Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

Stone hung up, started the car, and drove up to Sunset Boulevard. He found Vinnie’s Delicatessen, parked, went in, and looked around. It was still lunchtime, but the place wasn’t very busy, and he could see why. It seemed pretty greasy and not very inviting. He ordered a diet Coke to take away, and as he was paying, two hoodish-looking men walked in and, without slowing down, went behind the counter and through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Vinnie was probably running a book back there, Stone thought.

He left, tossed the soda into a wastebasket, got back into his car, and drove to his hotel. On the way, he called the Bel-Air and booked a small suite. Back at Le Parc he went to the front desk and laid a thousand dollars on the desk. “I want to extend for a few nights,” he said to the desk clerk.

“Of course, Mr. Smith,” the man said, making the money disappear.

“I’m going to be in and out, so tell the maid not to worry if my luggage isn’t there.”

“No problem. Oh, a Miss Betty Southard called.”

Stone went back to his suite and called Betty.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Can’t. How about tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

“Anything happen I should know about?”

“No. Vance didn’t come into the office. He sometimes stays home if he’s not shooting, so it’s been very quiet.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.” He hung up, packed his bags, and carried them down to the garage. Fifteen minutes later, he was checking into the Bel-Air.

“Welcome back, Mr. Barrington,” the woman behind the desk said.

“Ah, for personal reasons, I’d like to be known as Jack Smithwick while I’m here.”

“Of course, if you like.”

“Would you let the telephone operators know about that?”

“Surely.”

“And if anyone calls and asks for Barrington, deny all knowledge.”

“I understand,” she said. “Many of our guests travel incognito at one time or another.”

Stone followed the bellman to his suite and sent his clothes out to be pressed. He checked in with his secretary and gave her his new name and address.

“What if Vance Calder calls again?” she asked.

“Tell him I went out to the Hamptons for a few days, but you expect to hear from me. You just love talking to Vance Calder, don’t you?”

“Well…” She suppressed a giggle.

He hung up and reflected on why he was playing that game with Vance. If some goombah was searching his hotel suite, then somebody knew he was still in L.A., and that somebody might tell Vance. The hotel change was probably a good idea, as long as he kept the suite at Le Parc. He was tired of people he didn’t know knowing where he was; it was becoming extremely irritating.

He was at the Marina Del Rey chandlery at seven sharp, and Barbara Tierney was only ten minutes late.

“I’m sorry you had to drive all the way down here to get me,” she said. “I’d have been glad to drive, if my friend’s car had been here.”

“What does your friend drive?”

“A Porsche.”

A Porsche? Shit. Was this the wrong girl? “Well, if your friend were here we wouldn’t be having dinner, would we?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “I’m pretty much a free woman.”