Free L.A. Dead by Stuart Woods

cooperation from Arrington, they’re going to begin leaking stuff to the media, and that would not be good for her.”
    “We’re not hiding anything; Arrington really hasn’t been up to questioning, but she’s getting better.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. Anything else I can do for you?”
    “Not a thing, Rick; I’ll call Durkee tomorrow.”
    “Good night, then; Barbara sends her best.”
    “My best to her, too.” Stone hung up and felt a hunger pang. He walked back out to the guesthouse, where he found Manolo setting a small table and the maid hanging his clothes in the closet, having pressed them.
    He sat down to his steak and half a bottle of good Cabernet and tried to forget both Arrington and Dolce as he watched a movie on television. He was unable to forget either of them.

Twelve
     
     
     
     
     
    I T WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA MORNING, cool and sunny. Stone swam a few laps in the pool, then put on a guest’s terrycloth robe and breakfasted by the pool, looking over the Los Angeles Times and The New York Times , which had arrived with his breakfast. The Vance Calder story had been relegated to the inside pages of the New York newspaper, and was struggling to cling to the front page of the L.A. journal, but it wasn’t going to go away, he knew. The moment a fragment of new information surfaced, there would be headlines again.
    He showered, shaved, dressed, and walked into the house, carrying his briefcase. He retrieved the documents from the secret compartment of Vance’s desk and put them into his briefcase, then he rang for Manolo. “I’d like to use one of the Calders’ cars,” he told the butler.
    “Of course, Mr. Barrington, right this way.” He led Stone to a door that opened into the garage, which had enough room for six cars, but held only four: a Bentley Arnage; two Mercedes SL600s, one black and one white; and a Mercedes station wagon. “The nanny and I use the station wagon for household errands, unless you’d like it,” Manolo said.
    The Bentley was too much, Stone thought. “No, I’ll take one of the other Mercedes—the black one, I suppose. That was Mr. Calder’s, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir. The white one is Mrs. Calder’s. You’ll find the keys in the car.”
    Stone had used the black convertible once before, when in L.A., and he recalled that it did not have vanity plates, so it would not be immediately recognized by the media. In fact, he reckoned, a black Mercedes convertible would, in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, be a practically anonymous car. He backed out of the garage, drove around the house and, using his remote, let himself out of the utility gate and onto the street beyond. He checked to be sure that he was not followed, then drove to Centurion Studios.
    The guard was momentarily confused to see Vance Calder’s car arrive with a different driver, but when Stone gave his name, he was immediately issued with a studio pass.
    “The one on the windshield will get this car in,” the guard said. “Use the other pass, if you drive a different car.”
    “Can you direct me to Mr. Calder’s bungalow, please?” The guard gave him directions, and five minutes later, he had parked in Vance’s reserved parking spot. The bungalow was just that; it looked like one of the older, smaller Beverly Hills houses below Wilshire. Stone walked through the front door into a living room.
    A panel in the wall slid open, and Betty Southard stuck her head through the opening. “I knew you’d turn up,” she said. She left her office, walked into the living room and gave him a big hug and a kiss. “I’m glad to see you again,” she said.
    “I’m glad to see you, too; I’m going to need a lot of your help.”
    “Lou Regenstein called and said you’d be using Vance’s office.” She waved him into a panelled study, much the same as the one at the house, but larger, with a conference table at one end. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “The phones are straightforward;