Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

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 spendyour 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.”

“Did Sturmack see you?”

Stone shook his head. “He was driving away, looking preoccupied.”

“What did Calder have to say?”

“Zip. I had to practically force my way into the house. They’ve got his wife, and he’s terrified they’ll hurt her.”

“And terrified of the tabloids?”

“Still. He thinks that if he does what they want him to he’ll get Arrington back and everything will be all right again.”

“He’s a fool.”

“You and I know that, but he doesn’t.”

“What do they want from him? It can’t be money.”

“I don’t know; what could America’s biggest movie star do for Ippolito and Sturmack that they couldn’t do for themselves?”

“You think Regenstein’s involved?”

“He was at Vance’s house the night before last, arguing with him.”

“The night before last? How would you know that?”

“I returned Arrington’s car to the house; I was there when they arrived. I got a look through a window.”

“You said ‘they’ arrived?”

“Regenstein and another man, around forty, red-haired, Irish-looking.”

“Sounds like Billy O’Hara-ex-cop, head of security for Centurion Studios.” Rick frowned.

“Maybe Regenstein isn’t involved, and they’re using O’Hara to get Arrington back.”

“Sounds like what a studio would do.”

“What kind of guy is O’Hara?”

“He was a decent cop, very ambitious, had a flair for publicity. He got pissed off when some other guys made lieutenant and he didn’t; I guess that’s when he went to work for Centurion. Must be five, six years ago. If he’d stuck with the department he might have gone places.”

“Is he the sort of guy who would abet a kidnapping?”

Rick shook his head. “My guess is no, but it’s only a guess; I didn’t know him all that well. He came along after me.”

“We’re not getting anywhere much, are we?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We keep plugging away, something might pop. Calder’s the way in. You know him; what would it take to get him on our side?”

“I’m worried that it might take Arrington’s death. Jesus, Ithink that would do it. His secretary explained movie stars to me once, and from what she says, they think only about the career; there’s nothing else they love as much.”

“You don’t think he loves his wife?”

“According to Betty’s theory, sure, but she isn’t as important as his remaining a movie star. Of course, that’s just her theory.”

“Then again,” Rick said, “she knows Vance Calder better than you or me.”

“Yeah. All we can do is hope she’s wrong,” Stone replied. “Say, how are you and Barbara getting along?”

Rick smiled a little. “Very well, thank you.”

“I thought you’d like her.”

“You’re very perceptive. You should have been a detective.”

Stone parked on the quiet Beverly Hills street and switched off the engine. He had driven around the block twice, and there was no sign of unwanted company. He got out his pocket cell phone and dialed the number.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi, it’s Stone.” He waited tensely for the reaction.

“Well, hello, stranger,” she said, and there was delight in her voice. “I was beginning to think I was never going to hear from you again.”

What did she mean by that? “You don’t get off that easily,” he replied.

“How are things in New York?”

“Lonely.”

“Me, too. I might be able to get away for a few days while Vance is between pictures; all I need is an invitation.”

“Let me work on that. You home alone?”

“Yes. Sad, isn’t it?”

“You going to be there for a while?”

“Nothing else to do. Vance hasn’t been in for days; I’m underworked.”

“A friend of mine is going to drop by with a present for you.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“An ex-cop.”

“What’s the present?”

“Wait and see.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Talk to you soon.” Stone broke the connection, got out of the car, walked to the front door, and rang the bell.

“Coming!” she called, her voice muffled. There were footsteps, and she opened the door.

“Good evening, Ms. Southard,” Stone said.

Her mouth dropped open, and just for a moment he knew she wasn’t glad to see him.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” She stood back and let him in. “What are you doing back in L.A. so soon?”

“Fix me a gin and tonic, and I’ll tell you anything.”

She waved at the living room sofa. “Sit.” Then she went into the kitchen, came back with two drinks, and sat down beside him.