Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“Stop the car.” He got out, ran around the car, and, when she had settled herself in the passenger seat, smoothed her skirt, fastened her seatbelt, and closed the door, roared off into the Bel-Air night.

“Stone,” she said.

“What?”

“I didn’t get to see Vance’s house.”

Stone paced up and down the living room of his suite, trying to think. It was mid-morning, and the California sun streamed through the sliding glass doors to the terrace. Barbara was sitting up in bed, picking at her breakfast and watching Regis and Kathie Lee. The doorbell rang; Stone opened it and found the valet standing there, holding his cleaned clothes.

“Morning, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “I think we did pretty good with these things.”

“Thanks very much,” Stone said, tipping the man and taking the clothing.

“You sure are hard on your clothes,” the man said. “But at least the second one was fresh water instead of salt.”

Stone hung up the clothes, closed the doors to the bedroom, picked up the phone, and dialed Rick Grant’s number.

“Lieutenant Grant.”

“Rick, it’s Stone.”

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“I was worried when I didn’t hear from you yesterday.”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing; Mancuso is out on bail, and we haven’t found Manny yet. Oh, somebody spotted Mrs. Calder’s car on Sunset in Beverly Hills last night about ten, but I didn’t hear about it until this morning.”

“That was me; I was returning the car to Calder.”

“What did he have to say?”

“I didn’t get to talk to him,” Stone said. “I just left the car in the garage.”

“It must be driving him nuts, wondering how it got there.”

“I hope so. Anyway, you can take the car off the patrol list.”

“Okay. What else can I do for you?”

“Listen, Rick, I’ve got a big favor to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got to get rid of a girl.”

Rick was instantly wary. “What do you mean, ‘get rid of’?”

“I mean find her a safe place to stay. She’s Martin Barone’s girlfriend; I got her packed up and off his boat, and she stayed the night with me at the Beverly Hills, but I’ve got to get her out of here; she’s driving me nuts. Do you maybe know some nice police-woman who could take her off my hands for a few days?”

“What does she look like?”

“Tall, brunette, gorgeous.”

“I know a nice policemanwho could, maybe, take her off your hands for a few days. My boy’s away at college, so there’s a room at my place.”

“What about your wife?”

“Divorced eight years ago.”

“Where can we meet?”

They met at Rick’s house in Santa Monica.

“But I don’t understand,” Barbara said as they pulled up. “Why can’t I stay at the Beverly Hills with you?”

“Because it’s too dangerous,” Stone said, getting her luggage from the trunk. “I’m moving out, too, remember.”

“Where are you moving to?”

“I don’t know yet,” he lied. “I’ve got to find a place.”

“Why don’t we just move to another hotel, then?”

“I have too much to do, Barbara; I can’t take care of you.”

“So how’s your friend going to take care of me?”

“You’ll be safe with him; he’s a cop.”

“Acop?” she said, as if she were being asked to move in with a criminal.

“A very important detective, high up in the LAPD. Nobody will touch you if you’re staying at his house.”

“Oh,” she said.

Stone rang the bell, and Rick appeared at the door.

“Come on in, both of you.”

“Barbara, this is Lieutenant Richard Grant.”

“Call me Rick,” he said, shaking her hand and looking her up and down in a distinctly approving manner.

“Hi, Rick,” she said, smiling brilliantly. “I’m Barbara Tierney.”

“What a lovely name,” he said.

“Look, I’ve got to get moving, so I’ll leave you two alone,” Stone said.

Rick followed him out the door. “She’s amazing,” he said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’m moving back to the Bel-Air. They’ve got a suite for me that’s at the top end of the hotel, so I can park outside and stay away from the bar and restaurant, where I might run into somebody I don’t want to see.”

“Mancuso’s lawyer called me, wondering about this murder charge I threatened his client with. I told him I intended to charge him, but in my own good time.”

“Good.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he ran.”

“Neither would I; Ippolito will want to get him out of town.”

“Sorry this hasn’t been more productive.”

“You get any more on Martin Barone?”

“Not yet.”

“Barbara knows him well,” Stone said. “You might want to question her closely.”

“My pleasure.” Rick grinned.

“I’ll talk to you later; you two have a good time.”

“We’ll try.”

Stone moved back into the Bel-Air Hotel, into a small suite at the north end of the property, with a car park nearby. He ordered some lunch from room service, then called his secretary in New York.

“Hi,” she said. “Vance Calder called.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Just wanted you to call him back, said he’d be at home all day. Say, I never got that cashier’s check you said you were mailing.”

“I’ve still got it, but it’s a little worse for the wear. I’d better hang onto it; I’m getting low on money.”

“Whatever. I’ve paid all the bills, and everything seems to be in pretty good shape here.”

“Glad to hear it; I’m not ready to leave L.A. yet. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hung up and dialed Vance’s home number.

“Hello?”

“Vance, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, Stone, thank you for calling.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I hardly know how to answer that, Stone; I wish I could talk to you face to face and try and explain what’s been going on.”

“We can arrange that, if you like.”

“You mean you’ll come back out here?”

“I never left.”

“What? You’re still in L.A.?”

“Yes, but you can’t tell anyone that-not a soul, do you understand?”

“Of course, whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Vance; if you tellanyone I’m in L.A., it could be very dangerous for me.”

“I promise, I’ll say nothing to anyone.”

“Not even Betty.”

“If you say so.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, it’s the servants’ day off; I’m at home, reading scripts.”

“All right, I’ll be there in ten minutes; open the front gate.”

“Thank you, Stone; I appreciate this.”

“Don’t appreciate it until we’ve talked. You have a lot to tell me, and this time I’m going to have to have the truth.”

“I understand.”

“See you in an hour.”

Stone had lunch on his tiny garden terrace, changed clothes, and started out for Vance’s house.

Stone was sitting at a stop sign, waiting to turn into Vance Calder’s street, when a Rolls-Royce convertible drove past. The driver was David Sturmack. Stone turned right, then turned right again, into Vance’s drive. The gates were closed. Stone rang the buzzer.

“Yes?” Vance’s voice said over the intercom.

“It’s Stone, Vance.”

“Oh, Stone; something’s come up; can I call you later?”

“No, I want to see you now.”

“Stone, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Vance, open the gate and talk to me, or I’ll go straight to the tabloids and the police with what I have.”

After a moment’s silence the gates swung open. By the time he had parked and walked to the front door, Vance was waiting, and he looked grim.