Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“That’s not unreasonable, I suppose.”

“Of course not. Anything is reasonable that promotes the career. That’s why, when a movie star gets a script, strange things happen to it: scenes written for other actors are suddenly rewritten for the star; a single word the star likes is taken from another actor and given to him; producers and directors are hired or fired; some supporting actors get closeups, others don’t; his whole wardrobe for a film disappears into his closet. By the way, you’ve already gotten that one down pat.”

Stone laughed.

“Are you beginning to hear what I’m telling you?”

“I think so. If a movie star’s wife disappears, his first reaction is to worry about the tabloids finding out.”

“You’re a quick study, buddy.”

“And every other action he takes with regard to her disappearance is predicated on protecting himself.”

“You’ve just earned your Ph.D. in Hollywood, pal.”

Stone woke without a left arm. The bed was dappled by the sun, his chest was covered in long red hair, and his left arm was gone. It took him a moment to realize that Betty was lying on it. Gently, he disengaged the arm, flexing his fingers to get the blood going.

“What time is it?” she asked without moving.

Stone lifted his head and spotted a bedside clock. “Ten minutes past six.”

“Oh, God, I don’t even have time to molest you,” she moaned.

“You sure?”

She struggled out of bed, sweeping her hair out of her face. “I should be on the way to the studio in twenty minutes!” She disappeared into the bathroom, and Stone heard the shower running. He lay on his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. He felt remarkably well, considering. This girl was awfully nice, and he liked her no-nonsense attitude about sex. He got out of bed, slipped into a pair of shorts, went down to the kitchen, and started making coffee. When she came down the stairs, dressed, he handed her a cup. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

“Ooooh,” she breathed, “every girl’s dream, and I have to go to work!” She poured her coffee into a Thermos cup. “Listen, don’t call me at any number but this one.” She scribbled it on the back of her card. “That one doesn’t ring anywhere but on my desk, and if anybody but me answers, hang up. Where are you going to be today?”

“I still have to figure that out.” He took her pen and another card. “This is my cell phone number; it’s a New York exchange, but you can still call me on it. Maybe I’ll get an L.A. number, just to make things simpler.”

“Don’t park your car in my driveway; I don’t want it noticed. Find a spot on the street; it won’t be hard.”

“Okay.”

“What do you need from me today?”

“For the moment, just assume that there’s something very wrong about Arrington’s absence, and keep an ear out for anything that might confirm that or give us any other information we can use.”

“My beeper number is on the card; if you can’t reach me in the office, use that, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Good idea.”

She gave him a lascivious kiss and ran for the door, pausing on the front steps to toss two newspapers at him, then she was gone.

Stone toasted a muffin, had some juice and coffee, and read both theNew York Times and theL.A. Times. That ritual behind him, he went upstairs, showered and shaved, got dressed, then went into Betty’s study, sat down at her desk and began to think. Finally, he called Dino.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, buddy; are you back?”

“Nope, I’m going to be here for a while longer.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s a very long story, and you wouldn’t believe some of it.”

“Try me.”

Stone gave him a rundown on his activities since arriving in L.A.

“Very weird,” Dino said. “What was that Italian name again?”

“Ippolito?”

“Yeah, that sounds familiar. There was a guy by that name a long time ago that was with Luciano, I think.”

“Couldn’t be the same guy; maybe a relative?”

“Let me see what I can find out.”

“Okay, but before you do that, I need some local help on the ground here. You remember when we extradited the fat wiseguy from L.A. a few years back?”

“I’ll never forget the plane ride back.”

“What was the L.A. cop’s name who turned him over to us? He was something to do with an organized crime unit or something.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It was…wait a minute…ah, some white-bread name…Grant?”

“Richard Grant, that’s it.”

“Yeah, he seemed okay.”

“I’ll call him.”

“What hotel are you at? I’ll call you when I get something on Ippolito.”

“I’m at the nicest hotel you ever saw, and with the best maid service.”

“Already? You’re disgusting.”

Stone gave him the number. “If there’s no answer, don’t leave a message; call me on my pocket phone.”

“It works out there?”

“We’ll find out.”

“See you.”

Stone hung up and called LAPD headquarters. “Hello, I’m trying to reach a detective named Richard Grant; can you tell me where he’s stationed?”

“He’s here at headquarters, sir; I’ll connect you.”

The phone rang. “Detective Grant.”

“Rick? This is Stone Barrington, late of the NYPD; my partner, Dino Bacchetti, and I took a bad guy off your hands a few years ago.”

“Yeah, Stone, I remember. You said ‘late’?”

“I retired a couple of years back.”

“What’s up in the Big Apple?”

“Actually, I’m in L.A., and I wondered if you’d like to do a little moonlighting?”

“I’m afraid that sort of thing is not done these days, but you can buy me lunch.”

“Tell me where and when.”

“You remember the old Bistro Garden, on Canyon Drive?”

“Nope; I’m a stranger here.”

Grant gave him the address. “It’s called Spago in Beverly Hills now. See you there at twelve-thirty; I’ll book the table.”

“You’re on, and I’m buying.”

“Right. Bye.”

Stone hung up and called Betty’s office number.

“Hello?”

“It’s your guest; can you talk?”

“Make it fast.”

“What kind of car does Arrington drive?”

“A twin to Vance’s Mercedes-the one you were driving-except it’s white.”

“What year?”

“Brand new.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”

“It’s a vanity plate.” She spelled it for him: “A-R-I-N-G-T-N.”

“Thanks, that’s it.”

“Bye.”

“What time tonight?”

“Around seven; I’ll call if I’m going to be later.” She hung up.

Stone called Bill Eggers.

“You still in L.A.?”

“Yeah. You said you knew an old-timer with mob connections who liked to talk?”

“Right.”

“Call him and ask if he ever knew a guy named Ippolito who worked for Charlie Luciano.”

“You’re still hung up on this Ippolito guy?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

“Ask him if the guy had a son in the family business, too.”

“Okay; where can I reach you?”

“Try my cell phone; I’ll be moving around.”

“It’ll be after lunch, my time.”

“That’s fine.”

Stone hung up, then checked in with his secretary. He left for lunch with precious little to go on and no cooperation from the injured party, the husband. Unless one of his phone calls paid off, he was back to square one.

Stone gave his car to the valet and strolled into Spago Beverly Hills. He was shown to a table in the garden, where he ordered a mineral water. The place was already full, and he spotted a number of familiar faces from films and television, then he saw Rick Grant coming toward him. The cop was grayer and heavier but otherwise much the same as Stone remembered.