by Stuart Woods
Stone found that the bottom of the tub was contoured to fit his body, and after the initial shock of the heat, he settled in. The two of them lay in the mud for half an hour, melting, relaxing, not speaking, until Lisa returned.
“I think that’s enough,” she said. “We wouldn’t want you to shrivel up.”
They climbed out of the tubs and stood on a slab of stone while Lisa washed them down with cool water to remove the mud.
“Who will be first for a massage?” Lisa asked.
“You go first, Stone,” Betty answered. “I want to take a walk.” She left the hut, naked.
Lisa took Stone’s hand and led him to a padded table behind the mud baths. She directed him to lie on his stomach, with his face in an opening for breathing, then, using heated, scented oils, began massaging his back, shoulders, legs, and buttocks. After half an hour she asked him to turn over.
Stone turned over, expecting her to cover his genitals with a towel, but she did not. Lisa began with his neck, face and scalp, then covered his eyes with a cool cloth and worked her way down his body. Stone found himself becoming tumescent and squirmed a little.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Lisa said. “I’d be hurt if you weren’t feeling just a little excited.”
“More than a little,” Stone breathed.
She laughed. “Good. I’d take advantage, but I have the feeling that your friend would kill us both.”
“I believe you’re right,” Stone said. He heard the bamboo door open and close, but he could see nothing. Suddenly, Lisa’s hands were cooler and much more explorative. “Lisa?” he said.
“Shhhh,” came the reply.
Stone felt her climb onto the table with him, and in a moment, she was sitting astride him.
“Lisa, I’m saying myself for Betty,” Stone said.
Betty burst out laughing. “That was a politic thing to say. Now be quiet; there are things I want to do with you.”
She brought him fully erect, then lifted herself and came down gently upon him.
Stone made little noises. The dry, warm desert air, the soft breeze, and the girl on top of him seemed to be all he had ever wanted in the world. They took each other noisily, then collapsed. After a few minutes, Betty led him to a futon overlooking the valley to the south. She kissed him sweetly, then returned to the table and the waiting Lisa for her own massage.
Stone drifted into a dreamless sleep.
An hour later, Betty crawled onto the futon with him, and they made love again, less urgently this time, slowly and more sweetly. When they had recovered, Betty tugged at his hand. “I want a swim,” she said. “Come with me.”
Protesting mildly, Stone allowed himself to be drawn back up the path, naked, toward the pool. It occurred to him that he had not been nude in front of this many people since the showers at the police academy, where the circumstances were less inviting. He dove into the pool and swam a couple of lazy laps, with Betty alongside him.
“Feel like some tennis?” she asked when they stopped.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to get all tensed up again after all this relaxation. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is good.” she replied.
They lay naked on lounges beside the pool and drank exotic fruit juices and watched the other guests go by.
“Anybody you know?” Stone asked.
“Not a soul, and that’s fine with me.”
“Me, too,” he said. The last thing he wanted was to run into somebody either of them knew.
Betty caught him glancing furtively at a very beautiful girl as she walked past, naked. “It’s all right to look,” she said, “but don’t touch.”
They dressed for dinner and dined at sunset on some of the best food Stone had ever tasted, and he chose a wonderful cabernet from an outstanding list of California wines. He noticed that other couples were gravitating toward a terrace adjoining the dining room, and when they were done, Stone and Betty joined them. Soon a fireworks display began and went on for a quarter of an hour. The deep desert night was shattered by bright explosions and dazzling trails of light. When it was over, everybody drifted away, and soon the area was deserted. Stone and Betty were the last to leave, walking hand in hand to their suite.
The following morning they played tennis, and Betty turned out to be very good indeed.
“I’ll bet you beat most of the men you play with,” Stone said when they had finished.
“I beat all the men I play with,” Betty replied, tossing him a towel.
They had lunch, and Betty said it was time to leave. “They like everybody out by midafternoon, so they can get ready for the new week and give the staff some time off.”
“I’ll get the bill,” Stone said.
“It’s on me,” she replied.
“It’s too expensive; let’s at least share it.”
“I’ll take it out in sex,” she said, laughing.
“IOU.”
“You bet your ass you do.”
When Stone had driven down the mountain and they were back on the road to L.A., he started to ask questions. “I’m sorry, but I have to,” he said. “What did Vance say to you on Friday?”
“Not much, which is unusual,” she replied. “He came in at mid-morning and shut himself up in his office, told me to hold all calls.”
“Who called?”
“Lou Regenstein, but not the other two,” she said. “I know that’s what you wanted to know.”
“Was Vance there all day?”
“He didn’t leave until late afternoon; had lunch at his desk. It was very unlike him. Normally, he’d have lunch with a friend, often Lou, and he’s usually in great spirits after finishing shooting, but not on Friday.”
“Have you ever seen him like that before?”
“No. He was worried, I think, and I’ve never seen him worried before. Vance is not, by nature, a worrier.”
“Did he give any indication of what he was worried about?”
“None; he hardly spoke to me all day.”
“But it must have been Arrington.”
“Maybe.”
“My cop friend, Rick Grant, thinks she might be having an affair. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Sure, I guess. It surprises me when married people don’t have affairs.”
As they entered Interstate 10 for the quick drive back to Los Angeles, Stone thought for a moment that he caught sight of a silver Lincoln Town Car a quarter of a mile behind them, but then he wasn’t sure. They drove the rest of the way in silence, and Stone dropped Betty at her house, after having driven around the block a couple of times to be sure no one was watching. Then he headed back to his hotel.
When he walked into his suite, he had the immediate impression that someone had been there, someone besides the maid. He walked through the place cautiously, ready for anything, then he went through his belongings to see if anything had been disturbed. The place was neat, as only a hotel maid could leave it, but there was one anomaly. A glass sat on the bar, one he had not left there. Stone picked it up, holding it by two fingers at the very base, and held it up against the light. Somebody’s fingerprints were there, and they couldn’t be his.
25
S tone slept late the next morning, and when he was finally up and dressed he went to his kitchenette, found a plastic garbage bag under a counter, slipped the bar glass into it, and left the building. From his car he called Rick Grant.
“Rick, it’s Stone. Can we meet somewhere for half a minute? I’ve got something for you.”
“Where are you?”
“In West Hollywood.”
“Can you find police headquarters on your map?” He gave Stone the address.
“Got it.”
“There’s a coffee shop directly across the street; I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
Stone found the coffee shop, and Grant walked over to his car. “What’s up?”
Stone handed him the plastic bag. “There’s a
glass in here from my hotel suite with some clear prints on it; can you run them for me?”
“Sure.”
“Call me on my portable,” Stone said, then waved and drove off. He had only one place to go where he might pick up some trace of Arrington, and he drove straight to Marina Del Rey. He parked, went into the chandlery, and bought some boat shoes, a light sailing jacket, a floppy hat, and some sunglasses, then he retrieved his binoculars from the car and started walking. His disguise wasn’t much, but he figured it would be less conspicuous than a business suit.
He started at the ramp nearest to where Arrington’s car had been parked and began ambling down every pontoon, wishing a good morning to those people who noticed him and looking at every boat, from racing dinghies to floating gin palaces. He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, but he’d know it when he saw it, he hoped. Maybe he’d even see Arrington. He trudged down the pontoons for two hours, stopping occasionally for a soft drink from a machine, and he still was nowhere near inspecting every boat in the huge marina.
Tired of this, he plotted a course back to the parking lot that would take him past new boats. He was nearly back to the entry ramp when he was stopped in his tracks. She was on the top deck of a motor yacht of about forty feet, sunning herself, and he caught sight only because she raised herself from the deck to turn over, clutching her loose bikini top with one hand. She turned away from him, so he couldn’t see her face, but with a toss of her head she threw her long dark hair over a shoulder, and that was a gesture he knew. Now, though, she was flat on the deck again, and invisible from below.
His first impulse was to board the yacht, climb to the top deck, and see her, face to face, but he thought better of that. He looked down at the boat’s stem and saw the name, Paloma, and her home port, Avalon, which, he remembered, was on Catalina Island. If he hung around here for more than a moment, he would become conspicuous, so he walked back to the ramp and up to the parking lot. He was a few feet higher now, but when he looked back toward the yacht he could see little of the girl, most of her being masked by the toe rail around the upper deck. He got the binoculars from the car, walked back to the ice machine that had been his last crow’s nest, and climbed on top of it. Panning around the marina as if looking at the boats, he paused momentarily on Paloma and focused on the girl. All he could see was an expanse of bare back that was achingly familiar. He got down from the machine and went back to his car. He had three options, he reckoned: he could wait until she climbed down to get a better look at her; he could wait in the car until she left the boat; or he could confront her. The first two options weren’t particularly inviting; he had never liked stakeouts when he was a cop, and he had paid other people to do them after he had retired. The third option caused him some anxiety. If the girl was not Arrington, he could get arrested, depending on her reaction; on the other hand, if she was Arrington, what would he say to her?
She had left him for another man, and they had not spoken for months; she was pregnant, or said she was, possibly with his child, and she had not seen fit to tell him; she had chosen, it seemed, to leave her husband, perhaps for a lover, and in the circumstances, she might be very unhappy to see him. If he were honest with himself, he wanted her to be happy to see him. He couldn’t bring himself to just walk right up to her, unannounced.
Then his dilemma was suddenly resolved. He saw her stand up, fasten her bikini bra, and leave the top deck, but all this took place with her back to him. Was she leaving the boat, or was she just going below for some lunch? He waited, and his wait was rewarded. She appeared, far down the pontoon, headed his way.
He snatched up the binoculars and focused, but now a boat was interfering, then a car, then some other object between them. By the time she came up the ramp her back was to him again, and she began walking away. Stone got out of the car and followed.
She walked toward the chandlery, then around it, and when Stone emerged on the other side of the building he saw her walking into a restaurant. He stepped up his pace, and when he arrived at the front door, saw her taking a seat at the lunch counter, her back still to him. Only one thing to do: he walked into the restaurant, took a stool two down from hers and looked at her, head on in the mirror.
She took off her sunglasses, and their eyes met.
Stone reacted as if poked in the eye. The girl and Arrington shared height, build, and hair, but nothing else.
She noted his reaction. “Am I so hard to look at?”
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eye, “must be a lash. You’re certainly not hard to look at.”
She permitted herself a small smile, then devoted herself to the menu.
“Can you recommend something?” he asked. “I’m new around here.”
“The bacon cheeseburger is great,” she said, “if your cholesterol count can take it.”
“Sounds good.” He took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “Why don’t we order from a booth?”
She looked at him appraisingly, and apparently he appraised well. “As long as you’re buying,” she said, then hopped off the stool and led the way to a booth at the window.
“I’m Jack Smithwick,” he said, offering a hand.
She took the hand. “Barbara Tierney.”
A waitress appeared, and they both ordered the bacon cheeseburger and a beer.
“You said you were new around here?”
“That’s right.”
“New from where?”
“From New York.”
“And what brings you to L.A.?”
“I used to get out here on business occasionally, and I liked it, so I was thinking of getting a place here.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m a lawyer—or rather, I used to be. Now I’m an investor.” He thought that should send the right message. “What about you?”
“I’m an actress; I came out here a few months ago from Chicago.”
“Storming Hollywood?”
“Sort of. What sort of place are you looking for, Jack?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I heard that Marina Del Rey was nice, and I like boats.”
“Then why don’t you buy a boat and live on that?”
“It’s a thought. Do you live on a boat?”
“For the moment. It belongs to a friend.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“My friend doesn’t like me to have guests aboard.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Maybe not; help me out.”
“You understand.”
“Well, yes.”
Their cheeseburgers arrived, and they were quiet for a while as they ate.
Stone wasn’t sure where to go with this. Was Barbara Tierney the girl who had been driving Arrington’s car? Or was she just a girl living on a friend’s boat?
Barbara finished her cheeseburger and drank the last of her beer. “My friend’s out of town,” she said.
26
Stone followed Barbara Tierney down the ramp and out the pontoons to Paloma. He found himself aboard a very handsomely furnished motor yacht, quite new, he thought, and judging from the instrument panel on the bridge, very well equipped. “Who owns her?” he asked.
“My friend.”
“And who is he?”
“He doesn’t like his name bandied about,” she replied coolly. “He’s married.”
“Oh. Then I feel even fewer scruples about him.”
“Look,” she said, “I’d offer you a drink, but I feel very uncomfortable having you on the boat. My friend comes and goes at odd hours, and you never can tell…”
“Sure, I understand. How about if we had dinner ashore tonight?”
“I’d like that better,” she said. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Bel-Air Hotel,” he lied.
“I hear it’s very nice; why don’t we have dinner there?”
“Perfect; I’ll book a table. Do you have a car?”
She
shook her head. “I use my friend’s when he’s in town, but…”
“Then I’ll pick you up here at seven.”
“Fine; I’ll meet you up by the chandlery, then.”
Stone offered his hand, and she took it, but then she pecked him lightly on the lips. “I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
“Me, too.” He hopped back onto the pontoon and walked toward his car. Once behind the wheel he called Rick Grant. “Hear anything on the prints yet?” he asked.
“I was just about to call you,” Grant said. “The prints belong to a Vincent Mancuso—three arrests, one in a bookmaking operation and two for loan-sharking, the last one eight years ago, no convictions. Those are typically mob crimes, even though he wasn’t in our organized crime index. I’ve started a file on him, though.”
“Have you got a description?”
“He’s forty-six years old, six-one, two-twenty-five, dark hair.”
“Sounds like a lot of guys.”
“I’ll bring you his mug shot the next time we meet.”
“Got a place of employment?”
“He owns—or did, this is a couple of years old—a delicatessen in Hollywood, call Vinnie’s. It’s on the Sunset Strip.” He gave Stone the address.
“Got it. I have another request.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you check on the registration of a boat for me?”
“Yeah, but it’ll probably take a day or two. We don’t have access to that database from here; I’ll have to go through the Coast Guard.”
“The boat’s name is Paloma, out of Avalon; she’s a motor vessel of about forty feet. I’d appreciate it if you’d ask them to put a rush on it. Right now, I don’t know if I’m chasing a wild goose.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“I guess I’ll change hotels, too, given that Vincent Mancuso is hanging around my room at Le Parc.”
“Where you going?”
“The Bel-Air, if they’ve got a room. I’ll register under Jack Smithwick.”