Thirty-five.

STONE TOOK THE FREEWAY TO SAN DIEGO AND MADE IT in three and a half hours. He had some lunch at a taco joint near the border, then put the money and his little dictating recorder into his pockets, put on the red baseball cap he'd bought at the Centurion Studios shop, parked the car, and walked to the border crossing. He was questioned by a uniformed officer.

"What's the purpose of your visit to Mexico?" the man asked.

"A business meeting."

"What kind of business?"

"I'm a lawyer," Stone replied. "I'm interviewing a witness."

"Let's see some ID."

Stone showed his U.S. pa.s.sport.

"Are you carrying more than five thousand dollars in cash or negotiable instruments?"

Stone was not about to lie about this. "Yes."

"How much?"

"About seven thousand."

The man handed him a declaration. "What's the money for?"

"I have to pay the man who located the witness for me."

"Fill out the form."

Stone did as he was told, handed it over, and was waved across the border.

"You better be careful, carrying that much money," the officer said.

"Thanks, I will." Stone walked slowly down the busy street, waiting for somebody to recognize him. He saw no one, and no one seemed to take note of him. He had never been to Mexico before, and he was nervous. Everything he had read about the place in the newspapers had led him to believe that the country was a vast criminal enterprise, with drug dealers and kidnappers on every corner and a corrupt police force. So far, he didn't like it.

A block from the border, he sat down at one of two tables outside a little restaurant. A waiter appeared. "Cerveza," "Cerveza," Stone said, exhausting his Spanish. A moment later, he was drinking an icy Carta Blanca, the only thing he intended to allow past his lips on this trip. He had finished the beer and was wondering if he had come on a fool's errand when a small boy dressed in ragged jeans and sneakers ran up to him. Stone said, exhausting his Spanish. A moment later, he was drinking an icy Carta Blanca, the only thing he intended to allow past his lips on this trip. He had finished the beer and was wondering if he had come on a fool's errand when a small boy dressed in ragged jeans and sneakers ran up to him.

"Senor Stone?" the boy asked.

Stone nodded.

The boy beckoned him to come.

Stone left five dollars on the table and followed the boy. They turned a corner and came to a Lincoln Continental of a fifties vintage, a giant, four-door land yacht of an automobile. Brandy Garcia sat at the wheel and beckoned him to the pa.s.senger side.

"Give the boy something," Garcia said.

Stone gave the boy five dollars and stuck the red baseball cap on his head.

The boy turned the cap backward, grinned, and disappeared into the street crowd.

Stone got into the car and waited for Garcia to drive off, but he simply sat there. "Well?"

"I want the rest of my money, first," Garcia said.

Stone took a precounted thousand dollars from a pocket and handed it over. "The rest when I'm sitting down with Cordova."

"Fair enough," Brandy said, and put the car into gear. "Pretty nice buggy, eh?"

"Nicely restored," Stone admitted. "I haven't seen one of these in years."

Garcia turned a corner and sped down the street, oblivious of the pedestrians diving out of his way. "I got three more beauties at my house," he said. "I got a Stingray Corvette, a '57 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with the big V-8, and a '52 Caddy convertible, yellow. All mint."

"Well," Stone said, "I guess the Lincoln is the closest thing we're going to get to inconspicuous."

Garcia laughed and turned another corner. "Everybody knows me in Tijuana," he said. "Why be inconspicuous?"

Soon they were leaving the busy part of town and driving down a dirt street. The houses were getting farther apart, and after a while there were very few houses. Garcia slowed and turned down a dirt road; a mile later, he turned into a driveway and drove a hundred yards to a little stucco house in a grove of trees, with an oversized garage to one side.

"Here we are," Garcia said, parking next to a beat-up Volkswagen and getting out of the car. "Cordova is already here; that's his car," he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the VW. Stone quickly memorized the license plate number before he followed Garcia into the house.

"How's Cordova's English?" Stone asked, as they walked through a tiled living room and out onto a patio.

"Ask him yourself," Garcia said, nodding toward a large man seated at a patio table next to a small swimming pool, hunched over a beer. "That's Felipe Cordova, and you owe me another three grand."

Stone handed him the money, then walked to the table and took a seat opposite the man, getting a look at his shoes on the way. He saw the swoosh logo. "Felipe Cordova?"

The man nodded.

Stone offered his hand. "My name is Barrington."

Cordova shook it limply, saying nothing.

"You have any problem with English, or you want Brandy to translate?"

Cordova looked at Garcia, who was stepping back into the house, and Stone took the opportunity to switch on the little recorder in his shirt pocket.

"English is okay," he said, "but I got another problem-a thousand bucks."

Stone counted out five hundred and placed it on the table. "The rest when we're finished, and if you tell me the truth, there might be a bonus."

"What you want to know?" Cordova asked.

"You work for a gardening service in L.A.?"

"Yeah."

"You work sometimes for Charlene Joiner, in Malibu?"

Cordova smiled a little. "Oh, yeah."

"You work for Mr. and Mrs. Calder, in Bel-Air?"

"Yeah."

"You were at their house the day Mr. Calder was shot." It wasn't a question.

"I don't know nothing about that," Cordova said.

"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 gra.s.s that day."

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

Cordova chuckled. "s.h.i.t, 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 gra.s.s."

"s.h.i.t, man . . ."

Stone slammed his hand on the table. "s.h.i.t 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 gla.s.s 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.