Swimming to Catalina

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 theNew York Times and theL.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