Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

Grant shook his head. “Ippolito is the mayor’s personal banker.”

“Yeah? Well, I saw him at Grimaldi’s with some guys who didn’t look like branch managers.”

Rick Grant sat like stone, his face without expression.

“Rick?”

Grant moved. “Huh?”

“You still in?”

Grant shrugged. “What the hell.”

17

W hile they waited for the valet to bring their cars, Stone pressed five hundred-dollar bills into Rick Grant’s hand. “It’s all I’ve got on me at the moment.”

Grant pocketed the money without looking at it. “Arrington’s car will be on the patrol list in an hour; how do I get in touch with you?”

Stone gave him a business card, writing the portable number on the back. “Is it safe for me to call you at the office?”

“As long as you’re careful. If I say I can’t talk, call back in an hour, or leave a message, and I’ll call you back. Use the name Jack Smith.” Grant’s car arrived, and he got in and drove away.

After the payment to Grant, Stone was low on cash. “Where’s the nearest bank?” he asked the valet.

“Right across the street,” the man said.

Stone looked up and saw a lighthouse painted on the window. “Safe Harbor Bank,” the sign read. He took his Centurion paycheck from his pocket and looked at it; it was drawn on Safe Harbor.

“Hold my car for a few minutes, will you?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Dodging traffic, Stone walked across the street and entered the bank. There was another lighthouse high on a wall, and a nautical motif. A large ship’s clock behind the tellers chimed the hour. He walked to a teller’s window and presented the check. “I’d like to cash this, please.”

The teller looked at the check and handed it back to him. “For a check of this size you’ll have to get Mr. Marshall’s approval,” she said, pointing to an office behind a row of desks. “See his secretary, there,” she said, pointing to a woman.

“Thank you.” Stone walked to the secretary’s desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Marshall, please, about getting approval to cash a check.”

“Your name?”

“Barrington.”

“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.

Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”

“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”

Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.

Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.

Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.

Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”