Swimming to Catalina

by Stuart Woods

  60

  Stone was shaken awake by Rick Grant. He was laying fully dressed on a bed in one of the two bedrooms of Rick’s secure hotel suite.

  “Come on into the living room,” Rick said.

  Stone looked at his watch; it was seven-thirty in the morning. He followed Rick into the living room, where two video cameras, two tape recorders, and some lights had been set up. “Where’s O’Hara?” Stone asked.

  “We let him get some sleep,” Rick said. “Hank and John have pretty much bled him dry, and it’s all on video and audio. They want to talk to you.”

  Stone sat down and poured himself some coffee from a thermos. “How’d it go, gentlemen?”

  “It went very well,” Hank Cable said, “but he may not be all we need.”

  Stone didn’t like the sound of that. “Why not?”

  “He’ll be a good witness, but a defense lawyer of the quality that Ippolito and Sturmack will hire will give him a very hard time on the stand.”

  “So?”

  “Sturmack and Ippolito will take the stand and say that sure, they hired him to help in acquiring the Centurion stock, but that was all. They’ll blame any of his confessed illegal activity on O’Hara himself, and their lawyer will make much of O’Hara’s accepting bribes from organized crime and his involvement in murder.”

  “So what are you saying?” Stone asked.

  “I’m saying that as good as O’Hara is, he may not be enough. If we could persuade Vance Calder to testify, that would help, of course, but…”

  “But Vance is not going to do it,” Stone said. “You can’t count on that for a minute.”

  “If we want to button this thing up, we’re going to need more,” Cable said.

  “What about your wiretaps? Surely O’Hara’s testimony will get you extensions on your search warrants and some new warrants, too.”

  “That will take time,” Rick Grant said. “Sturmack will hear that Regenstein has fired O’Hara, and Ippolito’s people are going to notice that O’Hara has vanished off the face of the earth. When they do, they could shut down Barone’s operation, leaving us high and dry. They could even cut and run, if they’re nervous enough. I just don’t think we have weeks or months to sit and listen to wiretaps and try to decipher them.”

  “Have you arrested Barone yet? He knows where the bodies are buried, and I’ll bet he could be broken.”

  “Maybe, but he’ll more than likely lawyer up, get out on bail, and disappear. We don’t want to take him until our case is solid.”

  “Anybody got any ideas?” Stone asked.

  There followed a long silence on the part of everybody.

  Finally Hank Cable said, “We were hoping that you might have an idea. You’ve been pretty good so far.”

  It was Stone’s turn to be silent. “Ippolito doesn’t know that I’m alive,” he said at last.

  “We’re not absolutely certain of that,” Rick said. “Remember, Ippolito’s yacht captain knows you by sight.”

  “But not by name. O’Hara doesn’t think Ippolito knows I’m alive.”

  “Okay, maybe he doesn’t know,” Rick agreed.

  “Why don’t I pay him a visit? Have a talk with him? You could wire me.”

  Rick was shaking his head. “You heard O’Hara say yesterday that when he went to Ippolito’s office he was searched for weapons and a wire.”

  “Good point,” Stone said.

  Cable spoke up. “What size shoe do you wear, Stone?”

  “A 10 D,” Stone replied. “Why?”

  “Maybe there’s a way. Tell you what: you go back to your hotel, get some breakfast, a shower, and a change of clothes, and I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours.”

  Stone arrived back at the Bel-Air to find Dino still sound asleep. He got undressed, shaved, and got into the shower. When he came out, Dino was up.

  “Where the hell have you been all night?” Dino asked. “I was worried.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call home, Mom; I was at an all-night interrogation.”

  “Of who?”

  Stone brought him up to date while he got dressed.

  “What’s this about shoes?” Dino asked.

  “Beats me,” Stone said. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  They had just finished eating when Hank Cable and Rick Grant arrived. Cable had a shoebox under his arm.

  “Take off your shoes and pants,” Cable said. “Your underwear, too.”

  Stone followed his instructions. “No pictures,” he said.

  Cable opened the shoebox and took out a pair of wingtips. “They’re 9½ C’s,” he said. “It was the best I could do.”

  “I take it these are some sort of federal high-tech wingtips,” Stone said.

  “Good guess. Put them on.”

  Stone put on the shoes. “They’re tight,” he said.

  “You’ll live,” Cable replied. He took some wires and a roll of tape out of the shoebox. “Here’s how it works,” he said. “In the heel of one shoe is a tape recorder; in the heel of the other shoe is a transmitter.” He plugged a very slim wire into a tiny receptacle at the top rear of each shoe. “Turn around.”

  Stone turned around.

  Cable began running a wire up the back of Stone’s right leg, taping it in place, then he followed with the left leg. “Okay, now put your shorts and your pants on.”

  Stone got dressed.

  “Now we tape the wires running around your waist to the front,” Cable said, “and we attach these two little microphones to the two wires.” He did so, then he taped the tiny microphones to Stone’s belly. They were nestled in his navel.

  “Now you can stick your shirttail in and buckle your belt.”

  Stone did as he was told.

  “Now,” Cable said, “if they frisk you for a wire they’ll be looking for a small transmitter taped to your chest or in the small of your back, or maybe even in your crotch. They won’t be looking at the heels of your shoes. Even if they pat you down very thoroughly, the wires are too thin to feel through the fabric of your suit.”

  “I see,” Stone said. “That’s pretty good; I might just get away with it.”

  “I’d be willing to bet that you will,” Cable said.

  “How do I turn on the transmitter and the tape recorder?” Stone asked.

  “All you do is stamp each heel firmly on a hard surface, like concrete. It might not work on carpet. The transmitter we can pick up from as much as ten miles away; the tape in the recorder will last for two hours.”

  “I don’t understand about the recorder,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just record it at the receiving end?”

  “Oh, we will, but we need a backup, in case there’s any interference that screws up some part of the transmission.”

  “Here’s what we do,” Rick said. “You go down to the headquarters building of the Safe Harbor Bank and take the elevator up to the top floor, where Ippolito’s office is. Tell the receptionist or secretary who you are and ask to see Ippolito.”

  “Suppose he won’t see me?”

  “Don`t take no for an answer. I’m betting that his curiosity will be too much for him, especially if he still thinks you’re dead. He’ll see you, I’ll give you odds.”

  “Then what?”

  “Engage him in conversation; get him to incriminate himself.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’re a good talker, Stone; you’ll figure a way. Just get him talking and keep him talking for as long as possible.”

  “And where will you guys be all this time?”

  “We’ll be all over that building, just an elevator ride from you. If he cuts and runs, there’s no way he can get past us and out of the building.”

  “Suppose he just takes a gun out of his desk drawer and shoots me?” Stone asked.

  “Come on, he’s not going to commit murder in his own office, for Christ’s sake.”

  Cable spoke up again; he held up a Mont Blanc fountain pen, the fat
model. “More goodies; this little beauty fires one twenty-two-caliber hollowpoint cartridge. You’ll be able to hit somebody at arm’s length—any farther away than that, no guarantees. I’d go for the head, if I were you.” He held up another pen. “Here’s a second one; put them in your inside coat pocket, where a man would normally carry a pen.” He unscrewed the cap and revealed a pen point. “It will actually write,” he said; then he screwed the cap back on. “To fire it, you point it and press down hard on the tip of the gold clip, see?” He demonstrated without actually firing the weapon.

  “I don’t see a barrel.”

  “That’s concealed under the plastic tip. The bullet will blow the end off the pen when it’s fired.”

  Stone took the pens and put them in his inside coat pocket.

  “Now,” Rick said, “after you’ve gotten him to incriminate himself, or if anything should go wrong, just say the word ‘police’ in any sentence. If you say ‘cops’ or ‘FBI’ or ‘IRS’or anything except ‘police,’ we won’t move. But the minute we hear that word from you, we’re on our way with SWAT teams. We’ll have the elevator keys, and we can be with you in no more than a minute, a minute and a half at the outside.”

  “And if I’m in trouble, what am I supposed to do for those ninety seconds?”

  “That’s what the pens are for,” Cable said.

  “Okay,” Stone said, “I’ll do it.”

  61

  Stone sat with Rick Grant and Dino in the parking garage of the Safe Harbor building. Stone took off his shoulder holster and handed it, with the pistol, to Rick. “I don’t think I’d get into Ippolito’s office wearing that, do you?” he asked, slipping back into his jacket.

  “Probably not,” Rick said.

  Dino, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the planning of this event, spoke up. “Stone, I got a lot of problems with this,” he said.

  “What problems?”

  “You’re walking into this place, and you don’t know anything about it. On top of that, all you know about this Ippolito is that he’s a very, very bad guy who has already tried to kill you once. This is not a recipe for a nice day.”

  “I take your point, Dino, but I have a personal interest in this; I don’t want to sit around and wait for the feds to take forever to make a case against this guy. I want to hurt him myself.”

  “You already did that—twice,” Dino pointed out.

  “I cost him money, that’s all. I want to put the son of a bitch in prison forever.”

  “All right,” Dino said, “if you have to do it, then do it.”

  “Stone,” Rick said, “you don’t have to do this; I can call it off right now.”

  “I want to do it,” Stone said. “Now both of you shut up and let’s get on with it.”

  “Let me tell you the setup,” Rick said. “We’ve got a van parked across the street with a power company logo on it and a manhole open. The van is where all the radio equipment is. They’ll receive your signal, then amplify it and broadcast it to our hand-held radios, so everybody can hear you all the time. We’ve got two FBI SWAT teams in vans here in the garage; they’ve taken an elevator out of service, and it’s just sitting there, waiting to go straight to the top. We’ve got plainclothes people loitering near every security station in the bank, so that there’s no early warning to Ippolito’s suite that we’re on the way. We’ve got people sitting on David Sturmack and Martin Barone; we’ll bust them the minute you’re safe. Also, the feds have got search warrants for Safe Harbor and all its branches; also for Barone Financial and Albacore Fisheries, and we’ve got the bank examiners ready to roll the minute you’re out of the building.”

  “Sounds good,” Stone said, then he pointed at something. “Look at that,” he said.

  A Rolls-Royce convertible drove past and parked in a bay across from them; David Sturmack got out and went to the elevators.

  “Maybe he’s going up to Ippolito’s office,” Rick said.

  “Maybe he’s gonna cash a check,” Dino said.

  “Wouldn’t it be sweet if you could get both of them talking?” Rick asked.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Stone said. He got out of the car and stamped both heels on the concrete floor. “Testing, testing,” he said.

  Rick held up his radio. “Loud and clear. Good luck.”

  “Yeah,” Dino said. “Good luck. I wish I was going with you.”

  Stone started for the elevators. He had to wait a while, since one was out of service, but eventually he got into the car and pressed the top button, the twenty-fifth floor. The elevator stopped several times, taking on and discharging passengers, but by the time he reached the twenty-fifth, he was alone. “I’m here,” he said to the wire. He got off the elevator and walked into a large, plushly furnished reception room. David Sturmack was sitting in an armchair, flipping through an issue of Fortune magazine. He didn’t look up.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked cordially.

  “Yes, would you please tell Mr. Ippolito that…”

  A buzzer rang. “Excuse me,” the receptionist said, picking up the phone. “Yes, sir, I’ll send him right in.” She turned to Sturmack. “Mr. Sturmack, Mr. Ippolito will see you now.”

  Stone turned his back and coughed into his fist as Sturmack walked past, taking no notice of him. The receptionist pressed a button under her desktop, and Ippolito’s office door opened for Sturmack.

  “Oh, there’s David,” Stone said to the receptionist with a smile, and started for the door. “I’m here for this meeting.”

  The receptionist nodded and smiled.

  Stone caught the door before it closed and stepped in behind Sturmack. Ippolito was sitting at his desk, his back to the door, talking on the phone. Sturmack still had not noticed that he had been followed into the office.

  It was a large and handsomely designed room, with spectacular views over the city, all the way to the Pacific. It was an unusually clear day, free of smog. Sturmack walked to the desk and settled himself in a chair, his back to Stone. Stone walked over and took the chair beside him.

  Sturmack glanced idly at Stone, then blanched and stood up, alarmed. Simultaneously, Ippolito hung up the phone and turned around. Stone made himself comfortable in the chair.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

  Sturmack looked as though he were about to have a coronary, but Ippolito, though momentarily surprised, maintained his composure. “Sit down, David,” he said. He reached under the desktop and fiddled with something.

  “Where did you come from?” Sturmack asked shakily.

  “From the depths of the Pacific,” Stone said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  Two men burst into the room from a side door, each with a gun in his hand.

  “Search him,” Ippolito said, pointing to Stone.

  Stone stood up and allowed himself to be patted down.

  “He’s clean, except for a telephone,” one of the men said, holding up Stone’s cell phone.

  “Thank you, Tommy; you can give it back to him.”

  The man handed back the telephone, and Stone slipped it into his pocket. The two men, at a nod from Ippolito, left the room.

  “So it was you,” Ippolito said. “My yacht captain described you, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Stone shrugged. He didn’t want to admit to sinking the yacht while wearing a wire.

  “I don’t understand,” Sturmack said, looking distinctly ill.

  “It was Mr. Barrington here, who sank my boat. Both my boats, in fact.”

  Stone smiled, but said nothing.

  “So what brings you to see us, Mr. Barrington?” Ippolito asked.

  “I thought perhaps you and I might do some business,” Stone replied.

  “After the money you’ve cost me?” Ippolito asked, outraged. “I should do business with you?”

  “And what about you, Mr. Ippolito? You’re a very bad dinner host indeed, inviting me aboard your yacht, then trying to have me murde
red on the way. Why did you do that?”

  “You were getting in my way,” Ippolito said, shrugging. “I kill people who get in my way.”

  Stone smiled. He hoped to God the wire picked up that little tidbit.

  “Well, I figure we’re about even,” Stone said. “You gave me a bad fright, I gave you one. I don’t think we should let that stand in the way of business, do you?”

  “What kind of business did you have in mind?” Ippolito asked.

  “I’d like to invest in Albacore Fisheries,” Stone said, “I think the stock is going to go way, way up. With my help.”

  “And how could you help our stock to go up?” Ippolito asked.

  “By helping you gain control of Centurion Studios,” Stone replied. He was improvising, but he had their attention.

  “And how could you possibly do that?”

  Sturmack seemed to have regained control of himself. “This is ridiculous,” he said to Ippolito. “Kill him now; have Tommy and Zip take him somewhere and shoot him. We don’t need this.”

  Ippolito held up a hand and silenced him. “Easy, David; let’s hear what Mr. Barrington has to say.” He turned his attention to Stone. “You were about to tell us how you could be helpful in acquiring Centurion.”

  “Well, for a start, I can deliver Vance Calder’s shares to you, for a price, of course. I can also deliver his services to Safe Harbor as a television spokesman.”

  “And how will you accomplish those things?” Ippolito asked.

  “Let’s just say that Mr. Calder and I have reached an understanding; he values my advice.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Barrington,” Ippolito said. “I know something about you, of course; in fact, just about everything there is to know. I know, for instance, that you have something over a million dollars in marketable securities in your brokerage account, so you can afford to invest in Albacore. And if you could arrange the exchange of Mr. Calder’s Centurion stock for Albacore stock, I might let you buy in.”