'Arrington doesn't wear terry robes. She likes plain cotton or silk.'
'Can we prove that?'
'We can call her maid, who would know her wardrobe intimately, and who got her out of the tub and into a robe.'
'I like it,' Blumberg said. 'But how are we going to put Beverly in the house?'
'I think she'll admit being outside, and it's a short step from the back door into the hallway where Vance died. And there's this, Marc: I'd be willing to bet that Cordova is not mentioned in Beverly's story, because she didn't see him.'
'Yeah, but can Cordova prove he was there?'
'The police can; they've got a photograph of his shoeprint.'
'Can he produce the shoe?'
'No, but I can; it's in the trunk of my car. I bought the shoes from Cordova in Mexico.'
'Nikes, weren't they?'
'Right.'
'There are millions of pairs of Nikes out there.'
'There aren't millions of size twelves, and Cordova's have a cut across the heel of the sole that shows up in the photograph.'
'You know, Stone, I think we're awfully close to being able to prove that Arrington didn't kill Vance.'
'Close but not quite there. Cordova didn't see Beverly shoot him.'
'And we don't have a motive.'
'Or the weapon.'
'Shit!' Blumberg said. 'What could her motive be?'
'I think they were sleeping together. It could be that he told her to get lost, and she reacted badly.'
'Could be, but how do we prove that?'
'I wish Vanessa were still alive; she could probably tell us.'
'I'd give a million bucks for that gun with her prints on it.'
'So would I,' Stone agreed, 'but it doesn't look as though we're ever going to find it.'
'I'd give a lot for a witness who could put Beverly in the sack with Vance, too.'
'Oddly enough, Beverly is known among her friends as a blabbermouth, but apparendy, she never blabbed about a relationship with Vance.'
'Except maybe to Vanessa.'
'Maybe, but we'll never know.'
Marc suddenly stood up. 'Jesus,' he said, 'I just thought of something. Vanessa kept a diary.'
'How do you know that?'
'She kept it in her handbag, and she'd write in it at odd moments. I tried to read it once, but it was one of those things like high school girls have, with a tiny lock on it.'
'I know the kind you mean,' Stone said.
Marc sat down again. 'But it must have been in the house with her; it would have burned.'
'I think I can find out about that,' Stone said.
'How? From the investigating officer?'
'I have a friend in the department.'
'Use my phone,' Marc said, pointing across the room to a phone on a coffee table.
Stone went to the phone and dialed Rick Grant's direct line.
'Captain Grant.'
'Rick, it's Stone Barrington. Can we meet somewhere?'
'I don't think that's a good idea, Stone.'
'Why not?'
'You're defending Arrington Calder, and, I have to tell you, the investigators on the Vanessa Pike case are looking at you funny.'
'All right, then will you do this for me? Call those officers and ask them if they found Vanessa's diary in their search of the premises after the fire.'
'Why?'
'Because, if it still exists, it may have some information about Vance Calder's murder.'
'If that's true, then it would have to go to Durkee and his partner, too.'
'All I want is a copy. We could subpoena it, if we have to.'
'All right, I'll check on it and get back to you.'
'Thanks, Rick.' He hung up and turned back to Marc. 'If we hit paydirt in the diary, then we can demand that the cops get a search warrant for Beverly's house. Maybe the gun is there.'
'Wouldn't that be nice?' Blumberg said.
Stone stood up suddenly.
'Where are you going?'
'To Vanessa's house. I don't think I feel comfortable with the cops seeing that diary before we do.'
'Let me know what you find.'
Stone headed for the door.
Chapter 54
Stone drove slowly up Vanessa's street and down again, making sure that nobody from the police or fire departments was at the site. Satisfied, he parked across the street and got out of the car.
The house was a sad shell, with most of the roof gone and with large gaps in the walls. He ducked under the yellow police tape and stepped through one of the gaps into what had been the living room. The acrid smell of burned dwelling filled his nostrils, and with a shudder, he thought he detected a faint whiff of seared meat. A few charred sticks of what had been furniture remained in the room and the remains the sofa were recognizable. He recalled that he and Vanessa had sat there, sipping their drinks and talking, no more than an hour before she had died.
He walked on a runner of plastic sheeting that had been placed there like a sidewalk by the fire department investigators, to avoid disturbing evidence. As he moved through the rooms he noticed that the ash around him had a smooth surface, and telltale marks showed that the debris had been raked, in search of evidence. If anything were left of Vanessa's diary, which he doubted, then the investigators would surely have found it. His trip here had been for naught. Her purse and the diary had probably been in the kitchen, and there was no longer a kitchen.
Then he turned and saw something he hadn't seen before: the garage. He hadn't seen it, because on his last visit, the house had been in the way, but now he could look through a giant, charred hole and see the little building. It seemed older than the house, or maybe it had just not been updated over the years, the way the house had been. It looked like something out of the twenties, a meager, clapboard structure with two doors, the old-fashioned kind that featured a brass handle in the middle of the door. One turned the handle, lifted, and the door rose. Surely electric openers would have been added by this time.
He tried the doors. The first didn't move, but the second operated as it had been designed to. It took some effort, but he got the door halfway open and stepped under it. He tried a light switch on the wall, but nothing happened. The power had either been interrupted by the fire or turned off by the fire department.
A single car, a Mazda Miata, was in the garage. It was red, small, and cute, and he reflected that Vanessa would have looked good in it, her hair blowing in the wind. The top was up, and he tried the passenger door: locked. He walked around the car and tried the drivers door, with success. He found the trunk release and popped the lid. There was a spare, flat, and the jack, and an old pair of sneakers-nothing else.
He went back to the driver's door and tried to sit in the seat, but found himself jammed, until he could locate the release and move the seat backward. The courtesy lights illuminated the interior, and he looked around.
Women made a terrible mess of cars, he thought. The most fastidious woman seemed unable to avoid the buildup of used Kleenex, fast-food wrappers, and old paper cups in her automobile. He checked the tiny glove
