Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels
Page 15
He walked into the Polo Lounge and looked around, seeing nobody who fit the name of Brandy Garcia. The headwaiter approached.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’m to meet a Mr. Garcia here,” Stone said.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“Come this way, please.” He led Stone through the restaurant, out into the garden, and to a table in a shady spot near the rear hedge. A man stood up to greet him.
“Brandy Garcia,” he said, extending a hand.
“Stone Barrington,” Stone replied, shaking it. Garcia was slightly flashily dressed, in the California style, and perfectly barbered, with a well-trimmed moustache. He bore a striking resemblance to the old-time Mexican movie actor Gilbert Roland.
Garcia indicated a seat. “Please,” he said.
“I don’t think I’ll have time for lunch,” Stone said.
Garcia shrugged. “Have a drink, then; I’ll have lunch.”
They both sat down. There was a large snifter of cognac already before Garcia. “So you’re a friend of Rick’s?” Garcia asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve known Rick a long time; good guy. Rick was the first person to tell me I look like Gilbert Roland.” He appeared to be cultivating the resemblance.
“Oh,” Stone said.
“You think I look like him?”
“Yes, I think you do.”
This seemed to please Garcia. The waiter brought them a menu. “Please. Order something. It would please me.”
Stone suppressed a sigh. “All right. I’ll have the lobster salad and a glass of the house chardonnay.”
“Same here,” Garcia said, ogling two good-looking women as they were seated at the next table, “but I’ll stick with brandy. So,” he said, finally, “Rick says you’re looking for somebody.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What is his name?”
“Felipe Cordova.”
Garcia shook his head slowly. “I don’t know him,” he said, as if this were surprising.
“I’m told he’s from Tijuana,” Stone said.
“My hometown!” Garcia said, looking pleased.
“He was working as a gardener in Los Angeles until recently.” Stone tore a page from his notebook. “He was living with his sister; this is her name and address. He suddenly left L.A. on a Saturday night, the same night a murder was committed.”
Garcia’s eyebrows went up. “The Vance Calder murder?”
“Yes,” Stone admitted. He had not wanted to share this information.
“I read the papers, I watch TV,” Garcia said. “Your name was familiar to me.”
“I want to find Cordova, talk to him.”
“Not arrest him?”
Stone shook his head. “The police don’t consider him a suspect. I just want to find out what he knows about that night.”
Garcia nodded sagely. “There are some difficulties here,” he said.
The waiter arrived with their lunch.
“What difficulties?” Stone asked.
“Tijuana is a difficult place, even for someone with my connections. And maybe Señor Cordova doesn’t want to talk to you. That would make him harder to find.”
Stone read this as a nudge for more money. “Can you find him?”
“Probably, but it will take time and effort.”
“I’m quite willing to pay for your time,” Stone said.
Garcia pushed a huge forkful of lobster into his mouth and chewed reflectively. Finally, he swallowed. “And if I find him, then what?”
“Arrange a meeting,” Stone said.
Garcia chuckled. “You mean a nice lunch, like this?” He waved a hand.
“I just want an hour with the man.”
“How, ah, hard do you wish to talk to him?”
“I don’t want to beat answers out of him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Are you willing to pay him to sit still for this, ah, conversation, then?”
“Yes, within reason.”
“I am not reasonable,” Garcia said. “I will require five thousand dollars for my services, half now and half when you see Cordova.”
“I don’t have twenty-five hundred dollars on me,” Stone said. “I can give you a thousand now and the rest in cash when we meet Cordova.”
Garcia nodded gravely. “For a friend of Rick’s that is agreeable.”
Stone took a stack of ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, folded them and slipped them under Garcia’s napkin. “When?”
“Within a week or so, I think,” Garcia replied, pocketing the money.
“You have my number.”
Garcia suddenly looked at his wristwatch. “Oh, I have to run,” he said, standing up. “I will be in touch.” He turned and walked back into the hotel without another word.
Stone finished his lunch and paid the check.
Twenty-nine
AS STONE WALKED BACK INTO THE CALDER BUNGALOW at Centurion, he could see Betty in her office, leaning back in her chair and waving the phone. “It’s Joan Robertson, in New York,” she called out.
Stone went to Vance’s office, picked up the phone, and spoke to his secretary. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Oh, Stone, I’m so glad I got you,” Joan said breathlessly. “Water is coming down the stairs.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the main stairs of the house look like a tributary of the Hudson River. It’s been raining hard here for three days.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said. When he had inherited the house, the roof had seemed the one thing that didn’t need renovating. It was old, but it was of slate, which could last a hundred years or more. Now it occurred to Stone that the house was over a hundred years old, and so was the roof. “Here’s what you do,” he said. “Call a guy named Billy Foote; he’s in my phone book. Billy was my helper when I was renovating the house, and he can do almost anything. Tell him to buy a whole lot of plastic sheeting and to get up on the roof and tack it down everywhere. That’ll stop the worst of it.”
“Okay, then what?” Joan asked sensibly.
Stone realized he didn’t know a roofer, let alone one qualified to tackle a slate roof. “Let me think for a minute,” he said.
“Listen, Stone, I think you ought to get back here. There are clients you need to see, instead of just talking on the phone, and there’s going to be damage to the house as a result of all the water coming in. Please come back.”
Stone knew she was right. “I’ll be home as soon as humanly possible,” he said. “Call Billy, and tell him to hire whatever help he can and to start asking around about roofers who can deal with slate.”
“All right,” she said, then hung up.
Stone buzzed Betty.
“Yes?”
“Get me on the red-eye,” he said. “I’ve got to go back to New York for a few days.”
“Right; you want a car to meet you at the airport?”
“Good idea. I’m going over to Arrington’s; you can reach me there, if you need me.”
“Okay.”
Stone packed his bags and loaded them into Vance’s car.
Betty came out of the bungalow. “When are you coming back?” Betty asked.
“As soon as I can,” Stone replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Stone, I think I’m going to be getting out of here pretty soon. Do you think you’ll need me much longer?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d hang around at least until I get back from New York.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up Vance’s affairs for you, and I’ll find somebody to do the job for Arrington when I’m gone. Now you get back to New York, and I’ll see you when I see you.” She gave him a sharp slap on the rump to send him on his way, and went back to her office.
All the way to Arrington’s he thought about his house, how he loved it, and what must be happening to it. He called Joan on the car phone.
“Yes, Stone?”
“Will do.”
He entered the Calder property through the utility entrance, as had become his habit. Arrington heard the car pull up and met him at the back door.
She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I missed you,” she said.
“How are you?”
“Bored rigid, as a matter of fact.” She kissed him again. “And randy.”
“Now, now, now, now . . .” Stone said, holding her away from him. “We can’t allow ourselves to think that way, you know that.”
“Come on in, and let me fix you a drink.”
“I could use one,” he replied. They settled in the little sitting room off the master suite. “I have to go back to New York for a little while,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “You’re all I’ve got right now, Stone.”
Stone explained about the roof and his impatient clients. “If there’s as much water as Joan says there is, then it’s going to take me some time to get things sorted out.”
“But what will I do without you here?”
“Marc Blumberg is in charge of your case, anyway; I’m just an adviser.”
“Marc is good, but he’s no smarter than you are,” she said.
“Thank you, but we’re on his turf, and he knows it a lot better than I do. Who else could have gotten you bail on a Saturday?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I’ll call every day,” he said.
“You getting the red-eye?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s have some dinner before you go, then.” She picked up a phone, buzzed Manolo, and ordered food. “And after dinner, will you please drive Mr. Barrington to the airport?” She thanked him and hung up. “I don’t know what I would have done without Manolo,” she said. “He’s the most intensely loyal person I’ve ever met, besides you. Do you know that as soon as Vance was buried, he started getting offers from people, some of them my friends? And he turned down every one of them. He and Maria have just been wonderful.”
“You’re lucky to have them,” Stone agreed. “On the subject of loyal help, Betty Southard told me this afternoon that she’s going to leave as soon as Vance’s affairs are settled, probably move to Hawaii.”
“I don’t blame her,” Arrington said. “She’s never liked me, particularly, so maybe it’s best.”
“She said she’d find somebody to work for you.”
“Good.”
“I’d like to wash up before dinner; will you excuse me?”
“Use Vance’s bathroom; it’s the closest,” she said, pointing to the hallway.
Stone left her and found the bathroom. As he came back up the hallway, past Vance’s dressing room, he thought something was odd, but he wasn’t sure what. He walked back to the bathroom and looked at the wall backing up onto the dressing room, then he walked down the hallway and looked at the dressing room. There was something wrong with the proportions, but the bourbon he had just had on an empty stomach was keeping him from figuring it out. He went back and joined Arrington.
“How old is this house?” he asked.
“It was built during the twenties,” she said, “but when Vance bought it in the seventies, he gutted it and started over.”
“Did he make a lot of changes?”
“He changed everything; he might as well have torn it down and started over, but Vance was too keen on costs to waste the shell of a perfectly good house. After we were married, I redecorated the master suite, with his approval on fabrics and so forth.”
“Did you tear down any walls then?”
“No, the space was already divided as you see it. Even though Vance was a bachelor when he rebuilt the house, he provided for what he called ‘the putative woman.’ ”
Stone laughed.
They had dinner in the small dining room and talked about old times, which weren’t really that old, Stone reflected. A lot had happened in the few years they had known each other.
“I think I’d go back to Virginia, if I were allowed to leave town,” Arrington said, “and just spend a few weeks or months. Do a lot of riding. I miss that.”
“You’ve got room for horses here,” Stone said.
“You’re right; there’s actually an old stable on the property, and there are still riding trails in the neighborhood. Did you know that the Bel-Air Hotel is built on property where Robert Young used to own a riding stable?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Maybe when this is all over, I’ll buy a couple of horses. Do you ride?”
“You’re talking to a city kid, you know. I mean, I rode a little at summer camp as a boy, but that was about it.”
“I’m going to redecorate this house, too,” she said. “I don’t want to sell it; it’s unique, and I love it so. I didn’t do a lot about the place, except for the master suite, when I moved in, and I’m tired of even that. You did such a good job on your house; will you consult?”
“I’ll consult, when I get back,” Stone said. He thought it was good that she was looking past the trial, instead of obsessing about it. He wanted her optimistic; otherwise, she’d come apart.
They talked on into the evening, easily, the way people do who know each other well. Then Manolo brought the Bentley around, with Stone’s luggage already in the trunk.
“Don’t stay any longer than you have to,” Arrington said, kissing him lightly. “And by the way, it’s time you sent me a bill. I can’t have you devoting all your working time to me, and after all, I’m a rich woman.”
“I’ll probably overcharge you,” Stone said.
“That would not be possible,” she said, kissing him again, this time more longingly.
Stone allowed himself to enjoy it, and the drive to the airport passed in a haze of good wine and rekindled desire.
He checked his luggage, got to the gate, and boarded with only a couple of minutes to spare. The flight attendant was closing the door to the airplane, when she suddenly reopened it and stepped back.
Dolce got onto the airplane, and the flight attendant closed the door behind her.
Thirty
STONE WAS SITTING IN THE FIRST-ROW WINDOW SEAT OF the first-class section, and he watched like a trapped rabbit, as Dolce, cobralike, glided past, ignoring him, and took a seat somewhere behind him.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Barrington?” the attendant asked.
“A Wild Turkey on the rocks,” he replied without hesitation, “and make it a double.” When the drink arrived, he drank it more quickly than he usually would have, and by the time the flight reached its cruising altitude, he had fallen asleep.
Sometime in the night he awoke, needing the bathroom. On the way back to his seat, he looked toward the rear of the compartment and saw Dolce, sitting on the aisle three rows behind his seat, gazing unblinkingly at him. It was unnerving, he thought. He slept only fitfully for the rest of the flight.
When the door opened at the gate, Stone was the first off the airplane, nearly running up the ramp into the terminal. His bags were among the first to be seen in baggage claim, and a driver stood by with his name written on a shirt cardboard. He pointed at the bags and followed the driver to the waiting car.
He felt hungover from having the bourbon so close to bedtime, and the weather did not improve his mood. It was still raining heavily, the result of a close brush from a tropical storm off the coast, and even though the driver handled his bags, he got very wet between the car and his front door.
He tipped the driver generously, opened the door, and stepped inside his house, shoving his bags ahead of him. He tapped the security code into the keypad and looked around. The stairs had been stripped of their runner, which was piled on the living room floor, on top of a fine old oriental carpet that had come with the house, both of them sodden. A smell of dampness permeated the place.
> He put his bags on the elevator and pressed the button, then he walked up the stairs slowly, surveying the damage, which, if not catastrophic, was still awful. Thank God for insurance, he thought. He walked into his upstairs sitting room, where there was more wet carpet, and watermarks on the wall next to the stairs, where the water from the breached roof had run down. At least it had stopped, he thought, though it was still raining hard outside. Billy Foote must have gotten the plastic cover over the roof. His beautiful house, nearly ruined. He thought about how hard he had worked to restore it. Now a few days’ rain . . .
The security system beeped, signaling that Joan was arriving for work. He picked up a phone and buzzed her.
“Hi. Was your flight okay?”
“As okay as could be expected. Thanks for getting Billy over here.”
“He did a good job. The insurance adjustor got here in a hurry, and he’s sending a roofer to bid for the job as soon as it stops raining, if it ever does, and the carpet cleaners are coming this morning to take away all the wet rugs.”
Stone looked around his bedroom. “Tell them to throw away the carpet up here,” he said. “It’s time to replace it, I think, and the stairway runner, too. I do want to save the oriental in the living room, though.”
“Okay.”
“Any calls?”
“None that can’t wait until this afternoon,” she said. “You probably need some sleep.”
“That’s true. I’ll check with you later.” He hung up, got undressed, went into a guest room, where the carpets were still dry, and got into bed.
He woke up around noon, showered, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs, where his housekeeper, Helene, had left a sandwich for him. He had just finished it when the front doorbell rang. That would be the carpet people, he thought, and instead of using the intercom, he went to the front door and opened it. Eduardo Bianchi stood on his doorstep, glumly holding an umbrella. The Mercedes Maybach idled at the curb.