“Tell them I took that, okay?”
“Absolutely. When are you bringing the E430 back?”
“A few days.”
“And where are you staying?”
“With friends; I’m not sure which ones yet.”
“Anything you say, Mr. Barrington; enjoy the car.”
Stone consulted his map and drove to Le Parc, the hotel Betty had recommended. At the front desk he asked for a suite.
“For how long, Sir?”
“Two or three days, maybe longer.”
“We can do that. Your name?”
“Jack Smith.”
“May I have a credit card, Mr. Smith?”
“How about if I leave a cash deposit?”
“That will be fine; we’ll need fifteen hundred dollars.”
Stone counted out the money, in hundreds.
The desk clerk rang for a bellman, and shortly Stone was in a comfortable suite, complete with kitchenette. It wasn’t the Bel-Air, but it was nice. He unpacked, then phoned police headquarters.
“Lieutenant Grant,” Rick’s voice said.
“It’s Jack Smith,” Stone replied.
“Hi, Jack; what can I do for you?”
“I need the office and home addresses and phone numbers of Louis Regenstein, David Sturmack, and Onofrio Ippolito.”
“Can I call you back?”
“Yeah, I’m at a hotel called Le Parc, in West Hollywood, registered as the unforgettable Jack Smith, and keep it to yourself.” He gave him the address and number.
“Yeah, I know the place; I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Stone hung up and rummaged in his kitchenette for breakfast. He found some croissants and orange juice, and he made himself some coffee. The phone rang.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Rick.”
“I’m on a pay phone now. Here we go: Regenstein is at Centurion Studios; Ippolito is in an office building over the main branch of Safe Harbor, downtown, and Sturmack has an office in the same building.” He gave Stone the addresses, plus the home addresses and numbers. “The home numbers for all three are unlisted, so don’t let anybody know where you got them.”
“Thanks, Rick; you free for dinner later? I’m buying.”
“Sure.”
“Someplace not too Hollywood.”