Swimming to Catalina (24 page)
Stone nodded. “Then I guess I’d better be going.”
Vance walked him to the door. “I hope I can tell you all about this someday, when it’s over.”
“Vance, are you going to tell Ippolito I was here, that I’m alive?”
“No. I swear to God I won’t.”
Stone shook his hand and left. He hoped the actor wasn’t lying.
S
tone walked into the Beverly Hills branch of the Safe Harbor Bank and asked to see the branch manager. Shortly he was seated at the man’s desk. “Welcome back, Mr. Barrington,” Marshall said. “I hope you’ve come to open an account with us.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Marshall; I’ve just come to cash the cashier’s check you arranged for me on my last visit.”
“Of course.”
Stone took the check from his inside pocket and handed it over. “I’m afraid it’s a little worse for the wear; I had a boating accident.”
Marshall inspected the check closely. “Yes, it is a bit worn, isn’t it? Still, I can make out the check number and what’s left of my signature. Of course we’ll cash it; how would you like the money?”
“In hundreds, please.”
Marshall was no longer looking at Stone, but over his shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ippolito,” he said, “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said to Stone. Marshall walked past his desk toward the door of his office.
Stone froze in his seat; he could hear the voices both men from behind him.
“What brings you to see us?” Marshall asked.
“I was in the neighborhood, and I just thought I’d drop in,” Ippolito said.
“I’m just cashing a check for a customer,” Marshall said. “If you’ll wait just a moment my office will be free, and we can talk, if you like.”
“No, no,” Ippolito said. “I really was just in the neighborhood. I do want to compliment you, though, on the very nice increase in new accounts.”
“We’ve been working hard on that,” Marshall said.
“Well, I’ll be off, then; you get back to your customer.”
“Good to see you again, Mr. Ippolito.” Marshall returned to his desk. “That was our chairman,” he said to Stone. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you.”
“That’s quite all right,” Stone said, dabbing at his damp forehead with a handkerchief “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Of course; I’ll be right back with your money.”
Stone allowed himself to look over his shoulder. Ippolito was still in the bank, shaking hands with a man just inside the front door.
Marshall returned with Stone’s fifteen thousand dollars and handed him an envelope. “Be sure and count it.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, standing up. “That won’t be necessary.” He shook hands with Marshall and looked over his shoulder again before he turned around Ippolito had left the bank.
Stone walked quickly to the window and peered into the street. A familiar gray Lincoln Town Car was pulling away from the curb. He ran for his own car, got it started, and followed, staying well back. He had nothing pressing to do; he might as well see where Ippolito was going.
He followed the Lincoln to Santa Monica Boulevard, then nearly all the way to the beach. To Stone’s surprise, the car stopped at Grimaldi’s. He looked at his watch: half past three, a little late for lunch. He parked half a block away and watched Ippolito get out of the car and go into the restaurant.
He had a thought; he called the FBI and asked for Hank Cable.
“Agent Cable.”
“Hank, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Hi, there, how’s it going?”
“You ever heard of an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s?”
“Nope.”
“It’s a wiseguy joint; I had dinner there last week and saw Ippolito and a couple of goombahs having a meet. I’m sitting outside the place right now, and Ippolito just went in.”
“A little late for lunch, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe something besides pasta is being made there. You think you could get it on your wiretap list?”
“I’ll see what I can do. We’re scheduled to wire Barone Financial tonight; I’ll let you know what we get.”
“Great.” Stone gave him the address of the restaurant and hung up.
Ippolito was in the restaurant for the better part of
an hour. Stone thought about going to the back door and snooping, but it was too risky in broad daylight. Finally, Ippolito came out and got back into the Lincoln. As it turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Stone got a look at the front seat. Vinnie Mancuso and his buddy, Manny, had been replaced by two others right out of the same mold. Stone followed as the car drove toward the beach, then turned north along the coast. Soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward Malibu.
They were well into the beach community when the Lincoln turned into a garage attached to an elaborate house behind a high fence, close to the road like all the other houses. Stone looked the house over carefully; it was of a style that might be called contemporary traditional. A fence obscured the ground floor, but there was a palladian window in the peak of the second floor, and a cupola perched atop the roof. He made a U-turn, parked, and waited. A moment later, the Lincoln backed out of the garage and drove back toward L.A. The rear seat was empty. It was after five now; maybe it was Ippolito’s own house.
He made another U-turn and stopped at a restaurant a few doors away, went inside, and found a stool at the bar. Happy hour was just starting, and people were stopping for a drink on the way home from work. Stone had a gin and tonic and kept to himself. After an hour had passed he got a table, ordered another drink, and asked for a menu. The sun was sinking loudly into the Pacific, a giant red ball given a hard edge by the smog.
It was dark outside by the time he had finished his dinner. He ordered another drink, and when it came he paid his check and walked out onto a deck, where people
were dining. There was a stairway down to the beach, and Stone took it. He set his drink down on the bottom step and walked along the sand for fifty yards, watching for the house; the cupola on top made it easy to pick out, even in the dark. There were lights on, and perhaps ten feet above his head he could see that a sliding glass door to the deck was open.
Stone looked around; the beach was deserted now. He walked under the house’s deck and listened. Soft music wafted out into the night air. Above his head he could see the outline of a folding stairway to the beach, in its retracted position. He looked around in the dark until he found a rusty coat hanger, then, after listening for a while, he climbed up on a supporting beam between two of the pilings that supported the house, unbent the hanger, hooked the end of the stairway, and pulled it slowly down until it reached the sand.
Carefully, he climbed the stairs until his head was at deck level, then stopped and listened again. To the right of the sliding glass doors a window was open, and human noises were emanating from it, grunts and groans, sighs and little shrieks. Ippolito was getting laid. Stone continued softly up the stairs.
Finally at deck level, he looked around. There was an assortment of deck furniture and a charcoal grill; a folded beach umbrella leaned against the house; he saw nothing and no one else. Stone carefully peeked through the open sliding door and saw a handsomely furnished living room. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, and the romantic music was louder now. He had hoped that Ippolito was meeting with somebody and that he might overhear something useful, but all he heard was the continuing sounds from the bedroom.
The least he could do, he thought, was to disturb
the fun. On the deck beside the charcoal grill was a can of firestarter and a box of matches. Stone picked up the can, which was nearly full, and unscrewed the top. Still standing on the deck, he squirted a stream of the fluid onto the living room carpet, making a trail back out to the deck. He made a little puddle on the deck, then carefully tossed the can into the living room; it landed on the trail of fluid. He looked up and down the beach but could see no one. After checking his escape route again, he struck two matches, let them burn for a moment, then stuck them into the box, and closed it. A minute or two would pass before the box and then the matches in the box ignited. He turned and hurried quietly down the stairs, then gave them a push, sending them back into their retracted position with little noise.
He walked quickly back to the restaurant, picked up his drink from the steps, and climbed to the deck. He walked to the opposite end and took up a position there, sipping his drink. A moment later he heard a soft
whoomp
as the can of lighter fluid exploded, followed a moment later by a female shriek and male cursing. The diners looked toward the house with the cupola, some of them standing up and pointing.
“Call the fire department,” somebody told a waiter, who ran inside to the phone.
Stone leaned against the railing and watched the glow of the fire against the glass of the sliding doors. Another three minutes passed before he heard the sirens. The sound made him smile to himself.
It wasn’t much of a fire, but it had surely ruined Ippolito’s evening. Pretty soon, after Ippolito thought about the sinking of his sports fisherman and the fire at his beach house, he was going to start thinking that somebody was out to get him.
He would be right, Stone reflected, sipping his drink. Then his hand began to shake. He had committed arson. Ippolito and the woman in the house might have died, and then he would have been a murderer. He hadn’t carried the pistol today, and that was good, because in his present frame of mind he might have just walked into the house and shot Ippolito.
He had better start carrying the weapon now, he thought.
S
tone had finished breakfast and was getting out of a shower when the phone rang. He grabbed a robe, got into it, and made the bedside table on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Rick; did I wake you?”
“Nope; I was just getting out of a shower.”
“Get dressed and meet me at the back gate of the hotel in ten minutes; I want you to take a look at something with me.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.” Stone hung up, toweled his hair mostly dry, got into some slacks, a shirt, and a blazer, and started out the door. Then he remembered; he went back, took off the blazer, slipped into the shoulder holster, fitted the pistol into it, slipped an extra clip into his pocket, got back into the blazer, grabbed a tie, and left the suite.
Rick was waiting at the rear gate. “Morning,” he said.
Stone got into the car. “Morning. What’s up?” He began knotting the tie.
“I’m not sure, exactly, but I have a hunch; we’ll see if it’s a good one.” He handed Stone the late edition of the
Los Angeles Times
and pointed to a story in the stop press column on the front page, then drove away.
Stone read the short piece.
Last night, late, the Malibu Fire Department answered a call from the Pacific Coast Highway home of Onofrio Ippolito, chairman of the Safe Harbor Bank and a well-known Los Angeles philanthropist.
A spokesman for the department said that Ippolito, whose wife was out of town, was at home alone and had an accident with a charcoal grill while fixing himself some dinner.
The fire was put out in less than fifteen minutes. There was little structural damage to the house, but a deck and the contents of the living room were destroyed. Mr. Ippolito was not injured.
“Sounds like an exciting evening,” Stone said, smiling.
“And where did you spend
your
evening?” Rick asked.
“I went out, had a few drinks and some dinner.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember exactly; I’m a stranger in town, remember? The geography of this city confuses me.”
“Yeah, it can be confusing,” Rick said, sticking a flashing light on the roof of the car. They were on the freeway now, driving fast, weaving in and out of the mid-morning traffic. Occasionally he used the siren.
“Where we going?”
“Long Beach.”
“For what?”
“I’m superstitious about predictions; indulge me.”
Half an hour later they parked next to an ambulance, got out of the car, and walked down a long dock between fishing boats. At the end of the dock a clutch of uniformed and plainclothes cops loitered around a trawler that was moored stern to.
“Hey, Rick,” a detective said, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know you left headquarters anymore.”
“I like a little sea air,” Rick replied. “What have you got?”
The detective pointed into the boat, where a tarpaulin covered something.
Rick beckoned Stone to follow him, then jumped down into the boat and pulled back the canvas. “Confirm my guess,” he said. “The other one is Manny.”
Stone looked at the two bodies. Vincent Mancuso and Manny were wet, dead, and chained together with a hefty anchor. “Good guess,” he said.
“When the call came in I had a feeling.” Rick turned to a man in a suit, who was writing in a notebook. “Did they drown?”
The man shook his head. “They each took two rounds behind the right ear. Small caliber, very neat job. It was the wildest kind of luck that they ever turned up; the trawler brought them up with the catch between here and Catalina.”
“Thanks,” Rick said. He turned to Stone. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
Stone followed him up the ladder and back to the car.
“Who says there’s no justice?” Rick said.
“Poetic, isn’st it?” Stone agreed.
“Now there’s nothing to tie your little swim to Ippolito.”
“Except me.”
“Yeah. You carrying that piece I got you?”
“I started this morning.”
“Good idea. If things keep happening to Ippolito, like his boat sinking and his house catching fire…”
“Yeah, I might need it.”
“You think he has any idea you’re alive?”
“Not unless Vance Calder told him, and I honestly don’t think he would.”
“You spoke to Calder, then?”
“Yeah; I called him yesterday and then saw him at his house. I think he was ready to talk to me, but when I got there, David Sturmack was just leaving.”