“Somebody who knows Ippolito?”
“Yeah.”
“This is very creepy, Stone.”
“I know. Look, we have to assume that if Ippolito knows, then probably Regenstein and Sturmack know, too.”
“And that means that Vance knows.”
“Maybe. I think you have to be ready for that.”
“What can I say to him?”
“Say that you dropped me at the airport, and that you thought I left. Then I turned up at your door last night and took you to dinner. It’s the only time we’ve been out together since I was supposed to have left town. Grimaldi’s was before that. And we never discussed Arrington.”
“Then what, after dinner?”
“That I dropped you at the Beverly Hills Hotel and told you to get a cab home, and you haven’t seen me since. I think you can be pissed off at having been treated that way.”
“Okay.”
“In fact, why don’t you spill that to Vance at the first opportunity; don’t wait for him to hear about it from somebody else. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have gone out with me, after all.”
“I guess not. So why didn’t you leave for New York when I thought you did? I’d better have a reason.”
“Say that I said I had some personal business to take care of, and I said I was leaving L.A. today.”
“Suppose he calls you in New York, and you’re not there?”
“That won’t be your fault. I think I’d better move into a hotel today; it can’t be good for you to have me staying here, now that we’ve been seen together. Can you recommend someplace quiet?”
“There’s a place in West Hollywood called Le Parc, a suite hotel. It’s the kind of place where the studio puts visiting writers. Neither Vance nor any of his friends would ever be seen there.” She looked up the address in the phone book and wrote it down for him.
“I’ll use the name Jack Smith, if you need to reach me.”
“Why Jack Smith?”
“My cop friend, Rick Grant, suggested it.”
“Okay. Can I reach you tonight?”
“Let’s skip a night. See if anybody follows you to or from work. If the coast seems clear, then we can get together tomorrow, for the weekend.”
“Okay, my sweet. Hang onto the key to my house, just in case you need a bolthole.”
“I’ll do that.”
She gave him a big kiss and left.
Stone got up, laid out his clothes for the day, and packed everything else, then shaved and got into a shower. He had just turned off the water and stepped out when he heard the front door of the house open and someone enter. More than one, he thought, and male. He could hear their voices. It was one thing, he thought, to be followed on well-lit city streets, but it was another to be caught alone in this house. He started grabbing at clothes.
20
S tone quickly got some clothes on, rearranged the bed to make it look as though only one person had slept in it, and grabbed his bags. He looked out the window, but he was on the second story, and it was a straight drop. He could hear the voices downstairs better now; they seemed to be coming from Betty’s study.
Carrying his bags, he looked out into the upstairs hallway; a dozen feet down the hall was a pair of slatted bifold doors. He tiptoed down the carpet, set down his suitcases, and very slowly opened the doors. He was greeted with the sight of a washer and dryer, which took up almost the whole of the closet. Carefully, taking care to make no noise, he set his cases on top of the washer, then hoisted himself into a sitting position on the dryer and slowly closed the doors. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairs now, and he looked around the closet, dimly lit by light coming through the slatted doors, and found an iron. He held it at shoulder height and waited to be discovered. At least one of them was going to get his forehead ironed, he swore to himself.
“I don’t give a shit,” one of the intruders was saying as he walked from the stairs toward the bedroom.