Swimming to Catalina

11

Stone immediately called the hotel operator. “I got a message signed ‘A.,’” he said. “What time did the call come in?”

“It should be written on the message, Mr. Barrington,” the woman replied.

“Oh, yes; less than half an hour ago.”

“I’m double-checking…yes, that’s right.”

“She didn’t leave a number?”

“No, sir, just said she’d try and call later.”

“Do you have caller ID on your phone system?”

“Yes, sir, but we rarely use it.”

“Would you please make a note that on all the calls I receive to make a note of the caller ID number?”

“All right, I’ll do that; and I’ll let the other shifts know.”

“Thank you.” Stone hung up. Vance had been right; getting his name into the trade papers had produced results. If only he’d been at home when she called. He fixed himself a drink from the bar, switched on the television news, and watched it blankly, absorbing none of it. When his glass was empty, he got into the shower and stood under the very hot water, letting his muscles relax. Then, as he turned off the water, he heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, he raced into the bedroom, but just as he reached for the instrument, it stopped ringing; all he heard was a dial tone. “Dammit!” he yelled at nobody in particular. He called the operator. “You just rang my suite, but I was in the shower. Who called?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington, it was the young lady again; she wouldn’t leave a number, but I got it on the caller ID.” She read out the number, and he wrote it down. “The name that came up on the screen was Grimaldi’s; I think it’s a restaurant. The concierge would know.”

“Please switch me to the concierge.”

“Concierge desk.”

“This is Stone Barrington; do you know a restaurant in L.A. called Grimaldi’s?” He gave her the number.

“Yes, sir; it’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, I think, though I haven’t booked a table there for anyone in a long time. It’s sort of an old-fashioned place, not exactly chic.”

“Could you book me a table there at eight?”

“Of course, sir; for how many?”

“Ah, two.”

“I’ll book it and call you back if there’s any problem.”

“Thanks; I’ll stop by the desk on the way out and pick up the address.” He hung up, thought for a moment, then dug in his pocket for a number and dialed it.

“Hello?”

“Betty? It’s Stone.”

“Hi there; I was just thinking of you.”

“Telepathy at work. You free for dinner this evening?”

“Sure.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Beverly Hills; why don’t I meet you at the Bel-Air?”

“Seven forty-five?”

“Perfect. I’ll meet you in the car park. You want me to book something for us? I can always use Vance’s name.”

“Not necessary; I’ll see you at seven forty-five.” He hung up and started to get dressed.

Betty climbed into the passenger seat and gave him a wet peck on the cheek. “Where are we going?”

“A place on Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” she said, “and I didn’t think there was a restaurant in L.A. I’d never heard of.” She looked at the address on the card in his hand. “That’ll be somewhere down near the beach; let’s take the freeway.”

Stone followed her directions, and they found the restaurant, its entrance tucked in a side street off Santa Monica.

“How’d you hear about this place?” Betty asked as they approached a glass door, which was covered with credit card stickers.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said, opening the door for her.

They descended a staircase which emerged into a large basement dining room, half full of diners, with low ceilings and elaborate decor-textured wallpaper and heavy brocade drapes much in evidence. Stone gave his name to the headwaiter, and they were shown to a banquette table in the middle of the room, where they sat beside each other with their backs to the wall.

“The decor is right out of the fifties,” Betty said, looking around her. “It looks like a set from an old black-and-white Warner Brothers movie.” A waiter appeared, took their drinks order, and left them a heavy velvet-bound menu. “This thing must weigh ten pounds,” she said.

Stone opened the menu and was astonished at the range of dishes, which were from every region of Italy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this,” he said. The waiter came with their drinks. “Give us a few minutes,” Stone told him. “It’s such a big menu.”

“Would you like some recommendations?” the waiter asked.

“Please.”

“The specialty of the house is the rabbit in a cream sauce, and any of the pastas are excellent.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “I’ll try the rabbit.”

“I’ll try the pasta,” Betty said, grimacing. “Which one.”

“The bolognese is good,” the waiter replied.

“Fine.”

“Shall I leave you the wine list?”

“Suggest something,” Stone said. “A big wine.”

“Try the Masi Amerone, the ’91.”

“Sold.”

“Something to start?”

“A Caesar salad,” Stone said.

“Make it two,” Betty echoed.

The waiter departed, leaving them with their drinks.

“Okay, so how did you come up with this place?” Betty asked.

“Arrington called me from here earlier this evening.”

“But she’s still in Virginia,” Betty said. “I made her flight reservations.”

“I’m going to have to trust your discretion.”

“Sure.”

“She’s not in Virginia; she disappeared nearly a week ago.”

“What?”

“Vance called me and asked me to come out here and find her.”

“Disappeared?”

“That’s right; he doesn’t know where she is.”

“I can’t believe this could have happened and I wouldn’t know about it.”

“He’s keeping it very quiet, because he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“She just ran out on him?”

“He doesn’t know; she hasn’t been in touch with him.”

“And she called you?”

“Arrington must have read the piece in the trade paper; that’s why Vance invited the reporter to the party.”

“Well, I must say, I thought there was something weird about that; it was very unlike Vance. What did Arrington say to you?”

“I was in the shower; the hotel operator got the calling number from caller ID.”

“Well, this is very mysterious, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.” Stone looked around the restaurant at the other diners. “Wait a minute,” he said, half to himself.

“What?”

“You notice anything about the other customers?”

Betty looked slowly around the restaurant. “I guess a lot of them look Italian. That speaks well of the restaurant, I suppose.”

“It’s a wiseguy joint,” Stone said, keeping his voice low.

“You meanMafia?”

“Not so loud. That’s exactly what I mean. It’s just like a New York wiseguy joint; justlook at these people.”

“Well, the women are a little flashy.”

“Yes, they are.”

“And I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Italian suits outside of Rome.”

“Right.”

“Does this make me a racist pig or something?”

“No, it just makes you observant. I’ll bet half the faces in this place are in the mug books down at the LAPD.”

“But what could Arrington possibly have to do with the Mafia?”

“I don’t know, but there’s got to be some kind of connection.” As he spoke, Stone looked up and saw four men coming down the stairs into the dining room. “Look who’s here,” he whispered.

She followed his gaze. “You know those guys?”

“One of them,” Stone said. “I met him at Vance’s.”