“Rick? This is Stone Barrington, late of the NYPD; my partner, Dino Bacchetti, and I took a bad guy off your hands a few years ago.”
“Yeah, Stone, I remember. You said ‘late’?”
“I retired a couple of years back.”
“What’s up in the Big Apple?”
“Actually, I’m in L.A., and I wondered if you’d like to do a little moonlighting?”
“I’m afraid that sort of thing is not done these days, but you can buy me lunch.”
“Tell me where and when.”
“You remember the old Bistro Garden, on Canyon Drive?”
“Nope; I’m a stranger here.”
Grant gave him the address. “It’s called Spago in Beverly Hills now. See you there at twelve-thirty; I’ll book the table.”
“You’re on, and I’m buying.”
“Right. Bye.”
Stone hung up and called Betty’s office number.
“Hello?”
“It’s your guest; can you talk?”
“Make it fast.”
“What kind of car does Arrington drive?”
“A twin to Vance’s Mercedes—the one you were driving—except it’s white.”
“What year?”
“Brand new.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”
“It’s a vanity plate.” She spelled it for him: “A-R-I-N-G-T-N.”
“Thanks, that’s it.”
“Bye.”
“What time tonight?”
“Around seven; I’ll call if I’m going to be later.” She hung up.
Stone called Bill Eggers.
“You still in L.A.?”
“Yeah. You said you knew an old-timer with mob connections who liked to talk?”
“Right.”