Stone Barrington 06-11

Rick Grant told him to call.”
    “Put him through,” Stone said. There was a click. “Hello?”
    “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 nobody 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 flashily 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 glass 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 Saturday 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 Señor 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 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