“I’m talking about the corpse we pulled off the bottom of the channel this morning, with an anchor shackled to it. My witness watched you and Manny kick Barrington off the sports fishermanMaria at around nine in the evening. He was watching through night binoculars; he saweverything. ”
Mancuso’s face began, very slowly, to fall.
“The only question now is, who gets the needle?” Grant said. “You or Manny? Or both?”
Mancuso said nothing, but it was obvious he was thinking hard.
“We got you first, so you get dibs on the deal,” Grant said. “Once we bring Manny in, he’ll get the same offer, if you haven’t taken it.”
“So you want me to nail Manny for you? Is that it?”
“Not just Manny,” Grant said.
Mancuso’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
“We want the guy who gave the order.”
Mancuso was shaking his head now. “Forget about it,” be said.
“We want Ippolito.”
The name startled Mancuso. “Where did you…” Then he stopped. “I don’t know anybody by that name,” he said.
“Vinnie, your lawyer is going to be here soon, and when he arrives it’s going to be a lot harder to make deal. After all, who’she working for? You’re not paying his bill.”
Mancuso was sweating now. “Look, I…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to take the fall for this.”
“Then don’t take the fall,” Grant said soothingly. “Talk to me.”
Mancuso sweated some more but said nothing.
“You know Manny well,” Grant said. “You thinkhe’s going to take the fall for you and Ippolito?”
“Manny’s a standup guy,” Mancuso muttered. “He don’t give nobody up.”
“You really believe that, Vinnie? You really believe that Manny will take the needle for you and Ippolito?” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think so.”
Mancuso thought about that for a moment, then he looked at Grant and started to speak. Then, at that moment, a man carrying a briefcase walked into the room.
“My name is Larry Klein,” he said. “I represent Vincent Mancuso; what’s going on here?”
“We were just having a chat,” Grant said.
“My client has nothing to say at the moment,” Klein said. “Have you been attempting to interrogate him?”
“Mr. Mancuso knows his rights,” Grant said. “He’s signed a statement to that effect.”
“Well, he’s not saying anything further,” the lawyer said, “and I want him removed to a secure room where I can talk with him without having somebody on the other side of a mirror.”
“Whatever you say, counselor,” Grant said. He turned to the other cop. “Take Mr. Klein and Mr. Mancuso down to Room Three, and leave them alone,” he said.
The cop left with Mancuso and his lawyer. Grant turned toward the mirror and gave a big shrug. A moment later he arrived in Stone’s room.
“Shit,” Stone said. “Another three minutes and he would have caved.”
“Win some, lose some,” Grant said.
“What about Manny? Did you pick him up?”
Grant shook his head. “I’ve got somebody on it, but unless we pick him up before Mancuso’s lawyer can make a phone call, our chances of getting him anytime soon are poor.”
“How long can you hold Mancuso?”
“He’ll have dinner at home tonight. I can’t charge him with your murder.”
“I guess not.”
“His lawyer is going to wonder why, after Mancuso tells him about our conversation.”
“And Ippolito will know within the hour.”
“Probably,” Grant said. “I wonder how the information will affect him. I expect it will confuse and annoy him.”
“I hope so,” Stone said.
37
When Stone arrived back at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he was approached by the parking valet.
“Oh, Mr, Barrington, I thought you said you wouldn’t be needing the SL500 for a while,” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, your friend Miss Tierney left in it about ten minutes ago.”
“Sheleft?” Stone asked incredulously.
“That’s right.”
Stone went into the hotel, baffled, and went to his suite. Barbara’s things were still there, and there was a single note on the bedside table.
Dear Stone,
I left my makeup kit on Marty’s boat, so I’ve gone to pick it up. I might do some windowshopping, too, but I’ll be back later this afternoon.
Barbara
“Oh, Jesus,” Stone groaned. He ran down the stairs and ordered his car.
The parking valet looked baffled when he brought it. “Mr. Barrington, if you’re only going to be a couple of minutes, we can keep your car here up front,” the man said.
“Sorry about that,” Stone said, slamming the door and yanking the car into gear. He drove to Marina Del Rey as quickly as he could, worried that Martin Barone might have turned up and caught Barbara in the act of moving out. He wasn’t sure of what story she’d tell under pressure, and the last thing he wanted was to put this girl in any danger. When he arrived, Arrington’s car was parked outside the chandlery.
He parked and walked quickly down the pontoons toward wherePaloma was berthed. She seemed deserted. He looked around for unwelcome visitors, then jumped aboard. The cabin door was locked, and he couldn’t see Barbara inside. He got off the boat in a hurry and started back toward his car; then, a couple of pontoons away, he saw something that gave him pleasure. A large crane on a barge was being maneuvered between the pontoons. He walked down the main pontoon and found a spot where he could watch the salvage operation from a distance. It took the divers a few minutes to get lifting straps underMaria’s hull, and then the crane went to work. Slowly, the sports fisherman broke the water and was raised to pontoon level. The divers stripped off their wetsuits and got pumps going to empty her of water. It would take quite a while, Stone reflected with satisfaction. He hoped her interior was thoroughly ruined.
He walked back toward the parking lot, and as he came back up the ramp he stopped in his tracks. Arrington’s car was gone. He climbed back on his old perch on the ice machine and looked up and down the street, but he could not see the car. He hopped down in time to see a Porsche turn into the parking lot and take the space that Arrington’s Mercedes had vacated.
A slickly handsome man in a pinstriped suit got out, locked the car, and walked down the ramp to the pontoon. Stone watched as he made his way toward wherePaloma was berthed. This, he decided, was Martin Barone, and he was definitely not in Mexico. Barone disappeared among the boats, then, as Stone was about to leave, he suddenly reappeared, running.
Stone got into his car and pulled down the sun visor. Barone, in a great hurry, ran to the intersection and looked up and down the street, obviously looking for Barbara. He came back talking to himself, looking very unhappy indeed. He stood in the parking lot, deep in thought, for a minute, then got into the Porsche and drove out of the car park.
What the hell, Stone thought, let’s see where he goes. Staying at least a block back, he followed the sports car into the canyons of downtown Los Angeles. I know where he’s going, Stone thought, and he was right. Barone turned into the garage at the headquarters building for the Safe Harbor Bank. Stone wished he could follow him up to Ippolito’s offices and listen to him explain that his girlfriend had run off with Arrington Calder’s Mercedes. He would enjoy that conversation.
Stone sat in his car, waiting, for some forty minutes, then, suddenly, the Porsche emerged from the garage and turned east. Stone followed the car to Beverly Hills and watched as it turned into the gates of a house on Beverly Drive. He made a note of the address, then drove back to his hotel.
“Any sign of Miss Tierney?” he asked the parking valet as he surrendered his car.
“No, Sir, not yet.”
“Thanks,” Stone said, then went to his suite.