“What makes you think I’m still in love with Arrington?”
“A woman’s intuition.”
“Let’s just say that Arrington and I never had the kind of closure we should have had. I’d have felt better if we’d had a fight and she’d walked out. And there are other reasons I’m…” He stopped himself.
“Not to pry, but what other reasons?”
“Don’t pry.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll find out eventually anyway.”
“Probably.”
“Well,” she said, putting down her fork, “that was an excellent dinner. Now would you take me home and do lascivious things to me?”
“Love to.” Stone signaled for the check.
They pulled away from the restaurant, which was in a residential neighborhood, and as they did, Stone caught sight of another car pulling in behind them, halfway down the dark block. He thought nothing of it until after a couple of turns, when it was still there.
“I don’t think we should go directly to your house,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Not to get all dramatic, but I think we’re being followed. Don’t look back.”
“Who would be following us?”
“I don’t know, but I’d rather not have them follow us to your place.” They crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and drove up Beverly Drive. “Is there such a thing as a cab stand in this town?” he asked.
“The Beverly Hills Hotel is a few blocks ahead.”
“That’ll do. Why don’t you take the scarf you’re wearing and put it on your head, just to hide the red hair.”
She did as instructed.
They crossed Sunset Boulevard and turned into the drivew
ay of the hotel. “Okay, here’s what we do; there’s only one car and they can’t follow us both. I’m going to drop you at the entrance to the hotel. You go inside, use the ladies’ room, then get a cab and go straight home. I think the car will stick with me; I’ll lose him and turn up at your place later.”
“Whatever you say,” she said as they pulled under the hotel’s portico. “I’m off.” She jumped out of the car and ran inside the lobby.
Stone drove straight through the hotel drive, and his tail picked him up again on Sunset. He caught a glimpse of the car under a street light; it was a Lincoln town car. He devoted himself to losing it.
19
I t was late now, and there wasn’t a lot of traffic on Sunset. Stone drove quickly along the winding road, up and down hills. When he reached the freeway he turned south toward the Pacific; the Lincoln stuck with him, a discreet distance back. Stone turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway, then onto Santa Monica Boulevard, driving right down to the beach. He turned left and, glancing at the rental agency’s map, saw he was headed for Venice. The Lincoln had closed to within half a dozen car lengths, which bothered him. Apparently his pursuers didn’t care if he knew they were following him.
He was on a broad street that was nearly empty of traffic, and he began to get annoyed, so he decided to do something he’d been taught years before in a police driving school. He checked his mirrors for traffic, then stomped on the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels, and spun the steering wheel to the left. The car traded ends, then he released the emergency brake and stood on the accelerator. The car behaved impeccably, its three-hundred-plus horses rocketing its small mass back down the street.
The Lincoln blew past in the opposite direction and, simultaneously, the two men in the front seat raised their left hands, blocking his view of their faces, as if they were accustomed to doing it. A moment later, Stone checked his rearview mirror; the Lincoln was behind him again. Still, the driver made no effort to overtake him or close the distance between them.
Using his map, Stone worked his way back toward Beverly Hills, taking care to keep to wide, brightly lit streets. He was not going to lead his tail down any dark alleys. He found himself on Wilshire Boulevard, now only a dozen blocks from Betty’s house, and he saw something ahead that looked very inviting. A block short of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, a cop car had pulled over a driver, his patrol car parked behind the car he had stopped, the lights flashing, and he was now leaning on the car, talking to the driver. Stone pulled up next to the cop. “Excuse me, officer, can you direct me to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel?” he asked. The Lincoln drove past him, not slowing down.
“Just up ahead, sir,” the cop said politely.
Stone reflected that a New York City cop would have responded differently to a stupid question. “Thanks very much,” he said, then drove on. He took his next right, figuring that the Lincoln was going around the block, and then he saw the Beverly Wilshire’s garage. He whipped into the entrance, took a ticket from the machine, made two quick rights and parked the car. He took the elevator to the lobby, walked to the front door, and looked outside. A single cab was waiting out front. He checked up and down Wilshire, then ran to the cab and hopped in, waking the driver.
“What?” the man said, sitting up.