L.A. Dead Part 22

"I can see how, given the circ.u.mstances, this might concern you, Stone. Before I can give you any sort of definitive answer, I'd like to do a bit of research. I'm leaving Rome tomorrow morning for a meeting in Paris, and it may be a few days, perhaps longer, before I can look into this. Let's leave it that I'll phone you as soon as I have more information."

"Thank you, Your Eminence." Stone gave him the Centurion number, thanked him again, and hung up.

He started the car and drove slowly back to the studio. When he reached the cottage it was dark, except for a lamp in the window. Betty had gone.

Stone rarely drank alone, but he went to the bar and poured himself a stiff bourbon. What had he gotten himself into? Was he married? If so, the Italians didn't have divorce, did they? He had not wanted to question a cardinal of the Church about a divorce. He collapsed in a chair and pulled at the bourbon. For a while, he allowed himself a wallow in self-pity.

Twenty-eight.

STONE WAS SIGNING DOc.u.mENTS FAXED TO HIM FROM New York by his secretary when Betty buzzed him.

"Rick Grant on line one."

Stone picked up the phone. "Hi, Rick."

"Good morning, Stone. I had a chat with Durkee about this missing Mexican gardener, and I have to tell you that he and his partner don't seem to have the slightest interest in him."

"I suppose they're not interested in the footprint they found outside the house, either."

"Not much. It's a Nike athletic shoe, size twelve, right foot, with a cut across the heel. I got that much out of Durkee."

"Can you get me a copy of the photograph of the footprint?"

"I think you're better off asking for that in discovery."

Rick obviously didn't want to get more involved than he already was. "Maybe you're right."

"I thought of something, though."

"What's that?"

"I told you how tough it was to get suspects out of Mexico, but there might be something you can do."

"Tell me."

"I know a guy named Brandy Garcia. Brandy is a Latino hustler, does a little of everything to make a buck. He's been a coyote, running illegals across the border, he's run an employment agency for recently arrived Latinos, he may even have smuggled some drugs in his time, I don't know. But he's well connected below the border, especially in Tijuana, where he's from, and he might be able to find this guy, Felipe Cordova, for you."

"Sounds good."

"Trouble is, Cordova is not a suspect, so even if you found him and the Mexicans were willing to extradite him, n.o.body would arrest him."

"That's discouraging," Stone replied.

"I know. But you might try to talk to him, if Brandy can find him."

"How do I get hold of Brandy Garcia?"

"I left a message on an answering machine, giving him your number. He may or may not call; I don't know if he's even in the country."

"Okay, I'll wait to hear from him."

"Good luck."

"Thanks, Rick." Stone hung up.

Twenty minutes later Betty buzzed him. "There's somebody on the phone, who says his name is Brandy Garcia; says Rick Grant told him to call."

"Put him through," Stone said. There was a click. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Barrington?"

"Yes."

"My name is Brandy Garcia; Rick Grant said I might be of some service to you." The accent was slight.

"Yes, I spoke to Rick. Can we meet someplace?"

"You free for lunch?"

"How about a drink?"

"Okay: the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel at twelve-thirty?"

"All right."

"See you then." Garcia hung up.

Stone opened his briefcase, found a bank envelope, and counted out some money.

Stone drove up to the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel and turned his car over to the valet. Walking inside, he thought that the place looked very fresh and new. It was the first time he'd visited the hotel since its multimillion-dollar renovation by its owner, the Sultan of Brunei.

He walked into the Polo Lounge and looked around, seeing n.o.body who fit the name of Brandy Garcia. The headwaiter approached.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I'm to meet a Mr. Garcia here," Stone said.

"Mr. Barrington?"

"Yes."

"Come this way, please." He led Stone through the restaurant, out into the garden, and to a table in a shady spot near the rear hedge. A man stood up to greet him.

"Brandy Garcia," he said, extending a hand.

"Stone Barrington," Stone replied, shaking it. Garcia was slightly flas.h.i.+ly dressed, in the California style, and perfectly barbered, with a well-trimmed moustache. He bore a striking resemblance to the old-time Mexican movie actor Gilbert Roland.

Garcia indicated a seat. "Please," he said.

"I don't think I'll have time for lunch," Stone said.

Garcia shrugged. "Have a drink, then; I'll have lunch."

They both sat down. There was a large snifter of cognac already before Garcia. "So you're a friend of Rick's?" Garcia asked.

"Yes."

"I've known Rick a long time; good guy. Rick was the first person to tell me I look like Gilbert Roland." He appeared to be cultivating the resemblance.

"Oh," Stone said.

"You think I look like him?"

"Yes, I think you do."

This seemed to please Garcia. The waiter brought them a menu. "Please. Order something. It would please me."

Stone suppressed a sigh. "All right. I'll have the lobster salad and a gla.s.s of the house chardonnay."

"Same here," Garcia said, ogling two good-looking women as they were seated at the next table, "but I'll stick with brandy. So," he said, finally, "Rick says you're looking for somebody."

"Yes, I am."

"What is his name?"

"Felipe Cordova."

Garcia shook his head slowly. "I don't know him," he said, as if this were surprising.

"I'm told he's from Tijuana," Stone said.

"My hometown!" Garcia said, looking pleased.

"He was working as a gardener in Los Angeles until recently." Stone tore a page from his notebook. "He was living with his sister; this is her name and address. He suddenly left L.A. on a Sat.u.r.day night, the same night a murder was committed."

Garcia's eyebrows went up. "The Vance Calder murder?"

"Yes," Stone admitted. He had not wanted to share this information.

"I read the papers, I watch TV," Garcia said. "Your name was familiar to me."

"I want to find Cordova, talk to him."

"Not arrest him?"

Stone shook his head. "The police don't consider him a suspect. I just want to find out what he knows about that night."

Garcia nodded sagely. "There are some difficulties here," he said.

The waiter arrived with their lunch.

"What difficulties?" Stone asked.

"Tijuana is a difficult place, even for someone with my connections. And maybe Senor Cordova doesn't want to talk to you. That would make him harder to find."

Stone read this as a nudge for more money. "Can you find him?"

"Probably, but it will take time and effort."

"I'm quite willing to pay for your time," Stone said.

Garcia pushed a huge forkful of lobster into his mouth and chewed reflectively. Finally, he swallowed. "And if I find him, then what?"

"Arrange a meeting," Stone said.

Garcia chuckled. "You mean a nice lunch, like this?" He waved a hand.

"I just want an hour with the man."

"How, ah, hard hard do you wish to talk to him?" do you wish to talk to him?"

"I don't want to beat answers out of him, if that's what you mean."

"Are you willing to pay him to sit still for this, ah, conversation, then?"

"Yes, within reason."

"I am not reasonable," Garcia said. "I will require five thousand dollars for my services, half now and half when you see Cordova."

"I don't have twenty-five hundred dollars on me," Stone said. "I can give you a thousand now and the rest in cash when we meet Cordova."

Garcia nodded gravely. "For a friend of Rick's that is agreeable."

Stone took a stack of ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, folded them and slipped them under Garcia's napkin. "When?"

"Within a week or so, I think," Garcia replied, pocketing the money.