Stone had finished breakfast and was getting out of a shower when the phone rang. He grabbed a robe, got into it, and made the bedside table on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Rick; did I wake you?”
“Nope; I was just getting out of a shower.”
“Get dressed and meet me at the back gate of the hotel in ten minutes; I want you to take a look at something with me.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.” Stone hung up, toweled his hair mostly dry, got into some slacks, a shirt, and a blazer, and started out the door. Then he remembered; he went back, took off the blazer, slipped into the shoulder holster, fitted the pistol into it, slipped an extra clip into his pocket, got back into the blazer, grabbed a tie, and left the suite.
Rick was waiting at the rear gate. “Morning,” he said.
Stone got into the car. “Morning. What’s up?” He began knotting the tie.
“I’m not sure, exactly, but I have a hunch; we’ll see if it’s a good one.” He handed Stone the late edition of the Los Angeles Times and pointed to a story in the stop press column on the front page, then drove away.
Stone read the short piece.
Last night, late, the Malibu Fire Department answered a call from the Pacific Coast Highway home of Onofrio Ippolito, chairman of the Safe Harbor Bank and a well-known Los Angeles philanthropist.
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 spend your 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?”