by Stuart Woods
“Every day we could manage it; sometimes twice a day. Vance was always ready,” she said, “and so was I.” She turned toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “In fact,” she said, “I’m ready right now.”
Stone patted her hand. “That’s a kind thought,” he said, “but it’s very likely that you’re going to be called as a witness for the prosecution at Arrington’s trial, and . . .”
“I’ll bet you could get me to say whatever you wanted me to,” Charlene said, getting up and sitting on the edge of his chaise.
“That would be suborning perjury,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice calm. “My advice to you is to tell the truth.”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, and her hand went smoothly to his crotch. “I want you right now, and,” she squeezed gently, “I can tell you want me.”
“I’m afraid . . .”
She squeezed harder. “Stone,” she said, “you don’t want to turn down the best piece of ass on the North American continent, do you?”
Stone got to his feet, and his condition was something of an embarrassment. She got up, too. “Charlene,” he said, “I don’t doubt you for a moment, but, believe me, it could mean big trouble for both of us.”
“It might be worth it,” she said, rubbing her body against his.
Stone was backing away, but he could not bring himself to disagree. “I have to leave,” he said, turning for the door.
“All right,” she sighed, “but when this trial is over, you call me, you hear?”
Stone waved and walked quickly through the house and to his car. When he was finally behind the wheel, he noticed that he was breathing harder than the effort had required.
Twenty-six
STONE DROVE SLOWLY BACK TO THE STUDIO, TOP DOWN, trying to enjoy the California weather, instead of thinking about Charlene Joiner. He had read the newspaper accounts of her long-ago affair with the senator and presidential candidate Will Lee, and he had every sympathy for the senator. She was extraordinarily beautiful, all over, and, if Betty Southard’s account of her prowess in bed was true, the senator was lucky to get out with his scalp.
He could not make the randiness go away. Just when he thought he had it under control, he passed the public beach area near Sunset, and a girl walking along the sand in a bikini got him going again. Stone sighed and tried to think pure thoughts.
As he walked into the studio bungalow, the phone was ringing, and Betty answered it.
“It’s for you,” she said.
Stone went into the study and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Rick Grant.”
“Hi, Rick. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I heard about the scene at the D.A.’s office. Blumberg pulled that one out of the fire.”
“At least, temporarily.”
“It was a shitty thing for the D.A. to do—try to make her spend the weekend in jail.”
“Do I detect a sympathetic note?”
“Sort of.”
“Rick, what have they got on her that they’re not telling us?”
“I can’t get into that,” Rick replied, “but there is something I can tell you.”
“Please do.”
“They found a good footprint outside the French doors leading to the pool. A Nike, size twelve.”
“That’s interesting.”
“The guy had walked through some sprinkler-dampened dirt, or something; there was only one good one, but they got a photograph of it.”
“I learned something else,” Stone said.
“Tell me.”
“There was a Mexican gardener there, on both the Friday and Saturday, but he left the country Saturday night, went back to Tijuana, so he couldn’t have been questioned by Durkee and Bryant.”
“That’s very interesting,” Rick admitted.
“What’s more, another customer of the same gardening service caught the guy in her living room, once. She thought he would have stolen something, left to his own devices.”
“Pretty good; now you’ve got another suspect. That should take some of the heat off Arrington.”
“It will, if Durkee and Bryant investigate—find the guy and bring him back.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Rick said. “Getting somebody back from the Mexicans almost never happens. Unless he comes back across the border voluntarily, well, you’re not going to see him. Do you know his name?”
“Felipe Cordova, and he’s from Tijuana. Had you heard about this guy from your people?”
“No, and that’s puzzling; I’ll check into it. I’ll pass this on to Durkee, and we’ll see what happens.”
“I’ll tell you what I think, Rick: I think Durkee and Bryant, and now the D.A., have the hots for Arrington as a suspect, and they don’t want to know anything that points to anybody else.”
“Could be,” Rick admitted. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
“Happens all the time,” Stone said. “In New York, and everywhere else. The path of least resistance, never mind who really did it; nail somebody.”
“We’ve all seen that.”
“And the high profile of this case has got them salivating for a high-profile perp.”
“Could be.”
“I think it’s the O.J. thing,” Stone said. “They lost that one, and now they want a big conviction to salvage their reputations.”
“Possibly.”
“Will you let me know what you hear about the Mexican gardener?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Talk to you later,” Stone said into the phone, and hung up. He walked into Betty’s office, but she was not at her desk. He felt the need for a shower and went into the bedroom. He undressed and stretched out on the bed, thinking to relax for a few minutes. Then Betty came out of the bathroom, and she was naked.
“Oh!” she said. “Sorry, I thought you’d be on the phone for a while.”
“It’s okay, Betty,” he said, getting up. “It’s not the first time we’ve seen each other in the buff.”
She walked over and put her arms around him. “I just want to see if this feels as good as I remember. It does.”
“It certainly does,” Stone agreed. Then, before he could get into trouble, he held her off a few inches. “If I’m not careful, you’ll seduce me,” he said.
Betty laughed.
Then there was a blinding flash of light, followed by another. Stone and Betty both turned toward the door, astonished. The flash came again, then there was the sound of running feet leaving the cottage.
Stone blinked, trying to regain his vision.
“What the hell was that?” Betty cried.
“I don’t know; what’s the number for the main gate?”
Betty dialed the number and handed the phone to Stone.
“Main gate,” the guard said.
“This is Stone Barrington; we’ve had an intruder in Mr. Calder’s bungalow. Who’s come in this morning?”
“In the last half hour, only Mrs. Barrington,” the man replied.
“There is no Mrs. Barrington!” Stone yelled. “Don’t let her in here again!” He hung up and turned to Betty. “I’m sorry, it was Dolce; I didn’t even know she was still in town.”
“Well,” Betty said, “ask her if I can have a set of prints.”
“That would be funny, if I weren’t so pissed off.”
“Where were we?” Betty asked.
But Stone was already dressing.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to put a stop to this thing with Dolce.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Lotsa luck,” Betty said. “Looks to me as though you’re past talking.”
Twenty-seven
STONE PARKED VANCE CALDER’S MERCEDES IN THE upper parking lot of the Bel-Air Hotel and walked quickly to Dolce’s suite. He was going to have to have this out with her, o
nce and for all. He rapped sharply on the door and waited.
A moment later the door was opened by a white-haired woman in her sixties, dressed in a hotel robe. “Yes?” she said, looking at him suspiciously.
“May I see Miss Bianchi, please?”
“I’m sorry, you have the wrong room,” the woman replied, starting to close the door.
“May I ask, when did you check in?”
“About noon,” she replied and firmly shut the door.
Stone walked down to the lobby and the front desk. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?” the young woman at the desk said. “Are you checking in again?”
“No, I’m looking for Miss Dolce Bianchi. Has she changed rooms?”
“Let me check,” the woman said, tapping some computer keys. “I’m afraid I don’t see a Miss Bianchi.”
“Try Mrs. Stone Barrington,” Stone said, through clenched teeth.
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Barrington checked out last night.”
“And her forwarding address?”
She checked the computer screen and read off the address of Eduardo’s house in Manhattan.
“Thank you,” Stone said.
“Of course,” she replied. “We’re always happy to see you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Thank you, and by the way, would you inform the management that there is no Mrs. Stone Barrington? The woman’s name is Dolce Bianchi, and should she check in again, I would be grateful if you would not allow her to use my name in the hotel.”
“I’ll speak to the manager about it,” the woman replied, looking baffled.
“Thank you very much,” Stone said, managing a smile for the woman. He walked back to the parking lot, switched on the ignition, and called the Bianchi house in Manhattan. He got an answering machine for his trouble. Frustrated, he called Dino’s number at home.
“Hello?” Mary Ann, Dino’s wife, answered.
“Hi, Mary Ann, it’s Stone.”
“Hi, Stone,” she said cheerfully, then her voice took on a sympathetic tone. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out in Venice.”
“Thank you, but I think it was for the best.”
“Well, since you’re not too broken up about it, I don’t mind telling you, I think you’re lucky to be out of that relationship. I mean, Dolce’s my sister, and I love her, but you’re far too nice a guy to have to put up with her.”
“She registered at the Bel-Air as Mrs. Stone Barrington,” he said.
“Oh, Jesus,” Mary Ann breathed. “That’s just like her.”
“She checked out yesterday and said she was returning to New York, but there’s no answer at the Manhattan house. Have you heard from her? I want to talk to her.”
“Not a word; I knew she went to Vance Calder’s funeral, and I thought she was still in L.A. Hang on, Dino wants to speak to you.”
“So how’s the bridegroom?” Dino asked.
“Don’t start. She checked into the Bel-Air as Mrs. Stone Barrington. Are you sure that civil ceremony has no force in law?”
“That’s my understanding, but I’m not an Italian lawyer,” Dino replied. “Is Dolce giving you a hard time?”
“I’m staying at Vance Calder’s cottage at Centurion Studios, and she barged in there this afternoon with a camera and caught me in bed with Betty Southard, Vance’s secretary.”
Dino began laughing.
Stone held the phone away from his ear for a moment. “It’s not funny, Dino. I can’t have her going around pretending to be Mrs. Barrington and behaving like a wronged wife.”
“Listen, pal, you’re talking to the guy who warned you off her, remember?”
“Don’t rub it in. What am I going to do about her?”
“I guess you could talk to Eduardo; you two are such good buddies. Maybe he’ll spank her, or something.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I can’t think of anybody else who could handle her.”
“Neither can I.”
“You got the Brooklyn number?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I’d do, in your shoes—that, and talk to an Italian lawyer.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” Stone punched off, and it occurred to him that he knew an Italian lawyer. He dug out his wallet and found the cardinal’s card. He looked at his watch; it would be early evening in Italy. He called the operator, got the dialing code for Rome, and punched in the number.
“Pronto,” a deep voice said.
“Good evening,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington; may I speak with Cardinal Bellini, please?”
“Stone, how good to hear from you,” Bellini said, switching to English.
“Thank you; I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some advice regarding Italian law, and I didn’t know anyone else to call.”
“Of course; how can I help you?”
“You’ll recall that, before my sudden departure from Venice, Dolce and I went through some sort of civil ceremony at the mayor’s office.”
“I do.”
“But I had to leave Venice before the ceremony at St. Mark’s.”
“Yes, yes.”
“My question is, does the civil ceremony, without the church ceremony, have any legal force?”
“Not in the eyes of the church,” Bellini replied.
“How about in the eyes of the Italian government?”
“Well, it is possible to be legally married in Italy in a civil ceremony.”
Stone’s heart sank.
“Can you tell me what this is about, Stone? Is something wrong?”
“I don’t want to burden you with this, Your Eminence,” Stone said.
“Not at all,” the cardinal replied. “I have plenty of time.”
Stone poured it all out—Arrington; Arrington and Vance Calder; Dolce; everything.
“Well,” the cardinal said when he had finished, “it seems you’ve reconsidered your intentions toward Dolce.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been forced to.”
“Then it’s fortunate that this occurred before you took vows in the church.”
“Yes, it is. However, I’m concerned about my marital status under Italian law. Is it possible that I am legally married?”
“Yes, it is possible.”
Stone groaned.
“I can see how, given the circumstances, this might concern you, Stone. Before I can give you any sort of definitive answer, I’d like to do a bit of research. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow morning for a meeting in Paris, and it may be a few days, perhaps longer, before I can look into this. Let’s leave it that I’ll phone you as soon as I have more information.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Stone gave him the Centurion number, thanked him again, and hung up.
He started the car and drove slowly back to the studio. When he reached the cottage it was dark, except for a lamp in the window. Betty had gone.
Stone rarely drank alone, but he went to the bar and poured himself a stiff bourbon. What had he gotten himself into? Was he married? If so, the Italians didn’t have divorce, did they? He had not wanted to question a cardinal of the Church about a divorce. He collapsed in a chair and pulled at the bourbon. For a while, he allowed himself a wallow in self-pity.
Twenty-eight
STONE WAS SIGNING DOCUMENTS FAXED TO HIM FROM New York by his secretary when Betty buzzed him.
“Rick Grant on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Hi, Rick.”
“Good morning, Stone. I had a chat with Durkee about this missing Mexican gardener, and I have to tell you that he and his partner don’t seem to have the slightest interest in him.”
“I suppose they’re not interested in the footprint they found outside the house, either.”
“Not much. It’s a Nike athletic shoe, size twelve, right foot, with a cut across the heel. I got that much out of Durkee.”
“Can you get me a copy of the photograph of the footprint?”
“I think you’re better off asking for that in discovery.”<
br />
Rick obviously didn’t want to get more involved than he already was. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I thought of something, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I told you how tough it was to get suspects out of Mexico, but there might be something you can do.”
“Tell me.”
“I know a guy named Brandy Garcia. Brandy is a Latino hustler, does a little of everything to make a buck. He’s been a coyote, running illegals across the border, he’s run an employment agency for recently arrived Latinos, he may even have smuggled some drugs in his time, I don’t know. But he’s well connected below the border, especially in Tijuana, where he’s from, and he might be able to find this guy, Felipe Cordova, for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“Trouble is, Cordova is not a suspect, so even if you found him and the Mexicans were willing to extradite him, nobody would arrest him.”
“That’s discouraging,” Stone replied.
“I know. But you might try to talk to him, if Brandy can find him.”
“How do I get hold of Brandy Garcia?”
“I left a message on an answering machine, giving him your number. He may or may not call; I don’t know if he’s even in the country.”
“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from him.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Rick.” Stone hung up.
Twenty minutes later Betty buzzed him. “There’s somebody on the phone, who says his name is Brandy Garcia; says Rick Grant told him to call.”
“Put him through,” Stone said. There was a click. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Brandy Garcia; Rick Grant said I might be of some service to you.” The accent was slight.
“Yes, I spoke to Rick. Can we meet someplace?”
“You free for lunch?”
“How about a drink?”
“Okay: the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel at twelve-thirty?”
“All right.”
“See you then.” Garcia hung up.
Stone opened his briefcase, found a bank envelope, and counted out some money.
Stone drove up to the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel and turned his car over to the valet. Walking inside, he thought that the place looked very fresh and new. It was the first time he’d visited the hotel since its multimillion-dollar renovation by its owner, the Sultan of Brunei.