Stuart Woods - L.A. Dead

Stone straightened the wire and began probing the lock. It was simple; one turn and it was open. He set the diary on Marc's desk and began flipping pages, while the two of them bent over it.

"Funny, I don't recognize any names," Marc said. "We knew a lot of the same people."

"Maybe she's giving people code names; if somebody got into the diary, it might save embarrassment."

"Let's start at the end and work backward," Marc said. They began reading; Vanessa had written in a small, but very legible, hand.

"Look, in the last entry she says she's going to Palm Springs to 'Herbert's' house. I wonder why she called me Herbert?"

"I guess you just look like a Herbert, Marc."

"Yeah." He flipped back further in the book. "There's mention here of a Hilda, quite often. Think that could be Beverly?"

"We need a context to figure this out," Stone said, turning pages. "Here, the pages are dated; this is the day Vance was shot. There's mention of Hilda, Magda, and Jake."

"Jake was Vance's character in one of his recent movies," Marc said. " Fear Everything , I think."

"She mentions lunch around the pool at Magda's. That must be Charlene Joiner. Here we go!" He began reading aloud. " 'When we left Magda's, Hilda insisted on going to Jake's house, which I thought was nuts. She knew about this service entrance at the rear of the property. I wouldn't get out of the car, but Hilda, bold as brass, walked to the house. Hilda has admitted screwing Jake, but, Jesus, I never thought she'd have the guts to go to his house. She must have been gone ten minutes, then there was a noise, and a minute later, she came running back, breathless, and told me to get the hell out of there. She wouldn't say what happened but I'd be willing to bet that she ran into Mrs. Jake. God, that must have been embarrassing! She was still breathing hard when I dropped her off at her house. I've never seen her so discombobulated. I know I'll eventually hear about this from somebody else, even though she won't discuss it. Hilda can never keep her mouth shut for long-she'll either brag about this, or try for sympathy. Jesus, I'm so glad I didn't go with her!'"

"Well, that's pretty clear," Marc said, "but I'd feel a lot better if she had just said that she'd watched Beverly shoot Vance."

"All we've really got here is what Vanessa told me."

"Yeah, we've got to get Beverly to admit that she's Hilda, or get corroboration from Charlene on the stand that they were at her house that day."

Stone was flipping forward through the pages, looking at the dates after Vance's murder. "Look at this," he said. "'Hilda keeps trying to tell me something, but she can't get it out. She seems very guilty about something. Having seen the papers, it's not hard to figure out that Jake was hurt while we were at his house, but Hilda won't tell me what she saw there. I keep thinking maybe I should go to the police. I've got to ask Herbert about this, but how am I going to do that without betraying Hilda's confidence?'"

"I wish to God she had asked me," Marc said. "Maybe I could have done something to prevent her death."

"Wait a minute," Stone said, "are you thinking that Beverly set the fire at Vanessa's, because she knew too much?"

"It wouldn't be the first murder that was committed to cover up another murder," Marc said.

Stone sat down heavily, feeling enormously relieved.

"You look kind of funny, Stone," Marc commented. "Was it something I said?"

"Yes, it was," Stone replied. "I had never connected Beverly with Vanessa's death, but what you're saying makes perfectly good sense. I'm afraid that I thought someone else…" He stopped himself.

"That someone else murdered Vanessa?"

Stone nodded.

"Who?"

"I'd rather not say. If you're right, then it doesn't make any difference."

"I guess not." Marc picked up the phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"The D.A. I want him to see this diary. If we're lucky, maybe we won't need the motion hearing."

"Marc," Stone said, "we don't have anything we didn't before. Beverly has obviously already told the D.A. that she was at Vance's that night; otherwise, how else could she be a witness."

"You're right, but I have to turn this over to either the D.A. or the police, anyway, and it at least independently establishes that Beverly was there. She won't know what's in the diary, so maybe I can use it to rattle her at the hearing."

"Call the D.A.," Stone said.

The cab crawled up the street. From the rear seat Stone checked the house numbers, but most of them were missing, like a lot of other things in this neighborhood. Stone had taken a taxi, because he did not want to park a Mercedes SL600 in this block.

As it turned out, the house number was unnecessary, because Felipe Cordova was sitting on his sister's front porch, drinking from a large beer bottle, while two small children played on the patchy front lawn.

"Wait for me," Stone said to the driver.

"How long you going to be?" the driver asked. "I don't like it around here."

"A couple of minutes; I'll make it worth your while."

"Okay, mister, but hurry, okay?"

Stone got out of the cab, let himself through the chain-link front gate, and approached the house.

Cordova watched him come, curious at first, until he recognized Stone. "Hey, Mr. Lawyer," he said, raising the quart in salute. "You back to see me again?"

Stone pulled up a rickety porch chair and sat down. "Yes, Felipe, and I've brought good news."

"I always like good news," Felipe replied happily.

"The police are no longer looking for you," Stone said.

"Hey, that is good news."

"But you and I have a little official business."

"Cordova's eyes narrowed. Official?"

"Nothing to worry about," Stone said, taking the subpoena from his pocket and handing it to the man. "I just need you to testify in court."

Cordova examined the document. "The day after tomorrow?"

"That's right. Ten A.M.; the address is there." He pointed.

"What's this about?"

"I just want you to answer the same questions I asked you in Mexico. And I want the same answers."

"How much do I get paid?"

"That's the bad news, Felipe; I can't pay a witness. That could get us both put in jail."

Cordova frowned. "I'm going to have expenses, man."

"You can send a bill for your expenses, your reasonable expenses, like cab fare and lunch, to this lawyer." He handed Cordova Marc Blumberg's card. "See that it doesn't come to more than a hundred bucks."

"Suppose I don't want to testify?"

"Then, the police will be looking for you, and if you leave the country, you won't be able to come back. The border patrol will have you in their computer, and you don't want that, do you?"

Cordova shook his head.

"Relax, Felipe; there's nothing to this. When you get to the courthouse, you sit on a bench outside the courtroom until you're called, and then you take the stand, swear the oath on the bible, and you answer questions."

"Just like on Perry Mason ?"

"Just like that, except on Perry Mason , the witness is always the murderer. We know you're not the murderer; we just want you to tell about the woman you saw in the house, the one in the terry cloth bathrobe."

"Oh, yeah."

Stone stood up. "Be sure you remember that word, Felipe: terry-cloth . I'll see you there at ten A.M. the day after tomorrow, and remember, that document means you have to testily or be arrested. You understand?"

Cordova nodded.

Stone patted him on the back and went back to his cab. "Okay," he said, "back to Centurion Studios." He took out his cellphone and called Marc Blumberg. "He's been served."

"You think he'll show, or should I send somebody out there?"