Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

Grant gave him the name of a Greek restaurant on Melrose. “It’s good, but you won’t run into anybody in the movie business.”

“Sounds perfect. Eight o’clock?”

“Make it seven.”

“See you then.” Stone hung up and called his secretary in New York.

“Hi, Alma, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.” She gave him a few phone messages.

“I’ve got a new address, or you can reach me on my portable.” He gave her the name of the hotel and the number. “You can give that to Dino or Bill Eggers, but not to anybody else. I’m registered as Jack Smith. If I get any calls, especially from Vance Calder, say that you’re expecting me back in New York tonight, and I’ll return the calls then.”

“Got it.”

Stone finished his breakfast, then went down to the garage and got his new car. His pocket phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Alma; Vance Calder called, asked that you call him at home as soon as you get home.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Dino; I told him to try you on the portable. He said he’d call later.”

“Okay. I’m going to mail you a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand dollars; deposit it and write a check for ten thousand to the IRS and send it to my accountant.”

“Where’d you get fifteen thousand dollars in L.A.?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Been selling your body?”

“That’s it. Oh, Alma, one other thing; if Arrington should call, give her the portable number; tell her it’ll be on day and night.”

“Arrington?”

“Don’t ask.”

21

S tone, weary of finding his way around the city with a rentacar map, stopped at a bookstore and bought a city atlas, then headed for downtown L.A., which was a lot farther than he had imagined. The terrain downtown was different from the lush, low-rise Beverly Hills; here there were skyscrapers and concrete, and it looked like any other large American city. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to see the building where Ippolito and Sturmack had their offices. The sight was unrewarding; it was a fifty-story tower of black glass and anodized steel, vaguely sinister in appearance, which he thought appropriate. He was wondering what to do next when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Rick Grant; I’ve got another sighting of the girl’s car.”

“Where?”

“It’s at Marina Del Rey, parked along the waterfront outside a chandler’s shop.” He gave Stone the address.

“I’m on my way.”

“This time, I’ll have my patrol car sit on it; if it moves, I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Rick.”

“Tell the cops when you get