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.”
17
While 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.”
