Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

Stone smiled. “Good guess,” he said.

“What about my wife?” Sturmack asked. “I can’t just leave her.”

Ippolito handed him the phone. “Call her and tell her to get the next plane to Panama; we’ll only be in Ensenada long enough to change aircraft.”

Sturmack began dialing.

Stone looked out the window. They were crossing the coast now, at about a thousand feet, he reckoned.

“Charlie,” Ippolito yelled, “get this thing down on the water, do you hear me? The cops have choppers too, you know.”

The helicopter began a rapid descent. Stone watched the masts at Marina Del Rey flash by.

Sturmack handed the phone back to Ippolito. “I can’t believe we’re just running,” he said. “I’m seventy years old; I don’t want to live in Panama.”

“We’ll be headed south from there,” Ippolito said. “You can pick your country; I’ll send you wherever you want to go in the G-5. Besides, it may not be over; we may be able to come back when the lawyers get a grip on this.”

Stone spoke up. “No, it’s over, Oney; within twenty-four hours they’ll have it all. There’ll be nothing left but a shell.”

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” Ippolito said. He dialed another number. “Hello, this is Onofrio Ippolito; let me speak to Martin Barone.” He listened for a minute, then disconnected. “Was Marty at his office?” he asked Sturmack.

“Yes, I was with him before I came to your office.”

“Then the cops have got him; they’re answering the phone there.”

“That’ll be the FBI,” Stone said, “along with the IRS. They’ve not only got Barone, they’ve got all his computers. Oh, and don’t bother to call Albacore; it’s the same there and at the bank. There is no longer any safe harbor for you, Oney.”

Ippolito glared at Stone for a moment, then turned to the pilot. “Charlie, you got that ETA for Ensenada?”

“One hour and forty-one minutes, sir,” the pilot said.

“How far offshore are we?”

“About five miles.”

“How fast you going?”

“A hundred and thirty-five knots.”

“At what speed is it safe to open the door back here?”

“I’d have to hover for that, sir.”

Ippolito looked at Stone again. “Hover, Charlie,” he said.

Rick and Dino piled into the police helicopter, and the machine rose into the air. The noise was deafening. Rick put on a headset and handed one to Dino.

“Where to, Lieutenant?” the pilot asked.

“South by southwest; we’re looking for a large executive helicopter, black in color.”

“That sounds like the Safe Harbor Bank chopper,” the pilot said, picking up speed. “I know a lot of the local choppers by sight, and that’s the only black one I can think of.”

“That’s the one,” Rick said. “Can I hear your radios on this thing?”

“Yes sir.”

“You listen for reports of that chopper; we’ve got everything we can muster in the air, looking for it.”