L.A. Dead (22 page)

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Authors: Stuart Woods

Tags: #Thriller, #Suspense, #Mystery

BOOK: L.A. Dead
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Stone held up a hand. “Don’t ask. You have not seen what you’re seeing.”

“Well,” Lou said, standing up and hugging Arrington. “You’re the nicest-looking invisible lady I’ve ever seen.”

The airplane began to move, and Stone began to breathe again.

Thirty-four

 

 

 

 

 

W
ITH THE TIME CHANGE IN THEIR FAVOR, IT WAS LATE afternoon when the G-IV touched down at Santa Monica airport. There was a short taxi to Supermarine, where Lou Regenstein’s stretch Mercedes limousine was waiting at the bottom of the airstair when the engines stopped. It took a minute to load their luggage, then they were headed toward the freeway.

“May I use your phone, Lou?” Arrington asked. “I want to call home.”

“Of course.”

She dialed the number. “Hello, Manolo, I’m …” She stopped and held her hand over the phone. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Manolo just called me, ‘sir.’ ”

Stone took the phone. “Manolo, it’s Mr. Barrington; is there someone there?”

“Yes, sir,” Manolo said smoothly. “I’m afraid she’s resting at the moment. Can I have her call you back? There are some gentlemen waiting to see her now.”

“Gentlemen? The police?”

“Yes, sir,” Manolo said, sounding relieved that Stone had caught on.

“Just arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do this: Go and knock on Mrs. Calder’s bedroom door and pretend to speak to her, then put the policemen in Mr. Calder’s study, and tell them she’s getting dressed, and she’ll be a few minutes. Give them some coffee to keep them occupied.”

“Yes, Mr. Regenstein, I’ll tell her you called,” Manolo said, then hung up.

Stone put the phone back in its cradle.

“Trouble?” Lou asked.

Stone nodded. “Tell your driver to get moving; the cops are at the house.”

Lou picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Get us to the Calder place pronto,” he said.

Stone took the phone and told the driver how to find the utility gate.

Arrington looked out the window. She seemed finally to have grasped what a difficult position she had put herself in.

Ten hair-raising minutes later, the limousine pulled into the rear drive and stopped at the gate.

“We’ll walk from here, Lou,” Stone said. “Please ask your driver to leave our bags at Vance’s bungalow.” He shook hands with Lou, grabbed Arrington’s hand and practically dragged her from the car.

“I don’t have the remote control for the gate with me,” he said. “Is there some other way to open it?”

“Not that I know of,” Arrington said, jogging to keep up with him.

“We’ll have to go over the fence, then.” He hustled her into the woods beside the gate and made a stirrup with his hands, then practically threw her over the fence. She landed in a pile of leaves, and a moment later, he joined her. She was laughing.

“I’m sorry, this is so ridiculous,” she said.

“We’ll laugh about it later,” Stone said, taking her hand and starting to run. They made it to the rear of the house, and Stone looked into the living room. “All clear,” he said. “Now here’s what you do: Go into your room, brush your hair, then go into Vance’s study, looking ill. You don’t feel well at all. Let me do the talking.”

She nodded, then ran into the house and through the living room, toward the master suite.

Stone took a couple of deep breaths, made sure there were no leaves stuck to his clothes, then went into the study. Durkee and Bryant were drinking coffee and looking at Vance’s Oscars, while Manolo stood, watching them.

“Afternoon, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“We’re here to see Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

Manolo spoke up. “I let Mrs. Calder know the gentlemen are here, Mr. Barrington. She’ll be out shortly.”

“Thank you, Manolo. That’s all.” He took a chair. “So, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

“We just want to see Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

“She won’t be answering any questions,” Stone replied. “Surely, you knew that.”

“We had a tip that she was in New York,” Durkee said. “Show her to me; I’m getting tired of waiting.”

Arrington chose that moment to enter the room. “Stone,” she said drowsily, “what’s this about? I was asleep.”

“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

“Are you satisfied?” Stone asked.

“I guess so.”

Stone turned Arrington around and led her to the bedroom door. “You can go back to bed,” he said. “Are you going to want dinner later, or do you want to just sleep?”

“I want to sleep,” she said.

“Do you want Dr. Drake?”

“No, I think I’ll be all right in the morning.” She left the room, and Stone closed the door behind her.

He turned back to the two cops. “A tip? What kind of tip?”

“An anonymous call,” Durkee said. “A woman. Said the lady had jumped bail.”

Stone shook his head. “As long as you’re here, tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Why haven’t you interviewed the gardener, Cordova?”

“We have no reason to,” Durkee said. “He’s not a suspect.”

“Do you think he might be connected to the footprint you found outside the back door to the house?”

Durkee and Bryant exchanged a glance. “Nah,” Durkee said. “Anybody could have made it.”

“A size twelve Nike, and
anybody
could have made it?”

“Our investigation has not found the footprint or the gardener to be relevant,” Durkee said. “Anyway, Cordova’s in Mexico, and we’d never find him there.”

“Have you made any effort?” Stone demanded.

“I told you, he’s not relevant to our investigation. The murderer is in that bedroom.”

Bryant spoke up. “Let’s get out of here.”

“By the way, Mr. Barrington, what are you doing here?” Durkee asked, with a smirk.

“I was working in the guesthouse,” Stone replied. “I’m one of her lawyers.”

“Nice work, if you can get it,” Bryant said.

Stone opened the door to the study. “Manolo,” he called, “show these officers the door, please.” He turned to the two detectives. “And don’t come back here again, without a warrant. You won’t be let in.”

The detectives left, and when Stone was sure they were off the property, he went into the bedroom and found Arrington at her dressing table, applying makeup. “Why are you putting on makeup?” he asked. “I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere.”

“Why don’t we go to Spago for dinner?” she asked archly.

“Do you have any idea how lucky you just were?”

“Don’t, Stone; I’m converted. I’m sorry I gave you a bad time.” She smiled. “Not
very
sorry, though. I enjoyed my trip to New York.”

“Give me your car keys,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got to get it back from the airport. Manolo can drive me.”

She dug into her purse. “I took Vance’s car,” she said. “It’s in short-term parking; the ticket is over the sun visor.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“Won’t you come back for dinner?” she asked, disappointed.

“I’m beat; I hardly got any sleep last night, remember?”

She smiled. “I remember.” She stood up and kissed him. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

“Neither will I,” he said, kissing her. Then he went to find Manolo, and they headed for LAX.

 

 

It was getting dark by the time he got back to the bungalow at Centurion. He checked the answering machine on Betty’s desk, saw the red light blinking, and pressed the button.

“Mr. Barrington,” Brandy Garcia’s voice said, sounding exasperated. “I call here, and the lady says call New York; then I call New York, and the lady says to call here. I’ve got the item you want, and I’m going to call just one more time.”

Then, as Stone stood there, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes. Brandy?”

“Hey, Stone; I found your man.”

“Where is he?”

“In Tijuana, of course.”

“All right, you found him; now how do
I
find him?”

“You come to Tijuana.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon; it’s not a bad drive, three to four hours, depending on traffic. What kind of car will you be in?”

“A Mercedes convertible, black.”

“No, no, you don’t want to be driving around Tijuana in that. You park your car at the border, and walk across; I’ll have somebody meet you.”

“All right, what time?”

“Say three o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wear a red baseball cap, so my man will know you.”

“All right.”

“Cordova wants a thousand dollars to meet with you.”

“For as long as I want?”

“How long do you want?”

“Maybe an hour, maybe more.”

“He’ll do that, and Stone?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget the rest of
my
money, too.”

“See you at three o’clock.”

Thirty-five

 

 

 

 

 

S
TONE TOOK THE FREEWAY TO SAN DIEGO AND MADE IT in three and a half hours. He had some lunch at a taco joint near the border, then put the money and his little dictating recorder into his pockets, put on the red baseball cap he’d bought at the Centurion Studios shop, parked the car, and walked to the border crossing. He was questioned by a uniformed officer.

“What’s the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” the man asked.

“A business meeting.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Stone replied. “I’m interviewing a witness.”

“Let’s see some ID.”

Stone showed his U.S. passport.

“Are you carrying more than five thousand dollars in cash or negotiable instruments?”

Stone was not about to lie about this. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“About seven thousand.”

The man handed him a declaration. “What’s the money for?”

“I have to pay the man who located the witness for me.”

“Fill out the form.”

Stone did as he was told, handed it over, and was waved across the border.

“You better be careful, carrying that much money,” the officer said.

“Thanks, I will.” Stone walked slowly down the busy street, waiting for somebody to recognize him. He saw no one, and no one seemed to take note of him. He had never been to Mexico before, and he was nervous. Everything he had read about the place in the newspapers had led him to believe that the country was a vast criminal enterprise, with drug dealers and kidnappers on every corner and a corrupt police force. So far, he didn’t like it.

A block from the border, he sat down at one of two tables outside a little restaurant. A waiter appeared.
“Cerveza,”
Stone said, exhausting his Spanish. A moment later, he was drinking an icy Carta Blanca, the only thing he intended to allow past his lips on this trip. He had finished the beer and was wondering if he had come on a fool’s errand when a small boy dressed in ragged jeans and sneakers ran up to him.

“Señor Stone?” the boy asked.

Stone nodded.

The boy beckoned him to come.

Stone left five dollars on the table and followed the boy. They turned a corner and came to a Lincoln Continental of a fifties vintage, a giant, four-door land yacht of an automobile. Brandy Garcia sat at the wheel and beckoned him to the passenger side.

“Give the boy something,” Garcia said.

Stone gave the boy five dollars and stuck the red baseball cap on his head.

The boy turned the cap backward, grinned, and disappeared into the street crowd.

Stone got into the car and waited for Garcia to drive off, but he simply sat there. “Well?”

“I want the rest of my money, first,” Garcia said.

Stone took a precounted thousand dollars from a pocket and handed it over. “The rest when I’m sitting down with Cordova.”

“Fair enough,” Brandy said, and put the car into gear. “Pretty nice buggy, eh?”

“Nicely restored,” Stone admitted. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

Garcia turned a corner and sped down the street, oblivious of the pedestrians diving out of his way. “I got three more beauties at my house,” he said. “I got a Stingray Corvette, a ’57 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with the big V-8, and a ’52 Caddy convertible, yellow. All mint.”

“Well,” Stone said, “I guess the Lincoln is the closest thing we’re going to get to inconspicuous.”

Garcia laughed and turned another corner. “Everybody knows me in Tijuana,” he said. “Why be inconspicuous?”

Soon they were leaving the busy part of town and driving down a dirt street. The houses were getting farther apart, and after a while there were very few houses. Garcia slowed and turned down a dirt road; a mile later, he turned into a driveway and drove a hundred yards to a little stucco house in a grove of trees, with an oversized garage to one side.

“Here we are,” Garcia said, parking next to a beat-up Volkswagen and getting out of the car. “Cordova is already here; that’s his car,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the VW. Stone quickly memorized the license plate number before he followed Garcia into the house.

“How’s Cordova’s English?” Stone asked, as they walked through a tiled living room and out onto a patio.

“Ask him yourself,” Garcia said, nodding toward a large man seated at a patio table next to a small swimming pool, hunched over a beer. “That’s Felipe Cordova, and you owe me another three grand.”

Stone handed him the money, then walked to the table and took a seat opposite the man, getting a look at his shoes on the way. He saw the swoosh logo. “Felipe Cordova?”

The man nodded.

Stone offered his hand. “My name is Barrington.”

Cordova shook it limply, saying nothing.

“You have any problem with English, or you want Brandy to translate?”

Cordova looked at Garcia, who was stepping back into the house, and Stone took the opportunity to switch on the little recorder in his shirt pocket.

“English is okay,” he said, “but I got another problem—a thousand bucks.”

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