Stuart Woods - L.A. Dead

"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.

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.

Some time 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, signalling 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 and 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 umbrealla. The Mercedes Maybach idled at the curb.

"Eduardo!" Stone said, surprised. He had almost never seen the man anywhere except on his own turf. "Come in."

"Thank you, Stone. I'm sorry to barge in, but I heard you were back from California, and I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?"

"Of course," Stone said, taking the umbrella, and helping the older man off with his coat. "Come on back to my study. Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you, yes," Eduardo replied, rubbing his hands together briskly. "It's terrible out there."

Stone settled him in a chair in his study, then made some espresso and brought in a pot and two cups on a tray.

"So, you're back in New York for a while, I hope?" Eduardo asked.

"I'm afraid not," Stone said. He explained the problem with the roof. "I have some clients to see, too, then I have to get back to LA. I'm afraid Arrington still needs me there."

"Ah, Arrington," Eduardo said slowly. "A most unfortunate situation for her. Do you think she will be acquitted?"

"I think she's innocent, and I'll do everything I can to see that she is. Marc Blumberg, an L.A. lawyer, is her lead counsel; I'm just advising."