Swimming to Catalina

by Stuart Woods

  “You’re perfectly serious?” Stone asked.

  “Perfectly. And if small decisions are made this way—the relative warmth of a greeting, where to park the car, when to go to the men’s room—then you can imagine how much effort goes into a major decision, such as which movie to appear in. A movie star’s first question to himself when he’s presented with a script is, ‘How will this script advance my career?’”

  “That’s not unreasonable, I suppose.”

  “Of course not. Anything is reasonable that promotes the career. That’s why, when a movie star gets a script, strange things happen to it: scenes written for other actors are suddenly rewritten for the star; a single word the star likes is taken from another actor and given to him; producers and directors are hired or fired; some supporting actors get closeups, others don’t; his whole wardrobe for a film disappears into his closet. By the way, you’ve already gotten that one down pat.”

  Stone laughed.

  “Are you beginning to hear what I’m telling you?”

  “I think so. If a movie star’s wife disappears, his first reaction is to worry about the tabloids finding out.”

  “You’re a quick study, buddy.”

  “And every other action he takes with regard to her disappearance is predicated on protecting himself.”

  “You’ve just earned your Ph.D. in Hollywood, pal.”

  15

  Stone woke without a left arm. The bed was dappled by the sun, his chest was covered in long red hair, and his left arm was gone. It took him a moment to realize that Betty was lying on it. Gently, he disengaged the arm, flexing his fingers to get the blood going.

  “What time is it?” she asked without moving.

  Stone lifted his head and spotted a bedside clock. “Ten minutes past six.”

  “Oh, God, I don’t even have time to molest you,” she moaned.

  “You sure?”

  She struggled out of bed, sweeping her hair out of her face. “I should be on the way to the studio in twenty minutes!” She disappeared into the bathroom, and Stone heard the shower running. He lay on his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. He felt remarkably well, considering. This girl was awfully nice, and he liked her no-nonsense attitude about sex. He got out of bed, slipped into a pair of shorts, went down to the kitchen, and started making coffee. When she came down the stairs, dressed, he handed her a cup. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

  “Ooooh,” she breathed, “every girl’s dream, and I have to go to work!” She poured her coffee into a Thermos cup. “Listen, don’t call me at any number but this one.” She scribbled it on the back of her card. “That one doesn’t ring anywhere but on my desk, and if anybody but me answers, hang up. Where are you going to be today?”

  “I still have to figure that out.” He took her pen and another card. “This is my cell phone number; it’s a New York exchange, but you can still call me on it. Maybe I’ll get an L.A. number, just to make things simpler.”

  “Don’t park your car in my driveway; I don’t want it noticed. Find a spot on the street; it won’t be hard.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you need from me today?”

  “For the moment, just assume that there’s something very wrong about Arrington’s absence, and keep an ear out for anything that might confirm that or give us any other information we can use.”

  “My beeper number is on the card; if you can’t reach me in the office, use that, and I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Good idea.”

  She gave him a lascivious kiss and ran for the door, pausing on the front steps to toss two newspapers at him, then she was gone.

  Stone toasted a muffin, had some juice and coffee, and read both the New York Times and the L.A. Times. That ritual behind him, he went upstairs, showered and shaved, got dressed, then went into Betty’s study, sat down at her desk and began to think. Finally, he called Dino.

  “Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

  “Hi, it’s Stone.”

  “Hi, buddy; are you back?”

  “Nope, I’m going to be here for a while longer.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a very long story, and you wouldn’t believe some of it.”

  “Try me.”

  Stone gave him a rundown on his activities since arriving in L.A.

  “Very weird,” Dino said. “What was that Italian name again?”

  “Ippolito?”

  “Yeah, that sounds familiar. There was a guy by that name a long time ago that was with Luciano, I think.”

  “Couldn’t be the same guy; maybe a relative?”

  “Let me see what I can find out.”

  “Okay, but before you do that, I need some local help on the ground here. You remember when we extradited the fat wiseguy from L.A. a few years back?”

  “I’ll never forget the plane ride back.”

  “What was the L.A. cop’s name who turned him over to us? He was something to do with an organized crime unit or something.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It was…wait a minute…ah, some white-bread name…Grant?”

  “Richard Grant, that’s it.”

  “Yeah, he seemed okay.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “What hotel are you at? I’ll call you when I get something on Ippolito.”

  “I’m at the nicest hotel you ever saw, and with the best maid service.”

  “Already? You’re disgusting.”

  Stone gave him the number. “If there’s no answer, don’t leave a message; call me on my pocket phone.”

  “It works out there?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “See you.”

  Stone hung up and called LAPD headquarters. “Hello, I’m trying to reach a detective named Richard Grant; can you tell me where he’s stationed?”

  “He’s here at headquarters, sir; I’ll connect you.”

  The phone rang. “Detective Grant.”

  “Rick? This is Stone Barrington, late of the NYPD; my partner, Dino Bacchetti, and I took a bad guy off your hands a few years ago.”

  “Yeah, Stone, I remember. You said ‘late’?”

  “I retired a couple of years back.”

  “What’s up in the Big Apple?”

  “Actually, I’m in L.A., and I wondered if you’d like to do a little moonlighting?”

  “I’m afraid that sort of thing is not done these days, but you can buy me lunch.”

  “Tell me where and when.”

  “You remember the old Bistro Garden, on Canyon Drive?”

  “Nope; I’m a stranger here.”

  Grant gave him the address. “It’s called Spago in Beverly Hills now. See you there at twelve-thirty; I’ll book the table.”

  “You’re on, and I’m buying.”

  “Right. Bye.”

  Stone hung up and called Betty’s office number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s your guest; can you talk?”

  “Make it fast.”

  “What kind of car does Arrington drive?”

  “A twin to Vance’s Mercedes—the one you were driving—except it’s white.”

  “What year?”

  “Brand new.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”

  “It’s a vanity plate.” She spelled it for him: “A-R-I-N-G-T-N.”

  “Thanks, that’s it.”

  “Bye.”

  “What time tonight?”

  “Around seven; I’ll call if I’m going to be later.” She hung up.

  Stone called Bill Eggers.

  “You still in L.A.?”

  “Yeah. You said you knew an old-timer with mob connections who liked to talk?”

  “Right.”

  “Call him and ask if he ever knew a guy named Ippolito who worked for Charlie Luciano.”

  “You’re still hung up on this Ippolito guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.”

 
“Ask him if the guy had a son in the family business, too.”

  “Okay; where can I reach you?”

  “Try my cell phone; I’ll be moving around.”

  “It’ll be after lunch, my time.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Stone hung up, then checked in with his secretary. He left for lunch with precious little to go on and no cooperation from the injured party, the husband. Unless one of his phone calls paid off, he was back to square one.

  16

  Stone gave his car to the valet and strolled into Spago Beverly Hills. He was shown to a table in the garden, where he ordered a mineral water. The place was already full, and he spotted a number of familiar faces from films and television, then he saw Rick Grant coming toward him. The cop was grayer and heavier but otherwise much the same as Stone remembered.

  “How are you, Stone?” Grant said, extending a hand.

  “Not bad, Rick; you?”

  “Getting by.”

  “You’re at headquarters now?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got soft duty as a deputy to the chief of detectives.”

  “Administrative stuff?”

  “More like consulting on various cases. Right now I’m writing a long report on the state of organized crime in L.A., that being my old specialty.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “Why don’t we order?”

  They chatted amiably while their food was served.

  “What was that about moonlighting?” Grant finally asked.

  “I need some local knowledge and, maybe, influence on something I’m working on. I’m sorry you’re not available.”

  “I didn’t say that; I said that the department frowns on it. It didn’t seem like a good idea to talk about it on the phone. What’s involved?”

  “Five hundred a day; I’m not sure for how long, but it’s cash, and I’m not going to issue a 1099 to the IRS at the end of the year.”

  “That’s nice, but I meant, what is it, exactly, you need?”

  “Advice; intelligence; absolute discretion; maybe an occasional flash of the badge.”

  “Tell me about the problem.”

  “A friend of mine has disappeared; her husband called me a few days ago and asked me to come out here and find her.”

  “Domestic thing?”

  “I thought so at first; I don’t now.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “As soon as I got here everybody, and I mean everybody, the husband knows went to a great deal of trouble to distract me from the problem. Then the husband told me he had heard from his wife, that she was fine, and I was hustled out of town.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  “I didn’t like being hustled. Also, I had two phone messages from the lady, and my hotel’s caller ID made them from a restaurant called Grimaldi’s.”

  Grant’s eyebrows shot up. “I know that place, or used to.”

  “I thought you might.” Stone told Grant about his visit to the restaurant and finding the matchbook in the storeroom.

  “Sounds like the lady’s leaving a trail of crumbs.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? I can’t go any farther with this without telling you who these people are, so I need to know if you’re in.”

  “Tell me who they are, and I’ll tell you if I’m in.”

  “The husband is Vance Calder.”

  Grant put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “Holy shit,” he said.

  “That about sums it up. His wife and I used to be…close, in New York. She went off to do a magazine piece on Calder and ended up marrying him.”

  “So why didn’t Calder call us?”

  “He’s terrified of the publicity, especially the tabloids. I think he’s led pretty much of a charmed existence with the press, and he doesn’t want that to change.”

  “But it’s his wife.”

  “Yeah.”

  Grant shook his head. “I haven’t had all that much contact with the showbiz community,” he said, “but these people never cease to amaze me. They think they’re operating on a nearby planet of their own, where they call all the shots and nobody else matters.”

  “From what I’ve heard, that’s how it was in the twenties and thirties, when the studios were big.”

  “I guess so, and maybe it’s still like that a little, but it rubs me the wrong way.”

  “I can understand that, but it’s not my purpose here to drag these people and their friends down to earth; I just want to find the lady and talk to her.”

  “Talk to her? Not reunite her with her husband?”

  Stone shrugged. “If absolutely necessary.”

  “You still want her?”

  Stone looked at his plate. This was the question he had been avoiding asking himself. “I want to know if she still wants me, after…all that’s happened.”

  “But you don’t know what’s happened.”

  “That’s right, and I want to find out.”

  “Well, on the face of it—I mean if Calder walked into the cop shop and I caught it—I’d read it as a purely domestic matter.”

  “It may be, but I doubt it.”

  “You could be right; it’s the Grimaldi’s connection that intrigues me. I doubt if that joint is even in the phone book; it’s not the sort of place a movie star’s wife would wander into.”

  “That’s how it struck me; it looked like half a dozen New York wiseguy hangouts I’ve seen.”

  “Is there anything else about this that smells like mob?”

  “There’s a guy named David Sturmack.”

  Grant blinked. “He’s the mayor’s favorite golf partner. Once I had to deliver an envelope to hizzoner at the Bel-Air Country Club, and he introduced me to Sturmack.”

  “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?”

  “On
ofrio 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

  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.”