'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 recendy.' Stone tore a page from his notebook. 'He was living with his sister; this is her name and address. He suddenly left LA. 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 Senor 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,
'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 reason.'
'I am not reasonable,' Garcia said. 'I will require five thousand dollars for my services, half now and half when you see Cordova.'
'I don't have twenty-five hundred dollars on me,' Stone said. 'I can give you a thousand now and the rest in cash when we meet Cordova.'
Garcia nodded gravely. 'For a friend of Rick's that is agreeable.'
Stone took a stack often one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, folded them and slipped them under Garcia's napkin. 'When?'
'Within a week or so, I think,' Garcia replied, pocketing the money.
'You have my number.'
Garcia suddenly looked at his wristwatch. 'Oh, I have to run,' he said, standing up. 'I will be in touch.' He turned and walked back into the hotel without another word.
Stone finished his lunch and paid the check.
Chapter 29
As Stone walked back into the Calder bungalow at Centurion, he could see Betty in her office, leaning back in her chair and waving the phone. 'It's Joan Robertson, in New York,' she called out.
Stone went to Vance's office, picked up the phone, and spoke to his secretary. 'What's up?' He asked.
'Oh, Stone, I'm so glad I got you,' Joan said breathlessly. 'Water is coming down the stairs.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that the main stairs of the house look like a tributary of the Hudson River. It's been raining hard here for three days.'
'Oh, shit,' Stone said. When he had inherited the house, the roof had seemed the one thing that didn't need renovating. It was old, but it was of slate, which could last a hundred years or more. Now it occurred to Stone that the house was over a hundred years old, and so was the roof. 'Here's what you do,' he said. 'Call a guy named Billy Foote; he's in my phone book. Billy was my helper when I was renovating the house, and he can do almost anything. Tell him to buy a whole lot of plastic sheeting and to get up on the roof and tack it down everywhere. That'll stop the worst of it.'
'Okay, then what?' Joan asked sensibly.
Stone realized he didn't know a roofer, let alone one qualified to tackle a slate roof. 'Let me think for a minute,' he said.
'Listen, Stone, I think you ought to get back here. There are clients you need to see, instead of just talking on the phone, and there's going to be damage to the house as a result of all the water coming in. Please come back.'
Stone knew she was right. 'I'll be home as soon as humanly possible,' he said. 'Call Billy, and tell him to hire whatever help he can and to start asking around about roofers who can deal with slate.'
'All right,' she said, then hung up.
Stone buzzed Betty.
'Yes?'
