Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels Read online

  “I know Marc Blumberg said we couldn’t be alone together in my house, but now we’re alone together in your house, aren’t we? So we’re playing by the rules.” She reached around him and tugged the belt loose, then pulled the robe off his shoulders. She dug her fingers into his hair, pulled him back onto the bed, and ran a fingernail along his penis, which responded with a jerk. “I knew you’d be glad to see me!” she said, then she pulled his face to hers and kissed him softly.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Stone said, when he could free his lips for a moment.

  She pulled his body toward hers. “Well, if I’m going to be arrested and carted off to jail, it seems only fair that I should have a last meal.” She bent over him and kissed the tip of his penis. “I believe I’m entitled to have anything I want to eat, isn’t that the tradition?” Then she began to concentrate on her repast.

  Stone stood it for as long as he could, which was a little while; then he pulled her up beside him. She curled a leg over his body, opening herself to him. He slid inside her and, lying face-to-face, they began to make love, slowly.

  “It’s been way, way too long,” Arrington said, moving with him and kissing his face.

  “You’re right,” Stone breathed, admitting it as much to himself as to her.

  “Tell me you’ve missed me.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Tell me you’ve missed this.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this,” he moaned. “There are no words.”

  “Then show me,” she said.

  And he did.

  Thirty-three

  STONE LAY, NAKED, ON HIS BACK, DRAINED AND WEIRDLY happy, for a lawyer whose client seemed to be trying to go to jail. It was a little after ten A.M., and they had made love twice since sunup. He heard the shower go on in his bathroom and the sound of the glass door closing. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t; he was faced with the problem of how to get Arrington back into the Los Angeles jurisdiction without getting her arrested and himself into very deep trouble.

  A moment later, she came back, wearing his robe and rubbing her wet hair with a towel. “Good morning!” she said, as happy as if she were a free woman.

  “Good morning.” He managed a smile.

  She sat down on the bed, took his wilted penis in her hand, and kissed it. “Aw,” she said. “Did it die?”

  “For the moment,” he admitted. “Tell me, how did you get here? Exactly, I mean; I want a blow-by-blow account.”

  “Well, let’s see: First I called the airline and made a reservation, then I put a few things into that little bag over there,” she said, pointing to the top of the stairs, where she had left it, “then I left a note for Manolo, got into my car, left the house by the utility gate, which you have come to know and love, and I drove to the airport. I parked the car, walked into the terminal, gave the young lady at the ticket counter my credit card—the one that’s still in my maiden name—and she gave me a ticket. Then I got on the plane, and when I arrived in New York, I took a cab here. Did I leave out anything?”

  “Yes; your picture has been all over the L.A. and New York papers and People magazine, for Christ’s sake; why didn’t anyone recognize you?”

  “I wore a disguise,” she said. She went to her bag, unzipped it, and took out a silk Hermes scarf and a pair of dark glasses; she wrapped the scarf tightly around her head and put on the shades. “With this and no makeup, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”

  “Why so few clothes?” he asked.

  “I have a wardrobe in our apartment at the Carlyle,” she said. “I was going to send you up there to get me a few things. I thought it would be foolish to dally in baggage claim, so I traveled light.”

  Stone sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Well, you were certainly right not to do anything foolish.”

  “Was that sarcasm I heard?”

  “Irony.”

  “Oh. Shall I fix you some breakfast?”

  “Oh, no; Helene will be downstairs by now; she can fix it. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

  “Then I shall be served in bed,” she said, sitting cross-legged among the pillows.

  The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Betty.”

  “Good morning; you’re up early.”

  “Yep. When I got into the office, there was a message from someone named Brandy Garcia; ring a bell?”

  “Yes; what was the message?”

  “He said he’d found what you wanted, and he’d call again.”

  “If he does, tell him to call me at this number.”

  “Will do. How’s New York?”

  “It is as ever.”

  “Good; when are you coming back?”

  “As soon as . . .” he stopped. The Centurion airplane, he thought. “Can you switch me to Lou Regenstein’s office?”

  “I could, but he wouldn’t be in this early, and anyway, he’s in New York.”

  “He is? Where?”

  “I don’t know, but I could ask his secretary when she gets in.”

  “Hang on.” He covered the phone and turned to Arrington. “Do you have any idea where Lou Regenstein stays when he’s in the city?”

  “At the Carlyle,” she said. “He has an apartment there, too.”

  “Never mind,” he said to Betty. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

  “You want to call Lou?”

  “Yes; what’s the number of the Carlyle?”

  She found her handbag and her address book. “Here’s the private line to his apartment.” She read it to him as he dialed.

  “Hello,” Lou Regenstein’s voice said.

  “Lou, it’s Stone.”

  “Hi, Stone, what’s up?”

  “How long are you in New York for?”

  “About thirty seconds; I was on the way out the door to Teterboro Airport when you called.”

  “You going back to L.A.?”

  “Yep. Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York. Can you give, ah, a friend and me a lift?”

  “Sure; how fast can you get to Teterboro?”

  “Is an hour fast enough?”

  “That’s fine; see you there.”

  “Lou, will there be anyone else on the airplane?”

  “Nope, just you and me—and your friend. Anybody I know?”

  “I’ll surprise you,” Stone said. “See you in an hour.” He hung up and turned to Arrington. “Get dressed,” he said, “and put on your disguise.”

  “I’ll have to dry my hair,” she said.

  “Then do it fast.” He picked up the phone and buzzed Joan Robertson. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I’ve got to leave for L.A. in half an hour; I want to drive, so will you come along and drive the car back?”

  “Sure; I’ll put the answering machine on.”

  “See you downstairs in a few minutes.”

  While Arrington dried her hair, Stone packed, put his bags in the elevator, and pressed the down button. Then he grabbed a quick shower and shave and threw on some casual clothes. “Ready?” he asked Arrington.

  “Ready,” she said, getting into her raincoat, wrapping the scarf around her head and slipping on her dark glasses.

  They took the stairs to the ground floor. Stone led her through the door to the garage, put their bags into the trunk of the car, and opened a rear door for her. “You wait here while I get Joan, and don’t talk on the way to the airport; I don’t want her to know who you are.”

  Arrington shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She got into the car and closed the door.

  Stone went to his office, signed a couple of letters, and brought Joan back to the car. “There’s someone in the backseat,” he said. “Please don’t look, and please don’t ask any questions.”

  “Okay,” Joan replied.

  He opened the passenger door. “You sit up here; I’ll drive.”

  Stone presse
d the remote button on the sun visor and started the car, all in one motion. He had visions of Dolce waiting for him in the street, and he wasn’t going to give her time to react. He reversed out of the garage, across the sidewalk, and into the street, causing a cabby to slam on his brakes and blow his horn. He pressed the remote button again, put the car into gear and was off, checking his mirrors. He thought for a moment that he saw a dark-haired woman across the street from his house, but he wasn’t sure it was Dolce. He made the light and crossed Third Avenue. He would take the tunnel.

  The car was something special—a Mercedes E55, which was an E-Class sedan with a souped-up big V-8, a special suspension, and the acceleration of an aircraft carrier catapult launcher. Something else for which he was grateful, at the moment: The car had been manufactured with a level of armor that would repel small-arms fire. He had been car shopping when it was delivered to the show-room and had bought it in five minutes, on a whim, at another time in his life when he feared that somebody might be shooting at him.

  Rush hour was over, and he made it to the Atlantic Aviation terminal in twenty-five minutes, without getting arrested, all the while dictating a stream of instructions to Joan about what had to be done in the way of repairing the house.

  At the chain-link gate to the ramp, he buzzed the intercom and gave the tail number of the Centurion jet. The gate slid open and he drove onto the ramp and to the big Gulfstream Four. He parked at the bottom of the airstair door, gave the bags to the second officer, who was waiting for them, and gave Joan a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for not asking any questions,” he said. “One of these days, I’ll explain.”

  Joan leaned forward and whispered, “She’s just as beautiful as her pictures.” Then she took the keys, got into the car, and headed for the gate.

  Stone led Arrington up the stairs and into the airplane. Lou Regenstein was sitting on a couch, reading The New York Times. He looked up as Arrington took off her glasses and scarf. “Holy shit,” he said. “What are you . . .”

  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

  WITH 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?”