Vance buried his face in his hands. “Oh, shit, shit, shit. I’m so sorry, Stone; I never meant for something like that to happen to you, and it’s my fault.”
“How so?”
“I told them you were at the Bel-Air.”
“And how did you know?” Stone asked, knowing the answer.
“Betty told me.”
“She told you not them?”
“Yes. She doesn’t know who’s involved; she doesn’t know anything about this, except what she might imagine. She told me because she would never hide anything from me.”
“I’m glad to hear she didn’t tell Ippolito,” Stone said, and he was. He felt better about Betty now.
“Betty would never do anything to harm you,” Vance said. “I think she’s half in love with you.”
“You’re very lucky to have her,” Stone said, reflecting that Vance seemed to have the women he wanted.
“I certainly am.”
“Vance, if you will trust me enough to tell me what’s going on, I can help, I’m sure I can.”
Vance looked at him, his jaw set. “Stone, if I could, I would; but I can’t doanything that might have even the slightest chance of harming Arrington.”
Stone nodded. “Then I guess I’d better be going.”
Vance walked him to the door. “I hope I can tell you all about this someday, when it’s over.”
“Vance, are you going to tell Ippolito I was here, that I’m alive?”
“No. I swear to God I won’t.”
Stone shook his hand and left. He hoped the actor wasn’t lying.
41
Stone walked into the Beverly Hills branch of the Safe Harbor Bank and asked to see the branch manager. Shortly he was seated at the man’s desk. “Welcome back, Mr. Barrington,” Marshall said. “I hope you’ve come to open an account with us.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Marshall; I’ve just come to cash the cashier’s check you arranged for me on my last visit.”
“Of course.”
Stone took the check from his inside pocket and handed it over. “I’m afraid it’s a little worse for the wear; I had a boating accident.”
Marshall inspected the check closely. “Yes, it is a bit worn, isn’t it? Still, I can make out the check number and what’s left of my signature. Of course we’ll cash it; how would you like the money?”
“In hundreds, please.”
Marshall was no longer looking at Stone, but over his shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ippolito,” he said, “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said to Stone. Marshall walked past his desk toward the door of his office.
Stone froze in his seat; he could hear the voices both men from behind him.
“What brings you to see us?” Marshall asked.
“I was in the neighborhood, and I just thought I’d drop in,” Ippolito said.
“I’m just cashing a check for a customer,” Marshall said. “If you’ll wait just a moment my office will be free, and we can talk, if you like.”
“No, no,” Ippolito said. “I really was just in the neighborhood. I do want to compliment you, though, on the very nice increase in new accounts.”
“We’ve been working hard on that,” Marshall said.
“Well, I’ll be off, then; you get back to your customer.”
“Good to see you again, Mr. Ippolito.” Marshall returned to his desk. “That was our chairman,” he said to Stone. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you.”
“That’s quite all right,” Stone said, dabbing at his damp forehead with a handkerchief “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Of course; I’ll be right back with your money.”
Stone allowed himself to look over his shoulder. Ippolito was still in the bank, shaking hands with a man just inside the front door.
Marshall returned with Stone’s fifteen thousand dollars and handed him an envelope. “Be sure and count it.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, standing up. “That won’t be necessary.” He shook hands with Marshall and looked over his shoulder again before he turned around Ippolito had left the bank.
Stone walked quickly to the window and peered into the street. A familiar gray Lincoln Town Car was pulling away from the curb. He ran for his own car, got it started, and followed, staying well back. He had nothing pressing to do; he might as well see where Ippolito was going.
He followed the Lincoln to Santa Monica Boulevard, then nearly all the way to the beach. To Stone’s surprise, the car stopped at Grimaldi’s. He looked at his watch: half past three, a little late for lunch. He parked half a block away and watched Ippolito get out of the car and go into the restaurant.
He had a thought; he called the FBI and asked for Hank Cable.
“Agent Cable.”
“Hank, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Hi, there, how’s it going?”
“You ever heard of an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s?”
“Nope.”
“It’s a wiseguy joint; I had dinner there last week and saw Ippolito and a couple of goombahs having a meet. I’m sitting outside the place right now, and Ippolito just went in.”
“A little late for lunch, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe something besides pasta is being made there. You think you could get it on your wiretap list?”
“I’ll see what I can do. We’re scheduled to wire Barone Financial tonight; I’ll let you know what we get.”
“Great.” Stone gave him the address of the restaurant and hung up.
Ippolito was in the restaurant for the better part of an hour. Stone thought about going to the back door and snooping, but it was too risky in broad daylight. Finally, Ippolito came out and got back into the Lincoln. As it turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Stone got a look at the front seat. Vinnie Mancuso and his buddy, Manny, had been replaced by two others right out of the same mold. Stone followed as the car drove toward the beach, then turned north along the coast. Soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward Malibu.
They were well into the beach community when the Lincoln turned into a garage attached to an elaborate house behind a high fence, close to the road like all the other houses. Stone looked the house over carefully; it was of a style that might be called contemporary traditional. A fence obscured the ground floor, but there was a palladian window in the peak of the second floor, and a cupola perched atop the roof. He made a U-turn, parked, and waited. A moment later, the Lincoln backed out of the garage and drove back toward L.A. The rear seat was empty. It was after five now; maybe it was Ippolito’s own house.
He made another U-turn and stopped at a restaurant a few doors away, went inside, and found a stool at the bar. Happy hour was just starting, and people were stopping for a drink on the way home from work. Stone had a gin and tonic and kept to himself. After an hour had passed he got a table, ordered another drink, and asked for a menu. The sun was sinking loudly into the Pacific, a giant red ball given a hard edge by the smog.
It was dark outside by the time he had finished his dinner. He ordered another drink, and when it came he paid his check and walked out onto a deck, where people were dining. There was a stairway down to the beach, and Stone took it. He set his drink down on the bottom step and walked along the sand for fifty yards, watching for the house; the cupola on top made it easy to pick out, even in the dark. There were lights on, and perhaps ten feet above his head he could see that a sliding glass door to the deck was open.
