a pair of minibinoculars in the trunk I used when I could only get nosebleed seats for a concert at the Staples Center. I popped open the trunk, unhooked the lens protectors, and peered through them. After a few seconds of searching, I caught a glimpse of a pair of arms splashing through the water, circling around a buoy, and then starting back for shore. It was Juan Carlos.

Dominique waited for him. After another fifteen minutes, Juan Carlos surfaced and, muscles tired from his workout, slowly made his way up the beach. He didn't spot Dominique at first, never even looked her way. She finally called out to him, startling him, and he jerked his head around to see her. She was smiling, hopeful, as if she was expecting some kind of warm reunion. He gaped at her for a few moments, trying to discern if it was really her. And then she ran toward him, arms outstretched, yearning for an embrace.

When she reached him and threw her arms around his neck, he stiffened. When she began smothering his face with kisses, he pushed her away. I was too far from them to hear the conversation, but it was heated. He yelled at her, berated her, but she held on to his arm, her lips trying to desperately caress his bronze skin. He wrenched his arm free, and shoved her again. Hard. She fell down, her face in the sand, humiliated.

Juan Carlos spat out a few final words, and stalked back to the SUV. He was livid as he yanked open the door, grabbed his shirt to wipe himself off from the water and the smell of his ex's desperation, jumped in, and peeled away. Bits of gravel flew in all directions.

I didn't follow him. I knew he was probably heading home to Laurette. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed upon Dominique, who had now climbed to her hands and knees and was sobbing. Her eye makeup smeared her face like a clown as she rose to her feet. The blustery wind almost knocked her tiny body down again. But she pushed forward, hands covering her face, and rushed toward the ocean before her.

It took me only a few seconds to figure out what she was going to do. She bounded into the surf, her arms stretched out, as if offering herself to the turbulent, dangerous waters of the Pacific. Before I sprinted down to the beach, she was already up to her waist, and by the time I had reached the water's edge, she had disappeared below the surface altogether. I blocked out the freezing sensation as I dove headfirst into the water and swam out with bold, choppy strokes. I stopped, treading water, my arms, legs, and torso paralyzed with cold. There was no sign of her. Nothing. All I could see was a family of four-mom, dad, and two kids, with their dog-having a picnic lunch down the beach. I wanted to call to them for help, but what could they do?

I inhaled sharply, and dropped down underneath the surface, eyes open, trying to focus on anything. But it was dark and murky, and after only forty-five seconds, I had to shoot up to the surface again, and take another deep breath. I dove once again, and this time I caught sight of something. A fish? No, it was a hand. Just a few feet away. I shot forward and grabbed it, tugging it toward me. A face appeared through the shadowy depths. It was Dominique, her eyes wide open, her mouth agape, filling with water.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, and hauled her to the surface. With all my strength, I dragged her limp body toward shore. I coughed and sputtered from swallowing a mouthful of saltwater. I wasn't sure if she was dead, or unconscious, or in a state of shock. Finally, my foot touched bottom, and I was able to carry her out, setting her down in the damp sand out of reach of the tide. I gave her mouth-to-mouth, and after a few tense moments, she gurgled, throwing up a quart of seawater, and crying uncontrollably.

I helped her to sit up, and we sat in silence as she held my hand and whimpered, unsure if she was happy or sad to have survived.

"Why did you do it?" I said.

She looked at me, vaguely recognizing me from the bus trip up to the Hearst Castle. She gave me a quizzical stare, and then shook her head and quietly cried.

"He wants nothing to do with me," she said.

"Juan Carlos?"

Her eyes fluttered, surprised that I knew who had broken her heart. "Yes," she said. "He told me he didn't care if I was alive or dead, just that he wanted me to leave him alone. He loves her now."

I knew exactly who "her" was. This was going to be good news for Laurette. But for this fragile creature, who took Juan Carlos at his word and decided her best option was simply to drown herself, I felt sorry. She struck me as a wounded bird, fallen from the nest, alone and afraid. Although Juan Carlos may have proven his intentions, his treatment of Dominique only reinforced my opinion of his character. And the thought of him sharing a bed with my best friend made me shudder.

Chapter 8.

Dominique was in a trance-like state as I led her back to her car. Fearing she was in no condition to drive, I offered to chauffeur her anywhere she wanted to go, especially if it was to the nearest psychiatrist's office. But quickly snapping out of it, she assured me she was feeling better, and before I could convince her otherwise, she was back behind the wheel of her rented Mazda, and merging into the heavy traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. She definitely had no desire to open up anymore to a complete stranger.

So I was left standing on the dusty, dirt shoulder of the highway, secure in the knowledge that Juan Carlos was at least faithful. That still didn't leave him off the hook as a murder suspect.

I got back into the Beamer, and headed east on the 10 Freeway, exiting the commuter-clogged La Brea Avenue north, which led me straight to the Hollywood Hills, and finally home.

As I wound up to the English Tudorstyle house I shared with Charlie, I saw his Volvo parked out front. He was home early. Definitely a welcome surprise. Snickers was running in circles when I entered the kitchen from the garage, and I scooped her up and followed Charlie's voice into the den, which was my favorite room in the house. The walls were covered with Hitchcock and Wilder movie posters and an impressive DVD collection, all positioned around the wide-screen TV. In other words, heaven. Charlie sat on the couch, talking on the phone. He winked at me as I ambled in, and patted the cushion next to him. I plopped down, sinking deep into the soft, intoxicating lushness of the cushions (we spare no expense when it comes to comfort). He slipped a muscular arm around my neck, pulling me closer, and I closed my eyes, nestling my head against his chest as he talked.