Stone Barrington 06-11

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 killed 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.

Fifty-five

    T HE 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 on 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