L.A. Dead (32 page)

“Nothing, nothing, just got married. That seems to have disappointed her.”

“But …”

“Listen, Stone, you don’t have to convince me. She’s behaved badly and won’t admit it. I’m just saying that you’re going to have to make the first move, whether it’s logical or not. It’s how women work.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I shouldn’t have to. What’s up with you? Anything happening?”

“Marc Blumberg has filed for a motion to dismiss the charges against Arrington, so he’ll probably turn up over there pretty soon to prep her for her testimony.”

“What are the chances of shutting this thing down early?”

“In my view? Two: slim and very slim.”

“I guess you’ve got to make the effort.”

“You bet. I don’t want to hang around L.A. for another six months waiting for this to come to trial. I’m getting homesick for a little New York grit in my teeth, you know?”

“Yeah? Funny, I’m getting to like it here. Think the LAPD could use another detective?”

“You wouldn’t last a month out here, Dino. It’s all too easy; you’re a New Yorker; you like things tough.”

“Call Arrington and make nice, then maybe we can all have dinner together.”

“Without Dolce?”

“Without Mrs. Barrington.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Call her.”

“Okay; see you later.” Stone hung up and stared at the phone. He might as well get it over with.

Fifty-two

M
ANOLO ANSWERED THE PHONE. “GOOD MORNING, Manolo,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. May I speak with Mrs. Calder?”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington; it’s good to hear from you. I’ll see if she’s in.”

She’d damned well better be in, Stone thought. Next time she decamps I’ll let her wait out the trial in jail. “Thank you.”

She kept him waiting for a long time. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Yes?” she said finally, coldly.

“Good morning.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You can be civil, for a start.”

“I’m listening; what do you want?”

“I invited Dino and Mary Ann out here as much for me as for you. I’d like to see them. Shall we try dinner again?”

“Oh, I do hope Mrs. Barrington can make it.”

“I hope not. And she’s Mrs. Barrington only in her own mind, nowhere else.”

“How did that happen, Stone? Did you get drunk and wake up married?”

“I could ask you the same question, but I think we should do our best to put our respective marriages behind us and get on with our lives.”

Long silence. “You have a point,” she admitted finally.

“If it makes any difference, I was on the rebound,” he said.

There was another silence while she thought about that. “Come for dinner at seven,” she said, then hung up.

Stone chose his clothes carefully—a tan tropical wool suit, brown alligator loafers, and a pale yellow silk shirt, open at the collar, as a concession to L.A. Arrington had always responded to well-dressed men, and he wanted very much for her to respond. He entered through the front gate, the TV crew having departed for more sordid pastures, and parked in front of the house.

Manolo greeted him, beaming. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “It’s good to see you back here.” There was relief in his voice, as if he’d feared that Stone might never be allowed in the house again.

“Good evening, Manolo,” Stone said.

“They’re having drinks out by the pool; shall I pour you a Wild Turkey?”

“I feel like something breezier,” Stone said. “How about a vodka gimlet, straight up?”

“Of course.”

Stone followed Manolo down the broad central hallway, past the spot where Vance Calder had bled out his life on the tiles, and emerged into the garden, past the spot where Felipe Cordova had left his big shoeprint. Where had Beverly Walters stood? he wondered.

Dino waved from a seat near the pool bar, where he, Mary Ann, and Arrington sat in thickly cushioned bamboo chairs around a coffee table. He gave Dino a wave and pecked the two women on the cheek as if there had never been a scene at their last meeting. Manolo went behind the bar and expertly mixed Stone’s drink, then brought it to him in a frosty glass on a silver tray.

“Thank you, Manolo,” he said.

“That looks good,” Arrington said. She pulled his hand toward her and sipped from his drink. “Oh, a vodka gimlet. Let’s all have one, Manolo.” Manolo went back to work while, at the other end of the pool, Isabel set a table for dinner.

“I thought we’d dine outside,” Arrington said. “Such a perfect California evening.”

“It certainly is,” Stone agreed. This was going well, and he was relieved.

“You know, before I married Vance I had always hated L.A., but evenings like this changed my mind. I mean, there’s smog and traffic, and everybody talks about nothing but the business, but on evenings like this, you could almost forgive them.”

“I think Dino has caught the L.A. bug, too,” Stone said, smiling. “He was inquiring only today whether the LAPD would have him.”

“What?”
Mary Ann said. “Dino live out here? He wouldn’t last a month.”

“My very words to him.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to cop for a living,” Dino said. “Maybe I’d become an actor. I could do all those parts Joe Pesci does, and better, too.”

“You know, Dino, I believe you could,” Arrington laughed. “Want me to call Lou Regenstein at Centurion and get you a screen test?”

“Nah, I don’t test, and I don’t audition,” Dino said, waving a hand. “My agent would never let me do that … if I had an agent.”

“That’s it, Dino,” Arrington said. “Play hard to get. Movie people want most the things they can’t have. Your price would double.”

Then, it seemed to Stone, the clock began to run backward, and they all became the people they had been before all this had happened. They were old friends, easy together, enjoying the evening and each other. The gimlets seemed to help, too. Soon they were laughing loudly at small jokes. Then Manolo called them to dinner.

No soup this time, Stone reflected; nothing to be dumped in his lap, and no Dolce to screw up their evening. They began with seared foie gras, crisp on the outside, melting inside, with a cold Château Coutet, a sweet, white Bordeaux. That was followed by a thick, perfect veal chop and a bottle of Beringer Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. Dessert was an orange crème brûlée and more of the Coutet.

Coffee was served in Vance’s study, before a fire, as the desert night had become chilly. The women excused themselves, and Stone and Dino declined Manolo’s offer of Vance’s cigars.

“Looks like the bloom is back on the rose,” Dino said.

“The atmosphere is certainly warmer,” Stone agreed.

“Arrington and Mary Ann spent the afternoon talking about you, I think. Mary Ann probably told her how lost you were without her, and how when Dolce came along, you were ripe for the picking.”

“That’s embarrassingly close to the truth,” Stone said. “Have you heard anything from Dolce?”

“She and Mary Ann had breakfast together at the Bel-Air this morning.”

“Is that where she’s staying?”

“She’s been cagey about where she’s staying. I don’t like it, frankly; I don’t think this is over.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you carrying?”

“No, and I don’t know why I asked you to bring a weapon out here. A moment of paranoia, I guess.”

“If Dolce is mad at you, it’s not paranoid to go armed. If I were you, I wouldn’t leave home without it.”

“I’d feel a fool, wearing a gun these days,” Stone said. “It took some getting used to when I was on the force, but now … well, it just seems, I don’t know, belligerent.”

“You’ve never liked guns, have you?”

“No, I guess not. I mean, I admire a well-made tool, and I guess that’s what a gun is. Some of them are beautiful things, like the Walther, but I never liked the Glocks; they’re ugly.”

The women came back, and Manolo poured their coffee.

“Did Marc Blumberg see you today?” Stone asked Arrington.

“He came in time for lunch, and by the time he left, I was ‘prepped,’ as he put it. Sounds as though someone had shaved my pubic hair and painted my belly orange.”

Dino made a face. “Such imagery! Only a woman could put it that way.”

“Men are such babies,” Mary Ann said. “So easily shocked. Dino, you couldn’t make it as a woman for a single day.”

“And I wouldn’t want to try,” Dino said.

They chatted for another hour, then Stone rose and announced his departure. Dino was stifling yawns by this time, too, and he and Mary Ann departed for the guesthouse.

Arrington walked Stone to the door. “I’m sorry about my behavior last time,” she said. “I realize now that it wasn’t your fault, that you were the victim.”

“Hardly that,” Stone said. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said at the door, resting her head on his shoulder. “You never do.”

Stone put a finger under her chin, raised her head, and kissed her lightly. “I’m glad you and I are all right again.”

“So am I.”

“If it’s any help, I’m already working on an Italian divorce.”

“Any kind will do.”

“I’d better go.”

“Good night, sweet prince.”

“And angels sing me to my rest? Not just yet, I hope.”

He walked toward the car, then he stopped and turned. She was still standing in the doorway. “Arrington?”

“Yes?”

“I seem to recall that you never wore terrycloth robes.”

“What a good memory you have. I always liked plain cotton or silk. What an odd thing to remember.”

“Oh, I remember a lot more,” he said, as he waved good night and got into the car.

All the way back to Centurion he thought about what she used to wear.

Fifty-three

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING MARC BLUMBERG CALLED and asked Stone to come to his office to discuss the motion to dismiss. Stone left Centurion and on his way passed the spot where he’d had the flat tire, reminding him that he had left the damaged tire at a service station for repair. He stopped to pick it up, and as he opened the trunk he saw Felipe Cordova’s Nikes. He’d completely forgotten about them.

He arrived at Blumberg’s office and was shown in and given coffee, while Marc finished a meeting in his conference room. Shortly, the lawyer came into his office and sat down at his desk.

“So,” said Stone, “what’s your plan? Who are we going to call?”

“Nobody,” Marc replied. “That’s my plan.”

“Come again?”

“My plan is to cross-examine the prosecution’s witnesses to within an inch of their lives. After all, it’s they who have to make a case, not we.”

“You don’t think we ought to try?” Stone asked doubtfully.

“Let me ask you something, Stone: Can we prove Arrington didn’t shoot Vance?”

“Maybe not.”

“If we could prove she didn’t do it, we’d be home free, but we can’t. So we’re going to have to cast so much doubt on the prosecution’s case that the judge will throw it out.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Stone asked.

“I know Beverly Walters better than you,” Marc replied.

“How well, Marc?”

“Well enough, trust me.”

“All right, I’ll trust you.”

“Have you got any other ideas about how we might proceed?”

Stone took a deep breath. “I think we ought to call Felipe Cordova.”

“I thought he was lost in darkest Mexico.”

“He was, but he’s back in L.A. Brandy Garcia gave me a heads up.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that the prosecution would call Cordova, if they knew what we knew about his actions that night?”

“No.”

“Stone, we’re going to have Beverly Walters on the stand saying she saw Arrington shoot Vance, while Arrington doesn’t remember
what
she did or didn’t do. Cordova is just going to back up Beverly’s story, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said.

“And why not?”

“A couple of reasons. First, Vanessa Pike told me she drove Beverly to the Calder house, and that Beverly saw what happened from the rear of the house, at the doors to the pool.”

“Wait a minute. What Vanessa told you was that she drove
somebody
to Vance’s; she didn’t say who.”

“But we know it was Beverly.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because Charlene Joiner says that the two of them left her house together that evening, after a day lying around the pool.”

“At what time?”

“At just about the time it would have taken for them to drive to the Calder house and arrive at the time Vance was being shot.”

“Will Charlene testify to that?”

“Yes, to that and more.”

“What else?”

“She’ll testify that Beverly was wearing a terrycloth robe over a bathing suit when she left her house.”

“So?”

“Cordova says he saw a woman next to Vance’s body, and she was wearing a terrycloth robe.”

“Did he see her face?”

“No.”

“Then it could have been Arrington.”

“Arrington doesn’t wear terrycloth robes. She likes plain cotton or silk.”

“Can we prove that?”

“We can call her maid, who would know her wardrobe intimately, and who got her out of the tub and into a robe.”

“I like it,” Blumberg said. “But how are we going to put Beverly in the house?”

“I think she’ll admit being outside, and it’s a short step from the back door into the hallway where Vance died. And there’s this, Marc: I’d be willing to bet that Cordova is not mentioned in Beverly’s story, because she didn’t see him.”

“Yeah, but can Cordova prove he was there?”

“The police can; they’ve got a photograph of his shoeprint.”

“But you have the shoe.”

“Yes, it’s in the trunk of my car. I bought the shoes from Cordova in Mexico.”

“Nikes, weren’t they?”