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talk.”
    “What is her condition?”
    “Surprisingly good, but there are complications; we can talk about that when you arrive.” He gave Stone the address.
    “I’ll see you at noon,” Stone said. He hung up, then pressed the button for the concierge and ordered a rental car for eleven-thirty, then he called room service and ordered a large breakfast. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he called Centurion Studios and asked for Lou Regenstein, its chairman.
    “Good morning, executive offices,” a woman’s voice said.
    “Lou Regenstein, please; this is Stone Barrington.”
    “May I ask what this is about?”
    “He’ll know.” Stone had met Regenstein the year before, when he was in Los Angeles on another matter involving Vance and Arrington.
    A moment later, Regenstein was on the line. “Stone, I’m so glad to hear from you; you’ve heard what’s happened, I’m sure.”
    “That’s why I’m here; I got in last evening.”
    “I’ve been going nuts; the police won’t tell me where Arrington is, and the coroner won’t release Vance’s body to a funeral home without her permission.”
    “Arrington is in a hospital; I’m going to see her at noon today.”
    “Is she all right? Was she hurt in the shooting?”
    “She’s fine, from all accounts. I’ll be talking to her doctor, too.”
    “What can I do to help?”
    “Lou, who is the best criminal lawyer in L.A.?”
    “Marc Blumberg, hands down; does Arrington need him?”
    “Yes, if only to contain the situation.”
    “He’s a personal friend of mine; I’ll call him right now. Where can he see Arrington?”
    “I want to see her before she talks to another lawyer,” Stone said. “Tell Blumberg to expect a call from me at some point, and to deny that he’s representing Arrington, if the press should call in the meantime.”
    “All right.” Regenstein gave him Blumberg’s number. “Remember, Stone, Centurion is at Arrington’s disposal—anything she needs; you, too. Look, I’ve had an idea: You’re going to need some place to get things done while you’re here. I’ll make Vance’s bungalow available to you for as long as you need it.”
    “Thank you, Lou; it would be good to have some office facilities.”
    “You remember Vance’s secretary, Betty Southard?”
    Indeed he did; Stone and Betty had spent considerable time together during his last visit to town, much of it in bed. “Of course.”
    “She’s there, holding down the fort; I’ll let her know you’re coming, and I’ll leave a pass for you at the main gate.”
    “Thank you, Lou, I’ll be in touch later.” Stone hung up and called his own office, in New York.
    “Stone Barrington’s office,” Joan Robertson said.
    “Hi, it’s Stone.”
    “Oh, Stone, I’m so glad you called. Have you heard about Vance Calder?”
    “Yes, I’m in L.A. now, at the Bel-Air Hotel.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “I haven’t had time to find out, but I want you to go into our computer boilerplate, print out some documents and fax them to me soonest.”
    “What do you want?”
    Stone dictated a list of the documents, then hung up. Breakfast arrived and he turned on the TV news while he ate. The local channels were going nuts; the biggest star in Hollywood had been murdered, and they couldn’t find out anything . They were treading water as fast as they could, recycling what little information they had. They couldn’t find Arrington, the police wouldn’t issue anything but the most basic statement, Centurion had no comment, except to express deep loss and regret, and no friend of either Vance’s or Arrington’s would talk to the press, even off the record, not that any of them knew anything. That was good, he thought.
    The phone rang. “Hello?”
    “Mr. Barrington?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Hillary Carter, Arrington’s mother.”
    “How are you, Mrs. Carter?”
    “Terrible, of course, but I’m glad you’re here. Arrington badly needs someone to take charge of