Swimming to Catalina (13 page)
“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 now?”
“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.”
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?”
“Well, I’m sitting here looking at Arrington’s car. Rick Grant got it found for me.”
“She’s not in it?”
“Nope.”
“You got any idea what’s going on?”
“I wish I could tell you I did. I’m just looking for a way into this thing, and so far, except for the car, I’m hitting a blank wall. Oh, there were a couple of hoods following me last night, but I hope they think I’ve gone back to New York.”
“Anything I can do from here?”
“I can’t think of anything. I’m getting good help from Rick, though.”
“Glad to hear it. Call me if anything breaks.”
“As long as it’s not my neck.”
“Yeah. See ya.” Dino hung up.
Stone sat for another hour, watching the car. Bored, he got out, looked around, and approached the vehicle. The top was up, and it was locked. There was a pack of matches from Elaine’s on the passenger seat. He tried
the trunk; that was locked, too. He went back to his car. After another hour had passed, he had to go to the toilet; he squirmed for a while, then went into the chandlery.
“Pardon me, have you got a john I can use?”
“Sure,” the girl behind the counter said. “Down the hall, second door on your left.”
Stone looked out at the car, then down the hallway. “Would you do me a favor for just a minute?”
“What’s that?”
“Could you keep an eye on the white Mercedes convertible, parked right there?” He pointed.
“Sure.”
He walked quickly to the men’s room, used it, and hurried out. The Mercedes was gone.
“It’s gone,” Stone said to the girl.
“Yeah, a woman just got in it and left.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What? Did you want me to shoot out the tires or something?”
“Sorry, thanks for your help. Oh, what did she look like?”
“Tall, dark hair, wearing a bikini with a guy’s shirt over it.”
“Thanks.” Stone ran for the parking lot and looked up and down. The car was nowhere in sight. He ran to his own car and raced through the car park to the street, looking both ways. Lots of traffic, no white Mercedes. No Arrington.
He pounded on the wheel again and again, swearing.
S
tone found the Greek restaurant on Melrose, was seated at a good table, and ordered a drink. He had half an hour’s wait before Rick Grant showed up. “Sorry to be late,” Grant said as he slid into a chair and ordered a scotch. “Somebody squatted in my office for half an hour just as I was about to leave.”
“That’s okay; it gave me some thinking time, not that it did much good.”
“How’d it go with Arrington’s car?”
“Your guys did good; they were still there when I arrived. Marina Del Rey is a big place; lots of people there. I waited and watched for more than two hours, and the second I went to the can she drove away.”
“The girl was the driver?”
“Yeah; somebody saw her.”
“Were you in plain sight all of this time?”
“Most of it I was sitting in my car; I did walk around a little when I first got there.”
“Could somebody have recognized you?”
“Well, I was standing on top of an ice machine with binoculars for a good five minutes. I’d have been hard to miss.”
“If somebody had an eye on you, she could have waited for you to disappear into the john before driving off.”
“I don’t think Arrington is
avoiding
me,” Stone replied. “After all, she’s tried to telephone me twice.”
“Good point. Was anybody with her when she drove off?”
“No, and what’s more, she was wearing a bikini under a man’s shirt.”
“Sounds like she was just sunning herself on somebody’s boat and decided to leave.”
“Yeah, that’s twice she’s been seen alone in her car, and I have to think she could have driven anywhere she wanted to, including back to Calder’s house.”
“Doesn’t sound like there’s any duress involved.”