Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels Page 19

  “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

  WHEN 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?”

  “You have a point: If the press gets wind of a suspect that the police have ignored, then the cops will look bad, and we won’t appear to have had anything to do with it. I like it, and I know just the reporter at the L.A. Times.”

  “Our judge, whoever he turns out to be, will probably hear about it, too, and when we demonstrate in court that the rumors of another suspect are true . . .”

  “That is delightfully Machiavellian, Stone,” Marc said. “You surprise me.”

  Stone didn’t know how to reply to that. His breakfast arrived, and he enjoyed it, while Blumberg talked about golf in Palm Springs.

  “You play? I’ll give you a game this morning.”

  “I’ve hit a few balls; that’s about it.”

  “You should take some lessons; that’s how to get started.”

  “Golf in Manhattan is tough,” Stone said. “I think you pretty much have to drive to Westchester, and that’s if you can get into a club.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth about Felipe Cordova?” Marc asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  “I don’t know, Marc,” Stone replied, surprised. “Why do you feel that way?”

  “You think Cordova didn’t kill Vance, don’t you?”

  “He told a very convincing story.”

  “But you want the LAPD and the D.A. and a judge to think he did it.”

  “Just that he’s a viable suspect, and the cops have ignored him. Shows a lack of good faith on their part.”

  “Let me ask you this: What happens if I get the charges against Arrington dismissed, then the cops find Cordova?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever see Cordova again; he’s too scared.”

  “You said he denied everything, and you didn’t contradict him by telling him about the shoeprint at Vance’s house.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what happens to his story when the cops tell him about the shoeprint?”

  “First, they have to find him; he’s in Mexico, probably not in Tijuana anymore. You know the problems with finding somebody down there, not to mention the difficulties of getting a suspect extradited.”

  “I’m talking worst case, here, Stone; I have to protect myself. If, by some miracle, the cops find Cordova in Mexico, or, more likely, he comes back to this country and gets arrested for speeding, or something. I have to know what he’s going to say.”

  “My guess is, he’ll try to implicate Arrington. He knows about the murder, knows she’s been charged. He’ll do everything he can to see that she takes the fall. That’s my guess.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Marc said. “You know, I’ve tried a lot of cases in my time, and a lot of them murders, too, but I don’t think I’ve ever tried one where my second chair was in love with the defendant.”

  Stone kept eating his eggs.

  “You’re a bright guy, Stone, and I suspect a very good lawyer, so I’m going to rely on you not to do anything that will get me hung.”

  “I would never do anything like that,” Stone replied truthfully.

  “I can see how you might not want to tell me everything you know, to save Arrington’s very beautiful ass, how you might even lie to me. That’s okay, as long as it doesn’t interfere with how I handle my case, and as long as it doesn’t get me disbarred or damage my credibility with the D.A. and the judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable asset I have in defending a client, and I don’t want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.”

  “Perfectly clear, Marc,” Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. “Well, I think I’d better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  Marc stood up and shook his hand. “And don’t forget, if you get horny, call Vanessa; don’t go sneaking into Arrington’s bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all.” He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa’s number scrawled on the back.

  Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. “I take your point.” He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova’s Nikes, and headed back toward L.A.

  He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.

  “I’ve just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation,” she said. “Actually, it was more of a tirade.”

  “Oh, God; what did she say?”

  “She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, ‘touch him again.’ She means you, I believe.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really.”

  “That’s not the impression I got
,” Betty said. “Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I’m scared.”

  “Tell you what,” Stone said. “Why don’t you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A.”

  Betty brightened. “You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that.”

  Stone laughed. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll manage.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Betty said. “I’ll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent.” She headed for her office.

  “Any other calls?” he asked.

  “Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message.”

  “I’ve no idea what that means,” he replied, covering his ass.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you’re to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o’clock.”

  “She’s in L.A.?”

  “Yep. And she said, ‘Tell him to be there without fail, or I’ll get mad.’ ”

  Stone gave a low moan.

  Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. “Try to keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?” she called to him.

  “I wish I could reverse our roles,” Stone replied.

  Thirty-eight

  STONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR ON TIME AND WITH trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.

  He wasn’t sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden café, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.

  “Oh hello, Mr. Barrington,” the headwaiter said as he approached. “Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?”

  Stone leaned over and spoke quietly, but with conviction. “There is no Mrs. Barrington,” he said. “The lady’s name is Miss Bianchi.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, a little flustered. “Whatever you say.” He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

  Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.

  “Hello, my darling,” she purred.

  “Good afternoon, Dolce.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Los Angeles.”

  “I can’t say that I am,” he replied, looking at the menu.

  “Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek. “Maybe it’s time to go back home to New York—yet again.”

  “Not for a while.”

  “But what’s to keep us here?” she asked, all innocence.

  “Business is keeping me here,” he replied.

  The waiter appeared. Dolce ordered a lobster salad and a glass of chardonnay, and Stone, the taco soup and iced tea.

  “Why are you in L.A.?” he asked, hoping for a rational answer. She began rummaging in a large handbag for something, and Stone leaned away from her, fearing she might come up with a weapon.

  She came up with a lipstick and began applying it. “I want to be with my husband,” she said, consulting a compact mirror.

  “Your husband is dead,” Stone said through clenched teeth.

  “You look perfectly well to me,” she replied, gazing levelly at him.

  “Dolce . . .”

  “And how is the murderess, Mrs. Calder?”

  “Dolce . . .”

  “I think I will be quite happy when they put her away.”

  “Dolce . . .”

  “Vance was such a lovely man, and we were such good friends. I think it would be terribly unfair if she got away with it.”

  “Dolce, stop it!”

  “My goodness, Stone, keep your voice down. We don’t want a public scene, do we?”

  Stone decided to treat this as a negotiation. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “What I want? Why, I want whatever my darling husband wants. What do you want, dear?”

  “I want to end this little charade of yours; I want us to go our separate ways in an amicable manner.” He paused and decided to fire the last arrow in his quiver. “I want to be with Arrington.”

  Her eyebrows dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “Believe me when I tell you, my darling, that I will never, ever allow that to happen, and you had better get used to the idea now.”

  Stone felt his gorge rising, but the waiter appeared with their lunch, allowing him to cool down for a moment before continuing. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You asked me to marry you, did you not?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “And I married you, in Venice, did I not?”

  “That wasn’t a legal marriage.”

  “Oh, Stone, now you’re beginning to sound like a lawyer.”

  “I am a lawyer, and I know when I’m married and when I’m not.”

  “I’m afraid not, sweetie,” she said, attacking her lobster salad. “You seem unable to face reality; you’re in complete denial.”

  Stone nearly choked on his soup.

  “I am in denial?”

  “A serious case of denial, I fear.”

  “Let’s talk about denial, Dolce. I’ve explained to you, in the clearest possible terms, that I no longer wish to continue my relationship with you. I’ve explained why.”

  “I seem to remember your saying something about that, but I hardly took you seriously,” she said.

  This was maddening. “Dolce, I do not love you; I thought I did for a while, but now I realize I don’t.”

  She laughed. “And I suppose you think you love Arrington?”

  “Yes, I do.” Funny, he hadn’t said that to Arrington.

  “But Stone, how can you love a woman who has murdered her husband? How do you know you won’t be next?”

  “That’s a very strange thing for you to say,” Stone said under his breath, trying to control his temper. “I seem to remember that you once had a husband who is now dead of extremely unnatural causes.”

  “That was the business he chose, if I may paraphrase Don Corleone, and he had to live with it.” She speared a chunk of lobster. “Or die with it. You might remember that.”

  “I chose a different business, and I am choosing a different woman.” My God, he thought, what do I have to say to get through to her?

  Dolce shook her head. “No, Stone; you haven’t yet come to the point where you have to make a real choice.” She chewed her lobster. “But you will.”

  “Is that some sort of threat, Dolce?”

  “Call it a prediction, but take it any way you like.”

  “Why would you want a man who doesn’t want you?” he demanded. “Why do you demean yourself?”

  She put down her fork, and her eyes narrowed again. “You do not know me as well as you will after a while,” she said, “but when you do come to know me, you will look back on that remark as dangerous folly.”

  “That’s it,” Stone said, putting down his spoon. “One last time, for the record: I do not love you; I will not marry you; I have not married you. I love another woman, and I believe I always will. I want nothing more to do with you, ever. I cannot make it any clearer than that.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Dolce.”

  “No, my darling,” she replied smoothly, “merely au revoir.”

  “Dolce,” he said, “California has a very strong law against stalking; don’t make me publicly humiliate you.” He turned and walked out of the café.

  All the way back to the studio he ran the conversation through his head, over and over. It had been like talking to a marble sculpture, except that a sculpture does not make threats. Or had she made threats? Was there anything in her
words that could be used against her? He admitted there was not. What was he going to do? How could he get this woman off his back? More important, how could he get her off his back without grievously offending her father, whom he did not want for an enemy?

  He parked in front of the bungalow and, finding it locked, used his key. On Betty’s desk there was a note, stuck to a package.

  “I’ve taken your advice, lover; I’m on a late afternoon plane. I’ll call you in a couple of days to see how you’re making out. A girl from the pool will be in tomorrow morning to do for you, although she probably won’t do for you as I do. Take care of yourself.”

  He turned to the package, which was an overnight air envelope with a Rome return address. He opened it, and two sheets of paper fell out. The top one was a heavy sheet of cream-colored writing paper. Stone read the handwritten letter:

  The Vatican

  Rome

  Dear Stone,

  I have made the investigations I told you I would, speaking personally to the mayor of Venice. I have concluded that you and Dolce are legally married in Italy, and that the proper documents, which you both signed, have been duly registered. The marriage would be considered valid anywhere in the world.

  I know this was not the news you wanted. I would offer advice on an annulment, but you are not a Catholic, and, you surely understand, I cannot offer advice on divorce.

  You remain in my thoughts and prayers. If there is any other help I can give you, please let me know.

  Warmly,

  Bellini

  Stone looked at the other piece of paper. It was printed in Italian, bore his and Dolce’s names, and appeared to be a certificate of marriage.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  Thirty-nine

  STONE CALLED DINO. “DO YOU REMEMBER TELLING ME, on the way to Italy, that there would be two marriage ceremonies, a civil one and a religious one?”

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “You remember telling me that the civil ceremony wasn’t legal until the religious ceremony had been performed?”

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”