Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels Read online

  “I’ll bet you could.”

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

  “I do.”

  “Now you tell me something,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “The last time you were in L.A., you and I had a rather delicious time together.”

  “We certainly did.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that isn’t going to happen this time?”

  “Things have changed,” Stone said. He told her about Dolce and why he had been in Venice.

  Betty nodded. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t like it much, but I understand.”

  “Thank you for not liking it,” Stone replied.

  Sixteen

  STONE SLIPPED INTO THE ESTATE THROUGH THE UTILITY entrance, parked his car in back and walked to the guesthouse. He got out of yesterday’s clothes, slipped into a robe, called Manolo, and ordered breakfast. As soon as he set down the phone, it rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Stone?” It was Arrington, and she sounded agitated. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night—where have you been?”

  “Right here,” he lied. “I was tired, so I unhooked the phone. I just plugged it in again so I could order breakfast. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling very well, thank you. The doctor says I can leave this morning. He wants to check me over once more, but I should be ready to go by ten. Will you come and get me, please?”

  “Of course. I’ll be there at ten sharp.”

  “Oh, good. Will you bring me some clothes? Ask Isabel, the maid, to put together an outfit—slacks and a blouse, shoes, stockings, and underwear. They brought me here practically naked, and I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “Sure. I’ll call Isabel, and I’ll see you there at ten.” He started to tell her he was moving out of the house, but he thought it might be best to wait until he saw her.

  “See you then, darling,” she said and hung up.

  Stone called the maid and asked her to put the clothing into his car; then, as he promised he would, he called Sam Durkee at the Brentwood station.

  “Durkee.”

  “Morning, Sam. It’s Stone Barrington.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Calder was leaving the clinic; it’s this morning.” He paused for a moment, native caution coming into play. “At ten-thirty.”

  “Hey, Ted,” Durkee called out, “Vance Calder’s widow is getting out at ten-thirty.” His voice returned to the receiver. “Thanks for letting us know,” he said.

  “Do you need to speak with her again?” Stone asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “If you do, call me at Centurion Studios, and I’ll arrange it. The operator there will find me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Good-bye.” Stone hung up, wishing he hadn’t called Durkee; he had a funny feeling about this.

  At nine-fifteen, as Stone was finishing breakfast, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Stone? It’s Jim Judson, at the clinic.”

  “Morning, Jim; is Arrington still going to be ready to leave at ten?”

  “I’m not sure if you’ll want her to,” Judson replied. “As we speak, the press is gathering outside. There are three television vans with satellite dishes, and at least a dozen reporters.”

  “Ah,” Stone said, once again regretting his call to Durkee. “I think this calls for a change in plans.”

  “I thought you might think so.”

  “Is there another way out of the building besides the front door?”

  “We have a small parking lot for staff at the west end of the building. You enter it from near the front door, but the exit is around the corner. From my office, I can see media people staking that out, too, but only a handful of them.”

  Stone had a look at his street map of Beverly Hills. “All right, here’s what we do,” Stone said. “Can you find a nurse’s uniform that will fit Arrington?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Get her dressed in the uniform, cap and all, and borrow a car—the older and more modest, the better—from one of your staff. Have Arrington walk out to the parking lot, get into the car, and leave by the side-street exit. Have her turn left, then take her first right. I’ll be waiting there. She’ll leave the borrowed car there for you to pick up.”

  “All right. When do you want her to leave the building?”

  Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour?”

  “Fine.”

  “How is she this morning?”

  “She’s all right, but you might still find her a little fragile. She still hasn’t remembered anything between her hair appointment the day before the murder and waking up here the day after.”

  “Thanks, Jim; I’ll speak to you later, if I have any questions.” Stone hung up, then checked his map again. He’d have to pass a corner near the clinic to position himself where he wanted to be; he hoped his car would be anonymous enough. He called Manolo. “I’d like to take the station wagon today,” he said.

  “Of course, Mr. Barrington; I’ll have Isabel put the clothes in that car. The keys are in it.”

  Stone drove out the utility exit and made his way toward the Judson Clinic. He had to stop at a traffic light on the corner half a block from the clinic, and as he waited, Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant drove past him on the cross street, toward the clinic. “You sons of bitches,” Stone muttered. The light changed and he drove straight ahead, past the exit from the employees’ parking lot, which a small group of reporters had staked out. He turned right at the next corner and pulled over, leaving the engine running.

  Ten minutes passed, and, right on time, Arrington appeared, driving an elderly Honda. She parked the car, ran over to the Mercedes station wagon, and got in. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Stone,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

  Stone pulled out of his parking space. “Your clothes are in the backseat. Did anybody recognize you?”

  “Nope; they hardly gave me a glance. I wasn’t what they were expecting, I guess.” She began undressing.

  Stone tried to keep his eyes straight ahead and failed. “I don’t think we should go to the Bel-Air house,” he said.

  “Shall we just check into a motel, then?” she suggested.

  “How about the Malibu house?”

  “I don’t have a key with me.”

  “Betty gave me one; I was going to move out there today.”

  “All right, let’s go to Malibu; I have clothes and everything I need out there, except maybe some groceries.”

  Stone made his way to the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard and drove toward the ocean. Soon, they were on the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “God!” Arrington exclaimed. “It feels so good to be out of that place.”

  “Seemed like a very nice place,” Stone said.

  “Oh, it is, and they were wonderful to me, but I still felt like a prisoner. Now I feel free again!” She turned to him. “Why were you going to move to the Malibu house? Weren’t you comfortable in Bel-Air?”

  “Oh, yes, and Manolo was taking very good care of me. But, at the moment, it’s important that you and I not be living under the same roof.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny for a while, and having an old boyfriend living at your house would give the press just a little too much to write about.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “God, but I hate living under a microscope. How long is this going to go on?”

  “Weeks, maybe months. If the police find Vance’s killer, that will help it go away. How is Peter?”

  “He’s wonderful. We talked this morning, and he’s having a great time in Virginia. Mother keeps horses, and she has a pony for him. I want him to stay there until this is over.”

  “That’s a good idea, I think.”

  “Drive straight through the town,”
she said. “The house is in the Malibu Colony, just past the little business district.”

  Stone followed her instructions, and turned through a gate, where they were stopped by a security guard.

  “It’s me, Steve,” she said to the man.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Calder,” he replied.

  “If anybody asks, I’m not here,” she said. “This is Mr. Barrington; he’ll be coming and going.”

  “I’ll put his name on the list.”

  Stone followed Arrington’s directions to the house, a large stone and cedar contemporary on the beach. He gave her the key, and she opened the door and punched in the security code. He made a note of the code.

  Stone went to the phone and called Betty.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’ve taken Arrington to the Malibu house; there was a mob of press at the clinic.”

  “The police have called here twice.”

  “Guy named Durkee?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If he calls again, tell him you haven’t heard from me today.”

  “All right; are you coming in at all?”

  “Maybe later.” He gave her his cell phone number. “You can reach me there in an emergency. If you call here, let it ring once, hang up, and call again.”

  “You were wonderful last night,” she said. “This morning, too.”

  “Same here,” he replied.

  “Oh, she’s there, huh?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

  “I want to take a bath,” Arrington said. “Join me?”

  “Thanks, I’ve just showered,” he replied.

  “Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?”

  “You’re a grieving widow, and I’m an old family friend.”

  “We’ll see.” She went upstairs.

  Stone found Vance’s study and picked up the phone. It was time to call Marc Blumberg.

  Seventeen

  MARC BLUMBERG CAME ON THE LINE. “CONGRATULATIONS on getting her out of the Judson place,” he said. “I passed the clinic on the way to work this morning; there were a lot of disappointed TV people out on the street.”

  “The cops leaked it to the media,” Stone said. “I made the mistake of giving them advance notice.”

  “I saw a cop car there this morning, with Durkee in it.”

  “I saw them, too; do you think they were just there to watch the fun?”

  “I think they were there to arrest Arrington,” Blumberg said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I heard from a source at the LAPD that they have a witness who says Arrington expressed an interest in killing Vance.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Stone said.

  “I don’t believe she’d say that, either,” Blumberg replied, “but I do believe that someone might say she did.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Not yet. I think it’s time for me to call the D.A. and express our desire to cooperate, offer to let them question Arrington.”

  “They’re not going to like what she has to say. She still has a memory gap from the day before the killing until she woke up in the clinic. They’re probably going to want a polygraph, too.”

  “I’ll have the usual reasons for not cooperating on that, plus there’s the memory loss; she can’t lie about what she can’t remember.”

  “They’d want to ask her if she can remember,” Stone said. “If she says she can’t, and the needle jumps, they’ll be all over her.”

  “I think we should consider doing a polygraph of our own,” Blumberg said.

  “And leak it to the press?”

  “Right.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “At the Malibu house; I’m with her.” Stone gave him the phone number.

  “Have any funeral arrangements been made yet?”

  “Lou Regenstein is handling that; he plans to do it on a sound stage at the studio.”

  “Good idea; that’ll keep the public at arm’s length. Stone, I think they’re going to arrest Arrington, but I think I can hold them off, until after the funeral.”

  “What do you think the charge will be?”

  “If they have faith in their witness, it could be murder one.”

  “Shit,” Stone said. “And that will mean no bail. I don’t want to see her in jail for weeks or months, waiting for a trial.”

  “Neither do I,” Blumberg said. “There’s an outside chance that I could get house arrest, under police guard, with high bail. Can she raise it?”

  “How high are we talking about?”

  “At least a million; maybe as high as ten million.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Vance’s lawyer and financial people about that,” Stone said. “I’ve been putting it off, hoping the situation would be resolved. There are two big insurance policies, but they’re not going to pay if Arrington is arrested.”

  “Is she the beneficiary?”

  “No, the estate is, but she’s the principal heir.”

  “If the estate is the beneficiary, the insurance company has to pay; no way around it for them. But, of course, there’s a law against a murderer profiting from his crime, so probate would be another story. However, we could offer to sign over Arrington’s interest in the estate to secure a high bail; a judge might go for it, because until she’s convicted, she’s innocent.”

  “Any precedent for that?”

  “I’ll get somebody researching; we’ll do a brief.”

  “Good; I’ll get on to the Calders’ financial people and see how liquid she is.”

  “Okay. If the police show up there and want to arrest Arrington or take her in for questioning, tell them her doctor has ordered her to bed and to call their captain or the D.A. before proceeding.”

  “Right.” Stone said good-bye and hung up. Immediately, the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Stone, it’s Betty; Manolo just called and said the police are at the Bel-Air house with a search warrant, tearing the place apart.”

  “Call him back and tell him not to impede them in any way,” Stone replied. “I’ll call him later.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “Did Vance have a principal financial adviser?”

  “He pretty much managed his own affairs,” she replied, “but the person who would have the greatest grasp of his affairs is Marvin Kitman, his accountant. His lawyer is Bradford Crane.”

  Stone jotted down both numbers. “Call both of them, and tell them I’m handling Arrington’s affairs. There’s a power of attorney in Vance’s office desk, giving me full authority; fax that to both of them.”

  “All right. Are you still out of touch, if the police call again?”

  “I am. I’ll talk to you later.” Stone hung up to see Arrington coming down the stairs. She was wearing a thin, silk dressing gown, and judging from the way she was lit from behind by a large window on the stair landing, nothing else.

  “Ah, that’s better,” she said, heading for the bar. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “It’s a little early for me, and for you, too. Come and sit down, Arrington; we have to talk.”

  “I’m having a Virgin Mary,” she said, pouring tomato cocktail over ice, “or, as Vance used to call it when he was dieting, a ‘bloody awful.’” She came and sat down beside him on the sofa, drawing a leg under her, exposing an expanse of inner thigh. “I’m here,” she said, placing her hand on his.

  Stone took her hand. “I’ve got to explain your situation to you,” he said, “and you’re going to have to take what I tell you seriously.”

  She withdrew her hand. “All right, go ahead.”

  “I’ve retained a criminal trial lawyer to represent you, a man named Marc Blumberg.”

  “I know him a little,” Arrington said. “His wife is in my yoga class. But why do I need a criminal lawyer?”

  “Because there’s a good possibility that you may be charged with Vance’
s murder.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” she said. “Utter nonsense!”

  “I know it is, but you have to understand how the police work. They suspect you, because you were the only one in the house when Vance was shot.”

  “Except the murderer,” she said.

  “They think you hid the gun somewhere in the house, and they’re over there right now with a search warrant.”

  “Suppose they find it? What then?”

  “Then they’ll check it for your fingerprints.”

  “Complete nonsense.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that you have to be prepared to be arrested and charged.”

  “You mean go to jail?”

  “It’s possible that, in such a case, bail could be denied by a judge, and you’d have to remain in custody until the trial was over.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, bringing both hands to her face, “I don’t think I could take that.”

  “Blumberg is exploring every possible option as to bail, and you might have to raise a very large sum of money. Are you acquainted enough with Vance’s financial affairs to know whether that would be readily available?”

  “I only know that Vance was very well off. I mean, we lived splendidly, as you know, but I never took an interest in his finances, and he never sat me down and explained things to me.”

  “I’m going to be calling his lawyer and accountant to discuss things with them. I’ll know more after that, and I can explain your situation to you then.” Stone thought for a moment. “Do you know if Vance had any life insurance?” He felt very sneaky asking this, but he wanted to know her answer.

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied. “My assumption is that he was rich enough not to need life insurance.”