6 Stone Barrington Novels (25 page)

“I'll send your laundry out, too.”

“Thanks again.”

“Stone you sound funny—depressed.”

“I'm just tired,” he replied. “The round-trip cross-country flight messed with my internal clock.”

“Want to have dinner tonight?”

He knew what that meant. “Give me a rain check, if you will; I just want to get some rest.”

“Okay, call if you need anything.”

Stone punched the end button, then dialed Marc Blumberg's Palm Springs number and punched the send button again.

“Hello?”

“Marc, it's Stone.”

“Hi, there, you in the car?”

“Yeah, I'm just north of San Diego.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I've been to Tijuana to meet with Felipe Cordova, of Nike footprint fame.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“It's a long story; why don't we get together when you're back in L.A.?”

“Why don't you come here, instead? I'll give you some dinner and put you up for the night. You could be here in a couple of hours.”

“Okay, why not?”

“You got a map?”

“Yes.”

“Take I-15 to just short of Temecula, then cut east over the mountains.”

“Okay, what's the address?”

Blumberg gave him the street and number and directions to the house.

“See you in a while.” He hung up, then saw a sign for I-15 just in time to make the turn.

He found the turnoff for Palm Springs and followed the curving mountain road, enjoying the drive. His head began to clear, and almost without effort, things started to line up in his mind. First of all, he still believed Arrington was innocent; second, he felt that Cordova was the best suspect; third, he was going to do whatever it took to get Arrington out of this. He forced himself to consider the possibility that Arrington had shot Vance. If so, he rationalized, it must somehow have been self-defense. He could not let her be convicted, especially after what had happened in New York. He was in her thrall again, if he had ever been out of it, and all he wanted at the moment was a future with Arrington in it. By the time he had found Marc Blumberg's house, his ducks were all in a row.

The house was a large contemporary, sculpted of native stone and big timbers, on several acres of desert. Marc greeted him warmly and led him out to the pool. The sun was low in the sky, and the desert air was growing cool. A tall, very beautiful woman was stretched out on a chaise next to the outside bar.

“This is Vanessa Pike,” Marc said. “Vanessa, meet Stone Barrington.”

The two shook hands. It was difficult for Stone not to appreciate her beauty, especially since she was wearing only the bottom of her bikini.

“What'll you drink?” Marc asked them both.

“I'll have a gin and tonic,” Vanessa replied.

“So will I,” Stone echoed.

Marc motioned him to a chair opposite Vanessa, who showed no inclination to cover herself, soaking up the waning rays of afternoon sun.

“Aren't you getting chilly?” Stone asked.

“I'm rarely chilly,” she replied, with a level gaze.

“I believe you,” Stone said.

Marc came back with the drinks and joined them. “So, how'd you ever find Cordova?”

“A friend at the LAPD put me in touch with a guy named Brandy Garcia, who knows the territory down there.”

“I've heard about him,” Blumberg said. “A real hustler.”

“Took him less than a week to find Cordova.”

“Where'd you meet?”

“At Garcia's house. He seems to be doing very well for himself.”

“I don't get it; why would Cordova talk to you?”

“Because I paid him a thousand dollars, plus another three hundred for his shoes.”

“You got the Nikes?”

“I did.”

“Was there a cut on the sole?”

“There was; they're in my car; they'll match the photograph the cops took.”

“Now that is great! What did Cordova say?”

Stone took a deep breath and told the lie. “Denied everything; wasn't at the house that day, went to Mexico, because somebody in the family was sick.”

“You couldn't shake his story?”

Stone shook his head. “No way to disprove it, without telling him about the footprint, and I didn't want to tip him off about that.”

“You think there's any way of getting him back, so the cops can question him?”

“No, short of arranging another meeting and kidnapping him, and I don't think a judge would look kindly on that, not even a judge you play golf with.”

“You're right about that.”

“He's not coming back to L.A. anytime soon; he's gone to ground, and I doubt if we'll ever see him again.”

“Well, we've got the shoes,” Blumberg said.

“You think that's enough to win a motion to dismiss?”

“Maybe; I'd like to think about that. I'd really like to have more.”

“Like a confession from Cordova?”

Marc grinned. “That would do it, I think.”

Stone got serious. “We can't let this go to trial, Marc.”

“Oh, I think I could win it,” Marc replied cockily.

“Probably, but I don't want to take the chance, and I don't want Arrington to have to live with half the world thinking she murdered her husband.”

“We'll go for the motion to dismiss, when I'm ready,” Marc said, “and we'll play it big in the press, sow some doubt amongst the jury pool. Even if we lose, we can do ourselves some good.”

“Let's don't lose,” Stone said.

A Latino in a white jacket came out of the house. “Dinner is served, whenever you're ready, Mr. Blumberg.”

“Thank you, Pedro,” Marc said. “We'll be right in.”

“May I use a phone?” Stone asked.

“Sure; go into my study, first door on your left.” Marc pointed the way.

Stone went into the study, closed the door behind him, and picked up the phone on the desk. He checked his notebook and dialed the number for Brandy Garcia.

“Buenos dias,”
Garcia's voice said. “Leave me a message, okay?” There was a beep.

“Give your friend in Tijuana a message,” Stone said. “Tell him there's a warrant out for him. Tell him to go where even
you
can't find him.” He hung up the phone and went in to dinner.

Vanessa was sitting at a small table alone. She patted a chair next to her.

Stone was relieved that she had put on a sweater. He sat down. “Where's Marc?”

“He's down in the wine cellar, getting us something to drink.”

Marc returned with a bottle of claret, opened it, tasted it, poured them each a glass, and sat down. He raised his glass. “To motions to dismiss,” he said, “and to Vanessa.”

“I'll drink to both,” Stone said, raising his glass.

 

 

 

W
HEN STONE CAME DOWN TO BREAKFAST, MARC WAS just finishing his coffee. Stone took a seat, and Pedro came and took his order for bacon and eggs.

“Sleep well?” Marc asked.

“Probably better than you did,” Stone replied, trying not to smirk. “Where's Vanessa?”

“Still asleep. Tired.” Marc smirked.

“I see.”

“You should give Vanessa a call sometime,” Marc said. “There's nothing serious between the two of us, and she's really a very nice girl.”

“It's a thought,” Stone said noncommitally.

“I wouldn't like to see you all alone in L.A. Might affect your work on the case, that sort of frustration. And since Arrington is off limits . . .”

“You're too kind, Marc.”

“I certainly am.”

“Listen, Marc, I was thinking last night: Instead of making an announcement to the press about Cordova, why don't you just leak it a little at a time. Do you know a reporter you can trust not to reveal his sources?”

“You have a point: If the press gets wind of a suspect that the police have ignored, then the cops will look bad, and we won't appear to have had anything to do with it. I like it, and I know just the reporter at the
L.A. Times
.”

“Our judge, whoever he turns out to be, will probably hear about it, too, and when we demonstrate in court that the rumors of another suspect are true . . .”

“That is delightfully Machiavellian, Stone,” Marc said. “You surprise me.”

Stone didn't know how to reply to that. His breakfast arrived, and he enjoyed it, while Blumberg talked about golf in Palm Springs.

“You play? I'll give you a game this morning.”

“I've hit a few balls; that's about it.”

“You should take some lessons; that's how to get started.”

“Golf in Manhattan is tough,” Stone said. “I think you pretty much have to drive to Westchester, and that's if you can get into a club.”

“Why do I have the feeling you aren't telling me the truth about Felipe Cordova?” Marc asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“I don't know, Marc,” Stone replied, surprised. “Why do you feel that way?”

“You think Cordova didn't kill Vance, don't you?”

“He told a very convincing story.”

“But you want the LAPD and the D.A. and a judge to think he did it.”

“Just that he's a viable suspect, and the cops have ignored him. Shows a lack of good faith on their part.”

“Let me ask you this: What happens if I get the charges against Arrington dismissed, then the cops find Cordova?”

“I don't think we'll ever see Cordova again; he's too scared.”

“You said he denied everything, and you didn't contradict him by telling him about the shoeprint at Vance's house.”

“That's right.”

“So what happens to his story when the cops tell him about the shoeprint?”

“First, they have to find him; he's in Mexico, probably not in Tijuana anymore. You know the problems with finding somebody down there, not to mention the difficulties of getting a suspect extradited.”

“I'm talking worst case, here, Stone; I have to protect myself. If, by some miracle, the cops find Cordova in Mexico, or, more likely, he comes back to this country and gets arrested for speeding, or something. I have to know what he's going to say.”

“My guess is, he'll try to implicate Arrington. He knows about the murder, knows she's been charged. He'll do everything he can to see that she takes the fall. That's my guess.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Marc said. “You know, I've tried a lot of cases in my time, and a lot of them murders, too, but I don't think I've ever tried one where my second chair was in love with the defendant.”

Stone kept eating his eggs.

“You're a bright guy, Stone, and I suspect a very good lawyer, so I'm going to rely on you not to do anything that will get
me
hung.”

“I would never do anything like that,” Stone replied truthfully.

“I can see how you might not want to tell me everything you know, to save Arrington's very beautiful ass, how you might even lie to me. That's okay, as long as it doesn't interfere with how I handle my case, and as long as it doesn't get me disbarred or damage my credibility with the D.A. and the judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable asset I have in defending a client, and I don't want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.”

“Perfectly clear, Marc,” Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. “Well, I think I'd better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality.”

Marc stood up and shook his hand. “And don't forget, if you get horny, call Vanessa; don't go sneaking into Arrington's bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all.” He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa's number scrawled on the back.

Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. “I take your point.” He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova's Nikes, and headed back toward L.A.

He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.

“What's wrong?” he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.

“I've just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation,” she said. “Actually, it was more of a tirade.”

“Oh, God; what did she say?”

“She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, ‘touch him again.' She means you, I believe.”