“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.”
“Nowthat’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’vegot 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 showhis 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 isnot 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.
18
Stone 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.”
“Idon’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 hereally wanted the other actor. Can I have another martini?”
Stone signaled a waiter for another round; he brought the drinks, and they ordered dinner.
“Did Vance say anything about Arrington today?”
