Stone Barrington 06-11

he know where the kitchen was?”
    “Yes, he had been in there before. I think he fancied Reba, my maid.”
    “You think he might have stolen something?”
    “I think he would have, left to his own devices. I told him not to come into the house again. If he wanted water, he was to ask Reba to bring it to him. There’s a staff toilet off the kitchen he could use. His full name is Felipe Cordova; his boss says he’s from Tijuana.”
    “Thank you for telling me this,” Stone said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you; it’s a rude question, but I’d appreciate a straight answer.”
    “Was I fucking Vance Calder?” she asked.
    “That’s the question.”
    She laughed. “Sweetie, all of the women here today have fucked Vance, at one time or another.”
    “ All of them?”
    “Every one of them is a member of the I Fucked Vance Calder Club. The club is bigger than that, of course; we’re only the tip of the nipple.”
    “Let’s get back to my original question.”
    “You bet I was fucking him, and loving it.” She smiled. “So was he.”
    “Where did these meetings take place?”
    “You mean where did we fuck? I hate euphemisms. In his bungalow at the studio; in his trailer, when we were on location; in his Colony house just down the street; and here. Right up until the day before his death.”
    “How often did this happen?”
    “Every day we could manage it; sometimes twice a day. Vance was always ready,” she said, “and so was I.” She turned toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “In fact,” she said, “I’m ready right now.”
    Stone patted her hand. “That’s a kind thought,” he said, “but it’s very likely that you’re going to be called as a witness for the prosecution at Arrington’s trial, and …”
    “I’ll bet you could get me to say whatever you wanted me to,” Charlene said, getting up and sitting on the edge of his chaise.
    “That would be suborning perjury,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice calm. “My advice to you is to tell the truth.”
    “I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, and her hand went smoothly to his crotch. “I want you right now, and,” she squeezed gently, “I can tell you want me.”
    “I’m afraid …”
    She squeezed harder. “Stone,” she said, “you don’t want to turn down the best piece of ass on the North American continent, do you?”
    Stone got to his feet, and his condition was something of an embarrassment. She got up, too. “Charlene,” he said, “I don’t doubt you for a moment, but, believe me, it could mean big trouble for both of us.”
    “It might be worth it,” she said, rubbing her body against his.
    Stone was backing away, but he could not bring himself to disagree. “I have to leave,” he said, turning for the door.
    “All right,” she sighed, “but when this trial is over, you call me, you hear?”
    Stone waved and walked quickly through the house and to his car. When he was finally behind the wheel, he noticed that he was breathing harder than the effort had required.

Twenty-six

    S TONE DROVE SLOWLY BACK TO THE STUDIO, TOP DOWN, trying to enjoy the California weather, instead of thinking about Charlene Joiner. He had read the newspaper accounts of her long-ago affair with the senator and presidential candidate Will Lee, and he had every sympathy for the senator. She was extraordinarily beautiful, all over, and, if Betty Southard’s account of her prowess in bed was true, the senator was lucky to get out with his scalp.
    He could not make the randiness go away. Just when he thought he had it under control, he passed the public beach area near Sunset, and a girl walking along the sand in a bikini got him going again. Stone sighed and tried to think pure thoughts.

    As he walked into the studio bungalow, the phone was ringing, and Betty answered it.
    “It’s for you,” she said.
    Stone went into the study and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
    “Stone, it’s Rick Grant.”
    “Hi, Rick. What’s up?”
    “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I heard about the scene at the D.A.’s office. Blumberg pulled that one out of the fire.”
    “At least, temporarily.”
    “It was a shitty thing for the D.A. to do—try to make her spend the weekend in jail.”
    “Do I detect a sympathetic note?”
    “Sort of.”
    “Rick, what have they got on her that they’re not telling us?”
    “I can’t get into that,” Rick replied, “but there is something I can tell