by Stuart Woods
The fire was put out in less than fifteen minutes. There was little structural damage to the house, but a deck and the contents of the living room were destroyed. Mr. Ippolito was not injured.
“Sounds like an exciting evening,” Stone said, smiling.
“And where did you spend your evening?” Rick asked.
“I went out, had a few drinks and some dinner.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember exactly; I’m a stranger in town, remember? The geography of this city confuses me.”
“Yeah, it can be confusing,” Rick said, sticking a flashing light on the roof of the car. They were on the freeway now, driving fast, weaving in and out of the mid-morning traffic. Occasionally he used the siren.
“Where we going?”
“Long Beach.”
“For what?”
“I’m superstitious about predictions; indulge me.”
Half an hour later they parked next to an ambulance, got out of the car, and walked down a long dock between fishing boats. At the end of the dock a clutch of uniformed and plainclothes cops loitered around a trawler that was moored stern to.
“Hey, Rick,” a detective said, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know you left headquarters anymore.”
“I like a little sea air,” Rick replied. “What have you got?”
The detective pointed into the boat, where a tarpaulin covered something.
Rick beckoned Stone to follow him, then jumped down into the boat and pulled back the canvas. “Confirm my guess,” he said. “The other one is Manny.”
Stone looked at the two bodies. Vincent Mancuso and Manny were wet, dead, and chained together with a hefty anchor. “Good guess,” he said.
“When the call came in I had a feeling.” Rick turned to a man in a suit, who was writing in a notebook. “Did they drown?”
The man shook his head. “They each took two rounds behind the right ear. Small caliber, very neat job. It was the wildest kind of luck that they ever turned up; the trawler brought them up with the catch between here and Catalina.”
“Thanks,” Rick said. He turned to Stone. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
Stone followed him up the ladder and back to the car.
“Who says there’s no justice?” Rick said.
“Poetic, isn’st it?” Stone agreed.
“Now there’s nothing to tie your little swim to Ippolito.”
“Except me.”
“Yeah. You carrying that piece I got you?”
“I started this morning.”
“Good idea. If things keep happening to Ippolito, like his boat sinking and his house catching fire…”
“Yeah, I might need it.”
“You think he has any idea you’re alive?”
“Not unless Vance Calder told him, and I honestly don’t think he would.”
“You spoke to Calder, then?”
“Yeah; I called him yesterday and then saw him at his house. I think he was ready to talk to me, but when I got there, David Sturmack was just leaving.”
“Did Sturmack see you?”
Stone shook his head. “He was driving away, looking preoccupied.”
“What did Calder have to say?”
“Zip. I had to practically force my way into the house. They’ve got his wife, and he’s terrified they’ll hurt her.”
“And terrified of the tabloids?”
“Still. He thinks that if he does what they want him to he’ll get Arrington back and everything will be all right again.”
“He’s a fool.”
“You and I know that, but he doesn’t.”
“What do they want from him? It can’t be money.”
“I don’t know; what could America’s biggest movie star do for Ippolito and Sturmack that they couldn’t do for themselves?”
“You think Regenstein’s involved?”
“He was at Vance’s house the night before last, arguing with him.”
“The night before last? How would you know that?”
“I returned Arrington’s car to the house; I was there when they arrived. I got a look through a window.”
“You said ‘they’ arrived?”
“Regenstein and another man, around forty, red-haired, Irish-looking.”
“Sounds like Billy O’Hara—ex-cop, head of security for Centurion Studios.” Rick frowned.
“Maybe Regenstein isn’t involved, and they’re using O’Hara to get Arrington back.”
“Sounds like what a studio would do.”
“What kind of guy is O’Hara?”
“He was a decent cop, very ambitious, had a flair for publicity. He got pissed off when some other guys made lieutenant and he didn’t; I guess that’s when he went to work for Centurion. Must be five, six years ago. If he’d stuck with the department he might have gone places.”
“Is he the sort of guy who would abet a kidnapping?”
Rick shook his head. “My guess is no, but it’s only a guess; I didn’t know him all that well. He came along after me.”
“We’re not getting anywhere much, are we?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We keep plugging away, something might pop. Calder’s the way in. You know him; what would it take to get him on our side?”
“I’m worried that it might take Arrington’s death. Jesus, I think that would do it. His secretary explained movie stars to me once, and from what she says, they think only about the career; there’s nothing else they love as much.”
“You don’t think he loves his wife?”
“According to Betty’s theory, sure, but she isn’t as important as his remaining a movie star. Of course, that’s just her theory.”
“Then again,” Rick said, “she knows Vance Calder better than you or me.”
“Yeah. All we can do is hope she’s wrong,” Stone replied. “Say, how are you and Barbara getting along?”
Rick smiled a little. “Very well, thank you.”
“I thought you’d like her.”
“You’re very perceptive. You should have been a detective.”
43
Stone parked on the quiet Beverly Hills street and switched off the engine. He had driven around the block twice, and there was no sign of unwanted company. He got out his pocket cell phone and dialed the number.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi, it’s Stone.” He waited tensely for the reaction.
“Well, hello, stranger,” she said, and there was delight in her voice. “I was beginning to think I was never going to hear from you again.”
What did she mean by that? “You don’t get off that easily,” he replied.
“How are things in New York?”
“Lonely.”
“Me, too. I might be able to get away for a few days while Vance is between pictures; all I need is an invitation.”
“Let me work on that. You home alone?”
“Yes. Sad, isn’t it?”
“You going to be there for a while?”
“Nothing else to do. Vance hasn’t been in for days; I’m underworked.”
“A friend of mine is going to drop by with a present for you.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“An ex-cop.”
“What’s the present?”
“Wait and see.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Talk to you soon.” Stone broke the connection, got out of the car, walked to the front door, and rang the bell.
“Coming!” she called, her voice muffled. There were footsteps, and she opened the door.
“Good evening, Ms. Southard,” Stone said.
Her mouth dropped open, and just for a moment he knew she wasn’t glad to see him.
“May I come in?”
“Of course.” She stood back and let him in. “What are you doing back in L.A. so soon?”
“Fix me a gin and tonic, and I’ll tell you anything.”
She waved at the living room sofa. “Sit.” Then she went into the
kitchen, came back with two drinks, and sat down beside him.
“I don’t think you’re really glad to see me,” he said.
She didn’t deny it. “You surprised me.”
“Not entirely a pleasant surprise, I take it.”
“I wish I could say it was. You’re back here to make trouble for Vance, aren’t you?”
“I never left town,” he said.
She looked at him, astonished. “You don’t know how dangerous that was.”
“And I couldn’t possibly make more trouble for Vance than he already has on his hands.”
“It was very dangerous, Stone.”
“More dangerous than you know Ippolito had two of his goons drop me in the Pacific with an anchor attached.”
Her eyes grew wide.
He held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I survived.”
She sank half her drink and set it down. “Oh, God,” she said. “It was my fault.”
“How so?”
“I told Vance you were still here, and he must have told Ippolito.”
“That’s accurate, I think.”
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked apprehensively.
“Well, I don’t have to find the two goons. They were dredged up by a trawler this morning in a similar condition to what they intended me to be.”
She shook her head. “Swell. What have I gotten myself involved in?”
“Kidnapping, murder, probably a number of other major crimes.”
“You don’t think I had anything to do with…what they did to you?”
“No; not intentionally, anyway.”
“Well, thank God for that much, at least. Please tell me what is going on, Stone.”
“I think you’re in a better position to tell me.”
“I’ve already explained myself on that point.”
“You’ve got to help Vance.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, right now, Vance is well on his way to getting his wife killed and destroying himself. Are you going to help him do that?”
“I don’t really know all that much,” she said, picking up her drink and finishing it off.
“You know more than I do,” Stone said. “If you’ll tell me what you know, maybe it will be enough to help me get Vance out of this.”
She stared off into the middle distance.
“Start at the beginning,” he said.
“I’ve always done what Vance wanted,” she said. “How do I know that what you want me to do is the right thing?”
“You’ll have to take my word for it.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“The alternative is for me to involve the police and the FBI and for the gossip mills to get hold of it.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” she said.
“Wouldn’t I? Unless you help me, I won’t have a choice. My nose is pressed against a brick wall, and I have nowhere to go. If I don’t do something, Vance is going to get Arrington killed, and I can’t allow that to happen. I hope you understand my position.”
“If I tell you what I know, will you promise not to go to the police, the FBI, or the press?”
“No. I’ll do whatever I think is the best thing for Arrington. You might consider that that might be the best thing for Vance, too.”
“If there’s a way to help her without making this public, will you do that?”
“Yes. But I’ll be the judge of how to proceed.”
“Vance is a very brave man, you know. You might not know him well enough to know that.”
“He may well be a brave man,” Stone said, “but he’s also a very foolish one.”
“All that stuff I spouted about movie stars and how they behave—it’s true, of course, but not of Vance.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t he jeopardizing Arrington’s life in order to protect his career?”
“I honestly don’t think he is.”
“Then what is he trying to do?”
“I think he thinks he can beat them at their own game.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Stone moaned. “Not that.”
She nodded. “He figures this is between him and them, and he doesn’t really want any outside help.”
“Then why did he ask me to come out here?”
“He panicked, for just a moment. By the time you got here he had gotten hold of himself again.”
“Exactly what is he trying to do?”
“Save Arrington, save Lou Regenstein, save Centurion Studios. For a start.”
“What else?”
“I think he would very much like to kill Onofrio Ippolito.”
“That makes two of us,” Stone muttered.
“You’re too smart to do something like that, Stone, but Vance isn’t. Vance would kill him in a minute, if e could figure out how to do it without harming Arrington.”
“That’s about all that’s kept me from killing him,” Stone said.
“I hope you can help Vance. He’s a fine man, and I’d hate to see him pulled down by his own anger.”
“Betty, if I’m going to help him, you’re going to have to help me.”
A long pause. “All right,” she said at last.
“Start at the beginning,” he said.
And she did.
44
Betty started slowly, reluctantly. “I guess it was a couple of weeks ago, maybe a little more. Vance came into work, and he was nervous. Vance is never nervous. He has this glacial calm about him; I think it’s one of the things that makes him come over so well on screen. The only other actor I’ve ever seen with that kind of calm was Alan Ladd.”
Stone didn’t interrupt.
“But he was nervous that day—anxious, angry, nearly shaking with it. I’d never seen anything like it from him. I didn’t ask what was wrong; I knew he’d never tell me. Instead, I just watched and waited, to see if I could figure it out. He made a lot of phone calls that morning, and he dialed them himself, instead of asking me to get somebody on the line, as he usually did. Some of the calls were in-studio; I could tell that because the studio lines are separate from the outside lines. And then he did something odd: he asked me to get his Centurion stock certificates from the big safe.
“We have two safes in the office—a small fire safe that’s mostly for important documents and computer disks, and then the big safe that’s half as tall as I am. He keeps cash in there, along with some gold bars and some treasury bills. I think there’s a part of Vance that’s deeply insecure, that’s always ready to bolt. I think he has this fantasy of packing a briefcase, getting on a plane, and disappearing. Maybe it’s something in his past, I don’t know.
“Anyway, he asked me to get the Centurion certificates. Vance owns about twelve percent of the studio, and Lou Regenstein owns around thirty percent, so between them they can pretty much control the business.”
“How much of the studio do David Sturmack and Ippolito own?” Stone asked. It was the first time he had spoken since she began.
“They each own ten or eleven percent.”
“Not enough to take control, then?”
“I’m not so sure about that. I think somebody has been quietly buying shares. The stock isn’t all that widely held, and I think some of the smaller shareholders have been selling.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I think that’s why Vance wanted to see his certificates. He’s like that; he likes to touch and feel the things he owns. I’m not sure they’re real to him otherwise. I had the feeling he was thinking of selling them.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He wouldn’t. Not ever.”
“Go on.”
“Then Lou Regenstein came into the office, and he was looking very grim. He and Vance were in Vance’s office with the door closed for more than an hour. Vance hardly ever closes his office door, not the one that opens into my office. Then they left the office and went somewhere together, and Vance didn’t come back until late in the afternoon. Wh
en he did come back, he did something very strange: he told me to take the Centurion shares to the bank—not Safe Harbor, where he does all his banking, but to the bank that’s right outside the studio gates—and he told me to rent a large safe deposit box in my name and to put the shares in it and not to bring the key back to the office.”
“How much room did the share certificates take up in a large box?”
“Hardly any; I found that odd.”
“Did you ever give the key to Vance?”
“No, I still have it; it’s in my own deposit box at Safe Harbor.”
“Did he ever ask you to put anything else in the box?”
“No, but I had the feeling he was going to, otherwise he’d never have had me get a large box.”
“What else happened?”
“Nothing else that day. Oh, he asked me to get Arrington a plane reservation for Virginia—to Washington National, actually–and to deliver the ticket to the house that evening. And I did that.
“The next morning, Billy O’Hara came to Vance’s office, stayed nearly an hour, then Lou Regenstein joined them and they were there most of the morning. Billy is head of security for the studio.”
“Is it unusual for Vance to see O’Hara?”
“Very. The only other time I ever saw him in the office was right after he took the security job. Lou brought him around and introduced him to us.”
“What does studio security consist of?”
“Well, the usual—guards at the gates, studio passes, guard patrols, that sort of thing. In the old days—this isn’t quite so true nowadays—the security people were in charge of protecting stars and contract players from trouble—drunk driving charges, rape, wife beating, that sort of thing. These days, stars are independents and there aren’t any contract players to speak of.”
“Did you get the impression that O’Hara was there to get Vance out of some kind of trouble?”
“It was the first thing I thought of. Vance obviously had a problem.”
“Did he ever confide in you?”
“In bits and pieces. He told me that he wanted to get you out of town—I had to arrange that.” She smiled. “Of course, I wasn’t as anxious for you to leave as Vance was.”
