Stone Barrington 06-11

what had happened in New York. He was in her thrall again, if he had ever been out of it, and all he wanted at the moment was a future with Arrington in it. By the time he had found Marc Blumberg’s house, his ducks were all in a row.
    The house was a large contemporary, sculpted of native stone and big timbers, on several acres of desert. Marc greeted him warmly and led him out to the pool. The sun was low in the sky, and the desert air was growing cool. A tall, very beautiful woman was stretched out on a chaise next to the outside bar.
    “This is Vanessa Pike,” Marc said. “Vanessa, meet Stone Barrington.”
    The two shook hands. It was difficult for Stone not to appreciate her beauty, especially since she was wearing only the bottom of her bikini.
    “What’ll you drink?” Marc asked them both.
    “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Vanessa replied.
    “So will I,” Stone echoed.
    Marc motioned him to a chair opposite Vanessa, who showed no inclination to cover herself, soaking up the waning rays of afternoon sun.
    “Aren’t you getting chilly?” Stone asked.
    “I’m rarely chilly,” she replied, with a level gaze.
    “I believe you,” Stone said.
    Marc came back with the drinks and joined them. “So, how’d you ever find Cordova?”
    “A friend at the LAPD put me in touch with a guy named Brandy Garcia, who knows the territory down there.”
    “I’ve heard about him,” Blumberg said. “A real hustler.”
    “Took him less than a week to find Cordova.”
    “Where’d you meet?”
    “At Garcia’s house. He seems to be doing very well for himself.”
    “I don’t get it; why would Cordova talk to you?”
    “Because I paid him a thousand dollars, plus another three hundred for his shoes.”
    “You got the Nikes?”
    “I did.”
    “Was there a cut on the sole?”
    “There was; they’re in my car; they’ll match the photograph the cops took.”
    “Now that is great! What did Cordova say?”
    Stone took a deep breath and told the lie. “Denied everything; wasn’t at the house that day, went to Mexico, because somebody in the family was sick.”
    “You couldn’t shake his story?”
    Stone shook his head. “No way to disprove it, without telling him about the footprint, and I didn’t want to tip him off about that.”
    “You think there’s any way of getting him back, so the cops can question him?”
    “No, short of arranging another meeting and kidnapping him, and I don’t think a judge would look kindly on that, not even a judge you play golf with.”
    “You’re right about that.”
    “He’s not coming back to L.A. anytime soon; he’s gone to ground, and I doubt if we’ll ever see him again.”
    “Well, we’ve got the shoes,” Blumberg said.
    “You think that’s enough to win a motion to dismiss?”
    “Maybe; I’d like to think about that. I’d really like to have more.”
    “Like a confession from Cordova?”
    Marc grinned. “That would do it, I think.”
    Stone got serious. “We can’t let this go to trial, Marc.”
    “Oh, I think I could win it,” Marc replied cockily.
    “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.
    “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 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