Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “No.”

  Charlene laughed.

  “Beverly did something strange tonight.”

  “What did she do?”

  Stone told her about the incident in the powder room.

  “She was probably hoping you’d ravish her on the spot.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  Charlene shrugged. “Did you talk to Dr. Lansing Drake at all?”

  “No,” Stone replied.

  “He seemed to get a little skittish when I mentioned you.”

  “He behaved oddly at dinner last night, too. Why might he feel uncomfortable around me?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Tell me about Dr. Drake.”

  “He’s the doctor of choice in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air,” Charlene said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s pretty easygoing; if somebody wants a Valium prescription, he’s not going to give them a hard time about it. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, too. I’ll bet he’s cured more cases of the clap and gotten more people secretly into rehab than any doctor in town.”

  “Is he a decent doctor?”

  “There are jokes about that, but I’ve never heard anybody say he really screwed up on something. I mean, he hasn’t killed anybody that I know of. I think his principal talent is that he knows when to refer somebody to a specialist. That’s his motto: When in doubt, refer. He can’t get into too much trouble that way.”

  “I gather he’s pretty social.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t miss too many parties. He’s not on everybody’s A list, but he probably makes most B-plus lists. I think that’s where he gets most of his business. People sidle up to him at a party and ask him about a rash, or something, and the next thing you know they’re his patients. He’s very charming.”

  “Did Vance go to him?”

  “Oh, Vance thought he was Albert fucking Schweitzer. I’ve heard him talk about Lansing in the most glowing terms.”

  “So Vance trusted him.”

  “Implicitly.”

  “Is he your doctor?”

  “For anything up to and including a skinned knee. I’ve got a gynecologist who gets most of my business. I’m a healthy girl; I’ve never really been sick with anything worse than the flu.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m feeling particularly healthy tonight. You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?”

  “I’m happy where I am,” he replied.

  She stood up, took him by the hand, and led him into the house and toward her bedroom. Once there, she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor.

  “Promise you won’t ruin my health,” he said.

  “Sugar,” she replied, working on his buttons, “I’m not making any such promise.”

  “Be gentle,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she replied, leading him toward the bed, and not by the hand.

  Fifty-one

  STONE MADE IT BACK TO THE CENTURION BUNGALOW, tired but happy, around ten A.M. Louise was at her desk, and she handed him a message from Brandy Garcia.

  “He works from an answering machine,” Stone said to the secretary. “Call and leave a message that he can reach me now.”

  “Dino Bacchetti called, too. He said you have the number.”

  “Right, I’ll call him.” Stone shaved and changed into fresh clothes, then went into the study. He was about to call Dino when Louise buzzed him.

  “Brandy Garcia on line one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  Garcia wasted no time on pleasantries. “I thought you should know that our mutual acquaintance from Tijuana is back in town.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently, his sister—the one he lived with when he was here—is sick, and he’s taking care of her kids.”

  “I thought you told him to lose himself.”

  “I did, my friend, but I can’t follow him all over Mexico to make sure he stays down there.”

  “Do you have a number for his sister’s house?”

  “Got a pencil?”

  “Shoot.” Stone jotted down the number. “Call him and tell him to keep his head down.”

  “Will do, Chief.” Garcia hung up.

  Stone sighed. It was bad enough that Beverly Walters was going to testify, but if Cordova appeared in court, he might lend credence to her story. He called Marc Blumberg.

  “Morning, Stone. Where’d you sleep last night?”

  “None of your business,” Stone replied.

  Blumberg laughed. “You seemed to be hanging back when everybody else was leaving.”

  “We had dinner, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Okay, okay, what’s up?”

  “Our friend Cordova has turned up in L.A. again.”

  “That’s bad,” Blumberg replied. “I filed a motion to dismiss this morning. I hope we can get a hearing scheduled before the police find him.”

  “The one thing we’ve got going for us is that the police aren’t looking for Cordova, although he doesn’t know that.”

  “Do you know where to find him?”

  “Yes. I can get a message to him if the police suddenly get interested.”

  “You want to prep Arrington, or shall I?”

  “You’d better do it; she’s not speaking to me at the moment.”

  “Oh? What went wrong?”

  “It’s too complicated to go into. Let’s just say that she got angry about something she didn’t have a good reason to be angry about.”

  “Stone, you are the only man I know whose relations with women are more complicated than mine.”

  “That’s not how I planned it, believe me. Will you call Arrington?”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  “How are you planning to handle Beverly Walters?”

  “I’m planning to shred her on the stand.”

  “She may have been sleeping with Vance; I’m still working on finding out.”

  “Even if she wasn’t, I think I’ll ask her anyway. Several times, maybe. Anything we can do to damage her credibility puts us one step closer to getting Arrington out of this.”

  “I think you’re right. Let me make another call to see if I can find out more.”

  “Let me know when you do.”

  “See you later.” Stone hung up and buzzed Louise. “What time is it in Hawaii?” he asked.

  “Three or four hours earlier than here, I think.”

  “You’ve got Betty Southard’s hotel number, haven’t you?”

  “She’s moved to a rented cottage, and I have the number.”

  “Go ahead and get her on the phone, and let’s hope she’s an early riser.”

  “I’ll buzz you.”

  Stone sat thinking about Beverly Walters and Felipe Cordova and what they could mean to the charges against Arrington. The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Betty?”

  “Aloha, stranger,” she said.

  “Hope I didn’t get you up.”

  “You know I’m an early riser,” she said. “Wish you were here to get my heart started in the morning.”

  “A pleasant thought, but I’m still needed here. You enjoying yourself?”

  “So much that I’m thinking of making a permanent move here. Will you come see me?”

  “When you least expect it.”

  “Why’d you call? Surely not just to wake me up.”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Beverly Walters. Did she and Vance ever have a thing?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because she’s the key prosecution witness against Arrington, and I need to know as much as possible about her.”

  “Vance didn’t keep much from me, but he never mentioned Beverly in those terms. Anyway, he was pretty tight with her husband, Gordon.”

  “If he was sleeping with her, where do you think it might have happened?”

  “In his RV, more than
likely, but just about any place that was convenient.”

  “Did he ever bring her to the bungalow?”

  “Not when I was around, but he didn’t do that with his women, except maybe after hours. A few mornings there were signs in the bungalow that someone had been there.”

  “When was the last time you can remember?”

  “No more than a day or two before he was shot.”

  “Did you ever find anything in the bungalow belonging to a woman?”

  “Once or twice—a lipstick or a scarf. When I did, I just left it on Vance’s desk and said nothing about it.”

  “Anything that you could identify as belonging to Walters?”

  “Come to think of it, the lipstick I found was one I’ve seen her wear, but I suppose that’s a pretty tenuous connection, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Nothing else?”

  “Nothing I can think of. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. It could be important.”

  “How’s Arrington bearing up?”

  “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. She’s not communicating with me at the moment.”

  “Uh-oh; I don’t want to know about that.”

  “Good, because I’m not going to tell you about it. What do you have planned for the day?”

  “The beach, of course. Can’t you hear the surf over the phone?”

  “You know, I think I can.”

  “That’s all you need to know about my day.”

  “You take care, then.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  Stone hung up. That had been a disappointment. He called Dino.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. How’s it going?”

  “I’m having a lovely time sitting around the pool, while Mary Ann and Arrington talk and giggle.”

  “Any thaw there?”

  “A little, maybe; I’ll have to pump Mary Ann. My guess is, though, if you want her to talk to you, you’re going to have to make the first move.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing, nothing, just got married. That seems to have disappointed her.”

  “But . . .”

  “Listen, Stone, you don’t have to convince me. She’s behaved badly and won’t admit it. I’m just saying that you’re going to have to make the first move, whether it’s logical or not. It’s how women work.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I shouldn’t have to. What’s up with you? Anything happening?”

  “Marc Blumberg has filed for a motion to dismiss the charges against Arrington, so he’ll probably turn up over there pretty soon to prep her for her testimony.”

  “What are the chances of shutting this thing down early?”

  “In my view? Two: slim and very slim.”

  “I guess you’ve got to make the effort.”

  “You bet. I don’t want to hang around L.A. for another six months waiting for this to come to trial. I’m getting homesick for a little New York grit in my teeth, you know?”

  “Yeah? Funny, I’m getting to like it here. Think the LAPD could use another detective?”

  “You wouldn’t last a month out here, Dino. It’s all too easy; you’re a New Yorker; you like things tough.”

  “Call Arrington and make nice, then maybe we can all have dinner together.”

  “Without Dolce?”

  “Without Mrs. Barrington.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Call her.”

  “Okay; see you later.” Stone hung up and stared at the phone. He might as well get it over with.

  Fifty-two

  MANOLO ANSWERED THE PHONE. “GOOD MORNING, Manolo,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. May I speak with Mrs. Calder?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington; it’s good to hear from you. I’ll see if she’s in.”

  She’d damned well better be in, Stone thought. Next time she decamps I’ll let her wait out the trial in jail. “Thank you.”

  She kept him waiting for a long time. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Yes?” she said finally, coldly.

  “Good morning.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can be civil, for a start.”

  “I’m listening; what do you want?”

  “I invited Dino and Mary Ann out here as much for me as for you. I’d like to see them. Shall we try dinner again?”

  “Oh, I do hope Mrs. Barrington can make it.”

  “I hope not. And she’s Mrs. Barrington only in her own mind, nowhere else.”

  “How did that happen, Stone? Did you get drunk and wake up married?”

  “I could ask you the same question, but I think we should do our best to put our respective marriages behind us and get on with our lives.”

  Long silence. “You have a point,” she admitted finally.

  “If it makes any difference, I was on the rebound,” he said.

  There was another silence while she thought about that. “Come for dinner at seven,” she said, then hung up.

  Stone chose his clothes carefully—a tan tropical wool suit, brown alligator loafers, and a pale yellow silk shirt, open at the collar, as a concession to L.A. Arrington had always responded to well-dressed men, and he wanted very much for her to respond. He entered through the front gate, the TV crew having departed for more sordid pastures, and parked in front of the house.

  Manolo greeted him, beaming. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “It’s good to see you back here.” There was relief in his voice, as if he’d feared that Stone might never be allowed in the house again.

  “Good evening, Manolo,” Stone said.

  “They’re having drinks out by the pool; shall I pour you a Wild Turkey?”

  “I feel like something breezier,” Stone said. “How about a vodka gimlet, straight up?”

  “Of course.”

  Stone followed Manolo down the broad central hallway, past the spot where Vance Calder had bled out his life on the tiles, and emerged into the garden, past the spot where Felipe Cordova had left his big shoeprint. Where had Beverly Walters stood? he wondered.

  Dino waved from a seat near the pool bar, where he, Mary Ann, and Arrington sat in thickly cushioned bamboo chairs around a coffee table. He gave Dino a wave and pecked the two women on the cheek as if there had never been a scene at their last meeting. Manolo went behind the bar and expertly mixed Stone’s drink, then brought it to him in a frosty glass on a silver tray.

  “Thank you, Manolo,” he said.

  “That looks good,” Arrington said. She pulled his hand toward her and sipped from his drink. “Oh, a vodka gimlet. Let’s all have one, Manolo.” Manolo went back to work while, at the other end of the pool, Isabel set a table for dinner.

  “I thought we’d dine outside,” Arrington said. “Such a perfect California evening.”

  “It certainly is,” Stone agreed. This was going well, and he was relieved.

  “You know, before I married Vance I had always hated L.A., but evenings like this changed my mind. I mean, there’s smog and traffic, and everybody talks about nothing but the business, but on evenings like this, you could almost forgive them.”

  “I think Dino has caught the L.A. bug, too,” Stone said, smiling. “He was inquiring only today whether the LAPD would have him.”

  “What?” Mary Ann said. “Dino live out here? He wouldn’t last a month.”

  “My very words to him.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have to cop for a living,” Dino said. “Maybe I’d become an actor. I could do all those parts Joe Pesci does, and better, too.”

  “You know, Dino, I believe you could,” Arrington laughed. “Want me to call Lou Regenstein at Centurion and get you a screen test?”

  “Nah, I don’t test, and I don’t audition,” Dino said, waving a hand. “My agent would never let me do that . . . if I had an agent.”

  “That’s it, Dino,” Arrington said. “Play hard to get. Movie people want
most the things they can’t have. Your price would double.”

  Then, it seemed to Stone, the clock began to run backward, and they all became the people they had been before all this had happened. They were old friends, easy together, enjoying the evening and each other. The gimlets seemed to help, too. Soon they were laughing loudly at small jokes. Then Manolo called them to dinner.

  No soup this time, Stone reflected; nothing to be dumped in his lap, and no Dolce to screw up their evening. They began with seared foie gras, crisp on the outside, melting inside, with a cold Château Coutet, a sweet, white Bordeaux. That was followed by a thick, perfect veal chop and a bottle of Beringer Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. Dessert was an orange crème brûlée and more of the Coutet.

  Coffee was served in Vance’s study, before a fire, as the desert night had become chilly. The women excused themselves, and Stone and Dino declined Manolo’s offer of Vance’s cigars.

  “Looks like the bloom is back on the rose,” Dino said.

  “The atmosphere is certainly warmer,” Stone agreed.

  “Arrington and Mary Ann spent the afternoon talking about you, I think. Mary Ann probably told her how lost you were without her, and how when Dolce came along, you were ripe for the picking.”

  “That’s embarrassingly close to the truth,” Stone said. “Have you heard anything from Dolce?”

  “She and Mary Ann had breakfast together at the Bel-Air this morning.”

  “Is that where she’s staying?”

  “She’s been cagey about where she’s staying. I don’t like it, frankly; I don’t think this is over.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Are you carrying?”

  “No, and I don’t know why I asked you to bring a weapon out here. A moment of paranoia, I guess.”

  “If Dolce is mad at you, it’s not paranoid to go armed. If I were you, I wouldn’t leave home without it.”

  “I’d feel a fool, wearing a gun these days,” Stone said. “It took some getting used to when I was on the force, but now . . . well, it just seems, I don’t know, belligerent.”

  “You’ve never liked guns, have you?”

  “No, I guess not. I mean, I admire a well-made tool, and I guess that’s what a gun is. Some of them are beautiful things, like the Walther, but I never liked the Glocks; they’re ugly.”