Stuart Woods - L.A. Dead

"Thanks for your time," Stone said. "You can leave."

Cordova didn't move. "What about my other five hundred?"

"If you want that, you'll have to start earning it," Stone said.

Cordova glared at him for a moment. "I didn't cut the grass that day."

"No, you were there to burgle the place."

Cordova chuckled. "Shit, man," he said.

"I'm not here to arrest you; I think you know the cops aren't going to find you here. They're not even looking for you."

"What makes you think I'm a burglar?" Cordova asked.

"Those Nikes you're wearing cost a hundred and eighty bucks," Stone said. "You didn't buy them cutting grass."

"Shit, man…"

Stone slammed his hand on the table. "Shit is right," he said. "That's all I'm getting from you."

"Okay, okay, so what do you want to know?"

"Did Calder catch you in the house?"

"I never got into the house," Cordova replied.

"You were right outside the door; you were seen," Stone lied.

"By who?"

"By Manolo's wife; you didn't see her."

"Then you know I didn't get in the house. I only got as far as the back door. I went in through a little gate where we take the equipment in."

"And what did you see at the back door?"

"First, I heard something."

"Like what?"

"Like a gun going off."

"How many times?"

"Once. I was almost to the back door when I heard it. I took a few more steps, and I looked through the door. It was a glass door, you know? With panes?"

"I know. What did you see?"

"I saw Mr. Calder lying on the floor in the hall, and blood was coming out of his head."

"What else did you see?"

"I saw the gun on the floor beside Mr. Calder."

"What kind of gun?"

"An automatic; I don't know what kind."

"What color?"

"Silver."

"What else did you see?"

"I saw a woman running down the hall."

Stone's stomach suddenly felt hollow, and he couldn't speak.

Cordova went on. "She was wearing one of them robes made out of that towel stuff." He rubbed his fingers together.

"Terrycloth?"

"Yeah. It had this…" He moved his hands around his head.

"Hood?"

"Yeah, a hood. She was barefoot; I don't think she had nothing on, except the robe."

"Could you see her body?"

"No, just her feet."

"Did you see her face?" Stone held his breath.

"No."

Stone let out the breath.

"But it was Mrs. Calder."

Stone's stomach flip-flopped. "If you didn't see her face, how do you know it was Mrs. Calder?"

"C'mon, man, who else would it be, naked and in a robe in the Calders' house?"

"But you didn't see her face."

"No, but it was her. Same size and everything; same ass, you know?"

"Which way was she running?"

"Away from me-that's all I know, man; I got the hell out of there, you know? I was over that fence and out of there in a big hurry."

Stone took him through it again, made him repeat every statement, but nothing changed. Finally, there was nothing else to ask. He shelled out another five hundred, and Cordova put it in his pocket.

"You want to make another three hundred?" Stone asked. Sure.

Stone put the money on the table. "Sell me your shoes."

"Huh?"

"I'll give you three hundred dollars for your shoes."

Cordova grinned. "Sure, man." He shucked off the Nikes and put them on the table. They were dirty, beat up, and huge. He put the money in his pocket, gave a little wave, and lumbered toward the house, padding along in his stocking feet.

Garcia came out of the house. "How'd it go?" he asked.

"Great," Stone said. "Just great. Get me back to the border."

"I see you got yourself some shoes." He held his nose.

"Just get me back, Brandy," Stone said, feeling sick.

Stone drove back toward Los Angeles in a fog, torn between what he had believed had happened to Vance Calder and what Felipe Cordova had told him. He had thought Cordova had murdered Vance, but every instinct he had developed as a cop, interrogating witnesses, told him that Cordova had told him the truth in their interview.

"I've been fooled before," he said aloud to himself. Cordova still could have done it; maybe he was a better liar than Stone had thought. The only good thing about Cordova was that the LAPD had not questioned him, didn't want to. He would not like to see the Mexican on the stand, testifying against Arrington.

The car phone rang. Stone punched the send button, so he could talk hands free. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Betty. Joan called from New York, said to tell you that everything was in hand with the house. The roofer is going to start in a couple of days, and it will take him a week to finish."

"Good news," Stone said.

"She also said that Dolce was waiting at the house when she got back from Teterboro, and that she told her that you'd returned to L.A. Does that mean we can expect more candid snaps?"

"I certainly hope not. I've already told the guard at the gate not to let her into the studio again, but maybe you'd better call and reinforce that."

"Will do."

"Any other calls?"

"Marc Blumberg called, said he just wanted to catch up with you. He's at his Palm Springs house; you want the number?"

Stone fished a pen and his notebook out of his pocket. "Shoot."

Betty dictated the number, and he jotted it down, careful to keep the car on track.

"Your bags are piled up in the entrance hall; want me to unpack for you?

"Thanks, I'd appreciate that. I was too tired to bother last night."

"I'll send your laundry out, too."

"Thanks again."

"Stone you sound funny-depressed."

"I'm just tired," he replied. "The round-trip cross-country flight messed with my internal clock."

"Want to have dinner tonight?"

He knew what that meant. "Give me a rain check, if you will; I just want to get some rest."

"Okay, call if you need anything."

Stone punched the end button, then dialed Marc Blumberg's Palm Springs number and punched the send button again.

"Hello?"

"Marc, it's Stone."

"Hi, there, you in the car?"

"Yeah, I'm just north of San Diego."

"What are you doing down there?"

"I've been to Tijuana to meet with Felipe Cordova, of Nike footprint fame."

"What did he have to say for himself?"

"It's a long story; why don't we get together when you're back in LA?"

"Why don't you come here, instead? I'll give you some dinner and put you up for the night. You could be here in a couple of hours."

"Okay, why not?"

"You got a map?"

"Yes."

"Take I-15 to just short of Temecula, then cut east over the mountains."

"Okay, what's the address?"

Blumberg gave him the street and number and directions to the house.

"See you in a while." He hung up, then saw a sign for I-15 just in time to make the turn.

He found the turnoff for Palm Springs and followed the curving mountain road, enjoying the drive. His head began to clear, and almost without effort, things started to line up in his mind. First of all, he still believed Arrington was innocent; second, he felt that Cordova was the best suspect; third, he was going to do whatever it took to get Arrington out of this. He forced himself to consider the possibility that Arrington had shot Vance. If so, he rationalized, it must somehow have been self-defense. He could not let her be convicted, especially after what had happened in New York. He was in her thrall again, if he had ever been out of it, and all he wanted at the moment was a future with Arrington in it. By the time he had found Marc Blumberg's house, his ducks were all in a row.

The house was a large contemporary, sculpted of native stone and big timbers, on several acres of desert. Marc greeted him warmly and led him out to the pool. The sun was low in the sky, and the desert air was growing cool. A tall, very beautiful woman was stretched out on a chaise next to the outside bar.