Stone put the money on the table. "Sell me your shoes."
"Huh?"
"I'll give you three hundred dollars for your shoes."
Cordova grinned. "Sure, man." He shucked off the Nikes and put them on the table. They were dirty, beat up, and huge. He put the money in his pocket, gave a little wave, and lumbered toward the house, padding along in his stocking feet.
Garcia came out of the house. "How'd it go?" he asked.
"Great," Stone said. "Just great. Get me back to the border."
"I see you got yourself some shoes." He held his nose.
"Just get me back, Brandy," Stone said, feeling sick.
Chapter 36
Stone drove back toward Los Angeles in a fog, torn between what he had believed had happened to Vance Calder and what Felipe Cordova had told him. He had thought Cordova had murdered Vance, but every instinct he had developed as a cop, interrogating witnesses, told him that Cordova had told him the truth in their interview.
"I've been fooled before," he said aloud to himself. Cordova still could have done it; maybe he was a better liar than Stone had thought. The only good thing about Cordova was that the LAPD had not questioned him, didn't want to. He would not like to see the Mexican on the stand, testifying against Arrington.
The car phone rang. Stone punched the send button, so he could talk hands free. "Hello?"
"Hi, it's Betty. Joan called from New York, said to tell you that everything was in hand with the house. The roofer is going to start in a couple of days, and it will take him a week to finish."
"Good news," Stone said.
"She also said that Dolce was waiting at the house when she got back from Teterboro, and that she told her that you'd returned to L.A. Does that mean we can expect more candid snaps?"
"I certainly hope not. I've already told the guard at the gate not to let her into the studio again, but maybe you'd better call and reinforce that."
"Will do."
"Any other calls?"
"Marc Blumberg called, said he just wanted to catch up with you. He's at his Palm Springs house; you want the number?"
Stone fished a pen and his notebook out of his pocket. "Shoot."
Betty dictated the number, and he jotted it down, careful to keep the car on track.
"Your bags are piled up in the entrance hall; want me to unpack for you?
"Thanks, I'd appreciate that. I was too tired to bother last night."
"I'll send your laundry out, too."
"Thanks again."
"Stone you sound funny-depressed."
"I'm just tired," he replied. "The round-trip cross-country flight messed with my internal clock."
"Want to have dinner tonight?"
He knew what that meant. "Give me a rain check, if you will; I just want to get some rest."
"Okay, call if you need anything."