Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (11 page)

“The first is, move in with me. I managed to make you comfortable the last time you were here.”

“I think it's best that I just move back to the Bel-Air,” Stone said. “What's your second suggestion?”

“Vance has . . . had a place at Malibu; I think that might be enough distance between you and Arrington, and I've got the keys.”

“That's a thought,” Stone said. “I'll let you know.”

 

Marc Blumberg bustled into the bungalow promptly at six, a small, fit-looking, deeply tanned man of fifty in a perfectly cut suit and gleaming shoes.

Stone shook his hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I'm okay,” Blumberg said, taking a seat on a leather sofa. “I believe I've heard of you, Stone. May I call you Stone?”

Stone sat down beside him. “Of course.”

“And I'm Marc. I remember that business in St. Mark's a few years back, when you defended the woman on a murder charge. Saw it on
60 Minutes
, I think.”

“Yes, that was a difficult one.”

“Pity she was hanged.”

“Yes.”

“I remember from Lou that you're a friend of Mrs. . . . the Calders. I take it I'm here to talk about another murder trial.”

“Let's call this a precautionary meeting.”

“It's always wise to take precautions. Has Arrington talked to the police yet?”

“Earlier this afternoon.”

“I should have been there for that,” Blumberg said.

“I didn't want to appear to be running scared,” Stone said. “You'd have been happy with the way it went.” He gave Blumberg a detailed rundown of Arrington's questioning.

“That sounds okay,” Blumberg said. “You handled it well.”

“Thank you.”

“Sounds as though they don't have another suspect.”

“That's how I read it. They went through the drill the night of the murder, and they didn't come up with anything, and that disturbs them. Cops like early indications, and when they don't find them, they look at the household.”

“Anybody in the house besides Arrington?”

“No. The butler and maid were in their quarters; the butler found Vance and called the police.”

“What was the scene like?”

“Vance was dressed in tuxedo trousers and a pleated shirt, no tie. They were going to a black-tie dinner at Lou's house a little later. He was found lying facedown in the central hallway of the house, one bullet here.” Stone pointed at the spot.

“You used to be a cop, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got a scenario for this that doesn't involve Arrington shooting Vance?”

“Here's how I read it,” Stone said. “Arrington was in the bathtub; Vance was getting dressed. His safe was open, containing his jewelry box, a nine-millimeter automatic, and a box of cartridges. He either walked in on a burglary, or a burglar walked in on him, probably the former. The burglar took the jewelry box and the gun, walked Vance into the central hallway and shot him.”

“Any struggle?”

“Looks like an execution to me. My guess is, Vance saw it coming and turned away. That's why the wound in the back of the head.” Stone stood up, held out his hands in the “no, no” position, then half turned away from his imaginary assailant.

“Makes sense,” Blumberg said.

“For Arrington to have done it, she would have to have gone to the safe, taken out the gun, cocked it, flipped off the safety, then either marched her husband out into the hall, or gone looking for him and found him there. That doesn't fit a domestic quarrel.”

“It fits a cold-blooded, premeditated murder,” Blumberg said. “How do you figure the chances of that?”

“Unlikely in the extreme.”

“I'm glad to hear it. So what we've got is an innocent woman who loved her husband, who is a suspect only because the police haven't done their job and found the real killer.”

“In a nutshell,” Stone said. “A couple of other things you should know: I got the impression from the detectives that they might have other evidence we don't know about. They refused to disclose it to me, said they'd talk to a California lawyer.”

“We'll get it; don't worry. What's the other thing?”

“The police talked to a woman named Beverly Walters, who told them Vance was screwing an actress named Charlene Joiner; they took that as Arrington's motive for the shooting.”

“I know her; she's a complete bitch, and she could give us trouble at a trial. Charlene Joiner, huh? If it's true, Vance was a lucky guy.”

“Yeah, I've seen some of her pictures.”

“Tell me, Stone, what's your role in all this?” Blumberg asked. “Family friend?”

“That, and for the moment, Arrington's personal representative. I have her confidence and a power of attorney.”

Blumberg looked Stone in the eye. “You and Arrington ever have a thing, Stone?”

“We were living together in New York when she suddenly married Vance.”

“You want me to represent her?”

“If it becomes necessary.”

“I think you're right about my presence being a red flag; the media would play that big. Here's what we do. I don't so much as even speak to Arrington, unless we find out she's going to be arrested.”

“I might be able to get advance notice of that, if it happens.”

“Good. If you do, I surrender her to the D.A. I can arrange that. From then on, I'm her lawyer, not you; I'm running the case.”

Stone shook his head. “If it comes to that, I'll want to be involved every step of the way.”

“That's not how I work.”

“Then I can only thank you for your time,” Stone said.

Blumberg thought for a moment. “What do you want?”

“Second chair; partner in decision-making; no move without my agreement.”

“All right,” Blumberg said. “Are you licensed in California?”

“No.”

“I'll deal with that. I'll want a hundred-thousand-dollar retainer up front, against a half-million-dollar fee, the remainder payable before the trial starts.”

“To include all your expenses,” Stone said.

“Agreed. If I can stop it before it goes to trial, I'll bill her at a thousand dollars an hour.”

“To include your associates and staff.”

“Done.” Blumberg held out his hand, and Stone shook it.

“I'll draft a letter appointing you and get a check drawn, immediately after any arrest.”

“When is Arrington returning home?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Where are you living while you're here?”

“In the Calders' guesthouse.”

“I don't want the two of you to spend so much as a single night under the same roof. Move out before she gets home.”

“All right.”

Blumberg looked at his watch and stood up. “I've got to run,” he said.

“One thing, Marc,” Stone said. “I don't want you to mention this to
anybody
—staff, wife—
anybody
.”

“That goes without saying,” Blumberg replied.

Stone walked him to his car. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Don't worry about a thing,” Blumberg said breezily. “I'll get her off.”

Stone waved good-bye, then went to his own car. You probably will, he thought, but I hope to God it doesn't come to that.

He went back to his desk, called Dolce again and got the same message. It only made him angrier. He was glad to be having some company tonight.

 

 

 

S
TONE AND BETTY SAT AT A GOOD TABLE AT SPAGO BEVERLY Hills. “I remember when this was another restaurant,” he said. “I had lunch here a couple of times, in the garden.”

“I'll give you a little Beverly Hills gossip,” Betty said. “You know why the old place failed, after many years as a success?”

“Tell me.”

“The story is, a group of prominent wives were having lunch here, when they overheard the owner make an anti-Semitic remark. They told their friends, their friends told their friends, and within two weeks, the place was empty. It went out of business not long afterward.”

“I'll bet you're full of Beverly Hills gossip,” Stone said.

“You bet I am.”

“Then tell me, was Vance sleeping with Charlene Joiner?”

Betty smiled. “What do you know about Charlene Joiner?”

“Just what I read in the papers during the presidential campaign. She had once had an affair with Will Lee, back when he was first running for the Senate, and the Republicans tried to make something of it.”

“Well, let me tell you: Charlene is some piece of work. She has cut a swath through the rich and powerful in this town, and she has done it very cleverly, choosing her partners carefully, as much for their discretion as for what they can do for her career.”

“Sounds like a smart girl.”

“Smart, and from what I can glean, spectacular in the sack, in a town where outstanding is ordinary.”

“But was Vance sleeping with her?”

Betty toyed with her drink.

“I don't think it would be disloyal of you to tell me.”

“Yes, I know; Vance is dead, but sometimes I feel as though he's just on location, or something, and that he might walk into the bungalow at any moment.”

“If you feel you'd be betraying a confidence, I understand.”

“This has something to do with Arrington, doesn't it?” she asked.

“It might, before this is all over. It's important that I know whether this is just a rumor, or if it's true.”

Stone looked up to see a lush-looking brunette in her midthirties walk up to their table. She was fashionably dressed, coiffed, and made up, and Stone thought her breasts seemed too large for the rest of her.

“Hello, Betty,” the woman said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

Stone stood up.

“Hi, Beverly,” Betty replied. “Oh, Stone, this is Beverly Walters; Beverly, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Arrington's friend?” she held out a hand. “She's told me so much about you.”

“How do you do?” Stone said.

“How long are you in town for?”

“Not very long,” Stone replied.

She fished a card from her handbag and handed it to him. “Call me; maybe I can help.”

Stone pocketed the card. “Thank you.”

“Betty, I'm so sorry about Vance; I know how close you were.”

“Thanks, Beverly,” Betty replied, without much enthusiasm.

“Call me, if you want to bend an ear,” the woman said. She gave Stone a little wave and walked back to her table.

“Steer clear of
her
,” Betty said through clenched teeth.

“She's the source of the rumor I'm trying to confirm,” Stone said. “She told the police that Vance was sleeping with Charlene Joiner.”

“She doesn't know anything; she's just inventing gossip.”

Their dinner arrived.

“Betty, one more time: Was Vance sleeping with her?”

“All right, I'll tell you about Vance. It was his practice to sleep with
all
his leading ladies, and a lot of those in supporting roles, too.”

“Even after he was married?”

“He never wavered. He'd either have them back to the bungalow for lunch or to his trailer. You haven't seen the trailer, have you? It is
very
comfortable.”

“
All
his leading ladies?”

“You go back and watch
any
film that Vance starred in, and you may wonder why the love scenes are so convincing. Well, they were convincing, because they had been
very
well rehearsed.”

“And how many pictures did Vance make after he was married?”

Betty counted on her fingers. “Four,” she said.

“You think Arrington knew about this?”

“I don't think Vance was shortchanging her, if that's what you mean.”

“This Walters woman told police that Arrington had complained to her that Vance had stopped sleeping with her, and that the reason was an affair with Charlene Joiner.”

Betty shook her head. “That just doesn't ring true. Vance was a sexual athlete his whole life. He was in superb physical condition, and he
loved
sex. He could have made a very nice living doing porno movies, because he had both the equipment and the endurance for the work. It's much more likely that Arrington would have complained of
too much
sex, rather than not enough.”

“How do you know about all this?”

“Because I know
everything
about Vance Calder. I worked for him for fifteen years, and I got the job while in bed with him. I was a script girl on one of his pictures, and we were fucking each other for most of the shoot. Toward the end of the picture, he offered me the job. He told me, quite frankly, that our little affair was going to end with the wrap, and I knew he was telling the truth. I took the job, because it was better than the one I had, and we didn't make love again. But he never kept secrets from me. Maybe that's why he left me the million dollars—because he knew I could make that much writing a tell-all book. I could, too.”

“I'll bet you could.”

“So, now you know what you want to know?”

“I do.”

“Now you tell me something,” she said.