Regenstein was saying something, but Stone couldn’t hear what it was. Whatever he was saying, it was making Vance angry. “No!” Vance said loudly, then lowered his voice and continued in a strident manner.
Regenstein and the other man were obviously trying to placate him, but Vance was very angry indeed. Stone looked across the room and saw that Vance was standing near a window on the far wall. Maybe Stone could hear from there. He was about to move to that side of the house when the telephone in his pocket rang, loudly. He flattened himself against the house and scrambled for the phone, finally getting to it after the second ring.
“Hello,” he whispered.
“Vance, it’s Barbara; how much longer are you going to be? I’m getting tired of sitting here.”
“A few minutes; listen to the radio or something, and don’t call me again unless it’s an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“Just don’t call again.” He snapped the phone shut and peeked into the room again. The three men were looking around, trying to discover the source of the noise. Stone pushed slowly back through the shrubbery, and as he did he was hit from all sides by water. Half blinded, Stone blundered through the flowerbed to the grass, but got no relief from the continuous spray. It must be on a timer, he thought, and the sprinkler heads were placed to give full coverage. He ran to the corner of the house, and as he turned it, lights came on—bright lights, floodlights, activated by a motion sensor, most likely. There was probably a silent alarm, too. There was nothing for it but to run.
The floodlights revealed a tall wrought—iron fence at the rear of the house, and he thought it might be electrified, so the front gate seemed his only chance. He sprinted past the garage and across the lawn, not bothering with the driveway, and as he did, the front lawn sprinklers came on, too. He charged across the grass, grabbed the rake, and started waving it at the gates. Nothing.
Stone looked desperately around for a sensor and saw a small box on a foot—high steel pole. He waved the rake at it and, finally, the front gates started to open; he threw away the rake and ran into the street, legs pumping. The police were going to arrive any second, he reckoned, so it was no time for a stroll. He made the corner, turned it and ran up the block, looking for the car. It was gone. Through some trees to his right he saw a car wearing flashing lights turning a corner. He crossed the road and dived through a hedge, hitting the ground on all fours, then flattened himself on the grass as the car sped past. He caught sight of a car door that proclaimed the vehicle to be from the Bel—Air Security Patrol. The car turned the corner toward Vance’s house, and Stone broke back through the hedge. Somewhere behind him a dog–a very large dog, from the sound of him—had begun to bark. He stood in the street, soaking wet, grass-stained, and completely exposed, and tried to think what to do next.
As he thought, another car turned the corner to his right, and Stone was about to plunge through the hedge again when he realized the approaching headlights were a familiar oval shape. He ran at the car, hoping to God it was not somebody else’s E-class Mercedes, and waved it down. Shielding his eyes from the headlights, he could see Barbara behind the wheel. He flung himself into the passenger side.
“Get out of here!” he said. “Take a left at the corner!”
“Stone, what happened?” she asked. “You’re dripping wet.”
The car had not moved.
“Barbara,” Stone said as quietly and as slowly as he could, “Please drive away and make a left. Do it right now.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, and she drove slowly away.
“Faster,” he said.
“How fast?”
“Faster than this!” he hissed.
“Maybe you’d better drive,” she said.
“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.”
39
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.”