Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

“In West Hollywood.”

“Can you find police headquarters on your map?” He gave Stone the address.

“Got it.”

“There’s a coffee shop directly across the street; I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

Stone found the coffee shop, and Grant walked over to his car. “What’s up?”

Stone handed him the plastic bag. “There’s a

glass in here from my hotel suite with some clear prints on it; can you run them for me?”

“Sure.”

“Call me on my portable,” Stone said, then waved and drove off. He had only one place to go where he might pick up some trace of Arrington, and he drove straight to Marina Del Rey. He parked, went into the chandlery, and bought some boat shoes, a light sailing jacket, a floppy hat, and some sunglasses, then he retrieved his binoculars from the car and started walking. His disguise wasn’t much, but he figured it would be less conspicuous than a business suit.

He started at the ramp nearest to where Arrington’s car had been parked and began ambling down every pontoon, wishing a good morning to those people who noticed him and looking at every boat, from racing dinghies to floating gin palaces. He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, but he’d know it when he saw it, he hoped. Maybe he’d even see Arrington. He trudged down the pontoons for two hours, stopping occasionally for a soft drink from a machine, and he still was nowhere near inspecting every boat in the huge marina.

Tired of this, he plotted a course back to the parking lot that would take him past new boats. He was nearly back to the entry ramp when he was stopped in his tracks. She was on the top deck of a motor yacht of about forty feet, sunning herself, and he caught sight only because she raised herself from the deck to turn over, clutching her loose bikini top with one hand. She turned away from him, so he couldn’t see her face, but with a toss of her head she threw her long dark hair over a shoulder, and that was a gesture he knew. Now, though, she was flat on the deck again, and invisible from below.

His first impulse was to board the yacht, climb to the top deck, and see her, face to face, but he thought better of that. He looked down at the boat’s stem and saw the name, Paloma, and her home port, Avalon, which, he remembered, was on Catalina Island. If he hung around here for more than a moment, he would become conspicuous, so he walked back to the ramp and up to the parking lot. He was a few feet higher now, but when he looked back toward the yacht he could see little of the girl, most of her being masked by the toe rail around the upper deck. He got the binoculars from the car, walked back to the ice machine that had been his last crow’s nest, and climbed on top of it. Panning around the marina as if looking at the boats, he paused momentarily on Paloma and focused on the girl. All he could see was an expanse of bare back that was achingly familiar. He got down from the machine and went back to his car. He had three options, he reckoned: he could wait until she climbed down to get a better look at her; he could wait in the car until she left the boat; or he could confront her. The first two options weren’t particularly inviting; he had never liked stakeouts when he was a cop, and he had paid other people to do them after he had retired. The third option caused him some anxiety. If the girl was not Arrington, he could get arrested, depending on her reaction; on the other hand, if she was Arrington, what would he say to her?

She had left him for another man, and they had not spoken for months; she was pregnant, or said she was, possibly with his child, and she had not seen fit to tell him; she had chosen, it seemed, to leave her husband, perhaps for a lover, and in the circumstances, she might be very unhappy to see him. If he were honest with himself, he wanted her to be happy to see him. He couldn’t bring himself to just walk right up to her, unannounced.

Then his dilemma was suddenly resolved. He saw her stand up, fasten her bikini bra, and leave the top deck, but all this took place with her back to him. Was she leaving the boat, or was she just going below for some lunch? He waited, and his wait was rewarded. She appeared, far down the pontoon, headed his way.

He snatched up the binoculars and focused, but now a boat was interfering, then a car, then some other object between them. By the time she came up the ramp her back was to him again, and she began walking away. Stone got out of the car and followed.

She walked toward the chandlery, then around it, and when Stone emerged on the other side of the building he saw her walking into a restaurant. He stepped up his pace, and when he arrived at the front door, saw her taking a seat at the lunch counter, her back still to him. Only one thing to do: he walked into the restaurant, took a stool two down from hers and looked at her, head on in the mirror.

She took off her sunglasses, and their eyes met.

Stone reacted as if poked in the eye. The girl and Arrington shared height, build, and hair, but nothing else.

She noted his reaction. “Am I so hard to look at?”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eye, “must be a lash. You’re certainly not hard to look at.”

She permitted herself a small smile, then devoted herself to the menu.

“Can you recommend something?” he asked. “I’m new around here.”

“The bacon cheeseburger is great,” she said, “if your cholesterol count can take it.”

“Sounds good.” He took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “Why don’t we order from a booth?”

She looked at him appraisingly, and apparently he appraised well. “As long as you’re buying,” she said, then hopped off the stool and led the way to a booth at the window.

“I’m Jack Smithwick,” he said, offering a hand.

She took the hand. “Barbara Tierney.”

A waitress appeared, and they both ordered the bacon cheeseburger and a beer.

“You said you were new around here?”

“That’s right.”