Tired of this, he plotted a course back to the parking lot that would take him past new boats. He was nearly back to the entry ramp when he was stopped in his tracks. She was on the top deck of a motor yacht of about forty feet, sunning herself, and he caught sight only because she raised herself from the deck to turn over, clutching her loose bikini top with one hand. She turned away from him, so he couldn’t see her face, but with a toss of her head she threw her long dark hair over a shoulder, and that was a gesture he knew. Now, though, she was flat on the deck again, and invisible from below.

His first impulse was to board the yacht, climb to the top deck, and see her, face to face, but he thought better of that. He looked down at the boat’s stem and saw the name,Paloma, and her home port, Avalon, which, he remembered, was on Catalina Island. If he hung around here for more than a moment, he would become conspicuous, so he walked back to the ramp and up to the parking lot. He was a few feet higher now, but when he looked back toward the yacht he could see little of the girl, most of her being masked by the toe rail around the upper deck. He got the binoculars from the car, walked back to the ice machine that had been his last crow’s nest, and climbed on top of it. Panning around the marina as if looking at the boats, he paused momentarily onPaloma and focused on the girl. All he could see was an expanse of bare back that was achingly familiar. He got down from the machine and went back to his car. He had three options, he reckoned: he could wait until she climbed down to get a better look at her; he could wait in the car until she left the boat; or he could confront her. The first two options weren’t particularly inviting; he had never liked stakeouts when he was a cop, and he had paid other people to do them after he had retired. The third option caused him some anxiety. If the girl was not Arrington, he could get arrested, depending on her reaction; on the other hand, if she was Arrington, what would he say to her?

She had left him for another man, and they had not spoken for months; she was pregnant, or said she was, possibly with his child, and she had not seen fit to tell him; she had chosen, it seemed, to leave her husband, perhaps for a lover, and in the circumstances, she might be very unhappy to see him. If he were honest with himself, he wanted her to behappy to see him. He couldn’t bring himself to just walk right up to her, unannounced.

Then his dilemma was suddenly resolved. He saw her stand up, fasten her bikini bra, and leave the top deck, but all this took place with her back to him. Was she leaving the boat, or was she just going below for some lunch? He waited, and his wait was rewarded. She appeared, far down the pontoon, headed his way.

He snatched up the binoculars and focused, but now a boat was interfering, then a car, then some other object between them. By the time she came up the ramp her back was to him again, and she began walking away. Stone got out of the car and followed.

She walked toward the chandlery, then around it, and when Stone emerged on the other side of the building he saw her walking into a restaurant. He stepped up his pace, and when he arrived at the front door, saw her taking a seat at the lunch counter, her back still to him. Only one thing to do: he walked into the restaurant, took a stool two down from hers and looked at her, head on in the mirror.

She took off her sunglasses, and their eyes met.

Stone reacted as if poked in the eye. The girl and Arrington shared height, build, and hair, but nothing else.

She noted his reaction. “Am I so hard to look at?”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eye, “must be a lash. You’re certainly not hard to look at.”

She permitted herself a small smile, then devoted herself to the menu.

“Can you recommend something?” he asked. “I’m new around here.”

“The bacon cheeseburger is great,” she said, “if your cholesterol count can take it.”

“Sounds good.” He took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “Why don’t we order from a booth?”

She looked at him appraisingly, and apparently he appraised well. “As long as you’re buying,” she said, then hopped off the stool and led the way to a booth at the window.

“I’m Jack Smithwick,” he said, offering a hand.

She took the hand. “Barbara Tierney.”

A waitress appeared, and they both ordered the bacon cheeseburger and a beer.

“You said you were new around here?”

“That’s right.”

“New from where?”

“From New York.”

“And what brings you to L.A.?”

“I used to get out here on business occasionally, and I liked it, so I was thinking of getting a place here.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m a lawyer-or rather, I used to be. Now I’m an investor.” He thought that should send the right message. “What about you?”

“I’m an actress; I came out here a few months ago from Chicago.”

“Storming Hollywood?”

“Sort of. What sort of place are you looking for, Jack?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I heard that Marina Del Rey was nice, and I like boats.”

“Then why don’t you buy a boat and live on that?”

“It’s a thought. Do you live on a boat?”

“For the moment. It belongs to a friend.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“My friend doesn’t like me to have guests aboard.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe not; help me out.”

“You understand.”

“Well, yes.”

Their cheeseburgers arrived, and they were quiet for a while as they ate.

Stone wasn’t sure where to go with this. Was Barbara Tierney the girl who had been driving Arrington’s car? Or was she just a girl living on a friend’s boat?

Barbara finished her cheeseburger and drank the last of her beer. “My friend’s out of town,” she said.

26

Stone followed Barbara Tierney down the ramp and out the pontoons toPaloma. He found himself aboard a very handsomely furnished motor yacht, quite new, he thought, and judging from the instrument panel on the bridge, very well equipped. “Who owns her?” he asked.

“My friend.”

“And who is he?”

“He doesn’t like his name bandied about,” she replied coolly. “He’s married.”

“Oh. Then I feel even fewer scruples about him.”

“Look,” she said, “I’d offer you a drink, but I feel very uncomfortable having you on the boat. My friend comes and goes at odd hours, and you never can tell…”

“Sure, I understand. How about if we had dinner ashore tonight?”

“I’d like that better,” she said. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Bel-Air Hotel,” he lied.

“I hear it’s very nice; why don’t we have dinner there?”

“Perfect; I’ll book a table. Do you have a car?”

She shook her head. “I use my friend’s when he’s in town, but…”

“Then I’ll pick you up here at seven.”

“Fine; I’ll meet you up by the chandlery, then.”

Stone offered his hand, and she took it, but then she pecked him lightly on the lips. “I’ll look forward to it,” she said.

“Me, too.” He hopped back onto the pontoon and walked toward his car. Once behind the wheel he called Rick Grant. “Hear anything on the prints yet?” he asked.

“I was just about to call you,” Grant said. “The prints belong to a Vincent Mancuso-three arrests, one in a bookmaking operation and two for loan-sharking, the last one eight years ago, no convictions. Those are typically mob crimes, even though he wasn’t in our organized crime index. I’ve started a file on him, though.”

“Have you got a description?”

“He’s forty-six years old, six-one, two-twenty-five, dark hair.”

“Sounds like a lot of guys.”

“I’ll bring you his mug shot the next time we meet.”

“Got a place of employment?”

“He owns-or did, this is a couple of years old-a delicatessen in Hollywood, call Vinnie’s. It’s on the Sunset Strip.” He gave Stone the address.