by Stuart Woods
“Just up ahead, sir,” the cop said politely.
Stone reflected that a New York City cop would have responded differently to a stupid question. “Thanks very much,” he said, then drove on. He took his next right, figuring that the Lincoln was going around the block, and then he saw the Beverly Wilshire’s garage. He whipped into the entrance, took a ticket from the machine, made two quick rights and parked the car. He took the elevator to the lobby, walked to the front door, and looked outside. A single cab was waiting out front. He checked up and down Wilshire, then ran to the cab and hopped in, waking the driver.
“What?” the man said, sitting up.
“Sorry to disturb you.” He gave the man Betty’s address, then hunkered down in the seat.
“That’s only a few blocks from here,” the driver said wearily.
“Let’s call it an airport run,” Stone replied.
The cab pulled away from the curb and Stone watched as the Lincoln drove past in the opposite direction. This time he got a better look at the driver. He had last seen him standing at a neighboring urinal, he remembered.
The cab was on Betty’s street in two minutes. “Drive slowly down to the next corner,” Stone said.
“The address you gave me is in the middle of the block,” the driver said.
“Just do it, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” He muttered something under his breath.
“All right, stop here.” Stone looked up and down the street, gave the man twenty dollars, got out of the cab, and looked around again. He had the block to himself. He walked quickly to Betty’s house, half expecting the Lincoln to beat him there, let himself in, and went upstairs.
“Stone?” Betty called from the bedroom.
“Yeah, it’s me.” He walked down the hall, shucking his jacket, and into the bedroom. Betty was sitting up in bed, naked.
“Where have you been?”
“It took me longer than I thought to shake the other car.” He got out of his clothes and into bed.
“You sure you don’t have another girl stashed someplace?”
“Positive,” he said, kissing her.
“I’ve been waiting up for you,” she said, running a finger up the inside of his thigh.
“Why, whatever for?” he asked.
She showed him.
Betty was already dressed for work when Stone woke up. “Now,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What was all that about last night?”
“Don’t you remember doing it?”
“Not that. I mean, that thing with the car following us.”
“I don’t know, but I recognized the driver; he was with Ippolito at Grimaldi’s. I saw him up close, in the men’s room.”
“Are you and I in any kind of trouble?” she asked.
“What kind of trouble could we be in?”
“Do you think the car followed us from here to the restaurant?”
“No, it was still daylight then; I’d have noticed. They picked us up at the restaurant.”
“How’d they know we were there?”
“Did you see anybody you knew at dinner?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Somebody saw us there.”
“Somebody who knows Ippolito?”
“Yeah.”
“This is very creepy, Stone.”
“I know. Look, we have to assume that if Ippolito knows, then probably Regenstein and Sturmack know, too.”
“And that means that Vance knows.”
“Maybe. I think you have to be ready for that.”
“What can I say to him?”
“Say that you dropped me at the airport, and that you thought I left. Then I turned up at your door last night and took you to dinner. It’s the only time we’ve been out together since I was supposed to have left town. Grimaldi’s was before that. And we never discussed Arrington.”
“Then what, after dinner?”
“That I dropped you at the Beverly Hills Hotel and told you to get a cab home, and you haven’t seen me since. I think you can be pissed off at having been treated that way.”
“Okay.”
“In fact, why don’t you spill that to Vance at the first opportunity; don’t wait for him to hear about it from somebody else. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have gone out with me, after all.”
“I guess not. So why didn’t you leave for New York when I thought you did? I’d better have a reason.”
“Say that I said I had some personal business to take care of, and I said I was leaving L.A. today.”
“Suppose he calls you in New York, and you’re not there?”
“That won’t be your fault. I think I’d better move into a hotel today; it can’t be good for you to have me staying here, now that we’ve been seen together. Can you recommend someplace quiet?”
“There’s a place in West Hollywood called Le Parc, a suite hotel. It’s the kind of place where the studio puts visiting writers. Neither Vance nor any of his friends would ever be seen there.” She looked up the address in the phone book and wrote it down for him.
“I’ll use the name Jack Smith, if you need to reach me.”
“Why Jack Smith?”
“My cop friend, Rick Grant, suggested it.”
“Okay. Can I reach you tonight?”
“Let’s skip a night. See if anybody follows you to or from work. If the coast seems clear, then we can get together tomorrow, for the weekend.”
“Okay, my sweet. Hang onto the key to my house, just in case you need a bolthole.”
“I’ll do that.”
She gave him a big kiss and left.
Stone got up, laid out his clothes for the day, and packed everything else, then shaved and got into a shower. He had just turned off the water and stepped out when he heard the front door of the house open and someone enter. More than one, he thought, and male. He could hear their voices. It was one thing, he thought, to be followed on well-lit city streets, but it was another to be caught alone in this house. He started grabbing at clothes.
20
S tone quickly got some clothes on, rearranged the bed to make it look as though only one person had slept in it, and grabbed his bags. He looked out the window, but he was on the second story, and it was a straight drop. He could hear the voices downstairs better now; they seemed to be coming from Betty’s study.
Carrying his bags, he looked out into the upstairs hallway; a dozen feet down the hall was a pair of slatted bifold doors. He tiptoed down the carpet, set down his suitcases, and very slowly opened the doors. He was greeted with the sight of a washer and dryer, which took up almost the whole of the closet. Carefully, taking care to make no noise, he set his cases on top of the washer, then hoisted himself into a sitting position on the dryer and slowly closed the doors. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairs now, and he looked around the closet, dimly lit by light coming through the slatted doors, and found an iron. He held it at shoulder height and waited to be discovered. At least one of them was going to get his forehead ironed, he swore to himself.
“I don’t give a shit,” one of the intruders was saying as he walked from the stairs toward the bedroom.
“What are we looking for?”
“Barrington.”
“But he didn’t come here after we lost him; his car was nowhere to be seen around here.”
“All right, then look for something that might tell us where the fuck he is. Oney was pretty pissed off when I talked to him this morning.”
“Oh, right.”
They went into the bedroom, and their voices became less distinguishable. A couple of minutes later they came out and he could understand them again.
“What’s down there?”
“I’ll see.” The voice was coming down the hall.
A shadow passed the linen closet, and Stone cocked the iron.
“Another two bedrooms; real neat, like they haven’t been used.” The shadow passed again, going the other way. “What n
ow?”
“Let’s drive around a little and see if we see his car.”
“Aw, come on, he’s long gone by now.”
“You want to explain that to Oney?”
“All right, all right.” They started down the stairs.
Stone put the iron back onto the shelf and carefully opened the bifold doors. He hopped off the dryer and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, anxious to get a good look at both men for future reference. He caught sight of their backs as they walked out the front door. Stone ran down the stairs and, keeping near the wall, peeked out the venetian blinds of the front windows. This time he got a better look at them as they got into the silver Lincoln. They were beefy, tanned, and fairly conservatively dressed, for California. He waited until they drove away, then went back upstairs, glancing at his watch. He’d give them half an hour.
Ten minutes later, impatient, he set his bags down in the front hall, stuck his head out the door, and looked both ways; there was no sign of the Lincoln. He had thought about going out the back way and picking his way through the back yards, but that could get him arrested. Instead, he left the house and walked steadily but not hurriedly up the street, toward Wilshire Boulevard. At the Beverly Wilshire he entered the hotel through the front door, took the elevator down to the garage, paid for his parking, and drove out into the street, still looking for the Lincoln. He drove slowly and watchfully back to Betty’s house, parked the car, retrieved his luggage, and drove away.
Shortly he was back at the Beverly Hills car rental company. “Hi,” he said to the young man behind the desk, “I’m bringing back the SL500; I’d like another car, please.”
“Something wrong with the Mercedes?”
“I’d like something a little less conspicuous.”
“In Beverly Hills, there’s nothing less conspicuous than an SL50O.”
“Good point, but what about a nice sedan?”
“Let’s take a look,” the young man said, leading the way to a row of glittering cars.
“That,” Stone said, pointing. It was a Mercedes, the E-class sedan, metallic green, a nice neutral color.
“The E430? Great car; it has the V8 engine.”
“That will do nicely.”
Stone signed the new paperwork and transferred his luggage to the new car, then noticed the name of the rental agency next to his license plate. He dug a hundred-dollar bill from his stash and approached the desk again. “It’s just possible that somebody might come around asking about me,” he said, pushing the bill across the counter. “If that happens, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell them that I turned in the car this morning and that you drove me to the airport.”
“You bet,” the young man said, pocketing the hundred. “Which airline?”
“What flies to New York?”
“United; there’s a flight leaving about now.”
“Tell them I took that, okay?”
“Absolutely. When are you bringing the E430 back?”
“A few days.”
“And where are you staying?”
“With friends; I’m not sure which ones yet.”
“Anything you say, Mr. Barrington; enjoy the car.”
Stone consulted his map and drove to Le Parc, the hotel Betty had recommended. At the front desk he asked for a suite.
“For how long, Sir?”
“Two or three days, maybe longer.”
“We can do that. Your name?”
“Jack Smith.”
“May I have a credit card, Mr. Smith?”
“How about if I leave a cash deposit?”
“That will be fine; we’ll need fifteen hundred dollars.”
Stone counted out the money, in hundreds.
The desk clerk rang for a bellman, and shortly Stone was in a comfortable suite, complete with kitchenette. It wasn’t the Bel-Air, but it was nice. He unpacked, then phoned police headquarters.
“Lieutenant Grant,” Rick’s voice said.
“It’s Jack Smith,” Stone replied.
“Hi, Jack; what can I do for you?”
“I need the office and home addresses and phone numbers of Louis Regenstein, David Sturmack, and Onofrio Ippolito.”
“Can I call you back?”
“Yeah, I’m at a hotel called Le Parc, in West Hollywood, registered as the unforgettable Jack Smith, and keep it to yourself.” He gave him the address and number.
“Yeah, I know the place; I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Stone hung up and rummaged in his kitchenette for breakfast. He found some croissants and orange juice, and he made himself some coffee. The phone rang.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Rick.”
“I’m on a pay phone now. Here we go: Regenstein is at Centurion Studios; Ippolito is in an office building over the main branch of Safe Harbor, downtown, and Sturmack has an office in the same building.” He gave Stone the addresses, plus the home addresses and numbers. “The home numbers for all three are unlisted, so don’t let anybody know where you got them.”
“Thanks, Rick; you free for dinner later? I’m buying.”
“Sure.”
“Someplace not too Hollywood.”
Grant gave him the name of a Greek restaurant on Melrose. “It’s good, but you won’t run into anybody in the movie business.”
“Sounds perfect. Eight o’clock?”
“Make it seven.”
“See you then.” Stone hung up and called his secretary in New York.
“Hi, Alma, how’s it going?”
“Not bad.” She gave him a few phone messages.
“I’ve got a new address, or you can reach me on my portable.” He gave her the name of the hotel and the number. “You can give that to Dino or Bill Eggers, but not to anybody else. I’m registered as Jack Smith. If I get any calls, especially from Vance Calder, say that you’re expecting me back in New York tonight, and I’ll return the calls then.”
“Got it.”
Stone finished his breakfast, then went down to the garage and got his new car. His pocket phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Alma; Vance Calder called, asked that you call him at home as soon as you get home.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Dino; I told him to try you on the portable. He said he’d call later.”
“Okay. I’m going to mail you a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand dollars; deposit it and write a check for ten thousand to the IRS and send it to my accountant.”
“Where’d you get fifteen thousand dollars in L.A.?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Been selling your body?”
“That’s it. Oh, Alma, one other thing; if Arrington should call, give her the portable number; tell her it’ll be on day and night.”
“Arrington?”
“Don’t ask.”
21
S tone, weary of finding his way around the city with a rentacar map, stopped at a bookstore and bought a city atlas, then headed for downtown L.A., which was a lot farther than he had imagined. The terrain downtown was different from the lush, low-rise Beverly Hills; here there were skyscrapers and concrete, and it looked like any other large American city. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to see the building where Ippolito and Sturmack had their offices. The sight was unrewarding; it was a fifty-story tower of black glass and anodized steel, vaguely sinister in appearance, which he thought appropriate. He was wondering what to do next when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Rick Grant; I’ve got another sighting of the girl’s car.”
“Where?”
“It’s at Marina Del Rey, parked along the waterfront outside a chandler’s shop.” He gave Stone the address.
“I’m on my way.”
“This time, I’ll have my patrol car sit on it; if it moves, I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Tell the cops when you get
there, so they can be on their way.”
“I’ll do that.” Stone consulted his map and headed for the coast.
It took some time to find the chandlery, but Arrington’s car was still there, and so was the patrol car. Stone found a parking space a few yards away and walked over to the cop car. “Thanks for waiting, fellas,” he said. “Lieutenant Grant says you can be on your way now.”
The cops drove off without a word, and Stone had a look around. There were thousands of boats—he couldn’t believe how many—everything from small sailing yachts to sports fishermen to large motor yachts, lined up in berths that stretched into the distance, and, he thought, she could be aboard any one of them. He went into the chandlery and, keeping an eye on the car through the window, bought a pair of cheap binoculars.
Back outside he climbed on top of a large ice dispensing machine and began sweeping the giant marina, looking for some sign of Arrington. It was Friday afternoon now, the car park was filling up, and hundreds of people were heading down the catwalks to their boats, ready for a weekend on the water. There were too many of them; it was like trying to pick somebody out of a crowd headed into a ballpark. Stone went back to his car and got in. He was facing Arrington’s Mercedes, and he’d be able to see anybody approaching it. His phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino.”
“How you doing?”
“I’m okay; I did some checking around about Ippolito. I found a retired cop who remembered him a little from the old days with Luciano. Ippolito was a bachelor, no kids.”
“Any other relatives?”
“He didn’t know; this was before we starting cataloging these guys’ private lives, remember, and there was a thing about not messing with their families. It just wasn’t done.”
“I see.”
“You making any progress?”