Swimming to Catalina (11 page)
“What else do you know about him?” Stone asked.
“That he’s a big-time fixer. There were rumors a while back about mob connections, through the unions, I think. He seemed to have an in with the Teamsters.”
“You know any more details about that?”
“No. By the time I was on that particular job, Sturmack had faded into some pretty expensive woodwork. His name used to come up in subtle ways, but I
never knew of any hard connection between him and anybody who was mobbed up. I’d say he’s at the pinnacle of respectability now, or the mayor wouldn’t be seen with him. The mayor’s a squeaky-clean guy.”
“I’ll tell you what I know: Sturmack’s old man was with Meyer Lansky way back when. Young David grew up amongst the boys, knew them all, apparently.”
Grant smiled. “No kidding? The family business, huh? Now you mention it, I seem to remember a rumor of a connection between Sturmack and the Teamsters pension fund, which bankrolled half the construction in Vegas when the boys were in charge.”
“Sounds right.”
“But I can’t think why Sturmack would have somebody’s wife disappeared; even if the rumors are true, that wouldn’t be his style, not at all.”
“Time to tell me if you’re in, Rick.”
Grant smiled. “Sure, I’m in; what’s more, I’m intrigued. What do you want me to do?”
“Can you get the lady’s car on the patrol sheet without listing it as stolen?”
“Probably.”
“It’s a new white Mercedes SL600, California vanity plate, A-R-I-N-G-T-N.” He spelled it, and Grant wrote it down. “The lady’s name is Arrington Carter Calder; it’ll be registered either to her or her husband, I guess.”
“Maybe not; a lot of these people drive cars registered to their production companies. Why don’t you want it listed as stolen?”
“I don’t want it pulled over; I just want to know where it is, if it’s anywhere, and I’d like a description of whoever’s driving it.”
“Okay, I’ll specify position reports and descriptions only, and directly to me.”
They ordered coffee, and Stone asked for a check. “There’s another name; see if it rings a bell.”
“Who’s that?”
“Onofrio Ippolito.”
Grant laughed. “Jesus, Stone, you’re really in high cotton here, you know?”
“Am I?”
“Ippolito is the CEO of the Safe Harbor Bank.”
“Big outfit?”
“Dozens of branches, all over, ads on television, lots of charity sponsorship, the works.”
“No mob connections?”
Grant shook his head. “Ippolito is the mayor’s personal banker.”
“Yeah? Well, I saw him at Grimaldi’s with some guys who didn’t look like branch managers.”
Rick Grant sat like stone, his face without expression.
“Rick?”
Grant moved. “Huh?”
“You still in?”
Grant shrugged. “What the hell.”
W
hile they waited for the valet to bring their cars, Stone pressed five hundred-dollar bills into Rick Grant’s hand. “It’s all I’ve got on me at the moment.”
Grant pocketed the money without looking at it. “Arrington’s car will be on the patrol list in an hour; how do I get in touch with you?”
Stone gave him a business card, writing the portable number on the back. “Is it safe for me to call you at the office?”
“As long as you’re careful. If I say I can’t talk, call back in an hour, or leave a message, and I’ll call you back. Use the name Jack Smith.” Grant’s car arrived, and he got in and drove away.
After the payment to Grant, Stone was low on cash. “Where’s the nearest bank?” he asked the valet.
“Right across the street,” the man said.
Stone looked up and saw a lighthouse painted on the window. “Safe Harbor Bank,” the sign read. He
took his Centurion paycheck from his pocket and looked at it; it was drawn on Safe Harbor.
“Hold my car for a few minutes, will you?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Dodging traffic, Stone walked across the street and entered the bank. There was another lighthouse high on a wall, and a nautical motif. A large ship’s clock behind the tellers chimed the hour. He walked to a teller’s window and presented the check. “I’d like to cash this, please.”
The teller looked at the check and handed it back to him. “For a check of this size you’ll have to get Mr. Marshall’s approval,” she said, pointing to an office behind a row of desks. “See his secretary, there,” she said, pointing to a woman.
“Thank you.” Stone walked to the secretary’s desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Marshall, please, about getting approval to cash a check.”
“Your name?”
“Barrington.”
“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.
Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”
“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”
Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.
Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.
Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.
Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”
“Ah, an actor.”
Stone didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “I live in New York, you see; I’m just out here for the Job.”
“Can we open an account for you? That’s a lot of cash to be walking around with.”
“No, I’m going back to New York shortly, but you’re right, it is a lot of money. Why don’t you give me a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, and the rest in hundreds?”
“As you wish.” He buzzed for his secretary, then signed a form and handed it to her. “Have a cashier’s check drawn in that amount, please, payable to Mr. Stone Barrington, and bring me that and ten thousand dollars in hundreds.” He turned the check over. “You’ll need to endorse it,” he said to Stone.
Stone signed the check and sat back to wait for his money. “You’ve a handsome bank here,” he said.
“Thank you; all of our offices are designed with something of the nautical in them. Mr. Ippolito is something of a yachtsman.”
“Mr. Ippolito?”
“Our chairman,” Marshall replied.
“What does he sail?”
“He has a small armada,” the bank manager said. “A large sailing yacht, a large motor yacht, a sports fisherman, and several runabouts.”
“Business must be good,” Stone said.
“Oh, yes; we’re the fastest-growing bank in Southern California. We’ve got fourteen offices in the greater L.A. and San Diego areas, and by this time next year we’ll have closer to twenty. We’re expanding into San Francisco.”
“Might you have a copy of your most recent annual report?” Stone asked. “I’m going to need to invest some of this paycheck.”
“Of course,” Marshall replied. He reached into a cabinet next to his desk and produced a thick, handsomely designed brochure.
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’ll read myself to sleep tonight.”
“I think you’ll find us a good investment; our stock has doubled in the past two years.”
“Sounds interesting,” Stone said.
The secretary returned with the cashier’s check and Stone’s cash. Marshall signed the check with a flourish and handed it over, along with a thick stack of hundreds, held together with a paper band. “Better count it,” he said.
Stone stood up and tucked the check and the cash into his inside pockets. “I trust you, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Thanks very much for your help.”
They shook hands, and Stone left the building. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about banking, he thought as he crossed the street to his waiting car, but Safe Harbor seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. He wondered what was fueling the growth.
Once in the car, he opened the annual report and flipped through it, stopping at a list of the bank’s officers. Ippolito was indeed chairman, and Louis Regenstein and David Sturmack were listed as directors. His portable phone rang.
He dug the little Motorola StarTac from an inside pocket and flipped it open. “Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Rick Grant. I’ve got a report on Arrington’s car.”
“That was fast. Where was it spotted?”
“Driving away from Spago Beverly Hills less than five minutes ago.”
“Jesus!” Stone said. “I’ll get back to you.” He closed the phone, hopped out of the car, and ran to the valet. “Did a white Mercedes SL600 just leave here?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, “just a minute ago.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“You bet I can: she was tall, dark hair, late twenties or early thirties; a real looker.”
“Did you see which way she went?”
“She turned left at the corner, toward Rodeo Drive.”
“Thanks,” Stone said, then jumped into his car. He gunned it, then made a left turn across two lanes of traffic, the sound of horns following him. A block ahead, the traffic light was turning green, and the white Mercedes was turning right on Rodeo.
Then there was the sound of a siren in his left ear, and a cop on a motorcycle pulled in front of him, lights flashing, and stopped. The cop got off and sauntered toward him, while Stone dug for his ID.
“Afternoon,” the cop said, producing a ticket book. “In a terrible hurry, are we? License and registration, please.”
Stone opened the small wallet and flashed his NYPD badge.
The cop took it and read the ID thoroughly. “Retired, huh? You look a little young for retirement.”
“A bullet in the knee did the job.”
“Now
that’s
a lucky break, you still being alive and all. Makes for a nice pension, huh? Let’s see your license and registration.”
“Listen, I’ve
got
to catch up with a lady in a white SL600 that just turned into Rodeo Drive.”
“You listen, ah…” he glanced at the ID, “…Detective Barrington. Did you happen to see the Rodney King videotape?”
Stone sighed. “Two or three hundred times,” he said.
“Well, I heard that Mr. King was reluctant to show
his
license and registration, too.”
Stone produced his driver’s license and dug into the armrest compartment for his rental contract. “All right, all right,” he said, handing them over.
The cop glanced at the license. “You take a very nice picture, Detective Barrington,” he said.
“Could you just write me the ticket and let me be on my way?”
“Oh, it’s a rental,” he said, reading the contract. “Well, seeing how you’re a brother officer and all, sort of, I’m going to let you go with a warning. Here’s the warning; this is
not
New York City, and we frown on high-speed left turns.”
“Thanks; in New York, the average speed is four miles an hour, and you can’t turn left, ever.”
The cop smiled appreciatively. “You’ll have to go faster than that out here; we like our traffic to move, but not quite as fast as you were moving, okay?”
“Okay, and thanks,” Stone said.
“Have a really nice day,” the cop replied. He got on his motorcycle and moved out, stopping at the traffic light, which had just turned red.
Stone couldn’t turn right with him sitting there, so
he just sat and tapped his fingers on the wheel. When he finally turned onto Rodeo Drive, the SL600 was nowhere in sight, and fifteen minutes of searching the adjoining streets didn’t turn it up, either. Stone drove disconsolately back to Betty’s house.
S
tone was wakened by a finger running lightly down his cheek. He tried to sit up, but a hand on his chest pressed him back down. He blinked and looked at the face above him.
“Don’t get up; I like you in a horizontal position,” Betty said.
“Oh, hi; I guess I fell asleep.”
“Waiting anxiously for me to come home, huh?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight. I take it you’re not cooking for me this evening.”
“Why don’t I take you out? You book us a table somewhere you like.”
“Good idea; I’d like to change out of my working togs, too.”
Stone went into the bathroom, threw some cold water on his face, and combed his hair, then got into one of his new Ralph Lauren Purple Label suits and went downstairs.
Betty came down in a little white dress, very short, and slipped a hand into his. “We’ve got a table at Maple Drive,” she said. “That’s a restaurant, as well as a street. Let’s take your car; I hope you like jazz.”
“You bet.”
They had a table near the piano player, who was very good. “Dudley Moore and Tony Bill own this place,” she said, sipping her drink. “Dudley comes and plays sometimes.”
“Sorry I missed him; I like his piano. How was your day?”
“Long; they’re still shooting on Stage Twelve, redoing your scenes, so we can be sure Vance won’t turn up here. It’s a favorite of his.”
“I must have been pretty bad, huh?”
“Not in the least; I saw all your dailies, and you were very good indeed. I told you about the female reaction.”
“So why would they go to all the trouble to get me to do that, then hire somebody to do it over?”
“The word on the lot is, the actor they wanted was unavailable, then suddenly he was available.”
“Do you buy that?”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened.”
“
I
don’t buy it.”
“Okay,” she said, downing the rest of her martini, “what’s your theory?”
“I think they were trying to keep me busy so I wouldn’t be looking for Arrington.”
“So they tie up a whole company and a soundstage filming you, just to keep you off the streets? That’s not how the movie business works, Stone; they don’t waste that kind of money.”
“Are you kidding? From what I read in the papers,
they waste a lot more than that on a lot of films, and for less reason.”
“All right, I’ll grant you that; I’ve just never seen Lou Regenstein do it. I think he
really
wanted the other actor. Can I have another martini?”
