with a friend, often Lou, and he’s usually in great spirits after finishing shooting, but not on Friday.”
“Have you ever seen him like that before?”
“No. He was worried, I think, and I’ve never seen him worried before. Vance is not, by nature, a worrier.”
“Did he give any indication of what he was worried about?”
“None; he hardly spoke to me all day.”
“But it must have been Arrington.”
“Maybe.”
“My cop friend, Rick Grant, thinks she might be having an affair. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Sure, I guess. It surprises me when married peopledon’t have affairs.”
As they entered Interstate 10 for the quick drive back to Los Angeles, Stone thought for a moment that he caught sight of a silver Lincoln Town Car a quarter of a mile behind them, but then he wasn’t sure. They drove the rest of the way in silence, and Stone dropped Betty at her house, after having driven around the block a couple of times to be sure no one was watching. Then he headed back to his hotel.
When he walked into his suite, he had the immediate impression that someone had been there, someone besides the maid. He walked through the place cautiously, ready for anything, then he went through his belongings to see if anything had been disturbed. The place was neat, as only a hotel maid could leave it, but there was one anomaly. A glass sat on the bar, one he had not left there. Stone picked it up, holding it by two fingers at the very base, and held it up against the light. Somebody’s fingerprints were there, and they couldn’t be his.
25
Stone slept late the next morning, and when he was finally up and dressed he went to his kitchenette, found a plastic garbage bag under a counter, slipped the bar glass into it, and left the building. From his car he called Rick Grant.
“Rick, it’s Stone. Can we meet somewhere for half a minute? I’ve got something for you.”
“Where are you?”
“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 onPaloma 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 behappy 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.”
“New from where?”
“From New York.”
“And what brings you to L.A.?”
