“May I help you?” the receptionist asked cordially.

“Yes, would you please tell Mr. Ippolito that…”

A buzzer rang. “Excuse me,” the receptionist said, picking up the phone. “Yes, sir, I’ll send him right in.” She turned to Sturmack. “Mr. Sturmack, Mr. Ippolito will see you now.”

Stone turned his back and coughed into his fist as Sturmack walked past, taking no notice of him. The receptionist pressed a button under her desktop, and Ippolito’s office door opened for Sturmack.

“Oh, there’s David,” Stone said to the receptionist with a smile, and started for the door. “I’m here for this meeting.”

The receptionist nodded and smiled.

Stone caught the door before it closed and stepped in behind Sturmack. Ippolito was sitting at his desk, his back to the door, talking on the phone. Sturmack still had not noticed that he had been followed into the office.

It was a large and handsomely designed room, with spectacular views over the city, all the way to the Pacific. It was an unusually clear day, free of smog. Sturmack walked to the desk and settled himself in a chair, his back to Stone. Stone walked over and took the chair beside him.

Sturmack glanced idly at Stone, then blanched and stood up, alarmed. Simultaneously, Ippolito hung up the phone and turned around. Stone made himself comfortable in the chair.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

Sturmack looked as though he were about to have a coronary, but Ippolito, though momentarily surprised, maintained his composure. “Sit down, David,” he said. He reached under the desktop and fiddled with something.

“Where did you come from?” Sturmack asked shakily.

“From the depths of the Pacific,” Stone said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Two men burst into the room from a side door, each with a gun in his hand.

“Search him,” Ippolito said, pointing to Stone.

Stone stood up and allowed himself to be patted down.

“He’s clean, except for a telephone,” one of the men said, holding up Stone’s cell phone.

“Thank you, Tommy; you can give it back to him.”

The man handed back the telephone, and Stone slipped it into his pocket. The two men, at a nod from Ippolito, left the room.

“So it was you,” Ippolito said. “My yacht captain described you, but I didn’t believe it.”

Stone shrugged. He didn’t want to admit to sinking the yacht while wearing a wire.

“I don’t understand,” Sturmack said, looking distinctly ill.

“It was Mr. Barrington here, who sank my boat. Both my boats, in fact.”

Stone smiled, but said nothing.

“So what brings you to see us, Mr. Barrington?” Ippolito asked.

“I thought perhaps you and I might do some business,” Stone replied.

“After the money you’ve cost me?” Ippolito asked, outraged. “I should do business withyou?”

“And what about you, Mr. Ippolito? You’re a very bad dinner host indeed, inviting me aboard your yacht, then trying to have me murdered on the way. Why did you do that?”

“You were getting in my way,” Ippolito said, shrugging. “I kill people who get in my way.”

Stone smiled. He hoped to God the wire picked upthat little tidbit.

“Well, I figure we’re about even,” Stone said. “You gave me a bad fright, I gave you one. I don’t think we should let that stand in the way of business, do you?”

“What kind of business did you have in mind?” Ippolito asked.

“I’d like to invest in Albacore Fisheries,” Stone said, “I think the stock is going to go way, way up. With my help.”

“And how could you help our stock to go up?” Ippolito asked.

“By helping you gain control of Centurion Studios,” Stone replied. He was improvising, but he had their attention.

“And how could you possibly do that?”

Sturmack seemed to have regained control of himself. “This is ridiculous,” he said to Ippolito. “Kill him now; have Tommy and Zip take him somewhere and shoot him. We don’t need this.”

Ippolito held up a hand and silenced him. “Easy, David; let’s hear what Mr. Barrington has to say.” He turned his attention to Stone. “You were about to tell us how you could be helpful in acquiring Centurion.”

“Well, for a start, I can deliver Vance Calder’s shares to you, for a price, of course. I can also deliver his services to Safe Harbor as a television spokesman.”

“And how will you accomplish those things?” Ippolito asked.

“Let’s just say that Mr. Calder and I have reached an understanding; he values my advice.”

“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Barrington,” Ippolito said. “I know something about you, of course; in fact, just about everything there is to know. I know, for instance, that you have something over a million dollars in marketable securities in your brokerage account, so you can afford to invest in Albacore. And if you could arrange the exchange of Mr. Calder’s Centurion stock for Albacore stock, I might let you buy in.”

“Oh, I can do better than that, Mr. Ippolito,” Stone said. “I can arrange for you to buy Mr. Calder’s stock for cash, and at a reasonable price. No need to give him Albacore stock when that stock is going to go through the roof.”

“Now that is interesting,” Ippolito said.

“In fact, I can help you buy nearly all, perhaps all of Centurion’s stock, including Louis Regenstein’s shares.”

“You amaze me, Mr. Barrington. How did you suddenly acquire all this influence?”

“I have replaced Billy O’Hara in Mr. Regenstein’s affections,” Stone said.

“That’s what I came to tell you, Oney,” Sturmack interjected. “Regenstein fired O’Hara yesterday, and I haven’t been able to find him.”

Stone had an idea. “You won’t find him,” he said.

“Why not?” Ippolito asked.

“Because Mr. O’Hara expired last night, during a conversation I was having with him. He’s where you believed me to be.”

“He’s dead?”

“Regrettably, yes.”

“And you killed him?”

“Not until he had told me everything he knew about you and your plans for Centurion-also about the murders of Vincent Mancuso and Manolo Lobianco.”

Ippolito thought about that for a moment, then he stood up, walked to the window, and beckoned for Stone to join him.

Stone walked over, stood next to Ippolito, and looked out at the view.

Ippolito put a hand on Stone’s shoulder and pointed. “There’s Centurion Studios,” he said, indicating a large mass of land and buildings a few miles away. “And over there is Century City, one of the most successful real estate developments in the history of Los Angeles. What I’m going to do is to build something twice as large and twice as valuable. It’s going to make billions of dollars over the next ten years or so, and a very select group of people are going to be allowed to participate in that. Is that what interests you, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, “it is.” And as he spoke he saw something besides the view outside Ippolito’s window. He had changed his focus, because something much closer had caught his eye. He leaned slightly toward the window and concentrated. What he saw was, imbedded in the tinted glass, a screen of tiny wires, smaller than human hairs. He suddenly understood that the radio signal from the transmitter he wore was not going to be heard outside this office.

Ippolito returned to his seat and motioned for Stone to return to his.

“And I think I can tell you how you’re going to finance all this,” Stone said, mindful that the tape recorder in the heel of his other shoe was still operational.

“Please do,” Ippolito said.

“You’re somehow laundering-I haven’t quite figured out how-millions, perhaps billions of dollars in income from loan sharking, drugs, and probably casino skimming, considering Mr. Sturmack’s connections in Las Vegas, and you’re pumping it into Albacore, then using the laundered money for acquisitions like Centurion. How much more land have you bought up around the studio?”