L.A. Dead (23 page)

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Authors: Stuart Woods

Tags: #Thriller, #Suspense, #Mystery

BOOK: L.A. Dead
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Stone counted out five hundred and placed it on the table. “The rest when we’re finished, and if you tell me the truth, there might be a bonus.”

“What you want to know?” Cordova asked.

“You work for a gardening service in L.A.?”

“Yeah.”

“You work sometimes for Charlene Joiner, in Malibu?”

Cordova smiled a little. “Oh, yeah.”

“You work for Mr. and Mrs. Calder, in Bel-Air?”

“Yeah.”

“You were at their house the day Mr. Calder was shot.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Cordova said.

“Thanks for your time,” Stone said. “You can leave.”

Cordova didn’t move. “What about my other five hundred?”

“If you want that, you’ll have to start earning it,” Stone said.

Cordova glared at him for a moment. “I didn’t cut the grass that day.”

“No, you were there to burgle the place.”

Cordova chuckled. “Shit, man,” he said.

“I’m not here to arrest you; I think you know the cops aren’t going to find you here. They’re not even looking for you.”

“What makes you think I’m a burglar?” Cordova asked.

“Those Nikes you’re wearing cost a hundred and eighty bucks,” Stone said. “You didn’t buy them cutting grass.”

“Shit, man …”

Stone slammed his hand on the table. “Shit is right,” he said. “That’s all I’m getting from you.”

“Okay, okay, so what do you want to know?”

“Did Calder catch you in the house?”

“I never got into the house,” Cordova replied.

“You were right outside the door; you were seen,” Stone lied.

“By who?”

“By Manolo’s wife; you didn’t see her.”

“Then you know I didn’t get in the house. I only got as far as the back door. I went in through a little gate where we take the equipment in.”

“And what did you see at the back door?”

“First, I heard something.”

“Like what?”

“Like a gun going off.”

“How many times?”

“Once. I was almost to the back door when I heard it. I took a few more steps, and I looked through the door. It was a glass door, you know? With panes?”

“I know. What did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Calder lying on the floor in the hall, and blood was coming out of his head.”

“What else did you see?”

“I saw the gun on the floor beside Mr. Calder.”

“What kind of gun?”

“An automatic; I don’t know what kind.”

“What color?”

“Silver.”

“What else did you see?”

“I saw a woman running down the hall.”

Stone’s stomach suddenly felt hollow, and he couldn’t speak.

Cordova went on. “She was wearing one of them robes made out of that towel stuff.” He rubbed his fingers together.

“Terrycloth?”

“Yeah. It had this …” He moved his hands around his head.

“Hood?”

“Yeah, a hood. She was barefoot; I don’t think she had nothing on, except the robe.”

“Could you see her body?”

“No, just her feet.”

“Did you see her face?” Stone held his breath.

“No.”

Stone let out the breath.

“But it was Mrs. Calder.”

Stone’s stomach flip-flopped. “If you didn’t see her face, how do you know it was Mrs. Calder?”

“C’mon, man, who else would it be, naked and in a robe in the Calders’ house?”

“But you didn’t see her face.”

“No, but it was her. Same size and everything; same ass, you know?”

“Which way was she running?”

“Away from me—that’s all I know, man; I got the hell out of there, you know? I was over that fence and out of there in a big hurry.”

Stone took him through it again, made him repeat every statement, but nothing changed. Finally, there was nothing else to ask. He shelled out another five hundred, and Cordova put it in his pocket.

“You want to make another three hundred?” Stone asked.

“Sure.”

Stone put the money on the table. “Sell me your shoes.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll give you three hundred dollars for your shoes.”

Cordova grinned. “Sure, man.” He shucked off the Nikes and put them on the table. They were dirty, beat up, and huge. He put the money in his pocket, gave a little wave, and lumbered toward the house, padding along in his stocking feet.

Garcia came out of the house. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“Great,” Stone said. “Just great. Get me back to the border.”

“I see you got yourself some shoes.” He held his nose.

“Just get me back, Brandy,” Stone said, feeling sick.

Thirty-six

 

 

 

 

 

S
TONE DROVE BACK TOWARD LOS ANGELES IN A FOG, torn between what he had believed had happened to Vance Calder and what Felipe Cordova had told him. He had thought Cordova had murdered Vance, but every instinct he had developed as a cop, interrogating witnesses, told him that Cordova had told him the truth in their interview.

“I’ve been fooled before,” he said aloud to himself. Cordova still could have done it; maybe he was a better liar than Stone had thought. The only good thing about Cordova was that the LAPD had not questioned him, didn’t want to. He would not like to see the Mexican on the stand, testifying against Arrington.

The car phone rang. Stone punched the send button, so he could talk hands free. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Betty. Joan called from New York, said to tell you that everything was in hand with the house. The roofer is going to start in a couple of days, and it will take him a week to finish.”

“Good news,” Stone said.

“She also said that Dolce was waiting at the house when she got back from Teterboro, and that she told her that you’d returned to L.A. Does that mean we can expect more candid snaps?”

“I certainly hope not. I’ve already told the guard at the gate not to let her into the studio again, but maybe you’d better call and reinforce that.”

“Will do.”

“Any other calls?”

“Marc Blumberg called, said he just wanted to catch up with you. He’s at his Palm Springs house; you want the number?”

Stone fished a pen and his notebook out of his pocket. “Shoot.”

Betty dictated the number, and he jotted it down, careful to keep the car on track.

“Your bags are piled up in the entrance hall; want me to unpack for you?”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. I was too tired to bother last night.”

“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.

Thirty-seven

 

 

 

 

 

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?”

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