6 Stone Barrington Novels (5 page)

Then he had been caught up in an extraordinary situation in St. Mark's, had become involved in a murder trial, and by the time he was ready to return to the city, there was a fax from Arrington saying that, after a whirl-wind romance, she had married Vance Calder.

After that had come news of her pregnancy and her uncertainty about the identity of the father. The paternity test had come back in Vance's favor, and that was that. Now Vance was dead, and Arrington had turned Stone's life upside down once again.

Stone looked up at the cabin screen again. A film was starting, and it was Vance Calder's latest and last. Stone watched it through, once again amazed at how the actor's presence on screen held an audience, even himself, even now.

The time change was in Stone's favor, and they reached LAX in the early evening. Stone stepped off the airplane and found Rick Grant waiting for him. The LAPD detective was in his fifties, graying, but trim-looking. They greeted each other warmly.

“Give me your baggage claim checks,” Rick said, and Stone complied. He handed them to another man. “The Bel-Air?” he asked Stone.

“Yes.”

Rick guided Stone through a doorway, down a flight of stairs, and out onto the tarmac, where an unmarked police car was waiting. Rick drove. “You all right?” he asked.

“Well, it's three o'clock in the morning where I just came from, but after some sleep I'll be okay. How about you? How's the job?”

“I made captain; that's about it.”

“How's Barbara?” Stone had introduced Rick to Barbara Tierney, who was now his wife.

“Extremely well; in fact, she's pregnant.”

“At your age? You dog.”

“How about that? I thought I was all through with child rearing.”

“Bring me up to date on what happened, Rick, and don't leave anything out.”

“The Brentwood station caught the case on Saturday evening, about seven P.M. Calder's Filipino butler called it in. There was a patrol car there in three minutes, and the detectives were there two minutes after that. Calder's body was lying in the central hallway of the house, facedown. He'd taken one bullet here,” he tapped his own head at the right rear, “from about three feet. He was still breathing when the patrol car got there, but dead when the detectives arrived.”

“The gun?”

“Nine-millimeter automatic; Calder owned one, and it hasn't turned up, in spite of a
very
thorough search.”

“Where was Arrington when it happened?”

“In the bathtub, apparently. They were going out to dinner later. The butler heard the shot and sent the maid to find her. She was still in a robe when the detectives arrived. They noted the strong smell of perfume; there was a large bottle of Chanel No. 5 on her dressing table.”

“And that made them suspicious, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“But how would Arrington know that perfume can remove the residue from the hands of someone who's fired a gun?”

Rick shrugged. “It's the sort of thing that pops up on the news or in a television movie. Anybody could know it.”

“Did Arrington say anything to the detectives?”

“She was distraught, of course, but she seemed willing to talk; then she fainted. By this time, an ambulance had arrived, and the EMTs revived her. When she came to, she seemed disoriented—gave her name as Arrington Carter and didn't recognize the maid or her surroundings. The maid called her doctor, and he arrived pretty quickly. He had the EMTs load her up and take her to a toney private hospital, the Judson Clinic, in Beverly Hills. After the crime scene team arrived, they went to the clinic to question Arrington but were told she'd been sedated and would be out for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Anything missing from the house?”

“Calder's jewelry box, which, the butler said, had half a dozen watches and some diamond jewelry in it, and the gun. None of Arrington's stuff had been taken, according to the maid.”

“So, Calder could have interrupted a burglary and gotten shot with his own gun for his trouble.”

“That's one scenario,” Rick said.

“And I guess another is that Arrington shot Vance during a quarrel, hid the gun and the jewelry box, scrubbed her shooting hand and arm with Chanel No. 5 and jumped into a tub, just in time to be found by the maid.”

“That's about it.”

“Any other scenarios?”

“Nope, just the two.”

“How's the voting going?”

Rick shrugged. “I'd say the burglar is losing, at the moment.”

“Are you serious?”

“I think the detectives would have felt better about her, if she'd kept her head and told them a convincing story. They weren't too keen on the hysterics and fainting.”

“They think she was acting?”

“They think it's a good possibility. I'd find her a shrink, if I were you, and a lawyer, too. A good one.”

The two men rode along in silence for a few minutes. Shortly, Rick turned off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard. A couple of minutes later he turned left onto Stone Canyon, toward the Bel-Air Hotel.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me, Stone?” Rick said. “Next time we meet, we might not be able to talk to each other so freely.”

“I can't think of anything else right now. Any advice?”

“Yeah, get Centurion Studios involved; they're equipped to handle something like this, and I understand that Calder was a major stockholder, as well as their biggest star.”

“I'll call Lou Regenstein tomorrow morning,” Stone replied.

Rick turned into the hotel parking lot and stopped at the front entrance. “Good luck with this, Stone,” he said. “Don't hesitate to call, but don't be surprised if I clam up or can't help. I'll do what I can.”

“Thanks for all you've done, Rick, and thanks for meeting my flight, too.”

“Your luggage will be here soon.”

Stone shook his hand and got out of the car. He walked over the bridge to the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby. “My name is Barrington,” he said to the young woman at the desk. “I believe I have a reservation.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “We've been expecting you.” She picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Barrington is here.”

A moment later a young man arrived at the desk. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington, and welcome back. My name is Robert Goodwood; I'm the duty manager. Did you have any luggage?”

“It's being delivered from the airport,” Stone said.

“Then I'll show you to your suite.”

The young man led the way outdoors and briskly up a walkway, asking about Stone's flight and making chitchat. He turned down another walkway and arrived at a doorway hidden behind dense plantings, unlocked it and showed Stone in.

Stone was impressed with the size and beauty of the suite, but concerned about the cost.

As if anticipating him, Goodwood said, “Mr. Bianchi has insisted that your stay here is for his account.”

“Thank you,” Stone said.

“I'll send your luggage along as soon as it arrives. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Please send me the New York and L.A. papers.”

“Of course.” Goodwood gave Stone the key and left.

Stone left the suite's door open for the bellman, shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, sat down on a sofa, and picked up the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?” the operator said.

“Would you find the number of the Judson Clinic, which is in Beverly Hills, and ring it?” he asked.

“Of course; I'll ring it now.”

Apparently the hotel knew of the hospital.

“The Judson Clinic,” a woman's voice breathed into the phone.

“My name is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I'm a friend of Mrs. Arrington Calder. Can you connect me with her room, please?”

“I'm afraid we have no guest by that name or anything like it,” the woman said.

“In that case, please take my name—Stone Barrington—and tell Mrs. Calder that I'm at the Bel-Air Hotel, when she feels like calling.”

“Good night,” the woman said, and hung up.

The bellman arrived with the luggage and the papers. “Shall I unpack anything, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

“You can hang up the suits in the large case,” Stone said. The man did as he was asked, Stone tipped him, and he left.

Stone picked up the papers. Vance had made the lower-right-hand corner of
The New York Times
front page and the upper-right-hand corner of the
Los Angeles Times
. The obituary in the L.A. paper took up a whole page. There was nothing in the news report he didn't already know.

Stone ordered an omelet from room service and ate it slowly, trying to stay awake, hoping Arrington would call. At eleven o'clock, he gave up and went to bed.

Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

 

 

 

T
HE TELEPHONE WOKE STONE. HE CHECKED THE bedside clock: just after nine A.M. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. James Judson, of the Judson Clinic.”

“Good morning. How is Arrington?”

“She's been asking for you. I'm sorry the woman who answered the telephone last night didn't know that.”

“When can I see her?”

“She's still sleeping at the moment, but why don't you come over here around noon? If she isn't awake by then, I'll wake her, and the two of you can talk.”

“What is her condition?”

“Surprisingly good, but there are complications; we can talk about that when you arrive.” He gave Stone the address.

“I'll see you at noon,” Stone said. He hung up, then pressed the button for the concierge and ordered a rental car for eleven-thirty, then he called room service and ordered a large breakfast. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he called Centurion Studios and asked for Lou Regenstein, its chairman.

“Good morning, executive offices,” a woman's voice said.

“Lou Regenstein, please; this is Stone Barrington.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“He'll know.” Stone had met Regenstein the year before, when he was in Los Angeles on another matter involving Vance and Arrington.

A moment later, Regenstein was on the line. “Stone, I'm so glad to hear from you; you've heard what's happened, I'm sure.”

“That's why I'm here; I got in last evening.”

“I've been going nuts; the police won't tell me where Arrington is, and the coroner won't release Vance's body to a funeral home without her permission.”

“Arrington is in a hospital; I'm going to see her at noon today.”

“Is she all right? Was she hurt in the shooting?”

“She's fine, from all accounts. I'll be talking to her doctor, too.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Lou, who is the best criminal lawyer in L.A.?”

“Marc Blumberg, hands down; does Arrington need him?”

“Yes, if only to contain the situation.”

“He's a personal friend of mine; I'll call him right now. Where can he see Arrington?”

“I want to see her before she talks to another lawyer,” Stone said. “Tell Blumberg to expect a call from me at some point, and to deny that he's representing Arrington, if the press should call in the meantime.”

“All right.” Regenstein gave him Blumberg's number. “Remember, Stone, Centurion is at Arrington's disposal—anything she needs; you, too. Look, I've had an idea: You're going to need some place to get things done while you're here. I'll make Vance's bungalow available to you for as long as you need it.”

“Thank you, Lou; it would be good to have some office facilities.”

“You remember Vance's secretary, Betty Southard?”

Indeed he did; Stone and Betty had spent considerable time together during his last visit to town, much of it in bed. “Of course.”

“She's there, holding down the fort; I'll let her know you're coming, and I'll leave a pass for you at the main gate.”

“Thank you, Lou, I'll be in touch later.” Stone hung up and called his own office, in New York.

“Stone Barrington's office,” Joan Robertson said.

“Hi, it's Stone.”

“Oh, Stone, I'm so glad you called. Have you heard about Vance Calder?”

“Yes, I'm in L.A. now, at the Bel-Air Hotel.”