"Oh, I think I could win it," Marc replied c.o.c.kily.

"Probably, but I don't want to take the chance, and I don't want Arrington to have to live with half the world thinking she murdered her husband."

"We'll go for the motion to dismiss, when I'm ready," Marc said, "and we'll play it big in the press, sow some doubt amongst the jury pool. Even if we lose, we can do ourselves some good."

"Let's don't lose," Stone said.

A Latino in a white jacket came out of the house. "Dinner is served, whenever you're ready, Mr. Blumberg."

"Thank you, Pedro," Marc said. "We'll be right in."

"May I use a phone?" Stone asked.

"Sure; go into my study, first door on your left." Marc pointed the way.

Stone went into the study, closed the door behind him, and picked up the phone on the desk. He checked his notebook and dialed the number for Brandy Garcia.

"Buenos dias," Garcia's voice said. "Leave me a message, okay?" There was a beep. Garcia's voice said. "Leave me a message, okay?" There was a beep.

"Give your friend in Tijuana a message," Stone said. "Tell him there's a warrant out for him. Tell him to go where even you you can't find him." He hung up the phone and went in to dinner. can't find him." He hung up the phone and went in to dinner.

Vanessa was sitting at a small table alone. She patted a chair next to her.

Stone was relieved that she had put on a sweater. He sat down. "Where's Marc?"

"He's down in the wine cellar, getting us something to drink."

Marc returned with a bottle of claret, opened it, tasted it, poured them each a gla.s.s, and sat down. He raised his gla.s.s. "To motions to dismiss," he said, "and to Vanessa."

"I'll drink to both," Stone said, raising his gla.s.s.

Thirty-seven.

WHEN STONE CAME DOWN TO BREAKFAST, MARC WAS just finishing his coffee. Stone took a seat, and Pedro came and took his order for bacon and eggs.

"Sleep well?" Marc asked.

"Probably better than you did," Stone replied, trying not to smirk. "Where's Vanessa?"

"Still asleep. Tired." Marc smirked.

"I see."

"You should give Vanessa a call sometime," Marc said. "There's nothing serious between the two of us, and she's really a very nice girl."

"It's a thought," Stone said noncommitally.

"I wouldn't like to see you all alone in L.A. Might affect your work on the case, that sort of frustration. And since Arrington is off limits . . ."

"You're too kind, Marc."

"I certainly am."

"Listen, Marc, I was thinking last night: Instead of making an announcement to the press about Cordova, why don't you just leak it a little at a time. Do you know a reporter you can trust not to reveal his sources?"

"You have a point: If the press gets wind of a suspect that the police have ignored, then the cops will look bad, and we won't appear to have had anything to do with it. I like it, and I know just the reporter at the L.A. Times L.A. Times."

"Our judge, whoever he turns out to be, will probably hear about it, too, and when we demonstrate in court that the rumors of another suspect are true . . ."

"That is delightfully Machiavellian, Stone," Marc said. "You surprise me."

Stone didn't know how to reply to that. His breakfast arrived, and he enjoyed it, while Blumberg talked about golf in Palm Springs.

"You play? I'll give you a game this morning."

"I've hit a few b.a.l.l.s; that's about it."

"You should take some lessons; that's how to get started."

"Golf in Manhattan is tough," Stone said. "I think you pretty much have to drive to Westchester, and that's if you can get into a club."

"Why do I have the feeling you aren't telling me the truth about Felipe Cordova?" Marc asked, suddenly changing the subject.

"I don't know, Marc," Stone replied, surprised. "Why do you feel that way?"

"You think Cordova didn't kill Vance, don't you?"

"He told a very convincing story."

"But you want the LAPD and the D.A. and a judge to think he did it."

"Just that he's a viable suspect, and the cops have ignored him. Shows a lack of good faith on their part."

"Let me ask you this: What happens if I get the charges against Arrington dismissed, then the cops find Cordova?"

"I don't think we'll ever see Cordova again; he's too scared."

"You said he denied everything, and you didn't contradict him by telling him about the shoeprint at Vance's house."

"That's right."

"So what happens to his story when the cops tell him about the shoeprint?"

"First, they have to find him; he's in Mexico, probably not in Tijuana anymore. You know the problems with finding somebody down there, not to mention the difficulties of getting a suspect extradited."

"I'm talking worst case, here, Stone; I have to protect myself. If, by some miracle, the cops find Cordova in Mexico, or, more likely, he comes back to this country and gets arrested for speeding, or something. I have to know what he's going to say."

"My guess is, he'll try to implicate Arrington. He knows about the murder, knows she's been charged. He'll do everything he can to see that she takes the fall. That's my guess."

"I suppose that makes sense," Marc said. "You know, I've tried a lot of cases in my time, and a lot of them murders, too, but I don't think I've ever tried one where my second chair was in love with the defendant."

Stone kept eating his eggs.

"You're a bright guy, Stone, and I suspect a very good lawyer, so I'm going to rely on you not to do anything that will get me me hung." hung."

"I would never do anything like that," Stone replied truthfully.

"I can see how you might not want to tell me everything you know, to save Arrington's very beautiful a.s.s, how you might even lie to me. That's okay, as long as it doesn't interfere with how I handle my case, and as long as it doesn't get me disbarred or damage my credibility with the D.A. and the judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable a.s.set I have in defending a client, and I don't want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear."

"Perfectly clear, Marc," Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. "Well, I think I'd better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality."

Marc stood up and shook his hand. "And don't forget, if you get h.o.r.n.y, call Vanessa; don't go sneaking into Arrington's bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all." He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa's number scrawled on the back.

Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. "I take your point." He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova's Nikes, and headed back toward L.A.

[image]

He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.

"I've just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation," she said. "Actually, it was more of a tirade."

"Oh, G.o.d; what did she say?"

"She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, 'touch him again.' She means you, I believe."

"I'm sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really."

"That's not the impression I got," Betty said. "Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I'm scared."

"Tell you what," Stone said. "Why don't you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A."

Betty brightened. "You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that."

Stone laughed. "It'll be tough, but I'll manage."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," Betty said. "I'll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent." She headed for her office.

"Any other calls?" he asked.

"Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message."

"I've no idea what that that means," he replied, covering his a.s.s. means," he replied, covering his a.s.s.

"Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you're to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o'clock."

"She's in L.A.?"

"Yep. And she said, 'Tell him to be there without fail, or I'll get mad.' "

Stone gave a low moan.

Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. "Try to keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?" she called to him.

"I wish I could reverse our roles," Stone replied.

Thirty-eight.

STONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR ON TIME AND WITH trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.

He wasn't sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden cafe, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.

"Oh h.e.l.lo, Mr. Barrington," the headwaiter said as he approached. "Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?"

Stone leaned over and spoke quietly, but with conviction. "There is no no Mrs. Barrington," he said. "The lady's name is Miss Bianchi." Mrs. Barrington," he said. "The lady's name is Miss Bianchi."

"Yes, sir," the man said, a little fl.u.s.tered. "Whatever you say." He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.

"h.e.l.lo, my darling," she purred.

"Good afternoon, Dolce."

"I hope you're enjoying your stay in Los Angeles."

"I can't say that I am," he replied, looking at the menu.

"Poor baby," she said, patting his cheek. "Maybe it's time to go back home to New York-yet again."

"Not for a while."