Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

undetermined, but I am of the impression that I may have some choice. I like Los Angeles. How would you feel about living here sort of permanently?”
    “I’m just fine with that, as long as you feel safe,” she said. “As it is, how long do you think we’ll be here?”
    “Long enough for you to get your pilot’s license and for Peter to learn to fly his new jet.”
    “So, what, three months?”
    “More likely six, but we’ll see. I like working at Centurion Studios, too. If we stay on, maybe I can find you a job there.”
    “I wouldn’t object to working in the movie business,” Betsy said.
    “After you’ve got your private license,” Teddy said. “Maybe your instrument rating, too.”
    “When I’ve done all that, will I be your copilot?”
    “Sweetie,” he said, kissing her, “after you’ve done all that, I’ll be
your
copilot.”
    She laughed, but Teddy was still worried. He had a history of seeing things go wrong after he had made plans.

Majorov returned to his large suite after a good breakfast at the Bel-Air’s outdoor restaurant, and as he closed the door, he was immediately struck by the smell of gun oil. He walked to the door of the bedroom adjoining the living room, rapped and opened the door. He was met by the sight of Vlad, sitting on the bed, pointing a pistol at him.
    “That was very close,” Vlad said in Russian. Various gun parts were spread on a towel on the bed.
    “You are not here to shoot me,” Majorov said. “What are you doing to find Burnett?”
    “I will bring you up to date,” Vlad said. “There is no such person listed in any directory of any sort in the Greater Los Angeles area—no telephone, no mail delivery, no utilities, nothing. These are the tools for searching for someone, and Mr. Burnett has avoided them all. We know only two things: that Mr. Barrington is at The Arrington, up the street, and competently guarded, and that his son goes to the movie studio every day in a different car with an armed guard.”
    “Why can’t you get at him at the movie studio?”
    “Because it is fenced and guarded by its own police force, and because, even if I could get inside, I would not be able to find Peter Barrington. The place is like a small city.”
    “So you have nothing?”
    “Let me finish. You gave me details of Burnett’s airplane, but no such airplane with that registration number is registered with the Federal Aviation Administration, and no airplane of that color and with that registration number is parked at any airport in the Los Angeles area.”
    “Then Burnett is gone from Los Angeles.”
    “Possibly,” Vlad said. “But we know some people who might know something.”
    “And who might they be?”
    “The two gentlemen from Las Vegas: Genaro and Katz.”
    “They have denied knowing.”
    “Katz has a reputation as the best skip tracer in Vegas,” Vlad said. “I cannot believe he spent several days looking for Burnett without finding him. And if he knows where the man is, Genaro knows, too.”
    “Then why wouldn’t he tell me?”
    “Why would he tell you anything? The man drove you from a profitable business and ran you out of town. Genaro hates you.”
    “You’re right, he would never tell us anything.”
    “Katz might,” Vlad said.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “Katz works for money. He sells the location of people to his employers.”
    “So I should offer him money?”
    “It would seem the best thing to do.” Vlad spread his hands. “And if that doesn’t work, there are other methods. After all, personal safety is as important to a sane man as money.”
    “So you want to go to Las Vegas?”
    “I’m told it is only a few hours by car.”
    “I can’t go to Vegas.”
    “I’m not suggesting you do. I don’t require your assistance to do my work. All I require is your money.”
    Majorov left the room for a couple of minutes then returned and tossed a bundle of hundred-dollar bills on the bed. “Here is thirty thousand dollars,” he said. “You may keep anything you don’t have to pay Katz. The concierge will obtain a rental car for you.” Majorov walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
    •   •   •
    Vlad began repacking his weapons case, while whistling a little tune from his childhood. It brought back a fond memory: his father had been singing it when Vlad cut his throat with the man’s own razor. He had liked the razor as a tool ever since.
    •   •   •
    Harry Katz sat in