Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

“I’m very sorry,” he said.
    The man looked him up and down for a moment, then said, “Don’t mention it.”
    •   •   •
    “Can’t you stay another night?” Teddy asked as he held the restaurant door open for her. But his mind was on the man he had nearly collided with. He fit the physical description that Tom Fields had given him, and there was that trace of an accent.
    “I wish I could,” Charmaine said, “but I’ve got to get back. We’ve got a heavy load of VIPs in the hotel over the next few days, and there’s a lot of work to do. Maybe I can come back next week?”
    The headwaiter found them a table, took their drink orders, and brought them menus.
    “I’m going to look for an apartment tomorrow,” Teddy said. “By the time you get back, I’ll have a home.”
    “You’re tired of Shutters?”
    “I’m tired of paying per day what I’d pay per month for an apartment.”
    “You’re going to find Santa Monica real estate expensive,” she said.
    “I’ll manage.”
    “I loved our day today,” Charmaine said, placing her hand on his.
    He squeezed her thigh. “So did I,” he said.
    •   •   •
    After dinner, Teddy stopped by the front desk for a moment and passed the desk clerk two hundred dollars. “Can you tell me the name of the tall blond gentleman who checked in an hour or so ago?”
    The clerk consulted his computer. “That would be Mr. Igor Smolensky,” he said.
    “If anyone should inquire about me, I’m not registered in the hotel, nor have I been.”
    “As you wish, sir.”
    Igor checked into his room and immediately plugged in his laptop and turned it on, checking the GPS tracker. The little red dot on the screen was at Santa Monica Airport, exactly where it should be. He ordered dinner from room service.

Charmaine was up at five and was soon dressed and packed, while Teddy lounged in bed. She came over and gave him a kiss. “I’ll call you next week, then.”
    “I’ll look forward to it and to giving you a new address,” he replied.
    She left, and Teddy got out of bed, showered, dressed, and packed. He carried his bags down the fire stairs to the garage, then drove to Santa Monica Airport, to Cloverfield Aviation. The boy who sat at the desk all night was just surrendering his seat to the day man, and Teddy took the kid aside. “Did somebody ask about me last evening?” he asked.
    “Yessir, he said he was a friend of yours, and I gave him your phone number. Was that all right?”
    “Sure, no problem. If he comes back, tell him I’ve left for New Jersey.”
    “You’re leaving us today?”
    “Right. I’ll pay my bill and turn in my rental car a little later this morning.”
    “Yessir.”
    The boy left, and Teddy carried his luggage into the hangar and stowed it in the airplane, then he took a slow walk around and checked every inspection port. Finally, he came to the ELT port, opened it, and ran a hand around inside. He came out with a GPS locator, identical to the one he had found in Peter Barrington’s Cayenne. He found the switch and turned it off, then put it into his briefcase and went back to his car. He drove back to Shutters and parked in the garage, then he took up a position near the fire stairs and switched on the locator. He then telephoned the hotel and asked for Mr. Smolensky.
    A sleepy voice answered. “Yes?”
    Teddy breathed into the phone for a moment, then broke the connection.
    •   •   •
    Igor sat up in bed and phoned the front desk.
    “Yes, Mr. Smolensky?”
    “Did you phone my room just now?”
    “No, sir, that was an outside call.”
    “Thank you.” Igor hung up and thought for a moment, then he opened his laptop and looked at the screen. The red dot had moved; it was no longer at the airport; it was now at Shutters. He got into his clothes, put his gun into his trousers pocket, and let himself out of his room, looking both ways up and down the hallway first. The garage, he thought. He went to the fire stairs and ran down two flights.
    •   •   •
    Teddy could hear the footsteps ringing on the steel stairway. He flattened himself against the wall outside the door to the stairs and waited. A moment later, the door eased open and a hand appeared, holding a semiautomatic pistol. He waited until the man stepped slowly into the garage, then moved behind him and pressed the silencer against the back of his neck.
    “Good morning, Mr. Smolensky,” he said.
    The man froze.
    “Now open your