“Why on earth did you have him investigated?”

“I promise, I’ll fill you in, but later.”

“What, exactly, do you want to know?”

“How did you meet him?”

“A girl I know, another actress, introduced us at a party.”

“What sort of party?”

“It was at a bank downtown. We were hired to…just be decorative, I guess, and she had met him at a previous party. He was charming, one thing led to another, and he offered to let me live on the boat. I had been living at a friend’s place, and we were crowding each other.”

“Did you form any impressions about the kind of business he does?”

“Not at first, but over a period of a couple of weeks I heard his end of some telephone conversations.”

“What did you learn?”

“He talked about moving stuff-he didn’t say exactly what, but I think he was talking about money. At first I thought it was drugs, but now I think money.”

“Did he talk about how he moves it?”

“He talked about pickups and deliveries.”

“So he movescash around?”

She nodded. “I think so; between here and Mexico.”

“Does he keep any sort of schedule?”

“He goes away two or three times a week, but I’m not sure if it’s always to Mexico.”

“Do you think he’s moving money personally, as in his car?”

“The Porsche doesn’t have a lot of room in it,” she said.

“I know; was there ever any talk of anything larger?”

“He mentioned a truck once.”

“Do you know who his boss is?”

“He’s his own boss; it’s his company.”

“But you met him at the Safe Harbor Bank?”

“How did you know which bank? I didn’t tell you.”

“It was more than a lucky guess. Did you meet a man named Ippolito there?”

“Yes, he’s the head of the bank, I think; somebody pointed him out to me at the party. I got him a drink at one point.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“I think his impression of me was that he thought I was a hooker, which annoyed me.”

“Did you notice what kind of relationship Barone had with Ippolito?”

“Marty was doing a lot of major sucking up,” she said.

“I can imagine. Did Marty say anything to you about his relationship with Ippolito?”

“He refers to him as the boss sometimes. Not to me, but on the phone. I’m sure that’s who he’s talking about. My turn for some questions.”

“All right.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No, but I used to be; now I’m a lawyer.”

“What’s your interest in Marty and Ippolito?”

“I think that both of them are mixed up in organized crime.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I was afraid of something like that,” she said. “I was beginning to get this feeling.”

“Where is Marty now?”

“He left this morning for Mexico, or that’s what he said, anyway.”

“Barbara, I think you ought to get off the boat as soon as possible.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” she said, “and I’m about out of money.”

“What about the friend you stayed with before?”

“We didn’t part on such good terms.”

“Have you got a lot of stuff on the boat?”

“Two suitcases and a hanging bag.”

“Tell you what: you go back to the marina, pack up, and I’ll meet you at the restaurant where we met in an hour, okay?”

“But where will I go?”

“You can stay with me, until we figure something out. Don’t worry about money.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“One other thing: remember I asked you if you had ever driven a white Mercedes convertible?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t really answer me. Do you know the car?”

“I drove it here today,” she said. “It’s in the parking lot.”

Stone arrived at the Marina Del Rey restaurant on time, but there was no sign of Barbara. Arrington’s car was parked near the chandlery, though. When she was fifteen minutes late, Stone began to worry. Then she came up the ramp from the pontoon, struggling with her bags, one of which was on wheels. Stone ran to help her.

When they were in the car, she looked into her handbag. “Damn,” he said, “I’ve still got the keys to the Mercedes; I’ll have to take them back to the boat.”

“Wait,” Stone said, thinking. “Don’t take the keys back; drive the car to the hotel.”

“I can’t just steal the guy’s car,” she said.

“It’s not his car, and don’t worry, he won’t report it stolen.”

“Stone, I don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Believe me, I’m getting youout of trouble.”

“Oh, all right.” She went to the Mercedes, and Stone led the way back to the hotel.

He called the parking valet aside. “Bury the SL500 somewhere,” he said, handing the man a twenty. “We won’t need it for a while.” He gave his room key to Barbara, along with tip money for the bellman. “You go on upstairs; there’s something I have to do.”

“What am I supposed to do in a hotel room?”

“I’ve arranged for you to sign, so do some shopping downstairs, or go out to the pool again, if you like.”

She brightened. “Okay; see you later.”

It wasn’t very far down Sunset to Vinnie’s Deli. Stone parked on a side street facing the boulevard and looked at his watch: just in time, he thought. Ten minutes passed, then an unmarked car pulled up to the deli, and Rick Grant and another man got out and went into the place. Stone raised his binoculars and watched as they stood at the counter, ordering something and watching the counterman buzz two hoods through the door to the back room. Rick and his companion sat at a table and began eating their sandwiches. From down the block, a large white van slowly approached the deli.

It was beautifully coordinated. Rick and the other cop got up from their table, walked behind the counter, and pinned the counterman to the wall. The van opened, and a dozen SWAT team members spilled out and into the deli. Rick hit the buzzer under the counter, and the door to the back room opened as SWAT cops oured into the room. A moment later, two paddy wagons arrived on the scene, and a moment after that, the cops started loading arrestees into the wagons; among them was Vinnie Mancuso, Stone’s swimming instructor. The whole thing took less than ten minutes.

When Rick Grant left the restaurant, Stone turned onto Sunset and pulled up in front of the deli, rolling down the opposite window. Grant walked over to the car.

“That seemed to go well,” Stone said.

“Couldn’t have gone better,” Grant replied. “You want to come down and watch while I interrogate Mancuso?”

“Love to. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’m going to stage a lineup for Vinnie’s benefit,” Grant said. “Just to get him worried.”

Stone sat behind a one-way mirror and watched Vinnie Mancuso twitch. He was alone in the interrogation room, and he was nervous. A moment later, Rick Grant and another officer walked into the room and sat down at a table opposite Mancuso. Stone could hear the scraping of their chairs through the speaker in his room. One of the cops offered Mancuso a cigarette.

“No thanks,” the hood said, “I gave them up.”

“I’m glad to see you’re concerned about your health, Vinnie,” Grant said. “I guess you want to live a long life.”

“You bet,” Mancuso replied.

Grant shook his head. “It’s not looking very good for a long life,” he said. “Not for you.”

Mancuso frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Still, it’s not as bad as it used to be,” Grant said. “You don’t have to sit in the gas chamber and hold your breath the way you used to; now you just get the needle. I’m told it’s not unpleasant.”

“Are you insane?” Vinnie asked incredulously. “For a bookmaking rap?”

“Not for that, Vinnie; we’ve got you cold for murder one.”

“You’re nuts. Where’s my lawyer?”

“You called him; I assume he’ll be here soon. I thought you might like a moment before he arrives to consider your position. My witness made you in the lineup, but good.”